“How do we stop this when you don’t even know which drone he’ll use?”
“We know the range of frequencies he’ll use.” Travis took a step forward and offered James Torrance a smile. “I’m a transplant from Syracuse PD, Mr. Torrance. A lot of UAV companies are there. I’ve had special training in drone jammer technology similar to what Metropolitan Police used at Heathrow. I put in a call this morning. One of the newest jammers will be here by early afternoon. But by itself, that won’t be enough.”
James furrowed his brow. “Why not?”
“I can jam the signal,” Travis said. “Depending on the UAV itself, it’ll most likely drop to the floor without exploding or return to its starting point. But that’s all I can do.”
“Which means he could still use a cell phone to activate the detonator,” Mark said.
The few seconds the room was quiet felt like five minutes.
“We don’t want it to come to that,” I said. “We don’t know if Wally Ray can afford a fleet of Babyhawks. If Drea is still his primary target, he may have only one he’s saving for her. This isn’t a suicide mission. Trust me, he very much wants to get out of this alive. He wiped his prints off everything he used at PAUSA Art House the other night and didn’t tell his friends to do the same. His game here is more than simple revenge. This kind of surgical kill could make him a legend in white supremacist circles. But because the range is limited, he will have to be close enough to turn on the drone and send it toward the target.”
“He has to wear these weird goggles, right?” James said, tapping the printout. “Or hold something with a cell phone hooked up to it? Wouldn’t somebody notice?”
“Not if he’s in a restroom or up on the catwalk.” I looked straight into James’s eyes. “In all likelihood, Mr. Torrance, Wally Ray Tucker already knows where he’s going to be. That’s why we’re here, to request Torrance Towers human resource records. There’s a good chance he’s been here for a long time, using an assumed name and working in your hotel.”
34
Carter John’s smartphone had a hundred ten contacts, more than five hundred pictures, an empty calendar, an email account, text message chains with nine different individuals, a playlist that included rock and country music as well as the Free Range Vampire Squirrels and other racist bands, links to white power websites, Candy Crush and eight other games, and half a dozen porn sites. Unlike his Lansing alter ego, John had next to no social media presence, except for the occasional comment in response to an article on a Nazi or Klan site.
Yvonne and Cissy had taken turns tracking down everything from his search history to his few online purchases, with little to show for their efforts. The emails were impersonal, mostly solicitations sparked by searches or gaming. Three noted receipt of online job applications but there were no follow-ups to offer regrets or congratulations. Contacts with full names were easier to evaluate—friends, acquaintances, former co-workers, women he’d met here or there, a Walgreens in Maryland, assorted restaurants and take-out joints, half a dozen in Buffalo. Most of the contacts listed only as initials were attached to phones no longer in service, probably burners. We had no way of knowing whether these were white supremacists, drug lords, gun dealers, or ministers and doctors. A few were part of the non-committal text message chains that gave no details worth investigating.
Most of the named contacts lived in Maryland, DC, or Virginia and were home when Yvonne called to say Carter John had listed them as job references. Some asked her to repeat the name and claimed they didn’t know him. Others said they’d met him once or twice at an event or through a swap sheet but were in no position to make a job recommendation. A few hung up without comment. Four former co-workers recalled he had been fired from jobs in retail or a warehouse. Three women said they had met him in a bar and exchanged phone numbers but felt so uneasy after one or two conversations that they blocked his calls. Walgreens refused to give any information without a warrant, and four of the Buffalo take-out restaurants recalled Dr. Lansing as a nice man who ordered his food by phone and always picked it up himself. Two of the take-out places were on the very diverse West Side, near my apartment. That he might have stayed within walking distance of Bobby and me was disconcerting enough. That he was a semi-regular at an Ethiopian eatery on Grant Street near Buff State was a stunning surprise.
In search of where he’d been staying, Yvonne tried to pinpoint networks he had used to access the internet. She located IP addresses in coffee shops, stores, hotels, and public buildings, including, ironically, the downtown library. But he was just as likely to get to his porn sites and racist bulletin boards through his 4G network. After reviewing hundreds of images of rallies with people in hoods or masks, random street scenes, women obviously photographed without permission, and dick pics—but no faces even close to Wally Ray Tucker’s mugshot—Cissy was relieved when I took her off phone duty to locate Wally Ray Tucker’s lawyer cousin. After a full day, she was able to tell me with certainly this only child of two only children of four only children had no cousins. “Looks like he lied to his people,” she said—which came as no surprise because by not telling the others to wipe away their prints he had set them up to take the fall.
Having spent hours finding next to nothing, Cissy was delighted to dive into the personnel files of both Torrance Towers and DPS—as an independent contractor. As the security arm of the hotel, Donatello Protective Services had a legal right to all relevant information and could choose an outside vendor to review its own records as well as the hotel’s. More jaded, Yvonne expected to find nothing of use but said as long as DPS and I were both paying her, she was in.
Meanwhile, even as we took turns accompanying Drea to sessions on ethnic dance, countering the language of hate, and building inclusive community gardens, Pete and I used the blue badges that gave us access to everything in the hotel to walk through offices, store rooms, kitchens, service rooms, break rooms, locker rooms, the loading dock, and all the mechanical rooms in search of someone who resembled Casper the Unfriendly Ghost with shoe polish slathered on his head.
By the end of the third day, we were no closer to Wally Ray. Though I had kept Drea from the plenary sessions as a precaution, the likelihood her nemesis could find her in a crowd of hundreds was slightly higher than his ability to find which breakout room she would be in at any given moment. I knew—probably had always known—that if he was going to make his move, it would have to be on the last morning, when she was on stage, giving the keynote address at the awards brunch.
35
An hour before the brunch, Rafael and I did a complete walk-through of the conference level: restrooms, meeting rooms, coat rooms, storage rooms, utility closets, kitchen, and, last, the main hall. Police officers with bomb-sniffing dogs had already done a sweep that ended with checking the undersides of the eight-person banquet tables set up there, the spaces behind decorative curtains, and the area around and beneath the small portable stage from which Drea would deliver her speech. The first thing we checked was a utility closet curtained off from the stage. All the keys to that windowless room were locked in James Torrance’s desk, except for the one in my pocket and those carried by Pete and Ramos. If circumstances demanded, one of us would get Drea to a safe room.
The rest of our walk-through was partly a comms check and partly to be certain each access point to the catwalk was covered by a uniformed officer. Rafael was double-connected, to his department colleagues through his handy-talkie and to my team with an earbud. Maxine Travis, in the catwalk and armed with something that looked like the lovechild of a sniper rifle and a giant tuning fork, was also linked to both groups.
As Rafael and I moved from access point to access point, I made a mental note of the name and face of each officer stationed at a door or cat ladder bolted to the wall. Hotel employees began setting out cups and glasses, plates and bowls, and tableware and napkins on long tables that flanked the entrance. When they began to wheel out chafing dishes of various size
s, Rafael left the hall to review the positioning of officers elsewhere on the conference level. Meanwhile, I called for a sitrep in assigned order from everyone tuned to my earbud, which now included Matt and Mark. As names sounded in my ear, with reports on the speaker’s position or the functioning of cameras and other devices, I studied the faces of staff bustling back and forth between the kitchen and the main hall. A few of the men got a longer look than most but no one set off my Wally Ray alarm.
Travis was the last to check in.
“How’s your nest, Max?” I said after she had given her name.
“Overlooking the stage,” she replied. “My angle is perfect for any Babyhawk that floats into view. Lieutenant Petrocelli from SWAT is right next to me to make sure nobody gets close to Drea.”
Between eight-thirty and nine, the hall began to fill with people who made their way through the metal detectors and bag checks. Some wore jackets and ties or morning dresses and jewelry, as if trying to look their best for the awards ceremony. Others were in jeans and simple tops, more than a few looking annoyed as they were forced to leave their roller suitcases in a nearby room. Many of the faces I saw now I had noticed over the past few days but I had been so focused on Drea throughout that no names came to me.
Bobby, Kayla, and Sam came in and nodded at me as they moved toward the table with the RESERVED #5 sign on it. Each had attended a few sessions rather than the whole conference but all had promised to be here for Drea’s speech. If something happened, Sam had said more than once, protecting Drea was my first concern. Because I didn’t need divided attention, I had assigned them to a table I considered a safe distance from the stage. Still, I was worried about them and at the same time relieved Phoenix was in court.
Other planners and dignitaries made their way to seats. A picture-sized package under his arm, James Torrance and Marlo Vassi went to RESERVED #2. They were joined by the Gramms, the Zachritzes, and Mayor Green and Judge Chancellor. At RESERVED #3 Bill Cathcart and his grandmother Catherine hosted people I had seen in the WNCZ studios. Without baby Kwame, Amari Lockwood and a man I assumed was her husband Derek joined library director Ann Marie Marciniak, banker Bart Novak, and four people I didn’t recognize at RESERVED #6. Their backs against a wall, Randall Torrance and Chelsea Carpenter were alone at RESERVED #7 until Sharon Donatello and her twin sons sat there. Randall’s look of surprise at their appearance became a grinning interaction with the boys that reminded me Matt and he had been friends at NYU.
RESERVED #1 had only four chairs, for Drea, Pete, Ramos, and me.
But I never sat that morning, not during breakfast, nor for the mayor’s greeting, nor during the awards ceremony led by Marlo Vassi and Amari Lockwood. I remained on my feet when Pete and Ramos walked Drea into the hall after the last award had been given and the doors closed behind them. They sat for less than two minutes, while Rory Gramm introduced Drea. Then, amid applause, Pete and Ramos accompanied her up to the lectern and flanked her, each angled to observe as much of the crowd as possible. Meanwhile, I floated among the tables, scanning diners and hotel staff, watching for sudden movements, focusing as much as I could on everything and everyone around me.
Drea adjusted the microphone and thanked Rory for his too-kind introduction. Then she unfolded the papers in her hand and spread them out on the lectern. After a moment she began to speak, her words magnified by the sound system:
“America was born in blood. Whatever its virtues, our country was born in the blood of indigenous peoples and slaves and baptized in the blood of the Revolutionary War. It made first communion of the blood spilled to end slavery and replenished the national chalice with blood spilled during the westward expansion, upon the Trail of Tears and the track beds of the transcontinental railroad. It invited subsequent generations of immigrants to the altar of freedom but withheld cushions to kneel upon until their skin had toughened enough not to need them. Out of such suffering there gradually arose what was promised, a new nation not dependent upon the whims of kings, the frailties of clergy, or the strictures of class, but a nation that promised all people are born free and equal with the right to pursue happiness.”
The audience was rapt. I noticed few private conversations as I skirted tables on my way from one side of the room to the other. The wall speakers were loud enough to mask what I said to my team but I spoke softly anyway to request camera updates. Yvonne and Cissy gave crisp summaries of what all the cameras showed. The roofs were clear. There was no unusual activity in any of the rooms being monitored or the corridor outside the main hall. “Only thing in the catwalk is cops,” Cissy said with a chuckle. “That real cute SWAT guy with a big ass scope on his rifle and the cool sister with the Star Trek gun.”
I looked at Ramos, pleased to see no visible reaction to Cissy’s appraisal of the sniper.
“History is replete with our nation’s failures to live up to its founding principles, but America’s true greatness lies in its steady movement toward them. The end of slavery and eventually its pinch hitter, Jim Crow. Women’s suffrage and the still too slow infusion of women into corridors of power. The any-time-now death of the culture of workplace sexual harassment. Marriage and gender equality across the spectrums of identity and desire. Religious tolerance. Now we are more diverse than ever. Theater, film, television, literature, music, painting, and sculpture feature more artists of all races, creeds, and identities than ever before. But our diversity is not limited to artistic expression and the media. It is part of daily life. The Asian-American woman’s rights activist with blonde dreadlocks, the Latino bank manager with a Harvard MBA, immigrant doctors from India and Africa who treat white rural populations, transgender persons serving in the armed forces, Muslims and Native Americans in Congress, people of color in space—our nation is better for all of them.”
“G,” Rafael’s voice crackled in my ear. “Apparent heart attack in the lobby. One of my unis is doing CPR. A DPS guy went to get the nearest defib machine. EMTs are on the way. I’m heading down to assess. I’ll get back up here as quick as I can.”
“Got it,” I said.
“Max, pass on anything on our comms G needs to know.”
“Copy that,” Travis said.
“We are better because diversity—a dirty word only to those who would divide us—gives all our dreams, talents, sensibilities, faiths, and better angels a chance to cross-pollinate and evolve. Interfaith services, concerts that mix jazz and pop with classical music, blends of genres in literature and film, communities with outdoor murals that reflect the wide breadth of humanity, and heartfelt exchanges of social and political ideas that lead to compromise are all examples of the hybrid vigor that can keep alive American ideals long after current partisans are gone.”
Hotel staff were lined up near the buffet tables, most of them watching the stage intently, perhaps awaiting a supervisor’s signal as soon as the speech ended to begin removing chafing dishes under cover of applause. Two women, one young enough to be the other’s daughter, rose on opposite sides of the room and moved toward the entrance as if headed to the restroom. I felt tension knot my shoulders as I watched them go. We were looking for two men, Wally Ray Tucker and Stanley Maxwell, and maybe whoever did podcasts as Morgan Krieger. I had no idea whether those men had additional help seated in the audience or dressed like the staff in white shirts and black vests and slacks.
“But the future of American ideals is under threat from within, by a venomous tide of hatred that has washed over politics and public discourse and destroys lives when it spreads unchecked. I am a victim of that hatred. I was reborn in my husband’s blood the night he died in my arms. Many of you have asked why my book is narrated in the second person. Was I trying to insert the reader? No. The truth is the Andrea Gibbons everyone knew died that night. Something inside her floated into the ether to stare down with a profound detachment at what was left of her life. It was almost as if she watched herself become somebody else, somebody with the childhood nickname she had left in Bu
ffalo when she went away to college in New York City.”
Drea paused and looked up from her papers. Amid the silence, she wiped her eyes and tried to clear her throat. Marlo Vassi stood and brought her a glass of water. Her whispered “Thank you!” caught by the mike, she downed it in three gulps and returned to her text.
“After her husband’s murder Drea discovered among his notes and clippings—papers that eventually led to In the Mouth of the Wolf—something he wrote in an article. ‘Hatred is a monster we unchain at great risk to ourselves.’ He was referring not only to the rise of explicit ethnic and religious hatreds but also to the cultural acceptance of everyday animosities that make the most extreme hatreds possible. He wrote that we have one clear choice if we want to keep a functioning democracy. We must render the venom of our politics impotent by embracing a common purpose.”
Drea took the protracted applause in stride, making no effort to stop it. The older woman who had gone to the restroom slipped back inside and hesitated near the buffet tables, perhaps overwhelmed by the clamor. Finally, she returned to her table, looking about before she sat, as if for clues to what she had missed. The man in the seat beside hers leaned over to whisper into her ear. She nodded as the applause began to subside.
Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3) Page 27