Keeper (15 page)

“Did he see Selby?”

“He was at her place when the news broke the story about Katie. Says that Selby took it hard, that she wanted to go to the hospital to see—”

From the window, Dale said, “We’ve got a watcher.” Both Natalie and I immediately went to him.

“Green Porsche parked on the comer right after we got here,” Dale said, indicating it. “A guy got out, wearing a baseball cap, headed around the comer.” He looked at me. “Took him five minutes, but he doubled back, just came into the building.”

“Carrying?” I said.

“Hands were clear.”

“Pistol, probably,” Natalie said.

I nodded, drew my weapon. “Dale, keep watching, use the radio.” Then I went to the bathroom door and knocked on it, saying, “Get dressed and get out here. Dale needs backup.”

Natalie was waiting for me by the door, her Glock out. I looked back at where Romero was still seated. She hadn’t moved.

I turned the bolt on the door soundlessly, and Natalie grabbed one of the handles, prepared to slide it back on its runners. The door was metal and covered in flaking gray paint. I backed to the other side of the door and went down to a crouch, then gave her a nod.

She ran the door back with one quick motion and I rolled out as soon as there was room, seeing motion at the end of the hall and coming up with my weapon. I had sighted the dot on the end of my barrel to Bridgett Logan’s throat before I recognized her.

Both her hands came up immediately. “Friendly, friendly!” she said.

She had put on a Yankee cap, piled her hair under it, and was sitting on the floor beside the stairs. I kept my gun on her, hearing Natalie move behind me.

“Are you fucking insane?” Natalie asked. “You could’ve gotten yourself shot.”

Logan didn’t answer her, keeping her hands up and her eyes on me.

After a moment, Natalie said, “It’s all right, Atticus.”

I released the handle on my gun, uncocking it, letting air leak out of my nose. Then I got up and holstered my weapon, saying, “Go away.” I went back inside.

She followed me in, Natalie behind her. “Kodiak,” Bridgett Logan said. “We need to talk.”

“I told you, when I’m ready.”

Natalie slid the door shut and locked it, saying, “Did you follow us?”

“Him,” Bridgett said, gesturing at me. She turned to me and said, “You made it damn hard to do, too.”

Dale and Rubin were around Romero, and I gave them a short nod. They backed off the doctor, but not a lot, still wary of Logan.

She said, “Nobody was following me.”

“You’re certain?” I asked.

“Yes,” Bridgett said.

“Good.” I pointed at the door.

She shook her head. “You’ve got me whether you like it or not. I’ve been hired to assist and to lead an independent investigation, and I need your help.” Lowering her voice, she said, “I’m not leaving until we’ve got things squared, Kodiak. You’ll have to throw me out, and I guarantee you, I won’t make that easy.”

I watched Dr. Romero. She smoked, staring at the floor. “Are we all right here?” I asked Natalie.

“We’re fine for now,” she said. “Just go with Bridgett, Atticus. Get home, clean up, answer her questions. Three of us here will be fine.”

Logan didn’t say anything.

“Okay,” I said. “Fine, let’s go.”

It was Logan’s Porsche, a forest-green turbocharged 911 Carrera with a sunroof and whale tail. She disarmed the alarm and unlocked my door, ushering me into the vehicle with definite pride.

“Where am I taking you?” she said, turning the stereo on. Sisters of Mercy blared, and she adjusted the volume to a low roar.

“Thompson, off Bleecker,” I said.

She nodded. We hit a light and she pulled her roll of Life Savers again, dropped three in her mouth one after the other, crunching each. Then she killed the roll, popping the last one, sucking this time. She tossed the empty wrapper over her shoulder into the tiny backseat. “Oral fixation,” she said.

I nodded and continued to look out the window.

The light changed and we started rolling again. She drove quickly, but with absolute control, using the Porsche perfectly. She used its speed, too, edging eighty at one point on Broadway.

“Have you talked to Fowler or Lozano?” she asked.

“Not since making statements.”

“The CSU’s report of both the apartment and the shooter’s position came back,” she told me. “The FBI’s leading on the case. They triangulated back to a point of origin for the shots.”

"And?”

“Second-floor fire escape landing. Looks like someone came down from the roof and took the shot from the landing on the second floor. Witnesses have given a description of the shooter: white male, blond or light brown hair, approximately six feet tall. No eye color, strong, broadshouldered. They’re continuing the canvass.”

“Sounds like Barry.” I said.

“He's a little short for it,” Bridgett said. “I’m thinking it's the guy who was with Crowell at the hospital.”

"Rich.”

"NYPD is checking their alibis,” she said.

"Good for them,” I said and was silent for the rest of the drive.

I picked up the mail in the lobby, then led Bridgett Logan up the six flights of stairs to the apartment I shared with Rubin. I put her in the kitchen and told her I was going to shower and change.

"Mind if I use your phone?" she asked, removing her jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair.

”Why not?” I said and went into my room whore I stripped, threw my clothes in a corner, then grabbed my robe. As I went down the hall to the bathroom Bridgett stopped dialing long enough to turn and watch me.

“Can I make coffee or anything?”

“Whatever you want,” I said and went to take my shower.

The blood on my hands had dried and flaked off, and the two chances I’d had previously to use a bathroom had gotten me only so clean. I stayed under the water for twenty minutes, scrubbing hard, then soaking up the steam. The hot shower felt good. It was midafternoon now, and the day was only getting longer, and I only wanted it to end.

After I had dressed in some clean jeans and a decent shirt, food became a sudden priority. Bridgett was still seated at the table where I had left her.

“Talked to NYPD,” she said. “They’ve got a make on the weapon.”

“You want a sandwich?”

She shook her head. “Remington M-seven hundred, thirty-ought-six,” she said.

I got two bottles of beer from the fridge and held one out to her. She looked at it and at me, then nodded. I opened both of them, handed one to her, then started to make myself a sandwich.

“They found two intact slugs at Romero’s apartment,” Bridgett said. “If they find the weapon they’ll be able to make the match.”

I nodded, and layered mustard on one of my slices of bread. I put the sandwich together, tore a paper towel to use as a place mat, and set my meal on the table. The indicator light on the answering machine was blinking, so I pressed “play” and then cleaned up the kitchen as the messages ran.

Eight messages from reporters, one from Alison, who said, “Atticus? Oh, God, I just heard. Are you okay? I don’t know where to reach you and I don’t want to use your pager, so if you get this, give me a call, okay? I’m at work until five, and then I’ll be in all night. I’m so sorry.”

I sat back at the table and picked up my sandwich.

“Significant other?” Bridgett asked.

I nodded.

“You going to call her?”

“I’m going to eat first,” I said. The sandwich was good, lean pastrami and thin slices of provolone. I’d found some crisp lettuce on a back shelf and added that to it. I was almost finished when I tasted it.

Syrup.

Maple syrup.

Bridgett asked, “Are you okay?”

I shook my head, gagging, rose to the sink and I spat. The beer didn’t kill the taste, even when I rinsed my mouth out with it twice. She had risen, now standing beside me at the sink, and as I hunched over, Bridgett put a hand on my back as I coughed and my eyes clouded with tears. I was certain I was going to vomit; then I was fine and standing up, catching my breath.

“Are you okay?” she asked again.

I shook my head. “Syrup,” I said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Katie had waffles for breakfast.” I blew a long breath out. “We did CPR on her, Rubin and me. I should warn him.”

She hesitated, then put her hand on my back again. I stiffened and she withdrew it, going back to her seat at the table.

For a while I just stood at the sink, thinking about it. Finally I said, “What do you want?”

“I want to see Croweil and I want you to come with me,” Bridgett said.

“Why?”

“Two reasons. First, I understand you scared the crap out of him at the hospital. Lozano says that Crowell was in fear for his life. Second, you were there when Katie died, and if he’s got an ounce of conscience and he is responsible, he’ll be hard-pressed to lie to your face.”

“He’s the last man I want to see right now.”

She seemed to relax a bit, stretching her legs out in front of her with a sigh. She had long legs. “I know. If it’s one of Crowell’s people that did this, going to see him is a hell of a good way to shake things up.”

I gave it a little more thought, then nodded. “Let me make a phone call first,” I said. “I’ll meet you at your car.”

She rose and started for the door. Then she stopped and looked back at me. “That crack I made at the hospital,” she said. “That was cruel. I owe you an apology.”

I didn’t say anything and she shook her head slightly, then said, “I’ll be downstairs.”

After she shut the door, I called Alison at work. A coworker picked up her phone and told me that she was at lunch. I didn’t leave a message.

Before leaving I put my weapon back on, feeling the weight of the gun in my hand before saddling it to my hip. On my desk was a manila folder, swollen with copies of all the threats Felice and the clinic had received since Common Ground had been announced. I took that as well, wondering how Crowell would react to them.

Going down the stairs I realized that if Bridgett Logan was right about how Crowell reacted to me, perhaps there was more Common Ground between him and Felice than I had realized.

Both knew fear.

“How much do you know about Sword of the Silent?” Bridgett Logan asked me as she guided her Porsche uptown. I had a private address for Crowell on Central Park West in the low nineties, and we had a ways to go before we got there.

“Enough,” I said. “They formed in late ’88, shortly after Randal Terry and Operation: Rescue made it big in Atlanta. Crowell has boasted that their national membership is over one hundred thousand, but that’s probably ten times higher than it really is. They target a clinic in a given city and then use terror tactics to intimidate both patients and personnel. Since the Federal Access to Clinic Entrances legislation was passed in ’94 they’ve had to cool off a bit and get smarter about it, but they’re still doing it.”

“What kind of tactics?”

“Special Agent Fowler gave me copies of almost fifty arrest reports from the last six months or so, all of them for suspected SOS members,” I said. “They range from illegal possession of a weapon, menacing, stalking, to two members in California who are awaiting trial for attempted murder. Another member in North Dakota is being sought for questioning in the death of a doctor there.” 

“And none of that has ever been tied back to Crowell?” 

“Not as far as I know.”

“So he’s either very smart or very lucky.”

“It would make me a lot happier if he was lucky,” I said.

“I’ll bet.”

I cringed as she shot the Porsche through a collapsing vise made by two cabs on either side of us. Somehow, we made it through the gap unscathed. Bridgett chuckled. “Car like this,” she said, “you’ve got to drive aggressively or it gets mad at you.”

“It’s very nice,” I said.

“Nice?” Bridgett said, her eyes going wide. “Nice? This is a Twin Turbo Porsche Carrera nine-eleven, over four hundred horses of power, all-wheel drive, the works. This animal tops out at over one hundred and eighty miles per hour, zero to sixty in three point seven seconds, and stops on a dime leaving you wanting a cigarette.

“This car is pure sex, stud. It is not ‘nice.’ ”

I let that sink in, looking around at the leather interior, listening to the engine growl underneath the music from the tape deck. It was an amazing car.

“You’re a PI?” I asked.

“That’s what the license says.”

“How the hell can you afford a car like this? Are you crooked?”

Bridgett grinned, flashed white teeth at me. “It’s my inheritance from my ma,” she said.

“Your mother left you a Porsche.”

“My mother was in coach class on a seven-thirty-seven that crashed and burned in Cincinnati,” she said. “She was well insured.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yeah, it sucks. Two years now.” She found a new roll of Life Savers in a pocket, tore off the top with her teeth, and pulled one into her mouth. These were Wint-O-Green. “What do you know about Crowell?”

“He’s in his early fifties, says he went to Harvard Divinity,” I said. “I doubt that but haven’t checked. Fowler says he’s got a record, an arrest in ’75 in Wichita for A and B against a woman who worked at the local CBS affiliate. Charges were dismissed. Arrested again three years later in Indiana for firebombing a clinic there. Spent three years inside. He’s written two books, both about abortion and the collapse of the American morality.”