Kim Robinson - New York 2140

The man turned his head. “Inside,” he said.

Once inside, Gen stuck to the man and asked him to sit down in the lobby with her. She was beat and asked for water. Someone brought her a plastic bottle of it and she stared at it curiously. Lobby couches in backless ovals. Big lobby, luxurious, a place to talk and drink. Felt good to get off her feet. Her hands were indeed covered with blood. A good look for what she had to do now.

“Thanks for cooperating,” she said to the man, and gestured at the divan nearest her. “Sit down and tell me what happened.”

The man stayed standing. Six two, bulked, square head, little mouth, black hair. Grim resolve. Gen suddenly recalled where she had seen him before. “You were down in Chelsea last week,” she told him. “On a boat with some employees, working for the Chelsea Town House Association or some such nonsense.”

He was looking worried now, as well he might. He seemed like he barely remembered her from the encounter on the boat, if at all, but he did look like he was puzzled by her. And it also looked like he was considering his options, not as this tower’s security head, but as an individual who could get sued or go to jail. Who had perhaps made mistakes, after being ordered to do an illegal and impossible thing, by bosses who did not care about him. Best options for himself, he was now considering. Having decided not to fight the police while on camera. Which made sense. Now other hard choices, between other bad options, were going to start making sense. It was a time for asking questions.

“Did your people follow orders when they fired?”

“Yes. They were ordered to fire in the air, warning shots only.”

“You got that order recorded?”

“Yes.”

“Your order?”

After a hesitation: “Yes.” It having been recorded.

“Was there incoming?”

“Yes.”

“Like what, rocks?”

“We heard shots too. Those will be recorded too.”

“Incoming shots?”

“We thought so. We saw muzzle blasts aimed our way.”

“That must have been bad. But you were shooting over the crowd.”

“Yes.”

Gen nodded. “That will help. So, who employs you again? Employs you and your people here?”

“RNA. Rapid Noncompliance Abatement.”

“Not rapid enough. And do you know who hired RNA?”

“Someone here in these buildings, we presume.”

“Because this was what you were tasked to defend.”

“Right.”

“Any other information as to who in the building hired RNA?”

“No.”

Now Gen shook her head. She stared at the man, held his gaze. “Usually people know something. They have an idea. Usually they don’t put themselves out there for just any asshole paying for them.”

“Usually.”

“So you’re saying you have no idea who you are working for.”

“I work for Rapid Noncompliance Abatement.”

“Who’s your supervisor there? And where is this person right now?”

“It’s Eric Escher. And I don’t know.”

Gen snorted. “He is going to hang you out to dry. You know that, don’t you?”

“Part of the deal.”

“Spare me, please.” Gen stood back up, looked down at the man. “Spare me your mercenary code, shooting at civilians on a night when you have assault rifles and they have sticks and stones and Fourth of July sparklers. You are fucked now. If you tell me who Escher is working for, I’ll put in a good word for you when you go to trial. Because that’s what’s coming.”

The man looked back at her, more angry than scared.

Gen sighed. “They must pay you a lot. Come out in a few years’ time, you might have some money. Or they might drop you outright, ever thought of that? Ever thought that time is worth more than money? You won’t like doing time. And that’s what you’re facing. Shooting at cops? The courts don’t like that. It’s a felony. So your time could be serious. Severe. But you might still dodge that, play your cards right here. I’m the chief police inspector for lower Manhattan, and I’m the senior officer at the scene here, so I’ll be listened to on this. And I need to know who set you out there tonight.”

She waited, boring in with her gaze. The uncanny: the rule of law as personified by a big black woman. Now that was uncanny. Also the most obvious and natural thing in the world. And inescapable. Inexorable. Extradition treaties with everywhere. She settled in and waited, feeling patience flooding her coterminously with her exhaustion, right down to her sore feet.

His frown turned to irritation. “Like I said, we’re working for the people who own this building,” he said.

“So that would be?”

“The building’s managed by Morningside Realty.”

“But they’re just the broker. Who’s the owner? The mayor? Hector Ramirez? Henry Vinson?”

Always nice to see that look of surprise on people’s faces. Five minutes ago this guy had been thinking Gen was just a local cop. Now corrections and connections were going off in his head. Maybe he was recalling better the encounter with Gen on the boat downtown. She was citywide. She knew he had been working in lower Manhattan. A mutual process of discovery, here, that they both had larger briefs going in this town. And might therefore meet again, perhaps in a judicial venue.

Gen gestured at the couches, sat back down. This time the man sat down across from her.

“Not Vinson,” he said. “His partner from before.”

Now it was Gen’s turn to be surprised. “You mean Larry Jackman?”

The man nodded once, looking her in the eye. He was past his amazement. Aware he had shot through the Narrows now and been carried out into deep waters. Might need Gen as a pseudo-ally, somehow, somewhere. He had had his people stand down; he had answered questions when asked. No one had gotten killed out there by his people, hopefully. There was that to be said in his favor, such as it was. And it was not inconsiderable either. She nodded encouragingly, meaning to indicate that he could actually get out of this free of consequences.

The man said, with careful precision, “He put this building and some other assets in a blind trust when he started working for the government. He only communicates with Escher through third parties now. But we’ve been his security team all along.”

Gen was beginning to think that this night might not have been a complete fucking disaster after all, when the sound of gunfire erupted outside.

Everyone in the room was suddenly back on point. Gen surveyed the lobby, the little militia she was in here with.

“I’m gonna say we pass on that,” she said firmly. “We’re all staying in here. Whatever’s going on out there can resolve without us.”

“Really?” the man said.

“Really. Tell you what. Defend the building. From inside.”

“Defend it from who?”

Gen shrugged. “Whatever.” She took a look at her wristpad, it having beeped. “Ah,” she said. “Actually, it’s the National Guard.”