fixture," I said.
"Yeah, but what does it look like?"
"Is this a trick question? It looks like a light fixture."
"You have no imagination," she said.
I pushed the file forward across her desk until it was even with her keyboard. It wasn't the thickest nut file I'd ever handled, but it had meat on its bones, and when I pushed it, pages slid out the way playing cards slide from a newly opened deck. "Courtesy New Scotland Yard," I said. "By way of Robert Moore."
"And how is that SAS bastard?"
"Ex-SAS."
"And how is that ex-SAS bastard?"
"Counting on us to make certain his principal doesn't take harm in our fair city. I need you to start on this right away."
"We're on the clock?"
"Lady, I'm here as the man who is subcontracting your services to assist our protective effort, not as the man who is pleasuring you nightly."
"You think mighty highly of yourself, don't you?" She sat up in her chair, flipping the folder open and beginning to scan the pages. "These have been vetted?"
I nodded and took the seat across from her. "Moore or one of his detail screens the mail. They don't like what they read, they forward it to the police and the cops take it from there. That's a copy of the official file, with Moore's notations."
Bridgett kept scanning the pages. "Notes are remarkably free of anti-Irish sentiment so far. You've reviewed this already, I assume."
"I have."
"Any in particular you want me to pay attention to?"
"I flagged the letters that got me twitchy."
She found the pages I'd marked, removing them from the folder and spreading them out to view side by side, then resting her elbows on the desktop and her chin in her hands. She read carefully. There were four that I'd noted as worthy of a closer examination. Three were sexual, two of them signed and from the same author. Both letters were couched in romantic phrasing until degrading into more disturbing fantasy when the author described what he wanted to do with Lady Ainsley-Hunter. While his descriptions weren't explicitly violent, the tone as each progressed became more aggressive and bitter. The third was written anonymously, a graphically detailed rape-murder fantasy. Scotland Yard didn't think the author of the first two and the author of the third were the same.
The fourth letter was a vitriolic death threat, in which the writer stated that he had been "close enough to do it" on more than one occasion. That letter also referenced the Jeppeson attempt, saying that, "you can't be protected all the time."
Bridgett's mouth tightened to a line.
"Just read the bit about the meat cleaver and the drill, huh?" I asked.
She nodded and kept reading, moving one hand to open her desk drawer. I thought she might be going for a Hi-Liter or a pen, but she produced a tin of cinnamon Altoids and popped three in her mouth. The tin stayed open on her desk.
When she had finished reading she separated the two that had been signed. "These worry me the most."
"Those are the ones postmarked out of Connecticut?"
"Hartford, yes. Signed, 'Love always, Joseph Keith.' Not Joe, Joseph. We know who the hell Joseph Keith is? Anything on him in here?"
"No. That's why I'm hiring you."
She crunched the Altoids in her mouth. "When does Lady Ainsley-Hunter get in?"
"Monday."
"Five days."
"Yeah."
"Okay, I'll get on this immediately. Have you talked to Special Agent Dude?"
"Fowler said he'd be happy to take a ride to Hartford with you."
"I'll call him now," she said, reaching for the phone. "If I head to Hartford, I'll be out of town for a couple days. I'll need you to go by my place and bring in the mail, water the plants. You guys backed up?"
"It's always like this the closer we get to a deadline. The details begin unraveling."
She stopped dialing long enough to let me come around the side of her desk and kiss her on the cheek.
"I should have started on this Keith guy a couple weeks ago," she scolded me.
"We didn't get the file until this morning. Moore had some trouble getting
"Yeah, but what does it look like?"
"Is this a trick question? It looks like a light fixture."
"You have no imagination," she said.
I pushed the file forward across her desk until it was even with her keyboard. It wasn't the thickest nut file I'd ever handled, but it had meat on its bones, and when I pushed it, pages slid out the way playing cards slide from a newly opened deck. "Courtesy New Scotland Yard," I said. "By way of Robert Moore."
"And how is that SAS bastard?"
"Ex-SAS."
"And how is that ex-SAS bastard?"
"Counting on us to make certain his principal doesn't take harm in our fair city. I need you to start on this right away."
"We're on the clock?"
"Lady, I'm here as the man who is subcontracting your services to assist our protective effort, not as the man who is pleasuring you nightly."
"You think mighty highly of yourself, don't you?" She sat up in her chair, flipping the folder open and beginning to scan the pages. "These have been vetted?"
I nodded and took the seat across from her. "Moore or one of his detail screens the mail. They don't like what they read, they forward it to the police and the cops take it from there. That's a copy of the official file, with Moore's notations."
Bridgett kept scanning the pages. "Notes are remarkably free of anti-Irish sentiment so far. You've reviewed this already, I assume."
"I have."
"Any in particular you want me to pay attention to?"
"I flagged the letters that got me twitchy."
She found the pages I'd marked, removing them from the folder and spreading them out to view side by side, then resting her elbows on the desktop and her chin in her hands. She read carefully. There were four that I'd noted as worthy of a closer examination. Three were sexual, two of them signed and from the same author. Both letters were couched in romantic phrasing until degrading into more disturbing fantasy when the author described what he wanted to do with Lady Ainsley-Hunter. While his descriptions weren't explicitly violent, the tone as each progressed became more aggressive and bitter. The third was written anonymously, a graphically detailed rape-murder fantasy. Scotland Yard didn't think the author of the first two and the author of the third were the same.
The fourth letter was a vitriolic death threat, in which the writer stated that he had been "close enough to do it" on more than one occasion. That letter also referenced the Jeppeson attempt, saying that, "you can't be protected all the time."
Bridgett's mouth tightened to a line.
"Just read the bit about the meat cleaver and the drill, huh?" I asked.
She nodded and kept reading, moving one hand to open her desk drawer. I thought she might be going for a Hi-Liter or a pen, but she produced a tin of cinnamon Altoids and popped three in her mouth. The tin stayed open on her desk.
When she had finished reading she separated the two that had been signed. "These worry me the most."
"Those are the ones postmarked out of Connecticut?"
"Hartford, yes. Signed, 'Love always, Joseph Keith.' Not Joe, Joseph. We know who the hell Joseph Keith is? Anything on him in here?"
"No. That's why I'm hiring you."
She crunched the Altoids in her mouth. "When does Lady Ainsley-Hunter get in?"
"Monday."
"Five days."
"Yeah."
"Okay, I'll get on this immediately. Have you talked to Special Agent Dude?"
"Fowler said he'd be happy to take a ride to Hartford with you."
"I'll call him now," she said, reaching for the phone. "If I head to Hartford, I'll be out of town for a couple days. I'll need you to go by my place and bring in the mail, water the plants. You guys backed up?"
"It's always like this the closer we get to a deadline. The details begin unraveling."
She stopped dialing long enough to let me come around the side of her desk and kiss her on the cheek.
"I should have started on this Keith guy a couple weeks ago," she scolded me.
"We didn't get the file until this morning. Moore had some trouble getting
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