Too Close to Home

by Andrew Grant

  “What did I tell you about negotiating, Brett?” I shook my head. “The whole package. I’ll accept nothing less. And if you need an extra incentive, you might want to think a little harder about why we’re having this conversation on a roof.”

  Ellison took an instinctive step away. “You think you can bluff me?” He lowered his hand until it was hovering a couple of inches from his pocket. “You are crazy. And you’ve picked the wrong guy. I know an empty threat when I hear one. You need to let me leave. Now.”

  “Let’s not back each other into any corners, Brett.” I kept my voice quiet and calm. “Especially as there aren’t any corners up here. Only long, deadly drops on every side. So let’s just take a moment. Breathe. Enjoy the location. It truly is a magnificent building, don’t you think? I’ve wanted to see it for a long time. My only issue with it is the name. Why did they call it the Egg? It looks more like a clam, wouldn’t you say? Or a mushroom.”

  Ellison didn’t respond.

  “Maybe the marketing guys felt that bottom-feeders and fungi were too hard a sell.”

  Ellison’s eyes were dancing between my face and the hatch, behind me.

  “Don’t push your luck, Brett. Stay calm. Look around. Observe the curve of the roof. See how it falls gracefully away to the point where it intersects with the walls, sweeping up dramatically from below? That’s the point you should focus on. Very carefully. Because there’s absolutely nothing for a person to grab on to. Imagine rolling toward that edge. There’d be nothing to stop you. Then picture the plaza, all those hundreds of feet below. And ask yourself: Isn’t providing a little legal aid and enabling some modest educational opportunities a small price to pay to ride down in the elevator, instead?”

  Ellison didn’t reply.

  “Have you ever seen someone fall from this height, Brett? Onto a hard surface? It’s not pretty. Not the way you want to go. And it’s like catnip for reporters. You’d be all over the newspapers. And the TV. And the Internet, of course. That’s not how you want your family to remember you. Or your friends. If you’ve got any. And don’t forget, once a person’s guts get spilled, their secrets soon follow.”

  “I can picture that scene, actually.” Ellison flinched as if he was coming out of a trance, then he casually slipped his hand into his pocket. “A body rolling. Falling. Getting smashed to a pulp on the sidewalk. That’s exactly what I was thinking about. Only the guy? It’s not me. It’s you.” His hand reemerged, holding his gun, which he leveled at my chest. “And you’ll be dead long before you hit the ground.”

  “I was wondering when you’d pull that bad boy out.”

  “You threatened my life. It’ll be self-defense.”

  “Trying to talk yourself into something, Brett? Because there’s a big difference between thinking and doing.”

  “I fire hundreds of rounds a week.” Ellison glanced down at his gun. “Don’t think I won’t pull the trigger.”

  “Where do you fire them, Brett? At a range? At paper targets?”

  “What difference does it make where I shoot? Or what at? I shoot a lot is the point. And I maintain my weapon, too.”

  “I know you do. I can smell the oil from here. You use a little too much, if anything. But that’s not your main problem.”

  “I don’t have a problem.”

  “Correct.” I paused. “Technically, you have two.”

  Ellison again glanced at his gun, but he didn’t respond.

  “First problem…” I held up my right thumb as if checking points off a list, and as his eyes tracked the movement I shot out my left hand. I grabbed his gun by its barrel and wrenched it around a hundred and eighty degrees, away from his body—and mine—so that the trigger guard broke his finger and his wrist was forced right back on itself. He screamed, and half a second later the gun was in my pocket and he was on his knees, cradling his injured hand.

  “Sorry.” I waited for his whimpering to subside. “I miscounted. Only one problem.”

  “Why did you do that?” Ellison’s teeth were clenched, obscuring his words. “I wasn’t really going to shoot you. I just wanted to back you off. Make you let me go.”

  “Then that’s another way we’re different.” I shrugged. “When I say I’m going to do something, I do it.”

  “No you don’t.” Ellison laughed nervously. “Surely? Like, you wouldn’t really throw me off the roof.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” I looked him in the eye. “Do you really believe that, Brett? Think carefully, because your life depends on it.”

  Ellison looked away.

  “You abuse your office, and you prey on the less fortunate in cruel and malicious ways. The only reason to keep you alive is for you to put right some of the harm you’ve done. If you won’t agree to do that, I’ll toss you off this roof the same way I’d throw a sack of garbage in a dumpster.”

  “Bullshit.” Ellison struggled to his feet. “You don’t go to jail for the rest of your life for throwing out garbage, for one thing.”

  “I won’t go to jail for flinging you, either. Not even for a day. Let me show you something.” I took out my phone, called up a video feed, and passed it to Ellison. “What do you see?”

  He studied the screen for a second. “It’s the plaza. The base of the Egg. There’s a fenced-off area. That’s new. How come?”

  “So that if you do choose the quick way down, you won’t land on any pedestrians. I don’t want you hurting any more innocent people.”

  “You arranged for the fence?”

  “Of course. I’m not a savage.” I took the phone and selected another source. “Now. What do you see in this one?”

  Ellison stared for a moment. “Nothing’s there. It’s blank.”

  “Correct.” I put the phone back in my pocket. “That’s from the security camera covering the entrance I used to the building. It’s out of action. All the others I passed are the same. No one saw me. There’s not a shred of evidence I was ever here.”

  “There has to be.” Ellison’s eyes were flickering urgently from side to side, like he was scanning the shelves at a store on Black Friday. “Wait. Yes. The fence. People don’t just carry fences around. You must have gotten it from somewhere. Or someone must have helped you. Or done it for you. There’s a connection. A body gets found, the police—”

  “You’re right.” I smiled. “Someone did take care of the fence for me. An old army buddy. From Military Intelligence. An expert in not getting found. And even if the police did somehow get their hands on him, guess what? He wouldn’t say a word. So you may as well accept it. There’s nothing and no one to connect me to this place.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Ellison sank back down on his haunches. “I don’t get it. What’s in it for you? Did those assholes somehow scrape up some cash? Are they paying you? Because I can—”

  “No one’s paying me.” I scooped up the list from where it had fallen during the scuffle. “And if you have to ask, you won’t understand the answer.”

  “That makes no sense.” Ellison pressed the palm of his good hand against his forehead. “And who even are you? Paul, you said, when you first showed up? Is that your first name? Or last?”

  “My name’s not important.” I handed the list back to him. “I’m just a janitor. Here to clean up the mess you made. One way. Or another.”

  A cab swerved to avoid a delivery guy on a bike. Tires squealed, insults flew. Harried commuters swarmed around knots of camera-wielding tourists. A hot dog vendor cursed as he tried to remove a flyer for a low-rent defense lawyer that someone had stuck to his cart during the night. All around me horns honked and engines revved and men and women, old and young, from every race and creed, jostled for space on the sidewalk. Rush hour in Manhattan. I know people who would call it a scene from Bedlam. I called it home. And even though I’d only been away for thirty-six hours, I’d missed i
t.

  I paused at the edge of Foley Square for a moment and looked across at the New York County Courthouse. My place of work. For the time being, at least. Taking a job there hadn’t been a planned career move. More a response to the untimely death of my father, and the cracks in the system that had allowed the guy responsible to slide away, unscathed. Cracks I found myself obliged to fill.

  A handful of people broke free from the tide of passersby and started to climb the broad expanse of steep stone steps. Some had their heads up, bursting with energy, no doubt anticipating the thrill of victory or the sweet taste of vindication. Some were dragging themselves up the dozen or so feet, seemingly reluctant to face the fate that was awaiting them inside. Others appeared indifferent to the prospect of entering. Even bored by it. But regardless of their disposition, all of them were pressed together into a single amorphous mass as they funneled through the uniform gaps between the ten colossal Corinthian columns that sprouted from the top step. They continued the final few yards in shadow, then filed through the tall brass-framed door at the center of the façade. My eyes followed the pillars up to the wide carved triangular pediment that joined their peaks. I nodded to the three statues on top, feeling welcomed by them like they were familiar sentinels, then made my way around to the back of the building.

  The employee entrance is down a flight of steps, rather than up like the public’s grand way in, and as I approached I saw that the glass in the right-hand door, which had been broken for weeks, had been repaired while I was up in Albany. I wondered how long it would remain intact this time. The security guard wedged behind his wooden table asked about my weekend. I asked him about his kids, and listened to a blow-by-blow account of the older one’s softball game. As he talked I put my metal items in a rubber bowl, ready for their trip through the scanner. I had a bunch of keys, as usual—it was a habit never to leave home without them—and as usual he didn’t notice that one was actually a disguised knife. Its folding blade was small and narrow, but it could still come in useful if you knew how to use it. I had my usual handful of coins. A phone, which was brand-new. Its connecting wire, which was the kind of thing I didn’t usually bother with. And its charger. Or something that looked just like its charger, anyway. He glanced down at it, sitting there in plain sight. Passed it through the machine. And handed it back to me without question.

  If you could look at the courthouse from above, you would see that it’s made up of a strange collection of shapes. The front, in plan, is an unremarkable rectangle. But the main section is much more eye-catching. Despite appearing solid from ground level, it’s actually a hollow hexagon with a circle in the center that is connected to the outside by rectangular corridors like spokes linking a hub to a wheel. The security station I’d passed through dumps you out in the basement of the hexagonal part, so I followed the angled passageway around until I reached the door to the janitors’ room. I was expecting to see my supervisor, Frank Carrodus, there—he was usually one of the first to arrive—but no one was sitting at the round tables in the center of the room, reclining on the pair of worn-out couches nearer to the back wall, or grabbing supplies for their cleaning carts from the line of shelves along the right-hand side. I made a mental note to look for him later, then headed through to the locker room and changed into my overalls. They’re the best cloaking device ever invented. Slip a pair on and you can go anywhere in the building without anyone taking the slightest notice.

  I’d just turned to pull my cart out of its slot against the left-hand wall when the door slammed shut behind me. I turned and saw Carrodus standing there. His blond ponytail was looser than usual. A couple of his shirt buttons were unfastened, revealing more of his tattoos than he normally showed at work. His belt had bypassed one loop on his jeans. And there was a look of raw fury plastered across his face.

  “Morning, Frank.” I tried what was intended to be a friendly smile. “What’s up?”

  “Don’t even ask,” he snarled back. “I’m too mad to speak.”

  “Was there a problem on the subway?”

  “No.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “There was a problem in a goddamn jail cell. The police showed up at my house last night. The jackasses arrested me. I only just got out.”

  “You were arrested?” I looked at him. “Why? What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Frank scowled. “The assholes wouldn’t believe me. It was totally their mistake.”

  “What did they think you did?”

  “OK, so this is completely un-fucking-believable.” He crossed his arms. “They accused me of dragging a guy up to some kind of high roof and threatening to throw him off. In Albany! Which is a place I’ve never even been to.”

  “You’re not missing anything. Albany sucks.” I pulled my cart the rest of the way out. “It seems bizarre, though, this roof accusation. Why did they think you’d done that?”

  “Let me get a coffee. I need to calm down.” Frank loped across to the counter in the far corner, where fortunately someone had left enough brown sludgy liquid in the pot to fill a mug. “OK. Remember how I told you about a guy harassing some of the women at the shelter where my wife volunteers? The guy’s a total douche. His thing is demanding sex in return for not reporting the women’s husbands to the INS? As well as going after their money?”

  “Yeah, I remember.” I nodded. “You said he took a shine to your wife, too. Rita?”

  “Right. The asshole tried it on with her, too.” Frank’s free hand balled itself into a fist. “I guess he figured she was illegal, too, the racist piece of shit.”

  “I also remember you making threats about the guy, Frank.” I kept an eye on that fist. “I told you to go to the police, instead.”

  “I did go to the police.” He frowned. “I thought I told you? They did fuck all nothing. What was I supposed to do next? I couldn’t just stand by and let a thing like that slide. So, do you remember that guy, The Janitor? My sister who works at the fifteenth precinct kept hearing stories about him. He beat up some assholes at the projects one time. Threw some moron in a hole at a construction site in Hell’s Kitchen for some reason. A couple other things like that. Well, I thought, I’m a janitor, too. Maybe I should follow his lead. Clean this up myself.”

  “It does all sound familiar.” I leaned on the handle of my cart. “You did tell me. Weren’t you planning to meet the guy behind it? Confront him?”

  “Damn straight. Some scumbag named Marcus. He told Rita to meet him on Sunday night, to discuss terms. I figured I’d go in her place, and discuss what needed to happen for him not to get his ass kicked.”

  “What happened?” I straightened up. “Did you change your mind?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I tried to go. I was going to take the subway then walk the rest of the way, but when I came out of my building a cab was waiting right there. In my neighborhood! You don’t look a gift horse like that in the mouth, so I got in. I gave the driver the address. You should have seen this guy. Some weird dude, so freakishly tall he could hardly fit behind the wheel. Anyway, he made out like he knew where the place was. But he was full of shit. He just drove me around for two freaking hours. By the time I got to the place, the guy Marcus wasn’t there. He must have gotten bored of waiting, and left. I was furious. You should have seen me, man. I made an impression on that driver, for sure. He offered to drive me home for free if I didn’t report him.”

  “Now you’re losing me.” I paused. “If you didn’t actually meet this guy Marcus, how come the police came after you? What was the connection?”

  “It turns out that Marcus was only a lackey. It was his boss who was doing the deeds. Some government guy, based in Albany. Someone dragged him out of his office, forced him onto the roof of some weird concrete building they have up there, and threatened to throw him off if he didn’t stop what he was doing.”

  “I can’t believe a thing woul
d go down quite like that.” I shook my head. “But in any case, why would they think you were the one doing the dragging and the threatening?”

  “They said the government guy was pretty traumatized, but he remembered the guy who threatened him saying something about being like a janitor cleaning up his mess. I’m a janitor. I previously made a complaint against the guy. And I may have gotten a little upset when the police said there was nothing they could do to help. I may have said a few things I shouldn’t have. Thrown a few threats around. But seriously, Paul, if I was pissed then, I’m crazy now. They wouldn’t listen when I asked for their help, and then they turn around and arrest me when someone finally did something about the crime they ignored? They’re lazy assholes.”

  “How they work’s a mystery to me, too, sometimes. But back up a second. The government guy. From what you’re saying, his hands must be seriously dirty. Why on earth would a guy like that go to the cops? Surely he was just incriminating himself at the same time as whining about this alleged roof situation?”

  “Right.” Frank nodded. “But evidently the guy had some kind of a breakdown. He was scared out of his mind by whoever dragged him up there. He really believed he was going to get thrown off. And he was deadly scared of heights, or something. A hotel clerk found him wandering the streets an hour later, ranting like a madman. She dialed 911. The paramedics came and gave him some sedatives, which just made him ramble all the more. And of course the police automatically showed up and heard all these crazy claims he was spewing out.”

  “They can’t take that as evidence, surely.”

  “I doubt it.” He shrugged. “And given that they came after me, they can’t have any real clue who did the threatening. Which is a shame, because I’d like to find him and buy him a drink. A whole bunch of drinks. But the government guy? If he isn’t already, he’s well on the road to being totally screwed. The cops were there when he was falling over himself to admit all kinds of shit. They heard the words coming out of his own mouth. They’re bound to investigate him now. It’s like he tied himself in a bow and lay down on their desks.”