Divisible man ten keys w.., p.38
DIVISIBLE MAN--TEN KEYS WEST, page 38
Andy smiled, a distant relative of the cold smile she had given the gate guards. This had warmth, even with a dash of the Devil.
“You won’t need data. You will walk in with Gabby Calbert.”
97
Maxwell took to Gabby like a baby sister. The two were chattering before the Gulfstream’s wheels came up. I saw in the doctor an almost overwhelming urge to reach out and touch the girl, to stroke the paper-thin skin and test the contours of her bony joints—not in a clinical way, but in the same wonderous way Gabby had tried to touch clouds. I wondered how close, if ever, Maxwell had been to the humans whose life signs were dissected on her graphs and charts and spreadsheets.
A few minutes after the jet leveled off to cruise, Maxwell slipped out of her seat and knelt beside Andy.
“Now I’m confused. She looks like she’s responding.”
“You’re going to have to trust us. She is responding, but there’s something at work here that needs to be handled carefully. She is getting better. And you’re going to be a part of that. A part of the science, just like you said.”
Maxwell shifted her gaze to me. “Does this have anything to do with the absolute fucking impossible, which I honestly don’t know if I even believe, that you did to me in that bar? Because maybe I should just refuse to help until I get an explanation.”
“Yeah,” I said, “you wouldn’t want to do that. Because we’d have to drop you off and you’d never find out. Stay with us on this, Doc, and you’ll get your answer.”
Maxwell did not reply. She returned to her seat. I looked at Andy and crossed my fingers.
Lonnie’s jet provided excellent cell service. Halfway from Ithaca to LaGuardia Airport in New York—barely enough time to get the gear and flaps up before starting a descent—my phone surprised me by vibrating in my pocket.
“Leslie.” I held up the phone for Andy when her raised eyebrows asked the question. I took the call.
“You kids leave a trail of debris,” Leslie said.
“Hello to you, too.”
“Is your wife with you?”
“She is.”
“And what about Thor, the God of smashing jet airplanes?”
“He’s taking a nap.” Reuben had been asleep when we returned to the jet with Bailey Maxwell in tow. He stirred briefly during the takeoff, then resumed dozing. I thought he might be on a downturn from his wound until I remembered that he had driven from Arkansas to Key West without stopping or sleeping, and probably hadn’t slept much in the days before that. Having his daughter and wife back under his wing and allowing himself to feel hope for his little girl’s life for the first time in weeks took the stuffing right out of the big man.
“They have a warrant out for his arrest in Arkansas, you know. For murder.”
“I think it’s safe to say that he didn’t do it.”
“If you say so. I found that boat you were looking for. It’s at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. But, of course, you know all about that.”
“Did you learn anything about the boy? Sonjay?”
“Don’t rush me. Also, um, I found out about the boy. Sonjay.”
“And?”
“Sonjay Singh is—or was—the son of an elementary school teacher and a maintenance supervisor at a water treatment plant in Huntsville. He was laid to rest at a ceremony in his hometown two days ago. The ceremony was conducted by an adjunct pastor from the Citadel of God. Apparently, the Reverend Newell wasn’t available. There was no cremation.”
“So, the whole thing was a fraud,” I said aloud what Andy and I already knew. “Spreading ashes from somebody’s barbecue pit, I guess.”
“What?”
“Sorry.” I realized I’d been thinking out loud. “It’s been a little crazy.”
“Crazy? Would that be why you’re going five hundred miles per hour across Upstate New York in Lonnie Penn’s private jet?”
“I think that qualifies. Jesus. You have some nice tech.”
“Only the best at the Friendly Branch of Insanity. We’ll circle back to young Master Singh. Care to tell me how Ms. Penn figures into all of this?”
Leslie already knew the story of how I met Lonnie Penn, how that meeting led me to her daughter Gloria, and her grandson Oscar. She knew in deep detail the role of Sergei Roan, Gloria’s husband and Oscar’s father, in a scheme that nearly assassinated the entire United States Supreme Court in one stroke. I could not be certain Leslie didn’t suspect that Gloria had murdered her cartel chieftain husband in a Boston hospital—with my help—but I understood her question.
“Ms. Penn is our ticket into the Amphitriton gala at the Met tomorrow night. I think the less you know about that in advance, the better, Leslie.”
“That seems to be a theme with you, Will. Fine. One more question. Does this have anything to do with Spiro Lewko’s private jet landing at LaGuardia an hour ago? Because I know you two have history. In New York, as a matter of fact.”
“Yes. Yes, it does. I can’t say more than that, but can I ask you to keep your phone handy tomorrow night? Don’t change into your jammies too early.”
“Sure. That’s our deal, isn’t it? Listen. I have something else for you, and this concerns us both.”
“Lemme guess. It’s about those five dead assholes in Louisiana, and your murdered agent.”
“And the answer is, ‘What is Company W?’ for five hundred. Yes. You left a trail of debris, like I said. That includes a rash of smashed pickup trucks in Mountain Home, remember?”
“Like it was yesterday.”
“You tipped me that Remington’s gofer, Fennick, tapped into local resources in Arkansas. That on short notice, a bunch of Company W heroes came out in the night for target practice. It seemed like a stretch when you told me, but I found something.”
“Do tell.”
“The day after you ran into Company W in Mountain Home, a subsidiary buried in Remington’s portfolio made a quarter-million-dollar donation to the Men’s Choir Foundation at Jim Newell’s Citadel of God. This is less than twenty-four hours after the same company donated fifty thousand dollars to the same singing outfit.”
Andy, who sat facing me in Lonnie’s luxurious jet cabin, did not move to join me on the call, but she watched me with growing curiosity. I flared my eyes to let her know that I had something juicy to share.
“First,” I said, “holy shit, are your financial guys camping in the colons of these extremist assholes?”
“They are. The Director wasn’t kidding. This is one of the biggest investigations in the Bureau’s history. We’re monitoring the accounts of scores of organizations.”
“Second, a men’s choir? Has it come to this? They’re going to kill us all with pastoral hymns? Because I attended church as a kid, and some of those hymns are just plain deadly. People went comatose standing up.”
“The Citadel of God Men’s Choir Foundation has a sketchy history of funneling money into the hands of its Company W members. Picture getting cash from some rich conservative who divides their time between Palm Beach and The Hamptons, into the hands of some Confederate flag-waving twenty-something who makes his own ammunition in Mountain Home, Arkansas. You need a channel.”
“What does this mean?”
“What? You’re not seeing it? Will, think about it. On the front end, fifty K changes hands. On the back end, the payment bumps up to a quarter mil.”
“Fifty K to get them out in a field to finish off the infamous Andrea Stewart. A quarter mil to compensate them when they wind up with five demolished pickup trucks and a seriously bruised ego.”
“Good. Keep going.”
“Which means that Desmond Fennick’s casual call out to Company W wasn’t entirely opportunistic. They have a history.”
“Better. Bring it home.”
“Which means there is every possibility that the private security for tomorrow night’s big event has Company W DNA embedded. Is that where you’re going with this?”
“Will,” Leslie lowered her voice. I didn’t think she would make this call from her office, but I did accept the heightened seriousness her vocal change implied. “Did you know that there is a vein of special agents in the FBI who have been grumbling about prejudicial treatment because they hold deeply conservative political beliefs? And that vein can be found in police departments, and at Homeland Security, and in the military?”
“You’re scaring me, Leslie.”
“It scares me, too. Amphitriton’s stock price announcement is all over the news. And I don’t just mean Bloomberg. It’s tearing up the front pages. Security at the gala tomorrow night will be through the roof. At the perimeters, it’s NYPD. Inside, it’s all private. Are you getting my drift?”
“I am. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’ve got something up your sleeve and because your wife, whom I’m very fond of, is likely to be neck deep in it with you.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“It has been since you two hopped off to Ithaca. I’m watching it streak across my computer screen at five hundred miles per hour the entire time we’re having this conversation.”
“Are you calling to tell us to back off?”
She laughed. “Yes. And right after this, I will call and tell Tom Brady to retire. No, Will. I’m calling to prevent you from getting target fixation. Do you know what that is?”
“Funny, but yes I do.”
“Good. I know you and Andy won’t be stopped—whatever it is you’re doing. But you need to watch your six. And your three and your nine. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“I mean it, Will. Don’t get so hung up on Terrance Remington and Amphitriton that you get blind-sided. Remington’s and Fennick’s connection to Company W may be incidental, but Company W’s connection to you and Andy is all too real. Call me if you need me. I’m here in New York. Call me in if shit and fan collide.”
“Good to know.”
“Love to Andy.” Leslie ended the call. Andy leaned closer.
“So?”
“She said to avoid the canapes at the gala.”
98
Lonnie’s Gulfstream touched down at LaGuardia just after twilight gave way to full dark night, roughly an hour after official sunset. I understood Reuben’s fatigue; it took a substantial effort to rouse him after landing. One of the many beauties of private aviation is the short walk from the plane to the open door of a shuttle van that took us to the FBO where Lonnie’s crew had town cars waiting.
On the short walk from the Gulfstream to the Modern Aviation shuttle van, I spotted a Cessna Citation in a line of executive jets. I pointed.
“Look at the nose. That’s Remington’s. He’s here.”
A fresh, unpainted aluminum patch covered the gashes cut into the jet’s nose by Reuben’s fire ax.
Andy gazed out the window. “We knew he would be.”
True to his word, Spiro Lewko had three rooms waiting for us at the Ritz Carlton. If Andy and I had half a minute to stop and breathe, we would have marveled at the company we were keeping and the venue in which we kept it. Instead, we hustled our inadequate bags through check-in and into our room after a hasty goodnight to the small Calbert family who staggered wide-eyed through the whole experience.
Bailey Maxwell’s presence at the Ritz Carlton front desk meant we were one room short. The desk clerk expressed half-hearted apologies and said there was nothing to be done. I nearly suggested a roll-away bed be sent to the room Andy and I occupied when Lonnie saved me from myself. She walked behind the desk as if she owned the hotel and whispered in the ear of a mildly stunned night manager. Moments later, Maxwell carried Lonnie’s key card to the elevator while the bell captain directed that Miss Penn’s luggage be sent to something called the Premier Park View Suite.
The bed beckoned, but our night wasn’t over yet. At ten-thirty, Andy and I left the room and rode the elevator down to the narrow but elegant first-floor bar. A row of leather-backed stools lined up in front of the marble bar surface, all empty. A black wall backing the bar matched a black ceiling, both decorated with random white streaks that looked like someone playing with the paint before getting serious. I am no judge of art.
The absence of patrons prompted me to ask the bartender if they were open.
“Ordinarily, yes,” she replied, “but the bar is closed tonight for a special party.” I was about to turn away when she asked, “Are you with Mr. Stewart?”
“He is Mr. Stewart.” Andy smiled and took me by the arm.
“Lucky you,” I told her. We found a seat midway down the bar. Andy hooked her satchel on one of the evenly spaced hangers, which I considered terribly clever. After preliminaries with the young woman, a glass filled with Corona landed in front of me. Andy ordered iced tea.
Andy turned on her stool so that her knees pressed my thighs warmly. She lifted her glass.
“To you, my love.” She used a voice that melted something in me. “For Gabby.”
“Cheers.” We touched glasses and drank. “Do you think we can count on Dr. Maxwell?”
“Her heart is in the right place. When the dust settles, if we get what we want, we will need someone who understands the Belling Shore research, and Lewko will need someone like her. It will be a lot for her to process, but I really think she will see the opportunity.”
I wished I had Andy’s optimism.
“Is this a private party?” Lonnie asked from the end of the bar.
Without looking up, the bartender said, “I’m afraid it is. If you—”
“No, it’s okay,” I waved at the bartender. “She looks, I don’t know, somehow familiar.”
The tease sailed right past the young woman who had already realized her mistake and now showed signs of having an aneurism. Lonnie slid onto the bar stool on my right. I wished for a mirror behind the bar. Andy on my left. Lonnie Penn on my right. I wanted to take a photo and send it back in time to my eighth-grade class.
“Tonic and lime, please.”
“I’m so sorry!” The bartender hustled to work.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said to the young woman. “People mistake her for Captain Marvel all the time.”
Lonnie landed a grip on my forearm and gushed. “Ohmigod! That little girl is the absolute most darling thing. Please tell me she’s recovering.”
“We think so,” Andy said.
Lonnie’s drink arrived. She sipped and forgave the bartender a second time.
“Thank God. In which case I must ask…are we here to sabotage Terrance Remington by discrediting his new cancer medicine? Because if that little girl is the reason Amphitriton is about to make Wall Street history, I’m not sure I’m on board.”
“It’s not,” Andy said. “That’s why we asked you to join us here. In a few minutes, you will understand everything.”
“Is Dr. Maxwell coming?”
“No,” I said. “Her part in this comes tomorrow. Also, she doesn’t know your part and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“And what is her role?”
“When the time comes, she will escort Gabby and her parents into the Main Gallery at the Met. You and I will be inside with our final guest.”
“Who is?”
“Late,” I said. “But I think that’s on time for him.”
Lonnie didn’t press. “Do I have a speaking role in this movie?”
“It’s one of the reasons we thought of you, Lonnie,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind, but we needed someone who could get to a microphone, take control of it, and make a short speech without getting thrown out on her ass.”
“Oh, I make no guarantees about that last part. Will I have a chance to memorize this speech?”
“Yes,” Andy promised. She fidgeted with her iced tea for a moment. “There’s, uh, one more thing. I’m so sorry to ask this…” Andy nervously stroked a hair behind one ear.
I dove to her rescue. “We’ve been on the road living out of roller bags for about a week. Tomorrow is not quite the Gala at the Met, but it is at the Met, and it is a gala, and my wife is trying to ask if you might have some old rag from, oh, I dunno, maybe one of your Oscar red carpet walks that she could borrow.”
Andy slapped me on the arm. I took it for the team.
“Oh, darling!” Lonnie leaned across me and took Andy by the hand. “It is done. Done and done.”
A rare bit of blush flooded Andy’s cheeks. She fumbled through a thank you while I watched a man enter the bar at the far end. The bartender moved with more caution this time and informed the visitor that the bar was closed. He said nothing. Bald, dressed in a suit with a bulge under one arm, and looking like someone who scarcely allows water to pass his lips when on duty, he assessed the dimensions of the bar, examined the three patrons, and then turned without a word and left.
While Lonnie bubbled up exciting shopping plans for Andy and her, I debated the meaning of the visitor’s short assessment of us. I thought about it in the context of Leslie’s warning. Not good. Remington had to know we were here.
I made up my mind to sign for the bill and suggest we bug out when another man appeared. This one wore a black crew neck sweater over jeans and shabby blown out sneakers without socks. His shoulder-length brown hair looked freshly washed. His wide face gave the impression he was thinking of something mildly amusing, probably at someone’s expense. He lifted his gaze from one to the next of us. His appraisal landed on Lonnie just as she turned and registered his presence.
“Are you…?”
“Are you…?”
“Spiro, Lonnie. Lonnie, Spiro,” I jumped in, “but don’t call him that. He goes by Lewko.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Lewko,” Lonnie traded handshakes with the forty-something billionaire.
“The same. Just Lewko, please. My parents’ decision to name me after a convicted criminal keeps them off my Christmas card list. Detective Stewart, it’s nice to see you when you’re not holding a gun in my face.”
