Chapter Fifteen

Sam waited on the bench. The door to Dr. Donna’s office was an effective sound barrier—or maybe the space on the other side was divided, and Rufus had passed into a second, inner room. Whatever the cause, he couldn’t hear anything. Which was a good thing. He didn’t even try to listen. He sat there, and the building generated its own low-grade percussion against the backdrop of the city’s white noise: a series of opening and closing doors, echoing footsteps, a shrill of laughter ringing down the stairwell. Outside, the city was a muted roar.

For a while, he played back Cubs games. He’d been at game four for the clinch, 2015, the first postseason series at home that the Cubs had won. It had been against the Cardinals, which made it extra sweet. Then he flipped albums. Blind Willie McTell. The Lady. Muddy Waters. Hear that phone ringing, ringing, ringing. Another long-distance call.

When the door opened, he sat up straight and blinked. Rufus came out slowly, glancing in both directions before pulling the door shut.

Rufus tugged the black beanie over his shock of red hair. He smiled, and Sam knew him well enough these days to recognize the hurt hiding behind it, but also the authenticity in the way his mouth quirked to one side. “Ready?”

Sam nodded, and they headed out.

The walk back was worse. It was midafternoon, which in Manhattan, in winter, meant it was almost night. Clouds the color of raw linen tumbled overhead, and wind razored up the streets. The light was diffuse, yellow, tingeing everything with a sepia color. A cab almost clipped Sam at the second intersection. At the third, a woman was making her kids—a boy and a girl, neither of them old enough to be in school yet—dance while she rattled a cup full of change.

Inside the Javits was another world: sweat and wool, Italian suits, recirculated warmth, the buzz of fluorescents that Sam could feel in his teeth. They flashed their badges and headed down the escalator to the exhibition hall. Two men rode down behind them, both of them white guys, both of them in their thirties, both of them with the fleshy look of good drink and good food and not enough exercise.

“—seriously, her kids, man,” one of them was saying. They both laughed.

“Thank God we took an Uber,” the other one said.

Sam dug his thumb into a spot between his eyebrows. It was too bad, he thought, urban myths were just myths. The one about shoelaces on the escalator. The one about getting chewed up by the escalator’s teeth.

The exhibition hall thrummed with its familiar energy. Attendees wandered from booth to booth, picking up complimentary keychains and flash drives and portfolio cases. Men—especially older, white men—came together in clumps and knots, ignoring the booths and the exhibits as they shook hands and laughed. A loud crack echoed through the hall, and Sam turned to see an older, balding man with a double chin laughing, while a girl who had to be a third his age tottered away on kitten heels. She was rubbing her backside and fighting to cover a look of outrage with a look of flirtatious amusement.

“Don’t any of them carry guns?” Sam murmured. “There’d be a lot less ass-slapping if they knew they could get their dicks shot off.”

Rufus pulled his lanyard over his head and passed it to Sam. “Hold this. I’ll go kick him in the nuts until he’s singing soprano.”

Grinning, Sam caught Rufus’s arm as they got off the escalator and tugged him away from the temptation.

A quick glance at the convention program gave them nothing; Evangeline Ridgeway wasn’t scheduled on any panels for the rest of the afternoon. Neither was Colonel Bridges or Delmer Jolly or anyone from Conasauga. Lew hadn’t appeared in any official presence in the convention schedule, and Sam figured whatever Lew’s role, it had less to do with PowerPoints and more to do with beating people with socks full of pennies. He was willing to admit that might have been his imagination talking.

“Evangeline held on to the press release for a reason,” Sam said when he and Rufus found a quiet spot against a wall. “And whatever the reason, she doesn’t want to share. When we tried to talk to her, she blew smoke up our asses. I’d like to see what she has to say when we show it to her and ask about Shareed.”

Rufus watched Sam carefully. “I agree. Del wasn’t taking the bait, but considering we found that in her room?” He shrugged, watched a gaggle of older men acting like college kids walk by, then added, “But if we’re going to show our hand, we need to be careful. She’s got a femme fatale thing going on.”

Sam grunted. “Any ideas on where to find her?”

Pointing at a sign offering directions, Rufus said, “When she gave you the cold shoulder, she said that old geezer owed her a coffee. The center’s café or bar might be a good bet, since she’s not on any panels.”

It turned out there was not one but two Starbucks inside the Javits. Because of course there were. Because it was fucking New York. The second-floor Starbucks was thronged by men and women in hipsterish gear: layers of sweaters and scarves and obnoxiously orange vests. One of them, with a ratty beard, was proclaiming loudly that he was only drinking the coffee because it would take too long to walk to an environmentally friendly, locally owned coffee shop, which he preferred to support because of the ethical concerns—

At which point, Sam stopped listening.

“I think we found the Habitat for Halibut crowd,” he said, and then he pushed a long-haired guy in a distressed leather jacket out of his way and headed for the escalators.

The third-floor Starbucks was overrun by corporate types, but not the kind who were thronging the defense-contractor convention. For one thing, there were more women in this crowd. For another, although many of them were obviously proud of how expensive their clothes were, they were all dressed down compared to the defense executives—instead of suits and skirts, polos and khakis. A pair of generously endowed young women pranced past Sam and Rufus. They had been squeezed into tight pink t-shirts that said JUGHEADS, and the six-inch heels brought both of them to Sam’s height. One of them was asking about supplier restrictions and bulk-order discounts.

“And here we have the franchise expo,” Sam muttered. “Where the fuck is she?”

“Maybe she’s moved on to day drinking,” Rufus answered in a distracted manner. He was watching the women walk away. He put his hands to his chest and asked, “How’d they get into those shirts? It’s like stuffing ten pounds of shit into a five-pound bag.”

“Good Lord,” Sam said and, of course, had to look again.

The Javits bar was on the ground floor. Like the rest of the convention center, it had a sleek, modern design: glass and stainless steel, pale woods and glowing polished-aggregate concrete. The crowd was smaller, although the hostess who passed them near the door had rings of sweat under her arms and slowed only long enough to wave them in, a gesture that Sam guessed meant “any open seat.” The defense types seemed to dominate the day-drinking crowd. No sign of Evangeline.

Sam stepped aside to let a couple of older men in suits pass. “Motherfucker,” he growled.

Rufus tapped Sam’s arm and inclined his chin toward a high top at the midpoint between the bar and the booths against the wall. “There’s that dumbass who was talking to Evangeline’s chest this morning.”

Sure enough, the young man whom Evangeline had called Anson was trying to strike up a conversation with an impeccably put-together blonde in a navy suit. Anson clearly had no idea that the woman was out of his league. He also didn’t seem to be aware that women’s ears were not co-located with their nipples. While Sam watched, the woman slid out of her seat, collected a small purse, said something with a smile that made Anson flinch and lean back in his chair, and clicked away on her heels. Anson made a delayed expression of outrage. Something about his hair and suit suggested, to Sam, anyway, Dartmouth. And lots of masturbation.

“God bless America,” Sam said. “Come on. This asshole is going to get us Evangeline.”

Rufus took the lead, winding his way through the tables and crowds. He came to a stop behind Anson, took a big step to the right, and then plopped his elbows on the tabletop. “Hey, bud.” He glanced in the direction the blonde had gone and then gave Anson a nudge. “Win some, lose some, eh?”

“Excuse me?” Anson asked.

“She’s out of your league,” Rufus explained. “But hey, she’s outta mine too. Don’t get so worked up.”

“Um, who are you?”

“Your new wingman,” Rufus answered, giving Anson a second nudge. “Tip number one, stop looking at their boobs. It’s too obvious. Go for the throat. That way you can do a quick flick up and down. It’s less noticeable.”

“Yeah, ok, whatever.” Anson squirmed to the edge of his seat.

Sam shook his head and said, “No.”

Anson sank back into his chair. He didn’t exactly gulp, but he did get a little cheese-faced. He looked at Sam. Then he looked at Rufus. “I don’t—I’m just having a drink, ok? I don’t know what you want.”

“Calm down, dude.” Rufus smiled again. “I’m just trying to help you out. You know who I think would be perfect for you? Evangeline Ridgeway. D’you know her?”

Music came on the bar’s speakers. It was something poppy, and Sam didn’t recognize it. Anson flinched at the sudden rush of sound. Then he contorted himself, trying to look past Sam toward the bar’s exit.

“Focus,” Sam told him.

“Yeah, like, I know her.” Anson seemed to think about this and added, “Or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Rufus repeated with a knowing grin. “How about you give her a call? A text? I bet you’ve got her business card, right? I bet that was the first thing you asked for.”

“Uh, she airdropped me her contact info.” Anson didn’t exactly add duh , but it was clearly a struggle.

Rufus said to Sam, “Now he’s just showing off.” Looking at Anson again, Rufus said, “Go ahead and use that technology. Give her a call. Come on .” He drew out “on” in a bro-ish attitude.

“I don’t think—I think I’m going to go.”

Sam made an interested noise and leaned forward, elbows on the back of the recently vacated chair.

This time, Anson did gulp. He pulled out his phone, glanced at Rufus—who was watching the screen—and tapped out a message. A moment later, his phone chimed.

“She, uh. She says she’s finishing up a meeting. She’ll be here, um, soon.” Anson blinked rapidly. “You know.”

“Great,” Sam said. “In the meantime, you can tell us what you know about her and—”

The scream cut through the convention center’s din. A woman’s scream. Sam spun and sprinted toward the bar’s exit.

He was too late. He wished he’d been later.

She hit twice: the up-escalator’s rubber handrail, with the distinct crunch of breaking bones, and then the polished concrete floor on ground level. That sound was wetter, like a melon splitting. Sam stared into Evangeline’s face. Her features were blank in death and distorted by the impact of her landing.

Then he looked up and saw Lew turning away from the third-floor railing.