The Council House (The Impoverished Book 3) Read online

  “Not exactly.”

  “I’ll start the coffee,” she said, and pulled him inside.

  Knowing the truth is much safer

  than staying in denial.

  —David Wilcock

  Chapter 16

  Mel parked in the Central Park Precinct’s lot and strolled along the Eighty-Fifth Street transverse. She reached the first intersecting footpath, hesitated for a moment, and checked her wristwatch. Plenty of time to report to her assignment. A short-cut through the park wasn’t necessary, but the leaves were changing color and everything looked so pretty. The ugliness of downtown hadn’t affected Central Park. Besides it would be dark on her return trip, and she’d have to stick to the roadway then. Easy decision. She turned left and strolled south along the footpath.

  Soon the spectacular glass enclosure of the Hayden Planetarium poked through thinning branches. She looked for a path heading west, toward the street. Within minutes she stepped out of the park. Her destination was just across the street.

  While waiting for the traffic light to change, she admired the grand staircase of the American Museum of Natural History. Looking upward, she noticed large letters engraved above the fifty-foot stone archway.

  TRUTH. KNOWLEDGE. VISION. The bold words took her breath away. Over her lifetime, she’d visited the museum a handful of times, but had never noticed the engraved lettering before. But today, they demanded her attention. She had prayed for the vision to see truth and find knowledge about the attacks, and God had heard her. She was staring at his answer.

  The light changed and she crossed Central Park West. Her gaze kept darting back to the words until she was too close to read them. With an inhale, she trotted up the stairs to the museum. A security guard stood outside the only open door and with a quick smile she flashed her shield and identification card. She stepped inside and starred at the huge T. rex, remembering the dinosaur from school trips.

  She slowly walked deeper inside the main hall, scoping out doorways and windows for sniper vantage points and mentally noting emergency escape routes. Things she’d never considered as a child.

  A man in a dark blue blazer peeked out from the security room.

  She waved and held out her shield. “Intel sent me. I’m your dignitary protection for the evening’s fundraiser.”

  “Ronald Talbort, head of security. I’ll be right out.” He ducked back inside the room.

  A moment later he reappeared and handed her a packet of papers. “I ran off copies for you.”

  “Thanks.” She flipped through the pages, studying the event agenda and building floorplan. After reviewing the guest list, she whistled, recognizing famous names. “I’m surprised the West Coast guests didn’t cancel.”

  “The celebs are a bit nervous about visiting the city. Some insisted on bringing their own security.” He shrugged. “Under the circumstances, I complied.”

  Mel nodded. “We can use the extra eyes and muscle, if the need arises.” Sometimes rules needed to be broken, she supposed. “Dignitary Protection planned a five-man detail, but Intel could spare only me.”

  Even she wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t dialed roll call this morning, right after the medical division cleared her to return to full duty. The roll call officer had asked her to cover Dewer Rock’s philanthropic fundraiser and she’d said yes on the spot. It was only after she hung up that she realized she didn’t have a babysitter.

  “Totally understandable.” Talbort straightened his American flag lapel pin. “I’m grateful you’re here.”

  “Lucky you,” she said with a smile. She skimmed the employee list, wishing she had conducted criminal history checks on every staff member. But only a few computers were connected to federal and state databases and they were dedicated to investigating leads on the attacks. “How was the wait staff vetted?”

  “Repeat workers hired by our human resources specialist.”

  “That’s good.” So checks had been done sometime in the recent past. She flipped through the pages, but didn’t find a vendor list. “Do you expect any deliveries?”

  “The flower truck left a few minutes ago.” He checked his notepad. “That was the last one.”

  “How many bodies in your security detail?”

  “Ten visible at the event and ten more patrolling adjacent buildings and grounds.”

  “Well, Mr. Talbort.” She smiled. “You’ve got everything covered. I’m basically obsolete here.”

  He shook his head. “It’s reassuring to have a direct line to the police department, in case something should happen.”

  “Well. I’m happy to be here.” She smiled and tapped her Nextel. “Me and my direct line. If you need any assistance at all, please let me know.”

  He looked at his wristwatch. “It’s time to post my men.” He shook her hand. “Thank you, Detective.”

  Mel let out a slow breath as she watched him walk down the hall. With an efficient man like him in charge, she was free to do her thing. Now that she knew the event’s agenda, she could plot her meeting with the host.

  Dewer Rock wasn’t just the chairman of the Council, he was also president of countless philanthropic organizations. And tonight’s fundraiser, for the Mayan Village Exhibit, was being hosted by his historical society.

  An improvised meeting should reveal his true character, at least, she hoped it would. A person’s immediate reaction was hard to fake and the most telling. While at Eva’s apartment earlier, Mel had hatched a crazy plan to test Dewer Rock’s character.

  Eva, bless her kind heart, had agreed to watch the baby until Mark got home. When Mel dropped Hope off at Eva’s apartment, she questioned her about her boss, but her friend didn’t have much to say. Whenever Dewer Rock arrived at the Council House his driver parked in the alleyway, she explained. He used the back entrance and the elevator, and mostly corresponded with employees through e-mails.

  Mel pressed her to mention anything at all, no matter how trivial. Eva scrunched her eyebrows and wiggled her nose. “What is it?” Mel asked.

  “He has never entered a church, synagogue, or mosque for as long as I’ve worked for him.”

  “Doesn’t he attend functions in houses of worship, even as a guest of honor?”

  Eva shook her head. “He always gets out of it with last-minute shuffling. One time, I was sent in his place to the Russian Orthodox Cathedral.”

  “Maybe he’s an atheist,” Mel said. “Even so, would he really be that uncomfortable around religious symbols?”

  “Perhaps people of faith make him nervous. As soon as I entered the cathedral that day, a comforting warmth filled my chest. Maybe he would have felt the opposite.”

  Eva had a point. Mel felt a heartening sensation every Sunday after she received communion. One’s particular religion was unimportant, but faith or lack thereof, might have real power, positive or negative. Maybe Dewer Rock couldn’t handle the positive energy given off by a congregation of believers. And that’s when the idea came to her.

  “Eva, I’m going to try something outlandish when I meet Dewer Rock tonight. But if nothing happens, I never want Mark or Richie to know what I did. I feel silly enough saying it out loud, even to you.”

  And Eva had said to go for it.

  That settled it! Before heading to her car, Mel had stopped at her apartment to retrieve the small flask of holy water she kept on the kitchen counter.

  Mel was thankful for Eva’s encouragement now that she was getting cold feet. Digging for courage, she patted the front pocket of her pants, where she had stashed the flask. Please show me whether Dewer Rock is consumed by human greed, an inherited elitist madness, or plain evil. She took a deep breath and walked into the Mayan Village Exhibit room.

  And was struck by the elegant set up. How could the man display such civility and also be involved in a horrendous terrorist attack? Were they wrong about him? Did the Council have those incriminating studies for a valid reason?

  The room looked inviting and charming. Ten cr
eam-colored upholstered chairs encircled each table. Gold napkins, folded like flowers, bloomed from crystal goblets. Forty round tables, draped with gold-trimmed tableclothes, were arranged in front of the exhibits. Mr. Talbort must have given the event-production firm a table diagram because there was ample space between tables, in case of an emergency evacuation.

  A podium stood front and center. Mel checked the evening’s agenda and seating plan again. After Dewer Rock delivered a greeting, he would sit at the table in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The planetarium’s blue glow would serve as a backdrop for an after-dinner photo session.

  Next to the bar, a mini-orchestra was set up and Mel smiled, anticipating top-quality music. She realized there was no down-side to her plan. A little holy water couldn’t hurt him, unless. . . she sighed. And if the water didn’t affect him, he’d probably assume her hand was damp from holding a drink. Yep, the plan was a go.

  She turned to patrol the room’s perimeter once more, and two dozen musicians settled into their chairs. Some tuned their instruments, the rest sat quietly, at the ready. She checked her wristwatch. The event would begin any minute.

  In the shadows, between the orchestra and bar, Mel pressed her back against the wall and let out a satisfied breath. She had found the perfect vantage point.

  The room began to fill with international dignitaries, Hollywood stars, and East Coast celebrities. Mel smiled whenever someone passed, even though she had melded into the background. Just the way she wanted it. Unobtrusive and watchful.

  The guests settled into their seats and Dewer Rock arrived and approached the podium. A ten-thousand dollar suit and alligator oxfords did little to camouflage his decrepit body. Grasping the wooden edges with both hands, he caught his breath for a few minutes. “Thank you for coming, and for your generous donations,” he said, and rested his elbows on the podium. After pausing a moment, he cleared his throat. “You are the first to view these remarkable exhibitions. I hope you enjoy the magnificent contributions the Mayans have made to humanity.” He slowly waved an arm toward the main display. “The Mayan Village Exhibit opens to the public tomorrow. Please explore the displays and enjoy the evening.”

  The guests applauded and the orchestra began to play “New York, New York” while Dewer Rock shuffled back to his seat. One of the guests, a three-time Tony Award winner, began to sing. The other guests joined her, one voice at a time, until the whole room pulsated with a powerful chorus. They rose as they sang, tears trickling down their cheeks and grabbed each other’s hands. Mel forgot why she was there and fell under the impromptu sing-a-long’s spell. She dabbed her eyes and added her own voice to the group singing for New York City. Everyone in the room sang, except Dewer Rock. He didn’t even stand.

  After dinner, the guests formed a line alongside Dewer Rock’s table. Since he had declined to stand in front of the window, the seat next to him was vacated for photos. Mel watched him from across the room. He was struggling to hold his head up. Must be past the old man’s bedtime. The photo opportunity was the real reason the fundraiser drew such a high price, so he was obliged to stay until all the guests had had a turn. The celebrities coveted the picture with the rich philanthropist—something to display among their Golden Globes, Tonys, or Oscars.

  Mel hopped on the back of the line. She didn’t want the picture, but this was her opportunity to meet him. She opened the plastic flask and sprinkled holy water onto her right palm. Is this sacrilege? She bit her lip and said a silent “Act of Contrition.”

  The line moved quickly. Dewer Rock must be too tired to talk. When it was her turn, Mel eased herself onto the empty chair next to him. The up-close view of his red, blotchy face was unsettling. She hadn’t expected him to look so unhealthy. She forced a smile just as the camera flashed.

  “It is interesting to meet you, sir.” She held out her hand.

  He didn’t even look at her.

  “Thanks for the photo,” she said, still holding her hand out. The smug aristocrat won’t shake my hand. “My friends at the Intelligence Division won’t believe that I’ve met you without the picture.”

  His head snapped up, reminding her of a reptile about to catch a fly. “I’m always glad to accommodate the New York City Police Department.” He clasped her hand, took a sharp breath, and then yanked it away.

  Mel’s hand flew to the nape of her neck. Oh my dear Lord. Her mind did not make sense of the faint sizzling sounds until she caught a whiff of burning flesh. Tiny blisters bubbled on his palm, and her stomach bubbled. Fighting the instinct to run from the table—away from him, away from his smell—she chewed the inside of her cheek and counted backward from five to one.

  After “one Mississippi,” cop mode kicked in and she signaled a waiter. “Bring some ice, right away!”

  Dewer Rock stared at his hand, his mouth agape. More blisters were erupting on his palm where the holy water had touched his skin.

  She flipped open her cell phone, surprised that her hand did not shake, much. “I’ll call EMS.”

  “No.” He swallowed. “It’s just an allergic reaction.”

  Feeling a bit warm, she unbuttoned her collar and waved a hand over her chest. A gold crucifix, blessed by her parish priest the day she became a police officer, rested below her collarbone and above her heart. A comforting warmth spread across her chest and she looked down, and suppressed a gasp. The crucifix was shining like never before. “What are you allergic to, Mr. Rock?”

  He squinted and turned his head away.

  “I asked you a question.”

  The waiter rushed over with an ice bucket. Mel dumped ice cubes onto a dinner napkin and folded it.

  “Give me your hand.” She cringed at the thought of touching his scaly skin again, but was inspired by the tingling over her heart. Dewer Rock may be evil, but the sensation from the crucifix reassured her that good existed too.

  He clawed at the bundled ice with his left hand and elbowed her hand away. She let him have the ice. Gladly.

  He signaled another waiter. “Have my driver bring the Rolls around.”

  “Nice getting to know you, sir,” she said and began to stand. She looked down at him for a moment, waiting for a reply. He twisted to one side, showing her his round back. So the chicken refuses to engage. She strode away, strong and steady. On the inside, her legs were spongy and her belly, jelly.

  She skirted the room’s perimeter, pretending to oversee the affair, and hoped none of the guests would notice the sweat beads on her forehead or her heart thumping through her chest. By the time she reached the ladies’ room, her face was glistening with sweat. She splashed cool water on her cheeks and ducked into a stall.

  As soon as the stall door clicked shut, she slumped onto the marble toilet lid. What kind of man was allergic to holy water? Goose bumps tingled from the back of her neck to her toes.

  Chapter 17

  Richie glanced at the time display on his Nextel. He’d be going off duty soon and hadn’t gleaned one piece of actionable intelligence all evening. Tapping his pen on the four-foot-wide plywood board balanced across cinderblocks, he eyed the waiting area. Only one person remained onboard to report a tip.

  The NYPD had commandeered an old barge and Police Academy recruits had transformed it into a tip-hotline annex overnight. The recruits weren’t allowed to help the recovery at the pit, so they supported the investigation any way they could. Richie looked around; impressed by the make-shift interview room the recruits constructed from the cast-offs stored in the Police Academy’s subbasement.

  Four days after the attacks, phone service was still down near the site and would be indefinitely. A tip hotline was useless without a phone. So the relic, docked on the Hudson River just a block from the site, was quickly made safe enough for the public to climb aboard and report tips, day and night. Then detectives followed up on those tips right away.

  Richie interviewed tons of complainants—desperate people searching for survivors; workers and residents from Low
er Manhattan; tourists; and even a high school student. All had asked to speak with a detective. But they’d come for information, rather than to give any.

  Once again, Richie glanced at the bench next to the deck doorway and then again at the time. Might as well get the last interview over with.

  “Next!” he yelled and pointed at the battered wooden chair alongside his improvised desk.

  The man jumped from the bench and practically galloped over.

  “Name, please.”

  He handed Richie a food vendor’s license. He read the name.

  “Sit down, Mr. Ahmed.”

  The man sat but could barely stay still.

  “Do you have any information to report?”

  “Yes, sir.” He fidgeted in the chair.

  “What is it?”

  “A white van parked next to my cart.” He straightened up and his eyes widened. Manic, almost. “Men, dressed like Muslims, videotaped the flaming towers until they collapsed.”

  Resisting an urge to roll his eyes, Richie exhaled instead. Sure, Ahmed just hung around ground zero people watching while all hell was breaking lose. “Why didn’t you run?”

  “I was across the Hudson River, in Liberty Park. Near the station.”

  Richie glanced down at the vendor’s license again and squinted. Sure enough, issued in Jersey City. “Directly across from the World Trade Center?”

  Mr. Ahmed’s eyes glistened. “Most of my customers work in Lower Manhattan, and now some are dead, I’m sure,” he said.

  Richie remembered an Intel update regarding Muslims cheering the attacks, on the Jersey side of the river. They had been detained and then released. Was Ahmed talking about the same group? Richie reached for a fresh legal pad. “How many men did you see?”

  “Three young Israelis acting like crazy Muslims. They took turns filming and cheering. One of them, the driver, clicked a lighter and pointed the tiny flame at the towers.” Mr. Ahmed looked down. “He yelled ‘Ali Akbar.’”