“How drunk are you on a scale from four to ten?” Susan Herlihy asked.
Susan—standing right in front of him. Speak of the devil.
“Hello, Susan. Always beautiful to see you,” Jake said.
“You too, big boy.”
“Coming in with us?” Tony stood behind Susan.
“He’s here already?” Jake asked.
Tony nodded his head towards a conference room down the hallway.
“Maybe you should just observe,” Susan added.
“For once, I agree with you.”
“He’s a victim. What’s it matter?” Tony said.
“Our victim has more power in this building than I do,” Susan remarked.
“Exactly. Even better reason to stay out of his eye line,” Jake replied.
“Ready, boss?” Tony asked Susan.
“Ever-ready,” Susan said.
“Hey. You guys sprang Jonny Diaz already?” Jake asked.
“The Trizzo case has a lot of issues, Jake. Diaz is the least of them,” Susan replied.
“Okay. I don’t know what that means. But okay.”
Jake turned towards a second door, through which he would find an observation room hidden behind a double-sided mirror.
“Rivett . . .” Susan said.
Jake turned.
“Happy birthday. Belated.”
“It’s your birthday?” Tony asked, oblivious.
Jake shook his head and entered the dark observation room. He really hated her—did that mean he loved her too? That’s how it usually went down with Jake.
▪
Arthur Metropolis pranced into the interview a god amongst men. He’d become much better looking as he aged. That phenomenon was not a function of genetics but of money. Arthur’s success in the real estate markets of New England and the Mid-Atlantic had allowed for his refined nose jobs, for the skin around his neck to be pulled back and ever-so-gently eliminate his wrinkles. It had permitted the impeccable French tailoring of his shirt and the suit—bespoke—from Italy. Arthur’s style wasn’t absolutely ostentatious, but it was not refined. Even though his lips now stood still, he wasn’t a man with a stiff upper lip. He wanted everyone to look at him when he walked through the door, no matter what door it was. And before he’d even sat down, it was clear: Susan and Tony were the audience members and he was the entertainment.
Perhaps this instinct was a function of his childhood in South Carolina. He was born Arthur Hynes, to a family of farmers who had steadily maneuvered themselves from the middle class into poverty as international agribusiness ate their lunch. Arthur was smart, but not the type of man who aced exams in school. He’d managed to move to Atlanta for college, on scholarship, where he’d studied education. Originally, he’d wanted to become a teacher. But the job market had become difficult in the late eighties, and after his graduation, Arthur hadn’t been able to find a job. The best that he could muster was an assistant property manager position at a public school in Philadelphia for misbehaving youth. The Child Pilot School was a grim place, a step away from full juvenile hall admittance. Every single student was on public welfare. Legend had it that Arthur’s first assignment, on his first day on the job at Child Pilot, was mopping the floors of the bathroom. It was legend and it was also true. And it was in his autobiography, the one that Arthur had published two years ago with a press tour and plenty of publicity. Publicity—or air, as he only semi-jokingly referred to it—was everything to Arthur Metropolis.
When one door closes, another opens. That’s what Arthur had learned by now. Never known for his raw intelligence, Arthur had other tools—like the perfect gift of gab and a very friendly Southern attitude. All of the ladies, including the principal at Child Pilot, loved him. He was a hard worker. He paid attention to details. And that put him way ahead of the pack. After a few years, he had been promoted to the head property manager of the school. In his late twenties by this point, with the nineteen-eighties wrapping up, Arthur’s life wasn’t anything close to autobiography-worthy. He was happy to be off the farm, but he’d replaced it with an urban landscape only marginally better. He’d go to the movie theater on South Street on the weekends. He loved films. They offered him an escape from real life, beautiful women up close, and men who wielded raw power with the tilt of a head. He loved crime thrillers in particular. Scarface was a personal favorite. That was primarily because Arthur saw a bit of himself in Al Pacino’s character, Tony Montana. Not the crime and violence, per se. But the urge. The overwhelming desire for something better—and the knowledge, deep down inside, that one’s future was destined to be better than the present. And it was while Arthur was sitting in the movie theatre’s bathroom that his own future came calling.
“Make Millions in Real Estate with No Money Down” was the title of the small notice that had been taped to the inside door of the bathroom stall. It was one of those “pull this tab” posters with a phone number on each piece. And as Arthur stared up at the poster and the smiling face of “Cash Johnston,” he felt something stir inside his soul. He yanked that tag off the door and jammed it into his pocket. The next day, he called the phone number and signed up for a weekend course at the Hilton in downtown Philadelphia. The information wasn’t half-bad. Arthur had taken copious notes. Each night, he read over his papers before he went to bed—something he’d never done in college. Beyond the details relating to attracting financing and locating properties on the cheap, the fundamental tenet of Cash’s philosophy was “The Edge.” The Edge could occur in many different ways and in any industry. But without it, one was fighting an uphill battle against forces larger than one’s self. Cash made it clear. Life, business, success—it was all zero sum. Cut a corner, know someone or something, get an edge. Or else.
Arthur had no edges at all. The only organization that he knew intimately was Child Pilot School, and it was a nonprofit. But when Arthur found out that Child Pilot was working on plans to expand their facilities into one of the abandoned warehouses across the street, a lightbulb erupted in his brain. He knew he was looking his edge right in the face. Now was the time to strike. The principal had asked Arthur to estimate the additional upkeep for their budget, and Arthur learned that the school was planning on making an offer on a particular building that suited their needs perfectly. The building had sat completely vacant for years, and had been for sale as long as he could remember—its asking price steadily declining. Arthur took stock of everything that he had in the bank, which was about seventeen thousand dollars. It had been twenty-five, but Cash’s seminar had required some real dough. Anyway, Arthur took that seventeen thousand dollars and called in sick to Child Pilot one Thursday before a long weekend. He went to fifteen meetings with hard-money lenders around the city. Pretty much every one of them wanted to know what Arthur’s plan for the loan was. But he wouldn’t tell them. If he told them his secret, he suspected they would snap the deal right out from under him. Finally, Arthur had found a moneyman who would loan him the cash he needed with no questions asked: a hundred and eighty thousand dollars. The only rub was an annual interest rate of 18 percent and a thinly veiled suggestion that any and all techniques would be utilized to reacquire the money should Arthur fail to make his payments. Arthur readily agreed. The guy who owned the warehouse was much easier. The building was listed at a hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Arthur came in and offered the ask, as long as the owner would close in a day—no inspection contingencies required. By the time the next week rolled around, Arthur Hynes was cleaning windows in the gymnasium of Child Pilot while staring across the street at the warehouse that he now owned.
He had purchased the building under an LLC with a generic name, and found a real estate agent to represent him in negotiations with the school. All the principal knew was that she had purchased the warehouse across the street from Rockford LLC, a real estate investment firm. Unfortunately for the school, the new ownership had raised the price of the building to two hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Take
it or leave it. But since it was the perfect building, in the perfect location, and money was already being spent, the principal and Child Pilot’s board had no choice. They purchased the warehouse from Arthur and put two times his annual income into his bank account. That money would provide the seed capital for Arthur’s burgeoning empire. And twenty-six years later, he owned over a billion dollars’ worth of real estate, most of it located in the greatest city on earth: Manhattan.
There was one more lesson that Arthur took from Cash Johnston, and it was the very first thing that Cash told each and every audience he spoke to. Cash was born Josh Johnston. His mom had called him “Joshy John” for thirty years. It was only when he went down to the courthouse and changed his name to Cash that his life changed. Arthur took that advice to heart. A few days after he’d purchased his third building in Philadelphia, Arthur quit his job. He walked himself down to the courthouse on Market Street and changed his last name from Hynes to Metropolis. And on that day, Arthur Metropolis was born.
▪
Jake, listening in on Arthur’s origin story from behind the two-sided mirror, could tell the man was used to dazzling people. This was par for the course for Arthur, but was it also a calculated technique? After the grandstanding, Susan finally moved the conversation towards the case at hand. Arthur had inexplicably become the target of a series of daring cat burglaries, all executed by the same team—and all, apparently, quite successful.
▪
“How long have you owned the penthouse, Mr. Metropolis?” Susan dug in.
“For about fifteen years. Actually my wife was the one who wanted it, which is ironic,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I hated it back then. My wife, I mean, my ex-wife. We’re divorced now. Have been for five years. But it’s actually a real impressive place. Go out on a date, come back there, the views are amazing. Know what I mean?”
“Sure,” replied Tony cautiously.
“So you use it to entertain?” Susan asked.
“I use it for whatever I want.”
“I’d love to know what that means. What I’m really trying to figure out is who’s been up there. Let’s say in the last year. How many people would know the layout, things like that?” Susan asked.
“Well, the super and all the staff, obviously. And a number of ladies,” Arthur responded.
“Like your girlfriend? The model?”
“Oh, no. Not Isabelle. No. My main residence is down in the West Village. An old church, actually. Filled the top floor with floor-to-ceiling crystal. Still have the original stained glass in all the stairwells, though. You’ve got to see it. Beautiful.”
“That’s where you sleep at night?”
“Most of the time. I also use my boat. It’s at Chelsea Piers.”
“So the penthouse is for . . . other women . . . that you’re seeing on the side?” Susan asked.
“Listen. Dead end there. I promise you that I wasn’t robbed by some broad,” Arthur replied.
▪
Jake finally pulled up a chair and sat down. Arthur was a man who liked to hear himself talk. It would be a long interview. Arthur’s proclivities with the ladies were almost as well known as his business acumen. Susan was doing an excellent job of biting her lip; Jake knew that must have been very difficult for her. Besides Arthur’s presence in the city’s social circuit, his relationship with the glamorous model Isabelle Prins, and his book, Arthur was famous for another reason. He was a self-avowed sex addict, who had starred in an ignominious sex tape with yet another model that somehow found itself onto the Internet a few years ago. He was, basically, one of the most self-assured and happy “victims” that Jake had ever crossed paths with.
▪
“I’m a problem guy. I solve problems; doesn’t matter what tool I use. The problem we have now is that I got robbed. So what are you guys gonna do to help me solve this? Or do I need to do it all by myself?” Arthur asked.
“You don’t need to worry about us, sir,” Tony said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to run through the manifest.”
“Surely.”
“According to your staff, we’re looking at three bracelets, two rings, a particularly valuable diamond necklace, and approximately forty thousand dollars in cash.”
“All very good. Correct. That necklace is really the kicker. Diamonds. They formed an M,” Arthur said and then added, “for Metropolis. Gave it to my ex-girlfriend, but she threw it at me when we broke up.”
“You gave your girlfriend a necklace with your own initial on it?” Susan asked.
“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, aren’t they?”
“All adds up to around two hundred and twenty thousand dollars,” Tony narrated.
“Also, do you normally keep that type of cash lying around in your house?” Susan asked, then continued. “You had a safe in the apartment, but it was left undisturbed. The cash was just in a drawer?”
“Yeah. It was out. Pisses me off. But it’s a rounding error,” Arthur admitted. He was a billionaire—the robbery hurt him like a mosquito bite.
“And why?” Susan asked.
“Groceries for whoever’s there,” Arthur replied simply. He wasn’t lying.
“Let’s move on . . . If it were just one robbery, we wouldn’t be here,” Susan said.
Metropolis nodded avidly in agreement. “This is the fourth place that’s been hit in the last six months. The first residential. The first one where I’ve ever rested my head, but . . . Number one was a small office in Brooklyn. Then an apartment building in the Upper West Side. And a warehouse I have in the Bronx that was full of absolutely nothing of value, just industrial supplies.”
“Bizarre,” Tony replied.
“Do you have any enemies?” Susan asked.
Arthur chuckled heartily. “If my enemies wanted to rob me . . .” he finally said, “they’d use the capital markets.”
“We clearly believe you’re being targeted. We believe the same crew is responsible. For your buildings—and others. But we don’t see any rhyme or reason yet. And it seems that neither do you . . .”
“I’d hope that our esteemed police department could tell me more than that,” Arthur said.
“We’re working as hard as we possibly can,” Susan said.
“Meaning?”
“That means the majority of major crimes is on this. Our very best undercover detective is working it as we speak,” Susan nodded . . .
“What’s his name? I want to meet him,” Arthur demanded.
“That’s not going to happen. Not right now. Operational security. But believe me, I understand the importance to you. It’s important to the mayor. And you know what? That makes it extremely important to me. We’re going to get the bottom of this, Mr. Metropolis. You have my word.”
▪
Sensing that the end of the interview was nigh, Jake made a beeline for the door. He didn’t want to spend more time in One Police Plaza than necessary. The place gave him the heebie-jeebies. Even when he was a regular detective, he’d spent as little time there as possible. He headed down a back stairwell and emerged inside the truck loading zone in the basement of the facility, where his bike was parked on diagonal yellow lines.
As Jake placed his helmet over his head, he gazed across the loading zone. An imposing black SUV was parked with its lights on. A driver sat in the running car. Another man leaned against the front grille, smoking a long cigarillo-style cigarette and staring out of the bay. He was striking. His features verged on albino. Jake’s hair was dirty-blond, but this man was a true platinum. Just then, the elevator door on the other side of the loading zone opened. Arthur Metropolis exited—the car obviously waiting for him. Arthur’s aide stubbed his cigarette on the ground and turned to greet Arthur. He opened the back door. Arthur grunted and stepped in.
As the SUV ripped out of One Police Plaza, the aide turned to stare at Jake from shotgun. Jake couldn’t make out many details through the tinted windows,
but the man’s presence haunted him. Besides the guy’s blond hair and eyebrows, the fellow had sunken eyes that seemed to stare deeply through Jake’s motorcycle mask and directly into his soul. He’d seen people like that before. The man looked like death—like a ghost. But seconds later, thankfully, the apparition was gone.
SIX
JAKE CRUISED ON THE DUCATI while his own voice echoed in his head. He was listening to a recent mix sent by his drummer, Schaub. Schaub and Jake had met back in Rivett’s early years in the city—when they were both in City College and Manhattan seemed to stay up later, and be safer, than it was now. Even then, they had been headed in different directions. But they had a deep kinship that divergent lives would never shake. It was called the pursuit of screamo. The mix vibrated between Jake’s ears. Schaub had cut it nice and deep, the way Jake liked it, with wall upon wall of cascading sonic beats. Rivett’s voice ricocheted through the mix—loud but lulling. For most screamo bands, the lyrics were much less important than the vibe. The vibe was singular. It was anger and resentment boiling over. But this new track did not lack for humanity or eloquence. Titled “Out of the Mist,” the song was perhaps a touch poppier than before, with an undercurrent of deep electronic funk coursing throughout. Yeah. Jake was into it. Scratch that—he absolutely loved it. His head bobbed up and down as the beats raced through the headphones integrated inside his helmet. Towards the end of the song, it quieted and a loud notification chime played. Jake glanced down at his cell mounted between the handlebars. A prompt read: “UrbEx Friend Request: Accepted.” Jake threw his hands up in celebration, bike expertly balanced between his knees.
Never Go Alone Page 5