Mrs. Anderson—Jeanette—asked Holly if she had had a good flight, and Holly made the appropriate response. Then she turned to Howie and asked if there was perhaps audio-visual capability in the room they would be using. He told her there certainly was, and she was welcome to use it if she had material to present. When they stepped out of the elevator, Holly enquired about the women’s room. “I could use a minute or two. I came directly from the airport.”
“Absolutely. End of the hall, turn left. Should be unlocked.”
Holly was afraid Mrs. Anderson would volunteer to go with her, but Jeanette didn’t. Which was good. Holly did have to pee （“spend a penny,” was how her mother always put it）， but she had something more important in mind, a matter that could only be attended to in complete private.
In the stall, with her skirt up and her bag between her sensible loafers, she closed her eyes. Mindful that tiled rooms like this were natural amplifiers, she prayed silently.
This is Holly Gibney again, and I need help. You know I’m not good with strangers even one at a time, and tonight I have six of them to deal with. Seven, if Mr. Maitland’s widow is here. I’m not terrified, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was scared. Bill could do things like this, but I’m not him. Just help me to do it the way he would. Help me to understand their natural disbelief and not be afraid of it.
She finished aloud, but in a whisper. “Please God, help me not to frack up.” She paused, then added, “I’m not smoking.”
5
The meeting took place in Howard Gold’s conference room, and while it was smaller than the one on The Good Wife （Holly had watched all seven seasons, and had now moved on to the sequel）， it was very nice. Tasteful pictures, polished mahogany table, leather chairs. Mrs. Maitland had indeed come. She was sitting at Mr. Gold’s right as Howie took his place at the head of the table and asked who was watching her girls.
Marcy gave him a wan smile. “Lukesh and Chandra Patel volunteered. Their son was on Terry’s team. In fact, Baibir was on third base when . . .” She looked at Detective Anderson. “When your men arrested him. Baibir was heartbroken. He didn’t understand.”
Anderson crossed his arms and said nothing. His wife put a hand on his shoulder and murmured something no one else was meant to hear. Anderson nodded.
“I’m going to call this meeting to order,” Mr. Gold said. “I have no agenda, but perhaps our visitor would like to begin. This is Holly Gibney, a private detective Alec hired to investigate the Dayton end of this business, assuming the two cases really are connected. That’s one of the things we’re here to determine, if possible.”
“I’m not a private detective,” Holly demurred. “My partner, Peter Huntley, is the one with the private investigator’s license. What our company mostly does is repo work and skip-tracing. We do take on an occasional criminal investigation where we’re unlikely to be scolded by the police. We’ve had good luck with missing pets, for instance.”
That sounded lame, and she felt blood heating her face.
“Ms. Gibney is being a trifle too modest,” Alec said. “I believe you were involved with running a violent fugitive named Morris Bellamy to earth.”
“That was my partner’s case,” Holly said. “My first partner. Bill Hodges. He’s since passed away, Mr. Pelley—Alec—as you know.”
“Yes,” Alec said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The Latino man Detective Anderson had introduced as Yunel Sablo of the State Police now cleared his throat. “I believe,” he said, “that you and Mr. Hodges were also involved in a case of mass vehicular homicide and intended terrorism. A young man named Hartsfield. And that you, Ms. Gibney, were personally responsible for stopping him before he could cause an explosion in a crowded auditorium. One that might have killed thousands of young people.”
A murmur went around the table. Holly felt her face growing hotter. She would have liked to tell them that she had failed, that she had only halted Brady’s homicidal ambitions for awhile, that he had come back to cause yet more deaths before being stopped for good, but this was neither the time nor the place.
Lieutenant Sablo wasn’t finished. “I think you received a commendation from the city?”
“There were actually three of us who got commendations, but all it amounted to was a gold key and a bus pass good for ten years.” She looked around at them, unhappily aware that she was still blushing like a sixteen-year-old. “That was a long time ago. As for this case, I’d rather save my report for last. And my conclusions.”