A Friend in the Glass (An Auden & O’Callaghan Mystery #3)

Chapter Eleven

The next day, the Javits was even busier. People thronged the atrium, shouting to be heard over each other, with enough cologne and perfume in the air to make Sam think a brothel had exploded inside a Bath he answered on the third ring.

“Good morning! May I please speak to Samuel Auden?”

“Who is this?”

“Good morning, Mr. Auden! My name is Sara, and I’m a student at Columbia Law School! I’m calling today because I’m volunteering for the Restore Our America Committee, and I wanted to ask for your support in bringing back the glory of our great country by donating to Congresswoman Nasta’s reelection campaign!”

“Pass,” Sam said.

Sara was working on what felt like her fifteenth exclamation mark, saying, “Thank you anyway! While I’ve got you on the line, could you confirm your contact—”

He hit End.

Rufus was fixing his beanie while watching Sam. “Who was that?”

“Who the fuck knows? She needs a fucking Quaalude, whoever she is. That election isn’t for almost a year.” Sam glanced around. No sign of Brady, although it was impossible to check every face in the crowded space. If Lew had his guard dog on patrol, Sam guessed it would be downstairs, in the exhibition hall. Which, of course, was where they needed to start their search for Evangeline Ridgeway. He let out a sigh.

Rufus lowered his voice to a false baritone and mimicked Sam’s “Pass.” He caught Sam’s stare and tried to pass off a smile that was anything but innocent.

Sam rolled his eyes and started throwing elbows to clear a path to the escalator. He held his own pretty well; the only setback was the old lady who got him in the knee with her cane, but it had been a dirty hit—she’d cheated and gotten him when he wasn’t looking.

The crowd thinned as they rode down to the exhibition hall. Sam adjusted the badge hanging around his neck. “Do you still have the program from yesterday?”

“ Oui, mon capitaine .” Rufus yanked the program free from his sweatshirt. He worked the wrinkles out a little before offering it.

Sam flipped through the day’s events. “She’s not on the schedule today, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find her. Once you take all the old white men out of the equation, there are like six people left.”

“Sausage fest is the term you’re looking for.”

“God,” Sam said as he stepped off the escalator. “Now I’ve got that in my head.”

They moved around the perimeter of the hall. Booths and tables in orderly rows filled the center of the large room. And while the people manning the booths and tables looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to explain how their laser or their railgun or their new bullet jacket would be the perfect thing for Iraq or Afghanistan or, hell, Detroit if it came to that, the men and women circulating through the hall scarcely seemed to notice the displays and the charts and the catchy banners. The people at this convention—and at a hundred other conventions like this—weren’t there for the booths and the banners. They were there for the other people like them. So Sam watched faces. And he inspected the Conasauga booth, where a young woman with dimples and a paisley scarf around her neck was smiling and nodding at passersby and looking giddy at the mere possibility of a chance to talk about tactical vehicles. But he didn’t see Evangeline Ridgeway.

“Ok,” he muttered at the end of their circuit. “Now what?”

Rufus snagged the program back from Sam, moved against a wall where he’d be out of the way, and flipped through the pages. “You said she wasn’t on the schedule, but maybe she’s rubbing shoulders at a bar or something.” He took out his phone and checked the time. “Or having coffee, I should say. Hey. Check Twitter—see if she posted anything patriotic that might also suggest a location.”

With a grimace, Sam opened Twitter and found Ridgeway’s handle. She had retweeted several posts from pro-military accounts—including one from a veterans advocate Sam actually recognized. She’d also included an angry tweet about her latte because it was too milky, and she’d tagged the coffeeshop in the kind of petty vindictiveness that social media rewarded. And then, from a couple of hours before, a tweet that said Looking forward to @urgenta’s presentation on their THUNDER platform and updates. Keeping America Safe!

“You know what?” Sam said as he flashed the message at Rufus. “I think she would have done great under Hitler.”

Rufus made a face but then started flipping through the program again. “She sounds like a real—ah, Urgenta. Panel ends in about ten minutes. Man, these people start protecting America before I’m even out of bed. Did you want to try and catch her afterward?”

“It’s worth a shot.”

They used the postage-stamp-sized map in the program to head toward the room where the panel was being held. People were already starting to sneak out of this hour’s sessions, which meant that the hall was filling up again. A couple of guys threw Sam and Rufus second glances. Maybe they were closet cases. Hell, maybe they were out-and-out homos. But the back of Sam’s neck prickled, and he remembered his brush with Brady, and he wondered how many people had been given their description since yesterday afternoon.

After two wrong tries, they found the Urgenta panel as it was ending. The double doors stood open, and a throng of bored-looking—and slightly sweaty—people were pouring out into the hallway. Sam scanned faces. Rufus broke away from his side without comment, weaving his way through the exiting crowd, and vanishing into the sea of people on the opposite side of the Urgenta doors.

Sam opened his mouth to call after him, and then he spotted Evangeline. He hadn’t paid much attention to her the day before when he had been reacting to the shock of seeing Lew, but he recognized the shape of her face, the plastic smile. She wore a simple navy suit that looked good on her and managed to look expensive while still being understated. Her brown hair was long and artfully curled—Sam didn’t want to think about the wake-up call time for hair like that. She was talking to a young man who stumbled while Sam was watching; he was trying to look down her shirt. Ah, young love.

“Ms. Ridgeway?” Sam called and fought his way through the river of bodies.

Her head came up. Dark eyes focused on him, assessed, tried to catalog. Cold eyes. File not found.

“I’m sorry,” she said as people streamed around Sam with varying looks of irritation. One older man even harrumphed. “Have we met?”

“Not officially,” Sam said. “Could I have a moment of your time?”

“Excuse me, Anson,” she said.

Anson was still trying to see her tatas, and he didn’t seem to realize what was happening until she had already stepped away.

Sam followed her a few yards down the hall to a spot where the crowd thinned. Rufus was coming up in the opposite direction, and although Sam didn’t know what the redhead was planning, he figured it was sneaky. He positioned himself so that Evangeline had to turn to face him, with her back now to Rufus.

“I’m sorry, Mr.—”

“Auden. Sam Auden.”

Her expression remained pleasantly blank.

“I wanted to talk to you about Shareed Baker.”

This time the computer eyes found and accessed the file right away. Whatever was on the hard drive, it didn’t make Evangeline happy, but the rest of her face stayed rigidly congenial. “Who?”

“You know who.”

Rufus had shaken out the program, raised it up like he meant to read from it, then bumped Evangeline’s right shoulder as he stepped past. “Oops,” he said automatically, not stopping as he continued at a leisurely pace back toward the exhibition hall.

“Excuse me,” Evangeline called after him, but Rufus didn’t look back.

“Shareed Baker,” Sam said.

When she looked back at him, she’d locked down her expression again. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know who Shareed Baker is. You must have me confused with someone else.”

“Really?” Sam asked. “That’s not what the NYPD thinks. Do you want to explain why your name came up in an investigation of Shareed Baker’s death?”

The delay was fractional, but it was there. The question had been a body blow. But then Evangeline had the plastic smile back into place, and she was shaking her head as she said, “But you’re not with the police, are you? You would have told me if you were. Goodbye, Mr. Auden.”

She held herself a little too stiffly as she clicked away on her heels, and her voice was a little too bright as she called down the hall, “Douglas St. John, stop right there, you wicked old man. You owe me a coffee!”

And Douglas St. John, who looked like he was already a couple of pacemakers deep, waved a liver-spotted hand and smiled a DentaWhite smile.

Once Evangeline and Douglas St. John had begun walking, Rufus re-appeared around the corner. He moved on long legs back to Sam, holding up what looked to be a hotel keycard still in the paper sleeve. Rufus had a shit-eating grin on his face.

“I was prepared for anything,” he began. “What was she gonna have? A clutch? A tote? A purse is a guy’s best friend—those flap ones with the magnetic button. Do you know how quickly I can open one of those and snag a wallet?” Rufus didn’t let Sam answer before holding up two fingers. “Two seconds. Two fucking seconds. So like I said, I was ready. But when I saw you walking with her—no purse, no nothing—I thought, what kind of lady isn’t carrying something . Then I saw the square outline on her thigh and realized she had pockets—shallow ones, too—and anyway, I got her hotel card.”

Sam blinked his way through the onslaught of information. Then he said, “Good job?”

Rufus took out his phone, copied the name of the hotel from the envelope’s decal, then said, “Thirty-Seventh and Tenth. Looks like they’re partners with a vegan Japanese restaurant too.” He put the phone away. “I don’t know who would eat vegan sushi, but there you go.”

The exposition hall was emptying again, the outgoing tide of bodies as the next round of panels began. Evangeline had disappeared into another room, which meant, Sam hoped, that she’d be at the expo for at least another hour. He nodded toward the escalator and said, “Let’s go.”

The Savoy-Hell’s Kitchen was a newish-looking building with a white-brick veneer and enormous windows. Even in the scummy winter light, chrome trim glinted and flashed when the clouds shifted. It looked like the kind of place midlevel executives would hire midlevel hookers, presumably while midlevel pimps waited in midlevel sedans. It wasn’t what Sam had expected from Evangeline Ridgeway, and he wondered who was footing the bill. The Army, maybe? God knows they’d love a place like the Savoy-Hell’s Kitchen.

Inside, the lobby consisted of carpet squares in muted color patterns, modernish seating with easy-wash upholstery, and the kind of blond wood furniture that interior decorators seemed to think screamed civilization. A few solitary people were spaced throughout the room, two men and a woman, all of them absorbed in their devices. To the right, an opening connected with the hotel bar, where the lights were dimmed even in the late morning and the dark wood and tinted glass suggested the kind of sophistication that involved olives and, at the end of the night, a case of crabs. The front desk stood at the far end, and the white boy who was working the desk had locs and the smirk of a guy used to getting some without really trying. He was on his phone—presumably in the midst of arranging to get some later, to judge by that smirk—and didn’t look up when Sam and Rufus passed him on the way to the elevator.

Sam had just pressed the Up button when he heard a man say behind him, “Trouble finding a cab, Colonel?”

Rocking back on his heels, Sam waited a beat until he thought he could be casual. Then he glanced over his shoulder.

A man in a navy suit and wool overcoat had just come through the revolving door; Sam recognized him as the person Lew had been talking to—arguing with—when Sam had spotted him the day before. He was solidly built, balding, with a small mouth and teeth that made Sam think of a rat. Another man, older, was rising from where he’d been sitting in the lobby. He wore his white hair in a side part, slicked back in a way that suggested 1983, and he wore money like cologne; he looked like he had probably been best friends with Reagan. Sam recognized him, now that he turned his full attention to the man—he had also been on the stage. The one Evangeline had called Del. Some sort of executive, if Sam remembered correctly, with Conasauga.

The man who must be Colonel Leslie Bridges, if the convention program was accurate, was out of uniform. He pulled off his overcoat, glanced around, and said, “I was finalizing arrangements. As I said on the phone, I think we’ve reached the end of our road together.”

Del made a moue. “Let’s be civilized about this. A drink? Maybe I can change your mind.”

Bridges glanced at the bar.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Del said with a boardroom laugh, and he gestured for the colonel to lead the way.

The elevator dinged, and the doors rattled open as the two men passed through the opening into the bar.

Sam shot a look at the elevator. Then at the bar.

Rufus held the elevator door when it began to shut. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “Did you want to go up or listen to Frick and Frack over there?”

“The bar is pretty much empty; they’ll spot us as soon as we walk in.”

Rufus slapped the door a second time and the elevator let out an obnoxious beep. He peered around Sam’s shoulder and then with a nod of his chin in the direction of the bar, said, “Look at that stand by the entrance—all those tourism pamphlets. We might be able to hear them from there.”

The elevator doors began to rattle shut. Sam caught them. They rattled open. Then, with a frustrated, grunt, he nodded.

OFFICIAL NYC TOURIST GUIDE

WHEN MANHATTAN COMES TO MANHATTAN: WHAT TO DO IN NYC IF YOU’RE FROM KANSAS

TIMES SQUARE - A VD SUCCESS STORY

Ok, Sam added that last part in his head.

There were pamphlets on the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, the MOMA, the Met, even on visiting the Macy’s flagship store. Sam scanned them all, occasionally plucking one from the rack and opening it, folding it backward along the crease like he was really invested in learning about the Alice statue. But his attention was focused on the bar.

Rufus had been right; he could hear what was happening. Some of it, anyway. The clink of glass. Movement. Low voices. But not enough to make out—

“And I’ve done everything you’ve asked!”

That part came through clearly enough, Del’s words delivered in a low, angry voice that carried to the lobby.

The colonel’s response was muffled, but it sounded calm and self-assured.

“You can’t,” Del whisper-shouted. “We had a deal.”

This time, the colonel’s response was audible: “And we both got what we wanted.”

“No, I—”

“Don’t press me on this, Del. I don’t like problems. I don’t like loose threads. Do you know what I do to loose threads?” The colonel’s voice was moving toward them now. Rufus yanked on Sam’s sleeve, and Sam let himself be led away, but he could still make out the colonel’s final words. “I tie them off. We aren’t going to talk again.”

Rufus was pressing the Up button as the colonel emerged from the bar. The bell dinged. The doors rattled open. Because, of course, the damn thing was still on this floor. The colonel glanced over, and his gaze settled on Sam and Rufus.

Rufus yanked on Sam’s arm again, and Sam stumbled onto the elevator after him.

“Fuck,” Sam muttered as the doors clattered shut. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Rufus jabbed the 6 button with his thumb before looking at Sam. “I grew up on the street—I know what the fuck a loose thread implies—but should a military guy be talking like that?”

“Of course not. That’s some shady shit. That guy, Del, he was running the Conasauga presentation with Evangeline. Lew was there. So was the colonel. Shareed and Lew. Shareed and Evangeline. This is a fucking rat’s nest.”

“Vipers,” Rufus corrected. “They all sound like a bunch of snakes.” The doors opened on the sixth floor and Rufus checked the keycard envelope. “612.”

The hallway was pleasantly neutral, well lit, and empty. It felt surreal. When Rufus tried the card, the lock on 612 flashed green, and a motor whirred. Rufus leaned into the door, and it opened.

It had the faintly dry smell of forced-air heating as well as something lighter and floral—the perfume Evangeline wore, which was doubtless expensive. The room was dark, with the blackout curtains drawn so that only a sliver of light passed through a gap where they met. Sam caught the light switch, and a few dim yellow overheads came to life, revealing the king bed, the dresser, the television, the armchair, the desk with mid-executive-level accessories, like a vinyl blotter and a lamp. A leather portfolio case was closed on the desk. Her suitcase, zippered shut, occupied a stand near the bed. The closet door stood ajar, revealing two dresses—both black—hanging from the rod.

“Split up?” Sam asked.

Rufus said, “I’m not looking through a lady’s unmentionables.” And he moved toward the window, desk, and armchair corner.

Sam had barely unzipped the suitcase before Rufus called his name.

“Hey, Sam. I might be the savviest shit east of the Hudson.” Rufus was carefully holding up the desk blotter with his thumb and index finger while pointing at a single sheet of paper underneath. When Sam came toward him, Rufus said, “Please agree and call me savvy. Or smart. Actually, there’re a lot of good adjectives starting with ‘S.’”

“Fine. You’re savvy. You’re smart. You’re a snarky, snarly, sexy pile of trouble. What do you have?”

“I don’t know, but it looks very official.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam snagged the paper. He scanned it. Then he read it again.

“This is a PR release. About Stonefish. What the actual fuck?”

Rufus asked, “Why would she have a PR release with her for something that happened a long time ago?”

“‘Conasauga Solutions is pleased to announce the performance and operability ratings of JLTV models M1279.S and M1280.S (Project STONEFISH).’ Jesus Christ, they make it sound like they’re winning J.D. Power awards. Let’s see. Army loves them. Big order coming. Public unveiling of Stonefish models to be attended by—” He stopped. “The rest of it’s missing.”

Rufus raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean, missing?”

Sam displayed the page, where the press release had been photocopied. It cut off abruptly after the mention of the public unveiling.

“Ain’t that a bitch. There’s space on the page… I wonder why it got cut.”

“I don’t think it was an accident.”

Rufus met Sam’s gaze a second time. “So someone sent this to Evangeline? As what… a threat?”

“I don’t know. But it must mean something to her, because she kept it.”

“Sam?” Rufus was staring at the opposite side of the paper. “What’s this on the back?”

Sam turned the page over, glanced at the series of numbers, and displayed it for Rufus. “An account number?”

“Bank account number,” Rufus corrected. “What’s this—oh—SWIFT code, isn’t it?”

“Do we know anybody who wanted to sell information about Stonefish?”

Rufus’s shoulders sagged. “Shareed,” he murmured.

When they left the room, a housekeeping cart was parked two doors down, and from within the lighted room came the sounds of rustling cotton and footsteps. The elevator carried them to the lobby, where the clerk was trying to (somewhat) discreetly snap a dick pic under the front desk before he noticed them, at which point he banged his knee, yanked on something, and made a shrill noise.

“Zipper,” Sam muttered.

The lobby had emptied while they were upstairs, and as Sam headed for the revolving door, he had halfway convinced himself that he’d imagined the colonel spotting them earlier.

Over his shoulder, he said to Rufus, “We have to talk to Lew, obviously, which means back to the convention center. Public is better for now, I think, but how do you want to do it?”

Rufus had stopped following a few feet back, and when Sam stopped and looked at him, Rufus pointed toward the almost empty bar. “What about talking to that Del guy first?”