Atlanta by posing as a janitor there. But here’s where we hit a roadblock.”
“Go ahead.”
“Now I trust Esme as much as anyone when it comes to this sort of thing, but this whole Unity for a Better Tomorrow connection—I mean, I’m here because you asked me to join you but if the key really is this organization or the Kellerman campaign or whatever, why isn’t he targeting them?”
Tom shrugged. “It’s a valid point.”
“Instead he runs into Darcy at Walmart and shoots her then and there. However, he confronts Esme at city hall but lets her live. Why?”
Tom stared out the window at the passing Midwestern architecture and remained silent.
“Fact of the matter is—we’re in the dark here, Tom. Maybe the Unity is connected. Maybe Santa Fe is his next target. But how do you expect to confirm any of that? What are you going to ask Donald Chappell?”
They pulled into a two-story parking garage exclusive to the midrise skyscraper which housed the Unity for a Better Tomorrow and parked their Geo minivan between a Cadillac and a Lexus. From here they crossed through a causeway to the main lobby of the building, where they beheld a sunny-faced blonde standing beside a metal detector.
“Good afternoon and welcome! How may I help you today?”
“We have an appointment to speak with Mr. Chappell,” replied Tom, reaching into his black leather coat for his badge. “Special Agent Tom Piper.”
“Of course!” Her teeth were cartoon-perfect. “One moment, please.”
While the blonde typed their information into her computer, Tom and Norm took stock of their surroundings. The lobby was awash in rich reds and yellows and browns. Even the large tasteful artwork on the walls had been painted to match these soothing earth tones. Tom observed the painting behind the counter. It depicted a young and spry Andrew Jackson, thwarting the British at the Battle of New Orleans. He glanced around at the other paintings. Each showcased an episode of American heroism—Lewis & Clark on the untamed frontier, Thomas Edison tinkering with a lightbulb, Martin Luther King in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Nowhere in the lobby was a cross. Nowhere was a Bible.
“All right,” said the blonde. “I’ve confirmed your authorization for Floor 21.”
In order to reach the elevator bank, they had to pass through a metal detector. Norm went first, and wasn’t at all surprised it sounded a brief alarm.
“Sir, I’m afraid you’re going to have to temporarily relinquish your firearm.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”
“I’m afraid it is, sir, or you won’t be permitted upstairs.”
Before Norm could retort, Tom unholstered his pistol and motioned for his colleague to do the same. They handed their guns to the blonde, who collected them in a plastic basket.
“Thank you so much. They will be right here when you’re through.”
Tom and Norm ambled through the warm space to one of the gold-plated elevators. There were no buttons on the elevator wall. The automated doors closed as soon as they were inside, and their slow ascent, undoubtedly activated from the desk in the lobby, began. Gershwin’s jazzy “Rhapsody in Blue” rang from its speakers and accompanied them on their vertical climb. Norm hummed along with the orchestral tune. The elevator finally came to a gentle halt, and its golden doors opened up to the twenty-first floor…
…and to a four-year-old boy in an astronaut costume, staring up at them from his abbreviated height.
Tom and Norm stared right back at him.
“Hi,” he whispered shyly.
“Hello,” replied Tom.
The twenty-first floor was a labyrinth of reds, browns and yellows. Seven different arteries wandered off from the elevator bank. Fortunately, a tall sallow-faced man in pinstripes soon appeared out of one of them.
“Right this way, gentlemen,” he said. “Mr. Chappell will see you now.”
The boy sucked on his left thumb.
“Joey,” said the man, “aren’t you supposed to be in the toy room?”
The boy mutely nodded, and ran down one of the other corridors.
“Mr. Chappell’s grandson,” the man explained. “Someday, God willing, all this will be his.”
Tom and Norm exchanged a glance, then followed the man back down the wide hallway from which he came.
“Would either of you care for a beverage?”
“A Heineken?” asked Norm.
The man glanced at him, confused.
“Kidding,” Norm added.
The man nodded. The hallway was lined with beautiful cedar doors. They stopped at the one labeled Chappell.
“If you need anything at all, my name is Paul. Like the apostle.”
Paul opened the door, and the two FBI agents entered the office of Donald Chappell. Compared to the rest of the complex, his office was surprisingly