Shoot (37 page)

After Izzy and Phil left, Jane asked me what that was all about.

“Guys I didn’t like got killed, so that was professional routine,” I explained.

“But those killers shot at the ship and the navy fired back,” she said. “It’s silly to think you had something to do with it.”

“Exactly. They’re just touching the bases.”

“Okay. Are we finally done with this nightmare?”

“Looks that way.”

She looked at me and sighed.

“Shepherd, I hate it when you lie to me—especially when you think it’s for my own good. I’m going to ask you that question again. This is very important to me, to us. If you tell me the truth this time, I promise I won’t be angry. But, if I ever find out you lied to me again, we’re through—do you understand?”

Damn. For the past ten years, I had done little else except detect and eliminate threats and then keep my mouth shut about it. I took a deep breath and told her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. She listened and waited until I was done.

“I knew it!”

She began cursing and slapping me on the chest. I backed off.

“You promised you wouldn’t be angry at me!”

“I lied! Of course I’m angry—who wouldn’t be? Are you crazy? You go off on some insane secret mission for no reason and…”

“There was a reason.”

“What possible reason would make you act as a live target for psychos with shotguns?”

I told her my reasons.

“Oh, so by sneaking out on this suicidal operation you’re protecting me and Skippy and America and all the ships at sea?”

“Yes. It was a matter of time before they or someone else decided I was a problem and one way to get at me was through you or Skippy.”

“You are no longer in the army.”

“I know but I am a reporter and, now, I guess I’m a private detective. I’m pretty good at it but sometimes it comes with some risk.”

“Only the way you do it. I think you’re doing all this
because
you’re not in the army anymore. You miss the rush, the charge, the danger.”

I didn’t disagree.

“Are you going to stop doing things like this and live a normal life?”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t know what a normal life is.”

“I’ll teach you. If I ask, will you stop this risk-taking, Shepherd?”

“If I ask, Jane, will you stop being an animal doctor?”

“That’s not the same. That’s my chosen profession.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, my God. It’s not over, is it?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“And you think we still might be in danger?”

“Yeah, maybe. Nothing is settled, but I’m trying to find whoever was behind the killings. I don’t yet know what I might have to do.” I hugged her. She hugged back.

“Shepherd, I don’t like not knowing what’s going to happen.”

“I know. Me too. That’s just life, isn’t it?”

We were still together but up in the air.

My suit had been destroyed in the shotgun attack on me and Skippy so I put on my best chinos and walked out into a beautiful, blisteringly hot day. My parents were back on the picket line at 740 Park Avenue but now they had a lot of company—hundreds of demonstrators shouting against the Roehm brothers. Dozens of cops held them back behind barricades. Signs proclaimed them
TRAITORS
. One used the phrase from my column:
GUTTERSNIPES OF PARK AVENUE
. The attack on the naval vessel was worse than just bumping off a group of GOP politicos, apparently. Radical tea baggers were now considered to be evil and un-American. Everybody was mad at the right-wingers, even a lot of Republicans. Bizarrely, I got a hero’s welcome from my parents and the others. They cheered my name out loud. Very odd. Even stranger, my mother hugged me and kissed me on the cheek, an event I had not experienced since my sixth birthday. My dad grabbed my hand and told me what a great job I was doing. Now I was in Alice in Wonderland territory.

“Just in time,” Amy told me, pointing to the front door of the billionaires’ building. Several pumped security guards in uniform appeared in a phalanx around two lanky gray men in suits, escorting the twins to a waiting black limousine at the curb. The mob went wild, surging against the barriers, roaring hatred. One brother sneered and said something snarky that was drowned out. His silent twin looked scared. I shouted questions but they vanished into the vehicle, which sped away, leaving two PR people handing out pieces of paper. It was a press release, denying any involvement in the deaths of Speaker Chesterfield and the others. It also detailed their open scorn for “libelous falsehoods published in the
Daily Press
,” which implied the siblings had some kind of connection to illegal events. The release said they were considering legal action. I assumed that would be against my “Park Avenue Guttersnipe” column.

I had to get into the building. I went to the doorman and tried to get my toe in the door and asked to see the other tenant I knew, Walter Cantor. The doorman used his phone and told me Mr. Cantor was unavailable.

Amy pulled me aside to give me a surveillance report. She said it was virtually impossible to get into the vertical fortress of 740 Park Avenue, especially now—security had been increased, especially around the Roehm brothers.

“In a month or so, I can try my Fedex woman uniform or my city building inspector disguise. My dog-walker lady won’t work because none of these guys have dogs,” Amy told me. “So, I’m temporarily out of tricks—unless you have a Plan B?”

I did. I told her. She laughed. I started to explain but she stopped me.

“Pass. I’m not up for this one. I will assume what you just said was a joke. I’m going to tell the GOP that we are done with the case. Shepherd, you have to learn when to back off.”

“Not something I want to learn, Amy. Do I still work for you?”

“Sure. But take a few days off. Chill out. Develop a relaxing hobby.”

“Good advice. Thanks, Amy.”

After she left, I had fun with my parents while it lasted— chanting slogans and singing songs. In between songs, I called Sparky and arranged to meet him later. The next song was my favorite—“We Shall Overcome.” But what do you sing when, fifty years later, you have to overcome the same injustices all over again? For some reason, I remembered Sparky’s joke about the silver bullets and werewolves— monsters who could only be killed with pure weaponry. The New Minutemen were certainly hairy but the whole scheme seemed more like the Lone Ranger—killing bad guys with silver bullets. The Lone Ranger was also a good guy who hid behind a mask—because the bad guys controlled the law and the government. Who was that masked man? I wanted to thank him. My mom interrupted my wandering thoughts to inform me they were flying back to Kansas in the morning. I could have my apartment back. Just in time for Jane to kick me out again?

“Have a nice flight,” I told them.

* * *

That night, after dinner, I changed into long black pants and shirt and put on my backpack. Jane asked where I was going. I told her I was meeting Sparky and would try to interview somebody on the case.

“Who?”

“It’s important that you don’t know. Please trust me on this, Jane.”

“Okay, Shepherd, I trust you. Will you be in danger?”

“I don’t think so but there is a certain element of risk involved,” I admitted. “Of course, I may not be able to get the interview, in which case I will be home sooner.”

“And if you get the interview?”

“That would take a bit longer, not sure how long. Of course, this person may not talk to me at all. Succeed or fail, I hope to be back in an hour or two.”

It was always much easier to get forgiveness than it was to receive advance permission.

“You hope?” Jane said. “Does he have a shotgun?”

“I didn’t say this person was a ‘he.’ The person might have a shotgun but I assess the likelihood of the individual using it on me to be very small.”

“Why can’t you tell me where you’re going?”

“Because it’s possible I might do things that could be seen as not exactly legal. I don’t want to harm you.”

“But you’re above the law, right?”

“No, but in some situations I’m used to
being
the law. Look, if you can’t handle this, I won’t go. Seriously. Your call.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

She thought a long time and then hugged me hard and kissed me.

“You’re a strange man, F.X. Shepherd, but I love you. Okay, go. I think maybe I can stand this. I don’t feel like being alone, so I’m going to get Skippy and bring him home. When you get home, we’ll both be here, waiting for you.”

The flight was exhilarating, passing over the Manhattan skyline lights at night, the City That Never Sleeps. The landing was surprisingly gentle. Top of the world. My destination was breathtaking, illuminated by Malibu mood lighting hidden in the Japanese landscaping. I took the plastic bag with the gray tube out of my backpack, removed the weapon and kept it ready. I walked past the burbling turquoise pool, the chaise lounges and built-in barbecue grill, and reached, with my gun-gloved hand, toward the brass handle of the closed glass patio door, the second hurdle. If you lived in a guarded, inaccessible luxury penthouse two hundred and fifty feet in the sky above Park Avenue, would you bother locking your patio door? I hoped it had never occurred to him. I hoped he was one of the few people living in Manhattan who didn’t have to worry about that. Fortunately, it was unlocked and I stepped inside.

There it was.

In the huge, high-ceilinged living room, with cream-colored carpeting and furniture, on the white wall above a cream couch, was a huge, framed grass-green flag under glass. The “Don’t Tread On Me” symbol of the American rebels. I turned on a few more lights to get a better view. Looking closer, you could see that around the bottom edge it had faded to a yellowish green over the past two hundred and fifty years or so. When I had caught a glimpse of it on Sparky’s drone footage of the penthouses at 740 Park Avenue, I had mistakenly thought it was one of those one-color paintings that sell for millions to gullible rich folk. It was actually one of the earliest versions of our flag, Old Glory. It was awe-inspiring. Brave men fought and died under that banner for the divine right not to pay taxes.

I was pretty confident that any scientific comparison tests would prove this was the flag from which the Tea Party Animal cut his musket ball wadding. The problem was the frame covered up the bottom of the flag.

I flipped the trigger assembly open on the octagonal tube. The red diode lit up. Weapon hot. I gently placed the live weapon on the glass coffee table in front of the couch, at the ready. I stood on the couch, no doubt leaving footprints. The black picture frame was custom brushed aluminum, the kind that fits together at the four corners with grooves and interlocking L-shaped metal strips. I looked around and spotted a pile of circular stone coasters on the table. I borrowed two, placed one flat on the glass in the lower left corner. I placed the second disc above it and started gently whacking the lower one with the upper. Nothing. I hit harder—which was a bit louder but did the trick. The bottom horizontal frame disconnected. I waited and listened, judging my distance to the weapon. I thought I faintly heard a television somewhere else inside the apartment. No alarm sounding, no dog barking, no shots. I carefully did the same thing to the right side, removed the bottom frame piece and quietly placed it, along with the coasters, on the couch.

Bingo.

The revealed bottom margin of the flag was badly yellowed and almost half of it had a longitudinal section missing, which was hidden by the framing. Siri was right. The cut looked fresh. This was the guy. He owned the flag and the hotel, secretly. Mr. Big, mastermind of the vast right-wing conspiracy.

Now what?

I came here to perforate the bastard with his own techno-musket but that would mean pulling a trigger, or at least pushing a button. I really didn’t want to do that. It would violate my oath. Clearly my imagination, or fate, was required.

He snuck up on me so silently, he was on the couch before I noticed. I jumped and almost yelled out in surprise. He was staring coolly at me.

A large, long-haired, fluffy white cat with yellow eyes.

“Goddamn, you scared the shit out of me,” I whispered to him.

He cocked his curious head at me. I was not expecting a watch-cat. He fluttered down onto the cushions, hopped onto the glass coffee table and began sniffing the loaded weapon. I scooped it up and backed away gingerly, before the pussycat could do anything loud or fatal. I exhaled and realized I had been holding my breath.

“Anything I can help you with, Shepherd?”

This time, startled again, I almost fired the damn weapon. I turned and there he was, in checkered red and green golf pants and green polo shirt, smiling at me like a warlord who knew I could never touch him.

My new friend, my parent’s hero—liberal billionaire Walter Cantor.

“Actually, yes you can help me,” I told Walter, vaguely pointing the mini-musket at him.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the tube. “Isn’t that one of the gun gadgets I saw in your paper?”

“Yeah,” I chuckled. “You know it is. Mind if I sit down for a sec?” I nodded at one of the two facing white armchairs.

“Please,” he said, sitting opposite me and confidently crossing his thin legs.

His white cat took a seat on the couch and glared at me.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

“Magic. I’ll show you later. Right now I’d like to talk about your big green flag, Walter.”

“Incredible, isn’t it? Flown at the Battle of Long Island in Brooklyn Heights, a decoy action that allowed Washington and the Continental Army to escape capture by the British— and later win the war. Touched by men who gave their lives for this great country.”

“And by the man who is trying to destroy it.”

“You lost me there, Shepherd.”

“You’re going to play dumb? Really? Okay. You and your New Minutemen cut a strip off the edge of your nifty souvenir here to use as silk wadding for the silver musket balls that killed Percy Chesterfield and the others.”