Keeper

by Greg Rucka

  “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.

  Selby’s apartment building had the feel of New York when it was still the classiest, most cultured city on earth. Whether or not it is now is subject to debate, but then again, whether it ever was is probably subject to the same debate. The lobby was marble, the fixtures were brass, and the plants were very green. To top it all off, the doorman was dapper, his uniform neatly pressed. He looked like a Royal Guard. He greeted me by name, saying that Ms. Selby was expecting me. I felt horribly underdressed, and acutely aware that I had a gun on my hip.

  Selby’s apartment was on the second floor, and I knocked on her door and waited. The door was opened almost immediately by a woman roughly my height who allowed me in, shut the door behind me, and offered to take my jacket, saying her name was Madeline. I declined, and she bade me follow her down a short hallway. She motioned me into the room, then turned and left.

  The curtains were drawn, and even with the last of dusk giving way to night the sitting room appeared bright and airy. The fixtures were predominantly white, with some green and some blue thrown in. There was an overstuffed couch and a low coffee table, bare, several bookshelves, and a desk by one of the windows, with a PC on top of it. The computer was running, and a screen saver of rain falling over a city skyline played on the monitor. Every so often lightning would flash across the skyline.

  On the walls hung two framed posters, both Monets with beautiful fields and delicate sunlight. A wood carving hung over the computer, PEACE in polished mahogany letters, spelled in Greek, Hebrew, and English. There were other pictures of a vague religious nature, but nothing garish. As I stepped into the room I heard the sound of paws scrabbling on a hardwood floor, then saw a golden retriever comer hard from another room and run toward me. The dog passed me and stopped at Selby’s feet, turning twice to look at both of us, then lowering itself to the ground.

  Veronica Selby sat in a wheelchair, opposite the couch, wearing white pants and a dark blue blouse that looked like silk and comfortable. She was utterly stunning, certainly one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. The blouse clung to her upper body, revealing the shape of strong shoulders and a proud back. She was on the near side of forty. Her hair was golden—literally—drawn around the right side of her neck and tied with a blue ribbon. She wore a small gold cross on a necklace, and the slightest application of makeup to highlight her blue eyes and her cheeks. With her left hand she stroked the dog behind its long, floppy ears.

  She extended her right hand and said, “Mr. Kodiak, I’m pleased to meet you.” I heard the soft southern thread of accent in her voice again.

  “The pleasure is mine,” I said, and shook her hand. Her grip was good, not too strong. She had nothing to prove.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  The couch didn’t give much when I sat on it. I said, “I realize that this was short notice.”

  “I assume this concerns Common Ground?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It has my absolute attention.” Time was only beginning to work on her. At her eyes were the slightest lines, and her mouth exhibited barely a wrinkle. She would keep her beauty for the rest of her life. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kodiak?”

  “Dr. Romero told me that you are taking care of security at the Elysium.”

  “Yes, I am,” Selby said.

  “I’d like to know what’s being done.”

  “Felice is still receiving threats?”

  I nodded.

  Veronica Selby shook her head. “That anyone would do so in the name of God is abhorrent.”

  “Frankly, I think it’s abhorrent, period.”

  She smiled. “Yes. May I ask—are you pro-abortion?”

  I should have realized it when I first saw the apartment, I thought. I had assumed that Felice and Selby were on the same side. But it was being called Common Ground for a reason.

  “Yes, I am,” I said.

  “I see. Yet your job is to protect the lives of the innocent, isn’t it?”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.” I shifted on the couch, wishing it would give just a little bit.

  “I’m curious, you understand,” Veronica Selby said. “I’ve spent twenty years now, off and on, trying to know the minds on both sides of the issue. You’re uncomfortable talking about this.”

  “The issue’s not the reason I’m here.”

  “No, you want to know about the security at the hotel. Fair enough,” she said. “I’ve hired two firms, Vigilant Security and another called Aware, and officers of Midtown North will be present, too.”

  “And?”

  She looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid that’s all I’ve done.”

  Three days, I thought, and must have made a face, because she said, “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Ms. Selby, I’ve advised Dr. Romero not to attend the conference because I believe there is a substantial chance that someone will try to kill her if she goes. My team and I cannot secure both the hotel and her person at the same time. Felice has agreed not to attend unless I approve the security.”

  Selby’s expression slid, turning to disappointment. “No, please. Felice must be there. She’s vital to making this work; it’s essential that she attend and speak. Her commitment . . . she’s got to be there . . . this may be the last chance any of us gets to talk instead of scream. If she doesn’t come, easily half of the pro-abortion groups won’t attend either.” She moved her chair forward, closer to me, intent. The dog rose and looked at her.

  “Please, Mr. Kodiak. You don’t know how important this conference is, how desperately I want it to succeed,” Veronica Selby said. “You must tell me what I need to do. The conference must be safe, not just for Felice but for all of us.”

  I was floored, not so much by her words, but by her passion. It had been a long time since I’d heard somebody speak with her sincerity, and, in a way, it was immediately intimate, as if I’d glimpsed something in her others would take years to see.

  Selby kept her eyes on me, then suddenly seemed to become self-conscious. The dog put his head in her lap, rolling his eyes at me. Her hands went immediately to his glossy head.

  “I can be somewhat . . . intense, I suppose,” she said softly. “Forgive me.”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” I said.

  “Will you tell me, please? What do I
need to do?” she asked again.

  I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. So much needed to be done, so much that I had assumed would already have been taken care of, to make the conference safe. The smart thing to do would be to tell Selby that I was sorry, but Romero wasn’t going to show.

  That would have been the smart thing to do, instead of being swayed by passion and courage.

  I put my glasses back on. “First, you’ve got the wrong people,” I said. “The police are a nice touch, and their help will be appreciated, but they’re not in the business of protection. They apprehend for a living, if you see the distinction. Same thing with most security guard firms; you tend to get a lot of ex-cops, or cop wannabes. If they see someone with a gun, their instinct is to go after that person first, rather than to protect the target.

  “There’s really only one way to do this, and the problem is that to do it right, you need a lot of money—”

  “I’m rich.” Selby said it simply. “Money isn’t a problem.”

  I absorbed that, then said, “Call Sentinel Guards tomorrow morning. Make an appointment to meet with Elliot Trent, and mention my name. His daughter works with me. He can come to see you, if you like. Tell him exactly what Common Ground is, everything you have planned for the conference, and tell him you’ve got 72 hours before it happens. You want complete protection. Those are the words to use: complete protection.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Sentinel will do as complete a background check on as many attendees to the conference, and as many employees of the hotel as possible, in the time remaining. They’ll try to check on all the guests, too, and make certain that none of them is a potential troublemaker. They’ll place guards in uniforms and plainclothes, they’ll have metal detectors, a command post, even dogs for sniffing out explosives.”

  I looked at her and then said, “It’s got to be done like that, and they’ve got to do it. Otherwise, I’ll advise Dr. Romero not to attend. We’re in the hole as it is. This should have been done weeks ago.”

  “I didn’t realize . . .”

  “Talk to Trent tomorrow. Tell him to call me after you speak with him.”

  “I will,” Selby said, wheeling over to the computer. She nudged the mouse and the screen saver went off. She opened an appointment book on the screen and began to type. “Will you look this over, please?” she asked.