Chapter Twelve
The snow was turning to slush. It had stopped snowing overnight, the storm that brought it having moved up the coast, leaving a respectable though far from record-setting twelve inches. This morning, though, it was warmer by at least ten degrees, and the snow was melting. I was making my usual morning walk to work under a bright sun in a brilliantly blue sky, convinced that New York City had seen the last of winter for at least the next eight months. My feet were warmly and dryly encased in winterized Doc Martens but up top, I had traded the overcoat and ear-warming knit hat for a leather bomber jacket and a Yankees cap. Of course I had on my long underwear beneath the jeans and turtleneck and sweater because I wasn’t crazy, only hopeful, but I knew that all things were relative—that people who lived in Los Angeles or Miami wouldn’t consider today warm—but we New Yorkers did. I wasn’t the only one traveling lighter this morning. There wasn’t a long overcoat to be seen among my fellow travelers as we picked our way carefully through the slush.
There was a crowd at Willie’s newsstand this morning which meant that we didn’t have the opportunity to talk, but he winked his one eye at me, and actually smiled, which was a first. Mrs. Campos’s juice and fruit stand was busy this morning, too. Warm weather not only brought people out, it made them want to linger while they were out, instead of hurry to get inside, and a fresh-squeezed juice bar on an almost-spring morning was a great place to linger. I blew Mrs. Campos a kiss, grabbed the usual carrot juice for Yo, orange juice for me, and a couple of extras, just in case, and rejoined the throng of lingerers on the sidewalk. Walking, always difficult on the narrow East Village streets, was made treacherous as well by the mounds of snow left by the plows, and that shoveled to the curb by businesses and buildings. I gave up on the sidewalk and joined the slow-rolling traffic in the street, moving faster, most of the time, than it was.
For the first time since we’d bought it, Yolanda and I, I took no joy in the sight of my building when I turned the corner and it came into view. The boarded up windows up top and in the middle made the place look like the loser of a heavyweight title fight the day after the bout. There were smoke smudges on the upper façade, and some idiot, asshole, jerk had tagged the downstairs façade with some stupid, asshole graffiti! I was so pissed I almost dropped the bag of juice, looking for my keys.
Yolanda was inside when I got there. All the lights were on and some kind of gentle, sweet classical music was on the radio, and she was smiling and happy, and I really didn’t want to sully the beauty and warmth of the room, but damn, I was mad! And she knew it. “Phil, what’s wrong?”
“Some asshole wrote on the building.”
“What!” She ran to the door and out, then back in and straight back to her desk. I heard her punching numbers, could visualize her, hands on hips, foot tapping, waiting for an answer on the other end. I heard her slam the phone down with a curse, then she stormed back out. “What time is it?” she demanded.
“A little after eight, Yo.”
“Oh.” She calmed then, and I guessed she’d called the insurance adjuster. “Do we have any paint? Or anything that can take that crap off the wall?”
“No, but I’ll call Horace.”
“Tell him he’s got to handle this right away, Phil.”
I went to my desk, picked up the phone, looked at the list of numbers in the speed dial, and punched the button next to Maintenance. Horace Gordon Janitorial Service took care of our building, inside and out. His wife, who ran the office, answered, and I told her what I needed. She said somebody would come immediately, and I knew that somebody would. Still, I wasn’t expecting the door buzzer to sound two seconds after I hung up the phone. Yolanda asked—no, she demanded to know—who was there. It was Mike, and she buzzed him in.
“Some stupid asshole wrote graffiti shit on your building,” he said by way of greeting. He, too, was dressed like a person who didn’t want to wait another second for spring’s arrival. He held aloft a brown bag. “Bagels, lox, and cream cheese, the bagels still warm.”
I followed him to the kitchen, put the food and juice on one tray, plates, utensils, and napkins on another, and took them out to the table. Yolanda brought mugs and the pot of freshly brewed coffee. And the door buzzer sounded again. I answered this time. It was Horowitz and I buzzed him in. I didn’t want to say anything, but this having to get up and go ask who it was every time somebody wanted in was getting annoying. Then I thought about the Tank being able to barge in unannounced again and got over my pique.
“Some asshole wrote on the building,” Horowitz said as he breezed in. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the food. “That’s from that deli on 51st.”
Mike nodded. “Yep. Best lox in Manhattan.”
“I know that,” Horowitz said, “but how do you know that?”
Mike ignored him, spread cream cheese on one half of a bagel, put two pieces of the thinly cut fish on it, then spread cream cheese on the other half of the bagel and put it on top of the sandwich, and took a bite. He smiled as he chewed. Horowitz quick-stepped to the back to hang up his coat—he hadn’t abandoned his overcoat in anticipation of spring’s arrival—and when he came back out, I saw why. He had on a suit that I recognized because I’d thought long and hard about justifying the cost of it—even on sale at Barney’s, its cost required justification. He’d gelled his hair so that it lay closely and neatly to his skull. He’d removed his galoshes to reveal beautiful, gleaming black wingtips. Yolanda gave him a wolf whistle, and Mike stopped chewing long enough to give him an admiring look.
“You sure you’re in the right place?” I asked.
“If you saved me some breakfast I am.”
Yolanda pointed to the tray. “There’s your plate, cup, knife, and fork.”
“You gonna eat food in that suit?” I was horrified.
“I learned how to eat without feeding my clothes when I was about five,” he said, and proved it. He made the same sandwich Mike had and ate every bit of it, never dropping a single crumb. We all had a juice and cup of coffee and declared ourselves ready for work. I took the trays to the kitchen and Yolanda went to see if Horace had sent somebody to clean the front of the building. I was washing dishes and thinking about Connie when Yolanda called me to come out front. The tone of her voice said come right this minute. I dried my hands and went out front. We had a new arrival and instinct told me who he was before Yo did: the red, broken lines in his bulbous nose gave him away.
“This is Thomas Kearney,” she said, “and he wants to know why we boarded up the windows before he had a chance to assess the damage.”
“Were you in Miami yesterday, Mr. Kearney? Is that the reason you didn’t get here to assess the damage caused by the arson fire on the second floor?”
“You think you’re smart, don’t you Rodriquez?”
I didn’t say anything, then I realized he was waiting for an answer. I looked at Mike who was sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper, legs were crossed , looking comfortable. I knew his gun was in his lap. Horowitz, now wearing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses I hadn’t seen him put on, had his butt perched on the edge of my desk, long legs outstretched, arms crossed over his chest, the right hand inside his jacket, resting, I knew, on his gun. Yolanda’s arms were crossed over her chest, too; tightly. She was controlling her weapon as well—her mouth. I knew what she wanted to say to Kearney and it was only strength of will that kept her lips tightly together. “I assume you have a copy of the fire inspector’s report,” I said to Kearney.
“You can assume whatever you want. I want to know why you thought you could go ahead and board up those windows before I had a chance to assess the damage.”
“I want to know why you thought I’d leave my building wide open and exposed to a blizzard.” I took a step closer to Kearney and he flinched. I enjoyed the moment.
“You just jeopardized your claim, Rodriquez. You shoulda left things alone.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Horowitz said, p
ushing away from the desk and raising himself to his full height.
“Who the hell are you?”
Abby took a card from his pocked and flipped it toward Kearney as he said, “Abraham Horowitz, Esquire, at your service.”
Kearney caught the card, read it, and turned even more red. “What do you want here? Who called you? You’re not needed here!”
“I obviously am needed here, since you’ve threatened, in violation of several statutes and laws, to withhold payment of my clients’ claim.”
“I did no fuckin’ such thing!” Spit flew from Kearney’s mouth and I backpedaled. “We just have rules, guidelines that have to be followed,” he shouted.
“Nowhere in your policies and practices manual or in the client contract, does it say that property is required to be left open to the elements until after an adjuster’s inspection. In fact, just the opposite is required.” Horowitz sounded so believably calm that Kearney almost believed him.
“How do you know what’s in my company’s policies and practices manual?”
“I get paid to know things like that, Mr. Kearney.”
“Then you know what it says about fires of suspicious origin?”
“If you read the arson investigator’s report, you’ll see that the origin wasn’t all that suspicious. A kerosene and gasoline mixture, thrown through the second floor window, fire damage contained on that floor, smoke throughout the building.”
“You don’t know everything, do you, smart ass? Terrorist activity negates all other contractual provisions.”
“And what terrorist activity would that be, Mr. Kearney? Unless you consider, as I do, that burning down somebody’s business is an act of terrorism?” Abby said.
“I’m taking about the Patriot Act, smart ass. I’m talking about terrorists in our midst, out to destroy our country.” Kearney was on a roll, puffed up and pleased with himself. Mike had lowered his paper and had his gun in his hand.
“And what has any of that to do with the fire here yesterday morning? Unless you consider Mr. Rodriquez or Miss Aguierre terrorists?”
“Not them, smart ass, the ones upstairs. They’re terrorist threats, according to DHS.”
“If you know anything about what’s contained in DHS files, Kearney, you came by it illegally. Federal agents don’t share their information with people who work for insurance companies.” Horowitz no longer sounded calm. His voice sounded like the steel gate slamming shut on prisoners in, well, the slammer. “And by the close of business today, I’ll have that little mystery solved. And by the close of business today, you’ll have a check cut for Mr. Rodriquez and Miss Aguierre—”
“The fuck I will!”
Abby reached into his pocket and brought out what looked like a thin silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it and Kearney heard himself talking about things he should know nothing about. He paled and tried to say something, sounding like a traumatized stutterer. “The fuck you will,” Abby said, back to his calm, quiet voice. “Now get out of here.”
Kearney all but ran out. Silence reigned until Mike broke it.
“You’re a lawyer? Since when?”
“For a while,” Abby said. “I thought I’d need something to do when I left the Job but that was before I met youse guys.” He grinned as the New Yorkese slid from his lips.
“Good choice from where I stand,” I said.
“How much of what you said to Kearney was bullshit?” Mike asked.
“Wonder how far he’s going to get before he has to stop at a bar,” Yo said.
“I’ll bet he’s got a half pint in his pocket,” Mike said, and we all rushed to the door to see if we could catch Kearney drinking from the bottle down the block somewhere. What we saw was Horace cleaning graffiti off the front wall.
“Bless you, Horace!” Yolanda said, and ran back inside. “I’m going to call the contractor, what’s his name, Phil? See if he can get windows in today. I felt imprisoned up there with that board across the front wall.”
“Bulletproof all the way up,” I said, following her back in.
“You ready to go surveil the KGB?” Mike asked.
“Chomping at the bit,” I said. I looked at Abby. “I think you’re a keeper, dude.” Then I called out to Yolanda, “Can we afford to keep Abby?”
“If you and Mike can give KLM Property Management a good reason to expand and extend their contract with us, we can.”
Abby made shooing motions toward Mike and me with his hands. “Go forth and collect compromising photographic images of corrupt Russians.”
Mike and I got the cameras. We’d decided last night before we separated how we’d do this: We’d shoot both the front and back entrances today; I’d shoot the front door tonight; Mike would shoot the back gate tomorrow night; Yolanda would complete running the background checks on Kallen and on the limousine driver who’d bailed on Kallen and me the other morning; and we’d have a package ready to present to Richard King at KLM first thing Monday morning. I’d ask Shirley Golson, who referred us to KLM, to arrange the meeting. She’d do it, too, and make sure that Richard King didn’t let on to Kallen that he was meeting us in secret.
Eddie, the car-service driver who helped us get Sammy Epstein home, was waiting for us outside. We’d asked for him, and told his dispatcher that we needed an inconspicuous ride—nothing too flashy, nothing too raggedy, just a regular New York City kind of car. Eddie was behind the wheel of a Ford Explorer that looked as if it had spent the previous night driving about in the blizzard, which it probably had. We climbed in, me in front, Mike in back. We told Eddie we were glad to see him, he thanked us for asking to work with him, and he asked us where our Eddie was. We told him our Eddie was home sick, and told him where we were going and what we needed to do. “Piece of cake,” Eddie said.
And at first, it seemed that it would work just that way. We let Mike out in the alley beside the Dumpster that we’d hidden behind the night before. The absence of human footprints in the drifting and melting snow said it was an area not popular for foot traffic; all the footprints were outside the chain link fence and headed in the opposite direction. Eddie drove me back around to the front, the filthy truck double-parked across the street from building as if waiting for a parking space. I hunkered down in the back seat and shot video of men entering the front door of the building, admitted by Boris, and, thanks to the telephoto lens and the sparkling clean glass of the front door, watched as they walked through the lobby and toward the hallway where I knew the new female tenants lived. After an hour, we drove around the back to pick Mike up. If he’d shot the kind of video I had, we’d call it a day.
“How many girls did you say he had in there?” Mike asked, getting into the truck.
“Seven that we know about. Why?”
“There have to be more than seven. Either that or Boris is rotating johns through every half hour, which means those girls are being treated worse than slaves. Let’s get outta here, I’ve seen enough. Or let me go in there and kick some sorry Russian ass.” And this from a cop who’d walked a beat in Harlem during some of that neighborhood’s worst days.
We drove back around front, slow enough to see, not so slow as to attract attention. “What’s he doing?” Mike asked.
It looked like Boris was trying to stop a man from entering the building. “Maybe you have to have an appointment?” Mike lowered his window and stuck his head out.
“Don’t do that, Mike!”
“Listen! The dude’s saying he’s trying to visit a friend, he’s telling Boris . . . he’s saying . . . ‘you can’t tell me who I can visit’ . . . he’s, it doesn’t sound like he’s one of johns,” Mike said, just as Boris pushed the guy down the stairs.
I jumped out of the truck and hurried across the street, Mike on my heels. Mike bent down to help the guy to his feet while I hustled up the front stairs. “Hey, Boris!” I called out cheerfully. “Looks like you’re having a little trouble. Anything I can do to help?”
He looked at me like
I was a pile of alligator shit. I got in his face. I wanted him to do something stupid. Then he looked closely at me and his face relaxed. “You’re security expert.”
“That’s who I am,” I said. “Should I call Mike, tell him you’re having some—”
“No!” Boris all but shouted. “No need to disturb Mik . . . Mr. Kallen. Everything now is okay. Is fine now.” He was waving me away, would have pushed me down the steps, too, if he thought he could have gotten away with it.
“Who’s that guy?” I asked, pointing to the man Boris had assaulted, because that’s what throwing somebody down a flight of steps was: Assault.
“Is nobody. Doesn’t live in building,” Boris said, looking over my shoulder now, and peering up and down the block. Waiting for customers with appointments, I guessed.
“I came to see a friend,” the man yelled up the steps at us. “She has the flu and I came to bring her medicine! She called and asked me to pick it up!” I turned around to see him waving a pharmacy bag. “This asshole won’t even let me ring her door buzzer, to let her know I’m here! Keeps telling me I don’t live in the building, like I don’t know where the fuck I live!”
I looked at Boris. He looked at me. “What are you doing here, Phil? That’s your name, right? Phil?”
“That’s my name, Boris, and my friends and I were passing by and we slowed down so I could tell them about your wonderful building, and we saw what looked like a fight and I told my friends that I knew you and we stopped to help. Good Samaritans, you know?” I stopped talking and left the weight squarely on Boris’s narrow shoulders.
He looked past me toward the street, then at his watch. “No help is needed, thank you. You can go now.”
“I’m going to give you some advice, Boris, for free. I’ll call Mike myself and tell him I won’t even charge you for it. It’s this: In this country, you can’t stop a person from visiting a friend. The man has the right to ring his friend’s bell, and if his friend lets him in, you can’t stop him from entering.”
A Murder Too Close Page 24