“Thanks.”
The elevator stopped and opened.
The penthouse doors swung in from the elevator lobby. Warren walked with her into the foyer and around the corner to the kitchen. They were there, the whole Olympiad. All wore civilian clothes. It might have been a casual supper party. Suzanne paced along the edge of the kitchen. Robbie leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. Arthur Mentis sat at the table. He smiled at her.
Suzanne’s expression melted when Celia appeared. Celia met her mother halfway and hugged her, before she could burst into tears.
“Celia, we expected you hours ago! Are you all right? Are you hurt? What happened?”
“Shaken, not stirred,” Celia said weakly. “I’m fine.”
“Have you eaten? I can heat up some lasagna—”
Of course she could. “That sounds great. Thanks.”
So the meeting of the Olympiad commenced at the kitchen table, over lasagna.
“I’ve walked on that grate a hundred times,” Celia said. “Who knew it could even move? The whole thing was planned to the second. Even if you’d gotten down to the tunnel, I wasn’t there anymore. He moved me into a side room.”
“I know,” Robbie said. “I did get down there.”
“Do you know who did it?” Suzanne said.
Celia took a deep breath. “It was the Hawk.”
They stared at her.
“Are you crazy?” her father said.
“How do you know it was him?” Suzanne asked.
She produced the gauntlet from her attaché and laid it on the table before them.
Warren picked it up first, studying every inch of the leather, fingering the embroidered hawk. The leather was worn, stained with sweat and age, the stitching around the fingers frayed, and scuffed patches showing around the thumb and pads of the palm. The embroidery was also frayed, loose-colored threads poking up. The glove was old, used.
“Could it be a fake?” Arthur asked.
“It’s something the Hawk would have done,” Celia said.
“He hasn’t been active in twenty years,” Warren said.
“I believed him,” Celia said. She didn’t have to reveal who he was. They’d all assume he’d been in costume, with the mask. “He gave this to me.”
She produced the folder with the newspaper clippings. Her parents and Robbie gathered around the open file, sorting through the clippings, their expressions growing more confused as the moments passed. Arthur didn’t bother looking; he watched her. He could learn everything he needed to from her roiling thoughts. She tried to stay calm, for his sake.
Celia said, “It’s the connection between the robberies we’ve been looking for.”
“But it doesn’t go anywhere,” Robbie said. “Does it? It’s a coincidence. It has to be. Unless you’re saying Snyder is the mastermind?” The possibility seemed ludicrous. Governor Snyder came across as being harmless, if ineffectual.
Arthur crossed his arms, which made him look hunched-in and thoughtful. “These names—they’re all suspects that have been arrested in connection with the spate of robberies. They have no other prior relationship to each other. They weren’t part of the same gang before, they didn’t serve prison time together. They’re not second cousins. The one commonality are these pardons. The idea of Snyder being involved in this—it’s improbable, not impossible. We have to consider it.”
“Not Snyder,” Celia said, “Paulson.” She showed them the last article she’d discovered, and the buried information that Paulson had been the one to suggest the pardons as a way to help balance the budget. But she wondered if he might not also have suggested the names of inmates to be pardoned.
The group needed a moment to process this. Celia waited.
“It might not be him,” Suzanne said. “It could be someone associated with his office. Someone else pulling the strings.”
“Do we trust the information?” Arthur asked.