All disclaimers in Chapter One.
Murphy's Law
Chapter Four
The New Yorker Hotel
Manhattan
"Hey, *I* want to know!" Heather insisted. "What, you don't happen to know this Egg guy or anything?" When Michael didn't answer, she added, "You *do* know this guy?"
Michael was tired of lying. "Yeah, well," he admitted, "I'm kind of the one who got him in prison in the first place."
"Well, he's not there anymore," Heather observed.
"A terrorist and a tax evader to boot," Roger muttered.
Michael closed his eyes, leaning back into the couch. "God," he murmured under his breath. "When it rains, it freakin' monsoons."
*****
Madison Square Garden
It was a little early for a janitor to be roaming the halls, but no one questioned the wispy little man in the janitor's uniform. No one noticed that the uniform was just a tad too big for him.
No one questioned as he headed for the lower levels to the basement, and no one noticed his unscheduled stop in the boiler room.
No one realized that he'd left a little surprise behind.
*****
Leflin Incorporated
"I suppose we do," Leflin agreed, turning to Walters. "Did your men report where Bender is staying?"
Walters opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, still staring at Lydia. "Like I said, it's all right," Leflin added.
"Hotel right outside the Garment District, sir. The one across from Madison Square Garden," Walters replied uneasily. "He parked several blocks away; I think he knew he was being followed."
"Good. Make sure that we're the only ones following him." Leflin hesitated. "Would you gentlemen mind stepping out for a moment?"
Uncertain, but knowing not to question their employer, Walters and the other men assembled filed out of the office. "I heard about your father," Lydia began once they were alone. "If I hadn't been stuck out in the middle of nowhere, I--"
"No, no, don't apologize. Your letter was very touching." There was a tray sitting on his desk with a steaming pot and several mugs. "Coffee?"
"Please. The usual - black with enough sugar to cause a stroke." He chuckled at that as he poured two cups and handed one to her. "Sorry to barge in on you like this, but it's been a hell of a night."
"Tell me about it." Leflin studied her thoughtfully as he stirred his coffee. "I was hoping that it would be you. I wasn't sure, of course, but I hoped."
Lydia took a sip of her coffee. "Hmm?"
"You are my source, aren't you?"
"Would I be here if I wasn't? Besides, I've done you favors before." She set the mug down, carefully choosing her words. "I'm just... this has escalated to a point where I'm wondering where you intend to go with this operation. After what happened to your father, I'd think you wouldn't want any part of it."
"Dad... Dad was desperate," Leflin said after a moment. "Not that I could blame him. He was in an unbearable amount of pain. But he was also on to something. Maybe the specifics were incorrect, but the general idea was right on the money."
"You've completely lost me."
"Some of my men reported seeing this 'Mr. Newman' bend a machine gun like taffy, and then leap off a banister and charge right through a police station like a linebacker." When Lydia didn't look impressed, he added, "Throwing cops left and right."
"But what are you trying to accomplish?" Lydia insisted. "I'm asking, Bernie, because you're getting sloppy. And your 'competitor' just found a reason to double up on the search."
"Think about it, Lydia. Successful brain transplants, artificial organs, giving someone a second chance to live - the possibility that the technology exists is too good to pass up. While the government wastes money for military purposes, why can't the common man benefit?"
Lydia sighed. "Oh, God. All this for a damn business deal?"
"No. For a vision. Dad's vision, specifically."
"Well, you'd better get cracking on realizing this vision," Lydia pointed out. "Especially since it didn't work before."
"Because Dad relied on threats," Leflin finished. "I intend to gain their trust."
She stared at him for a long moment before downing the last of her coffee in one swig. "All right. Have it your way. I need to get going."
As she stood and moved to the door, Leflin stood up as well. "Now, wait, Lydia, you just got here."
She paused with her hand on the doorknob. "Don't argue with me; I've had about an hour of sleep. If you want to continue like this, I can't sit around here. I need to make some calls and do some creative lying." Lydia smiled. "See you around."
With that, she was gone. Sighing, Leflin sat back down behind his desk. "Hasn't changed a bit."
*****
The New Yorker Hotel
8:00 a.m.
"There's got to be something we can do," Lisa said for the third time as she paced back and forth. "I mean, isn't there someone we can trust? The police?"
"I hate to be the pessimist here," Roger interrupted, "but a number of the men who raided your house looked deceptively like police officers."
"God, I don't believe this," Lisa went on, hardly missing a beat as she stalked back and forth. Roger and Heather were sitting on the couch, watching her warily. Michael was standing by the window, staring blankly at the street below. "We have to do something."
"I think we should stay here for a little while," Heather suggested. "Or go see what that Leflin guy wanted. I mean, he's better than the militia."
Michael finally turned away from the window, shaking his head. "No. He's got some kind of agenda." He took a deep, shaky breath. "I don't know. I really don't know what to do right now. It's like - no matter how bad it seems to get, there's always another thing, you know?"
Roger stared at Michael as a long-forgotten bar conversation popped into his mind. "What did you say?"
"Nothing. Never mind." Michael frowned. "Look, Roger, I'm sorry to do this to you, but - we need someplace to lie low. At least until we can figure out what to do."
"We keep running, we're gonna eventually run out of places to run to," Heather pointed out.
Lisa ceased to pace. "Fine. Let's stay here. For a little while at least."
Defeated, Roger sighed. "I'll get the second key."
*****
10:00 a.m.
"You have to hand it to this guy," Special Agent #1 said as Morris studied the printout. "He's one prompt terrorist."
Morris nodded absently. He paused for a moment before reluctantly pulling out his cellphone and a scrap of paper before starting to dial. "Dr. Ross. Found any leads?"
Special Agent #1 whirled to stare at his boss. _What are you doing?_ he mouthed. Morris gestured for him to be silent.
"Maybe," Lydia replied. "Why are you so cheerful?"
"The Mayor's office received a threat this morning," Morris informed her. "Guess who it was from."
"So you *do* need me interfering after all."
"Actually, we believed it was probably less dangerous to keep you informed," Morris countered.
Lydia snorted. She was standing beside a newsstand on 8th Street, not far from the New Yorker. The attack in Queens was plastered all over the front pages of the newspapers. "Me and the rest of the world, I see. What did it say?"
It took Morris a second to follow her train of thought. "It's actually a bit more complicated than his last series of demands. He wants Mr. Wiseman and $15 million at Grand Central Station at 6:00 tonight. Sent us a key to a locker for Mr. Wiseman to open and to follow the instructions inside."
"Sounds a little extreme," Lydia observed. "What's the threat?"
"The note implied that once he has the man and the money, the Mayor's office will receive instructions on how to stop several thousand people from 'going out with a bang' exactly at 7:30 pm."
"I take it you've called the bomb squad already."
"Yes, but we have yet to figure out where the target is. Now have you turned up anything?" Morris asked. "Found any leads, as you so eloquently put it?"
She ignored the sarcasm. "Hmmm." Lydia looked down at the copy of the Times she was holding, then stared at the hotel thoughtfully. "I think I might be on to something, but I need... confirmation."
"Confirmation? I don't like the sound of that."
"You don't have to like it," Lydia said absently, pulling a pen and a pad out of her purse. "What's your direct line?"
*****
The New Yorker Hotel
10:45 a.m.
"For someone who insisted so fervently that she wasn't tired," Lisa observed, "she's out like a light."
Michael glanced over at Heather, smiling slightly at the sight of his little girl curled up on the couch. "You look like you need to get some sleep too."
"I'm too nervous to sleep." She took a seat across from him at the small table beside the window. "You have any idea what to do next?"
"Not really," Michael admitted. "Wish I could talk some sense into my boss, but he's probably not in the mood to even listen."
"Why's that?"
He shrugged. "Well, when he started with the threats and didn't seem to believe me, I - um - kind of decked him and made a break for it," Michael finished, embarrassed.
Lisa stared at him for a moment before managing a wry chuckle. "I suppose that wouldn't put him in a good mood." Michael couldn't help but smile a bit, and a comfortable silence settled between them. "Mr. Newman? I know this sounds strange, but... do you have a first name?"
Hesitant, Michael opened his mouth to reply. Before he could get a sound out, there was a sharp knock on the door. The two of them froze. "Room service!" a female voice shouted.
"I didn't order anything," Lisa whispered.
"Me neither," Michael whispered. "Let's just wait until they go away."
The knocking became more insistent, then finally stopped. Something was shoved beneath the door, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. After a moment or two, Michael got up and carefully moved to the door, snatching the object up. Nothing happened, and he looked down at the folded newspaper section he was holding. "What is it?" Lisa asked.
"It's a section of the Times," Michael replied, sitting down at the table again and unfolding it. The headline story was about the deaths in Queens - but that wasn't what caught Michael's attention. There was a note folded in the paper. Curious, he unfolded it and read silently to himself. "Stay here."
"Where are you going?" Lisa hissed as Michael hopped up, still clutching the note in his hand.
"To try and catch the messenger," Michael replied as he slipped out the door.
He practically flew down the hallways, and reached the elevators in time to see a figure in dark red darting inside. But he wasn't in time to catch her before the doors slid shut. Michael was about to go for one himself, but then he remembered - whoever it was would have to change elevators once they hit the twentieth floor. That might be enough of a lag for him to catch up, so he turned and headed for the stairwell. Once there were five flights between him and the bottom, he jumped over the railing, landing solidly on his feet. Michael winced at the shock, his knees threatening to buckle before he recovered and dashed out the side door.
The gift shop was right outside, and Michael realized he'd bypassed the first floor and come out in the basement instead. Cursing, he sprinted up the escalator to the main lobby just in time to see a woman heading for the exit, her back to him, wearing a blouse of the same dark red shade he'd seen going into an elevator. He tried to overtake her, but there was a fair-sized crowd in the lobby, and his usual speed would draw too much attention. As he dodged people, she passed through the revolving doors out into the street. The wind tossed her hair about, revealing a jagged streak of white amongst the black before she disappeared into the crowd.
Michael stopped, realizing that he'd probably draw too much attention to himself if he went rushing out there to find her. He looked down at the note still clutched in his hand before turning and heading for the elevators.
He suddenly had a lot to think about.
*****
11:30 a.m.
"Mom, will you knock it off?" Heather sighed. "That's really annoying."
Lisa stopped pacing and sat down on the couch. "I'm sorry. But what if someone sees him? What if they send a bunch of men with guns in? What if there's already a bunch of them waiting for him down there already?"
Heather turned away from the window. "Wasn't this your idea? Mom, you sound like me." She stopped, processing that bit of information. "God, what if I've just been turning into you all this time and didn't even know it??"
"Heather," Lisa snapped sharply. "I know, I know, it was my idea, but I don't know... every time we turn around, something else happens. And we've stayed in the same place so long I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"That's why he's checking it out," Heather assured her, leaving her perch by the window and sitting down beside Lisa. "We get a break dropped into our laps, so we might as well check it out before we take it."
Lisa smiled a bit at that, hugging Heather. "I guess you're right." She released her daughter and leaned forward to pluck something off the coffee table. On top of the New York Times was a piece of folded yellow paper with a handwritten note. It read:
HE WANTS MONEY TONIGHT, AND ONLY YOU CAN MAKE THE DROP. MORRIS' HANDS ARE TIED, AND YOU HAVE ALL THE CARDS. HE MIGHT BE WILLING TO LISTEN THIS TIME. 6 P.M. GRAND CENTRAL. CALL THIS NUMBER FIRST.
Below was a cellphone number and an extension. The note was signed "A FRIEND."
Lisa sighed and folded the note again. "If you can call that a break."
*****
Michael emerged from the diner, somewhat disappointed. None of the waitresses at the Tick Tock Diner had recalled seeing the woman in question, and the person who was handling the front desk when she'd come in was on early lunch break. The cashier at the gift shop hadn't seen anyone like that either.
As he started towards the elevators, he nearly collided with someone carrying two plastic cups of coffee. The smell reminded Michael of how tired he was, and he glanced around. There was an expresso bar adjacent to the other side of the lobby. A cup of coffee would be great, if only he had the cash.
Michael stopped. If he hadn't had much sleep, Morris' team wouldn't have either. And if that woman was working for the Doc...
It was a silly idea, but the last lead he had left.
*****
Grand Empire Insurance
As Roger had hoped, no one commented when he was late for work. Spence didn't really care either way; the little bastard was still trying to wrap up some loose ends left over from the S.E.C. investigation. While he hadn't been charged with anything, the scuttlebutt was that the investigation had turned up a thing or two that might interest the Insurance Commission. Roger's secretary didn't even notice he was late, but then again, she paid more attention to her nail polish than her work.
Roger was only somewhat relieved. That whole bizarre business with the Wisemans and that Newman character had him on edge. What was all that about, anyway?
Any further thoughts on the matter were cut short by the insistent beep of his speaker phone. "What is it, Janice?" he demanded, trying to sound irritated and not like he'd just jumped three feet.
"There's a call for you on line 1," the secretary informed him. "It's the police department or something."
"The police?" Roger repeated, stunned. His first instinct was to tell her to pretend he wasn't in, but he didn't trust her to do that. Besides, it would look suspicious. "All-all right," he stammered after a moment. "Put it through."
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before picking up the receiver. "Roger Bender," he answered weakly. "Yes, officer, I'm her husband." _Unfortunately._ "What can I do for you?"
It took him a second or two to process the reply he received. "She what? When? Is this some kind of joke? No, officer, I'm not trying to be insulting, but this does not sound like--" Roger paused, listening to the explanation that confirmed his suspicions from the previous evening. "All right, that does sound like Ruth."
The next question required quite a bit of thought, and Roger toyed with the golf ball on his desk for a few moments, considering his options. "Well, of course I will, officer, but I really can't go anywhere right now." A fairly evil thought came to him. "But I could swing by after work."
*****
The New Yorker Hotel
11:45 a.m.
"What can I get you?" the man behind the bar asked as Michael sat down at the counter.
"Actually, I'm looking for someone. Did you happen to see a woman with dark hair come in here? She's got a white streak in it?"
"I might have," the cashier said suspiciously. He was an older man with white hair and a thick mustache. "It's against policy to go and talk about customers. You a cop?"
"No, I just need--" Michael was cut off by a burst of raucous laughter nearby. Three clearly inebriated young men in their early twenties were howling over something or other. The cashier sighed and turned his eyes skyward in frustration. "Uh, you don't serve alcohol here too?"
"No, but that didn't stop them. Those morons brought their own." The cashier scowled, and then caught himself. "Sorry. They've been scaring customers away for the past hour."
"Why don't you just call the cops?"
"You see that one?" the cashier said, pointing to the biggest of the three, a broad-shouldered blond kid. "His father owns one of the big corporations that's sponsoring some convention here this weekend. We mess with him, Daddy dear pulls his sponsorship. Tried to tell them this was the wrong bar, but they just tried to get me to arm-wrestle."
Michael snorted. "Arm-wrestle?"
"Yeah, they've challenged everyone who's walked in. The few who tried got beat and had to shell out money. Those three have made more today by arm-wrestling than I've been able to make in tips. They've been getting so cocky they've started to tell people they won't leave til someone beats them."
"Really?" Michael was starting to get an idea. "If I get them out of here, could you make an exception to that policy?"
*****
34th Street
12:05 p.m.
Lydia followed the two men down the street carefully, trying to stay far enough back so that they wouldn't catch on to her but close enough so that she wouldn't lose them in the crowd. She'd seen them lounging outside the McDonald's across the street from the hotel, and had immediately realized they were keeping tabs on the building. What she couldn't figure out was how they'd managed to keep Morris' team off the scent. So when they finally started moving, she'd taken a taxi around in a circle and followed them. The driver hadn't complained; she'd given him a big tip for his trouble.
They were ambling, stopping to look in shop windows, and generally taking their time, but it was obviously an act. They had a destination in mind. She kept pace with them, putting on a similar facade but being far more subtle with it than they.
She followed them for two blocks before they finally ducked into a small bookshop. Lydia counted to ten before entering as well, letting a family of four go in first. The two men retreated to the back of the store, and Lydia followed. When they stopped, she immediately turned to the closest rack and snatched up a book, thumbing through it and slipping behind a shelf out of sight.
As she peered around the corner of the shelf, the two men stood in a corner, waiting. Five seconds later, a man in a dark suit came up to them. Lydia couldn't hear what they were saying, but she saw the suit nod, and she definitely saw the money they handed him. He turned and walked in her direction, and Lydia flattened herself against the shelf, burying her face in the book.
Thankfully, he didn't see her as he passed. He stopped beneath one of the overhead lights and turned slightly, giving Lydia a fairly good glimpse of his profile before he turned and left the shop. Shocked, Lydia stifled a gasp and covered it by turning away and coughing.
She remained where she was, pretending to be completely engrossed in her reading, as the other two men finally left via a different route. Alone, Lydia lowered the book and tried to slow her heart rate back down. She hadn't seen that one coming, but now it all made sense. How else could Leflin keep Morris' team off the scent if he didn't have one of the agents in his pocket?
Putting the book away, she finally straightened up and headed out of the shop, looking for a quiet place to make a call. Several people would be very interested to know what Special Agent #2 was doing with his time.
*****
The New Yorker Hotel
"Lemme get this straight," the blond slurred, looking Michael up and down. He was easily a head taller and several inches broader than Michael, but that was owing equally to fat and muscle. "*You* want to arm wrestle *me.*"
"You heard me right the first time," Michael answered. The three men burst out laughing.
Blondie elbowed the man sitting next to him. "Hear that, Bobby? He wants to arm-wrestle." They laughed even harder, and then he seemed to come back into focus all of a sudden. "So, uh, what do you get if I win?" He stopped, realizing that he hadn't phrased that correctly.
Michael was starting to remember why he'd told Spence he didn't drink anymore. He pointed to the pile of dollar bills sitting on the counter beside Bobby's elbow. "I win, I get the pot, and you guys get out of here."
"The pot *and* we leave?" Bobby echoed. "That's not fair."
"Okay, I'll beat all of you."
That brought on an even louder and longer surge of laughter. "What if we win?" the third guy asked. Michael shrugged.
Blondie took a swig of beer. "Nice jacket you got there."
Michael looked down. "This?" He shrugged the leather jacket off. "You win, you can have it. It's all I've got." He doubted it would fit any of them, but details probably didn't matter to them in their drunken states.
"All right," Blondie decided after a moment, propping an arm up on the bar. "Let's go. One arm, no cheating."
Michael sat down at the bar and propped his arm up as well. "Count of three," Bobby said. "One, two... three!"
Blondie immediately began to struggle. Michael locked his elbow and simply sat there while the other man put all his strength into it. His arm didn't even budge. The cashier gaped in shock, and the other two just stared. After several seconds, Michael sighed. "You know what? This is taking too long."
With that, he slammed the other man's arm down on the bar. Blondie sat back, rubbing his sore hand and shoulder. "Sorry," Michael said. "Didn't hurt you, did I?" Blondie shook his head. "Who's next?"
Bobby tried next, and Michael beat him just as easily. The third guy went down in two seconds. "Two out of three!" Blondie exclaimed, jumping up and even trying with both hands. Michael rolled his eyes and won again.
There was a long moment of silence after that. "Three out of five?" Michael suggested. "Or you guys want to leave?"
They stared at him for a moment before Bobby dumped the "pot" of dollar bills on the counter in front of him. The three men picked up their bottles of beer and shuffled out, rubbing sore shoulders and mumbling to themselves.
Michael turned back to the cashier, who continued to stare in amazement. "So, you mind telling me about this woman?"
The old man chuckled. "Hell, I'll buy you a drink myself."
*****
Murphy's Law
Chapter Four
The New Yorker Hotel
Manhattan
"Hey, *I* want to know!" Heather insisted. "What, you don't happen to know this Egg guy or anything?" When Michael didn't answer, she added, "You *do* know this guy?"
Michael was tired of lying. "Yeah, well," he admitted, "I'm kind of the one who got him in prison in the first place."
"Well, he's not there anymore," Heather observed.
"A terrorist and a tax evader to boot," Roger muttered.
Michael closed his eyes, leaning back into the couch. "God," he murmured under his breath. "When it rains, it freakin' monsoons."
*****
Madison Square Garden
It was a little early for a janitor to be roaming the halls, but no one questioned the wispy little man in the janitor's uniform. No one noticed that the uniform was just a tad too big for him.
No one questioned as he headed for the lower levels to the basement, and no one noticed his unscheduled stop in the boiler room.
No one realized that he'd left a little surprise behind.
*****
Leflin Incorporated
"I suppose we do," Leflin agreed, turning to Walters. "Did your men report where Bender is staying?"
Walters opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, still staring at Lydia. "Like I said, it's all right," Leflin added.
"Hotel right outside the Garment District, sir. The one across from Madison Square Garden," Walters replied uneasily. "He parked several blocks away; I think he knew he was being followed."
"Good. Make sure that we're the only ones following him." Leflin hesitated. "Would you gentlemen mind stepping out for a moment?"
Uncertain, but knowing not to question their employer, Walters and the other men assembled filed out of the office. "I heard about your father," Lydia began once they were alone. "If I hadn't been stuck out in the middle of nowhere, I--"
"No, no, don't apologize. Your letter was very touching." There was a tray sitting on his desk with a steaming pot and several mugs. "Coffee?"
"Please. The usual - black with enough sugar to cause a stroke." He chuckled at that as he poured two cups and handed one to her. "Sorry to barge in on you like this, but it's been a hell of a night."
"Tell me about it." Leflin studied her thoughtfully as he stirred his coffee. "I was hoping that it would be you. I wasn't sure, of course, but I hoped."
Lydia took a sip of her coffee. "Hmm?"
"You are my source, aren't you?"
"Would I be here if I wasn't? Besides, I've done you favors before." She set the mug down, carefully choosing her words. "I'm just... this has escalated to a point where I'm wondering where you intend to go with this operation. After what happened to your father, I'd think you wouldn't want any part of it."
"Dad... Dad was desperate," Leflin said after a moment. "Not that I could blame him. He was in an unbearable amount of pain. But he was also on to something. Maybe the specifics were incorrect, but the general idea was right on the money."
"You've completely lost me."
"Some of my men reported seeing this 'Mr. Newman' bend a machine gun like taffy, and then leap off a banister and charge right through a police station like a linebacker." When Lydia didn't look impressed, he added, "Throwing cops left and right."
"But what are you trying to accomplish?" Lydia insisted. "I'm asking, Bernie, because you're getting sloppy. And your 'competitor' just found a reason to double up on the search."
"Think about it, Lydia. Successful brain transplants, artificial organs, giving someone a second chance to live - the possibility that the technology exists is too good to pass up. While the government wastes money for military purposes, why can't the common man benefit?"
Lydia sighed. "Oh, God. All this for a damn business deal?"
"No. For a vision. Dad's vision, specifically."
"Well, you'd better get cracking on realizing this vision," Lydia pointed out. "Especially since it didn't work before."
"Because Dad relied on threats," Leflin finished. "I intend to gain their trust."
She stared at him for a long moment before downing the last of her coffee in one swig. "All right. Have it your way. I need to get going."
As she stood and moved to the door, Leflin stood up as well. "Now, wait, Lydia, you just got here."
She paused with her hand on the doorknob. "Don't argue with me; I've had about an hour of sleep. If you want to continue like this, I can't sit around here. I need to make some calls and do some creative lying." Lydia smiled. "See you around."
With that, she was gone. Sighing, Leflin sat back down behind his desk. "Hasn't changed a bit."
*****
The New Yorker Hotel
8:00 a.m.
"There's got to be something we can do," Lisa said for the third time as she paced back and forth. "I mean, isn't there someone we can trust? The police?"
"I hate to be the pessimist here," Roger interrupted, "but a number of the men who raided your house looked deceptively like police officers."
"God, I don't believe this," Lisa went on, hardly missing a beat as she stalked back and forth. Roger and Heather were sitting on the couch, watching her warily. Michael was standing by the window, staring blankly at the street below. "We have to do something."
"I think we should stay here for a little while," Heather suggested. "Or go see what that Leflin guy wanted. I mean, he's better than the militia."
Michael finally turned away from the window, shaking his head. "No. He's got some kind of agenda." He took a deep, shaky breath. "I don't know. I really don't know what to do right now. It's like - no matter how bad it seems to get, there's always another thing, you know?"
Roger stared at Michael as a long-forgotten bar conversation popped into his mind. "What did you say?"
"Nothing. Never mind." Michael frowned. "Look, Roger, I'm sorry to do this to you, but - we need someplace to lie low. At least until we can figure out what to do."
"We keep running, we're gonna eventually run out of places to run to," Heather pointed out.
Lisa ceased to pace. "Fine. Let's stay here. For a little while at least."
Defeated, Roger sighed. "I'll get the second key."
*****
10:00 a.m.
"You have to hand it to this guy," Special Agent #1 said as Morris studied the printout. "He's one prompt terrorist."
Morris nodded absently. He paused for a moment before reluctantly pulling out his cellphone and a scrap of paper before starting to dial. "Dr. Ross. Found any leads?"
Special Agent #1 whirled to stare at his boss. _What are you doing?_ he mouthed. Morris gestured for him to be silent.
"Maybe," Lydia replied. "Why are you so cheerful?"
"The Mayor's office received a threat this morning," Morris informed her. "Guess who it was from."
"So you *do* need me interfering after all."
"Actually, we believed it was probably less dangerous to keep you informed," Morris countered.
Lydia snorted. She was standing beside a newsstand on 8th Street, not far from the New Yorker. The attack in Queens was plastered all over the front pages of the newspapers. "Me and the rest of the world, I see. What did it say?"
It took Morris a second to follow her train of thought. "It's actually a bit more complicated than his last series of demands. He wants Mr. Wiseman and $15 million at Grand Central Station at 6:00 tonight. Sent us a key to a locker for Mr. Wiseman to open and to follow the instructions inside."
"Sounds a little extreme," Lydia observed. "What's the threat?"
"The note implied that once he has the man and the money, the Mayor's office will receive instructions on how to stop several thousand people from 'going out with a bang' exactly at 7:30 pm."
"I take it you've called the bomb squad already."
"Yes, but we have yet to figure out where the target is. Now have you turned up anything?" Morris asked. "Found any leads, as you so eloquently put it?"
She ignored the sarcasm. "Hmmm." Lydia looked down at the copy of the Times she was holding, then stared at the hotel thoughtfully. "I think I might be on to something, but I need... confirmation."
"Confirmation? I don't like the sound of that."
"You don't have to like it," Lydia said absently, pulling a pen and a pad out of her purse. "What's your direct line?"
*****
The New Yorker Hotel
10:45 a.m.
"For someone who insisted so fervently that she wasn't tired," Lisa observed, "she's out like a light."
Michael glanced over at Heather, smiling slightly at the sight of his little girl curled up on the couch. "You look like you need to get some sleep too."
"I'm too nervous to sleep." She took a seat across from him at the small table beside the window. "You have any idea what to do next?"
"Not really," Michael admitted. "Wish I could talk some sense into my boss, but he's probably not in the mood to even listen."
"Why's that?"
He shrugged. "Well, when he started with the threats and didn't seem to believe me, I - um - kind of decked him and made a break for it," Michael finished, embarrassed.
Lisa stared at him for a moment before managing a wry chuckle. "I suppose that wouldn't put him in a good mood." Michael couldn't help but smile a bit, and a comfortable silence settled between them. "Mr. Newman? I know this sounds strange, but... do you have a first name?"
Hesitant, Michael opened his mouth to reply. Before he could get a sound out, there was a sharp knock on the door. The two of them froze. "Room service!" a female voice shouted.
"I didn't order anything," Lisa whispered.
"Me neither," Michael whispered. "Let's just wait until they go away."
The knocking became more insistent, then finally stopped. Something was shoved beneath the door, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. After a moment or two, Michael got up and carefully moved to the door, snatching the object up. Nothing happened, and he looked down at the folded newspaper section he was holding. "What is it?" Lisa asked.
"It's a section of the Times," Michael replied, sitting down at the table again and unfolding it. The headline story was about the deaths in Queens - but that wasn't what caught Michael's attention. There was a note folded in the paper. Curious, he unfolded it and read silently to himself. "Stay here."
"Where are you going?" Lisa hissed as Michael hopped up, still clutching the note in his hand.
"To try and catch the messenger," Michael replied as he slipped out the door.
He practically flew down the hallways, and reached the elevators in time to see a figure in dark red darting inside. But he wasn't in time to catch her before the doors slid shut. Michael was about to go for one himself, but then he remembered - whoever it was would have to change elevators once they hit the twentieth floor. That might be enough of a lag for him to catch up, so he turned and headed for the stairwell. Once there were five flights between him and the bottom, he jumped over the railing, landing solidly on his feet. Michael winced at the shock, his knees threatening to buckle before he recovered and dashed out the side door.
The gift shop was right outside, and Michael realized he'd bypassed the first floor and come out in the basement instead. Cursing, he sprinted up the escalator to the main lobby just in time to see a woman heading for the exit, her back to him, wearing a blouse of the same dark red shade he'd seen going into an elevator. He tried to overtake her, but there was a fair-sized crowd in the lobby, and his usual speed would draw too much attention. As he dodged people, she passed through the revolving doors out into the street. The wind tossed her hair about, revealing a jagged streak of white amongst the black before she disappeared into the crowd.
Michael stopped, realizing that he'd probably draw too much attention to himself if he went rushing out there to find her. He looked down at the note still clutched in his hand before turning and heading for the elevators.
He suddenly had a lot to think about.
*****
11:30 a.m.
"Mom, will you knock it off?" Heather sighed. "That's really annoying."
Lisa stopped pacing and sat down on the couch. "I'm sorry. But what if someone sees him? What if they send a bunch of men with guns in? What if there's already a bunch of them waiting for him down there already?"
Heather turned away from the window. "Wasn't this your idea? Mom, you sound like me." She stopped, processing that bit of information. "God, what if I've just been turning into you all this time and didn't even know it??"
"Heather," Lisa snapped sharply. "I know, I know, it was my idea, but I don't know... every time we turn around, something else happens. And we've stayed in the same place so long I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"That's why he's checking it out," Heather assured her, leaving her perch by the window and sitting down beside Lisa. "We get a break dropped into our laps, so we might as well check it out before we take it."
Lisa smiled a bit at that, hugging Heather. "I guess you're right." She released her daughter and leaned forward to pluck something off the coffee table. On top of the New York Times was a piece of folded yellow paper with a handwritten note. It read:
HE WANTS MONEY TONIGHT, AND ONLY YOU CAN MAKE THE DROP. MORRIS' HANDS ARE TIED, AND YOU HAVE ALL THE CARDS. HE MIGHT BE WILLING TO LISTEN THIS TIME. 6 P.M. GRAND CENTRAL. CALL THIS NUMBER FIRST.
Below was a cellphone number and an extension. The note was signed "A FRIEND."
Lisa sighed and folded the note again. "If you can call that a break."
*****
Michael emerged from the diner, somewhat disappointed. None of the waitresses at the Tick Tock Diner had recalled seeing the woman in question, and the person who was handling the front desk when she'd come in was on early lunch break. The cashier at the gift shop hadn't seen anyone like that either.
As he started towards the elevators, he nearly collided with someone carrying two plastic cups of coffee. The smell reminded Michael of how tired he was, and he glanced around. There was an expresso bar adjacent to the other side of the lobby. A cup of coffee would be great, if only he had the cash.
Michael stopped. If he hadn't had much sleep, Morris' team wouldn't have either. And if that woman was working for the Doc...
It was a silly idea, but the last lead he had left.
*****
Grand Empire Insurance
As Roger had hoped, no one commented when he was late for work. Spence didn't really care either way; the little bastard was still trying to wrap up some loose ends left over from the S.E.C. investigation. While he hadn't been charged with anything, the scuttlebutt was that the investigation had turned up a thing or two that might interest the Insurance Commission. Roger's secretary didn't even notice he was late, but then again, she paid more attention to her nail polish than her work.
Roger was only somewhat relieved. That whole bizarre business with the Wisemans and that Newman character had him on edge. What was all that about, anyway?
Any further thoughts on the matter were cut short by the insistent beep of his speaker phone. "What is it, Janice?" he demanded, trying to sound irritated and not like he'd just jumped three feet.
"There's a call for you on line 1," the secretary informed him. "It's the police department or something."
"The police?" Roger repeated, stunned. His first instinct was to tell her to pretend he wasn't in, but he didn't trust her to do that. Besides, it would look suspicious. "All-all right," he stammered after a moment. "Put it through."
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before picking up the receiver. "Roger Bender," he answered weakly. "Yes, officer, I'm her husband." _Unfortunately._ "What can I do for you?"
It took him a second or two to process the reply he received. "She what? When? Is this some kind of joke? No, officer, I'm not trying to be insulting, but this does not sound like--" Roger paused, listening to the explanation that confirmed his suspicions from the previous evening. "All right, that does sound like Ruth."
The next question required quite a bit of thought, and Roger toyed with the golf ball on his desk for a few moments, considering his options. "Well, of course I will, officer, but I really can't go anywhere right now." A fairly evil thought came to him. "But I could swing by after work."
*****
The New Yorker Hotel
11:45 a.m.
"What can I get you?" the man behind the bar asked as Michael sat down at the counter.
"Actually, I'm looking for someone. Did you happen to see a woman with dark hair come in here? She's got a white streak in it?"
"I might have," the cashier said suspiciously. He was an older man with white hair and a thick mustache. "It's against policy to go and talk about customers. You a cop?"
"No, I just need--" Michael was cut off by a burst of raucous laughter nearby. Three clearly inebriated young men in their early twenties were howling over something or other. The cashier sighed and turned his eyes skyward in frustration. "Uh, you don't serve alcohol here too?"
"No, but that didn't stop them. Those morons brought their own." The cashier scowled, and then caught himself. "Sorry. They've been scaring customers away for the past hour."
"Why don't you just call the cops?"
"You see that one?" the cashier said, pointing to the biggest of the three, a broad-shouldered blond kid. "His father owns one of the big corporations that's sponsoring some convention here this weekend. We mess with him, Daddy dear pulls his sponsorship. Tried to tell them this was the wrong bar, but they just tried to get me to arm-wrestle."
Michael snorted. "Arm-wrestle?"
"Yeah, they've challenged everyone who's walked in. The few who tried got beat and had to shell out money. Those three have made more today by arm-wrestling than I've been able to make in tips. They've been getting so cocky they've started to tell people they won't leave til someone beats them."
"Really?" Michael was starting to get an idea. "If I get them out of here, could you make an exception to that policy?"
*****
34th Street
12:05 p.m.
Lydia followed the two men down the street carefully, trying to stay far enough back so that they wouldn't catch on to her but close enough so that she wouldn't lose them in the crowd. She'd seen them lounging outside the McDonald's across the street from the hotel, and had immediately realized they were keeping tabs on the building. What she couldn't figure out was how they'd managed to keep Morris' team off the scent. So when they finally started moving, she'd taken a taxi around in a circle and followed them. The driver hadn't complained; she'd given him a big tip for his trouble.
They were ambling, stopping to look in shop windows, and generally taking their time, but it was obviously an act. They had a destination in mind. She kept pace with them, putting on a similar facade but being far more subtle with it than they.
She followed them for two blocks before they finally ducked into a small bookshop. Lydia counted to ten before entering as well, letting a family of four go in first. The two men retreated to the back of the store, and Lydia followed. When they stopped, she immediately turned to the closest rack and snatched up a book, thumbing through it and slipping behind a shelf out of sight.
As she peered around the corner of the shelf, the two men stood in a corner, waiting. Five seconds later, a man in a dark suit came up to them. Lydia couldn't hear what they were saying, but she saw the suit nod, and she definitely saw the money they handed him. He turned and walked in her direction, and Lydia flattened herself against the shelf, burying her face in the book.
Thankfully, he didn't see her as he passed. He stopped beneath one of the overhead lights and turned slightly, giving Lydia a fairly good glimpse of his profile before he turned and left the shop. Shocked, Lydia stifled a gasp and covered it by turning away and coughing.
She remained where she was, pretending to be completely engrossed in her reading, as the other two men finally left via a different route. Alone, Lydia lowered the book and tried to slow her heart rate back down. She hadn't seen that one coming, but now it all made sense. How else could Leflin keep Morris' team off the scent if he didn't have one of the agents in his pocket?
Putting the book away, she finally straightened up and headed out of the shop, looking for a quiet place to make a call. Several people would be very interested to know what Special Agent #2 was doing with his time.
*****
The New Yorker Hotel
"Lemme get this straight," the blond slurred, looking Michael up and down. He was easily a head taller and several inches broader than Michael, but that was owing equally to fat and muscle. "*You* want to arm wrestle *me.*"
"You heard me right the first time," Michael answered. The three men burst out laughing.
Blondie elbowed the man sitting next to him. "Hear that, Bobby? He wants to arm-wrestle." They laughed even harder, and then he seemed to come back into focus all of a sudden. "So, uh, what do you get if I win?" He stopped, realizing that he hadn't phrased that correctly.
Michael was starting to remember why he'd told Spence he didn't drink anymore. He pointed to the pile of dollar bills sitting on the counter beside Bobby's elbow. "I win, I get the pot, and you guys get out of here."
"The pot *and* we leave?" Bobby echoed. "That's not fair."
"Okay, I'll beat all of you."
That brought on an even louder and longer surge of laughter. "What if we win?" the third guy asked. Michael shrugged.
Blondie took a swig of beer. "Nice jacket you got there."
Michael looked down. "This?" He shrugged the leather jacket off. "You win, you can have it. It's all I've got." He doubted it would fit any of them, but details probably didn't matter to them in their drunken states.
"All right," Blondie decided after a moment, propping an arm up on the bar. "Let's go. One arm, no cheating."
Michael sat down at the bar and propped his arm up as well. "Count of three," Bobby said. "One, two... three!"
Blondie immediately began to struggle. Michael locked his elbow and simply sat there while the other man put all his strength into it. His arm didn't even budge. The cashier gaped in shock, and the other two just stared. After several seconds, Michael sighed. "You know what? This is taking too long."
With that, he slammed the other man's arm down on the bar. Blondie sat back, rubbing his sore hand and shoulder. "Sorry," Michael said. "Didn't hurt you, did I?" Blondie shook his head. "Who's next?"
Bobby tried next, and Michael beat him just as easily. The third guy went down in two seconds. "Two out of three!" Blondie exclaimed, jumping up and even trying with both hands. Michael rolled his eyes and won again.
There was a long moment of silence after that. "Three out of five?" Michael suggested. "Or you guys want to leave?"
They stared at him for a moment before Bobby dumped the "pot" of dollar bills on the counter in front of him. The three men picked up their bottles of beer and shuffled out, rubbing sore shoulders and mumbling to themselves.
Michael turned back to the cashier, who continued to stare in amazement. "So, you mind telling me about this woman?"
The old man chuckled. "Hell, I'll buy you a drink myself."
*****