by Greg Rucka
But she came back, and I opened my eyes to see her looking at me lying on her sofa, and now she wore a man’s nightshirt that fell to the middle of her calf and made her legs seem very long, blue-and-white pinstripes with an old-fashioned short collar, and the stripes blended into one shimmering smear. She pulled the blanket back and lay down against me, and somehow we fit on that little sofa, and that was how we slept, together, the first time.
Barry is a blackened corpse, with an insane grin from the contraction of his muscles during the fire that ate him alive. He’s standing beside Rich, at attention, and both are wearing uniforms that look like a cross between something the Klan wears to rallies and desert fatigues. They have military insignia on their collars, and their left breasts are laden with medals, pips for meritorious service.
Each pip is a tiny enameled carving of a fetus.
Crowell is standing before them, and through a megaphone he says, “For service above and beyond the call of duty . . .” and he opens a wooden box, and resting on the pink satin inside is a large medallion on a black ribbon. Engraved on its surface is Melanie Baechler’s head in profile, the side that collapsed when she was beaten. Crowell lifts the medallion and on the other side is carved Katie Romero, an artist’s interpretation of how she looked when she fell.
The artist has made her look like a monkey.
Crowell offers the medal to me.
In my dream, I think that if I take it, I’ll be close enough to kill him, and that’ll end this whole damn thing once and for all. That’s what I think.
But between Crowell and me stands Felice Romero. She’s dressed all in mourning and she’s holding a stuffed bear. I have to push past her to reach him. When I do, Felice falls down, shatters into pieces.
Barry and Rich applaud.
I start toward Crowell again, but now there’s Bridgett. I try to push past her, but she won’t be moved so easily. She pushes back, and is joined by Rubin, and Natalie, and finally Dale. All try to restrain me. In my frenzy to reach Crowell, I start struggling violently, thrashing against them. I kick Rubin in the leg, and he flails, loses me. I strike Natalie with the back of a hand and gouge at Dale’s eyes. As Dale falls away from me, I grab his revolver, trying to train it on Crowell.
But of course, he’s gone, and I shoot Bridgett instead.
When I opened my eyes, Bridgett was watching me. For a moment I thought I was still dreaming, and I started, almost falling off the couch. She put an arm out on me, guiding me back to safety. I was pulling deep breaths, and she settled back against me, resting her head on my shoulder. Her hair smelled of green apples.
“Relax, stud. You’re okay.”
“I shot you.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said. “That was a dream.” Her fingers went to my brow, then my hair, smoothing it. “You’re okay, stud. Just you and me here. You’re okay.” She made me think of Romero, the way she said it, made me think of how I had spoken to her when the toilet had overflowed. After a moment I nodded, felt myself relaxing against the cushions of the couch.
Bridgett pressed her mouth delicately to mine, let the tip of her tongue stroke my lips lightly. Then she put her head back on my chest.
I fell back asleep.
When I woke I felt better. I shouldn’t have, I suppose. Four hours on a lumpy couch and nightmares to boot, but the sunlight was reflecting off the photograph of the lighthouse, as if the keeper there had thrown the switch on. Storm warning, Atticus, he or she was saying from high in that slender tower. Fog’s coming in. Here’s a light, follow it; see what you can; go where you must.
Bridgett stirred against me as I reached for my glasses, and her weight was a pleasure, the way she was pressed between me and the back of the sofa, one strong leg wrapped around mine. I put the glasses on and tried to negotiate a way off the sofa, but it wasn’t going to be possible without disturbing her. Then her eyes were open, looking at me, her face blank. She raised a hand and patted my head and then pushed herself off me so she was on her knees. She jerked the hem of the nightshirt down from where it had climbed to her waist, getting off the couch. She said, “Make coffee,” and headed for the bathroom.
I found everything and made coffee. The clock by the stove said seven-fifteen. I rang the safe apartment and spoke to the marshal who answered the phone for a few minutes, getting a rundown on the previous night.
“Nothing happened,” the marshal told me. His tone said he hadn’t expected anything to.
“Just keep sharp,” I said. “Crowell and Grant are still wandering around out there. When Romero gets up, ask her to call me with the funeral details.” I gave him Bridgett’s number and hung up.
The shower was running in the bathroom so I poured myself a mug. I turned on the television and listened to the mindless babble of some morning show about what a wonderful summer day it would be in New York City while I stripped the blankets and sheets from the couch and cleaned up. Bridgett came out of the bathroom in a robe, wet hair clinging to her face, her nightshirt bunched in her hand. She tossed the shirt through the open door into her bedroom, went into the kitchen and poured herself some coffee.
“Hot damn,” she said after a sip. “This is passable, stud. Keep it up and I might even let you stick around.”
“Don’t make offers like that to a homeless man,” I said, and went to use the bathroom.
She was dressed in black jeans and a black sleeveless T-shirt, her shoes in one hand and the telephone in the other, when I came out. When she saw me she said, “It’s Fowler. He paged you.”
I nodded and she went back to talking with Scott while I pulled on my pants from the previous day and a T-shirt we had bought the night before.
“That’s none of your business,” Bridgett said. “No, he isn’t . . . Wait, wait . . .” She pressed the receiver against her shirt and said, “He wants to talk to you.”
I took the phone. “Scott? What’s up?”
“Have a nice night?”
“Delicious. What?”
“Nothing so far on Crowell or Grant. We searched Grant’s rooms this morning, found a pair of gloves that tested positive for blood. Nothing else.”
“Baechler’s blood?”
“Probable match. NYPD is going over everything again.”
“What about Crowell’s place?”
“He’s not there.”
“No, I meant, what did you find?”
“We haven’t looked.” He said it patiently. “No warrant, no probable cause to search the location. We need to wait for him to turn up, or to be listed as missing, and we can’t list him as a missing person until tonight. We’ve got somebody watching the building.”
“You might want to ask Veronica Selby if she knows where he is,” I said.
“Why? Since when did she become involved?”
“No, not like that, but she was engaged to Crowell at one point. She might have an idea where he’d go.”
“I’ll talk to Selby, then,” Fowler said. “You know funeral details?”
“Not yet. Romero said that Katie’ll be buried in Westchester.”
“There going to be a Mass?”
“I imagine so. Don’t know where yet, but I’ve got a call in to Felice and she’ll let me know.”
“And you will pass that information along like a good soldier, right?”
“You can’t see it, Scott, but I’m saluting you as we speak.”
He chuckled and I put the phone down. Bridgett was seated on the couch, pulling on her shoes. “What was that about Crowell’s apartment?” she asked.
“He hasn’t returned to it,” I said. “They’re watching the place.”
“What did they find there?”
“They haven’t gone in yet. No warrant.”
She just looked at me, her blue eyes waiting. I knew what she was thinking.
“Somebody’s watching the place,” I told her.
“So? They’re watching for Crowell, not us.”
“You’re talking about
breaking and entering.”
“Like you’ve never done anything illegal before, stud.” I kept my mouth shut and she leaned back against the couch and grinned like she knew my darkest secrets. “You’re not all Boy Scout, are you? You’ve got the naughty streak in there somewhere.”
“You’re a bad girl,” I said.
“Thank you.”
I went back to the kitchen and poured myself another cup of coffee. “I’m waiting for Felice to call,” I said.
“Hey, we’ve got all day, right? Nothing else on the agenda?” Bridgett turned and found the remote control, snapped on the television, and started surfing channels. “I like the idea of breaking and entering for our first date,” she said.
Around ten Felice called, told me that the Mass for Katie would be held at St. James at nine the next morning, followed by a drive to the cemetery in Westchester for the burial. I asked who she had invited.
“Not many people. Colleagues. Most of the clinic staff will be there, I expect.”
“Your husband?”
She blew smoke into the receiver, and the sound rustled like newspaper in my ear. “Marcus can’t make it.” I listened to her inhale and exhale again. “I want you all to sit with me. You were Katie’s closest friends when she died, and I want you to sit with me, please.”
“Felice—” I started.
“Yes, my safety, yes, my protection, I know. That’s not why I invited you, Atticus. You’re coming because you knew Katie. There will be marshals and FBI and the National Guard, too, for all I know. Let them protect me. I want you to sit with me. Katie would have wanted it.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” I told her.
“For the last time.” Her voice was sealed with irony.
I watched the phone for a minute after hanging up. From down the hall I could hear the television, and then Bridgett’s laugh over the dialogue from the set.
I called Alison. She was surprised to hear from me, I think. “I wanted to know if you had thought about attending Katie Romero’s funeral.”
“No,” she said.
“No you hadn’t thought about it, or no you’re not attending?”
“I don’t think I could handle it, Atticus,” Alison said. “I just don’t think I can deal with another dead child.”
“Interesting equation.”
“Perhaps.” I heard her moving over the line, pictured her in the kitchen, putting dishes away. Then she said, “I saw your apartment on the news last night. I thought about calling you and then realized I didn’t even know where you were.”
“You could have paged me.”
“Yes, I could have, I suppose,” Alison said. “But I . . . I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear from me, you know? After what had happened.”
I thought, after breaking up with me the same day that Katie was murdered, you mean. “I’m staying at a friend’s,” I told her. “You want the number?”
She said yes and I gave her the number. “That Dale’s place?” Alison asked.
“No, Bridgett Logan’s. You haven’t met her.”
“Bridgett Logan.” She tried the name thoughtfully. “Cute name.” -
“Oh, believe me, she’s not cute.”
“No, I don’t suppose she is.”
“Look, Alison, I just called to see if you were going to the funeral. I’d like it if you were there, but if you’re not going, fine, whatever. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“I’m not planning on going.”
“So you’ve said. That’s it, that’s all I wanted to say. Have a good day, all right? Take care.”
“You, too.”
Just before I put the phone down, I heard her voice, shrunken over the wires. I think she said, “I’m sorry.”
——
Bridgett drove the Porsche twice around the block, then parked up the street from Crowell’s building. The same doorman from our first visit was on duty.
“He’ll remember us,” I said. “He got reamed for not stopping us the last time.”
“No way,” Bridgett said. “You think he even knew what Crowell was yelling at him about?”
“There was a time when all doormen knew the tenants in their building.”
“There was a time when a gallon of gas cost a nickel, but I don’t remember that either,” she said. She reached around onto the backseat and found a short crowbar, which she stowed inside her jacket.
We got out and walked along the sidewalk, her arm around my waist. She slipped in front of me just before we reached the awning, turned, kissed me, then said, “Call me a name.”
“Bitch,” I said.
She slapped me hard and then turned and ran into the building, covering her face, calling me, a bastard.
It took me a moment, but then I said, “Honey, wait!” and ran after her. She had already hit the elevator button, but it was on the third floor and descending. So she turned around and slapped me again.
“Bastard,” she repeated.
I straightened my glasses and rubbed my jaw, watching the doorman’s reflection on the marble. He was sneaking curious glances our way, but nothing more. Bridgett mouthed “sorry,” then turned her back on me again just before the elevator arrived. I went in after her, blocking her body from the doorman’s view as she turned to push fourteen.
When the doors had closed, I said, “You might’ve warned me.”
“Method acting,” Bridgett said. “You’re very good.”
“Thank you. Now I know what to do if this bodyguard-ing thing doesn’t pan out.”
The fourteenth floor was empty when we arrived, and we walked to Crowell’s door and knocked loudly three times. Nothing happened. Bridgett handed me the crowbar and then got down on her hands and knees, pressing her nose to the space between the bottom of the door and the floor.
“Can’t smell anything. Don’t think there’s a corpse.”
“The air conditioner could be on.”
“True.” She took hold of my belt and pulled herself up so her nose was nearly touching mine. “I love this shit,” she said, then turned to shield me from the elevator. “Go to it, stud.”
I worked the crowbar into the jamb. It took some good muscling, and I tried to remember how many locks I’d seen when we’d been inside before. Most New York apartments are locked up so tight one needs a diamond-bit drill to crack them rather than a crowbar, and I didn’t have much faith that this was going to be successful. lust as I thought that, though, the wood tore with a snap and the door flew open. We went inside, closed the door after us.
The apartment looked exactly the same. Clean and still, devoid of any life. We took a few steps into the open room where Crowell had received us, looking around, listening hard. The air conditioner hummed, but that was the only sound.
Bridgett headed down the hall, and I went to the kitchen. I heard her opening doors as I checked the refrigerator. It was nearly full, bottles of mineral water and fresh fruit, some hot dogs, eggs, cottage cheese. I closed the door and then put my palm on the stove. It was cool.
I looked back at the door. There were four locks mounted on the frame. None of them had been closed. I walked over and checked the knob, and saw that, in fact, the crowbar had been unnecessary; the door was unlocked.
“Atticus?” Bridgett called. “Come take a look at this.” She’s just used my name, I thought. She must have found a corpse.
And, lo and behold, she had done exactly that.
Jonathan Crowell lay on the carpeted floor of his office, flat on his back, three holes in his chest. Black powder bums radiated from the wounds in his linen jacket. He looked like a discarded rag doll, limp and with the stuffing exposed; except for the holes in his chest, the image might have offered some comfort. His blood had soaked the carpet, turning it from gray to black.
“Can’t say I’m broken up about this,” Bridgett said, staring down at the body.
“Fowler is going to love us.”
“It’s just jealousy. It’s because we’re having a
il the fun.”
“It’s jealousy all right.”
She shrugged, knelt down beside the body. “He’s got a nasty scrape on his cheek, here, and some bruising. Looks like he took a punch or two.”
“Grant,” I said.
She craned her neck my way. “Well, possibly, yeah. But why?”
Now I shrugged. “Is there a reason one of us isn’t using the phone?”
“I want to nose around some more first.”
“You’ll contaminate their crime scene.”
“Fuck their crime scene.” She got up and frowned at Crowell’s body, then turned away and opened the closet. I counted seven briefcases inside, vinyl and fake leather, all roughly the same size and color. I grabbed one and opened it. It was empty.
All of them were empty.
“Who needs seven briefcases?” Bridgett asked.
“Seven attorneys for seven prenups for seven brothers?”
“That’s very clever,” she said approvingly.
On the floor of the closet was a yellow-and-green molded plastic tackle box. Inside we found three spools of wire, some tools, pieces of electric equipment, a radio speaker, stuff like that.
I went over to the desk. In a letter holder were two white business envelopes, stamped and sealed. I pulled them, saw they were both addressed to the clinic. I handed one to Bridgett, then tore open the other.
The letter inside was identical in format to the ones we figured were sent by Grant. It read:
DOCTORS OF DEATH—
MY BABY’S IN A BOX.
HER MOMMA’S IN A BOX.
ANOTHER CHILD IN A BOX.
HER MOTHER GOING TO THE BOX.
TIME TO FINISH WITH A BANG.
