John Lutz - Pulse

“No argument, please,” Sarah said. “I want to impress upon you that New York isn’t such a callous city. And it looks to me as if you worked hard and late this evening. Such industriousness should be rewarded. You need a good meal, and I’d like to introduce you to apple martinis.”

“But I wasn’t working for you,” Jody pointed out, thinking that apple martinis sounded interesting.

“You were if you were working for truth, justice, and the American way,” Sarah said, grinning.

“I suppose I was doing exactly that,” Jody said, playing along, getting hungrier. It was odd how Sarah Benham could take on an almost motherly manner, even though she wasn’t that much older than Jody. Then it struck Jody that yes, Sarah might actually be old enough to be her mother. It was difficult to tell for sure these days, what with all the cosmetic surgery and beauty aids. Possibly Sarah was even older than Pearl.

Wow! That was one Jody had to think about to grasp. Here she was sitting next to her new friend-acquaintance, anyway-who was more or less her mother’s age. Manhattan was a special place, all right.

“Besides,” Sarah said, “it won’t hurt me to make points with Enders and Coil.”

“Are you an attorney, too?”

Sarah laughed. “Heavens no. I’m in insurance. An adjuster.”

“An Enders and Coil client?”

“Not at present, but I might need a good lawyer someday. And I believe in thinking ahead. Italian okay?”

“Sounds wonderful!”

“We’ll enjoy a nice comfort-food meal and a chat, and then share a cab again, if it’s still raining.”

A motherly touch again. Or maybe that was all in Jody’s mind. Maybe her new friend Sarah wasn’t at all as she imagined.

“I received a phone call this morning,” Professor Elaine Pratt said to Chancellor Schueller.

The sun was shining brightly outside the chancellor’s office window, making the Waycliffe campus look pristine and green as a souvenir postcard. A student couple strolled past out on the quadrangle, hand in hand, assuring Elaine that the scene was real and not painted or Photoshopped.

“Subject?” the chancellor asked. He didn’t ask who’d called.

“Juditha Jason,” Elaine said. “Jody.”

“I assume her internship at Enders and Coil is still not going well.”

“She often works late,” Elaine said, giving him a look as if she were peering over her glasses, though she was not wearing glasses.

“I see.”

“She still seems to have a special interest in Meeding Properties’ efforts to evict a pesky client.”

“Youth,” the chancellor said, peering out the window now that Professor Pratt was staring at him. “All those windmills to tilt at.”

“Don Quixote wasn’t young,” she said. “On the other hand, Joan of Arc was.”

“Meaning?”

“Jody’s curiosity and efforts might be broadening beyond the eminent domain case, and in a way that might become serious.”

“Oh. I thought it was going to be something about windmills. You think she… suspects?”

“Not at this point, or we’d know about it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Definitely. Nevertheless, Enders and Coil are getting uneasy about Jody’s presence at the firm.”

“And Meeding Properties?”

“They’re unaware of any discord within the triumvirate.”

Schueller shrugged and turned back toward the professor. “Well? Enders and Coil know what they can do if they’re uneasy.”

“They’d be even more uneasy if they ended Jody’s internship. It would seem to confirm her suspicions.”

“Think she’s smart enough to know that?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Then cutting her loose would make her even more active,” the chancellor said. “And in a more effective way.” He picked up a sharpened pencil, as he often did when ruminating, and drummed out a tiny staccato riff on the wooden desktop. Elaine was sometimes tempted to tell him what he should do with that pencil. “At this juncture,” he said at last, “I think we should let the matter ride.”

“I agree,” Elaine Pratt said. “As long as we remind ourselves from time to time.”

“Remind ourselves?”

“That Jody Jason might be even smarter than we thought.”

“So what is this?” Quinn asked, when he and Pearl were at their desks in the office and Fedderman came in with the mail that had been in the box since yesterday.

“What it looks like, I guess,” Fedderman said. He appeared not to have had much sleep. His brown suit was more wrinkled than usual, and what hair he had left needed a trim. “A package addressed to you personally. Brown paper wrapping, neatly sealed with brown packaging tape.” Fedderman hoisted the small rectangular package with one hand. “Doesn’t weigh much.” He held it to his ear. “Not ticking.”

“Give it here,” Quinn said, holding out his hand.

Fedderman tossed the package to him. He was right. It wasn’t very heavy.

Quinn examined the label. Unadorned black felt tip printing on a plain white label.

“There’s no postage marking,” Fedderman said.

“Meaning it was placed rather than delivered,” Pearl said, standing up from behind her desk. She looked worried. “Where exactly was it, Feds?”

“On the floor just beneath our brass mail slot, where the postman usually leaves packages.”

“What’s the return address?”

“No return address,” Quinn said.

“Don’t open it,” Pearl said.

Quinn looked at Fedderman, who shrugged.

“We can’t call the bomb squad to open all our mail,” Quinn said.

“Don’t be stubborn,” Pearl said. She picked up her desk phone and began pecking out a number.

“Who are you calling?”

“Harley Renz.”

“For God’s sake, Pearl. Don’t stir him up.”

But it was too late. She had called Renz’s direct line.

It took her only a few minutes to tell Renz about the package. Then she listened for about ten seconds and hung up.

“What’d he say?” Fedderman asked.

“He’s sending somebody over from bomb disposal.”

“What?” Quinn said. “One of those robots to open our mail?”

“That robot,” Pearl said, “would be the second smartest person in the room.”

The street door swished open, then the door to the office.

“Fast work,” Fedderman said.

But it wasn’t the bomb disposal guy; it was Lido, come either to report or to work on the high-tech NYPD computer Renz had loaned Q amp;A. He was wearing dark slacks almost as wrinkled as Fedderman’s. His white shirt was untucked and buttoned crookedly.

“You already been at the sauce?” Quinn asked him.

“It’s how I do my best work,” Lido said.

Quinn looked him up and down. They weren’t talking about hot sauce. “Jesus, Jerry! It’s ten in the morning.”

Lido made a dismissive motion with his right hand, as if shaking liquid from his fingers. And maybe there really was liquid on his fingers. “I just pretend I’m someplace where it’s some other time,” he said.

“Does that work?” Pearl asked.

“In some other place it does.” Lido’s bleary eyes fixed on the package Quinn held. “What’s that?”

“We think it might be a bomb,” Pearl said.

Lido stared at all three of them, and then turned around and left.

When they heard the street door again five minutes later they thought Lido was returning. Instead it was the bomb disposal guy, who turned out to be a woman. She was about forty, sweetly pretty, and slightly overweight. Or maybe it was the uniform and all the gear dangling from her belt that made her just look overweight. At her side, held lightly by a short leather leash, was a large German shepherd.