Private Dublin

Chapter 2

The shooting had received sensational coverage. The paparazzi, who had been there to cover the premiere, had captured and shared video footage of the masked gunman yelling his environmental creed, and the media had already dubbed him the Ecokiller. Unsure whether he was still armed, security and passersby had kept their distance, and the perp had fled into the night, slipping away in the confusion caused by his onslaught before the cops arrived.

I was in the waiting room at Cedars-Sinai Hospital off Beverly Boulevard, watching the unfolding coverage on my phone, trying to glean any useful pieces of information that might help me identify the shooter, while doctors performed emergency surgery on Justine. The brief ambulance ride from the theater had been the most stressful experience of my life. I could tell from the paramedics’ grave expressions and artificially calm voices that she was in serious danger.

I hadn’t been allowed into the emergency room. Hours ago a nurse had told me Justine was being taken for emergency abdominal surgery. Since then I’d tried to distract myself with my phone, my hands shaking with fear for her. My heart thudded with anger at the thought of the monster who’d done this, my body flushing hot and cold as I replayed the attack in my mind over and over again. It didn’t matter which websites I visited, which news reports I watched, I couldn’t shut out the memories of my own failings. I chastised myself for my stupid mistakes. If I’d done things differently, if I’d been better and faster and stronger, Justine would have been at my side now instead of fighting for her life in an operating theater.

“Jack!” a familiar voice called across the crowded room.

Eighteen people had been wounded and four killed in the attack, and most had been brought to Cedars-Sinai, so the place was packed with the victims’ family and friends.

I turned to see Maureen Roth, Private’s technology guru, entering the room. Known to everyone at Private as “Mo-bot,” she was a computer geek extraordinaire. At fifty-something, she was a salutary lesson in the unexpected. Her tattoos and spiky hair suggested a cold, hard rebel, but she had the warmest heart and was thought of by many at Private as their second mom, someone they could go to with their problems. The only thing about her that hinted at a softer side, and spoke to her age, were the bifocals, which I always said looked like they belonged to a Boca Raton grandmother. She managed a team of six tech specialists in the LA office and oversaw dozens of others in Private’s international units. She was followed into the waiting room by Seymour “Sci” Kloppenberg, Private’s world-renowned forensics expert. A slight, bookish man, he dressed like a Hells Angel biker, which was where his heart probably lay because he was always restoring old muscle bikes. These two were among my oldest friends and most trusted colleagues and it was comforting to see them.

“How is she?” Sci asked.

“She caught two in the stomach,” I replied, scarcely able to believe what I was saying. “She’s in surgery still.”

“I’m so sorry, Jack,” Mo-bot said, and gave me a reassuring hug.

“She’s going to be okay,” Sci remarked. “Justine’s a fighter.”

I nodded, but my experiences of losing people in the field told me it didn’t matter how strong or determined a person was, a bullet could be the ultimate arbiter of life or death.

“What happened?” Mo-bot asked. “I’ve seen the news, but how did the guy get in?”

“Looks like he shot door security and then came in and started blasting,” I replied.

“Media are saying he was disarmed by a guest. You?” Sci asked.

I nodded. “If I’d been quicker...” I trailed off.

“I bet you were as fast as anyone could have been,” Sci told me. “You did good, Jack.”

I nodded again, but his words rang hollow. It was hard to view my response as anything other than an abject failure when the woman I loved was currently fighting for her life in an operating theater.

“Cops spoken to you yet?” Mo-bot asked.

I shook my head. “I’ve been told to expect a detective, but I think they’re giving me space while I deal with this.” I nodded in the direction of the double doors that led to the surgical area. “I don’t have much to tell them. The shooter was masked, so I didn’t get a look at him. He was about six-one, well built, strong and fast.”

“They’re calling him the Ecokiller,” Sci remarked.

“He yelled a bunch of stuff about the planet as he escaped,” I replied. “I want us to find him.”

Mo-bot put her hand on my shoulder. “You did well, Jack. If you hadn’t been there, who knows how many more might have died. But this isn’t on you. Focus on Justine. Let the cops handle this. Sci and I will help.”

I looked at Mo-bot and her reassuring smile wilted under the severity of my stare. I wasn’t angry with her, but my anger at the man who had put us here shone through. “I can’t do that, Mo,” I told her. “I need to find this guy and make sure he answers for what he’s done.”