City of Windows--A Novel

by Robert Pobi

  Lucas looked at his wrist. “Now?”

  “He’s got an hour window, so it’s now or never.”

  Lucas turned to Erin, who was coming to the door with his other boot. “Supper’s at seven if you can make it.”

  He tried to give the kids his I’m sorry shrug, but they were too engrossed in peeling chocolate wrappers.

  He put his boot on as Whitaker walked down the steps to the Navigator.

  When he stepped back outside, it felt like Mother Nature had turned down the thermostat and the snow was dialed into optical illusion mode. Lucas handed Whitaker the Hershey bar as he climbed into the Navigator.

  “Holy fuck, I love Hershey bars!” she said, and she went at the wrapper with her teeth.

  He wondered how Erin was always right.

  32

  Lucas and Whitaker met with the investigating detective from the Margolis case at a diner on Fifty-eighth.

  The holiday decorations looked like they hadn’t been taken down since last year and were all the cheap dollar-store variety. There was a picture behind the cash register of Hans Gruber posing in front of a Christmas tree at Nakatomi Plaza, and Lucas couldn’t help smiling as they walked by.

  Like everyone else in the city, Atchison was bundled up in arctic finery. He had one of those faces dictated by the wires pulsing just below the skin, and nothing about him said cop except for the thousand-yard stare that was one of the standard upgrades that came with experience.

  They shook hands all around, and Atchison seemed focused. “Thanks for meeting me here. Traffic’s a bitch, and you saved me an hour that I don’t really have.” He gave Whitaker a once-over and there was something unpleasant, almost reptilian, in the gesture that Lucas didn’t like.

  Without discussing it, they chose a booth at the back, away from the windows. Atchison slid his briefcase onto the seat. They shed their parkas and sat down. Lucas placed the Margolis file Kehoe had pulled from the Pearson Place Warehouse on the table. Some of the old coffee rings decorating the manila had no doubt happened during Atchison’s work sessions.

  Atchison saw the folder and put his hand on it as if saying hello to an old friend. He nodded at the white world through the rectangle of window at the front of the diner. “Only thing that scares people off the streets in this city is weather. I don’t think they even care about the guy with the rifle.”

  There was a break in the storm that Lucas knew wouldn’t last long, but it gave the illusion the cleanup crews might have a chance at restoring general order—in about two months. Cars were only identifiable by their regularly spaced humps along the street; the sidewalks were trenches hacked out by city workers and citizens alike; wind screamed up the street.

  Lucas didn’t agree. Weather didn’t scare New Yorkers because it was too much of an abstract threat. And a man with a rifle wouldn’t scare them either, especially if he was a foreigner. Not in a million fucking years. This city would eventually drink his blood. No, the only thing New Yorkers collectively fear is other New Yorkers because they know they have the staying power.

  The waitress brought three mugs in one hand and a pot of steaming coffee in the other. She laid out the cups, filled them, and walked away with a nod at the menu and a “Let me know if you need anything.” Evidently, she had been at this long enough to know that good service sometimes meant leaving customers alone.

  The diner was empty to the point of distraction. There was one single patron near the door, a kid in his twenties working on an egg cream and a Reuben. That was it.

  Management had two televisions spitting out opposite ends of the almost-information spectrum, CNN on one, Fox on the other—volume off, subtitles on. The bureau had yet to release victim names, but the law-enforcement-agents-as-targets storyline was letting them fill in the blanks with all manner of straw-grasping. The screen in the corner above the cash register displayed a smiling newscaster at direct odds with the graphic of crosshairs superimposed over an old-fashioned sheriff’s badge. It was a powerful graphic, and Lucas knew that he’d be sick of seeing it by the time this was all over. The flat screen in the other corner—above the glass display wall of wax pies, plastic cakes, and resin sundaes—was tuned in to the blond porn star brigade, and one of the actresses was wondering aloud that if this wasn’t a jihadist plot, could it possibly be the work of Black Lives Matter militants? Even on mute, their hope was hard to miss.

  Lucas wrapped his good hand around the hot mug of coffee as Atchison leaned back in the booth. His sports coat crept up, exposing a shield on his belt that looked like it had opened an army of beer bottles. “What—in specific—can I help you with in regard to the Margolis case?” he asked in the to-the-point diction of a man who had a lot of things to do and not nearly enough time to do them in, an affliction that affected 100 percent of the police officers Lucas had ever met.

  Whitaker shifted into agent gear. “This is all official, and we control this information. Anything we discuss here becomes public knowledge when and if we say so.”

  Atchison took a sip of his coffee and sounded a little defensive when he said, “This isn’t my first time doing this.” He put the coffee down.

  Whitaker said, “The slugs we pulled from one of the scenes is a custom-load round. Modified Nosler AccuBond in a .300 Winchester Magnum.”

  “I see.”

  There was something in Atchison’s response that Lucas couldn’t read, and he wondered if it was simply the obvious dislike he had for Whitaker or if it was something else. Regardless, the needle moved, and Lucas consciously started paying attention to his body language.

  “Which was Margolis’s round of choice,” Whitaker added. “So you can see where we’re going with this.”

  Atchison signaled the waitress with a snap of his fingers before turning back to Whitaker. “All of Margolis’s rifles were accounted for.”

  “But not his ammunition. He purchased nearly fifty thousand rounds in the last five years before his death; how much of a shooter was he?”

  Atchison tapped the file. “These militia types are serious about shooting. They’re civic minded and have a belief that they will be the ones to save America if things go south.” He made it sound like they were the swellest bunch of guys around.

  Whitaker locked him in a cold stare. “The bureau lists these militia types as the single-biggest threat to our nation’s security, much greater than Muslim terrorists and Russian cyberattacks.”

  “Everyone is entitled to their opinion.” Atchison shrugged as the waitress arrived. He ordered two cheeseburgers with bacon, onions, and mustard along with a load of fries. In the midst of ordering, he turned to Whitaker and said, “You should try the fried chicken; it’s the best in the city.”

  “I just ate.” Her voice had a frost in it that Lucas hadn’t heard before. “But knock yourself out.”

  Lucas was amazed at how Whitaker didn’t reach across the table and choke the guy. Lucas wanted to say something, but Whitaker had been firm in her instructions on their way down here—Lucas was supposed to follow her lead. So he swallowed it.

  “Suit yourself.”

  When the waitress asked Lucas if he wanted anything, he shook his head and said, “Privacy,” and waved her away with a twist of his aluminum hand. He wanted to make it back home in time for supper—maybe undo a little of the damage skipping out had done.

  After the waitress was back at her station, Whitaker picked up with business. “What happened to his ammunition?”

  Atchison thought about it for a few seconds, and the action was now becoming familiar; he liked to think about his responses. He eventually put his hand back on the file. “We ran this case down. I mean we followed every fucking lead you can think of. I went back in his phone records and email, credit cards and bank accounts—what little there was. I checked out his magazine subscriptions and looked through his bookshelves. Social networking accounts and his favorite websites. I interviewed his friends and the guys he worked with, his clients and neighbors. I ca
n’t tell you how many interviews I had with his militia buddies. And after months of running around, that was that.”

  “Suspects?” There was nothing in the file to suggest they had found any, but that didn’t necessarily translate to real-time information. There was always background chatter that never made it into a file, pet ruminations and biases that no one put down on paper.

  Again, Atchison mulled the question over for a few ticks of the clock before shaking his head. “I’d have run him to the ground by now.”

  And again that weird needle on Lucas’s meter moved.

  Whitaker went back to the obvious. “What about his militia friends?”

  Atchison leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “I told you, these are just a bunch of guys trying to be part of the solution.”

  Whitaker held up her hand at that one. “Like their support of Operation Jade Helm?”

  Atchison nodded. “Sure. They saw it as a way to protect their country from an overreaching government.”

  “As opposed to seeing themselves as traitors?”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Really?” she said, and Lucas could tell that she was starting to get pissed off with his attitude.

  “Really. I’d like specifics.” As a matter of form, he added, “Please.”

  Whitaker nodded. “Our main theater of war for the foreseeable future will be in the Middle East. And where would we find an arid environment that mimics that particular chunk of geography, where we could train our troops? I’m thinking Texas. And these guys want to record and report on the maneuvers? Sure. Let’s give our enemies as much information as possible. Not very forward-thinking, if you ask me. If a truckload of Muslim American men hung out near the operation and broadcast the comings and goings on Al Jazeera, those same so-called patriots would bust a nut and call for their execution. They aren’t part of the solution; they’re most of the problem.”

  Atchison looked at her for an angry moment. “You’re missing the point.”

  “No, you’re missing the point,” she said.

  “Again, everyone’s entitled to their own opinion.” Atchison took in another mouthful of coffee, then asked, “You guys have any leads?”

  Whitaker put her hand on the file. “We’ve interviewed a few local gunsmiths, and we’ve got some feelers out, but nothing has come in. Which is why we are here with you.”

  Atchison’s food arrived, and the waitress dropped it without looking at Lucas. When she was gone, Whitaker opened the conversation back up. “Can you see any of these militia types killing federal agents?” she asked.

  Atchison took a bite out of his cheeseburger, and it was hard to miss the wheels spinning behind his eyes. “Not as things are now. But if society starts to collapse, which anyone with a brain thinks is imminent—”

  Lucas held up his hand. “Did Margolis have a girlfriend?”

  Atchison washed the mouthful of cheeseburger down with some coffee, then snapped his fingers at the waitress and asked for a Coke.

  Whitaker leaned forward. “Do any of these guys have girlfriends? You know, real girlfriends?”

  Lucas thought that she was intentionally baiting him now.

  “He had a girlfriend, or at least a woman he saw on a more or less regular basis, but I couldn’t track her down. She was younger than him. And quiet.” Atchison tapped the file. “One of his mechanics remembered a brunette coming by the shop a couple of times—young, thin, pretty, freckles. His neighbors saw a woman come by a few times, too—probably the same chick—same description. Coulda been anyone, but I didn’t find anything in his phone or email records. Coulda been something. Coulda been nothing.”

  “So what are we missing with Margolis?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” Atchison wiped his hands on a paper napkin that went clear with grease. He tapped the pregnant briefcase beside him. “I brought you copies of my notebooks and personal files.” He nodded at the folder still on the corner of the table. “And you’ve got a copy of everything. I’m not big on leaving shit out.” He placed his hand back on the file in that weird little act of repeated intimacy, then he looked over at Lucas. “You read the Bible, Dr. Page?”

  “I’ve read both.” Lucas took off his sunglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  Atchison nodded as if that were an admission. “Remember Samson? He slew a thousand Philistines with nothing but the jawbone of an ass.”

  Lucas cranked his good eye over, and by the way Atchison ticked, like one of his cylinders had missed, he knew he was doing that amusement park thing with his eyes. “What’s your point?”

  “Imagine what he could have done with a rifle.” Atchison jabbed his thumb at the silent city behind them, through the front windows. “A handful of bullets and a little don’t-give-a-fuck go a long way. You have to admit that it’s a hell of an effective way to wage a war.”

  “Against what?” Whitaker asked.

  Atchison looked at her for a moment before saying, “Name it.”

  33

  The Upper East Side

  Lucas had Whitaker drop him off in the alley behind the garage. He got out of the Navigator without using the holy shit handle, a feat that had taken a lot of practice over the years. As the door closed, hermetically sealing her in the rich leather interior, Lucas heard the music come on inside. The big 4 × 4 pulled away, spinning its tires and fishtailing up the alley, “Cult of Personality” by Living Colour shaking the vehicle.

  Dingo was keeping up with the shoveling. He had chopped neat furrows through the new snow, clearing the two garage doors and the gate, and Lucas could see the telltale rectangular imprints of his outdoor blades, the impressions crisscrossed with the heavy tread that kept him from taking a dive. Lucas unlocked the door to the garden, and as soon as he stepped inside, he heard the screams of the kids playing in the house. As usual, Erin had shit under control. Which almost mitigated some of his guilt in taking on Kehoe and his puzzle.

  The path beside the carriage house was perfectly sculpted, and Lucas counted the footsteps in the snow. While he was gone, Erin had taken the kids out for a little R&R, and judging by the freshness of the tracks, some of them were probably still fighting off boots and snow pants. He pushed up his cuff and checked his watch—still twenty minutes until dinner.

  Before heading up to the kitchen, and with no real plan, he turned and climbed the wide steps to the apartment above the garage, standing there for a few moments, wondering why he wasn’t going to the house. Did he want to wind down before he saw Erin? Put on a poker face? While he was cycling through these questions, Dingo opened the door.

  He was in his usual outfit of shorts and a T-shirt, again sporting carbon blades instead of the traditional prosthetics that usually substituted for his original hardware out on the street. “Come on in.” He pulled the door wide and stood back.

  Lucas kicked off his Clarks and negotiated his way to the sofa facing the fireplace. Dropping into the cracked leather seat nailed home that he wasn’t nearly as tired as he should be. His back should have felt like a lightning rod crackling with irregular current, and he wondered if the pain would set in later or if he had somehow escaped it.

  “What are you smiling at?” Dingo said as he headed across the loft to the kitchen.

  Lucas watched him until his line of sight caught the television in the corner dialed to the news. The footage was from that morning, a newscaster standing in front of the tram station delivering details with just the right mix of gravity, authority, and brevity. “I don’t ache nearly as much as I should.”

  Dingo crouched down in front of the fridge, a hand touching the floor in one of those balance trade-offs that were necessary to compensate for missing muscle groups. “That’s an odd complaint, mate.” He came away with two gold-necked Modelos and closed the door with a gentle horse kick.

  Lucas’s sight migrated to the fireplace when Dingo placed a beer in his hand and dropped into the club chair. He raised his bottle in th
e salute favored by drinkers since time immemorial and took a big pop off the top. “So, have you decided to quit, or are you going back for more abuse?”

  That was a good question. Maybe even a great one. “Both.”

  “You, my friend, are a slow learner.”

  Lucas raised his bottle and mimicked Dingo’s accent with a, “That’s the first time anyone has given me that particular label, mate.” He took a sip and realized that he didn’t want the beer. What was he doing here? He should be inside with Erin and the kids. He put the bottle down on the side table and let the fire hijack his attention. After a few moments of nothing but the sound of the hearth offset by the voice of the television, he let out a long, loud groan. “Thanks for shoveling,” he said. He lifted his head to see Dingo staring at him. “What?”

  “You’re sitting there smiling at the fire. It’s a little weird.”

  And with that, he knew why he had come. After the day he’d had, he should have been grumpy and more than a little tired. Yet here he was, not needing a beer and enjoying the sensation of work rinsing through his gray matter. Is this what had been missing all this time? Stress? “Shit,” he said, drawing it out.

  Dingo raised his bottle again. “Yeah, shit. You’d better not go in the house grinning like you just won a subscription to the jelly-of-the-month club.”

  After the Event, Lucas had spent a lot of time putting a candle to his head to cauterize all the psychic short circuits. One of the takeaways from therapy was the very real possibility that PTSD wasn’t a retroactive stress from past experiences but the loss of stress in the day-to-day—and he somehow missed it. And the way he felt—energetic, calm, and maybe more than a little pleased—suggested that the head shrinker might be right after all. “I’d better get home,” he said, rising from the sofa. “Sorry about the beer,” Lucas said as he slipped his boots back on. The snow still hadn’t completely melted off the leather.

  Dingo stood with his hand on the hilt of a sword rising above the forest of ski poles and walking sticks in the umbrella stand. “Don’t worry, I’ll finish it.”