“No, I remember,” said Feinstein. “What is it you want?”
“You probably know that the President is coming to Baltimore next week.”
“Yeah, I read that in the
“So we think it would be a good idea if you left the city for a while. Your parents live in Chicago, right?” Feinstein nodded and continued to chew his fingernails. “We’d like you to visit Chicago for a few days. From Monday to Thursday.”
“Not again,” said Feinstein, “you’re not running me out of town again?”
“It’s not just you, it’s everybody on the watch list, so don’t take it personally. You leave town on Monday, and you check in with our office in Chicago.” He handed Feinstein a card. “This agent is expecting to see you on Monday evening, and you’ll check with him twice a day until Thursday morning. Then you can come back.”
Feinstein looked as if he was about to burst into tears. “I don’t believe this, I don’t believe you can screw with my life like this. This is America.”
“It’s precisely because it’s America that we can screw with your life,” said Otterman.
“I made one mistake, and I have to pay for it forever.”
“No, you’ve made lots of mistakes, but you made one big one, and that’s what you’re paying for,” said Otterman. “You know the procedure; if we don’t hear from you in Chicago we’ll come looking for you here. And you don’t want that, do you?”
“I’ll lose my job, I don’t have any vacation days coming,” Feinstein whined.
“Tell them you’re sick, tell them anything. Just get out of the city.”
Tears welled up in Feinstein’s eyes. “When will it be over? When will you leave me alone?”
Otterman shrugged. “You’re only on our watch list, it’s not as if you’re one of our quarterlies. If you behave and don’t write any more silly letters, you could be off the watch list in three years or so.”
Feinstein shook his head and wiped his eyes. “It’s not fair,” he sobbed.
“Son,” said Otterman, standing up and straightening the creases of his black suit pants, “life isn’t fair.” He walked out of the hotel, leaving Feinstein alone with his tears. Otterman had two more visits to make before midday.
The chambermaid knocked nervously on the door. “Mr O’Brien?” she called. There was no answer so she knocked louder. She knew that Damien O’Brien tended to arrive back at the hotel in the early hours of the morning and stayed in bed late, and she knew better than to barge in unannounced. On one occasion she’d used her pass key and walked in to find him sprawled naked on the bed, an empty bottle of whisky in his hand, fast asleep and snoring like a freight train. It wasn’t an experience she cared to repeat.
“Mr O’Brien!” she shouted, and used her key to rap on the door. “Housekeeping!” She looked at her watch. It was well past the time when he normally left for work, so perhaps he had left the Do Not Disturb sign on his doorhandle by mistake. She slid her key in the lock and turned it gingerly, placing her ear against the wood and listening for any sound. “Housekeeping, Mr O’Brien,” she repeated. The curtains were drawn but they were old and threadbare and enough light seeped in for her to see without switching the lights on.
She stepped into the room, a clean sheet and towel draped over one arm, and called out again, just in case he was in the bathroom. She gasped when she saw the feet sticking out from behind the bed, thinking that he was drunk again and that he’d fallen onto the floor. For the first time she noticed a buzzing noise, the sound an alarm clock might make if it was on a low setting. She walked further into the room and peered nervously around the bed. “Mr O’Brien?” she said, her voice trembling. She realised with a jolt that there were two pairs of legs, white and hairy, tied at the ankles. She dropped the sheet and towel as her hands flew to her mouth and she backed away, her breath coming in small, forced, gasps.
She ran down the stairs to reception and got the day manager, who picked up a baseball bat which he kept behind his desk. He held it in both hands as he went into the room, switching the light on and calling out the guest’s name. The manager had been in the hotel business a long time, and he knew that people did strange things in hotel rooms: they tied each other up, they took drugs, they did things to each other they wouldn’t, or couldn’t, do in their own homes. He’d once found a woman swathed in polythene and tied spreadeagled to a bed after her boyfriend had collapsed in the bathroom with a heart attack. It would take a lot to surprise the manager. The buzzing noise got louder as he got closer to the end of the bed. He used his bat to gingerly prod one of the feet. There was no reaction so he stepped up to the window where he could look down on both bodies. They were men — big, heavy men — bound and gagged. There was blood, a lot of blood, and the manager could see several bullet wounds, gaping holes in the chests and heads. Flies buzzed around the wounds, feeding on the still-wet blood.
Howard drove home from the AA meeting to pack. If the snipers were indeed based on the East Coast it would be some time before he would be back in Phoenix. Lisa was in the kitchen, chopping herbs with a large knife and reading from a cookbook. “Home for lunch?” she said.
“I wish,” he said. He explained that he was flying to New York and that for the foreseeable future he would be working with the Counter-Terrorism section.
“Oh God,” she sighed, “what about dinner tonight?”
“I’m sorry, Lisa, you’ll have to handle it without me.”
“But Cole, this has been planned for weeks!” She threw the knife down on the chopping block and stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing. “You’ll just have to tell them you can’t go!” Howard laughed, amused at her defiance. Only the daughter of Theodore Clayton would think of standing up to the FBI. His reaction only made her all the more angry. “You can fly out tomorrow,” she said, “A few hours won’t make a difference.”
“It’s an important case, honey, and a few hours might make all the difference. It’s the case your father has been helping me with.” Howard knew that invoking her father’s name was his best chance of defusing her anger.
Lisa shook her head, took off her apron and threw it down on top of the knife. “Cole, I don’t know why I put up with this,” she said.
“It’s my job,” he said, lamely.
“Well, it needn’t be,” she said. “You could accept the job Daddy keeps offering. Head of Security at Clayton Electronics would be a great career move. It would pay much more than the Bureau gives you. And you wouldn’t be sent off to the other side of the country at a minute’s notice.” Howard held his hands up in surrender. It was an argument they’d had many times, and it was one he’d never managed to win. “And it would mean the children would get to see more of their father,” she pressed.
“I have to pack,” said Howard, and he beat a hasty retreat. Lisa followed him up the stairs and stood behind him as he grabbed clean shirts from his wardrobe and dropped them into an overnight bag.
“How long will you be away?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
“I’ve no idea,” he said over his shoulder. He had the uneasy feeling that if he looked her in the eye he’d be turned to stone on the spot.
“I don’t know what you think you’re achieving by selling your soul to the FBI,” she said.
“Better the devil I know. .” muttered Howard.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, her voice hard and accusing. “Are you saying that Daddy’s the devil, is that what you’re implying?”
Howard zipped his bag closed. “It’s an expression, Lisa, that’s all. I mean that FBI work is what I do, it’s what I do well. I don’t want to be a lapdog for the great Theodore Clayton. I don’t want him to own me.”
“Own you?” she said, her voice rising in pitch. “Who paid for this house? The car? You think we could live like this if it wasn’t for my father’s money? If it wasn’t for my father you’d still be buried in the Surveillance Department. It’s my father you owe, not the Bureau. Sometimes I think you forget where your loyalties should lie.”
Howard froze and for several seconds he stared at her, unable to believe the cruelty in her voice. “Thank you, Lisa,” he said softly. “Thank you for that.”
He walked by her, down the stairs and out of the front door. Part of him hoped that she’d run after him or call him back, but he wasn’t surprised when she let him go without a word. As he drove away, he could feel her sullen anger, sitting over the house like a storm cloud waiting to break.
It was a hot day and Joker turned up the air-conditioning in the rented Chevrolet Lumina. It was a big, comfortable American car and Joker enjoyed the way it handled. It had been a long time since he’d been at the wheel of a car and he’d forgotten the sheer pleasure it gave him to drive down an open road at speed. His eyes flicked to the speedometer and he braked to keep within the 55 mph speed limit. From his jacket pocket he took a green pack of Wrigley’s chewing-gum and unwrapped it with his left hand before popping the gum into his mouth.
