Keeper (9 page)

“I am disappointed,” Lozano said. He had removed his suit coat, and his white button-up shirt was wrinkled but clean. There was an orange plastic lighter in his breast pocket that showed through the fabric.

“Maybe he wants you to earn your pay,” I said. “Public-spirited asshole, isn’t he?”

“You should have said something about his height. He loves that.”

Lozano looked at me and grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He finished his coffee in two gulps, then crumpled the cup and viciously shot it overhand to the trash can in the comer. The cup hit the inside lip of the can with a low ring and dropped inside, and the trash can rocked slightly on the impact.

He said, “
El cafe es una porqueria.
Means, this coffee is for shit. Roughly.”

“The gesture communicated the sentiment.”

“Good to know a little Spanish,” he said. “Say it with me.
El cafe es una porqueria.”

I said it with him.

“You learn fast.”

“I’m a gifted linguist.”

“Sure you are.”

The door opened into our viewing room and Special Agent Fowler came in, shaking his head and saying, “Dude, sorry I’m late.”

“Why break a pattern?” Lozano said.

“Scott,” I said.

“Atticus. Detective.” Fowler looked at Lozano for a moment, who didn’t turn away from the window, then shifted his eyes to Barry. “What’d I miss?”

“He confessed,” Lozano said. “Came completely clean. He’s writing it up now.”

“Uh-huh,” Fowler said. He ran a hand through his hair. His hair was straw blond, and he was wearing a subdued blue suit with a white shirt and a navy tie. He had a good tan on, too, and it looked darker than I suppose it actually was against his collar and in this light. He was wearing his glasses, thin-lensed, and he had his diamond stud stuck in his left ear. All in all, he looked just out of high school.

I thought, no wonder Lozano hates him.

“He have the wanted posters on him?” Fowler asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Brilliant detective work,” Lozano muttered.

“Where’d he get them?” Fowler asked.

“He wouldn’t say. He lawyered up before you got here,” Lozano said.

“What’d you do?” Fowler asked.

“I interrogated the suspect, Special Agent Fowler.”

Scott made a face.

“You know what?” I said. “I’m going to go back to the clinic, I think. Check on Dr. Romero. You guys get in touch if anything happens, okay?”

“Of course,” Fowler said.

Lozano just grunted in my direction.

Felice was in with her last patient of the day when I got back, so I checked up with Natalie and Dale, told them about the grade-school performances at the precinct.

“No wonder she hired us,” Dale said before he went for the car.

“Barry was with Crowell the first day I was here,” I told Natalie. “He was in the car with Crowell. Did he show?” 

“No. Did you think he would?”

“I don’t know. I get the impression Crowell only descends from his heaven every once in a while to stir the pot.”

“You talked to him yet?” Natalie asked.

“Can’t get through to him,” I said. “His office keeps giving me the runaround. He was supposed to call me this morning to set up an appointment to talk.”

She frowned. “Some advance work.”

“I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got. I can’t take the time to chase him down, you know that. We need another guard.”

“I know a PI we could use for the strictly investigational stuff,” Natalie said. “We could ask Felice to put her on the payroll.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to do that to her. She’s footing half the bill as it is, and despite what she told me, I think it’s a hardship. And Felice’s been feeding us when we’re at her place. I don’t want her to have to pay for another body.”

Natalie sighed and ran her hand through her red hair. “It’s probably best,” she said. “You and Bridie would never get along. But you’re going to feel really stupid if something happens because we’re undermanned.”

“I’ll feel really stupid whether we’re undermanned or not,” I said. “Believe me, I’ll find a way.”

The egress was handled with the same precision as all the previous times. No one shot at us, no one got in our way, and no one followed us, as far as we could tell. We took the Baker route home that evening, which put us on the FDR for ten minutes of the ride. I brought Romero up to speed while Dale drove.

“Barry,” she said, frowning. “I’ve never heard of him.” 

“He’s definitely one of Crowell’s.”

“Crowell has a lot of people,” she said flatly.

“I need to talk to him,” I said.

Romero raised her eyebrows at me.

“Procedure.”

She tugged at the collar of her Kevlar vest and exhaled down into her shirt. Then she looked back to me and said, “Lucky you.”

Katie greeted us exactly as always, hugging the stuffing out of her mother, then me, then Natalie, and finally Dale. Rubin handed the doctor her mail and she disappeared into her bedroom, as had become her custom, while Katie dragged me to the television with her. On the way there I dismissed Dale and wished him a good night.

“Elaine is very sick,” Katie told me when we were seated. “She’s very sick and she’s dying and David can’t save her.” Then she looked at me and said, solemnly, “It’s very sad.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“People die,” Katie told me. “Bixby Bill died and Melanie B died and maybe Elaine, too.” Then she put both her arms around me and snuggled close, watching the television screen.

Rubin said, “You ought to tell her that you’re taken.”

I stuck my tongue out at him.

“You staying tonight?” he asked me.

“Just to talk to the doctor after she gets changed. You and Natalie tonight.”

He gave me an evil grin.

“Not while you’re working, you don’t,” I said.

Rubin looked hurt. “Do you think I take my duties so lightly that I would risk our principal and her daughter for one night of sordid pleasure?”

I nodded.

“You know me too well,” he said.

From the bedroom, Dr. Romero said, “Atticus? Could you come here, please?”

Natalie, Rubin, and I exchanged looks. “Sure,” I said, and extricated myself from Katie’s grasp. She didn’t seem to mind.

Felice was sitting on her bed, now wearing jeans and a faded Amnesty International T-shirt. Her feet were bare, and she held a sheet of paper in her hand. She looked small and frightened.

“I thought it was a charity solicitation,” she said.

I took the paper. It read:

BUTCHER BITCH-ONE BULLET,

TWO BULLET,

EACH IN YOUR HEAD.

BANG BANG.

YOU’RE DEAD.

BOOM BOOM.

DEAD DEAD.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS COMMON GROUND.

JUST KILLING GROUND.

YOUR KILLING GROUND.

I WILL HAVE JUSTICE.

YOU’RE NOT MY FIRST.

I WILL HAVE JUSTICE.

No signature.

I set the letter carefully on the bed, went back to the bedroom door, and said softly to Natalie, “Call Fowler. We got a letter.”

Then I went back to Felice.

“They just won’t stop,” she said. Her voice was very low.

“I don’t want you going to the conference,” I said.

She looked at me.

“Hotels are almost impossible to secure, and with only four people I absolutely cannot do it.”

“You think that’s what—of course. He doesn’t want me to speak, whoever wrote it. A man wrote that.”

After a second, I said, “I can’t protect you at the conference, not as it stands. It’s too easy for someone to get a gun or a bomb into a place like the Elysium. And it’s already been publicized that you’ll be there.”

Felice inhaled deeply, then reached for her pack of cigarettes. “I’m going,” she said. “I won’t be frightened off.” 

“I can’t provide adequate protection there,” I said. 

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t.”

She stared at the pack of cigarettes for a few seconds, then lit one and smoked, watching my face. “You’re serious, I’ve never seen you look this serious,” she said.

“The stakes have changed,” I told her. “You could have been seriously injured this morning. And it was a stupid thing for someone to do and that worries me. So far, there’s been a terror-campaign logic to this. The bottle ...” I left it unfinished.

But she was right with me. “That was an attack, wasn’t it? Testing the defenses, maybe?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going.”

“Felice, listen to me. It’s a hotel, do you understand? Suppose a man wants you dead. He knows you will be there in three days, giving a lecture, sitting on a panel. He checks into the hotel tomorrow, all he has to do is wait, polishing his gun. Do you see the scale? Everybody in the hotel—all the guests, the staff, the temps—everybody must be checked and cleared before you can go. It’s impossible for me to do that and to protect you at the same time with just four people.”

Felice got up and took the ashtray off her nightstand, tapping her cigarette on the rim. After a moment she said, “I am going to speak at Common Ground. I helped organize the damn thing, and I will be heard there.”

I started to open my mouth but she held up a warning finger. “Let me finish. I agree with you. I don’t want to die, Atticus. I won’t go to the conference if you tell me it can’t be made safe. But I want you to talk to Veronica, Veronica Selby. She’s the one who got the hotel in the first place, and she told me that she’d take care of security. Talk to Veronica, and if she can’t make you reasonably happy, I won’t go.” She sat back down on the bed. “Fair enough?”

“I won’t take chances here, Felice,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “And I appreciate that.”

Fowler arrived shortly after we finished talking. I got Selby’s phone number from Felice and gave the woman a call while Scott talked to Dr. Romero.

The phone was answered on the second ring.

“Hello?” The soft voice held just the slightest southern accent.

“This is Atticus Kodiak calling for Veronica Selby,” I said.

“Speaking.”

“I’m in charge of security for Dr. Felice Romero, Ms. Selby. I was wondering if I could come and speak with you?”

“Is Felice all right?”

“She’s doing well enough.”

“When did you have in mind, Mr. Kodiak?”

“I was thinking in about half an hour,” I said.

“Oh,” Selby said. “Well . . . yes, that would be fine. I’ll expect you shortly, then.” She told me her address and I copied it down on a sheet of paper. “Please give Felice and Katie my regards,” she said.

“I’ll do that.”

Fowler had bagged the letter and the envelope, though we all knew there wouldn’t be any prints. The serious threats always came back from the lab clean. I asked him if he could give me a ride up to Selby’s place on Park Avenue, and he said he’d be glad to.

“She told me to send her regards,” I said to Dr. Romero.

Romero managed a crooked smile.

“I’ll get back to you later tonight,” I told her. “You can reach me by pager or at home. Don’t hesitate to call.”

“I won’t,” she said.

Katie gave me another hug before I left, saying, “Come back, okay, ’Cus? Come back soon.”

Fowler drove well, very legally. Once we were rolling he said, “You’re going to hate this but Barry is out. The charges were dismissed.”

“What?” I asked. “How the fuck did that happen?”

“Dude, I know. Looks like NYPD blew the paperwork. Barry claims that he didn’t understand his Miranda. I think maybe one of the cops on the desk is sympathetic to the cause.”

“He’s been arrested enough, he fucking knows his Miranda by heart,” I said.

“He didn’t even say anything in interview to take to trial. But he’s out, and I’m sorry, man. I thought you should know.”

“I can’t believe this,” I said.

“It gets worse. He’s running with another guy, too, Sean Rich, who came to pick him up. Both are apparently tight with Crowell.”

“How is that worse?”

“Rich has a record,” Fowler said. “In Florida. Pensacola.”

Pensacola, the town with two dead doctors who performed abortions to its name. “Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t speak for a few moments, fuming. It had been a righteous collar, and Barry was out anyway. And now it sounded like there was a ringer up from the land of the faux-Christian Nazis. All of that plus the throwing of the bottle; it hadn’t been thrown at Romero, it had been thrown at us, to see how we would react.

“Do you think they’re really going to go after her?” Fowler asked.

“She’s high profile, she’s a woman, she’s a minority. She’s the perfect target. They’ll go for her at that conference. Wouldn’t you? They know exactly where she’ll be, when she’ll be, and if she goes down in front of the crowd—you can’t buy that kind of publicity. Barry is SOS, we both know that. Crowell’s up to something.”

“Don’t let her attend, man,” Fowler said.

“If I don’t like the security, I won’t, believe me, Scott,” I said.

He made a careful turn onto Park. “I don’t think Crowell will do it. I don’t like conspiracies.” He pulled up outside Selby’s apartment building. “Don’t like conspiracies, and I don’t like conspiracy theories at all, man. They’re too easy. You’re looking for a nut with a gun, not the Illuminati.”

“I’ll take a conspiracy over a nut with a gun any day,” I told him, unbuckling my seat belt. “At least, with a conspiracy, you know where you stand.”

He was still laughing when I got out of the car.