Damnable

  So he began with what he knew. His mother had said Garrett described himself as a security consultant. He flipped through the S’s among the reams of bound, spilling paper until he found headings starting with “security,” saw a category for security consultants among the numerous ads for burglar alarms, window bars, and executive protection. A few dozen agencies were listed, names like Allied Security Network and Metro Investigations & Security. He studied the names carefully. No Garretts. No Hatchers. No Nolans. But somewhere near the middle of the pack, a one-line entry for GEN-Tech Consulting caught his eye. He read it several times, until the name tripped the right mental lever. The message he’d been given in the colonel’s office popped suddenly into view. Garrett E. Hatcher, aka Garrett E. Nolan, Deceased.

  Garrett E. Nolan. GEN.

  He took a taxi to the address in the phone book. From what he could tell, no one had broken off the surveillance to follow him from the apartment, and he didn’t notice anyone on the street paying attention when he got into the cab. But he was certain someone would have sent word that he left. He smiled at the thought. Whatever they were saying probably made for interesting radio traffic. Maloney and Wright would want to know where he was going. Want to know pretty badly, he supposed. Each perhaps for different reasons.

  Different reasons. Something bothered him about that, but he couldn’t get his mind to cough it up. He quit trying after a few intersections.

  The building at the address for GEN-Tech was a crumbling midrise of gray stone blocks and ornate carved work. A pair of lion heads was arrayed above two large doors that looked like dark wood but were probably metal. The place smacked to Hatcher of something out of a gangster movie, the kind of building that would see big-wheeled cars with running boards pull up so a hood in the backseat could unload the magazine of a tommy gun at it, some guy on the stoop in a rakish fedora with a carnation pinned to his chalk-stripe suit doubling over from a bad case of lead poisoning. For-lease signs were visible behind the bare glass of a number of the windows in the surrounding buildings. The neighborhood had seen better days. Probably before the feds busted up the mob.

  Hatcher entered the building and wandered until he found a floor directory. It looked like it hadn’t been tended in years. Plastic white letters were pressed on black material behind scratched and cloudy plastic glass. Most of the letters were missing, but not the ones he needed to see. GEN-Tech was in suite 203. Hatcher circled around a Hispanic man with an iPod pushing a mop and bucket to some rhythm only he could hear, took the stairs to the second floor.

  The door to GEN-Tech Consulting had a frosted window with the company name stenciled on it. Much of the writing was scratched off. Hatcher stood in front of the door for a moment, waiting to see if anyone followed him into the hall, then tried the knob. It turned and the door swung gently inward a few inches.

  With the door open a crack, Hatcher could hear the sounds of movement inside. The knock of a hand or arm against a desk, the scuffing of a shoe across the floor. He pushed slowly on the door and stepped into a vestibule. It was small and rectangular, with cheaply paneled walls holding a few framed Edward Hopper prints. A couch was nudged up against one wall, a couple of chairs against the other. There was a desk toward the rear. The desk had a phone and a blotter and too much dust for it to actually have seen a secretary any time in the past few months. Just next to it was the door to an interior office. The door was ajar. The sounds were coming from behind it.

  Hatcher treaded lightly across the room and slowly opened the interior door. The office on the other side was a fairly spacious, square space. An oversized desk crowded the center, littered with file folders and stacks of papers. A man with white hair and glasses was seated behind it, bent over and leaning forward off the chair, rummaging through a drawer. He was older, age spots like faded coffee stains on his face. He looked vaguely familiar.

  “Excuse me,” Hatcher said.

  The man’s head popped up and he stared at Hatcher, blinking once, twice, three times. His mouth was open and stayed that way. He was wearing a shirt that read “Just Because You’re Paranoid Doesn’t Mean They’re Not Out To Get You.” Over the shirt, a pair of bright suspenders.

  “You’re the guy from the coffee shop,” Hatcher said. “Fred. Or something like that.”

  Fred swallowed, but said nothing. His eyes swam like a pair of goldfish behind his thick horn-rimmed glasses.

  “What are you doing here?” Hatcher asked.

  “I’m, uh, looking for something,” Fred said. He had obviously been caught in the act. The act of what, Hatcher wasn’t quite sure. No one who considered themselves a security consultant would be likely to leave money in this kind of office, and there didn’t seem to be anything in plain sight worth stealing.

  “I guessed as much. Mind telling me what?”

  Fred swallowed. The side of his mouth ticked up, trying to crack a smile, but barely made a dent. “Rather hard to explain.”

  “I’m a great listener.” Hatcher stepped into the room.

  “The . . . I . . .” Fred scratched his chin, took in a breath and puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. “I made a promise to him.”

  “To who? Garrett?”

  Fred nodded slowly, more a rocking gesture with his head than a regular nod, like he was trying to stop himself from doing it.

  “What kind of a promise?”

  The eyes were really swimming now, a pair of guppies frantically trying to avoid the net. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to say.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Garrett earlier, when I was asking about him at the coffee shop?”

  “I didn’t know if he’d have wanted me to. His instructions were . . . I’m sorry. I really don’t think I should say anything else.”

  “He’s dead. I don’t think he’d mind.”

  The look that squirmed around Fred’s face was one Hatcher had seen before more times than he could remember. The look of someone conflicted, uncertain of the right thing to do.

  “But that was what he made me promise,” Fred said. “That I’d follow his instructions if anything happened to him.”

  Hatcher was about to tell him that since Garrett was his brother, he’d have wanted him to know, but stopped himself. Not because those things weren’t true, but because they probably were. For some reason, that made him feel like a complete shit.

  Fred looked like he was about to break the silence, got as far as parting his lips, but he froze at the sight of something over Hatcher’s shoulder.

  “Garrett?”

  It was a woman’s voice. Hatcher turned toward it, hearing her approach. “Garrett! Where have you be—”

  She was a pretty brunette with hazel eyes and large lips. The lines of her face and jaw were pleasant, almost elegant, in a wholesome, girl-next-door way. Could probably stand to lose a few pounds. She wore dark blue stretch pants and a loose-fitting white blouse over a pair of reptile print shoes with peekaboo toes and kitten heels.

  “Oh,” she said. “I thought you were someone else.”

  Hatcher noticed the light in her eyes dim a bit. The fade of disappointment. “Who are you?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her gaze darted to Fred and back, eyes narrowing and flitting with confusion. She spun on her heels and headed back the way she came. “I made a mistake.”

  “Garrett’s dead,” Hatcher said.

  The woman stopped. She didn’t move for several seconds. Hatcher watched her carefully. Her stillness seemed unnatural, the kind that took effort, the kind people usually strove for when there was a storm of emotion roiling inside. She snapped her head and looked back over her shoulder, and he knew. The look on her face was genuine, something that couldn’t be faked. Certainly not well enough to fool someone who’d seen the real thing as many times as he had. It was the look of absolute terror.

  “No,” she said, peering back into the interior office. Her moist eyes skipped to Fred, pleading. “No.”

  Hatcher lowered his gaze to t
he floor in front of her, taking in her shoes. It suddenly seemed impolite to stare. He’d expected the possibility she’d react to the information, but now he regretted unloading it on her that way.

  “I just came from his funeral,” Hatcher said.

  “No,” she repeated, shaking her head. “He can’t be.”

  A sudden pallor overtook her face. Her eyes seemed to cloud, losing their focus. Hatcher lunged toward her, caught her just as she lost her balance. With some effort, he walked her back into the interior office. He could feel her weight sag in his arms as her legs came and went.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No,” she said again. Her voice was weak, almost lyrical with sadness.

  “What’s your name?” Hatcher asked.

  She seemed to have to think about it. “Susan.”

  Hatcher guided her to a chair, eased her into it. “I’m sorry you had to find out like that, Susan.”

  “It can’t be true.” She looked up at him. Her brow formed a triangle over her eyes. “Please tell me it’s not true.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her attention dropped to her lap, where one hand wrung the other. Seconds seemed to tick slowly by. Hatcher took a knee next to her, placed a hand on her shoulder, found himself looking at her shoes again.

  “You look like him,” she said, lifting her face. “You must be Jacob.”

  “He told you about me?”

  She nodded. “He said he had a brother.” Her eyes welled up and her lips started to quiver. “Oh, God, please tell me he’s not really dead.”

  “I wish I could, but I’m afraid it’s true.” Hatcher gave the side of her arm a gentle squeeze. “How did you know him? Were the two of you involved?”

  “I . . . I have to go.”

  “I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere,” said a raspy female voice. “Not until you answer a few questions. Starting with that one.”

  Hatcher stood, spun to see Wright standing in the doorway. The redheaded cop from the interrogation room was standing next to her. Reynolds, the Clown guy.

  “If I didn’t know better, Detective, I’d swear you were following me,” Hatcher said.

  Wright pressed her lips together, almost puckering them. The set of her jaw seemed off, crooked, causing her right cheek to bunch into a dimple. Compared to before, it was like someone had peeled a layer of mask off, revealing more of the real her, showing a part that was a little sexy, a lot angry. Hatcher didn’t know her that well, but he guessed this was a look any man in her life would see, and see often. He also had a hunch that no matter how many years a guy spent with her, he would never quite know where that look would lead.

  “I think the other way around would be more accurate,” she said.

  Hatcher glanced at Reynolds. The guy held his eyes, but didn’t seem too comfortable doing it. Wright was clearly in charge. He was carrying her water.

  “You’ve been watching the building.”

  “Yes, and when I saw you go in, I knew you would be your subtle and discreet self and spook anyone else who showed up.” Wright lowered her gaze to Susan. “Like I’m sure you did to our friend here.”

  Susan blinked, cleared her throat to cover a sniffle. “I was just leaving.”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions first, if you don’t mind.”

  The words sent a visible jolt through Susan. Hatcher could see the flash of anxiety in her eyes as they ricocheted between Wright and him. “Me? Why do you want to question me?”

  “Just think of it as standard procedure. No big deal. We’d appreciate it if you told us what you were doing here.” Wright glanced over at Fred, eyeing him with a polite wariness. “I’d also like to know who this gentleman is. But we’ll start with you.”

  “I came to visit—”

  “Me,” said Fred, interrupting her. “I told her to meet me here.” He smiled at Susan. “She’s my niece.”

  Wright’s cheeks seemed to bundle with coiled tension. Hatcher realized she was holding back a grin. “Your niece.”

  “Yes,” Fred said. “My niece. Susan Warren.”

  “And what is your name, sir?”

  He straightened his back, one hand rising to grab the strap of his suspenders. Senator Fred, hooking his lapel during a filibuster. “Frederick Jenrette.”

  “We just heard her say a moment ago that she was involved with Garrett Nolan, Mr. Jenrette,” Wright said.

  “No, you heard her being asked if she was involved with Mr. Nolan.” Fred glanced at Hatcher, his face neutral. “She did not answer that question. Garrett was a client of mine. She knew him through me.”

  “Is that so?” she asked. “What kind of client?”

  Fred gave a little shrug. “The occasional kind.”

  Now it was Hatcher’s turn to suppress a grin. He had no idea what role this guy Fred played in all of this, but for an old man with a basketball-sized belly and a silver ponytail, he seemed to have a pair of balls you could go bowling with. The kind of guy you couldn’t help but chuckle at. Hatcher guessed Wright felt the same way about him. Amused, hiding it beneath a thin veil of disdain.

  “I meant, what kind of work do you do?”

  There was a moment’s pause before Fred answered, and Hatcher could tell he was considering a lie, but thought better of it. He’d seen that pause plenty of times. The length gave it away. If he were going to lie, he would have started to answer more quickly. Only people about to tell the truth feel comfortable enough to let others see them consider their words.

  “I make custom electronic equipment. Both video and audio.”

  Wright bounced a look at Hatcher, a skeptical crease to her brow. “A surveillance tech.”

  “Something like that,” Fred said.

  “Make anything for him lately?” Wright asked. Her attention wandered to Susan.

  “A digital audio transmitter,” Fred said. “Cell phone frequency.”

  No pause this time, Hatcher noted. Still telling the truth, though. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “And what was that for?”

  “I just make equipment. I don’t ask questions.” Fred smiled. It was a pleasant enough smile, but he was missing a canine and his gums were a shade of purple, almost black above some of his other teeth. Not a bad distraction, Hatcher mused. Good way to hide the fact he not only doesn’t ask questions, but doesn’t always answer them, either. Hatcher noted Fred hadn’t actually said he didn’t know.

  “We’re going to need you to come to the station and give a full statement, Mr. Jenrette.”

  “Certainly. Would tomorrow be good? I’ve a prior engagement shortly.”

  Wright looked Fred over like a butcher examining a side of beef. Her eyes narrowed as she addressed Susan without looking at her, her steely gaze remaining fixed on Fred. It was an act. Hatcher was certain of it. She was laying it on thick. “Ms. Warren, may I see your driver’s license?”

  Susan hesitated, then opened her purse and pulled out a wallet. She slid her license out and handed it to Wright, who peeled her eyes away from Fred just long enough to read it.

  “What’s your niece’s middle name, Uncle Frederick?”

  Fred acted like he had to think of it, but something told Hatcher he didn’t. “Catherine.”

  “Date of birth?”

  “September 14, 1975.”

  “Address?”

  “Seventeen-twelve Spring Meadow Lane, Queens.”

  Wright stared at Fred for several more seconds, then returned the license to Susan.

  “Susan was always sweet on Garrett,” Fred said. A somber frown contorted the old man’s mouth, and Hatcher wanted to tell him to knock it off, to not overdo it. “They met a couple of times. I work in this building. She would see him when she came by to visit me. I knew she wouldn’t take it well. That’s why I put off telling her.”

  “Is that true, Ms. Warren?”

  Susan remained quiet for a long interval. “Yes.”

  Wright handed her back her licen
se. As she did, Hatcher noticed something about the detective’s eyes he hadn’t caught before, a way she had of angling her brow that made them change appearance by degrees, like a pair of waxing or waning moons. He also noted she did nothing to accentuate those eyes, and wore very little makeup. She was either more attractive than she realized, or more attractive than she wanted anyone else to realize. He couldn’t decide which.

  “Okay, so Uncle Fred and Suzy knew Garrett Nolan-slash-Hatcher. That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here, Mr. Jenrette.”

  “You can just call me Fred.”

  “In that case, what are you doing here, Fred?”

  “I was hoping to retrieve my equipment. Equipment I had loaned to Garrett. I know it may sound selfish, but I need it back.”

  Wright glanced at Hatcher, nodding skeptically. “What kind of equipment are we talking about?”

  “Digital recording devices. The same stuff I told you about.”

  “I thought you said you custom-made that for him.”

  “I did, but he didn’t pay for it, and it was kind of expensive.” Fred shrugged. “I need to recoup my costs.”

  Wright kept bobbing her chin ever so slightly. “Did he tell you what he needed it for?”

  “No. I never inquire about such things.”

  Hatcher realized Fred was not a good liar, but he was doing a very good job of hiding the fact. Good liars were polished, smooth, casual. Fred was none of those things. That meant he was motivated. Anyone could lie well if the motivation was sufficient. If the stakes were high enough. All they had to do was keep their nerves in check.

  “Well, Mr. Jenrette, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” Wright tossed a look at Hatcher again. He knew that one, too. The look that always came right before a new piece of information was dropped, one that should have been dropped much earlier but had been held back. “I’m pretty sure the item you’re looking for is badly damaged and is being retained as evidence anyway.”