by Greg Rucka
I said to Natalie, “Keep going, I’ll catch up. Keep your radio on.” Then I stopped and put a bloodstained arm out to block Logan’s progress, and we faced each other for a few seconds while I stood her against the wall. I got a whiff of shampoo and mint off her.
“I need to talk to you about Crowell,” she said.
“Not now.”
“Then I’ll come with you,” she said. “I’m working for the clinic.”
“No, you won’t,” I said. “And I don’t care if you were hired by the whole governing board of NARAL. I’ve got a grieving principal to secure and people to debrief, and I can’t do it if I’m playing Q and A with private eyes.”
“Then I’ll come with you and we can do it after,” Logan said.
The frustration and rage I felt at that moment were almost unbearable. Here was this woman showing up and implying it was negligence on my part that Katie was dead, having the gall to do it in front of Felice. And she just stood in front of me, eyes met to mine, no sign of backing off. The light caught on the niobium ring through her nostril, reflecting blue.
“They’ll leave without us,” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
She shook her head, then reached in a pocket for a roll of Life Savers. She pulled one into her mouth with her teeth, never taking her eyes from mine, then offered me the roll. Pep-O-Mint. “Have a sweet, stud,” Logan said. “Lighten up.”
I ignored the roll. “Why don’t you just scurry on home, or something, and I’ll contact you when I’m ready.”
She straightened her back a little more, drawing up to her full height. “Scurry?” she said softly.
I figured that the cab had left by then, so I moved my arm and turned my back to her, started walking to the loading dock. She fell in on my right and asked, “Where’d they take the doctor?”
“I don’t know.”
“Some bodyguard,” Logan said. “At this rate, you’ll lose both of them.”
I stopped again, and went face-to-face with her, angry enough that it showed. Her jaw tightened.
“This is the wrong time to be pushing me,” I said quietly. “The absolute wrong time. My client just lost her daughter, and if you think that means business as usual to me, you’re walking with the wrong crowd.” I pointed back to the ER. “Crowell’s that way, maybe you’d be happier working for him. Otherwise, go away, now. I’ll contact you when I am ready. Not a moment before.”
I turned from Bridgett Logan and headed down the hall.
The rest of the morning was a confusion after I rendezvoused with the others—a ragged collage of statements given to the police and the Feds, of movement and more movement, trying to find Felice a safe place to grieve. Rubin finally suggested using his studio, and by one that afternoon we had settled Dr. Romero in.
The studio Rubin used was a joint venture with some other artists he knew, an attempt to find work space without having to pay Manhattan’s ridiculous prices for privacy. Each artist paid a quarter of the rent, they all had open access, and they all respected each other’s space. It was nothing more than a large loft in Chelsea, broken into four roughly equal quadrants. On the north side of the room were four large windows that looked out over the street, and Dale immediately went to those to doublecheck our security.
The room had an adjoining bathroom and kitchenette, but that was the extent of the space. Dr. Romero moved to Rubin’s comer, spiritless and disinterested in what we were doing. After our departure from the hospital she had crumbled again, ignoring us, returning to the pain inside.
I helped her settle, spreading the army blanket that Rubin kept with his equipment. If she wanted to lie down, at least she could be almost comfortable.
“I want to go home,” Felice said.
“We can’t,” I told her. “It isn’t secure.” Her apartment would have to be cleaned up, I knew, and she shouldn’t have to be the one to do it. The bloodstains would probably never come out of the carpet.
“It’s my home,” she said.
“I know, Felice. I’m sorry.”
She turned, looked at me for the first time since we left the hospital. “What did you say?” she asked.
“We can’t take you home. I’m sorry.”
The blow came up so fast I didn’t even think about moving, and then my head was ringing and she was drawing her right hand back again. Her voice was as smooth and cold as a sheet of arctic ice.
“You bastard,” Felice said, slapping me again. “You bastard, you’re sorry?” Her hand flew again, and I didn’t flinch, just felt the blow echo inside my head, and then she was timing her slaps to the words, each one hitting for punctuation, emphasis, and a terrible anger. “You liar, you bastard liar, you said you’d keep us safe, you said—” Natalie was between us suddenly, and I stepped back, feeling my left cheek bum and blood leak into my mouth. Felice tried to push past Natalie, explaining deliberately that I was a liar, that I had lied, that I had killed her baby. Natalie took her by the shoulders and told Felice to stop.
“Bastard,” Felice said, and then pulled away from Natalie. She sat on a stool, looking at the wall Rubin had painted with spray-painted scenes, cops and Latin Kings and life on the mean streets.
Natalie turned to me. She said, “Sentinel has a safe apartment. We can send Dale to get the car and then move her. You want me to call my father?”
Felice was smoking, and that was the only way I could tell she was breathing.
“Atticus? You want me to call my father?”
I nodded, starting to move toward Felice. Natalie put up an arm and shook her head and I stopped. When she was sure I wouldn’t move, she went to the phone and started dialing, drawing her red hair back to place the receiver against her ear.
My cheek still burned, and I touched it again, looking at each of my people. Ostensibly, we seemed to be holding up all right, keeping our grief separate from the work at hand.
But Dale was checking the window over and over again, and he’s not the nervous type. And Rubin was now sitting on a stool, staring at his bloody hands. And Natalie was trying hard to keep her voice under control while she spoke to her father.
Little things.
“Rubin,” I said. “Go get cleaned up.”
He kept looking at his hands. Then he nodded, slowly found some spare clothes under one of his palettes, and went into the bathroom. I heard the shower start.
Natalie hung up the phone. “Somebody’s already using it,” she said. “Some damn brat from Saudi Arabia, and my father won’t move him. We can get it sometime tomorrow.”
“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 Crowe
ll’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.”
