Keeper (38 page)

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 ail 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.

NO MORE BUTCHERS.

MY JUSTICE.

It was, as always, unsigned. “It’s like the others,” I said to Bridgett. “It’s another veiled threat about Romero and—”

“Read this one, stud,” she said.

We traded letters.

To Whom It May Concern,

This is my final letter. I have finished my work now, and now the world knows. No more tricks, no need for games. We are both dead, and I am now to be judged by the only Law that matters.

I did what I’ve done because Dr. Felice Romero murdered my child. Her punishment was something I am glad to give my life for. Common Ground has failed.

I did what my Lord wished. I have no regrets.

Paul
J. Grant

“It’s a suicide note,” I said.

“An unmailed suicide note,” Bridgett said. “Grant was supposed to carry the bomb to the conference. These should have been mailed yesterday, or even the day before.”

“But he didn’t show at the conference,” I said. “And the letters are here.”

Bridgett scowled at Crowell’s body. “So Crowell knew what Grant was going to do. Rich made the bomb on Crowell’s orders, and Grant was supposed to deliver it.”

“But he didn’t. For some reason he didn’t.”

“No. So Rich used Mary Werthin as a backup when neither Grant nor Crowell showed at the conference.” 

“Grant had killed Crowell,” I said. “That’s why Crowell didn’t attend.”

“Why, though? What’s Grant’s motive? Baechler, we’ve got that, but why kill Crowell?”

“Grant never wrote the letters Felice was getting,” I said. “Crowell did. He was setting Grant up. Somehow Crowell or Rich or Barry, one of them, found out that Grant murdered Baechler, and they decided to use that to get Grant to kill Felice.”

“And they never knew he wanted to kill Katie, too?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

Bridgett opened her Altoids, dropped the remaining mints into her mouth. “One of us should call Scott.”

“You can,” I said. “He’s got a crush on you.”

“I know,” she said, and went to find a phone.

Scott tore each of us a new asshole, threatened to have us arrested, and then, when he arrived, threw us out of the apartment.

“Go back to Logan’s and stay there or I swear to God I’ll shoot you both,” he said when we were in the hallway.

“I like a man who shows his anger,” Bridgett told him.

“Then you’re falling in love with me,” Scott said, and slammed the door on us.

“Whatever gets you through the night,” she told the closed door, then hooked her arm through mine and led me to the elevator.

In the lobby, the doorman finally asked us if we lived here or not.

“Sure do,” I told him. “We’re the McKennas in fifteen-G.”

“But I’m not his wife,” Bridgett said, patting my hand. “I’m his mistress. Maybe you recognize me? I’m Kim Basinger.”

The doorman politely asked us to leave.

We went out arm in arm.

Bridgett decided she was hungry and that we should stop for brunch before going back to her place. I had no objections to that, so we ended up at a diner off Tenth near a taxi depot, both sides of the street outside lined with yellow cabs in various states of health. I had a bowl of oatmeal with some brown sugar, and Bridgett had a plate of steak and eggs. She didn’t clean her plate.

My punchiness wore off over the meal, and when we were back in the Porsche, heading to her place, she said, “All right, stud, spill it.”

“Where’s Grant?” I asked.

“Fuck if I know.”

“My point exactly. He hasn’t left town.”

“You don’t think so? He missed the conference, he’s got three bodies to his name. He’s got to know that the FBI, the NYPD, and the marshals are all looking for him.” 

“He hasn’t finished the job,” I said. “He wants Romero.”

“Maybe, stud. But he’s run out of opportunities.” 

“There’s the funeral.”

She pursed her lips for a moment. “Yeah, there is. But then again, that’s what you’re for, right? And he knows by this point that you’re no slouch.”

“I take the compliment as it comes.”

“Take it however you find it.”

Bridgett went out to rent a couple of videos, and while she was gone I called Dale and gave him a quick brief over the phone about the funeral. After that I called Natalie’s place. Rubin picked up.

“Enjoying your time together?” I asked him.

“A night of rarefied bliss, my friend,” Rubin said. “I can almost forget that my
Cerebus
issue-one went up in smoke.”

“You lie.”

“I do,” he said. “I’ll mourn that issue forever. But I’m trying.”

“Crowell’s dead,” I told him, and then ran it down. “So tomorrow we worry about Grant?”

“Most likely. I expect Fowler will call to confirm that one way or another. But the funeral will be well covered, let’s face it. All of us, cops, Feds, what more could we ask for?”

“Close air support?”

I laughed.

“So, what’s the deal with you and Logan?” he asked. “She’s like her car,” I said. “A wild ride that pushes the envelope.”

“That’s an awfully sexual metaphor. Are you speaking from experience?”

“No,” I said.

“But?”

“But what?”

“Remember who you’re talking to, buddy-boy,” he said. “It’s crossed my mind,” I admitted. “We came close last night.”

“What stopped you?”

“An inability to perform.”

“You had that problem, too?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Thank God,” he said. “I thought it might’ve been something I ate.”

I heard the front door opening and. said, “I’m going to go. See you at the safe apartment tomorrow, all right? Tell Natalie to get there by seven.”

“Will do,” Rubin said.

We were finishing the third of the four Jackie Chan movies Bridgett had rented when Fowler called. She answered, then handed off to me.

“Grant’s prints were at the scene,” Scott said.

“Did he shoot Crowell?”

“That’s how it looks, but we’re not certain yet. We found some interesting stuff in Crowell’s files, though. Your address and a couple of photographs of you with a young woman, both going in and coming out of the clinic.”

“That would be Alison.”

“There were lots of other photos, too. I just bring this to your attention because I know you, you understand. Nice to know that you were under surveillance just for going to the clinic. There’s something else, though . . .”

“The tackle box and the briefcases,” I said. “I know.” 

“What do you want to do about it?”

“Who’s going to be covering at the funeral?” I asked him.

“We’ll have local NYPD and marshals at the church. Sheriffs and marshals in Westchester. We’ll run dogs at both locations,” Scott said. “Grant may have just taken it and run. He doesn’t necessarily know where the Mass or the cemetery service are going to be held.”

“Do you really think he can’t find out?”

“No, but I don’t know what more we can do, dude. We’ve got people checking hotels in Westchester in case he’s already up there, but you and I both know they’re not going to find jack-shit. We’ll just have to keep a sharp eye and hope he’s decided not to risk it.”

We had pizza for dinner, and I told Bridgett about the bomb.

“It’s a better one, not like that piece of crap that Rich threw together for the conference,” I told her. “This one, the original bomb, is Rich’s masterpiece. That’s why he was so fucking smug. It’s in a briefcase or something like that, and it’s radio-controlled.”

She folded her slice lengthwise and dripped grease onto the wax paper at the bottom of the pizza box. “You mean Grant can plant it tonight and then just sit back somewhere with the detonator?”

“Yes and no. Theoretically, he could do that, but he won’t risk it going off too early. The longer the bomb stays armed, the greater the chance of some stray transmission detonating it by accident, and he probably knows that,” 1 said. “He’ll plant it tomorrow morning, most likely at the cemetery, and he’ll wait.”

“A trap.”

I wiped my hands with a paper napkin and Bridgett closed the pizza box, took it to the refrigerator. She put it inside and came out with two bottles of Samuel Adams, which she opened. “Considering what you’ve just told me, you’re remarkably calm,” she said.

“The optimal way to deal with the threat would be to find Grant, and I don’t even know where to look. Best to leave that to the Feds and the police. Tomorrow, both the church and the cemetery will be swept with electronics and dogs, and we’ll have done everything short of forbidding Felice to attend. And that last is clearly not an option.”

“And that’ll be enough?”

I shook my head. “No. That’ll be the best we can do.”

She brought me my beer and sat down beside me on the floor. We were both leaning with our backs against the couch. “Can you get to St. James by yourself tomorrow?” she asked.

“You’re not going?”

“I’ve got to go early for confession if I want to take communion.”

“I pity the priest,” I said.

She elbowed me. “You going to put an arm around me or what?”

I put my arm around her shoulders and she put her free hand on my thigh, leaning against me. We each drank some of our beers.

“It’s going to take you and Rubin at least a week or two before you boys can find another apartment,” Bridgett said. “I’m thinking that you’re welcome to stay here until then.”

“You sure? That’s a hell of a nice offer and you strike me as someone who values her privacy.”

“True. But you’re a friend in need.” She took another swig from her bottle. “Ready for the last flick?”

“Shoot.”

She reached for the remote control and we watched the final installment in our Jackie Chan fest, my arm around her, her head against my shoulder. We killed another beer each before it ended, and when the film was done, she rewound the tape and helped me set up the sheets on the couch.

“You’re going it alone on the couch tonight, stud,” she said. “Think you can handle that?”