Kevin Anderson - Artifact

“Is that a problem?”

“I suppose not,” Ray said. “You’re cutting it awfully close. I just hope there are no flight delays.”

“If there are, you can wait to start the meeting.”

“New Year’s Eve waits for no man.”

“Fine. I’m not a man anyway, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Ray chuckled. “One more thing. The Strip is closed on New Year’s Eve. It’ll be shut down by the time you get here. I’ll have one of my limos picks you up. The driver will know how to circumvent the barriers. Better yet, I’ll arrange for a helicopter out of McCarran and a pilot. Easy enough to land on my helipad and that’ll take care of any time crunch.”

“Great idea,” Peta said, “But you should recall that I won’t need a pilot. Just have your driver there to get me to the chopper and make sure all of the authorizations have been cleared.”

For the sake of comfort rather than status, Peta had made reservations in first class; for the sake of a show of authority once she got to the police station, she wore a suit—or more accurately, Liz Claiborne wool crepe separates she’d picked up at Saks during her last visit to Manhattan. The black calf-length wrap skirt and fitted fingertip-length black jacket were very New York. A white crew-neck cashmere sweater, opaque black tights, and a pair of black leather knee-high boots completed the look. Hair up in a bun; the real fragment, back in its bezel and hidden beneath her sweater in case some turn of fate brought Frik to the airport; this year’s white gold button earrings; and she was good to go. Normally, she would have carried a coat, but since she was only going to be there for a matter of hours, and her jacket would do fine for Vegas, she simply threw a shawl and a pair of warm gloves into her suitcase.

She felt hot and overdressed until she boarded the plane, but she was quickly grateful for having worn a jacket. As usual, Grenada’s airport air-conditioning was on slowdown, but the plane was freezing. She hated using the blanket and pillow the airline provided, so she rolled up her jacket as a pillow, snuggled under her shawl, which she pulled out of her bag before throwing it into the overhead compartment, and dozed off.

San Juan’s airport was hotter than Grenada’s and more crowded. With a lot of hours to kill between flights, she hailed a cab and went to the closest beach hotel. Once there, she changed into the swimsuit she’d shoved into her handbag and grabbed a chaise under an umbrella. Even in the middle of winter, it was hot and humid. They were so damn lucky in Grenada, she thought. Eighty-four degrees, day in, day out, and always an ocean breeze coming off the Atlantic side of the island.

Later, she walked along the beach and watched the sunset. She stayed out there for a while in semidarkness, then walked back and ordered herself a drink. Her flight was due to leave at two in the morning. She glanced at her watch. It was one minute past midnight.

“Happy birthday, Peta,” she said. She looked up at the stars. “Happy birthday, my love.”

After switching planes in Miami and catching a restless nap during the last leg of the flight to New York, she swore off red-eyes forever. Thanks to delays in the air over JFK, the plane circled for what seemed to be years before it landed. She occupied herself by applying some makeup, putting her jacket back on, and wrapping the shawl around her shoulders in preparation for a New York December day.

By the time the aircraft taxied up to the arrival gate, Peta was ready to scream. There were a dozen people ahead of her in the cordoned-off taxi line. She waited impatiently for the pompous uniformed airport official to whistle her up a cab. When he did, she waved away the suggestion that she share it with someone else in line.

The traffic into Manhattan seemed endless. The cabbie’s chattiness, in the past a source of amusement, got on her nerves. By the time he pulled up in front of the Midtown North police station, she felt so guilty about her attitude, she overtipped.

Inside the precinct house, she took out her wallet and retrieved the receipt they’d given her. It was dated December 31, 1999, and signed by Sergeant John Lewis.

Trailing her suitcase behind her, she moved up to the counter. “I’d like to see Sergeant Lewis.”

“So would I, lady. We could use him around here.”

“Where is he?”

“Retired.” The policeman sighed heavily and turned away, but not before Peta got a look at the name on his badge. Patrick O’Shaunessy.

“Detective O’Shaunessy.”

He turned back to her. “I’m flattered, ma’am, but it’s sergeant. Sergeant O’Shaunessy.”

As best she could, Peta stemmed her rising unease. “Well, Sergeant,” she said, “I’ve come to collect, um, my friend’s personal effects which were impounded as evidence almost a year ago. I hope you can help me.”

He took the receipt from her and examined it closely. “Excuse me a moment, please. I’ll be right back. Why don’t you take a seat over there.” He indicated a slatted bench against the wall.

Peta watched the hands on the large clock over the desk. When he had been gone for twenty minutes, she began to panic. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“Miss? Dr. Whyte. I’m Captain Richards. Could I see you in here, please.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Peta stood up and followed the plainclothes officer into a small office. The captain, a man not much beyond middle age, pointed at a chair and she sat down.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Whyte. I’m afraid there’s been some kind of clerical error.” He waved the receipt. “There is absolutely no record of this case.”

40

“What are you saying?” Peta stared at the police detective in disbelief.

“I have no other way of saying it. There is absolutely no record of this case.”

“That’s crazy!” She realized that she was shouting, but made no effort to lower her voice. “I know the case was closed, but you’d thinksomebody around here would remember a bombing and death on New Year’s Eve. Damn it, it was only a year ago—”

“Look, lady, calm down.” He walked to the door, which she had left slightly ajar, and closed it. Returning to his desk, he sat on the edge facing her. “I’m sorry about this. Really I am. But there’s nothing I can do.”

Peta sat back and stared at him. Feeling utterly defeated, she took out the pack of cigarettes she’d bought in Miami, peeled off the cellophane wrapping, and took one out. A thousand disconnected thoughts seemed to be chasing each other around her head.

“You can’t—ah, the hell with it.”

He took a lighter out of his pocket and lit her cigarette. Still leaning forward, he whispered, “I’m going to tell you something, but if you repeat it, I’ll deny I said a word.” She started to interrupt him, but he held up his hand. “Listen carefully, ’cause I’m only going to say this once. Early last August, some NSA suits came in here and took away a bunch of records. They erased everything about them in our computers and told me that as far as I was concerned, that explosion that killed thedoc…it never happened.”

“Why—?”

“Hey, the Feds come in here waving writs around, you don’t ask questions.”

She nodded, though her mind was more confused than before. “So why are you telling me?”

The captain leaned back onto the desk and said, “Doc Marryshow, he saved my life way back when I was a rookie. I was burned real bad, y’know. He lived a couple of blocks from here. Used to pop in to see how I was. He was real interested in police work too. Always asking me questions…”

A few minutes later, Peta stood outside the precinct house. She had never felt more confused and angry. Sheltering herself against the old brick wall of the building, she pulled out her cell phone. Grateful that it was a multisystem unit and that she didn’t have to search for a public phone, she dialed Ray’s private number.