by Corey Brown
Robiere hears the metallic bleating of the heart monitor. She listens to Suzanne, her prayers, hears words of faith and desperate hope. Robiere stares at her patient.
How can this guy not be dead? What the hell should she do now?
«»
After leaving the hospital Derek checked Gus and Marion’s house, looking for Todd. On the way, he imagined finding the boy watching television and raiding the refrigerator. But even as Derek pulled into the driveway his hopes had faded. The house was dark and, obviously, quite empty. A cursory check had confirmed what he already knew: Todd was not there.
Now, with the engine idling, no headlights and the air conditioner pumping a cool breeze, Derek thinks about going back to the house for one final look.
He leans back against the headrest and exhales, his cheeks puffing slightly. Derek inhales, his barrel chest expanding, and exhales again. Downtown in the warehouse district, he is parked across the street from the national headquarters of U.S. Auto, the nation’s largest auto parts retailer and the location of Lucas Kelly’s office. Over an hour spent talking with New Orleans cops, watching and listening to the crime scene investigators in Lucas’s condo, calling his own people, leaving messages for Russ Laroche and checking out U.S. Auto had yielded exactly nothing. No Lucas, no leads, and worst of all, no Todd.
When he had charged out of Saint Charles General Hospital some two, long hours ago, Derek had been certain, maybe for no other reason other than blind emotion or raw motivation, he would find Todd Briggs and bring him safely home. But now, a million conversations later, he was no closer to locating Todd than he was to ending world hunger. Lucas’s apartment had yielded little in the way of clues but the crime scene investigators had made some interesting discoveries: four spent shells from two different guns, blood from only one victim and an unlocked apartment door. But nothing that pointed the way to Todd.
The display of his cell phone glows a soft yellow, Cody’s number was queued up, but Derek just cannot bring himself to place the call. He can’t bring himself to tell Cody that he does not have Todd. Worse, he has no idea who to talk to or where to look.
Derek studies the office building that is the headquarters of U.S. Auto. Named the Croft Building, it is unpretentious, at best. It boasts a non-descript façade, one grimy revolving door, and a dirty bronze plaque naming the date of construction, but nothing to indicate that all eight stories are occupied by an auto parts giant.
In the course of the last few hours Derek had learned the twelve-year old company is enormously successful, with retail stores in forty-three of the fifty states and a revenue stream that made it a darling on Wall Street.
Derek had spoken with the security guard in the lobby, a rotund man in his sixties, asking if he had seen Lucas Kelly. When the guard pushed back, wanting to know who was looking for Mr. Kelly, Derek’s FBI credentials had brought a quick change of attitude.
“No Sir,” the guard had said, his face drawing tight. “I haven’t seen Mr. Kelly since, oh, at least two days, now. Not that it means he hasn’t been here. I work second shift. Could’ve come and gone, you know, before I start.”
“Do employees wear ID badges?” Derek had asked.
“Yes sir, you bet.”
“Are the badges used to log entry and exit times, is there a magnetic reader?”
“Nope. I mean, yeah, the badges have one of those strips but they don’t do anything. You have to display your identification at all times but not for getting into the building. We just watch as folks arrive. If they don’t have a badge, we ask them to sign in and we give them a visitor’s pass.”
Inasmuch as Derek was not actually searching Mr. Kelly’s office, rather it was an attempt to find a missing person, the security guard had agreed to let Derek look inside. For just a minute, just long enough to see if anyone was there.
Not surprisingly, Lucas’s office provided no help, either. It was dark and empty and missing the one thing Derek was looking for: Todd. Derek had not really expected to find the kid holed up in Lucas’s office, but it was worth a shot. And there had been the off-chance of finding Lucas.
No Lucas, no Todd, but lots of stuff. Expensive stuff. Derek had been impressed with the accoutrements. A polished antique desk, a well-stocked bar, private bathroom with spa; it was obvious U.S. Auto did not have a cash problem. That was one thing, but judging by the dollar value of the artwork covering the office walls, Lucas Kelly did not have a cash flow problem, either.
Derek did not know much about Lucas Kelly. In fact, he only knew what Cody had told him, none of which was very flattering. But Derek did know that Lucas was young and it said something about the man to have come this far so quickly. Derek pieced together a scenario, alternately factoring in or discounting what he already knew. No doubt, Kelly was connected; he had found the fast track to the top by a means other than hard work.
The seventh floor was home to the U.S. Auto’s legal department and from his car Derek stares up at the row of dimly lit office windows one level below the top floor. Lucas’s office is on the other side of the building so Derek cannot see that particular pane of glass, but he sits, staring, nonetheless. He dreads the call to Cody, Derek cannot bear the thought of telling him that Todd has vanished. But he has to report back even if there is bad news.
A sharp rap on the car window startles Derek. His head snaps around and he is peering into the ragged face of a street person standing by the passenger’s door. Filthy, ill-fitting clothes hang from the man’s body like so many strips of cloth. The man stoops close to the car window, a mass of tangled, matted hair forcing its way out from under a New York Mets baseball cap.
“What?” Derek says, harshly. “What do you want?”
The man’s yellow-toothed smile fades when he sees the look on Derek’s face and he steps back, shaking his head as if to apologize for the interruption. But he doesn’t leave. Derek presses the power button, lowering the passenger’s window a few inches.
“What is it?” Derek repeats, a little more sympathetically this time.
“Uh.” The man coughs, a tiny wad of spit popping out his mouth. “You got any spare change?”
Derek doesn’t want to be bothered but he also knows a donation is the quickest way to get rid of the guy. Derek gets out of the car, fishes in his pocket for a couple of bills and inspects them, making sure they are singles. Then he walks around to the back end of the car and stuffs the cash into a grimy palm.
“Thanks buddy,” the man says. “I’ll pay you back as soon as----”
“Yeah, right,” Derek says, showing his FBI identification. “Now, keep moving.”
The homeless man squints in the semi-darkness then his eyes go wide at the realization of what he is seeing. “Hey, I ain’t done nothin’. I ain’t trouble, no. Just looking for a little help.”
Derek flips the wallet shut, shoves it back into his pocket, takes a deep breath. “I’m sure you are not trouble, but you will be if you hang around. Understand?”
The man takes a half step back but his eyes never break contact, and for an odd moment he studies Derek. The strangeness of the act does not escape Derek’s notice and for a half second Derek feels like he is in a staring contest.
Then the man looks down, nods and turns away. Derek watches the man shuffle across the street, pausing in front of the Croft building. Derek can tell the guy is wondering if he should panhandle the security guard. The urban exile shakes his head and starts up the sidewalk but stops, turns around, and goes inside.
In seconds the blue and black uniform is ushering him back outside, shooing the man away. Derek glances down at his cell phone still lying on the passenger’s seat, the soft glow of the display still beaming at him.
The hospital is only ten minutes away, Derek thinks. “Screw it,” he says out loud. “I’ll just drive over.”
Pulling onto Saint Charles Avenue Derek heads west. In seconds he enters Lee Circle, where Howard Avenue and Saint Charles Avenue meet to form a round-a-bou
t. Who does that? Derek thinks. What street person tries to stare down an FBI agent? He slows, getting ready to exit right and continue on Saint Charles. But Derek Simmons never makes the turn.
“Agent Simmons,” the security guard says, setting aside his crossword puzzle. “What brings you back?”
“I just want to check on one more thing.” Derek says, crossing the lobby of the Croft building, the grimy revolving door hissing to a stop in his wake.
“I don’t think I can----”
Derek points at the guard and says,“Don’t even think about calling up there.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Derek keeps walking. “I’m not kidding. Do not warn him.”
“Warn who?”
“Don’t fuck with me, I’m not in the mood.”
“Hey, there’s no need for that kind of language. I answered all your questions, took you up there. What more do you want?”
Derek wheels around, faces the guard. “Do you know how these phone switches work?” he says, pointing at the multi-line phone on the polished granite top of the duty station.
The guard looks at the phone, puzzled. “What do you mean? I have no idea how that thing works.”
Derek does not know either, but now that the guard had confessed his own ignorance it is easy enough to lie.
“These systems log every call,” he says. “Inbound, outbound, even between extensions. If you call Lucas Kelly, I’ll be able to find out.”
“I…I told you, I haven’t seen him.”
“Fine, but I’m going to his office and I’m serious about calling. I’ll make your life miserable if you warn him that I’m coming.”
“But he’s not….”
Derek holds up a hand to silence him. “Cut the crap, we both know he’s up there. I just want to know why you’re covering for him. So tell me…why is that?”
“I’m not.” The guard’s shoulders fall and he looks away. “I’m not covering for anyone,” he says, sighing, running his fingers through his gray hair. “Go on up, I won’t call.”
Derek steps out of the elevator and waits a moment, listening, looking. Noises that are usually unheard can sound particularly loud in an empty building and he wants to make sure his arrival has not been noticed. Derek checks his weapon, does not draw it but makes certain the Beretta is ready to go. He waits a moment, then two. No signs of activity, hostile or otherwise.
Working his way down the hall toward Lucas Kelly’s office, Derek stops just short of the door. Three more steps and he is there. Pausing once more, he takes a few seconds to get a sense of what might be happening on the other side of the door. The darkened frosted pane of glass above the doorknob tells Derek the lights are still off. He tries the knob but it does not turn. He debates the value of fetching the guard. As if in conversation with himself, Derek shakes his head, no. Lucas could slip away.
Putting pressure against the door, Derek checks to see if it is fully latched. The solid wood door does not budge. For no particular reason, he runs his fingers along the door jamb. It is an old oak frame with a separate, nailed-on doorstop. Derek examines the stop. Breaching a newer wood framed door would be easy; a credit card between the stop and jamb would most likely slip the latch, but not with this old door. Age and varnish and a serious nailing job convince Derek not to bother. There is no way to get at the latch and no way to force the door, not without making noise or causing real damage.
Derek glances around. The century-old Croft Building has escaped any sense of real modernization. The popular style of low-rise, cheerless partitions sectioning off cubes of office real estate has not invaded the headquarters of U.S. Auto. Number seven, like all the other floors, is a maze of hallways with traditional, walled offices, each with the same oak door as the one Derek faces.
Around the corner, maybe many corners, from the opposite end of the floor, Derek hears activity. He listens, trying to understand what it is. Then he straightens, recognizing the sound, knowing how he can get into Lucas’s office. He starts off in the direction of the sound.
On this particular night, the cleaning crew consists of one frail, elderly black man. Wearing a portable CD player and headphones, the workman lets out a short yelp when Derek taps his shoulder, the feather duster coming up in defense of an expected attack.
“Sorry,” Derek says, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
The man carefully unhooks the headphones, looks at Derek with a mix of residual panic and suspicion.
“I’m really sorry,” Derek says, repeating his apology. “Look, I’m an FBI agent.”
He produces his badge, holds it out, then slips the ID back into his pocket.
“Hey there, young man,” the housekeeper says. “I ain’t get a chance to see that thing. Let me put on my readers.”
“Look, I’m in a hurry. I----”
The housekeeper steps back, his wrinkled face drawn with concern. “If you can’t show me that ID, maybe you ain’t who you say.” He makes a ‘come on’ gesture and says, “So, let’s see it again.”
If I were not who I said I am, Derek thinks, I would have beaten the shit out of you by now and taken what I need. But he gives the old guy credit for being tenacious.
“Fair enough,” Derek says, removing his ID again. “Here, take a look.”
The man balances a pair of over-sized reading glasses on his nose, mouthing Derek’s name and title as he inspects the credentials.
“Okay, looks legit to me, you’re cleared.” The housekeeper turns away, starts to adjust his headphones, resuming his chores.
Derek frowns, confused. Then it comes to him. “Wait,” he says. “You don’t understand. I don’t need clearance to be here, I need your help.”
The man looks back at Derek. “My help?” He says. “What does the F-B-I need my help for? You working on a top-secret case?”
“No.” Derek shakes his head. “I just need you to unlock an office for me.”
“I don’t think I’m supposed to do that. I could lose my job.”
“The security guard in the lobby, what’s his name? Clancy?”
The housekeeper nods.
“Clancy knows I’m here,” Derek says then re-reads the housekeeper’s ID badge. “So, Mr. Rawlin, it’s okay. You won’t get in trouble, I promise.”
“I don’t know about that. Maybe I could get in a spot.”
Derek steps a little closer. He smiles and says, “You will be in a spot, if you don’t assist an agent with the FBI in the exercise of his duties.”
«»
Nervous, Mr. Rawlin fumbles with a handful of keys before finding the one to unlock Lucas’s door. Derek feels bad, he does not like upsetting the poor guy, but he has to get inside that office. Rawlin starts to open the door but Derek stops him.
“I’ll take it from here,” Derek says in a low voice. “Thanks, I really appreciate this. And don’t worry, nothing will happen, I promise.”
Mr. Rawlin gives Derek a dubious look.
“You and I,” Derek says, a conspiratorial smile forming. “We never met. Right?”
For a moment, Mr. Rawlin stares at Derek, a blank expression on his face. Then he gets it. He grins, warming to the idea of a big secret.
“Uh-uh,” Rawlin says, shaking his head. “I ain’t never seen nuthin’.
Their dirty little secret confirmed, Rawlin turns away, goes back to his housekeeping cart on the other side of the floor.
Derek waits in the hall for a few moments, getting ready. He takes a deep breath and twists the knob, steps into Lucas’s office, quietly closing the door. He scans the room. To his surprise, a single desk lamp is on, faintly illuminating the room. From the hall, Derek had assumed the room was completely dark.
But the dim light is a blessing. After a moment, Derek’s pupils adjust and he takes in the room for a second time. Things have changed since his last visit, some forty minutes ago. Piled on the burgundy colored leather sofa are a ruined overcoat, a threadbare shirt and a Mets baseball cap.
On the floor, dirty gym shoes, baggy trousers and a tangled wig.
The sound coming from the private bath tells Derek that someone is in the shower. He looks at the bathroom door, a sliver of illumination glows beneath. He glances, once more, at the pile of clothes on the sofa then fixes his stare and frowns. Moving closer, he lifts the overcoat and says, “Interesting.”
Walking to the bathroom, Derek cracks the door open, takes a tentative look inside. Hot, humid air fans across Derek’s face and the strong scent of soap carried by steam assaults his nose. Pulling the door shut, Derek takes in the office again, looking for the best place to wait.
Soon enough, the sound of running water abates and Derek stiffens, anticipation making his breath grow shallow and his gut tense up. A few more minutes to towel off and the bathroom door opens. Lucas Kelly steps out wrapped in a plush, deep blue robe.
“Mr. Kelly, stop where you are.”
Instantly the room is charged with uncertainty. Lucas turns his head in the direction of the voice but says nothing. In semi-darkness, he sees Derek as a shadowy outline.
“Mr. Kelly,” Derek says. “I am Special Agent Simmons with the FBI.”
“The FBI? Jesus, what do you want?”
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Derek says. “I’m going to approach. I will show you my credentials but be advised I am armed. Do not make any sudden movements. Do you understand?”