Keeper (6 page)

For nearly a minute Felice was quiet, thinking, and then she remembered I was there, and she ground out her cigarette. “Have the police officers stop by my office, please. I want to swear out a complaint.”

“Natalie and I will do that, if you like. It’ll keep your name out of it.”

She thought about that, then nodded. “All right.”

I stood up. “We’ll leave at six-thirty,” I said. “Call me if you need me.”

“Of course.”

Mary Werthin was taken away by two of New York’s finest, who returned my cuffs to me before they left, having replaced them with a set of their own. After briefing Natalie and Dale on my conversation with Romero, I went to the Two-six to take care of the paperwork and to speak to Detective Lozano.

“You’re not doing a very good job,” he told me. His black hair was short and receding, and sweat shone on his forehead.

“She’s still alive,” I said.

“True enough.” Lozano wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then offered me a cup of horrible coffee, and I took it more out of courtesy than need. “She’s made a statement,” he said. “She says that you and Miss Trent assaulted her. She has no idea where the paint came from.”

I laughed and handed him the letters that had arrived in the morning’s mail. Four more, all offensive, which brought the grand total to seventeen since I’d begun the job a week ago. Today’s batch was relatively tame. Only one threatened Romero’s life. The author wrote that he or she would “butcher every doctor” who performed an abortion.

Lozano looked at the stack and made a face, then put them on his desk. “I’ll get these to Fowler.”

“Anything else on Ms. Werthin?” I asked.

“We put a call in to the SOS offices, and she is a dues-paying member. Doesn’t prove jack-shit but it’s a connection.”

“They collect dues?”

“How do you think Crowell affords his suits?” Lozano shrugged. “Son of a bitch has more money than I do, that’s for certain. That’s not saying much, admittedly.” He scratched his jaw with a chewed fingernail, wiped his forehead again. “Too fucking hot,” he mumbled.

“The Feds have anything on her?”

“Fowler is running it, but I doubt they’ll find anything. You could go talk to him.”

“Where’s he at?”

“How should I know? Goddamn feebies. I’ll keep you informed,” Lozano said.

I took that as my exit cue and headed back to the street, and ultimately back to the clinic.

Lozano had the unenviable assignment of watching the clinic and the protesters on both sides of the line. Special Agent Fowler had pretty much the same assignment, but on a federal level, and the LifeCare clinic was only one of several he was concerned with. Fowler and Lozano didn’t get along for a number of reasons, but I supposed the major one was simply that Fowler was FBI and thirty-two, and Lozano was NYPD and late forties. There’s a long and distinguished history spiced with plenty of animosity between the FBI and the NYPD. The NYPD looks upon the FBI as meddling, arrogant busybodies who can’t use a toilet without executive authorization from Washington, D.C. Conversely, most of the special agents I’ve met think that NYPD detectives are arrogant, stuck-up bullies who believe an interrogation is simply Twenty Questions played with a baseball bat.

Every threat Dr. Romero or the clinic received got forwarded to Fowler as a matter of course, to be processed by the Bureau labs in D.C. Then the document would be copied and sent to the NYPD. Lozano had told me that this sometimes took a week or more. The FBI kept the originals. Today’s letters would be no exception. Lozano didn’t like being second, and since it was he who was most frequently on site, I had to grant him the point. Unlike Fowler, Lozano made a point of coming on scene when he heard that something was going down. He had been watching the day I first arrived at the clinic with Alison. Fowler worked out of the Bureau offices, and visited only when necessary.

Dale went for the car at five-thirty. I gave him the extra hour before we had to move Dr. Romero, so he could double-check the vehicle. Dale knows cars; he took the Crash Course when we were at Spec War together. I went from the Executive Protection Squad to the CID, sort of a sideways transfer, but Dale stayed EPS from the ground up. We were renting a vehicle from Natalie’s father, a souped-up Ford that Sentinel reserved for “high risk” clients.

I doubted we would need the bulletproof glass or the solid rubber tires. For that matter, I doubted that someone had wired a bomb to the ignition, but Romero was paying me to be certain.

Dale backed the gray Ford into the alley behind the clinic at six twenty-five, by which time Natalie and 1 had Romero ready to go. We walked her downstairs, waited while she said good night to the few staff members who were still around. While she did this, I went out to check the alley and talk to Dale.

“Clear,” he told me.

I gave the surrounding rooftops one last survey, then unlocked the back car door nearest the clinic. “Two minutes,” I told Dale, and went back inside. Dr. Romero had finished her good nights, and was now putting on her Kevlar vest with Natalie’s assistance. For some reason, watching the two of them made me think of a bridal fitting, but I kept that observation to myself.

“I hate this thing,” Dr. Romero told me as she slipped her coat back on over the vest. “As if it’s not hot enough out there already.”

“You’ll love that thing when it stops a bullet.” I handed her back her briefcase and the plastic bag she had put her paint-stained clothes in. “You ready?”

She nodded, and I looked at Natalie, and Natalie nodded. I used my radio and told Dale, “Pogo’s coming out.” The code name had been chosen by Felice herself, and she looked faintly embarrassed every time I said it.

To Natalie I said, “Go.”

Natalie went out the door and headed straight to the Ford while I held Romero back in the hall. Natalie opened the car door, then came back into the building, turned around, and now, with Romero close behind her, went back out. I took up the rear, and then we were all in the car, Natalie, Dr. Romero, and myself, a cozy protective sandwich. I closed and locked our door, said, “Charlie,” to Dale, and sat back as he pulled out onto 135th.

“We did Charlie day before yesterday,” Natalie said, looking out the window.

Dr. Romero shifted uncomfortably between us.

“Everybody’s a critic,” I said, and looked out my own window. I’d worked out seven routes for our travel, and each had a call sign, A to G. All of us were absolutely familiar with them. All I had to do was give Dale a letter and he would know which route I wanted to take.

The routes mattered to me because, in my opinion, cars are death traps. If I’d had the people and the money, there would’ve been four more bodyguards on the road with us, two in a follow car and two in a lead car. All the security professionals I know have a particular paranoia—for some it’s snipers; others, bombs. Mine is ambushes. When I’m not working, it doesn’t bother me, but when I’m on, I’m very careful about avoiding anything that could be used to set up an ambush. And it’s too damn easy to ambush someone in a car.

“I’m clear on my side,” I said.

Dale grunted.

“Clear,” Natalie said.

“So we’re not being followed?” Dr. Romero asked.

“We are most definitely not being followed,” Dale told her.

She sighed and wiped sweat from her forehead. “I don’t suppose that means I can remove the vest?”

“No,” Natalie said.

“Dale, you want to put the air conditioner on?” I said.

He shook his head. “Car’s too heavy. We’ll overheat.”

I looked at the doctor sympathetically. The ride was hard for her, cramped between both Natalie and me. With the New York humidity, the vest, the tension of the ride, and the rotten day she’d had, she had every reason to get pissy. But she hadn’t yet. She even managed to not smoke in the car, knowing that the windows couldn’t be opened.

I radioed Rubin, told him we were fifteen minutes out. He said he’d be ready.

After a moment, Romero said, “I’m melting, I’m melting.”

“Mommy, my mommy’s home,” Katie said, taking the stairs as fast as she could. It wasn’t very fast, honestly, but it was endearing as all get-out to watch. She jumped off the last step and flung her arms around Felice’s waist. “I missed you, come sit with me, I missed you.”

The Romero apartment was a halfhearted trilevel, and we entered at the bottom, the short flight of carpeted stairs Katie had descended from the main level off to our right, beyond the closet. To the left was a small bathroom, the door open and the light on. Rubin locked the front door behind us and headed back up the stairs with Dale and Natalie while I stood with Dr. Romero.

Felice kissed Katie on the forehead and said, “In a moment, sweetie. Your mother wants to change first.” She gently stepped out of Katie’s grasp and took off her coat, then the vest. She hung both on the coatrack.

Katie put her arms around my waist and said, “ ’Cus! I missed you, too, I did.” It was a tight squeeze, and I wasn’t ready for it.

“Thanks,” I said hoarsely.

Just as abruptly, Katie released me and followed her mother up the stairs. I went up after them onto the main floor, basically a large open cube that served as mostly living room, with couch, table, chairs, and television, and a little bit of kitchen, defined by a counter that jutted out from the wall perpendicular to the stairs. The living room was carpeted the same as the stairs, a lush green, the kitchen tiled white.

Katie had finished hugging Natalie, and now moved to Dale, who looked damned silly with her clutching his thick waist. Dr. Romero thought so, too, and laughed, before saying to me, “I’m going to change. Give me ten minutes before you leave.”

“Fine,” I told her.

Rubin handed her the day’s mail, saying, “All yours.”

She nodded and took it with her into the bedroom.

Together, Katie and Dale moved to the couch in front of the television and sat down. Katie released him, quickly shifting her attention to the screen, then began talking, perhaps to Dale, about her day. I heard her mention David.

I checked that the curtains were drawn tight over the sliding glass door that led to the patio. The patio overlooked Fulton Street. Through the fabric, I could make out the sparks of light that shone from apartments in the building across the way.

Rubin was already packing up his art supplies, with Natalie’s assistance.

“Where do you want to go?” he was asking her.

“I don’t know, I was thinking seafood.”

“Whoa, kids,” I said. “He’s off, you’re not. You work tonight.”

“I worked last night,” Natalie said.

“I know. But it’s you and Dale tonight, Natalie. You’re off tomorrow.”

Rubin gave me the I’m-not-going-to-get-laid-tonight-and-it’s-your-fault look. I shrugged. He turned to look at Dale, making his ponytail whip around as he did so.

Dale said, “Not on your fucking life, Rubin.”

Without looking away from the television, Katie said, “Don’t swear it’s not nice, Dale. David, he swore, that’s bad.”

Dale said, “Sorry, Katie.” He looked back at Rubin and shook his head.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Katie told Dale.

Rubin transferred his gaze to me.

“I’ve got plans,” I said.

“I hate you,” he said. “So I get the night off, and I don’t get to spend it with my sweetie?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re a cruel, cruel man, Mr. Kodiak,” Natalie said. She gave Rubin a brief kiss and murmured, “Later.”

Rubin savored the kiss, then groaned when Natalie moved away to the kitchen to get herself something to drink. After a moment he opened his eyes and looked at me again. “I adore that woman. And I hate you,” he repeated.

“Yeah, but it’s the good kind of hate, isn’t it?” I took a seat beside Katie on the couch. They were watching the news, and I came in on the tail end of a story about a body and an alley. Another pointless death. The police were saying it looked like a mugging, maybe for drug money. Dale switched the channel to MTV.

“How was your day, Katie?” I asked.

“It—it was fun, we had fun and we did drawings. And David helped and Rubin helped and we made pictures, good pictures. And we watched the—the Hulk and had fun, and did you have a good day?”

“It was pretty good,” I said.

“Melanie B died,” she said, her eyes on the set. “Nobody knows what happened to her, but she died and that’s sad.”

Dr. Romero emerged from her bedroom, wearing denim shorts and a T-shirt and looking better for the change of clothes and the brief shower she’d grabbed. She lit a cigarette and went into the kitchenette, motioning me after her.

“Who do I get tonight?”

“Dale and Natalie. Rubin and I will be by tomorrow around seven, same as before.”

Dr. Romero nodded, then began searching the freezer for something to defrost for dinner. “I’ll see you then,” she said. “Katie? You want enchiladas for dinner?”

“Enchiladas!” Katie shouted. “I adore enchiladas!”

Felice smiled the way only a mother can smile at her child, then said to Natalie and Dale, “Is that all right with you two?”

They both said that enchiladas sounded grand.