Keeper (35 page)

“You’re not thinking about doing it, are you?”

“What do you think?” I asked him.

“Stupid question, sorry.”

We were quiet for a while, watching the cops, watching the crowd. Then Bridgett said, “I think he’s realized he’s not getting out of this free and clear. I think he’s realized he’s gonna die.”

——

She was right. About twenty-five minutes later a new negotiator, this one white, tried one last dialogue with Barry via the bullhorn and that ended with Barry shouting that he either got me to kill or that was it, end of block, end of story.

Lozano came over shortly after that and was telling us that ESU was probably going to try to take him, break through the wall from the next-door apartment, when Barry stuck his hand out of Rubin’s window and started firing.

It happened really quick.

He was using a .357 revolver and the reports were loud. His first or second shot hit one of the ESU personnel on the ground, punching hard into the vest and knocking the cop down. Barry kept firing, but that was the only person he hit, and he sent bullets whistling in ricochets off the brick and brownstone, and everybody dove for the ground with the exception of Rubin, Bridgett, and me, and maybe a couple of others who felt secure under their cover. Which is why most of the people missed what happened next.

Barry’s first or second shot must have sparked the gasoline he had spilled. By the third shot, a blossom of fire already licked out the window. Barry’s hand was visible for less than a second, but the snipers had been waiting with a green light, and that second was all they needed. They’re professionals, they know their job, and from the angle of a hand they can estimate where the rest of the body is. The two working the west rooftops fired at the same time, high-velocity rounds that flew supersonic. Barry fell through the blinds face first, on fire, onto the fire escape landing. He screamed once as he fell to the metal grate, but that was it, and he was probably dead by the time he hit the landing. The gasoline must have gotten into his clothes, though, because he continued to bum outside while our apartment went up. The detonator fell with him, clattering on the metal, then falling until the wires running off it went taut. It swung in the air, maybe fifteen feet under the landing where Barry burned.

The Bomb Squad went in immediately and pulled the device out, disarming it, while the fire department got the blaze under control. There was no explosion, much to the crowd’s disappointment. Worse, from the crowd’s point of view, the fire didn’t spread out of our apartment.

But the apartment and Barry, both were a total loss.

It was after eleven that evening before Rubin and I could get into the apartment, and even then we got only a quick look around. It was depressingly straightforward. Barry had soaked everything he could with the gasoline, and when it went, it went fast. Some things caught, like the futons, and kept going, others smoldered and died. The bathroom had survived relatively unscathed. My room was a distant second as it was furthest from Rubin’s, where the fire had ignited. But Barry had ripped, shredded, and otherwise destroyed everything identifiable as mine. Some of my clothing was dry and had escaped the fire, and I thought maybe I’d have some changes of underwear, but they hadn’t escaped Barry, either. Each shirt had been sliced up the back, and he had pissed and defecated on my underwear. Every book I owned he had stacked in the kitchen, along with every book Rubin had owned, including his six thousand comic books, and they were nothing more than wet ash. That made me feel it most, what he had done to our books, our things. I loved my books, many of them gifts, many of them prized possessions I had haunted used bookstores for or had picked up in library sales or when I was with the service.

All of Rubin’s art supplies, all of his drawings, all of his paintings, were ash. As he moved through the wreckage, Rubin trailed his hands alongside him, lightly brushing each blackened object, tears shining in his eyes.

We were out about five minutes after going in, and none of our neighbors said anything to us, but their accusing stares dug at our spirits as much as our backs when we descended the steps.

Natalie was waiting for us outside, having come over when Rubin called her. Dale was with Dr. Romero, and for now it seemed that one-person coverage would be enough. Bridgett stood with her. When Natalie saw Rubin, she went to give him a hug, and I watched them as they held each other.

“It’s so fucking stupid,” Rubin said. “It’s just . . . stuff . . . it’s just stuff and it’s nothing. . . .”

“It was your stuff,” Natalie told him.

They held each other. Then Rubin pulled back and turned to me. “So, what now?”

The question surprised me a bit. “We think we know who killed Katie,” I said. “Bridgett and I need to find Fowler, let him know what we’ve found.”

“Is Felice still in danger?”

“Barry is dead, Rich is in custody, and Crowell has probably bugged out,” I said. “With everybody looking for Grant, I think the threat’s diminished considerably.”

“I’ll go back to post,” Rubin said. “Natalie and I will go.”

I looked at him, at the fatigue and grief in his eyes, and I knew he would be useless.

“No,” I said. “Natalie, call your father, see if we can get some of his people to cover for us tonight. I’ll call the marshals, let them assist. Then you both go home, get some food, something.”

“She’s expecting us to cover at the funeral,” Natalie said. “I think she really wants us there.”

“Monday morning, day after tomorrow, we’ll resume coverage,” I told them. “We’ll meet at the apartment before the funeral.”

They seemed okay with that, and Rubin and I talked about the insurance and stuff for a little bit, and we were covered, and that was good, and it could have been worse, it could have been one of us, and I said yeah, and he said yeah.

“Get some rest,” I told him.

“Practice what you preach,” he told me.

I called Fowler’s cellular from a pay phone by the drugstore on the comer, asking him to get me in touch with Deputy Marshal Pascal. He gave me the number and I dropped another quarter while Bridgett went into a bodega for more Life Savers and some coffee. I was put on hold at the marshals’ office, then told that Pascal was out, and did I want to leave a message?

“My name’s Kodiak. I’m the guy who’s been running Dr. Felice Romero’s protection.”

The woman I spoke to said she would transfer me. I waited, watching the street. Saturday night in the Village, and people had things to do. There was a newspaper machine holding a copy of
Newsday,
and I could see a tag line about a story on page two regarding Katie and the hunt for her murderer. A homeless woman reclined on a large piece of cardboard in front of a toy store down the block, singing Billie Holiday. Even over the traffic I could hear her voice, clear and clean. An invisible woman singing a dead lady’s song.

Pascal came on, saying, “Kodiak? What is up?”

“My people are done in,” I said. “We’re bringing in some guards from Sentinel for the night to take over. I was wondering if you wanted some of your folks there.”

“Until the morning?”

“Tomorrow, too. We’ll resume coverage for the funeral.”

“When do you need them?”

“As soon as possible. I’ve only got one person covering her right now.”

“I’ll send two men over. Where’s she at?”

I gave him the address of the safe apartment, then got off the phone. Bridgett was sitting on the front fender of her Porsche, watching me. I crossed Bleecker to where she was, taking the cup she held out for me.

“Black and sweet,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said. “Can you give me a lift to the safe house?”

“Sure.”

As we drove, she asked, “Where are you sleeping tonight?”

“I thought I’d stay at the safe apartment.”

She signaled a turn, sliding over a lane. “You’re staying at my place, and if you offer one word of argument, I swear I’ll kick your ass so hard you’ll never walk right again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I took the teddy bear off the floor and put it in my lap.

The marshals and Sentinel had beaten us to the safe apartment. They were inside with Dale when we arrived.

“They say they’re taking over,” Dale said, eyeing one of the Sentinel bodyguards. “What’s that mean, they’re taking over?”

“ ’Til Monday morning,” I said. “Go home, get sleep, be back at seven Monday.”

He looked at the marshals and the guards, weighing their worth, then said, “I’m out of here.” Before he went to the door he put a big hand on my arm, saying, “I’m sorry about your place.”

“See you.”

The new crew settled in easily enough, and although I didn’t have a whole lot of faith in the marshals as bodyguards, they paid attention to what I told them. It’s not that I don’t like the Federal Marshals Service; it’s more that I just don’t see how apprehending fugitives qualifies them as personal protection specialists.

Done with them, I went to look in on Felice. She was asleep. I debated for a moment by the side of the bed, then called her name. The third time I said it, she stirred, reaching for the light. It came on to reveal her disheveled, her hair stuck straight up on one side of her head. She found her glasses, put them on, then sat up, pulling the sheets around her.

“There are two federal marshals here,” I told her. “And some people from Sentinel. They’re going to stay with you tonight and tomorrow. We’ll be back Monday, early.” 

“You’re done?” she asked.

“Not until after Katie’s funeral. We’ll be there. But we all need rest. You’ll be okay with the marshals until then.” She nodded, her hands moving to her hair, trying to smooth it. “I survived,” Felice said.

I handed her the teddy bear. “I’ll see you Monday, okay, Doctor?”

“The last day,” she said.

Lozano was thrilled to see me. “What the hell are you doing back here?” he asked.

“I want to talk to him again,” I said. “I want some answers from that son of a bitch.”

“Go home, Kodiak,” Lozano said, and then probably realized how impossible that was. He started to say something else, then changed his mind and scowled.

“Where’s Fowler?” I asked.

“He’s in the box with Rich.”

I turned around and walked out of the room, heading back to the cubicle where earlier we had watched Rich in interrogation. Bridgett came with me. Lozano followed, grumbling.

“You can’t just walk in there,” he said.

“I know.”

We passed a couple of uniforms, then went into the observation room. Pascal was inside, watching the proceedings through the glass.

“I thought you were done for the night,” Pascal said. “He say anything more?” I asked.

He shook his head. “But he doesn’t know about Barry yet. Fowler’s still playing him.” He reached over and clicked the switch on the speaker, so we could hear the conversation inside.

“. . . got to know who this guy is, Sean. We know you know him,” Fowler was saying.

“Maybe I do. Might have seen him before,” Rich said. “We have a lot of members.” He looked wilted now, tired. But the energy in his voice was still there.

Scott played with the stud in his ear, then shook his head. He looked better than Rich, but not much.

“I don’t think you see your situation, here,” Fowler said. “Let me explain it to you clearly. You’re dead-to-rights on the bomb, and that’s not only state, that’s federal. I’ve got you for conspiracy, possession, harassment, three counts of attempted murder, and one successful straight-up—”

“I keep telling you, I didn’t kill the retard.”

“Maybe you didn’t pull the trigger, but accessories are tried just the same as murderers, Sean. And now that New York has the death penalty, you might just want to think about how a plea could help you. . . .”

Pascal switched the speaker off. He sighed, rubbed his chin. “It’s been like that since Fowler went in there. Real illuminating.”

I shifted my weight off my sore ankle. “Can you get Scott out for a few minutes? We’ve got some information that may help.”

“Like what?” Lozano said.

Bridgett said, “We can link Grant to Dr. Romero.”