The Wrong Man

by Jason Dean

  As he turned back to the room his eye caught a flash of white on the floor in the space between the wall and the right-hand bookcase. Like fragments of paper. He crouched down, reached in until his fingers touched the crumpled pages, and pulled them out.

  Bishop scanned the three portions. Two pieces were the remains of an acceptance letter from a Wald College, while the third was part of a communication from some rest home in San Francisco. He tried sliding the shelves further to see if there were more in there but they only moved another inch, as if something was jamming the mechanism. He knelt down on the dusty carpet and probed around under the gap at the bottom until he found the obstruction.

  Some more paper was lodged in the railing the wheels travelled on. Gently, he jiggled the bookcase to and fro while he tried to pry the sheets out without tearing them. With each motion, a little more came loose. He was starting to sweat in the airless room when they finally came away in his fingers and he stood up and smoothed out the creased fragments.

  They were the bottom sections of the other crumpled-up pages. The college acceptance letter for Philip Brennan was no more than that, although the Dean laid heavy hints that the new library wing was in need of sponsors. The one from Willow Reeves Rest Home was a brief response to a previous enquiry from Randall Brennan regarding an old patient of theirs named Timothy Ebert, explaining that they couldn’t discuss the details of former residents.

  Possibly just random scraps left behind when everything was moved out, but on the other hand, maybe not. Bishop folded the sheets and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. It couldn’t hurt to consider them properly later.

  As he looked around the room again, his attention was drawn to four equally spaced marks forming a square in the middle of the carpet. The kind of marks a chair might make. Frowning, he raised his eyes to the sloping ceiling directly above and saw a smoke detector. Just like the ones in all the other rooms. Interesting. So somebody had decided to replace the battery on this one after the new carpet had been installed. In a house nobody lived in any more. Yet the indicator light wasn’t flashing, and Bishop knew batteries on these things could last ten years or more.

  He walked through the doorway to the much smaller adjoining room. Previously Brennan had used it for occasional satellite conferences with his overseas clients. Now it was empty save for two metal folding chairs. The kind that opens up like a slanted capital A. They had cross braces across the tubular steel legs and a single-contoured back and waterfall seat. One also bore the faint, smudged imprint of a shoe with a circular space in the centre of the sole. It looked like a size nine. The same shoe size as Tennison, Thorpe and Chaney. That was a big help. And with over twenty thousand different types of sole in circulation at any one time, he couldn’t even begin to guess the particular make.

  Bishop picked that chair up and took it back into the other room. He positioned the end of the chair legs precisely on the corresponding marks on the floor. A perfect match.

  He climbed up and examined the white, circular device above him. Looked like a good quality alarm. Made of tough plastic with the name Premier Alert moulded into it and a grille encircling the perimeter. Reaching up, he tried twisting the casing from its base. It was lodged tight. Ignoring the tearing pain in his lower back, he kept at it and finally got it moving, rotating the device anti-clockwise several times until the bottom half came away in his hand.

  Inside, a fragment of metal and plastic was stuck to the base. Both materials were black, and affixed to the side of the plastic was something that looked like a broken lens.

  You meet a lot of people in the close protection racket. Some good, some bad. But usually talented in some form or another. And a person with a talent likes to talk about his or her skill. Tennison had been a talented guy who loved to talk. He was great with gadgets and new technologies about to hit the market. Hidden surveillance was his particular thing, and the plastic and metal remnant in Bishop’s hand looked just like a part of the cameras Tennison used to show him.

  From what Bishop remembered, it could have been the remains of a wireless video capture unit, able to zoom in and transmit footage to a receiver or portable hard drive nearby. Motion-activated, maybe. Or possibly something more advanced, able to transmit real-time footage to its owner.

  He tried to pull the piece free, but it wouldn’t budge. Probably used superglue. Turning the casing over, Bishop pulled the knife from his ankle holster and made a small nick on the outer part of the alarm, matching the position of the lens inside. He then screwed it back onto its base in the ceiling as far as it would go.

  The scratch mark pointed in the direction of the vault. Naturally. Which meant that the person who wanted access to that vault must have obtained the combination before the raid ever took place. Possibly weeks or months before.

  So why arrange the raid at all?

  TWENTY-SIX

  Sixty seconds after Bishop rang Aleron’s buzzer, the door half opened and the girl from the park stared back at him. The baseball cap had been discarded, but her hair was still pulled back from her high forehead. Bishop decided she was one of those rare lucky ones who looked prettier the closer you got.

  ‘Ali’s not here,’ she said. Her large eyes didn’t exactly project warmth, but at least she wasn’t closing the door in his face.

  ‘I’ll come by again later,’ he said, turning away.

  ‘You can wait.’ The gap had widened a few more inches. ‘If you want.’

  Bishop nodded his thanks. She led him into the large living room and he smelt the sweet scent of honeysuckle as he passed her.

  In the centre of the room two small leather couches and an easy chair were positioned around a marble-effect coffee table. Underneath, a tortoise-shell tabby was fast asleep and Bishop watched it for a few seconds, envying its contentment. By the large, front-facing window, a forty-inch TV was showing the news and the girl picked up the remote and pressed the red button, allowing them to hear the muffled sounds coming from the street.

  ‘I’m making tea,’ she said, running her fingers through the end of her short ponytail. When Bishop didn’t reply she added, ‘It’s just as easy to make for two as for one.’

  ‘Tea’s good,’ he said and sat down on the edge of the nearest couch.

  ‘Taste it before you decide how good it is. Anything with?’

  Bishop shook his head. ‘Just as it is.’

  She raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Just black, huh? A man with discerning taste.’ Turning, she walked towards what Bishop guessed was the kitchen, then stopped and turned back with a furrowed brow. ‘Did I make a mistake?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now when I let an escaped psycho through the front door.’

  Bishop smiled and said, ‘Don’t hold back, say what you think.’

  ‘Not my words. It’s what the TV’s calling you.’

  ‘Can’t argue with TV, can I? After all, they’ve never been wrong before.’

  ‘Point taken. But it raises the question of who actually killed those poor people if it wasn’t you.’

  ‘I’m kind of curious about that myself,’ Bishop said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m still working on it.’ He scratched under his chin, feeling a few stray beard hairs, and said, ‘I take it Aleron doesn’t treat the six o’clock news as gospel, either.’

  She paused, then said, ‘He told me he’s met his fair share of psychos and you don’t fit the profile. Said a sociopath tries to charm everyone he meets from the word go, adapting his behaviour to fit in with those around him, but you weren’t afraid to be disliked.’

  ‘He notices a lot.’

  ‘So does Owen,’ she said. ‘He told Ali you might have been the only innocent man in Greenacres.’

  ‘Well, I’m innocent of the crime they put me away for,’ he said, studying her eyes. ‘But I’m no boy scout. You’d be wrong to think that.’

  ‘Okay. But are you what they say you are?’

  ‘No. That much I’m
not.’

  ‘Well, then.’ The smile she gave him lit up her face. ‘I’m Jenna,’ she added before leaving the room.

  Bishop sat back on the couch and laid his head against the soft leather. Relishing the feeling he took a deep breath, held it, counted to ten. As he exhaled he stretched his legs out and clenched his muscles. Under the coffee table the cat stirred and stared at him. It seemed everyone was wary of him at the moment. He looked down and stared right back, thinking of that camera remnant he’d found in Brennan’s office. And the bonding cement residues he’d found in three other smoke detectors around the house, including the one in Natalie’s den. The reasoning behind the one in the office was self-evident, but he was still trying to figure out the significance of the others. After a while, he realized the cat still hadn’t looked away. Don’t cats ever blink?

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Jenna said, interrupting their competition. ‘Bud can outstare a statue.’ She placed a mug on the table near him and took a few sips from her own. Then she took a seat on the matching couch opposite, stretching out both legs under the table and tickling the cat’s head with her toes.

  Bishop tried his tea. ‘It’s good. Thanks.’

  ‘You don’t look like a James,’ she said.

  The comment threw Bishop for a second and he found he enjoyed the feeling. Jenna clearly wasn’t afraid to speak her mind and he hadn’t met many women like that. Although he did wonder what a James was supposed to look like. Especially as there were so many of them. ‘Well, I remember my parents calling me James when I was a kid,’ he said. ‘But these days most people just call me Bishop.’

  ‘Uh, huh,’ she said. ‘You and Luke were funny this morning.’

  ‘Lucas?’ When she nodded, he said, ‘I couldn’t help myself. Guys like him just bring it out of me.’ About to place the mug on the table, he paused midway. ‘You think he’ll make trouble for me?’

  ‘Not unless he wants to make trouble for Ali, and he’d never do that. He’s hardly in a position to anyway, even if he recognized you. Which he probably didn’t.’

  ‘Okay.’ Bishop sat back and studied the room. ‘I don’t see any photos of you and Aleron on display.’

  Jenna watched him, then said, ‘Well, we’ve got a long history, you know?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  She frowned at the ceiling. ‘Let’s see now. Next March, it’ll be . . . twenty-seven years. Exactly.’

  Bishop smiled. ‘Okay, I missed that one. You’re his sister.’

  ‘Owen’s, too. It’s not obvious, although I thought the similarity in the eyes might have given you a clue. With Owen out of my reach, I at least try to spend a Sunday morning with my big brother when I get the chance.’

  ‘It’s late afternoon now.’

  Jenna looked out the window. ‘Yes,’ she said with a shrug and turned back to him, a faint upturn at the corners of her mouth. ‘It is.’

  There was a momentary silence and Bishop realized how rusty he was when it came to small talk. There hadn’t been much call for it in his previous careers. Even less so inside. But he figured now was as good a time as any to reacquaint himself with the technique. ‘You live nearby?’ he asked.

  ‘Out in Laurelton. Close enough when you think about it, but you know what siblings are like.’

  ‘Yes. And I get why Luke acted that way now.’

  ‘He’s got no claims on me, no matter what he thinks. I make my own decisions about who I want to talk to.’ Jenna pulled her feet up to her chest. ‘And who I want to spend time with.’

  ‘That I can believe,’ he said.

  Three heads turned at the sound of a key in the lock and Jenna called out, ‘We’re in here, Ali.’

  A second later Aleron appeared, saw Bishop and said, ‘Sorry, man.’ He nodded to his sister and said, ‘Hasn’t the guy been through enough? And don’t you have kickboxing class tonight?’

  ‘Don’t I every Sunday?’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair now.’

  Bishop watched as Jenna stood up. She was about five-four, small-boned with narrow hips and slender legs, but there was plenty of sinewy muscle in there. Probably not an ounce of fat on her. Her body reminded him of a gymnast he’d once known, back when he was stationed at the American embassy in Haiti. Like Jenna, she’d also looked great from every angle.

  Jenna noticed the way he was studying her and smiled. ‘Don’t ever call me petite,’ she said. ‘I’m stronger than I look.’

  ‘People generally are,’ he said. ‘You practise around here?’

  ‘The Women’s New Hope Center near the airport. Well, not there, exactly. More like the gym a block down from it, but lots of women from there come along.’ She looked down her nose at him and winked. ‘And I don’t practise, I teach.’

  ‘Let the man alone, Jenna. We got business,’ Aleron said as he walked towards the basement door. ‘I’ll phone you in the week,’ he called out over his shoulder.

  Bishop got up and said, ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  She smiled. ‘Hey, that’s what Sunday afternoons are for. Look, if I don’t see you again . . .’ She hesitated for a second and then said, ‘Well . . . good luck, James.’

  He nodded to her and followed Aleron downstairs. In the basement, Aleron led him to the worktable and pulled out a cheap plastic credit-card wallet from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Okay, Mr Allbright, you’re all ready to join the human race again. At least, superficially.’

  Bishop opened it to the first sleeve containing the replica Social Security card and pulled it out. It had been laminated and looked convincingly worn at the corners, with a further crease running down the red government watermark in the centre. Aleron had done a pretty good job. Better than good, actually. He replaced it and took out the driver’s licence and birth certificate.

  ‘Like I told you,’ Aleron said, ‘these babies’ll be good enough for the basics, like checking into a dive or getting past the front door of a government building, but not much more than that. Any place where they cross-reference your name or that Social Security number against a database and you’re history. I could supply you with the complete package – that’s my speciality – but it would cost a whole lot more. Time as well as money. And I get the feeling you don’t want to wait around.’

  ‘These look fine,’ Bishop said. He pulled some folded notes from his shirt pocket and handed them over. ‘A thousand.’

  Aleron counted it quickly before putting it in his pocket and said, ‘So you found a place to bed down yet?’

  Bishop shrugged. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘No need to get suspicious. Maybe I feel I owe you for Owen.’

  ‘Forget about Owen. Nobody owes me anything. I told him I didn’t do it for him. If he’d been killed I wouldn’t have got what I needed to get out, that’s all.’

  Aleron grinned. ‘A man alone.’

  ‘Life’s a lot simpler that way.’

  ‘What kinda life is that? Seems to me you could have stayed inside for all the difference it makes to you.’

  ‘Maybe I just prefer my windows without bars over them.’ And maybe he wasn’t all that happy about being set up for somebody else’s crime, but Aleron didn’t need to know that.

  ‘There is that, I guess,’ Aleron said and handed him a folded piece of paper.

  Bishop opened it and read the three addresses on it. ‘What are these?’

  ‘Three hotels of the dive variety. I been told they don’t scrutinize a person’s particulars as carefully as they should. In the current climate, the kind of place that’s harder to find than a sixteen-year-old virgin. Especially in New York. Just some information you might find useful. Use it or don’t. No skin off my nose.’

  ‘I might do that. Thanks,’ Bishop said. He didn’t need any more enemies and when a man was offered advice, it made sense to listen.

  ‘No problem.’

  Bishop left Aleron in the basement and let himself out of the house. On the street, the sun was approaching its final
descent and routine traffic passed back and forth, both vehicular and pedestrian. Everything looked pretty normal. Nothing pinged on his radar. Bishop started walking north.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Danny Costa had been lucky. The small diner on the opposite side of the street was the perfect spot from which to keep an eye on the house until Bishop finished his business inside. Finding a table near the window was even better.

  Costa didn’t actually know why Hedison wanted this Bishop followed, but that didn’t matter. The instruction alone was enough. Hedison tended to keep things close to his chest at the start, but he’d reveal the reason later, as always. As soon as he’d heard of the prison escape this morning, he’d guessed the fugitive would revisit the scene of the crime at some point and had installed Costa near the house on Long Island to keep a lookout. And, of course, Bishop had shown up just a few hours ago. Just as Hedison predicted. Keeping track of him since then had been relatively easy.

  And now, some new players on the scene.

  Just ten minutes ago, Costa had seen the sexy black piece come out the front door. Very nice, too. Slim and petite; a real stunner. As she’d walked off to the left, hungry eyes had followed her until she left their line of sight. A few minutes later, a Honda cruised by with her at the wheel, slowing down a little in front of the house as though she’d forgotten something before taking off again. Costa had jotted down the licence plate number in a notebook on the table next to a Sunday supplement left behind by a previous customer and continued to wait.

  And here was Bishop now, closing the front door and approaching the street. Costa looked down at the supplement and turned a page, aware the target would be scanning the area for anything that looked wrong. By the time it felt safe to look up again, Bishop was already on the sidewalk, walking in the direction the car had gone.