“No. We did find a subway map, but there were no circles drawn with little notes saying ‘place bomb here,’ if that’s what you’re asking.”
“So all he knows about New York is what he’s seen on television. That’s why he picked Times Square. He would have picked someplace famous. He was getting around by subway, so he would have picked a spot near the subway.”
“We have to hurry. There’s no timer on the bomb. If somebody finds it, you know what will happen.
“He also would have picked someplace with a lot of people.” Leopold tapped the side of his head with his fist. “Come on. Think. Think. A lot of people. Famous. Near the subway. Someplace like … someplace like … oh shit. Someplace like Grand Central Terminal.”
“Where are you now?”
“Grand Central.”
“Get the hell out of there.”
“I’ll call you back.”
“Wait …” Click.
The half of the conversation that Lance heard panicked him. “What’s wrong?”
“Get out of here, now. Find security and tell them there might be a bomb in the building and they need to evacuate.”
“A bomb?”
“Yes. Have them call Sergeant Jordan to verify. Hurry.”
Leopold left the restaurant, but instead of following Lance, walked to the middle of the floor and spun in a slow circle, 360 degrees, taking in the entire scene.
Jerome had been lurking nearby, as was his job. He didn’t resent it when his employer enjoyed a sumptuous meal while he remained in the shadows out of sight. It went with the territory. He was at his employer’s side in a moment. “What’s happening?”
“Bomb.”
Jerome took Leopold by the arms, intent on leading him away from danger, but he shook himself free. “Why hasn’t it gone off? This is one of the busiest spots on the planet. Why hasn’t someone found it?”
“We need to go.” Jerome insisted. He prepared to lift Leopold off the floor and carry him bodily if necessary. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
Leopold started to do another 360 degrees, but stopped. “Look.” He pointed to a men’s room door. A plastic sign read, “Out of order.” A woman in uniform happened by. She looked as though she worked there, so Leopold grabbed her arm. “How long has the men’s room been closed?”
She wrenched her arm free but remained polite. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir. There is another men’s room over …”
“Forget that. How long has that one been closed?”
She took a step back from the apparently deranged man who had accosted her. “Since yesterday. A plumbing problem, I think.”
“Call the bomb squad. Have them meet us here.”
She looked to the larger, hopefully saner man. He just nodded.
Suddenly, Leopold dashed towards the men’s room door with Jerome on his heels.”
“We should let the professionals handle this.”
Leopold put a finger to his lips. Then, excruciatingly slowly, he pushed open the door. Most of the lights were out, but a single fluorescent lamp cast a bluish-greenish tint and long shadows. They looked all around. There was a long row of sinks, a long row of urinals, and a long row of stalls. The light was so dim Leopold didn’t see it at first but then, “Look.”
It was sitting atop the door of the very last stall, like a practical joke with a bucket of water. It hung there, just waiting for someone to open the door.
Then the inevitable happened. A train in a nearby tunnel rumbled by, shaking the room. The door to each stall wobbled ever so slightly. Numerous trains must have gone by, shaking this room, and the bag hadn’t fallen. Each train must make it a little more unstable, each time bringing it that much closer to toppling from its precarious perch. Could this be that time?
Jerome must have thought so. Before Leopold could stop him, or even realize what he was doing, his long legs flashed and, in three strides, he was holding up the bag.
Now the train sounded like it was right on the other side of the wall. Both men could feel the shaking and couldn’t believe the bag hadn’t fallen before now.
After an agonizing amount of time, the rumbling faded away, and the room was still, again.
Leopold whispered, “Okay. You can let go now.”
Sweat dripped from the normally stoic black face. “No. I felt it shift. If I let go, it will fall.”
Damn. Leopold didn’t know what to do. Could he hang on until the bomb squad arrived? Even if he did, then what could they do?
He whispered, “Hang on.” Leopold lay down on his back on the (thankfully clean) floor. Using his feet, he pushed himself along the floor, under the stall, careful not to bump Jerome. Once inside, he stood up, the back of his legs against the toilet. He gently put one stabilizing hand on the bag and the other against the door.
“Okay. Together, were going to open the door very slowly, all the way.”
Jerome whispered, “On three?”
“Yes. Okay. One … two … three.”
The door crept open. They swung it all the way open until it nearly touched the door of the stall next to it. Jerome gently slipped his hand free as the other door took its place, holding the bag up.
While Jerome held the door, Leopold found a nearby trash can. It was empty, but heavy enough. He dragged it over and propped it against the door, holding it in place.
His hands finally free, Jerome wiped the sweat from his eyes. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Agreed.”
The rumble began again. Another train.
Both men ran. They had just opened the door and run through it when the bag fell. The hot blast of the explosion blew the door off its hinges and knocked the men off their feet. They landed face first on the hard, marble floor, and the door landed on top of them.
PART TWO: SAN FRANCISCO
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The building had been a warehouse once, although it hadn’t served that function since the early eighties. It was all brick walls and square glass windows and metal staircases. Had it been located in San Francisco proper, it would likely have been converted into the trendy condos that were all the rage during the Reagan era. It was too far south for that, so the owners were pleased when Jacob McCain leased the building. That was more than thirty years ago. Now, the building sat dark and empty once again. A sign out front that said “DataGuard Document Security Services,” once lit by spotlights, was now dark.
Jacob McCain, who had spent three decades of his life there, building a successful business from virtually nothing, had spent the last six months emptying the building. It had been nearly two years since his heart attack. His doctor had been crystal clear on the subject; continuing to work was not an option. He had no choice but to retire. For a year and a half, he tried to find a buyer for the business. He had received a handful of lowball offers, none of which were enough to be taken seriously. In the end, he decided his only choice was to liquidate. Selling off the trucks and equipment individually brought him more money than selling the business as a whole, more than enough for him to retire on. His one big problem was the lease. He had to continue paying rent for another two years unless he could find someone to take it over. The Bay Area was some of the most valuable real estate in the country, but so far, he had found no takers. The property management company was no help. Why should they be? They got their rent no matter who was paying.
McCain sat at his desk, probably for the last time, tying up a few loose ends. The lamp on his ancient, wooden desk was the only visible light source in the building. McCain scratched insistently at the electrode pads on his chests. He was wearing a cardiac monitor and he hated the damned thing. Every morning, he had to attach new pads to his chest. That meant he had to pull off the old ones. For the first week, he just gritted his teeth and yanked them off as hard and fast as he could. They tore divots of thick, gray hair out, and it hurt like hell. The second week, he decided to shave his chest, just the spots where the pads attache
d. He figured a smooth surface would allow the pads to come off easier and it worked. After a couple of days, however, the hair started to grow back and itched like crazy. Now, instead of a quick pain every morning and be done with it, he had to endure the itching all day long.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice reverberated throughout the empty building. “Hellooooo?”
“In here.” McCain called out. He didn’t bother to get up. Why should he? He didn’t want to meet with her. He regretted agreeing to the meeting. It was a waste of time.
She appeared in the doorway. “Ah, there you are. I should have brought a flashlight.”
“I’m sorry about the lights. The power is shut off.” He tapped his desk lamp. “This thing runs on batteries.”
“That’s quite all right. I’m Rose Grafton. We spoke on the phone.” She stepped forward and reached over the desk, offering a hand, which McCain took.
She wasn’t what McCain was expecting. On the phone, she had been brusque and business-like. In person, she was younger, prettier and, he admitted to himself, darker than he’d expected. He chided himself for assuming she would be white. Then he chided himself for chiding himself. He was an old, white man. He was supposed to be at least a little bigoted.
She continued, “I appreciate you agreeing to see me on such short notice, but I can see we don’t have much time.”
“Much time for what?”
She looked around the room. In the dim light, she spotted a folding chair standing in a corner. She grabbed it and sat down in front of Mr. McCain’s desk. “The people I represent would like to buy your company.”
Oh, where were you a year ago? “You’re a little late, I’m afraid. The company is gone.” He lifted a hand and made a circle in the air. “As you can see. I’ve sold nearly everything except the industrial shredders and the cost of moving them would be more than they’re worth.”
“Nevertheless, my employers wish to buy your company.”
“But all they’ll be buying is the name. Everything else is gone.”
“A name can be very valuable. You started this company, so you know the difficulty in establishing a name for yourself.”
“So this is a shortcut?” This was starting to sound like some kind of scam to McCain.
“More than that. It must have been very hard for your workers when you had to let them all go.”
“It was hard on me, too. I tried to find someone to take over the business.”
“Well, my employers intend to hire back as many of your former employees as they can.”
This sounded too good to be true. “You’ll hire back all the workers who lost their jobs?”
“We think that will generate a great deal of good will in the community. Don’t you agree?”
“What, exactly, are your terms?”
“I am authorized to offer you one hundred thousand dollars.”
“A hundred thousand for, basically, just the name?”
“Plus we will take over your lease.”
The lease. This would solve all his problems. Plus, a hundred thousand dollars he hadn’t been expecting. It would be like found money. “I don’t even have a business manager any more. If I sign over the company …”
“Our attorneys can handle all the paperwork.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Bremler Mutual Building sat on the south side of Market Street, within walking distance of the Embarcadero Center. It was a thirty-story, brick structure with a nice view of the bay from the upper floors - on a clear day, of course. It was older than many of the glass and steel-girder towers around it, but had been retrofitted after the 1989 earthquake. It sat on rollers to help it weather tremors, and the records room had three-inch steel plates in the walls to protect vital data not just from earthquakes, but fires, floods and all manner of disasters, natural and man-made. In the modern age of digital records, the reinforced room was no longer necessary, and now served as a storage. Although Bremler Mutual owned the building, the company only occupied three floors. A mail room and storage were located on the fourth floor. The twenty-ninth and thirtieth were offices. The remainder of the building space was rented out to other businesses at insanely high rents that still only barely covered the property taxes. Most of the company had been relocated long ago to parts of the world with lower property values and wages, like the Midwest and Asia. However, the company was officially headquartered in San Francisco, and the current CEO, Carlton F. Bremler, III was determined that the company keep a presence in the city despite the ever-increasing cost of doing business in the Bay Area. He said on many occasions, “My grandfather founded this company right here in San Francisco, and this is where it stays. Bremler will always be a San Francisco company.” Some more cynical individuals speculated the real reason Carlton F. Bremler, III insisted on keeping offices in San Francisco was that he overpaid on his massive Nob Hill mansion and could never get his money back, even at inflated Bay Area real estate prices.
Gil DiMauro walked into the lobby of the Bremler Mutual Building and greeted the guard behind the security desk. “Good morning, Ernie.”
“Morning, Mister D.”
Despite working for a major insurance company, DiMauro was determined not to become a typical corporate jerk, so he made a point of being friendly to the security and cleaning staff. He knew too many corporate assholes who refused to even acknowledge the existence of anyone who held a “menial” job. A lot of the six-figure earners in the company thought his job was menial and rarely acknowledged his existence.
DiMauro rode the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor where he worked as a fraud investigator. He checked out his reflection in the stainless steel surface of the elevator doors, and adjusted the knot of his necktie. It was a black and blue number with swirls of gray and white called Butterfly Trap. It rested on a robin’s egg blue shirt that was, in turn, covered by the jacket of a blue, pin-striped suit. Convinced he looked both business-like and damned good, he ran a hand through his thick, dark hair just to give it that “casually-coiffed” look he worked so hard to maintain. He glanced at his watch. It was 9:23 A.M. He was late. The Old Lady would give him hell for it. Oh well, DiMauro thought, I’m used to it.
There was a ding, the doors opened, and DiMauro was assailed by the sounds of seventy people all talking at once.
“What the hell?”
He looked out across a sea of cubicles and realized everyone was on the telephone at the same time. The twenty-ninth floor was occupied mostly by account managers, accountants, and a few underwriters. There was always someone on the phone, but this was the first time in his memory that the entire floor was on the phone at once. The noise was, if not deafening, at least distracting.
DiMauro walked the long way around the floor so as not to walk past the Old Lady’s door. No point in announcing his tardiness. The Fraud Unit took up one small corner of the twenty-ninth floor, just three cubicles and one small office.
DiMauro slipped into his cubicle and powered up his computer. With any luck, the Old Lady was too busy kicking puppies or laughing at homeless people or whatever it was the grouchy, old battle-ax got up to when she thought no one was looking to notice his arrival.
DiMauro first checked his email. He saw no knew fraud cases. It was all boring corporate emails about 401K plans and updates to the company policy handbook. Yawn.
Next, he checked the “tip line.” Bremler had established an email for anyone within or outside the company to submit tips on possible insurance fraud. DiMauro checked it first thing every morning. On average, the “tip line” would get between fifteen and twenty emails a week. In DiMauro’s experience, very few lead to a real fraud case and even fewer to an interesting one.
For the second time that morning, he said, “What the hell?”
His computer informed him, “YOU HAVE 1,041 UNREAD MESSAGES.”
That couldn’t possibly be right. He hit the refresh button.
“YOU HAVE 1,097 UNREAD MESSAGES.”
What?
He hit the refresh button again.
“YOU HAVE 1,118 UNREAD MESSAGES.”
It must be spam, DiMauro thought.
A gravelly, smoke-ravaged voice shouted, “DiMauro!”
DiMauro was so startled he nearly jumped out of his chair. “Jesus. Why do you do that?” He swiveled his chair to face the wizened, diminutive figure. The Old Lady was barely as tall standing up as DiMauro was sitting down.
“You’re late again,” she barked.
“My bus was late.”
“You’re always late.”
“And yet, you always act surprised.”
“My office. Now.”
The tiny figure stomped to her office, and DiMauro followed. The Old Lady had been a cop once upon a time, for a very long time. DiMauro wasn’t certain how long, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn she had once busted Fred Flintstone for drunk and disorderly. She was far too old to continue on the police force, but retirement was anathema to her. She may no longer have been physically able to handle police work, but her mind was as sharp as ever, so she ran the Fraud Unit for Bremler Mutual.
DiMauro assumed he was going to get another lecture on punctuality until he entered the small office and spotted Ursula Randall and Garrett Nash waiting for them. They were the other two investigators. The entire Fraud Unit, just four people, was in that tiny office, and they only met for disasters.
Uh-oh. “What’s happened?”
The Old lady closed the door, which partially muffled the raucous noise outside, and walked behind her desk before responding. There was a creaking noise as she sat down. DiMauro wasn’t certain if the noise was her chair or her joints.
“Morley Safer,” the Old Lady said.
There were only two guest chairs in the Old Lady’s office and both were occupied, so DiMauro leaned against a wall. “Okay, I’m going to need a little more information.”
“Don’t you watch 60 Minutes?”
“Of course I don’t watch 60 Minutes. I’m not old. I also don’t listen to Amos and Andy on the radio, attend hootenannies, or take my best gal down to the malt shop for an egg cream.”
Broken: A Leopold Blake Thriller Page 6