“I’ve got to get from Spanish Harlem to the conference, Shelly,” I said into my phone, heart pounding. “Something bad’s going to happen to Pelham.”
“She’ll be here at the hotel in minutes. When she arrives, she’ll be wrapped in a tight cocoon of security. We’re got cops and tech staff crawling everywhere, checking everything from the underside of the tables to the podium. What could go wrong?”
“One minute ago you were talking to a group of people in a hallway. You looked worried. Everyone around you has white hats.”
A stunned pause. “How’d you know that?”
I gave him the ten-second explanation. He said, “I’ll send a car.”
“Uh, Shelly? Jeremy’s here. He’s coming with me. It’s essential.”
“What?”
“Shelly, you’ve got to trust me.”
“Where the hell is Folger?”
“Jeremy says she’ll be returned today.”
“He can’t come here. You can’t expect me to –”
“I expect you to go the distance,” I said. “We’re almost there, Shelly. If it falls apart now, it falls apart hard.”
“I can’t let a serial killer in the same hotel as the person who’s probably our next President. No way.”
“Pelham’s in grave danger. Jeremy can help find that danger. Vangie gave her life for this moment, Shelly. Don’t take it from her.”
It was a lie and a below-the-belt punch, but it was all I had. Five minutes later the blue-and-white approached at what appeared to be mach one, siren, lights, horn honking. The cruiser banged up over the curb, Koslowski at the wheel. I pushed Jeremy into the back seat, jumped beside him. Koslowski shot a look in the rear-view, recognized my brother.
“Mary, Mother of God,” Koslowski whispered.
“Did Shelly tell you we’d be …’
Koslowski turned his eyes from the mirror, jammed the cruiser in gear and roared away. He kept his eyes straight, muttering, “I don’t see him. I don’t see a thing.”
I hunkered down and watched the phone screen. Twice the device burred, followed by a brief stream of video, our quarry sending mission feedback to Daddy. The pics – crowd shots and hotel interiors – lasted five to ten seconds before the screen went blank.
Koslowski fishtailed to the hotel’s rear delivery door. He shot a final glance at Jeremy. My brother pushed his hand through the open Plexiglas divider, thumb-flipped a bright gold coin on to the dashboard, spoke in a refined British accent.
“Spirited run, driver. Keep the change.”
I yanked him out by the collar. The service door opened: Waltz. He shot fierce eyes at my brother.
Day’s phone rasped. Waltz and Jeremy leaned close to see a grainy shot of a limo gliding to a curb, a door opening. Pelham exited, waving to the crowd.
“He’s at the front of the hotel,” I said.
We pushed through the crowded lobby, Waltz on my right, Jeremy on my left.
Waltz said, “Another doll arrived at Pelham’s headquarters this morning. It was the final doll, the solid one.”
“The mouth was painted over, right?”
“Judge for yourself.”
We sidestepped a group of reporters as Waltz pulled a clear evidence bag from his pocket, the doll looking out. One glance and my stomach slipped sideways: The entire head had been painted away.
Bullard was across the room, near the front window, watching Pelham’s progress. He held a phone or walkie-talkie in his hand, shiny black with a silver antenna. I figured he was sending progress reports to a command post in the hotel. I shot a look at Jeremy. Somehow in our brief walk he’d acquired a ball cap and reading glasses, an impromptu disguise.
The lobby was a flood of yelling, surging bodies, pandemonium. The smaller and security-cleared audience for Pelham’s address was dining in the meeting arena on the second floor, awaiting The Candidate. Pelham was still outside, pressing the flesh. The three of us were looking for cellphones, not difficult, every other person had one lifted, ready to record Cynthia Pelham’s entrance. Jeremy stiffened, stood stock-still. Focused his eyes on someone across the lobby.
“Jeremy?”
“Shhhh.” He kept staring.
Pelham entered the hotel, her entourage whipping through the revolving doors. She was encircled by staffers, NYPD officers, and two men whose earpieces marked them as Secret Service. My brother tapped my arm, pointed across the lobby.
“That kid over there. He’s afflicted. Look at his eyes.”
I turned to see a blond male in his late teens, tall and well built, a first-string linebacker. He wore a suit and tie, held a clipboard in one hand. He had a cellphone in the other, the same style as Day’s hi-tech model. His eyes looked absolutely normal to me.
“Daddy’s boy,” Jeremy sang.
I darted ahead of Pelham’s group, noted that Bullard had joined her entourage, doing the keep-back motion with his hands to hold the fawning crowd at bay. The kid was standing in the wide hallway in front of a door that said KITCHEN TWO. He shot me a glance. Jeremy was right, the kid’s eyes resembled frosted marbles. He saw no threat in me and aimed the marbles toward Pelham. He pointed the phone her way, thinking he was broadcasting to Daddy, not knowing the show was playing in the pocket of a guy two steps away.
“Excuse me, I’ve got to get into the kitchen,” I said. “The hors d’oeuvres are ready.”
“Sure,” he grunted, stepping away from the door, keeping the camera angled at Pelham. I swung the door open, held it with my leg. Just as Pelham swept past, I shot my arm around the kid’s neck and yanked him into the kitchen, yelling for Security.
Four guys were there in seconds, Waltz right behind. I had my knee in the kid’s back and my arm around his neck. The security detail took control cautiously, the kid snapping like a shark, eyes wild, foam pouring down his chin. When the kid’s strength poured out, the cops put him in restraints, one cop emptying the kid’s pockets. He held up a plasticized card.
“An ID for a student newspaper. Never heard of the school.”
“Fake,” I said. “The kid attends or attended a place called Camp Wilderness.”
“I got a knife. Small, three-inch blade.”
“Plenty long enough to slice to the carotid,” Waltz said.
The knife, the cellphone, a few bucks and a subway pass were all the kid was carrying. I watched as he was toted off to a different kind of camp.
Waltz put his hand on my shoulder. “Jesus, how close was he to Pelham? Ten feet? Less?”
Day’s phone rasped in my pocket. Puzzled, I slipped it out. On the screen was a jittery shot of Pelham stepping into the second-floor meeting hall, walking toward the podium alone, people at tables standing and cheering. All guests and otherwise who had business on the secured second floor had been vetted and approved. Pelham’s circle of protection had melted away.
“How nice,” Jeremy said, looking over my shoulder. “There’s another boy in the game and he’s made it to level two.”