families, giving them little gifts and big bonuses. And yet there was something about him, as though he were a hooded cobra hiding inside a teddy bear.
The old man sat in his leather-bound throne of an office chair behind his gleaming desk and smiled. "Bill. How's the arm?"
Phipps, rueful, gestured with his right arm. He didn't move it much; in its cast, hampered by the sling, it wasn't very mobile and still gave him shooting pains. "Could be worse. I can't wait to catch up to the guy who kicked me. He got his lucky shot in. Next time I kill the son of a bitch."
"No need to curse, Bill. But, yes, you'll get that chance. Do you have some news?"
"We found her." Phipps set the manila folder in front of the old man. His employer flipped it open and peered at the files and photographs it contained.
"The woman is Elaine Carpenter, born Elaine Johnson, one of her friends from high school. The man is James Carpenter, her husband. She works with a suicide hotline part-time. He's a tax lawyer. They live in Connecticut, and this Donohue girl is staying with them."
"Good, good. How did you find out?"
"I had Costigan make up some of those instant business cards out of a machine. General Carpentry. Gave one to every apartment manager on the block and quoted nice high rates. But for the manager of the girl's building, he had a special offer. A low, low introductory rate. And—surprise!—it turns out the manager had a door he wanted repaired. We gave it to him dirt cheap . . . and while Costigan was doing the repairs, he asked the manager how the door got broken." Phipps smiled in rich appreciation. "The manager told him the story. Also, how he had to collect the girl's mail and send it to her, since her keys were lost. Costigan got him alone and asked him a few questions."
"And?"
"And then he finished fixing the door."
"No, I mean—the manager?"
"Oh. He's gone on a river cruise. He may pop up in a few months."
The old man crinkled a smile at Phipps' word-play. "Good. We'll visit Miss Donohue again tonight, after the house is asleep. Do you have a man in place?"
"Naturally. I'll have the device out to him within the hour."
"Excellent." The old man waved him away. But as Phipps reached the door, he called, "Bill?"
"Yes?"
"If you had the choice, would you lead an army, rule a nation, or retire to a life of decadent self-gratification?"
Phipps smiled. He never knew whether the old man were testing or taunting, so he always answered honestly. "I'd take the army."
"I knew it. Go on, then. Get someone who is good at intrusion. And make yourself ready at moonrise."
Chapter Eight
The site foreman, a squat man who waddled comically as he walked, but looked as though he could bench-press an I-beam, guided Doc and Harris to the open-faced elevator. He handed a pair of long-cuffed leather gloves to each of them. "Joseph's up eighty," he said. "My best man. He's not in trouble?"
"No trouble," Doc said, and put the elevator into motion. He donned the gloves, and Harris followed suit.
As the elevator rose, Harris watched the metal girders flash by. "These look like the ones at home. Steel I-beams and H-beams."
"Yes."
"They're steel? I thought you people had a problem with that."
Doc nodded. "That's why he gave us gloves. You don't need them; I do. Workers wear very heavy protective gear so they never touch the metal. Hundreds die every year from heat; and in spite of the fact that they try to hire only those with some immunity, many others die of poisoning. But if we're to have modern towers, we have to have steel frames." There was a melancholy light in his eye that Harris found unsettling.
Harris drew off his gloves again. "I guess when you put up all the wood and Sheetrock around the girders, it's safe to live in."
"Not entirely. I invented a process to bond neutral agents against the steel when it's all erected, and that is how the Monarch Building was crafted; but not every builder uses it, as it's costly. And when
The old man sat in his leather-bound throne of an office chair behind his gleaming desk and smiled. "Bill. How's the arm?"
Phipps, rueful, gestured with his right arm. He didn't move it much; in its cast, hampered by the sling, it wasn't very mobile and still gave him shooting pains. "Could be worse. I can't wait to catch up to the guy who kicked me. He got his lucky shot in. Next time I kill the son of a bitch."
"No need to curse, Bill. But, yes, you'll get that chance. Do you have some news?"
"We found her." Phipps set the manila folder in front of the old man. His employer flipped it open and peered at the files and photographs it contained.
"The woman is Elaine Carpenter, born Elaine Johnson, one of her friends from high school. The man is James Carpenter, her husband. She works with a suicide hotline part-time. He's a tax lawyer. They live in Connecticut, and this Donohue girl is staying with them."
"Good, good. How did you find out?"
"I had Costigan make up some of those instant business cards out of a machine. General Carpentry. Gave one to every apartment manager on the block and quoted nice high rates. But for the manager of the girl's building, he had a special offer. A low, low introductory rate. And—surprise!—it turns out the manager had a door he wanted repaired. We gave it to him dirt cheap . . . and while Costigan was doing the repairs, he asked the manager how the door got broken." Phipps smiled in rich appreciation. "The manager told him the story. Also, how he had to collect the girl's mail and send it to her, since her keys were lost. Costigan got him alone and asked him a few questions."
"And?"
"And then he finished fixing the door."
"No, I mean—the manager?"
"Oh. He's gone on a river cruise. He may pop up in a few months."
The old man crinkled a smile at Phipps' word-play. "Good. We'll visit Miss Donohue again tonight, after the house is asleep. Do you have a man in place?"
"Naturally. I'll have the device out to him within the hour."
"Excellent." The old man waved him away. But as Phipps reached the door, he called, "Bill?"
"Yes?"
"If you had the choice, would you lead an army, rule a nation, or retire to a life of decadent self-gratification?"
Phipps smiled. He never knew whether the old man were testing or taunting, so he always answered honestly. "I'd take the army."
"I knew it. Go on, then. Get someone who is good at intrusion. And make yourself ready at moonrise."
Chapter Eight
The site foreman, a squat man who waddled comically as he walked, but looked as though he could bench-press an I-beam, guided Doc and Harris to the open-faced elevator. He handed a pair of long-cuffed leather gloves to each of them. "Joseph's up eighty," he said. "My best man. He's not in trouble?"
"No trouble," Doc said, and put the elevator into motion. He donned the gloves, and Harris followed suit.
As the elevator rose, Harris watched the metal girders flash by. "These look like the ones at home. Steel I-beams and H-beams."
"Yes."
"They're steel? I thought you people had a problem with that."
Doc nodded. "That's why he gave us gloves. You don't need them; I do. Workers wear very heavy protective gear so they never touch the metal. Hundreds die every year from heat; and in spite of the fact that they try to hire only those with some immunity, many others die of poisoning. But if we're to have modern towers, we have to have steel frames." There was a melancholy light in his eye that Harris found unsettling.
Harris drew off his gloves again. "I guess when you put up all the wood and Sheetrock around the girders, it's safe to live in."
"Not entirely. I invented a process to bond neutral agents against the steel when it's all erected, and that is how the Monarch Building was crafted; but not every builder uses it, as it's costly. And when
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