Greg Rucka - Critical Space

"I was kind of hoping you could help me with that."

I said nothing.

Havel looked over at the wall of photographs. "I want to talk to her."

I choked on a laugh.

"Yeah, I know how it sounds," she said. "But she talked to you, a couple times, so it's not that outlandish an idea, is it?"

"No, it is," I assured her. "Chris, you don't want to interview this woman, trust me on this. And come to think of it, I don't imagine she'll be all that willing to grant an interview."

"Have you heard from her? Since the Pugh thing?"

She said it like Drama was my ex-girlfriend, as if we'd parted amicably. "Are you nuts?" I asked curiously.

"I was thinking that if you had, you know, then you could arrange it." She rose, looking at the wall, crossing back for a closer look at the photographs. "I'd be willing to pay her for her time."

"You're not listening to me," I said. "I haven't talked to her. I don't want to talk to her. And honestly, neither do you."

"No," Havel said. "Don't tell me what I want, Atticus. It would be an amazing interview, it would be an amazing book."

"I can't help you."

"Meaning you won't?"

"Meaning I haven't heard from her, Chris. Leave it at that."

She turned away from the wall, studying me at my desk. "She hasn't been in touch with you?"

"You sound like the Feds. No."

Her frown was brief, gone again when she asked, "Can you tell me how to contact her?"

"I already said…"

"That's not what I mean, I'm talking about like, if I wanted to hire her, you know? How would I do that?"

I gave her a stare that was hopefully more eloquent than everything she'd been ignoring out of my mouth. She met it with a stare of her own, then shrugged and moved back to the couch, gathering up her book-bag.

"I can figure it out, you know," she said. "Asking you was just the quick way."

"Chris," I said. "You really don't want to do this. You start trolling for one of The Ten, they'll investigate before they even begin to make contact, and they'll find out who you are. This time, they'll know about the first book, and they'll see you coming a mile away. You'll be lucky if they simply ignore you."

With her right hand, she adjusted the leather strap on her shoulder, giving me a smile. "Fear is not a reason to not do something."

"Maybe you ought to examine the source of the fear. Self-preservation is a valid motive."

"You don't get it, Atticus," Chris Havel said, heading for my door.

"Chris…" I tried once more.

"The name of the game is publish or perish," she said as she went out.

"The nut file," I said, dropping the folder on Bridgett Logan's desk.

"What does that look like to you?" she asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

Bridgett sighed and pointed up. We were in her office at Agra Donnovan Investigations, and she was slumped in her chair behind her desk, ignoring me and focused on the light fixture that hung above. I followed the direction of her index finger, saw the bowl of frosted glass attached to the ceiling. A tarnished brass bolt secured the fixture in place.

"A light fixture," I said.

"Yeah, but what does it look like?"

"Is this a trick question? It looks like a light fixture."

"You have no imagination," she said.

I pushed the file forward across her desk until it was even with her keyboard. It wasn't the thickest nut file I'd ever handled, but it had meat on its bones, and when I pushed it, pages slid out the way playing cards slide from a newly opened deck. "Courtesy New Scotland Yard," I said. "By way of Robert Moore."

"And how is that SAS bastard?"

"Ex-SAS."

"And how is that ex-SAS bastard?"

"Counting on us to make certain his principal doesn't take harm in our fair city. I need you to start on this right away."

"We're on the clock?"

"Lady, I'm here as the man who is subcontracting your services to assist our protective effort, not as the man who is pleasuring you nightly."

"You think mighty highly of yourself, don't you?" She sat up in her chair, flipping the folder open and beginning to scan the pages. "These have been vetted?"

I nodded and took the seat across from her. "Moore or one of his detail screens the mail. They don't like what they read, they forward it to the police and the cops take it from there. That's a copy of the official file, with Moore's notations."

Bridgett kept scanning the pages. "Notes are remarkably free of anti-Irish sentiment so far. You've reviewed this already, I assume."

"I have."

"Any in particular you want me to pay attention to?"

"I flagged the letters that got me twitchy."

She found the pages I'd marked, removing them from the folder and spreading them out to view side by side, then resting her elbows on the desktop and her chin in her hands. She read carefully. There were four that I'd noted as worthy of a closer examination. Three were sexual, two of them signed and from the same author. Both letters were couched in romantic phrasing until degrading into more disturbing fantasy when the author described what he wanted to do with Lady Ainsley-Hunter. While his descriptions weren't explicitly violent, the tone as each progressed became more aggressive and bitter. The third was written anonymously, a graphically detailed rape-murder fantasy. Scotland Yard didn't think the author of the first two and the author of the third were the same.

The fourth letter was a vitriolic death threat, in which the writer stated that he had been "close enough to do it" on more than one occasion. That letter also referenced the Jeppeson attempt, saying that, "you can't be protected all the time."

Bridgett's mouth tightened to a line.

"Just read the bit about the meat cleaver and the drill, huh?" I asked.

She nodded and kept reading, moving one hand to open her desk drawer. I thought she might be going for a Hi-Liter or a pen, but she produced a tin of cinnamon Altoids and popped three in her mouth. The tin stayed open on her desk.

When she had finished reading she separated the two that had been signed. "These worry me the most."

"Those are the ones postmarked out of Connecticut?"

"Hartford, yes. Signed, 'Love always, Joseph Keith.' Not Joe, Joseph. We know who the hell Joseph Keith is? Anything on him in here?"

"No. That's why I'm hiring you."

She crunched the Altoids in her mouth. "When does Lady Ainsley-Hunter get in?"

"Monday."

"Five days."

"Yeah."

"Okay, I'll get on this immediately. Have you talked to Special Agent Dude?"

"Fowler said he'd be happy to take a ride to Hartford with you."

"I'll call him now," she said, reaching for the phone. "If I head to Hartford, I'll be out of town for a couple days. I'll need you to go by my place and bring in the mail, water the plants. You guys backed up?"

"It's always like this the closer we get to a deadline. The details begin unraveling."

She stopped dialing long enough to let me come around the side of her desk and kiss her on the cheek.

"I should have started on this Keith guy a couple weeks ago," she scolded me.

"We didn't get the file until this morning. Moore had some trouble getting the copy released to us."

"It's not enough time, Atticus."

"It's all we've got."

"I'm sure that'll be a consolation to Her Ladyship when the shit hits the fan," Bridgett said.

"So where is he, then?" Moore asked.

"That's the problem," I said. "We don't know."

There was a slight crackle from the speakerphone as Moore, across the Atlantic, considered what Natalie and I had been telling him. It was the middle of a Sunday afternoon, the day before Lady Ainsley-Hunter would arrive, and Natalie and I were spending it in the office making certain our end of things was in order. In Queens, Dale and Corry were giving the vehicles their final once-overs, and checking that the rest of our gear was ready for action.