by Greg Rucka
Bridgett’s eyebrows rose. I shrugged at her.
“I’m just theorizing,” Fowler said.
“Well, trash that particular theory. Is that it?”
“No, there’s one other thing. Barry is out on bail.” Twice the bastard had been caught dead to rights, and twice he had been set free. “How?” I fought to keep my voice level.
“He made bail, Atticus. All he was charged with was aggravated harassment for the phone call and criminal possession of a weapon for the gun. The call itself is only a misdemeanor, it’s the CPW charge that’s a felony. He walked on fifty thousand, cash or bond.”
“Where’d the money come from?”
“Crowell.”
“Barry needs to be in custody,” I said. “He’s our prime suspect, Scott, and the conference is tomorrow.”
“I know. NYPD has been following him since he got out. They’ll pull him back in if he gives them cause.”
“They better not lose him.”
“I know.”
“I mean it, Scott.”
“Watch your tone, Atticus,” he said. “Everybody’s doing the best they can.”
“Bullshit,” I said, and hung up.
Bridgett was looking at me, expectant.
“Barry got out,” I told her. “That motherfucker is walking the streets again.”
“Tough break, stud,” she said.
“Would you stop with that?”
“You don’t like being called stud?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Too bad . . . stud,” she said, and popped another Altoid.
I got up and headed back into the hall, mostly hoping to find a safe outlet for my anger. And I was angry now, could feel it rumbling. I was having a hard enough time trying to protect Romero as it was without legal loopholes, incompetents, and liars getting in my way.
“Where you going?” Bridgett asked, coming after me. “Out. I’ve got to do the walk-through.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Can I stop you?”
“Maybe with your gun, but I don’t think you’re that kind of boy,” she said.
“You have no idea what kind of boy I am,” I said.
“But I’m learning.”
We entered the living room. “Bridgett and I are going out. We’ll be back about four for the transport,” I told Natalie.
“We’ll be ready.”
Bridgett grabbed her leather jacket from the counter between the living room and the kitchen, slipping into it. Felice stopped what she was doing with her papers to watch us go, and when her eyes found me I discovered that I couldn’t look at her. I went to the front door, out of sight, to wait.
No, Felice didn’t hate me today. Maybe she didn’t even blame me. Natalie was probably correct; I had gone from failure to savior in under twenty-four hours, and as I watched Bridgett Logan come down the hall, her car keys in her hand, I wasn’t certain which position I liked better.
We got into Bridgett’s Porsche, and I told her we were going to Park Avenue first. .
“The Elysium’s on Fifty-third, isn’t it? Between Sixth and Seventh?”
“We’re making a stop. Unless you’re unwilling, in which case I’ll just take a cab,” I said.
“Whoa, easy, stud. We can make a stop first, sure. So, where am I headed?” I told her to drive uptown and she nodded and ran the Porsche like a demon. “So, whose place are we going to?”
“Veronica Selby’s.”
The doorman who looked like a royal guard stopped us from entering, and gave us the evil eye while he called Selby on the house phone. He said my last name like it was a disease. It didn’t help my mood.
“You can go ahead,” the doorman told Bridgett.
I led the way, knocked on the door twice, and was about to rap it again when it was opened by the same woman who had let me in before.
“Veronica is in the living room,” she said, and then led us down the hall, then retreated and disappeared as she had before.
Selby was wearing khakis and a white T-shirt today. Her wheelchair was positioned in front of her computer. As we entered she turned and smiled, saying, “This is a surprise, Mr. Kodiak. ...” Then her smile faded as she read my face.
“Time to confess,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“You held back last time I was here, and I didn’t push, because it didn’t seem necessary. But now it’s out of control, and I want to know everything you know about Crowell, SOS, and his plans.”
She drew herself up in the wheelchair. “Are you implying—”
“Goddamnit, stop it,” I said. “I know that you were engaged to the man.”
That put the brakes on. She looked away from me to a point on the wall. “I was,” Veronica Selby said. “But that doesn’t mean that I know anything—”
I interrupted again. “No, don’t try playing that hand. Katie Romero is in the morgue with holes where her heart should be. Her mother is attending Common Ground tomorrow knowing that she may die, too. Now, you stop with this innocent bullshit now, and you tell me the truth, or I swear to God that Felice won’t show tomorrow, and you’ll be going it alone.”
She turned her head, showing me that lovely neck again, and still not showing me her eyes. “It was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Five years, no—six. I met him in Albany and I was ... I was discouraged, do you understand?” Selby finally looked up at me. “He was charming, and he got things done, or so I thought. And I was tired, so tired of fighting and losing all the time.”
“And Crowell is your idea of a winner?”
“He was ... I thought he was getting things done.” She touched the gold cross at her throat. “But he wasn’t. He was making things worse.”
“You should have told me, you should have told me when I first talked to you. I only found out because Ms. Logan here did a check on Crowell’s past.”
Selby looked at Bridgett, tilting her chin in a greeting. “Pleased to meet you,” she said softly. Her accent was stronger now, southern grace rising to the occasion.
“The pleasure is mine,” Bridgett said.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
Selby went back to worrying the cross, her fingers tracing its shape over and over. “I was ashamed. I was seduced by him, and I was terribly ashamed. Won’t you both sit down? Please?”
Bridgett sat on the couch and slid over, making room for me beside her. I positioned myself on the edge of the cushion. Selby rolled closer to us, stopping at the end of the coffee table, folding her hands in her lap.
“It wasn’t seduction of the flesh, exactly,” she said. “What Jonathan Crowell seduced was my spirit and faith. I’ve . . . Mr. Kodiak, I think I am a weak person, and I don’t know if you can understand that. I conceived when I was only fifteen, and I had an abortion. I aborted my daughter with a coat hanger after drinking a bottle of gin.
“The difficult thing, the right thing, would have been to carry my baby to term, to let her live. But I was a coward and I was weak, and so I murdered her. I nearly died myself as a result, both inside and out. When I left the hospital, my legs were . . .” Her hands strayed to the wheels of the chair, then back to her lap.
“This is my life, Mr. Kodiak. I believe from the bottom of my soul and with all my heart that abortion is murder, and that murder is wrong. But I believe more that Jesus Christ is my salvation.” She stopped speaking for a moment, looking past me. I turned, and the woman who had let us in was standing in the archway.
“It’s all right, Madeline,” Selby said. “Perhaps you could bring us some tea?”
“Certainly, Ronnie,” Madeline said. She hesitated, watching me, then went back down the hall.
Selby continued, “What Jonathan Crowell said to me, fundamentally, absolutely, I agree with to this day. To abort a child is to murder a child. And I heard him say what I felt, except say it more eloquently, and I heard him say it at a time when I was succumbing
to weakness again. I had lost my faith, and I thought that through Jonathan I could find it again.”
“You didn’t,” I said.
She almost smiled. “It took me a while. It took me long enough to have accepted one ring from him, and to want a second. But then I realized exactly what he was doing.”
“Which is?”
“ ‘He that sayeth I know Him, and keepeth not His commandments, is a liar, and the truth is not in him,’ ” she said. “Jonathan Crowell claims to act in the name of Our Lord, to do His bidding. Jonathan has claimed His authority, but refuses to submit to the same. And that is a sin, Mr. Kodiak. That is a terrible, almost unforgivable sin.” Madeline returned with a silver tray. There were three glasses and a pitcher of iced tea on it. She set the tray on the coffee table and then put a hand on Selby’s shoulder, eyeing Bridgett and me. Selby said, “Thank you.” Madeline nodded, then left, and I poured three glasses. “I should have told you,” Selby said after accepting her glass. “But you reacted so strongly when you saw his name on the list, and I was terrified that Felice wouldn’t come, that you wouldn’t let her attend Common Ground.”
“Do you think Crowell is behind Katie’s murder?” Bridgett asked.
“I hope not, I hope . . . he’s certainly responsible for some of the letters,” Selby said. “Indirectly, at least. Jonathan would never write them himself; instead, he would encourage others to do that work for him.”
“And what about Dr. Romero?” I asked. “Do you think he is trying to kill her?”
“I don’t know if Jonathan is trying to kill Felice,” she said. “But I think he is capable of justifying such a murder. He has assumed that authority. Whether he would actually try to do it, I don’t know.”
“Do you know Clarence Barry?”
She frowned. “Clarence Barry? I knew him through Jonathan.”
“Would he murder a sixteen-year-old retarded girl?” Selby said, “Clarence Barry is so full of hate he could do anything. He used to make jokes about . . . Let’s just say he speculated about what Jonathan and I would do in bed, had we gotten married. His speculation wasn’t kind, and centered on the fact that I have very little movement in my legs.” She emptied her glass, turning it in her hand and watching the ice slide before setting it on the tray with a gentle click. “I’ll make certain that Jonathan isn’t admitted to the conference,” she said.
“Is he a martyr?” I asked.
“Jonathan? It’s one of the parts he plays, but it isn’t anything more than an act.”
“Then don’t bar him from attending,” I said. “If we keep him from coming, we create a martyr. If he comes, we’ll be able to keep tabs on him. And if he’s not willing to sacrifice himself to his cause, then Felice may actually be safer if he is there.”
“I see,” Selby said.
I stood. “We’ve got to go.”
Bridgett set her glass down. “Thanks for the tea,” she said, rising.
“Certainly.” Selby turned her chair slightly toward me, so we were facing, and offered her hand. I took it. “Will you allow Felice to attend?” she asked.
“She’ll attend,” I said. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow will be a good day,” she said.
Madeline showed us out.
We parked in the garage provided by the Elysium, and before we went up into the hotel, I asked the attendant what the security was like around the cars.
“Cameras,” he said. “We check for new plates every evening.”
“Is that all?”
He shrugged.
I thanked him and then Bridgett and I went up to the lobby. “Let’s hope nobody wants to take out the whole building,” I said.
“You think they’d use a car bomb?” Bridgett asked. “They’re in vogue,” I said.
“That would be totally sprung.”
“And murdering doctors isn’t?”
We came in from the garage, near the center of the lobby. It was beautifully appointed, broad, heavily carpeted, decorated in browns and golds. Quite stylish. The front entrance was actually on the west side of the building, allowing one to enter near a variety of services, from a sports bar and cafe to the south and a bar and lounge to the north. After a moment to look around and count the cameras, I took Bridgett to the bar. We each bought a Coke and had a seat.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Just looking. How many guards do you see?”
She downed a handful of complimentary mixed nuts, chewing thoughtfully. After a minute of watching the lobby, Bridgett said, “I count three. They’re the ones in the blazer-and-slack combos, right?”
I nodded. “There are five,” I said, and pointed them out. “Then there are those two, house detectives, probably.” Both were in plainclothes, and one was actually lurking near us. I smiled at him and he looked hard at Bridgett and me, then moved on.
“Thinks I’m tricking,” Bridgett said. “Guess I should’ve worn my nice clothes, huh?”
“Or one less nose ring,” I said.
We finished our sodas and then walked over to the reader board. The board was electronic, with announcements scrolling past in bright red LED. A pediatrics convention was in town; so was a technical writers’ symposium. The board listed “Common Ground: Abortion in the United States” near the end of its cycle, noting that registration began at eight the next morning. I looked over the schedule Natalie had given me, then handed it to Bridgett.
“Let’s check the rooms,” I said.
The Imperial Ballroom was almost large enough to earn its name, but apart from that, didn’t look as if it would pose a problem. There were three sets of doors off the hallway that led into the room, but two of those could easily be sealed to control the access. On the south side of the west wall was another door, and when I opened that I was in a service hallway.
“Are we allowed back here?” Bridgett asked me.
“That’s half the point,” I told her.
We followed the hall along and passed several storerooms, two kitchens, and twelve staff people. Not one person stopped us or asked what we were doing. The hall ended on a loading dock, and a camera was positioned there to watch whoever came in or out. I gave it the finger. Hopefully, somebody was awake in the control room, and flipped me off in return.
“This isn’t good, is it?” Bridgett asked.
“It’s not too bad, actually,” I said. “This is all single access. Sentinel will put one person here, in a uniform. As long as the instructions are simple and clear, there shouldn’t be a problem.” I pushed the door back open and we headed back the way we had come.
Two men were waiting for us at the end of the hall. About ten feet away from them, the elder of the two said, “You’re still wearing those damn earrings, Kodiak.”
I grinned and tugged on the two hoops in my left earlobe. “So I don’t lose my head,” I said. “Makes it easy to hold.”
“Hate to have those yanked in a fight,” the other one said. I didn’t know him, but his voice was wonderfully distinctive, rich and with an accent.
“Bridgett Logan,” I said, indicating the first man, “this is Elliot Trent, Natalie’s father.”
“We’ve met,” Bridgett said.
“Yes, we have,” Trent said. “I assume you’ve since replaced your camera?”
Bridgett grinned. “Oh, yeah. The agency’s still waiting to be reimbursed.”
“An oversight,” Trent said. “I’ll have a check cut to you today.” He went so far as to make note of it in the leather portfolio he was carrying. Then he closed the portfolio and said, “Why don’t we go upstairs, so I can give you an operations brief?”
We followed Trent and the other man up to the third floor, where the New York Room was. This was the room where Romero would give her talk, and it was already laid out for the event. According to the sign on the wall, the room could seat five hundred people. Elliot Trent took us up to the front of the room, and sat on the edge of the stage, in front of
the table. Bridgett and I took seats, and the other man stood for a moment longer, then sat on the opposite side of the aisle. Like Trent, he was dressed conservatively, in that style of dress that seems to linger long after the wearer has left government employ. His skin was very tan, and his hair and eyes were very brown.
“You haven’t met Yossi, have you?” Trent asked me.
“No,” I said, and extended my hand.
He took it and gave me a firm shake, saying, “Yossi Sella.”
“Yossi is fresh from the Shin Bet,” Trent said. “Their Executive Protection Squad. We’ve stolen him away. Much as you’ve done with my daughter, I might add.”
“You mean he’s dating your best friend?” I said.
Trent looked appalled, but Sella laughed.
“Let’s get to work, shall we?” Trent said.
He had maps of each floor of the conference, showing the rooms that were going to be used, the rooms that were scheduled to be empty, and all the service routes that led to the conference areas. Marked on the maps were security checkpoints, guard posts, and camera emplacements.
“I want restricted access here,” I told him. “The elevator should be the only way up, and I want to control the flow into the room.”
“There’s an escalator onto this floor,” Sella said. “And two stairwells.” .
“The escalator will have to be locked off.”
Trent nodded. “We’ll put a guard in uniform at the top, just in case. There’ll also be one uniform at each stairway.”
“What are the cameras like?” I asked.
“They’ve got good people in their security room,” Sella answered. “Not the best, but they pay attention. That’s how we saw you in the hallway, on the cameras.” He smiled and raised his middle finger at me. Bridgett laughed.
“Can we have a Sentinel uniform in there?” I asked Trent.
Trent shook his head. “But that’ll be covered by the marshals.”
“How’s the communication?”
His frown deepened. “Not great. Because of the publicity, every agency wants to be seen as responding to the best of their ability.”