The Last Templar

Chapter 5

A s he and Aparo stepped carefully over the scattered debris, Reilly's gaze took in the devastation inside the museum.

Priceless relics lay strewn everywhere, most of them damaged beyond repair. No yellow and black tape in here. The whole building was a crime scene. The floor of the museum's Great Hall was an ugly still life of destruction: chips of marble, slivers of glass, smears of blood, all of it grist to the crime scene investigators' mill. Any of it was capable of providing a clue; then again, all of it could fail to offer a single damn thing.

As he glanced briefly at the dozen or so white-suited CSIs who were working their way 15

systematically through the debris and who, on this occasion, were joined by agents from the ERT—the FBI's Evidence Response Team—Reilly mentally checked off what they knew. Four horsemen.

Five dead bodies. Three cops, one guard, and one civilian. Another four cops and over a dozen civilians with bullet wounds, two of them critical. A couple of dozen cut by flying glass, and twice that number bruised and banged about. And enough cases of shock to keep rotating teams of counselors busy for months.

Across the lobby, Assistant Director in Charge Tom Jansson was talking with the rail-thin captain of detectives from the Nineteenth Precinct. They were arguing over jurisdiction, but it was a moot point. The Vatican connection and the distinct possibility that what had happened here involved terrorists meant that overall command of the investigation was promptly transferred from the NYPD to the FBI. The sweetener was that, years earlier, an understanding had been reached between the two organizations. When any arrest was to take place, the NYPD would publicly take credit for the collar, regardless of who actually made it happen. The FBI would only get its share of the plaudits once the case went to court, ostensibly for helping secure the conviction. Still, egos often came in the way of sensible cooperation, which seemed to be the case tonight.

Aparo called over a man Reilly didn't recognize, and introduced him as Detective Steve Buchinski.

"Steve's happy to help us out while the dick-measuring contest's sorted out," Aparo said, nodding over to the ongoing debate between their superiors.

"Just let me know what you need," Buchinski said. "I'm as keen as you are to nail the sons of bitches who did this."

That was a good start, Reilly thought gratefully, smiling at the blunt-featured cop. "Eyes and ears on the street. That's what we need right now," he said. "You guys have the manpower and the networks."

"We're already running it down. I'll borrow a few more shields from the CPP, that shouldn't be a problem," Buchinski promised. The precinct adjoining the Nineteenth was Central Park; horseback patrols were a daily feature of their work. Reilly wondered briefly if there might be a link and made a mental note to check on that later.

"We could also use some extra bodies for the follow-up interviews," Reilly told the cop.

"Yeah, we're up to our eyeballs in witnesses," Aparo added, motioning up at the Grand Staircase.

Most of the offices above were being used as makeshift processing rooms.

Reilly looked over and spotted Agent Amelia Gaines coming down the stairs from the gallery.

Jansson had put the striking, ambitious redhead in charge of interviewing witnesses. Which made sense, since everybody loved talking to Amelia Gaines. Following her was a blonde who was carrying a small replica of herself. Her daughter, Reilly guessed. The child looked like she was fast asleep.

Reilly looked again at the blonde's face. Usually, Amelia's alluring presence made other women pale into insignificance.

Not this one.

Even in her current state, something about her was simply mesmeric. Her eyes connected briefly with his before looking down to the clutter under her feet. Whoever she was, she was seriously shaken.

Reilly watched as she headed for die door, picking her way through the debris with unease. Another woman, older but with a vague physical resemblance, was close behind. Together, they walked out of the museum.

Reilly turned, refocusing. "The first sort-through's always a huge waste of time, but we've still got to go through the motions and talk to everybody. Can't afford not to."

"Probably more of a waste of time in this case. The whole damn thing's on tape." Buchinski pointed at a video camera, then another. Part of the museum's security system. "To say nothing of all the footage from the TV crews outside."

Reilly knew from experience that high security was all very well for high-tech crimes, but no one had allowed for low-tech raiders on horseback. "Great." He nodded. "I'll get the popcorn."