Revenant Rising (18 page)
“One o’clock, Sea Grill, Nate Isaacs,” she confirms. “That’ll work, no problem. Laurel—Ms. Chandler will be out most of the day with Mr. Elliot, so it won’t matter what time I have lunch or for how long, but you must already know that—that they’re holding the first full interview session at the Metropolitan Museum instead of Jockey Hollow because of the rain and it looks like they may get a late start because Laurel absolutely has to see her father this morning and . . .”
He can’t tell if she stopped talking because she ran out of breath or because she was saying way more than necessary—a minor debate decided when she declares in a clipped manner that she’ll meet him at the restaurant and clicks off.
Nate lights a rare cigarette and buzzes for a fresh cup of coffee before calling Bemus at his airshaft room a corridor removed from Colin’s Plaza suite.
The first order of business is bringing Bemus up to speed regarding Colin’s knowledge of the conspiracy.
“How’d he react?” Bemus says.
“How do you think?”
“Shit fit?”
“That somewhat describes it,” Nate says. “Drama, yelling, the whole nine yards during which he pronounced you terminated and threatened me with the same.”
“Then what’re you callin’ me about if I’ve been canned? Severance pay?”
“I’m calling you to tell you to keep on doing what you’ve been doing all along.”
“Doin’ the job and reportin’ back to you?”
“Yes.”
“But—”
“He’d no more fire you than he would me. Jesus, you ought to know that by now,” Nate says.
“Still—”
“Here’s what you need to know.”
Nate quick fills Bemus in on yesterday’s developments and Laurel Chandler’s arrival on the scene. “I just found out they’re going to the Metropolitan Museum today and I want you with them every step of the way.”
Bemus does some whining about a command performance at a museum while Nate reminds him who to call for a car rental on short notice.
“You’re talkin’ a self-drive not a chauffeured limo, right?”
“Right. I want you behind the wheel, not some bozo that’s apt to sell out to the first tabloid that throws a crumb.”
“Okay, I can handle that, but you’d better tell me what I’m lookin’ for. You still thinkin’ he’ll relapse or is there some kinda external threat I haven’t heard about?”
“Both . . . neither . . . fuck, I don’t know, just do it. And trust me, he’s not gonna remember how pissed he was yesterday.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.”
“Get on it and keep in mind the one sure way he
will
can you is if I recommend it,” Nate bullshits.
“Okay, but—”
“Wait . . . before you go, did you hear about Cliff Grant?”
“Holy crap, I was meanin’ to ask you that.”
“How did you hear?”
“
USA Today
and funny thing is, Colin and I were just talkin’ about him on the plane from LA and wonderin’ why he was a no-show at the Icon gig. He’d never miss out on a media feast like that unless there was a serious reason—like bein’ whacked.”
“That would be reason enough,” Nate says and hangs up with his focus already switched to Amanda Hobbs and what all she may be good for.
Laurel enters the Wolcott, New Jersey nursing home by the fire door at the rear of the building. As usual, no alarm sounds, a violation with which she would take issue if this access didn’t save time and lessen contact with other enfeebled occupants of the facility.
Her father’s room is only steps from the door, but somewhat removed from the nearest nurse’s station, so she seldom encounters staff on her biweekly visits.
Benjamin Radcliffe Chandler, dressed in street clothes and a robe, is propped up in an armchair when she slips into his room with a hot breakfast brought from home. As has long been her habit, she talks to him as though he knows who she is, and practices extreme patience while feeding him as one would an infant just learning to take solids.
Occasionally she has to look away from the sight of oatmeal dribbling out of one corner of his mouth as fast as she can funnel it into the other, and refresh her tolerance by letting her eyes rest on family photographs prominently displayed on a windowsill in case his mind-fog should ever lift.
After the last of the oatmeal has been shaved from his chin she crumbles a blueberry muffin into manageable bites, paces the insertion of these morsels so he won’t choke and asks herself how much longer this can go on—the ritual attendance and endless disappointment.
Like an infant’s, his sucking reflex is strong, she notes as she connects him to the pliant straw of his water container. So is his swallowing reflex. She has to disconnect him when it appears he’d go on drinking indefinitely.
After wiping his face with a moist towelette, she rearranges the afghan covering his legs, kisses him on the forehead and gathers up her things. She’s almost made a clean getaway when the orderly for this section waylays her with his usual scolding about using the emergency exit. She responds the way she always does—that if the alarm worked the way it was supposed to, she’d come and go by an authorized door.
Heavy rain adds a good half hour to the trip into the city—rain, and having chosen bridge over tunnel, an error in judgment that may have her playing catch-up all day.
But when she reaches her midtown office there’s no crisis brewing, no client arrived ahead of time. The update Amanda delivers is all good. Especially the part about the client having called to say he’ll be delayed by a half hour or more.
“Did he say why? Some problem about going to the museum instead of the park?” Laurel asks.
“He didn’t say anything about any museums or parks. He only said he had to sort things out with his bodyguard and would call back when they’re on the way.”
“I wonder if that’s because of yesterday.”
“If what’s because of yesterday?”
“Because of the attention he attracted on Fifth Avenue and at the Oyster Bar, I wonder if that’s what convinced him to bring a bodyguard today.”
“I barely know what you’re talking about, you know.” Amanda follows her into the inner office where she unleashes her curiosity.
Laurel fills her in, emphasizing that yesterday’s misadventure with the client was nothing more than that when Amanda wants to make it into something else.
“Any other calls?” Laurel says to get off the subject.
“Just some routine stuff and Nate Isaacs.”
“What did he want? I hope you told him I’ve no time today.”
“He wants to have lunch with me.”
“Good lord, why on earth would he—
Sorry
! I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”
“That’s okay. I thought the same thing. From what I’ve heard about him he’s only seen with exotic types and tall bony models, so whatever he wants from me has gotta be a whole lot different from what he wants from them.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” Laurel makes another unintended gaffe, this one maligning Amanda’s lack of physical stature. “Don’t underestimate yourself . . . that’s what I’m trying to say.”
“I know what you’re trying to say, and I’m not. Not by any interpretation. And whatever he’s after he’s not gonna get. I can promise you that.”
“What makes you so sure he’s after—”
“I didn’t tell you yet that he came by here late yesterday after you’d gone out with Colin Elliot. I could tell he was nosing around even though he made out that he was just looking for Colin and thought he might be here.”
“I see.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“Should it? What should I be looking for?”
“Didn’t you get the feeling he’s . . . I dunno . . . extra suspicious . . . wary of something?”
“Are you sure you’re not reacting to his permanent frown and those hooded eyes and sharp features that give him that—that raptor look?”
“Well, at least you didn’t say
hooked
nose and besides, don’t raptors have an overbite? Nate Isaacs has a very strong jaw. I’d say it was bulldoggish before I’d say it was—”
“Right. A bulldog jaw on a man built along the lines of a greyhound.”
“He is pretty sleek, isn’t he?”
“Yes, and he’s not unattractive if you’re into that level of polish and implied force, but we were talking about—What
were
we talking about?”
“Him being wary of something. Or someone.”
“You don’t think he’s wary of
me
, do you?”
“Like I said . . . I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”
“Leave it at that, okay? And leave this discussion for a time when I’m not trying to figure out how to conduct an interview while in motion.”
“In motion? What’s up with that?” Amanda says.
“Nothing. We’ll talk about it later, okay?”
“I guess it’ll have to be.”
Amanda takes the hint and withdraws to the outer office, leaving Laurel to also wonder what’s up with the client’s desire to walk while he talks. Not that it really matters. No real sacrifice on her part.
In the time remaining, she prepares a list of topics she’d like to cover today. These she enters in a small loose-leaf notebook she’ll carry with her. It’s an ambitious list—early life, early influences, education, initial triumphs and disappointments—that she’d be lucky to cover in a week, let alone a four-hour day.
On a legal pad, she leaves written instructions for Amanda that include coming up with a videotape of the Institute Award telecast, and preparing for long hours of transcribing the copious notes Laurel expects to take. She almost forgets to strip yesterday’s notes from the pad—notes that include the scribbled interpretation of the Jeremiah Barely-There tale. These pages she shoves into her combination handbag-carryall just as Amanda sticks her head in the door to announce that the client is on the way.
“Main entrance in fifteen, he said,” Amanda adds.
“Thank you.” Laurel slips into her drab coat, made more so for being damp from the rain.
“Do you want to say where you’re going? Someone might want to know, you know,” Amanda says.
“Metropolitan Museum, rain venue for my first choice, which was a national park over in Jersey. Unlike Fifth Avenue, I can’t imagine he’ll attract much of a following in a museum setting.”
“Wow, are you really so prejudiced you think visitors to an art museum can’t also be fans of contemporary music?” Amanda says.
“That’s not what I was thinking at all,” Laurel retorts. “I was thinking the average visitor to an art museum
and
devotee of contemporary music won’t be expecting to run into a rock star in a citadel of culture.”
“Jeez Louise, I feel like I ought to go downstairs with you and warn him.”
“Very well, be my guest,” Laurel says, knowing the impulse won’t be acted upon.