The Short Drop (31 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Denise Greenspan stood on the far street corner, looking less than thrilled. She checked her phone every thirty seconds. Down the street, Gibson watched her from the window of a coffee shop, wishing Hendricks had tried a little harder to talk him out of this.

“If she’s got a tail, they’re good,” Jenn said through his earpiece. She was on a nearby rooftop that gave her line of sight of the intersection in both directions.

“That’s very reassuring.”

“I don’t remember saying anything about ‘reassuring’ when you proposed this crazy plan.”

“I figured it was implied.”

“Implied? All right, well, the average life expectancy of a white American male is seventy-six point two years. So statistically, you’re probably going to be fine.”

“You’re really bad at this.”

“Look, for what it’s worth, I think you’re a damned good judge of character. I just hope Mrs. Lombard’s still the woman you remember.”

A long pause came over the earpiece.

“Any last words?” she asked.

Nothing leapt to mind. He dropped the earpiece in the trash—wasn’t getting inside the hotel with it anyway—and stepped out onto the street. Time to get accustomed to dangling in the breeze. On the way across the street, he glanced up at Jenn to give her a nod, but she was gone.

Denise Greenspan stiffened when he walked up to her.

“You’re that guy from the restaurant. You sat next to me.”

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“How’d you get my password?”

“You sit in the same seat every day. I videotaped you.”

“Unreal. You take anything else?”

“No.”

“As if I’m going to believe you.”

“I wouldn’t.”

She pursed her lips. “What happened to your neck?”

“Someone tried to hang me.”

“Serves me right for asking. Come on.”

The bruising around his throat had faded some, and his beard was thick enough now to conceal the worst of it, but he pulled his collar up and readjusted his tie.

“Are we alone?” he asked, trying to judge her intent.

“What? Yeah, we’re alone, Deep Throat. Those were your instructions. But let me tell you, I looked you up. I know what you did. What you tried to do anyway. So listen, if you’re here to mess with Mrs. Lombard. In any way. I mean, if this is some con bullshit. If that picture of Suzanne is Photoshopped, and you’re just out to hurt her or play on her goodwill, I will boil water on my stove, tie you down, and pour it down your lying throat. Am I clear?”

“That was vivid,” he said. “Yeah. You have my word.”

Her genuine irritation actually gave him hope that Grace Lombard was playing straight with him. Of course, Denise might not even know she was helping to set him up.

This was going to be tricky. What he had told Jenn and Hendricks was true—he believed Grace was someone he could trust. But obviously that trust only went one way. So if she didn’t trust him, how to convince her that her husband, a man she did trust, was involved with Suzanne’s disappearance? One solitary piece of actual proof sure wouldn’t hurt. Proof he didn’t have any longer thanks to the man in the basement. So how to get her to see the truth? He couldn’t be the one to say it; he knew that. It had to come from her. Grace Lombard had to connect the dots for herself. If she felt she was being manipulated, her open mind would snap shut like a trap.

The crowds thickened as they neared the convention. Lombard’s acceptance speech was scheduled for that evening, and the city hummed in anticipation.

“I listed you as media, doing an interview with Mrs. Lombard,” Denise said. “Just use your real name. Show them your driver’s license. You’re not getting past these guys with a fake. But I’ll walk you through. There won’t be a problem.”

Jenn had described what security would be like around the convention center, but if anything she’d undersold it. The law-enforcement presence was astounding: Atlanta PD, Secret Service, and elements of the National Guard. The convention hall and hotel had layer after layer of checkpoints. Someone might beat one, but the chances of penetrating all of them seemed nonexistent. After all his talk of this being the safest place for him, he was beginning to realize it was just that, talk.

A pair of uniforms stared hard at him as he passed by, and it was hard to muffle the paranoid voice in his head telling him to run far and to run fast.

Turned out Denise Greenspan was a good person to know. She took him around to a side entrance that was just for campaign staff. There was a line of about twenty people waiting to be checked through by security. Denise breezed right to the front, which he expected to cause a riot but didn’t raise so much as an eyebrow. This was Lombard’s party now, and everyone knew it.

Denise knew every Secret Service agent by name. “Hey, Charlie, I’m taking this gentleman up to interview Mrs. Lombard. Last-minute thing. He doesn’t have credentials, but I put him on the list last night.”

Charlie scanned a clipboard, nodded, and waved them through the metal detector, where a second agent patted Gibson down, went through his bag, checked his ID, and ran a wand over him. They handed him a temporary credential and wished him a good day.

Denise took him down a hallway to a bank of elevators. There were eight in total. The first six elevators were for general use. The two on the end were cordoned off, and Secret Service had set up yet another checkpoint.

“These two elevators are locked out,” Denise explained. “One goes to the vice president’s staff headquarters. The other elevator goes to Mrs. Lombard’s suite. She will see you there.”

“Out of curiosity, where’s the vice president now?”

“He’s tied up in meetings. He’ll be busy right up until the speech.”

“Yeah, but where?”

“One floor down.”

That didn’t sound nearly far enough away for comfort.

The Secret Service stopped them again, and they went through the whole procedure a second time: pat down, wand, ID check. Gibson held his breath, but his ID came back clean again.
Fortune favors the stupid,
he thought.

Nah,
said the voice,
they’re just taking you somewhere quiet, out of sight.

An agent rode up with them and started the elevator with a key. A claustrophobic sweat crawled down Gibson’s back, and when the elevator stopped on a middle floor, he flinched. Heart beating hard.

Calm down. Now.

“Figured Lombard for a penthouse kind of guy,” he said.

“It varies,” Denise said. “Not advisable to be predictable about where you stay in a hotel. Makes you vulnerable to an exterior strike on the building.”

She stopped them in the hallway and made a call to say they had arrived.

“What now?”

“Now we wait.”

“Here? You’re kidding me, right?”

Denise shrugged. “You think it’s easy to clear her entire staff and schedule without raising eyebrows? You wanted private. Private takes time.”

“It’s a hallway.”

“Well, then, try not to make a scene.”

They stood in the hallway for twenty agonizing minutes, during which Gibson learned the true meaning of paranoia. Every staffer who passed them in the hall, every sidelong glance cast his way—he tried to interpret the meaning. Hunting faces for any glimmer of recognition or intent. As the minutes ticked by, the hallway narrowed and stretched out toward infinity. A bespectacled man stopped to consult with Denise about that evening’s itinerary. When they stepped away, Gibson swore he heard his name in their muted conversations.

Denise graced him with a humorless smile and led him down the hall to Room 2301, knocked once, and without waiting for a response, let him inside.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Jenn watched Denise Greenspan lead Gibson away up the street. It was a brave thing he was doing, but she wondered if he knew why he was doing it. Was it to keep them safe or to get justice for Suzanne and Duke? If he could only have one, which would he choose? Would he sacrifice them to take Lombard down? For all their sakes, she hoped it didn’t come down to that.

When Gibson passed out of sight, Jenn slipped a cell phone and battery out of her pocket and turned it over and over in her hand. She’d taken it off one of the bodies at the lake house in Pennsylvania. Neither Gibson nor Hendricks knew she had it, and Hendricks would have her committed for what she was about to do. Might be right too. But the bad guys had George . . . She didn’t know who they were, maybe Cold Harbor, maybe some other outfit, but they had George, and they were going to give him back.

She didn’t know if he was still alive, but if he was, then the clock would be ticking the second Gibson entered that hotel. There was no telling how Lombard would react if he felt cornered.

Jenn slid the battery back into the phone and powered it up. They’d be able to track it now. If they were looking. She thought for a second and dialed Abe Consulting’s disconnected main line. She called Hendricks’s cell next, wherever the semi had driven it. The call went to voice mail; she left a message of dead air and hung up. Finally, she called George’s cell. It was a number she hadn’t dared try since the lake house; she held her breath while it rang and only exhaled when she heard George’s outgoing message.

She kept it brief. “George. Had to put down some strays in Pennsylvania, but we’re clear and safe. We found what we were looking for. Awaiting instructions. Four. Zero. Four.”

That ought to give anyone listening something to think about. The Atlanta area code was 404. A bit obvious, but she wasn’t in a subtle mood. She was banking that they wouldn’t be either. They’d lost a lot of men at the lake house, and payback was a powerful motivator. She tucked the phone into an air vent and took the stairs to the sidewalk. Down the block she entered a parking garage; from its third level, she had a clear view of the main entrance to the building where she’d left the phone.

She didn’t have long to wait—someone had anticipated them showing up in Atlanta.

A black SUV rolled to a stop in front of the building and sat idling at the curb. Minutes passed. They weren’t storming the building, so Pennsylvania had taught the bastards something.

Good for them.

A back door opened and a man in a Windbreaker and combat boots got out and went into the lobby. There was only one reason to wear a loose-fitting Windbreaker on this still Atlanta morning.

She saw no further movement for five minutes; then two more doors opened and a pair of men walked briskly into the building after their colleague. That left only the driver.

Perfect.

Movement down on the street caught her eye. The green hood of a car nosed to a stop at the mouth of the alley beside the garage. They’d brought backup. That was smart. She couldn’t see how many were inside, but a car in an alley would be infinitely easier to take than an SUV on a sunny street. Christmas had come early.

Jenn crossed the parking garage to the rear stairwell. As she reached for the door, it opened and a man with a gym bag stepped through. She stepped aside, and their eyes met for a moment. He hid it well, but she caught the slight stutter in his stride as his brain recognized her and forgot about walking for a millisecond. He took a step past her and nodded politely, fumbling with the zipper on his gym bag. She snapped her telescoping baton down along her thigh to its full twenty-one inches.

He heard its metallic rasp and gave up on the zipper, instead swinging the bag into her. He was a big guy, and it was a heavy bag. It caught her hard in the shoulder, and she stumbled sideways, falling to one knee. He dropped the bag and took a swing at her. She blocked it with the baton as he stepped in close. With his size and weight, grappling would be a lost cause. Instead, she drove the heel of the baton into the peroneal nerve of his thigh. The leg went dead, and he staggered backward. She was up before he hit the ground, and stomped the ankle of his good leg—she heard the tendons snap as she stepped over him. The baton whistled through the air again and again until he lay motionless. She raised the baton again, adrenaline pumping, and breathed to control her fury. The sensible fear she felt before a fight had fled. Now she simply wanted a pound of flesh, and his would do. She spun the weapon in her hand and used his face to retract the baton.

While she caught her breath, Jenn zip-tied him, wrist and ankle, and dragged him behind a parked car. In the gym bag was a sleek black CZ 750—a short-barreled Czech sniper rifle that was far from standard issue for federal agents. She could see how it might come in handy and shouldered the gym bag.

The stairwell put her out at the far end of the alley behind the car. She only saw the one head, most likely the partner of the man upstairs. His elbow rested out the window. She drew a compact stun gun, pressed it to her ear like a phone, and walked up the driver side of the alley, carrying on an imaginary conversation about her crazy night.

The stun gun crackled against his neck.

The driver twitched, his mouth lolling open comically. The low voltage would only incapacitate him for a few minutes, so she zip-tied his wrists to the steering wheel. She cut his seat belt away in case he thought about getting cute on the drive, then got in beside him and pressed the barrel of her gun against his groin.

“I’ve had a bad week, so I’m most likely going to shoot you when this is all over,” she said. “But if you’re good, I’ll let you pick where. Get me?”

The driver nodded and licked his lips.

“Good. Well, it’s a nice morning for a drive. Head north.”

He pulled out slowly from the alley and turned left. She watched the stationary SUV until it was out of sight.

“You Cold Harbor?”

The driver nodded.

“Still having trouble talking?”

He nodded again.

“That’s okay. It’ll give me time to describe what happens if you can’t help me find George Abe.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

For an agonizing moment, Gibson tensed as he was led into the suite. If it was an ambush, then this would be the place to do it. He held his breath, half expecting to be greeted by a gun. But, mercifully, Grace Lombard stood alone at the window.

The bright Atlanta sun shone through her blonde hair, which fell in a wave to her shoulders, bangs swept neatly to one side—her trademark. It wasn’t possible, but she looked exactly as he remembered her. Always a petite woman and never known to be dressy, she looked true to form in jeans and a plaid button-up. She appeared as if she’d just stepped off the old porch at Pamsrest. It gave him such a feeling of nostalgia, and he wanted to throw his arms around her, but Grace Lombard made no move toward him. A hug was not in the cards.

“Hello, Gibson.”

“Mrs. Lombard. It’s good to see you.”

“Mrs. Lombard,” she repeated. “You always were such a polite boy.”

“Thank you for seeing me. I know it’s a leap of faith.”

“It is at that,” she said. “I hope I was right to.” She gestured for him to sit but kept her distance by the window. Her eyes looked questioningly at the bruising around his throat.

“How have you been?” she asked cautiously.

He gave her the bullet-point version of his life and finished with Ellie. “I have a daughter. She’s six.”

“Six?” she said. “I imagine you’d do very well with a little girl.”

He found that encouraging, so he held out a picture of Ellie at the National Zoo. Grace approached, took it, and sat on a nearby armchair.

“She looks like a firecracker.” The faintest caress of a smile touched her lips.

“That doesn’t begin to cover it. You should see her play soccer.”

“Is she good?” She handed the picture back.

“No, she’s terrible, but that doesn’t slow her down.”

Grace laughed but stopped herself quickly.

He changed tack. “I want to thank you for the letter.”

“Letter?”

“The letter you wrote me when I first went in the Marines.”

“Oh, of course, yes. It seemed necessary.”

“Well, it meant a lot. It helped. Hearing from you. I always meant to write back. It was just a tough time.”

“It was a tough time for everyone. Not one I think of fondly. But you’re welcome, Gibson. You and your father were very special to my family.”

Were
—past tense. There was no edge to it. Simply a statement of fact.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Especially to Suzanne. She was devastated by everything that happened. Your father. Your . . . difficulties,” she finished diplomatically.

“Yes, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for her. I should have been. She deserved better.”

Grace stiffened. He’d worded it clumsily so that it sounded vaguely accusatory.
Careful now,
he thought; there was only ever going to be one shot at this.

“Yes, well. Here you are now,” she said. “I suppose you should explain the photograph. Where did you get it?”

“It’s probably best if I start from the beginning.”

“You have my undivided attention.”

Gibson cleared his throat and told her the story. Told her about Abe Consulting and how they had tracked Billy Casper to Somerset, Pennsylvania. Prior to this meeting, he had considered redacting a great many things, but in the end he told her nearly everything.

Grace listened in silence while Denise hovered by the door.

When he finished describing the lake house, he took the Phillies baseball cap from his bag. He held it out to her by the brim. She held it at a distance, suspiciously.

“And what? You’re telling me that this is
the
hat?”

“You tell me.” He showed her the initials, and Grace studied them.

“This is her handwriting.” She looked up questioningly. “And this man, Billy Casper, he gave it to you?”

“He did.”

“Why wasn’t he arrested? He kidnapped my daughter.”

“Mrs. Lombard, Billy Casper was sixteen when Suzanne ran away.”

“He was only a boy?” Grace stood and went back to the window. “How is that possible?”

He watched her carefully to see which way she was leaning: belief or denial.

“I think they were in love. Well, Billy was in love with her. I don’t know about Bear.”

At the mention of his old nickname for Suzanne, Grace began to weep. She didn’t put a hand up to cover her eyes. She simply wept.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said at last, her almond eyes holding his gaze without modesty.

“Mrs. Lombard, when did things turn bad for Bear?”

That stopped Grace cold. “When did things start to get hard for Suzanne? Her behavior? I’ve asked myself that question for years; I’ve never been able to pinpoint it. There was no one moment. It happened over the course of several years. Little things. I thought it was just adolescence.”

“Billy also gave me this.” Gibson handed her the copy of
The Fellowship of the Ring
. Grace held it tightly, her head nodding at its familiarity.

“She carried this with her everywhere,” she said, flipping through the pages. “After you finished reading it to her. She’d sit in the kitchen, peppering me with questions and writing in this book.”

“Me too. It drove me crazy.”

Grace laughed gratefully through her tears. “I looked everywhere for it. It makes sense she took it. She loved you so much.”

“Do you remember Bear’s nickname for me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “She called you ‘Son.’ ”

He guided Grace to the page and explained the significance of the color orange. Grace read her daughter’s note, and when done, she looked up questioningly.

“What baseball game?”

Gibson told her the story.

“You know, I remember that weekend,” she said when he was finished. “I’d been in California for a week, visiting family, and got back the next morning. Benjamin hadn’t been to bed. It was the angriest that I’ve ever seen him. We had such a terrible fight. And Suzanne. My God. She was a zombie for days.” She looked at the cap again. “Is that where she got it? At this game?”

“My father bought it for her on the way home. To try and calm her down. You really never saw it before Breezewood?”

“Not until now. Not in person anyway. Do you know how long I stared into her eyes? Stared into that awful frozen frame of my little girl? Trying to guess what it was she was thinking? Why she ran away from me?”

“I don’t think she ran away from you,” he said.

“That’s sweet of you to say, but she did run away.” She paused and considered his words. “But not from me, you mean.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What could it possibly have to do with a baseball cap? You don’t think it was an accident she was wearing it in the tape.”

“No, ma’am. I think it was a message.”

“A message? To whom?”

“To me.”

“What does it mean?”

Gibson paused, trying to gauge the moment. At some point, he was going to have to drop the hammer on her. Was this it? He didn’t want Grace to suffer, but he needed for it to hurt. It was the only way she would see. He took a breath and said it as levelly as he could.

“Bear was pregnant.”

It sucked the air out of the room. Grace opened her mouth several times to speak. Her face darkened, and she stood slowly.

“I should have known better. It was a mistake to see you. Gibson, I think about the sweet little boy you were and the man you’ve become. I don’t know how it is possible. I’ll have Denise show you out.”

Grace was slipping away from him as he knew she would. It was as necessary as it was cruel. She stood way out on a terrible ledge, and the fall would shatter her. Better to cast him as a liar than make the leap. But he thought he had seen a glimmer of awareness in her eyes, if only for a moment.

He held out the last picture. Bear pregnant. She snatched it from him and held it in both hands, rooted to the spot. Gibson stepped in close to her and spoke quietly.

“What it comes down to is a lie. One elegant, crafty lie. Told so convincingly that no one questioned it. Maybe I was a sweet kid like you say, and, yeah, what I am now isn’t anything I’m proud of. But I know the lie from the truth now. And I’m here because you’re caught up in the same lie. And it’s done to you what it did to me. Caused you to make decisions and arrange your life around it. So when you’re told the truth—that your daughter was pregnant, that she ran away because she was scared—you can’t hear it. But that
is
the truth of the lie. And it leads to one question. Who is the father?”

“Get out!” Grace screamed.

Denise stepped between them. “Trust me, you do not want the Secret Service to come in here.”

“I knew it had to be something like this,” Grace choked through a torrent of tears. “Another sick attempt to humiliate my family. Is your grievance with my husband really so important to you? Suzanne adored you, Gibson. You would really ruin her reputation just to hurt him?”

“Is everything all right in there?” a man’s voice asked.

It got quiet in the suite. Denise raised an eyebrow at him—
What’s it going to be?

“I’m going,” Gibson said.

“Yes, we’re fine, John. Thank you,” Grace called out to the Secret Service agent on the other side of the door.

She held out the book to him, but he shook his head.

“It’s yours. You should keep it.”

“Is it even genuine?”

“You know it is.”

Grace flipped the pages carelessly, holding the book at arm’s length, as if it were bleeding. Then she stopped, breath caught on a jagged thorn, her hand trembling as it flattened out the pages.

“Grace?” Denise asked. “What is it?”

Grace, pale as old wheat, looked up at them.

“My favorite color is blue.”