Brooklyn Knight

by null

  Waiting for the elevator, the professor found himself hoping that Bridget might be one of those non–New Yorkers. He had gotten something of that sense from her. The professor felt he was fairly good at spotting those who were hiding something, especially those hiding things from themselves.

  Bridget had displayed none of the signals he was used to finding in such people. And, of course, part of his reasoning behind picking her up at the airport, for entertaining her all day and then bringing her to the museum at night, was to test her. Not once did his new assistant show anything but eager interest. If she was addicted to anything, if she was any kind of indolent slacker, she had a will of tempered steel when it came to not revealing it. No, as best Knight could tell, she was simply a sweet young woman, intelligent and observant, and eager to learn everything there was to know about working in a museum.

  Which was why he had left her in his home.

  She needed more rest, the chance to take a shower, get in touch with her family for longer than a cell phone call from a police station could have afforded her, and basically, as he believed the young folks still said, “get her head on straight.” The professor had known the police would be waiting for him—as well as the rest of the board. If there was anything young Bridget did not need, he felt, it was more intrusive questioning.

  Oh, they would get around to her again—Knight knew that. Such was simply unavoidable. But, if he was to tackle them first, to give them their chance with him, to turn him inside out with their never-ending barrage of uselessness, he felt he could most likely give them enough answers so that when her turn came they might not be all that brutally relentless in their browbeating.

  And, with that thought, the elevator’s muted arrival bell chimed, letting the professor know he could finally proceed to his waiting interrogation. Watching the doors begin to slide open, he thought;

  Well, here we go. I left Bridget at home so she could regain her composure, and so that I could take a try at defusing the barking dogs before they start in yapping at her. After all, I believe she will certainly try not to reveal what she saw last night, but oh, those two words, “try” and “succeed.” How different they are.

  And with that unsettling notion rolling through his brain, Knight stepped into the elevator. As he did, of course, the pessimistic side of his personality offered;

  Now, if she sticks to sleeping and showering and using the phone, and doesn’t start rummaging around where she shouldn’t, well, everything will just be perfect.

  With a sigh, the professor watched the doors slide shut once more. “ ‘If’ and ‘perfect,’ ” he mused. Two more words that did not always work so well together. That thought in mind, Knight allowed himself a second sigh.

  It was simply going to be one of those days.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bridget did not, as Knight momentarily had feared, start rummaging around where she should not. She was, of course, human, and such thoughts did cross her mind.

  As she was soaping away the grime of the preceding twenty-four hours in the shower, the idea of roaming through the various floors and rooms of the professor’s home, searching for secret doors and hidden chambers and the such, did nag at her, teasing her toward the inappropriate, but she firmly rejected doing so in the end. She did not make her decision out of any sense of fear over being caught. Nor did she resist the temptation because of any overwhelming sense of priority. Rather, she chose to follow a warning the back of her mind passed on to her.

  I think, all in all, it told her, that we’d better leave such ideas alone for now. I mean, if he’s got his hands on things that will allow people to fly, God knows what else is around here.

  Giving herself the example of the toddler who decides they want to play with the stove, the redhead decided that “better-safe-than-sorry” would be her best possible anthem for the day. So deciding, Bridget finished her shower, then dressed in the room Knight had provided for her. As she did so, smoothing the wrinkles from the set of clothes she had packed to be her first-day-on-the-job outfit, she wondered for a moment why the professor had not shown her to that room the night before.

  Yes, of course, she had fallen asleep on the couch, but why didn’t he wake her up? Again, she had been the one to mention wanting to sleep on his couch, but still, her mind pouted, he could have offered the room. Or, did he want her on a different floor from him, did he not want her to have a lock to put between them, did he—

  Staring at herself in the mirror, Bridget was just finishing buttoning her blouse when she let escape a throaty growl of frustration.

  Disappointment mixing with anger, both aimed at her own paranoia, Bridget tried to shove the thoughts from her mind. Yes, she admitted, she had known more than her share of creeps and losers. Drooling high school and college boys, inappropriate teachers and professors, friends of her family, even an uncle—one sorely beaten by her father when he heard her shouts of protest—so many others.

  But, she reminded herself sternly, she had known good, kind, decent men as well. And, she was certain, Professor Piers Knight simply had to be one of them. Everything about him said so. She had never felt so comfortable with any man so quickly, with anyone—had never been put so at ease by someone she had just met in all her life. And yet, despite every warm and kind thing she could think to say about Knight, still the professor left her with a sense that he was continuing to hide things from her.

  “Like what?”

  Oh, she told herself, she was not making sense and she knew it. But, she asked herself, just what did make sense anymore?

  Only a day and a half previous, things had made complete and reasonable sense in her world. For one thing, if nothing else, a day and a half previous, no one she knew could levitate. No, to the best of her knowledge, they all stayed on the ground. Where they belonged. Gravity had still prevailed.

  “But not anymore.”

  The confused young woman whispered the words as she continued looking at herself in the mirror attached to the back of the room’s dresser. The image disturbed her, seeing her reflection only confirming the distressing news. Instead of turning away from the sight, however, she continued to stare at herself. Still only in her underwear, clutching at her half-buttoned blouse. She took note of her posture, pulled in and shrunken. She saw her hands, trembling, the edges of the cream white blouse vibrating in her fingers. And then, finally, she dared to look directly into her own eyes—unblinking.

  As she expected, she found nothing but fear.

  Bridget Elkins had left home only a day and a half earlier, ready to embark upon the adventure of her lifetime. The memory almost made her chuckle—worked at loosening the tears scratching about the borders of her eyes. How ludicrous, her thirty-six-hour-old idea of adventure. Moving to New York City, spending the summer working in a world-famous museum. Learning filing procedures, memorizing bits of information about exhibits and the building’s architecture so she might lead tours, making certain the free brochure holders were filled—

  Adventure …

  The repealing of the law of gravity, though, Bridget thought, finally turning away from the mirror, closing her eyes, you’ve got to admit, now that’s something that happens in an adventure.

  Feeling her knees going soft, the muscles and ligaments of them twitching, failing her, Bridget folded her legs under herself and sat on the floor—consciously doing so before she simply collapsed instead. As she leaned against the bed next to her, her mind overflowed with images from her past day and a half. Her parents at the diner, making jokes, inserting little reminders about safety and watchfulness when in the big city, more warnings at the airport, last moments of opportunity slipping from their hands, realization finally dawning on them that their little girl was all grown up—

  She remembered the confidence she had felt, boarding the plane. There was no sense of escape, no desperate hurrah over the throwing off of some imagined chains. Bridget liked her home, her family, her life, felt in no way put-upon or held
down. It was a good, comfortable life.

  But it was not enough for her.

  Life in Montana was simply too easy, and she was ready for more—had known as she waved good-bye to her parents that she was going to be all right. That nothing was going to stop her from “making it on her own.” And why not? After all, things had always come easily for the long-legged beauty.

  “Yeah,” she said aloud, daring to peek at the mirror once more. From her position on the floor, she could only see the top half of her head, nose up and no more. Staring into her eyes, knowing herself well enough to realize what she was seeing there, she finished;

  “And see, look how easy it’s going to be to make it all the way to crazy.”

  And then, finally, Bridget Elkins broke down and gave in to the tears she had been desperately holding back since she had watched four men get blown apart, been interrogated by the police, run from a burning building, and basically discovered that she could rely on absolutely nothing she had ever believed throughout her entire life.

  “MY HEAVENS, GENTLEMEN, WHAT A GATHERING. TO WHAT DO I OWE the honor?”

  Knight had gotten off at the sixth floor of the museum to find his office staked out by a cluster of men whose look signaled nothing but trouble to the professor. Dix had been correct—“cops and like worse” were indeed in evidence, and in far greater numbers than Knight had actually expected. Dollins’ assessment that “the feds” would be stopping by had also been correct.

  In fact, if Knight was reading those gathered correctly, he had both Brooklyn and Manhattan detectives, members of the state police, FBI agents, and, he was fairly certain, CIA spooks in attendance with the rest.

  “Don’t be shy. Somebody speak up.”

  Despite his encouragement, none of the men or women in the hallway said anything to him. Making his way as pleasantly as possible through the throng of obvious underlings, the professor headed directly for his office. Finally, when he reached what he was reasonably certain had to be an FBI man, one who had parked himself directly in front of the door to Knight’s chambers, he was told;

  “They’re waiting for you in the big conference room.”

  “Oh, are they now? How exciting.” The professor felt like saying a bit more, had several sarcastic bon mots lined up, but held off on delivering any of them. As much as his first inclination was to do so, instead he simply smiled at the messenger before his door and turned for the room the agent had designated. Rummaging through his pockets for a vial he had brought from home, he thought as he palmed the thing;

  “No sense in making enemies—especially of grunt-level functionaries. Besides, throwing wit to the likes of these, what did Thurber say? ‘As futile as a clock in an empty house.’ Let’s save the A-list material for their superiors, shall we?”

  Throwing open the doors to Conference Room A, Knight walked in with his head down, his hands fumbling within his bag, looking as if he thought he were there to teach a class, not to be interrogated. Paying no attention to those gathered, he walked to a table against the wall that held four pitchers of ice water and a herd of glasses. Passing his hand over the pitchers as if unable to decide which one he liked the best, the professor finally picked one and poured himself a glass of water.

  Then, glass in hand, forcing himself to present a calm exterior, the curator walked directly to the seat obviously left for him. Still rummaging around within his black leather shoulder bag, he finally withdrew a pad and pen, placed them on the table before him, then sat down quietly.

  “Professor Knight—”

  “Oh yes—I’m sorry, may I help you?”

  “May—” The speaker cut himself off abruptly, not allowing whatever he was about to ask to escape his lips. The fellow appeared to be in his late thirties, early forties, tallish, sandy hair—thinning somewhat, brown eyes—just drab enough to be anyone. His suit was just expensive enough to make him either a dishonest cop or a run-of-the-mill government agent. From the somber cut of his clothes, Knight was willing to bet FBI.

  Whoever this chap might be, Knight thought, it’s apparent he’s used to giving orders and being both feared and obeyed. Well, let’s see how that’s working for you this morning. Deciding that small bit of information gave him all he needed to know, the professor continued to stare innocently at the speaker, waiting for the inevitable to begin in earnest.

  “Yes,” the man started again, his tone unchanged, his attitude showing he planned on following his normal approach to such matters. “I believe you can help us, Professor. I certainly know that you had better help us.”

  “Really?” Knight filled his voice with a sort of bemused guilelessness, creating a persona for those in the room that bespoke a kindly, somewhat confused mouse of a man, one who not only spent most of his time working in quiet, dusty rooms by himself but who also preferred it that way. “Tell me, why would that be?”

  “Why would—?” Again the speaker cut himself off before repeating Knight’s complete response in amazement. The man began to speak again, but this time he was interrupted by a woman sitting several seats down from him. Dressed in a proper dark blue business suit, thick dark brown hair just beginning to be shattered by streaks of gray, she was Abigail Brinkley, the main director of the Brooklyn Museum. This was one of the only people whom Knight knew in the conference room, and certainly the only one who knew him well enough to understand exactly what he was up to at the moment.

  “Professor,” she said, her tone implying that she did not have time to watch him have sport with the officials gathered there that morning, “these men represent various local and federal agencies. Mr. Klein here,” she said, indicating the man with whom Knight had been toying, “is with the FBI.”

  “Oh my,” the professor answered, moving a hand toward his lips as if surprised by the information. “The FBI—really? And, and why are they here?”

  “They’re here, Professor,” Brinkley growled ever so slightly, hinting at her displeasure with Knight’s usual shenanigans, “for the same reasons our lawyers Mr. Feldon and Ms. Grillstein are here—because of what happened downstairs last night. You do remember being here, downstairs, after hours last night, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes, my—how dreadful, how simply terribly dreadful. Oh, Abigail, have they told you, all—”

  “Look,” snapped Klein, the normal cool demeanor he had been trained to display slipping more every moment he spent in the professor’s presence, “let’s knock off this game, all right? You knew you were going to be seeing the police again today. And, unless you’re willing to admit that you’re some kind of simpleton, you had to have known the federal government would be wanting to talk to you as well.”

  “Of course I expected the lot of you,” answered Knight with a sudden surprising candor. “But I also expected to be interviewed as a witness, to be asked for cooperation, not threatened by a drab, unimaginative, buttoned-down bully whose idea of tactful interaction with the public is to dispense vague hints of being run through some legal grinder.”

  “Professor Knight, we have no intention—”

  “Oh, please—don’t compound the arrogance of that sloppy, boilerplate opening salvo you fired at me by lying about it. Hallway lined with silent, brooding enforcer types, scowling faces in dark suits all around the table, my seat, positioned with my back to the wall, centered so that all eyes can glare at me, why not just spread a towel out covered with thumbscrews and sharp, pointy things and be done with it—”

  “Professor Knight!” Brinkley snapped her words furiously, but the professor raced past them, telling Klein;

  “The legendary FBI—pfah. You and yours are so used to cracking nuts with a hammer, it never dawns on you to try any other approach.”

  “Now see here, Knight, your director, Brinkley, has promised us your full cooperation, and I—”

  “Cooperate with you I certainly will, and without hesitation,” interrupted the professor. “But be intimidated by your gestapo tactics? No, I think not. Five places
to your left you will find Detective Sergeant Denny LaRaja. Ask him how long I cooperated with the NYPD last night.”

  “Professor Knight was a model witness,” the detective answered, enjoying the chance to tweak the FBI’s collective nose. “He worked with us for hours until a fire broke out in the station house, forcing us to postpone any further interviews until this morning.”

  Knight glared at Klein, his eyes daring the FBI man to escalate the situation any further. For a moment, it seemed as if the government agent was willing to do just that, but then something within Klein caught hold of his emotions, shoving them back down into the recess where he usually was able to keep them stored without any problem. Nodding to the professor, the FBI man acknowledged;

  “All right, perhaps we’ve all grown a bit too defensive of late. But if you will grant that we have a reason to be concerned when someone sets off explosives in a public place these days without any further admonishments over our tactics, I’ll admit we should be seeking your cooperation rather than demanding it.”

  “Well,” answered Knight, allowing one side of his mouth to curl into a smile, “any man who can use a word such as ‘admonishment,’ in a sentence and make it sound unforced certainly deserves a second chance in my book. Shall we proceed?”

  Agent Martin Klein pursed his lips for a moment. He had just been played like a rookie by an expert. After eighteen years with the bureau, a twice-decorated senior agent with a corner office, it was not something he appreciated. Indeed, so annoyed was the FBI man that he found a part of himself wanting to start probing the professor for weaknesses, to have him investigated on the off-chance there was something in his background that could possibly be used to embarrass him, or even land him in court. Another part of Klein’s mind, however, whispered that perhaps he actually was allowing the routine of his job to turn him into somewhat of a paint-by-the-numbers type rather than the investigator he had trained to be.