by S. J. Rozan
“Dude? And?”
And? For a moment, nothing. But there was something. The power of the itch to remember what Hal had said, the depth of relief when I’d scratched it. Why did it matter?
“Oh, God in heaven!” I yanked the car door open. “Let’s go. Tell you on the way.”
A brief hard pause from Mary. Then, “Get in the car,” she said, and the kids did, and we were rolling. Patino glanced our way as Mary pulled out; none of the other cops paid any attention. Kee was transporting her prisoners, fine, they had their own jobs to worry about. They probably didn’t give a thought, either, to Joey’s town car slipping away from the curb a block up, just as Mary didn’t notice Trella sending a text silently from the backseat.
“All right, where?” Mary asked.
“Downtown. Near South Street. Give me that stuff.” I gathered the things from Kevin’s bag. “The Last Days of Old Beijing.” I held up the book. “Beijing—in the old days, Peking. The South Street Seaport has a schooner called the Peking. It’s docked down near the end of Maiden Lane.”
“Oh, dude!” Linus’s face lit up. “Oh, you think? You think so? Some ‘maiden’ thing, that was the last clue he was gonna give us, before he decided not to?”
“I don’t know if it was. The last clue may have been something else. But you have to know ‘Maiden Lane’ would just crack Kevin up. The question is, does the rest of this fit? You guys, this photo. Chevy Chase. What if it’s not about him, or his routines, or cars or anything, it’s about one of his movies? What movie would this be from?”
“Shit, dude, I don’t know. He’s not a guy I follow, dig?”
“Then we need to go through his filmography,” Trella said.
“Oh! Duh! We can IMDB him!” Linus had his iPhone out again. “Give it here, dude.” I had no idea what he was doing but I passed him the photo. He muttered, “Filmography, huh?” and Trella smiled. They leaned together while he swiped small square pictures down his screen. “Here! Dude! Damn, it’s right in front of us! It’s the thumbnail for something called Fletch.” He looked hopefully up at me. “That help?”
“Goddamn it, yes! Fletcher Street is three blocks long, runs parallel to Maiden Lane, a block away!”
Linus whooped. “And the other thing? The screw?”
I held that in my palm, waited for lightning to strike. And waited. “I don’t know,” I finally said.
Mary swung the car around Battery Park and up the FDR, pulled in at a NO STANDING sign under the highway by the seaport. “You’d better be right.”
I had no answer. It was true: I’d better be.
We left the car, crossed South Street to the foot of Maiden Lane. “What now, dude?” Linus was ready for instructions, and Mary let me be the one to give them.
“You two take Fletcher. Go slowly. Look for what we talked about before: areaway windows, slots between buildings.”
“And you’ll be on Maiden Lane?”
“You got it.”
On the way down, Mary had called it in, telling Dispatch to send cars but keep them back until she asked for them. Now she walked silently beside me, her eyes, like mine, searing the façades of the buildings lining Maiden Lane. Trying to burn away their secrets. To outsmart them. Though if you asked me they could keep every secret they ever had, all but one. There was no one I ever wanted to outsmart again, nothing I wanted to figure out anymore, except this one thing.
The first two blocks west from the river, nothing. No calls from Linus and Trella, either. Maybe I was wrong; this wasn’t the place. Maybe we were wrong, wrong as could be about everything: the location, the areaway, the windows, the sun. Maybe I’d gotten the clues, and everything Lydia had said to me all day, totally wrong.
Then we crossed Front Street. And there it was.
“Mary.” I grabbed her arm. “Look.”
“What?” She squinted where I was pointing: a turn-of-the-last-century brick building squatting along Front Street, taking the entire block between Fletcher and Maiden Lane.
“New Jersey Zinc. Above the door.”
“New Jersey—”
“Zinc! Galvanized, the screw is galvanized! That’s why it’s silver. It’s coated with zinc!” I was across the street before I was done talking.
New Jersey Zinc showed signs of ongoing work: boarded-up windows, blue tarp draping the parapet, scaffolding over a blocked-off sidewalk. The eastern façade, on Front, met the sidewalk hard, no areaway, no basement windows. The Fletcher Street wall was on the north; it wouldn’t get sun. But the southern wall ran along Maiden Lane itself. And the quoins on its corner were lit, right then, by a disappearing slice of sunlight. Earlier in the day that slice would have briefly fallen right in the pebbled glass windows of the areaway that spanned the building’s length.
I called the kids while Mary called Dispatch. “Be right there, dude!” Linus promised and we heard the sirens start up and grow nearer but we didn’t wait, Mary and I. Inside, where plastic tarps and orange warning cones cut off half the dusty lobby, a startled security guard looked up from his newspaper when Mary barked, “NYPD!” She held up her badge. “I need the building manager. Now!”
The guard blinked. “Manager’s gone home.”
“Then the night super!” Mary shouted at him, as though he should’ve thought of that himself.
He spoke into his radio. Thirty seconds later by his desk clock, thirty years by my heart, a heavy man in a blue uniform came through a door across the lobby.
“Looking for me?” He addressed me, but Mary answered, flashing her badge again.
“NYPD. We have reason to believe a kidnapper’s hiding his victim in your basement.”
He turned his stare to her, examined her badge as though there were any way he’d have known a real one from a fake. “In here? No.”
“Take me down there. Now.”
“Building’s being renovated, in case you can’t tell. Half empty. No one’s using the basement, except my workshop’s at the other end.”
I asked, “You been down there today?”
“No, not for a couple days now.”
“Well, we’re all going down there now,” Mary said fiercely.
More stare. “You have a warrant?”
“Get out of my way.” She started to push past him.
“Okay, okay,” he said with a shrug. “Reflex question. No skin off my nose. Come on.”
Over her shoulder Mary told the guard, “I sent for backup, but don’t let them downstairs until I say so.” We followed the super along a corridor and down a flight of stairs.
“How long has this renovation been going on?” I asked.
The super grunted. “A year. I don’t know why everything’s gotta move like molasses in this city. No work a whole damn month now, some permit bullshit. ’Scuse my French,” he said in Mary’s direction, not looking like he cared much whether she was offended or not. “Okay, here you are. Gorgeous, huh? What do you want to see?”
He’d flipped the switch for a row of construction-caged lightbulbs. The stairs had brought us down to an open area where three plastic-draped, dusty corridors branched in different directions. Piles of construction lumber, stacks of Sheetrock, bags of dry cement crowded each route, looking malevolently ready to disorient and trap you and keep you wandering until you dropped. The super unclipped a flashlight from his belt, played it over the debris. “See? Like I said.” He spoke as if this mess proved his point, and shifted his weight, ready to leave. To me it suggested just the opposite and Mary and I ignored him.
“I’ll take that way,” Mary said.
“No,” I said, calm and sure. “Come with me. This leads to the south side. Where the areaway windows are.”
We lifted a tarp and stepped into a shadowed wasteland of hanging wires, scattered wood scraps, sawdust, and half-framed walls. Wordlessly I held out my hand for the super’s flashlight. He hesitated, then passed it to me. As I started forward Mary clutched my arm.
“Booby traps,” she said. “
Kevin might have it wired. Collapsing ceiling or something.”
“No.” I was stone certain. “If he has Lydia here, it’s one day only. Last thing he’d want is some carpenter getting clobbered and the place swarming with rescue personnel.”
Still, we moved in slowly and carefully. After a moment the super followed, muttering. I was aware every second of the hot, close, dusty air. I wanted to race along, pounding on doors, shouting Lydia’s name. What kept me steady was Kevin’s tank of poison gas, set to be released by a phone call, but maybe not only by that. The corridor might not be booby-trapped, but if I were Kevin the room would be a different story.
Like most commercial building basements, there was nothing straightforward about this one, wouldn’t have been even if it hadn’t been in the middle of construction. The hallway bent and branched, threw up dead ends and doorways like a stream with dams and tributary brooks. At each doorway, I inspected the jambs, the head, the threshhold. The first seven or eight were clearly not sealed, not airtight. Still, using my keys so the sound would be sharp, I tapped anyway, tried each handle, called Lydia’s name. Some opened, some didn’t, but the dust and grime hung heavy and undisturbed everywhere. We kept going. Then, after a jog to the left, the hallway widened as though the stream had been blocked and created a pond. The three surrounding walls each had a door. Two were full height, like the others we’d passed. The last was half-size, access to a machine room or some such. The full-height ones were ill fitting, with gaps at head or jamb.
The half-size one was sealed.
Caulking clogged the meeting of door and wall, door and floor, smeared flat by a finger, hard up against backer rod where the gap was too big for caulk alone. Mary’s eyes met mine.
“What’s this to?” I asked the super.
He peered, shrugged. “Beats me. Never been in there. Nothing the building uses, anyway. Old coal bin?”
“Is it on the drawings?”
“For the renovation? No idea. Never saw them. Not my job.”
I clenched my teeth. “You have them?”
“The drawings? Could be there’s a set in the office.”
“Go get them. You have the key?” I leaned, looked more closely. “Shit, forget it. Glue in the lock.” Meaning Kevin was never really planning to come back?
As the super’s footsteps faded and my heart sped up, Mary got on her radio. I wasn’t waiting, though. I squatted by the door. Steel, with chipped paint, dented knob, scabby rust dulling its hinges. I dug out my keys, rapped on the steel, called Lydia’s name, stopped to listen.
No answering call.
We had to be right. This had to be the place. Stretching Kevin’s time limits to the outside only gave us half an hour before Lydia’s air ran out. We had no time to start over.
Again, I called, louder, banged the keys on the steel harder, paused.
Again, no anwering call.
But an answering tap.
I shot a look at Mary. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
Was I wrong?
I rapped the steel once more, stopped once more.
Doubtfully, Mary said, “I don’t hear anything.”
“Wait! Listen.”
Silence. Then—
Yes! Yes!
Rhythmic tapping, fainter than mine, but unmistakable. Not weak: the taps seemed sharp enough, just at a distance. She couldn’t reach the door? Chained, tied? No answering call: gagged?
But alive.
I felt a surge of relief so powerful I almost thought I could burst right through the steel door. I was about to try, but light flared behind me. Shadows rounded the corner and became people, three guys in gray visored helmets and thick ballistic vests. With them was a cop I knew: Tom Sweeney, Mary’s captain.
“Kee,” Sweeney nodded.
“Captain,” she responded.
Sweeney scowled at me. “You, later.” But he didn’t throw me out. “Kee, this is Kennison. Bomb Squad.”
The guys in gray had put down their loads: boxes, a duffel bag. One started setting up a light stand; another, a broad-shouldered black man, stepped up to shake Mary’s hand.
“Heard of you,” Mary said.
“Hope so,” Kennison grinned. “I don’t do this for the money.”
“It’s not a bomb in there,” Mary said. “It’s poison gas.”
“So I hear. Cell phone trigger. We have the number, Verizon’s got it blocked.”
“Could be another trigger, too,” I said. “Couple more, maybe.”
“Heard all about that, too. Talked to the Chinese kid upstairs while we waited for you to call us in. He said your bad guy was tricky. What’s he, the kid, gang unit or something?”
“Civilian,” Mary answered. “Damn good, though.”
If this ever ended I’d have to remember to tell Linus that she said that.
“Robbie’s on his way. The robot,” Kennison explained when Mary looked blank. “Might not turn out to be his gig but he likes the exercise. DEP has an infrared heat sensor they use in the tunnels they’re sending over, too. We came ahead because you seem to be in a hurry.”
“The victim may be running out of air. Kidnapper said that would happen.”
“But she’s still with us now?”
“Yes.” Mary nodded tightly. “You tap, she responds. But you can see how the door’s sealed.”
“Windows outside, too.” Kennison squatted as he spoke, ran his fingers along the door jamb, explored the head and sill. He glanced up at her. “What, you thought we were just sitting around waiting for you? Did all the prelim recon already, you’re welcome. We have lights out there.” He gestured vaguely toward the building’s exterior.
“She knows you’re there, then,” I said suddenly. “Lydia.”
“The victim? Yeah, if she can see she’ll know something’s up, can’t miss us. We can’t see inside, though. Panes are all soaped up. But we can see wires on the glass. Like for an alarm. Might trip the gas, might not. Might be plain ol’ dummies. Can’t be sure yet. Look,” he said, lifting a stethoscope from the duffel bag, “I have to ask you guys to step away. You, too, Captain. Me and my brother Darryl and my other brother Darryl here, this is what we get the big bucks for. We let you guys hang around, you’ll steal our secrets.”
“Move it out,” Sweeney said to Mary and me, starting to step away.
“I—”
“No.” Sweeney grabbed my arm.
For a second I resisted. What the hell, Smith, you’re going to mix it up with Sweeney? That would sure help Lydia. Every bit of me wanted to stay but I let the captain pull me along. We retreated around a corner, far from any catastrophe the Bomb Squad guys might set off. Four other cops waited there, and three EMS techs with a gurney, oxygen, burn blankets, all the disaster supplies you might need. For Lydia’s sake I was grateful to them all but it was too many people. I stepped away. I wiped a trickle of sweat from my neck as I thought about Lydia behind that door, in some small, rank space, seeing the lights, hearing my taps. Hang on, I thought, hang on! From where we were I couldn’t see Kennison and the others, but the scene was vivid in my mind: the lights, the vests, Kennison’s stethoscope, his big fingers exploring the caulk, the knob, the hinges.
Son of a bitch.
The hinges.
That door, so carefully sealed and Super Glued, wasn’t the door Kevin used. Even a couple of trips, a couple of openings and closings, would have scraped some rust off the hinges. But they were scaly and dull.
There was another door.
I needed a look at the building’s plans but if the super had found them the Bomb Squad guys would’ve had them. “Mary!” I lifted the tarp that led to another of the branching corridors. If I was right, one of these would split again farther along, and swing back to the left. I picked the middle one, the one most likely.
“What? Bill!” Commotion as she pushed through after me, two more cops on her heels.
“There’s another way in,” I shouted over my shoulder
without slowing down. I jumped a pile of paint cans like a steeplechase horse.
“How do you know?”
I didn’t answer, just paused for a moment at a branch in the hallway, chose a path, raced on. Another twist, to the left as it should be, and, a few feet along, another branch. If I was right, this would be just about the spot. I went left again.
There was a door.
I held up my hand for Mary and the others to stop. I stepped to the door to examine it, to check the caulking and to rap on it, see if I could hear Lydia answer. I played the flashlight on the floor: footprints in the dust. On the lock: this one wasn’t glued. This one, the tumbler was new. The hinges: on the knuckles, the telltale gleam of recent use.
I pulled out my keys and rapped.
No answer.
Wrong. This had to be it, this had to be the same room. And Lydia had to be still alive. No answer was just wrong.
I pounded the door with my fist.
No answer.
I lifted my fist for another, harder go, but made contact with nothing. The door flew open, a hand grabbed my arm. With a powerful pull it yanked me inside.
28
I nearly stayed steady but a foot hooked mine and the hand pulled harder. As I stumbled forward something smashed the back of my head. I lost my balance and a second later my shoulder slammed the concrete floor. I heard a heavy clunk, maybe a bolt being thrown, but I wasn’t sure. And I wasn’t sure I cared. My head throbbed, swam, and I lay on the edge of a soft darkness, a cool comfort waiting to swallow me up. All I had to do was go with it.
Seriously? Dude!
I pulled in a ragged breath. The air was fetid, stale. I rolled over, struggled to my feet. From outside I heard shouting and the pounding of fists. I straightened, blinked, tried to register what I saw.
Unnaturally bright light streamed in from above, dividing the room into freakish washed-out pales and sharp black shadows. I squinted, worked at resolving the swimming jigsaw. Gradually, it sharpened.