Hard Fall (32 page)

“You could use some more bookshelves.”

“I could use a Saturday at the library,” Duncan said, looking at his dad in the mirror.

“I can do that for you.”

“I want to do it
myself
.”

“So we'll do that.”

“When?”

“You going to get on my case too?”

“Yes,” Duncan replied.

Daggett turned and looked at him. Duncan offered him an impassive expression, and then squeezed and lost the soap. Daggett took a step toward the tub, but his son shot him a look that stopped him; this was something he had to do himself. Daggett watched in the mirror as his son attempted to recover the soap. Whereas a person with use of his legs could drag the bar of soap back with his foot, Duncan could only use his hands. In a moment of quick thinking, he used the backscratcher as a rake. As he proudly took hold of the soap again, he checked to see if his father was spying on him. Daggett fooled him by quickly averting his eyes, his concentration on the razor and his chin.

Duncan began playing with the bar of soap, squeezing it tightly until it jumped from his hands, catching it, and squeezing it again. Distracted, Daggett nicked himself with the razor. Blood turned the shaving cream pink.

“So when do we go to the library?” Duncan asked, still playing.

“Message received,” Daggett said. It was the line he used with Dunc when he didn't want to continue with a discussion. The comment hurt the boy's feelings, and he wondered why he seemed to be hurting everyone around him lately. He felt the need to justify himself. “If I make any promises, Dunc, I may have to break them.”

“A broken promise would be better than none at all. It would be nice if I had
something
to look forward to.”

He'd been talking to Mrs. Kiyak again. These weren't his words.

“And don't blame it on Mrs. Kiyak,” Duncan said.

“You done feeling sorry for yourself?”

“No,” Duncan replied angrily.

He could see the boy was finished with the tub. Again he stepped forward. This time, Duncan stopped him. “I'll do it myself,” he said.

“Dunc …” Daggett begged. He had never done this himself.

A trapeze hung above the tub—compliments of the former owner. Daggett stepped back and watched with both amazement and a father's instinctive concern as Duncan reached overhead and struggled with his body weight. Perhaps it was a result of his work on the chin-up bar, perhaps nothing more than determination—a boyish will to prove himself—but Duncan hauled himself up and out of the water, pushed off the wall, and swung his bare bottom onto the edge of the tub. It was a major accomplishment—the first time he had done this completely on his own. Daggett's throat choked with pride. He withheld the applause he had raised his hands to deliver: It wasn't over. Duncan carefully lifted one leg out of the water, over the rim of the tub, and deposited its uncooperative weight onto the floor. Then the other. Facing his father, he began to towel himself dry.

As the wet skin of the useless feet slapped the floor, Daggett cringed. He hated that sound. He resented it. His emotions swelled. He began to clap, though too slowly. A morbid applause. He felt himself coming apart. The window fan revolved listlessly as a light breeze turned the white plastic blades that needed cleaning. The groan of distant traffic mixed with the barking of an angry dog. The neighbor's television was tuned to one of the morning shows. His eyes stung. He felt sick to his stomach. Duncan was smiling, but he looked frightened. Daggett's tears fell. He reached for a towel to hide his face.

Levin entered the bullpen looking tired. On CNN, a good-looking woman with unusually blond hair was quoting figures from Wall Street.

Daggett opened his briefcase and removed some papers. In doing so, he exposed the red file that Mumford had given him. Sight of the file reminded him of this other responsibility, and the fact that he had delegated all of this to Levin. “How are we coming along?”

“Mosner, Sandhurst, and Grady are all arriving by private jet. They are adamant that they alone are responsible for their own planes and that they don't want or need our help. I don't think we're going to change their minds.”

“That's a bunch of crap. Their planes are going to be searched and sniffed prior to their departure for here—I don't care what they say. And I mean prior to departure. I mean when the goddamned executives are already on board and the door is ready to close. We're not letting some bozo sneak something on board at the last minute. Kort—if that's who this is—passed himself off as a flight mechanic in L.A., don't forget. Once the cabins are checked for the final time, the door is sealed and the plane rolls. No arguments.”

“I told them that already. But all I got back was a lot of shit. All three say they can handle this themselves.”

“We better get something in writing.”

“Already done. I have letters from the security chiefs of all three companies. We're in the clear there.”

“Stupid shits.”

“At least it gets them out of our hair.”

“Which leaves us the commercial flights.”

“Fitzmaurice, Savile, and Goldenbaum all arrive and depart on separate commercial carriers. All three of the airlines I've spoken to have agreed to your suggestion.” Daggett's suggestion had been a simple one: Establish tight security for each of these three flights, and then, at the last minute, switch planes. Two minutes prior to boarding, the scheduled plane would be towed to a hangar and thoroughly searched by a bomb squad before being allowed to return to service. Meanwhile, a substitute plane would be taxied to the gate. Luggage would be reloaded, and passengers would board this substitute plane.

“So we're covered?” he asked.

“In principle, yes. The logistics of arranging the various bomb squads and security teams remains a nightmare. All the privates and one of the commercials are coming into National. The two other commercials are coming into Dulles. Sandhurst leaves the night of the meeting. Everyone else stays over.”

“Bernard built two identical baro-bombs. The target
must
be a plane.”

Levin nodded. “We've been over all this, Michigan. He's not going to sabotage one of these planes. We've got him covered.”

“Not one of them is a 959,” Daggett said, just to hear himself repeat what he had been thinking for days now. “Damn it, this has
something
to do with a 959.” Levin didn't say anything. “Maybe his target isn't this meeting. Maybe that's nothing but another coincidence.” He raised his voice angrily. “How can we stop him if we don't know what he's got planned?” He caught Gloria staring at him.

The muscles in Levin's jaw flexed as he bit back any comment he might have had. Daggett felt relieved to be around someone who knew when to keep quiet.

He lowered his voice. “Answer,” he said, answering his own question. “We stop him
before
he has a chance to do whatever it is he intends to do. And that leads me to our next point of discussion. I want to run an idea by you.” Levin suddenly looked even more tired. Daggett worried he was pushing him too hard. “Listen, even though Mumford assigned me—you and me—to keep these arriving executives safe, he didn't pull me from the Bernard ticket—the detonators. Not exactly. That's important, because it allowed me a lot of leeway I wouldn't normally have. I need to run an idea by Pullman. But if he senses I'm pushing too hard, he may bump me off of what we're still vaguely calling Bernard, which is actually Seattle and the AmAirXpress crash. Some interesting questions were raised last night concerning thee voice recorder. With this security stuff pretty much handled, I may be able to get Mumford to put me back on tracking down this guy.”

“Why do I get the feeling I'm being set up?”

“I need you to field this for me, to present it as if it's
your
idea.”

Levin looked askance. “Exactly
what
are we talking about?”

Daggett said tentatively, testing the water, “The lab was able to work up a blood group using the saliva from the butts I found at the reception.” He paused because Levin didn't seem very impressed. “The group matches with the blood from the tooth recovered in Seattle.” Again, he looked for enthusiasm but saw none.

Levin's lips puckered. His considerable nose twitched. “That's horseshit, Michigan, and you know it. Saliva? Come on! That's nothing.”

“It's the
brand
of the cigarette that interests me, not the goddamned saliva,” Daggett said defensively. “It's the
combination
of the two.”

“You're saying that Ward's killer was at this reception?” He was humoring him.

“I'm saying, yes, it's at least a possibility. What we're going to do,” Daggett continued, now set on a course he refused to alter, “is limit the brand's availability to only a few stores. One or two. I've already done the groundwork. Only four stores in the entire city sell Sobranie Black Russians in the first place. They cost five bucks a
pack
. What we do is put one of our people behind the counter of each of these stores. Then we wait it out. We're good at that. Right? Professionals at waiting around.” He was shouting. Bud Togue—Bulldog—who had the desk two desks up from Daggett's, turned his head to complain, but seeing Daggett, apparently thought better of it. Daggett continued, “A customer comes in to buy Sobranie, our man dicks with the cash register—it's fucked up, it won't work. He says the only way to pay is by check or by credit card.”

“And we get a way to trace the customer,” Levin interrupted.

“You're so smart.”

“And we follow them as well? I mean, from the store?”

“Depends how many people Pullman will cut us. Right? That's the point. But if it's a guy fitting the general description, or a woman like
her
,” he said, pointing to the grainy enlargement of the woman's face he had taped to the gray burlap baffle, “then, if necessary, our man behind the counter contacts us and then follows on foot. Yes?”

Levin thought about it for some time. “It's a good idea, Michigan, as far as
ideas
go. I mean, it's creative in a weird kind of way, using this guy's habit against him. I like that.” He hesitated and concluded, “But you'll never sell it to Pullman.”

“That's right,” Daggett agreed quickly. He offered Levin a nice, juicy, shit-eating grin. “
You
will.”

It was called Elite Estates with a slogan beneath the title's Olde English typeface that read:
ATTRACTIVE PROPERTIES MANAGED WITH CARE AND PERSONAL ATTENTION
. It was a Jeffersonian brick building with oversized true-divided-light windows that reached almost to the floor. Curtains blocked a view of the interior. A brass plaque mounted to the brick above an intercom call box identified the building as a historical site.

He let himself in through the front door and took advantage of a missing receptionist.

“Knock, knock,” Kort said.

Carrie glanced up from her desk and smiled mechanically at him. This was replaced immediately by a glint of faint recognition. She was trying to place him.

“The receptionist wasn't at her desk,” he explained apologetically. “I saw your name on the door.” He tapped the name-plate with a trimmed and filed fingernail. He could practically hear her thinking. He didn't want to make it easy for her; the idea was to challenge her. When she blushed, he knew she had finally remembered. “The party the other night,” he said.

“Yes,” she acknowledged in a warmer, less professional expression. He savored the moment. She had a beautiful smile. Had she not recognized him, had she not recalled their brief encounter, it would have made things much more difficult for him. “I'm sorry, I don't remember—”

“Carl Anthony.”

“How on earth did you find me?”

“I asked around.” It was a lie. The night of the party, he and Monique had followed her home. This morning they had followed her to work.

He studied her. She was a lovely woman in an unusual way. None of the stunning, sexually shocking quality of a Monique. A much more controlled, conservative look. She wore a blue-and-white-striped man-tailored blouse, accentuated by a thin gold chain around her smooth neck. She had used some blush to help define a face seemingly without cheekbones. Lipstick widened her mouth. She had inquisitive bold eyes that forewarned of her intelligence and a posture that made the most of high breasts and sturdy bones. An athlete. A competitor.

The office interior enhanced her femininity—chintz and pastels, Boston ferns and a woven basket of forced tulips of lavender and peach. The room smelled of scented soap, clean and inviting. Or perhaps it was her. The smell relaxed him, like a long, hot bath. Sunlight flooded through the windows behind her, and he thought if he ever built a house, he would want a room like this in which to have his morning coffee while reading the newspapers. And a woman like this would belong in the room with him, humming to herself, flipping the pages of a magazine and giggling privately as she read, distracting and alluring.

“Well,” she said, looking perplexed and a bit embarrassed, “please have a seat. Come in. How can I help you?”

“I'm looking for a place,” he explained. “‘Why give your business to a stranger?' I asked myself. I decided to combine business with pleasure.”

“How kind of you.” She delivered this well, but he sensed a reluctance in her. “A rental? A lease?”

“I enjoyed last night,” he said, taking a seat now, but not taking his eyes off of her. “I don't get out very often.”

“I forget your business. I'm sorry. It's not that … It's just that it was a … a
spirited
evening for me.” She smiled, embarrassed. “My memory is a little fuzzy.”

“Food service,” he replied. “Those awful snacks you get on the airplane. Our company is trying to make them more palatable and steal away some of the business.”