For instance, it’s Frank’s understanding that there is considerable FBI skepticism about the explosives. Apparently, what led them to the apartment in the first place was a tip-off from an informant inside the protest movement regarding a firearms trail. All they had was a search warrant for this address. They had no idea what they were stumbling upon, and it was only the simultaneous tip-off from Ellen Dorsey that enabled them to get on top of things so fast.
But a subsequent trawl of their intelligence has turned up nothing that would indicate any explosives capability on the part of the Coady brothers.
What worries Frank is that if the FBI and JTTF think the explosives claim is a bluff, then they might do something reckless.
His second suspicion about what might be going on has to do with this much-rumored uncle who is supposed to be arriving from Florida. First, if it’s true, then where the fuck is he? It’s been over twenty hours already since this thing started, and last time Frank looked Florida was about a three-hour plane ride away, not nestled somewhere between Australia and New Zealand. And second, there seems to be a serious disagreement about the advisability of using this guy even if he does arrive-it has to do with some bullshit psych assessment of the family dynamics.
Frank’s third suspicion arises from that conversation he had this morning with Deb. She wouldn’t say anything more about it, wouldn’t elaborate or confirm, but the idea seemed to be that she and her husband-fucking Lloyd Hackler-would go on TV and talk about the situation.
Lloyd would talk about Lizzie.
His daughter.
Deb and Lloyd have been married for three years, and for two of those Lizzie has been away at college. So what’s he going to say about her?
It’s absurd.
And it’s not just the humiliation of being excluded. Frank feels that for sure. It’s also the question of motivation.
Why would Deb do this?
He doesn’t know.
She’s kept her distance all morning, spending most of it on the phone-but now, just in these last few minutes, Frank has noticed a slight increase in the levels of activity around her, and he can’t help thinking this is it.
She’s going to do it.
When Lloyd Hackler appears a short while later, it’s pretty much confirmed, and Frank’s stress levels skyrocket. Agitated, and only a few yards away, he looks on as a little group forms, Deb, Lloyd, a man he guesses to be some high-ranking TV executive, and Victoria Hannahoe, the preternaturally radiant anchor of a cable news show he can’t remember the name of. He watches as these people talk among themselves, smiling, throwing hand gestures around, and even, on occasion, laughing.
A few moments later, they begin to move away-where they’re going, Frank doesn’t know, but he starts to move as well, to follow them.
His heart pounding.
At which point an arm shoots across his chest and blocks his path.
“Frank, don’t.”
He turns to his left, and exhales in defeat. It’s Lenny Byron.
“Detective.”
“That look on your face, Frank. Bit of a giveaway. I’d stay here if I were you.”
“Yeah… okay.”
Byron lowers his arm.
Frank nods his head, indicating Deb and the others. “Where are they going exactly?”
Byron turns and watches as the group recedes down the street. “One of the trailers back there on Delancey. They’ve set up a temporary little, I don’t know, it’s like a little… studio or something. But-”
He pauses and makes a pained face. Byron is in his late thirties. He’s dark and handsome, but he looks overworked. He could also do with a shave and a haircut and a new suit.
“Yeah?”
“There’s something you should know. It’s not just going to be an interview with Victoria Hannahoe, they’re going to do it like a… sort of on-air appeal, and they’re going to run it directly into the apartment.”
“What?”
Frank feels weak, faint, as if his body is suddenly remembering it hasn’t slept in over thirty hours.
“It’s another… strategy,” Byron says, speaking almost under his breath now, and glancing around, “not necessarily what I’d do, but the Bureau’s running the show here.”
Frank tries to steady himself. “But what about me?” he says, with great effort. “I’m her father.”
“I know, Frank, I know.” Byron looks at him directly and maintains eye contact. “It’s a calculation on their part. They feel… they feel Lizzie is somehow in control in there now. That’s not based solely on the phone call, they have partial sightlines in through the various windows as well, and that’s just how they’re reading it. Julian has more or less folded. Apparently. And Alex is next.” He pauses. “So they think a direct appeal to Lizzie might work.”
“Appeal? Coming from Deb, maybe. But from Lloyd? You’ve got to be kidding me. She hates that prick. It’ll… it’ll backfire, if anything.” He breathes in hard, suddenly fighting back tears. “I should be doing this with Deb.” Then he says it again. “I’m her father.”
Byron nods, doesn’t look away. “Listen, Frank, I don’t know how up to speed you are on what’s been happening over the last few hours… out there.” He waves an arm in the air, indicating… what? The city? The world? “I’m talking about the Internet, Frank. You’ve been pretty much crucified. This guy you worked for, this Paloma guy, the area manager or something? Man, you must have really pissed him off, because he’s been bad-mouthing you a lot, and it’s caught on. Now you’re like some kind of fucking Bruce Banner character, I don’t know, some kind of ticking time bomb, and that’s not who they want in that trailer doing their little live broadcast.”
“But-”
Frank stops. What’s the point? This is a nightmare.
“Look, man,” Byron says, “I don’t know you from Adam, okay, but I know people, and this is clearly bullshit. You still have to be careful, though. So let me give you a piece of advice.”
Frank looks at him. He’s bewildered.
Advice?
“There’s going to be more of this,” Byron says. “One way or the other. And if you want to come through it, you’ll have to get some help. To mount a counterattack.”
“I don’t-”
“A press agent, someone in PR, a journalist who’s got your back, I don’t know. But right now, Frank, you’re a sitting duck for these people.”
A few minutes later, standing at the barrier, still numb from this latest shock, Frank starts patting down his pockets, then searching them one by one.
Ellen Dorsey gave him her card, and he took it. He didn’t throw it away. He put it somewhere.
He eventually finds it in his left back pocket.
He holds the card up to read the number on it. He takes out his phone and calls her.
The phone vibrating on the glass coffee table is what wakes her. She turns her head, looks at it, and lets it go to message. The phone is on silent, but it makes this low buzzy sound on a hard surface when it vibrates. She reaches out for it, groaning from the effort, and then sits upright on the couch. She looks at the display, doesn’t recognize the number.
She checks to see if there’s a message. There is. It’s from Frank Bishop.
There are messages from other people, too, five in total-that one just now from Frank, one an hour ago from Val Brady, one just before that from Liz Zambelli, and two much earlier from Max Daitch.
Everyone agitated.
But Frank the most, naturally.
All he said, in his shaky, tired voice, was Ellen, this is Frank Bishop. Please call me.
It occurs to her that she has no idea what’s going on. The last she knew of anything was sometime after 5 A.M. when she was in that bar on Norfolk Street with Val Brady.