Nowhere to Run (15 page)

Yelena Gregory, FBI agents, New York City Health Department officials, and police homicide detectives. Joe Connelly mentally weighed which formidable source was causing him the most
agita
as they combed through the Broadcast Center on what should have been a quiet Saturday.

Yelena was straining to keep control.

“We’ve never had a murder in the history of the Broadcast Center,” she murmured as they watched Edgar’s sheet-covered body being rolled out of the cafeteria. “And we potentially have another one out there in a hospital in New Jersey.” She gave Joe a piercing stare. “KEY stock closed down yesterday. Monday will probably be worse. What are we going to do?”

“We’re doing all we can, Yelena. Mostly, we have to let these professionals do their jobs.”

Joe knew that the idea of sitting back and waiting didn’t sit well with Yelena Gregory. She was accustomed to giving orders and having them followed with quick results. What was going on here was to a great extent out of her control, and she couldn’t like that one bit.

“Everyone here is going to be looking to you, Yelena,” he reminded her. “They will need to be reassured that everything is going to be all right.”

The corner of Yelena’s mouth lifted in a wry half smile. “How do I tell them that when I don’t even know if I believe it myself?”

Thirty-one Highland Place was abuzz with activity. Police cars flanked the HAZMAT truck parked in front of the Victorian house. Neighbors who ventured out to see what was happening were told to go back inside their homes. Both ends of the street were cordoned off to keep cars and pedestrians away.

Inside the house, men, suited and masked, methodically worked their way through the rooms where Jerome Henning lived. On the second floor, a desk drawer was opened, and a gloved hand pulled out a test tube.

A neighbor’s telephone call to the news desk hot line led the Garden State News Network satellite truck to Maplewood. Unable to gain access to Highland Place, the van parked on the next block.

“Let me scope things out,” ordered the reporter, leaving the truck operator and the cameraman to set up. He was trespassing, he knew, as he cut through the yard of the house that backed up to the Henning place. When he got to the row of boxwoods that separated the backyards, a policeman stopped him.
PATROLMAN ANDREW KENNY
was engraved on the identification badge.

“Don’t go any further, bud.”

“Press, Garden State News Network, Officer Kenny. But I’m just doing my job, ya know?”

“Yeah, I know, but you’ve got to go back.”

“What can you tell me?”

“Sorry. No dice. Now get going,” the officer ordered.

Trying to figure out what he would do next, the reporter turned and started to leave just as the back door of the house opened.

“Hey, Andy,” came the yell. “We think we found the anthrax in the guy’s desk drawer.”

Her son pulled on the mittens that had been stashed in her pocket.

“Those mittens are getting pretty ratty looking, Thomas,” Annabelle said. There was a hole in the thumb section, exposing Thomas’s skin. “We’ve got to get you a new pair.”

It wouldn’t even require a trip to the store. On their way home from the park, a street vendor offered a colorful array of hats, scarves, and gloves. Annabelle usually liked to stuff the kids’ Christmas stockings with those types of things, but she was in her “why wait, life is short” mode. It would be nice to have the twins decked out in new scarf-and-mittens sets when they went to the parade on Thanksgiving morning.

They picked out a green-striped cap and mittens for Thomas. Tara wanted purple.

It wasn’t even worth washing the old mittens and dropping them off at a Goodwill bin.

“Just throw them in that garbage can, Thomas,” instructed his mother, pointing to the receptacle as they turned the corner at Perry Street.

“I’m going to Chumley’s for a beer with the guys,” Mike announced.

Annabelle looked up from the laundry she was folding, noticing with pleasure that her husband had actually shaved. His hair was washed, his fingernails clipped. He wore her favorite navy crewneck sweater, which set off his blue eyes, and a pair of faded but pressed jeans. Except for the fact that his pants hung more loosely than she remembered, Mike almost looked like his old self. His old handsome self.

“You are?” she asked with surprise. Then quickly added, “That’s great, honey. Have a good time.”

She couldn’t remember the last time Mike had gone out with his friends. Once he had cherished the camaraderie but, over the last months, he had shown so little interest in their treasured brotherhood. The guys called often to see how Mike was doing, to encourage him to come down to the firehouse to spend some time together. Mostly, Mike would refuse to come to the phone, leaving Annabelle to make lame excuses. That he wanted to go out and meet them for a beer was a good sign.

“Should I hold dinner?”

“No. I’ll probably grab something there. I suddenly have a yen for one of those burgers.”

Appetite. Another good sign.

He actually stopped to kiss her on the cheek before he walked out the door. With a warm feeling, Annabelle finished putting the folded clothes away. The twins were content, playing in their room with Legos, building their own unique version of a castle. Her husband had gone out to meet some of the guys for a beer. Everything felt almost normal again.

Fortified, she braced herself for a call to the hospital.

Jerome was still in critical condition.

Gavin eyed the striking redhead who walked past the bank of amaryllis decorating the Ritz-Carlton bar. He’d like to get himself some of that.

She must have felt his eyes on her, because she turned to look at him straight on. He smiled and lifted his brandy snifter in salute. She turned away.

He took a large, quick swallow of his drink and threw a ten-dollar tip on the small table, eager to get away now. If Marguerite had let him come home, he wouldn’t be in this situation. It was embarrassing. Here he was sitting in a hotel bar five blocks from Ground Zero, lusting after a woman who looked to be a good thirty years younger than he was.

Well, nobody could blame him for the last part. One minute with that wrinkled harpy Marguerite, and any man worth his salt would understand why he was forced to look elsewhere.

Screw Marguerite—and the horse she rode in on.
If she was so damned worried about her own safety, he was going to see that he was very pampered in his exile. This hotel was the place to do it. He’d heard the Ritz-Carlton in Battery Park was terrific, and he had been wanting to try it out. Catering to the financial world’s haute clientele, the hotel had all the amenities and then some. There was a technology butler to help with computer problems and a bath butler to draw a long, restful soak in the tub. Gavin’s Art Deco–style room looked out over New York Harbor, the hotel providing a telescope in every room to get a closer look at the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, or even the skippers who sailed their boats into the Hudson River. The marble bathroom was stocked with thick lotions and beauty potions and the fluffiest towels. Two plush robes hung in the closet, waiting to wrap guests after the massages that could be ordered given in the room. Even those pillows last night were the most luxurious he had ever slept on.

Unfortunately, KEY News wasn’t going to pick up the tab for his weekend stay in the city. He’d have to pay for it himself. But it was worth it, and he could afford it.

Standing in the elegant lobby, Gavin decided he was hungry. He’d go upstairs to the other bar, have another drink, and order something light to eat. Taking the elevator to the fourteenth floor, he got off at Rise. He chose a table near the window and settled down to admire Lady Liberty aglow in the harbor while he waited for his food.

“Gavin Winston? What are you doing here on a Saturday night?”

Gavin rose to shake his stockbroker’s hand. “I could ask you the same question, Paul.”

“Oh, you know, Saturday, Sunday, I’m always doing business. Are you by yourself, man?”

Gavin hesitated. He didn’t want to have to invite the broker to sit down, but he couldn’t see a way around it.

“What’ll you have?”

“Okay, a quick one. Glenlivet, rocks.”

After a few sips of the alcohol, the talk turned to Wellstone and the SEC investigation.

“Are you a little nervous, Gavin? We all are.”

“You only have to be nervous, Paul, when you have something to hide.”