Brooklyn Knight (17 page)

Dix smiled, insisting that such would be his pleasure. After that, he pointed out the way to Human Resources, assuring Bridget that if she could find a “short, round, nasty black woman that
answers to Judith” she would be in good hands. The redhead thanked the guard for his help, then turned in the direction that had been pointed out for her. Heading for the museum’s human resources department, she hoped she would not have to search through too many “short, round, nasty black women” before she found one named Judith.

“HELLO, EXCUSE ME … WHERE COULD I FIND JUDITH?”

“Oh, don’t tell me … you’re Elkins—Knight’s new intern—aren’t you?” the speaker had called out from her office door. She was indeed a short woman, one far rounder than she was slender. Nothing about her labeled her as “nasty,” but then Dix had impressed Bridget as one of those men who viewed women as fitting into a very limited number of possible categories. As Bridget nodded in agreement, the woman in the doorway depressed a button on the clock on her desk and then had started to cross the open area in the middle of the human resources department when another woman called out from a cubicle;

“Of course she’s Knight’s new intern. Look at her. It just proves God hates all of us.”

“Excuse me … ,” answered Bridget with a bit of hesitation, not quite certain how to take the second woman’s comment. Feeling somewhat foolish for not saying anything, she was about to answer when Judith cut her off.

“Don’t pay attention to that gasbag. She’s all full of the idea she’s someone who’s goin’ to fly while the rest of us walk. Trust me,” the round woman snapped over her shoulder at the other, “it ain’t goin’ to happen, girl.”

By this point, several of the women in the human resources department had left their desks and joined Judith and Bridget. It was clear that part of their reason for doing so was the simple any-excuse-to-stop-working mentality of all offices where people are
sequestered in cubicles. Denied the sun, fresh air, and any real reason to remain motivated outside of collecting a paycheck, most workers in such situations were usually ready to take a break at the slightest diversion.

Bridget was used to such behavior—indeed, had held several jobs where, temporary as they were, she fell into the same pattern without much coaxing. But this gathering, the young woman thought, was something different. There was a genuine curiosity in their approach, as if she were a movie star or, perhaps more accurately, a sideshow freak. Bridget might have been younger than all the women suddenly circling her, but she was old enough to know when she was being examined. Of that much she was certain. The only thing she could not fathom was why.

Bridget felt, however, that the inspection process went along painlessly enough. The others all introduced themselves, asked the name of her hometown, what state it was in, if she had any siblings, parents still alive, still together, where she went to school, if she had a boyfriend waiting back home, et cetera. As the women gathered around her, Bridget did grow a touch uncomfortable due to the way she had dressed. For her first day she had chosen a dark gray pencil skirt with a discreet pinstripe, matching jacket over a tucked in, button-down white blouse. Feeling playful when she had first assembled the outfit, she had decided to make a cute wink to the fifties and add a string of pearls and even heels, despite her height.

Now, towering over the others, most of whom were dressed in far less fashionable attire, all of whom were wearing either sneakers or loafers, she found herself becoming more and more self-conscious as she noticed various glances being stolen specifically at her wardrobe. After a few minutes of everyone pointedly looking but no one commenting, she almost wished someone would say something one way or the other.

However, Bridget did find herself enjoying the attention.

While still in Montana the young woman had worried that New Yorkers might live up to their, in many ways deserved, international reputation of being hard and distant—that she might never make any friends in the city. Judith and the others, however, made Bridget feel more than a little welcome, something for which she had not quite been prepared. As the barrage of questions began to slow, the redhead told the others;

“You know, I just want to say thank you all so much for … I don’t know, being so friendly, I guess. You hear a lot about New York and New Yorkers, and well, I guess I really just needed something like this after last night—”

“What happened last night?”

“Ah, you know,” Bridget answered, not certain if she was being teased, “out in the lobby, those men who … you know … the thieves—”

“What’re you sayin’?” Judith eyed Bridget with a mixture of suspicion and sympathy. “You saw that? You were here? You were with the professor—”

“He was the only one inside. I, I was outside—”

And suddenly the furor began once more. Now the other women’s questions came in earnest. It was not an unreasonable development. Like most places of daily commerce, the Brooklyn Museum was not usually the scene of gunfire, explosions, or the resulting massive police investigations. As far as Judith and the others were concerned, this was a chance to get the inside scoop on the most exciting thing that had happened in their workplace in years.

Bridget answered their questions slowly, trying not to make any mistakes—to not reveal that which she knew about the professor that she was assuming no one else did. She had been circumspect in her responses to the police the night before, but she had been able to hide behind a mask of shock then. Also, she knew the pair of older men were going easier on her because they had Knight to
pummel with their queries. Her fellow workers, however, only had her as a source of information and were determined to drag every morsel they could find from the younger woman.

Eventually, though, what little Bridget had to offer was obtained, and the human resources staff broke down into the typical ritual often referred to as “comparing scars.” Each in turn told her most harrowing story of life in the city. Bridget was fascinated by all of their shared experiences, but none more so than the one related by Judith.

“I lived my whole young life in the Bronx. Daddy didn’t like the city, didn’t want us mixin’ with all the white trash—you-all know what I mean. Anyway, until I was fifteen, I never once got to set foot outside the Bronx. So one day, my cousin Rhonda, she wants us to hop the A train and head on down to Manhattan. I’m all full of myself, so I go. We get on the train, and I swear, the minute we go past One Hundred and Tenth Street, this homeless piece of shit gets on the train, and I mean, he stinks. He reeks. Half the people in the car get out at the next stop and jam into other cars. Rhonda and I, we stay. But then, he starts takin’ off all his clothes.”

“In the train?” asked a somewhat shocked Bridget.

“Yes, sittin’ there stretched out on a bench, peelin’ out of his coat and shirt and shoes, and T-shirt,
and
pants, and we’re watchin’, and we can’t believe it. And then, yes, this wrinkled old, dirty, scarred-up white man slides out of his drawers, piles them up with everything else, and sits back to start … inspectin’ himself. Like there’s no one else there, like he’s in his livin’ room or somethin’.”

“Oh my God, girl,” asked one of the other women, “what did you do?”

“What do you think we did,” answered Judith, her scowl barely concealing the grin forcing its way across her face. “We got out at the next stop, walked across the platform, and we went
straight back to the Bronx, which I found no reason to leave again until I was twenty-three.”

All the women, Bridget and Judith included, laughed over the story’s ending. The response also served as a silent signal to the group to return to their desks. All office workers need to break up the monotony of their workdays with such diversions, but they also had to realize when enough fun had been interjected into their day and that it was time to get back to their desks and actually earn their paychecks.

Since Judith’s job was to introduce newcomers such as Bridget to the paperwork side of their first day on the job, the older woman took the redhead in hand and led her back to her office. As they took up seats on separate sides of Judith’s desk, the round woman said;

“All right, here it comes. Time to fill out all the forms for the museum, the city, the state, the feds, for the insurance company, oh, I’m telling you, girl, you are about to have just ever-so-much fun.” When Bridget merely grinned in response, Judith said;

“You know, we’ve been puttin’ you through the wringer. Before I hit you with form city, you have any questions you want to ask? Just tryin’ to be fair and all.”

“Actually, there is one thing I’d like to know.” When the department head nodded, Bridget asked shyly;

“I was just curious … do you know how old Professor Knight is?”

And with that, Judith slapped her hands together and threw her head back to laugh. Then, as quickly as she could, the department head stabbed the button on her clock once more, crying out as she did so;

“We have a winner!”

“All right, Professor,” said Klein, looking more than a touch frustrated. “Much as I hate to admit it, I guess that’s probably about all there is we can drag out of you over this thing.”

“I should certainly hope so,” answered Knight, exhaling an honestly tired sigh as he did so. Packing his pad and pen back into his shoulder bag, he added, “We did seem to cover the same ground fairly endlessly, but in all fairness I do suppose you’re only doing your jobs.”

“Yes, that’s true,” agreed Klein, “and though I hate to say it, we’re not actually done yet.”

“Not done?”

The professor’s tone was one of both puzzlement and unconcealed exasperation. So far he had tried to be as cooperative as he could possibly allow himself to be. He obviously could not tell the authorities anything like the complete truth, could not admit to flying about the museum, or that he had positively recognized the intruders
as magic users. And he knew he certainly could not talk of the ring he had used to cause the thieves’ bullets to ricochet off his person, or that he had used it to shield himself and Dollins from the heat and smoke in the station house basement.

Having so much to hide, Knight had purposely provoked the FBI man in the beginning so that when it came time to cooperate his manner might not arouse suspicions. At this point he was fairly certain his story as finally presented had been accepted. But, he had gone over the confrontations in the museum and outside the police property room from what he felt had to be every conceivable angle. What, he wondered, could there possibly be left to discuss? When he voiced his question, Klein told him;

“Professor, you can’t really be this naive—can you?”

“Oh,” injected Brinkley, a look of pity forming on her face, “you don’t know our little Piers Knight like we do.”

The museum director had sat through every minute of the three-hours-plus interrogation because it was her job. Unlike the jobs of curators such as the professor, who rarely, if ever, had to interact with the outside world, Brinkley’s job was to be the public face of the Brooklyn Museum. She met with the corporations looking to make donations to help their public image, as well as the ones she was hoping to convince they should be doing more for their public image. She also had to have an open door for any city officials who might need to be cajoled for this reason or that, for the various neighborhood organizations or businesses that wanted to interact with the museum and any other type of outside interest that needed a human face with which to deal.

That meant she had to be present for every possible moment of Knight’s questioning. She would have the board to report to soon over the incident of the night previous, and she would need solid answers for them. After all, controversy was not something that could be tolerated. The board knew donations had a tendency to
evaporate when proper public institutions suddenly became sensation enough to generate headlines in the jaded New York City media. Brinkley’s assistant had been monitoring not only the local radio and television stations throughout the day to see what their news reports had to report about the night previous, but also dozens of the more popular message boards.

Had AOL gotten their hands on the story yet—plastered it on the screens of a hundred million computers? Were the chat rooms buzzing from one end of the Internet to the other? Were the conspiracy nuts drawing lines from their pet insanities to her museum? Brinkley knew it was bound to happen. It was not a matter of “if,” she felt, but only “when.”

“Really, Agent Klein,” said Knight, more than a slight trace of irritation sneaking into his voice, “possibly I am as naive as you think. But, sir, after all we’ve covered, what more can there be?”

The director was somewhat afraid to hear the answer to that question—had been asking it of herself for the past three and two-fifths hours. What would the media make of the mysterious deaths, or of the curator entering his museum with a young woman—an intern, no less—after hours, in the dark? Brinkley had not met Bridget yet, but her assistant had been certain to get a look at the girl as soon as she arrived. The image of the young redhead the director received on her cell phone did nothing to quiet her already-jangled nerves.

Oh God
, she had thought, looking at Bridget’s stunning face, perfect cheekbones, languid eyes, long lashes, perky smile.
Oh my dear God… .

It was enough to make her slip a hand discreetly into her bag for her antacid tablets. This girl had the kind of looks that editors would invent stories about simply to be able to justify the use of her image. Brinkley knew Knight, of course—absolutely knew he was not the kind of man to take advantage of a young
woman. Indeed, it was that strict ethical code of his that made him think it was all right to do all of the foolishly improper-looking things he was forever doing.

“Professor,” said Klein, his voice hinting that he was about to enjoy himself, “hasn’t it occurred to you to wonder why the FBI has involved itself in this matter? Let alone”—the agent moved his head slightly to the right, indicating the pair of operatives everyone else at the table had simply assumed were CIA—“some of the other interested parties assembled here today?”