Robert Tanenbaum - Enemy within

They discussed some reporting details, and then Collins rose to go. Karp made a restraining gesture. "One other thing. You know Lucius McBright, don't you?"

Collins's face took on a suspicious cast. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you're politically active, and ambitious, and live in his district, and attend the same church where he's a deacon."

A nervous smile. "You've been following me around?"

"No, your address and church affiliation are in your personnel records. I'm a trained investigator, remember?"

Collins laughed, relieving some of the tension. "I guess. As a matter of fact, I do know him. Not well, but we've talked some. Why?"

"I want to meet him."

"Call his office. He's a public official."

"I don't mean that way. I want to converse with him informally. If you could set it up, I'd consider it a personal favor."

Collins nodded. "Sure. I'll see what I can do." He left. Toward the end of the day, he called Karp and said, "The man said, come to church this Sunday."

"Church, huh? No problem; thanks, Terrell. He'll find me?"

"Oh, yeah." Collins laughed. "You'll be easy to spot."

Wayne Segovia was waiting in his car, a tan Nissan this time, parked in a bus zone on Fifth, across the street and a few dozen yards uptown from the entrance to the Daumier. Donny Walker, a muscular, young black man, was in the backseat, dressed in a brown handyman's coverall with the building name and DON embroidered in the breast. Marlene got into the passenger seat.

"What's up, guys?"

"I spotted him when I was taking out some junk from the service entrance," said Walker. "He cruised by up Fifty-eighth, real slow and turned onto Fifth. I stayed where I was, and then he came by again, same thing. A Honda, light blue, New York plates."

"You're sure it was him?"

"Absolutely. Glasses, the blond hair, no chin. He was driving real slow, so I got a good look."

"Okay. You get his plates?"

Walker spoke a number, and Marlene wrote it down. "I'll call this in to the cops. He's in violation, coming this close to her building. I can get him revoked. Good work, Donny."

The man grinned. "If they snatch him up, can I drop this janitor act?"

"You could be a doorman," said Segovia.

"Really? Gosh, my boyhood dream. A uniform with gold on it! Marlene, tell me I'm not dreaming!"

"The fact is, we need to get you closer to that stupid woman than a doorman," said Marlene. "I should take another run at her now that old Jimmy's started coming close. She might be more inclined to listen." Marlene smiled at Walker. "Can you be a rock musician? For Tainted Patties you just need the three chords and some attitude."

"I'd rather hump ash cans," said Walker.

Marlene called the complaint in to the Nineteenth Precinct, and they all waited, talking companionably. Shop talk at first, idiots I have guarded, the freakiness of celebrity and its discontents. The talk grew more personal. Segovia passed around a pack of snapshots of his family, a pretty wife and a fourteen-month-old, a rottweiler he was training. Marlene liked this. She enjoyed the company of her troops more than she did that of the Osborne executives with whom she spent most of her time. The troops were very much of a type, these men and the few women in the trade, physical creatures, impatient with routine, bright but without much academic talent, rebellious under bureaucratic controls. The part of her that had never really integrated with the dutiful and brilliant student, the dutiful and loving mom, blossomed among them.

A pause in the conversation. Marlene checked her watch. It was taking them a damned long time to respond. Walker said, "I should go back and watch the service entrance."

"Yeah, go. We'll wait here for the cops," Marlene agreed.

Walker left the car and loped through the traffic, disappearing around the corner.

"A good guy," said Segovia. "He's tickled about the stock. He wants to buy a boat when we can sell it." He shook his head. "It's amazing. I never thought I'd be hanging on the damn stock ticker. Every time I come home, Stella says, 'Hey, we hit fifty-eight and three-quarters today,' or whatever." He looked at her, grinned. "Hell, if I'm happy with twelve hundred shares, you must be out of your head."

Marlene did not want to discuss the money, however. "You going to get a boat, too?"

"Me? Uh-uh. Stella's got that earmarked for the college fund. How high do you think…" He stopped, stiffened, stared across the street. "Oh, shit! There he is."

Marlene followed his gaze. Through the moving cars she could make out a short man in a red jacket and baseball hat. It was the familiar livery of a large Madison Avenue florist, and naturally the man was carrying a long white box wrapped in red ribbon. The man had the hat pulled down low, but she saw the eyeglasses and the familiar profile. Jimmy Coleman. He was carrying his flower box in a peculiar manner, narrow end against his chest, left hand high, right hand low and hidden underneath. A thought flashed through her mind: people don't carry flower boxes that way; that's the way they carry rifles.

Segovia popped his door. "I'm going to nail the little fucker," he said, and was out of the car and dodging across the street before Marlene could say a word of warning. Without thinking, she snatched up her bag and followed him. She had to wait for a couple of trucks to go by, and while they passed and she bounced on her toes in frustration, she heard the first shot.

Holding up her hand, she crossed in front of a cab, made a car slam on its brakes and honk furiously. When she got clear of the roadway, she saw the doorman lying in a heap at the entrance to the Daumier with a dark stain spreading on the back of his maroon uniform coat. She ran into the lobby just in time to see Coleman shoot Wayne Segovia through the chest and disappear into the mail room.

Marlene knelt beside Segovia, who was gasping and expelling bits of bloody froth. She yanked off his tie, popped open his shirt. In the right side of his hairless, tan chest was a red-black hole just southeast of the nipple. Hideous, bloody foam was drooling from it, and every labored breath produced a raw plumbing noise. Osborne had insisted that everyone who worked in the field take a serious first-aid course every year, and so Marlene knew immediately that this was a sucking chest wound and that she had to get something to patch it or Wayne would die of anoxia in a few minutes. Something airtight, waterproof… She upended her bag and studied the jingling heap that fell out onto the floor. Lipsticks, compact, wallet, date-minder, cell phone, pack of tissues with one remaining, a folded sheaf of twenties. She shoved the twenties inside the tissue package, held it to the wound, hard. The sucking noise diminished. She yanked off Wayne's tie, ran it under his body, and bound the expensive dressing into place. Then she called 911 again and demanded an ambulance for two or more, reported the shots fired, and briefly described an incipient hostage situation. Nine one one wanted to chat some more, but she cut them off.

"Hang in there, Wayne," she said. "The cops and the ambos'll be here real soon. I'm going after him."

She rose. He grunted something, waved weakly at his left chest.

"Oh, right," she said, and removed Segovia's pistol, a serviceable Beretta nine, from its shoulder rig. Then she headed for the elevator.

When she got to seventeen, the small lobby was empty, but the door to 1702 hung ominously open. Inside the door was the hapless Pete, lying in a blood pool of unlikely extent, a surprised expression on his dead face. The flower box, with its red ribbon, lay discarded beside the body. Coleman certainly didn't need it anymore.

Marlene ran directly to the hallway that led to Kelsie Solette's bedroom. Another body lay on its side, half out of one of the bedroom doors, a woman, blonde, spiked hair. Marlene's heart froze. She knelt. No, not the client, someone else, a girlfriend of the band's, a groupie. Marlene checked the bedroom. A man lay half-sitting against the bed, his head lolling, his T-shirt black with blood.