Heaven Is High (29 page)

“Let her go in by way of the courthouse, escorted by Alan.” Alan McCagno was his favorite and best operative, and Alan looked like a perennial college freshman. “They should use the parking lot across from the courthouse, go in through the tunnel, up to the second floor and courtroom two. You tag along and keep an eye out. The Sutherland embezzlement trial is happening and there are a lot of witnesses. No one will pay any attention to how long they stay in the back as interested observers, until you tell them the coast is clear. Then use the sky bridge to come across to the federal building.”

“And you?”

“I'll get to the federal building early, a little after eight, and hang out in the Social Security outer office. If anyone asks me why, I'll say I'm waiting for my aunt to help her fill out forms.”

“I don't like it,” Bailey said. “Too loose, too many unknowns. There's a bunch of guys prowling around and, Barbara, I don't aim to get involved in a shoot-out in the fed's own building, not with all those U.S. marshals around. Not a good idea.”

She rose to go to the bed and find her yellow pad in the briefcase. She sat down again and made a sketch of the building lobby. “The Social Security office has a glass front,” she said, roughing it in. “Over here, IRS and immigration offices. From here,” she said, putting her pen on the Social Security office, “I'll be able to keep an eye out. You've got pictures of the goons, all but one anyway. I know what Nicholson looks like if he shows up, and I can watch for two suits entering the immigration office. I won't budge until I see them, and not at all if I see a guy who looks like any of those pictures. One of them will be kept busy watching Martin. Maybe they'll even send a second one to help keep an eye on Martin, in the belief that he's waiting for Binnie. Meanwhile, you can nose around and spot the others if they're there. I think a tip to the marshals that a suspicious guy who looks like he's carrying might interrupt their game plan.”

He reached across the short distance to the bed and got another beer. “They're getting warm,” he said.

She pointed to the small refrigerator. He shrugged and opened the beer.

“I don't think I'll be their primary target,” she said. “I think they'll want Binnie first. Remember, they don't know what all I know, or that we're on to them, and they don't know what I can produce regarding her. If she's out of the way, Nicholson can crawl back under his rock, never to be seen in these parts again. Even if I can prove she's Anaia's child, if she's dead Julius Santos is still next in line for the estate. At least until he's under lock and key, plus wearing an anklet for the next few decades.”

Bailey began pointing out other problems with her plan. He suggested alternates and did not object when she shot them down. He was morose when they returned to the only one they both agreed had a chance of working, and for the next hour they smoothed out details.

She had made a second pot of coffee and he had emptied three bottles of beer when she stood and said, “I told Martin you'd call and tell them when to be ready to go in the morning. And remember to give the umbrella to Alan. See you in the feds' own building tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You've done a lot of running around today. Maybe you should knock it off and order in a pizza or something later, and stay out of sight. I'd hate to have you a no-show in the morning.”

“I'd hate it even more,” she said with a nod. “I made copies of everything I have,” she said then. “Wait a second while I untangle things and put copies in an envelope.” She did not look at him as she added, “I want you to keep the extra copies. You know, insurance or something. If necessary give it all to Dad.”

She made sure she had it all divided, and put one of each in a big envelope. When she handed it to him, he looked as grim as she felt, but neither one commented.

She glanced at the messy bed. “That's it. I still have some work to do, and I would like to catch up on sleep. See you in the morning.”

He edged around the table and went to the door, where he paused a moment, then saluted and left without another word.

What else was there to say? she thought as she went to the bed to spread out documents, articles, and photographs.

*   *   *

It was always a mild degree of chaos at that time of morning Barbara well knew, seven thirty to eight thirty, with arriving jurors, clerks, secretaries, other staff members, trial junkies, all vying for the limited parking spaces in the lot across Seventh Avenue from the courthouse. That morning, with a hard rain and gusting wind, the chaos was worse than usual as the drivers all tried to get as close as possible to the tunnel under the busy street. She sat in her car for a minute or two, waiting for the inevitable car pool to disgorge several people together. When she spotted a van pulling into a parking space one lane over, she got out and hurried to join the four people who had emerged and were already rushing toward the tunnel. Joining them, she held her umbrella over herself and a woman without one. The woman smiled and said thanks and they hurried on.

Inside the courthouse there were clumps of people heading for the cafeteria, others hurrying to various offices on the main floor, many heading for the stairs to the upper floors with the courtrooms and the sky bridge to the federal building across the street. Again she dawdled, waiting for several people to start across the sky bridge in a group, and she fell in with them. Along with several of them, she turned toward the lobby on the other side, but crowds of people there caught her by surprise. Tables had been set up, and people were lining up in front of them, more crowding in through the main doors.

“What's going on?” she asked a woman walking at her side.

“AARP, helping folks with their taxes,” the woman said. “It's going to be like this right up to April fifteenth.” She kept going toward the far side of the lobby, and Barbara turned right to go to the Social Security office.

Inside the glass-fronted outer office she looked out at the lobby and said, “Shit,” under her breath. All she could see were the backs of the tax advisers and dozens of people in lines beyond them, with others milling about at racks of tax forms, or streaming around them all to get to other offices. It was fifteen minutes past eight. “The best-laid plans,” she muttered under her breath, and stepped to one side where she could still see the lobby and not be in the way of those entering or leaving the Social Security office.

People entered, took a number, and waited patiently to be called when other people emerged from the back room. Some went to a wall of racks holding pamphlets and leaflets: “How to Figure Your Benefits”; “Espousal Benefits”; “A Guide to Medicare”…

The outer office was getting steamy and smelled of wet clothes, wet shoes, wet hair.… In the lobby, even more crowded than before, it was getting harder to single out any one individual in the constantly shifting crowd seeking income tax help. Barbara had located the upper part of the door leading to the immigration office, but could not see past the bodies between her and it. She kept her eye on the top of the door. It opened at twenty minutes before nine, but she got no more than a glimpse of the back of a woman going in. A receptionist or secretary, she decided. It opened two more times in the next ten minutes, but one time she could not see anyone entering, and the last time, a glimpse again, the back of a tall man in a black raincoat.

A man nudged her arm. “I think you were here before me,” he said, holding a number.

“Thanks, but you go on. I'm waiting for my aunt.”

He nodded. “It's a bad morning. Hope she isn't too late.” He walked toward the door to the back.

She moved to the information rack and picked up a sheet with instructions about applying for disability benefits for a dependent adult. Bailey walked in and straight to the rack and began searching for something.

“Okay in the courtroom,” he said in a low voice. “Martin in place, one guy nearby, and a marshal. Marshal near the immigration door. Another guy by the sky bridge this side, and two in parked cars on the streets.”

She nodded and glanced at her watch. “Can't see a thing out there. At two minutes before nine, I'll head over.”

In a near whisper, Bailey said, “Marshal at immigration, sandy hair, five nine, tan coat, black pants.” Then in a carrying voice, he asked, “Where are the tax forms? Schedule C?”

“Wrong office, buddy,” someone behind Barbara said. He sounded impatient, irritated. “Out there where all the people are.”

Bailey turned back toward the door. “Thanks, pal.”

“Some damn fools can't read a sign to save their lives,” the man said in disgust when the door closed behind Bailey.

Barbara replaced the paper she had been holding and moved closer to the door. She tried to see past many people, tried to find the marshal in a tan coat, and failed. What were they up to? The imported goons on the job along with marshals didn't make a lot of sense. A backup plan if Binnie made it past the guns? Have a marshal grab her and squirrel her away somewhere? Send her on her way to a holding center for deportees? It would be neater that way and the end result would be the same. Avoiding the inevitable investigation of a shooting might be more desirable than any other option.

She checked her watch. One more minute, then out. When she left the Social Security office, she did not hesitate but walked quickly around the people at the tables, others at the information booklet rack, ignored Bailey, who was scanning tax forms. She had reached the door to the immigration office when she heard Bailey's voice.

“Hey, what's with you? Can't wait like the rest of us? Stop pushing.”

She glanced back to see him blocking the way of a man in a tan coat. She opened the door, entered the office. The marshal was right behind her. Without a word to the woman behind a desk, Barbara kept walking fast to a frosted glass door and pulled it open. The marshal was within reach when she entered the office and came to a dead stop. The marshal bumped into her as he rushed in also.

“Why, Mr. Nicholson,” Barbara said. “This is a surprise. I didn't expect to see you here this morning.”

He was seated behind a desk with a neat little Lucite name holder that said Dennis Linfield.

26

The marshal had come in at her heels. He touched Barbara's arm and said, “Ms. Holloway, please come with me.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said. “I don't even know who you are. Also, I'm here on official business by invitation of both Mr. Linfield and Mr. Sokolosky.”

The woman from the outer office had edged in as she spoke. “Mr. Linfield,” she said, flustered, “I'm sorry. She just walked right in before I could stop her.”

Barbara took another step away from the door. “Don't touch me again,” she said to the marshal. “Or I'll bring charges against you for assault.” She looked at a tall, thin man who had been standing near a window at the right of the desk. For a moment it appeared that he had an abnormally large head, but as he moved away from the window it became clear that he simply had a great deal of hair. “Mr. Linfield?”

“I'm Sokolosky. Who are you and what do you want here?”

“Barbara Holloway,” she said. “I was expecting Mr. Dennis Linfield and you.” She looked at the marshal, who appeared to be confused. “Did you have orders, perhaps, to restrain me when I arrived?”

He looked at Nicholson and made no response.

“What is the meaning of all this?” Sokolosky demanded.

“Mr. Sokolosky, if I might make a suggestion, it seems a bit crowded in here at the moment. Perhaps this gentleman and lady could leave us to conduct our business. But before they leave, I'd really like an answer to my question. Was he ordered to restrain me when I appeared?”

Sokolosky looked at the marshal. “Were you?”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Whose order?” Sokolosky demanded.

“Mr. Linfield's.”

“Get out. Both of you.”

The woman scurried out and the marshal followed.

“Now,” Sokolosky said to Barbara, “you tell me what the hell is going on here? Who is Nicholson?”

“He is,” she said, pointing to him. “At least, that's what he said his name was when he came to my house. He showed me photo identification from the Drug Enforcement Agency with that name on it.” She glanced at Nicholson, who was staring at her, his face livid. “I didn't realize the government appointed anyone for dual positions, especially under two different names.”

Nicholson snapped, “This woman is a raving maniac. I never saw her before in my life.” His grating voice was even higher-pitched than it had been before, almost hysterical sounding.

“Mr. Nicholson, come now,” Barbara said. “Actually this is the fourth time you've seen me. Twice at my house, if you'll recall.” She turned again to Sokolosky. “The last time I saw Mr. Nicholson was at the Santos plantation in Belize last Saturday.”

“I've never been to Belize,” Nicholson said. “I told you she's a lunatic, and she's obstructing the deportation of an illegal alien immigrant. She aided her escape, has hidden her away, and the woman is a fugitive.”

“When you came to my house, as I recall,” Barbara said thoughtfully, “it was raining heavily. I hear it hasn't rained since then. I wonder if that identification is still in your raincoat pocket.”

His gaze flickered to a coatrack where his wet raincoat was hanging. He said furiously, standing, leaning forward with both hands on his desk. “I demand that you leave this office immediately or I'll have the marshal place you under arrest.” His voice was a near screech, the words nearly incoherent.

“But you already told him to do that, didn't you?” she said. “On sight, it seems, without waiting for me to obstruct in any way. Mr. Sokolosky, I prefer to say no more in the presence of Mr. Nicholson since I'll bring charges against him of intimidation, false representation of a federal officer of the Drug Enforcement Agency, extortion, and of attempting the illegal deportation of my client Mrs. Lavinia Owens, as well as a few other felonies and misdemeanors which I'm confident will surface in the next few days as I have more time to consider the recent past.”