by Andrew Grant
The detective was short and wiry and seemed to have a never-ending supply of energy. His hair had been cut since we’d last met. He was freshly shaved and was wearing a new suit with a matching blue shirt, but despite the sartorial improvements he was just as restless. He fidgeted and drummed his fingers on the table while he waited for the server, then ordered eggplant Benedict without looking at the menu.
“So, what have you got?” He let the server get halfway to the kitchen, then leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Is it too much to hope that you’ve found the Pardew file?”
I shook my head, and pushed away a small pang of guilt. “This is about something else.”
“It always is, when you’re involved.” He shook his head, but there was a smile lurking not far from his face. “What is it this time? You’ve discovered that ruthless merchants are fleecing the city on toilet paper? Greedy clerks are padding their overtime claims?”
“No. This is a little more serious. There could be an attempt to compromise one or more telecom networks.”
Atkinson stilled his fingers and leaned in farther. “Are you serious?”
I nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“No. It’s just a suspicion at this stage.” I outlined what I’d learned from Hendrie, and what concerned me about it. “So you see, it could be the tip of an iceberg.”
“Or it could be nothing at all.” Atkinson slumped back in his chair. “A finance guy sees a way to make a buck. Hold the front page.”
“He could have made money investing in the stock the regular way.”
“A finance guy sees a quicker way…” Atkinson’s fingers started drumming again.
“The guy was already rich. Why did he need to make more bucks, more quickly?”
Atkinson threw up his arms. “Did you get exposed to a bunch of weird chemicals in the army? How long were you away from the States, anyway? Don’t you know anything about these Wall Street guys? They trashed the entire world economy in ’08, just to line their own pockets. They left thousands of people broke. Regular folks who lost their pensions, their houses, their life savings, everything. You think these jackals would give a single shit about tanking one company or ruining one guy, if there was something in it for them?”
“I get that there are greedy assholes out there. But I still think this thing’s worth a look. Will you pass it on to your contacts? Have someone check it out?”
Atkinson drummed his fingers. “If anyone else was asking, I’d walk away and delete their number. But you showed me something before. Instinct is sometimes right. I promised myself I’d be more open-minded. So OK. I will ask. But don’t get your hopes up. And for the love of all that’s good and holy, keep looking for the Pardew file!”
* * *
—
It was early enough in the fall to still be warm even though the shadows of the buildings were growing longer, so I decided to walk to the courthouse when I left the Green Zebra. I joined the flow of pedestrians surging along the sidewalk, quickly adapting to the stop-go rhythm as we paused at the cross streets and then were pulled back into motion as if by the city’s own heartbeat. There was a longer delay at one intersection when a cab hit a cyclist. The driver opened his door, leaned out over the mess of splayed arms and legs and sheaves of paper blowing out of the rider’s ripped messenger bag, and started yelling in Romanian. The sprawling kid just looked bemused, whether from the bang to his head or the barrage of unfamiliar words. After a moment we swept around them like a tide bypassing a fallen log in a swollen river, and we’d just got back up to a regular pace when my phone rang. My new phone. I’d only written its number in one place. On the page I’d left in the judge’s closet. I stepped to the side into a narrow alcove formed by two sets of scaffold and checked the screen. The call was from a New Jersey number, but I answered it, anyway.
“You have the file?” It was a man’s voice. A New York accent. A hint of the Bronx, maybe, that I guess he’d tried to shed over the years. He was trying to keep his tone neutral, but there was no hiding the tension. It was impossible to gauge his age, and there was no background noise to give away his location.
“I may have found something fitting that description.”
“You didn’t find anything. You stole it.” It sounded like irritation was taking hold, which was a good thing from my point of view. Anger’s the enemy of good judgment.
“Well, that puts us in the same boat, so let’s not split hairs. The point is, this is good news. I do have the file, and I’ll be happy to give it back. All we need to do is agree on a convenient time and place, and it’s yours. Though you might want to be more careful where you leave it in the future. Not everyone is as considerate as me.”
“You don’t understand.” The man took a breath. “I don’t want the file. It’s important federal property. You need to put it back where you found it. Right away.”
“No. Let’s stick with my plan. I’ll give the file to you. Then you can do what you want with it. Put it back. Set it on fire. Whatever.”
“No dice. You took it. You return it.”
“I suppose I could put it back, if it’s so important to you. But I will need an incentive.”
“There’s no money in this for you. You need to be clear about that.”
“Well, that’s OK, because I’m not looking for money. It’s information I want. Tell me why you took the file in the first place. And what you removed.”
“You have some very strange ideas, my friend. I didn’t take it. And I didn’t remove anything. I found it. I saw what it was, and knew it was vital to get it back in the system or a dangerous criminal will be allowed to escape. Do you want that on your conscience over a half-assed shakedown? No? So do the right thing. Put the file back!”
“In the closet, in the judge’s chambers?”
“Yes. On the floor. Or anywhere in there.”
“Why that particular closet?”
“Because the judge will find it there. It’ll be back in the right hands. And no one will get in trouble.”
“Why should anyone get in trouble?”
“There was a mistrial. The case was blown. Even now with the file back it may be too late. But there’s definitely no chance of putting things right if you keep it.”
“Are you a clerk? Is the misfiling your fault?”
“It doesn’t matter what I do. How about you? How come you have access to those chambers?”
“The judge is a family friend. I stopped by for some tea and a nice chat about the opera. He wasn’t there, so I thought I’d check up on his shoe fetish. Imagine my surprise when I found the file.”
“Are you serious?” There was more than a hint of doubt in his voice.
“All right. Let’s draw a line under all of this. Maybe I will put the file back. It all hinges on one question. Where’s Alex Pardew now?”
There was a pause on the line. “Who?”
“The guy the file is about. The dangerous criminal whose whereabouts you were just so worried about.”
“Oh. Right. The suspect. How would I know where he is?”
“You took the file. You removed some information. There’s a reason for that. I bet there’s a lot you know.”
“Is there an echo on this line? I didn’t take it. I didn’t remove anything. I don’t know where this Pardew’s at. All I know is that the file needs to be returned. So. Will you put it back?”
I ended the call, switched off the phone, reached up, and wedged it between a pair of scaffold planks. Then I slipped back out into the flood of pedestrians and continued toward the courthouse. I had work to do there. The phone call might not have been the slam dunk I’d hoped for, but it showed that the ball was back in play. There was more than one way to gain an advantage. Especially if you’re not too worried about sticking to the rules.
* *
*
—
Frank Carrodus was in the janitors’ room when I arrived, shooting the shit with a couple of the older guys. They were sitting around one of the tables, with Starbucks cups in front of them and crumb-filled wrappers from Carrodus’s favorite bagel place. He excused himself from the group as soon as he saw me, wrapped an arm over my shoulder, and steered me to the side of the room, near the carts.
“Great news, Paul.” His voice was quiet, but he couldn’t disguise his excitement. “Rita came home last night and said Marcus—the asshole who worked for Ellison, the government guy—had visited her at her work. He swore he’d retired. Said he’d learned his lesson, and was just there to deliver a message. Ellison had recovered after his shock. He’d convinced the police that nothing had happened on the roof, and they’d dropped the case. He said Ellison wasn’t negotiating—he made a big point of that for some reason—and said he’d promised to stop skimming the men’s wages. To cut out the liaisons. And to help pay for immigration lawyers and job training, just as long as The Janitor didn’t ever pay him another visit. She asked if I’d done anything. I told her the truth—I’d tried to, but I’d messed up. And you know what? She didn’t care. She was just happy I tried. She thinks I’m the best husband in the world now. I just wanted you to know, after you were so sympathetic yesterday.”
I left Carrodus to the last dregs of his celebratory cappuccino, changed into my overalls, stocked my cart, and made my way up to the fourth floor. A trial was in progress in room 432, so I mopped slowly all the way around the hexagon. I checked again and the room was still occupied, so I moved on to the next corridor. I started to sweep, and under the first bench I found a wallet. I scooped it up and made a mental note to hand it over to security before the end of my shift. Room 433 was empty, so I wheeled my cart inside. It only took twelve minutes to clean. You could hardly tell the place had been used that day. Room 434 was a different story. Coffee cups were strewn on the benches and on the floor, along with candy wrappers and used Kleenex. It was like a movie theater—a seedy one, at that—not somewhere fit for important legal proceedings. Thirty-five minutes later I threw the last piece of litter into a trash bag, retraced my steps, and found that finally room 432 was vacant.
I left my cart blocking the chamber door, and made sure the mop was in an even more precarious position after Hendrie had managed to remove it the day before. I went inside and made straight for the side of the judge’s desk. To the outlet where I’d plugged in my phone charger. It was still there, only now a wire was sticking out of its socket. The judge must have used it. Civilians! A new device appears, and they’re not suspicious at all. Still, as long as he hadn’t obscured its tiny lens, no harm would have been done.
I unplugged the charger, dumped the judge’s wire in his top desk drawer, and removed the tiny memory card. I slid it into the expansion slot of my regular phone and saw that eight files had been created. I started to work through them. The first four only showed the judge, and he didn’t approach the closet even once. But in the fifth file, someone else did. It was a woman. She was pencil thin with an immaculate black bob. I recognized her immediately. I’d seen her leaving the chambers right before I discovered the file. She was wearing the same red pumps in the video. I watched as she opened the closet door. Slipped off the shoes. Made as if to place them next to one of the black pairs, then stiffened. I couldn’t see her face, unfortunately, due to the camera angle. She held her position for five or six seconds. Then she set down the pumps, snatched up the note I’d left, and pushed it into the large tote bag she was using as a purse. She pulled out a pair of flats, slipped them on, and turned away from the closet. I could see her expression now. She was scared. There was no mistaking it. She bit her lower lip, closed the closet, and scurried away.
The woman had struck me as suspicious when I saw her the last time, slinking past me like a kid who’s hoping not to be noticed when they’ve crept downstairs after bedtime. I could have grabbed her up as soon as I’d found the file, to keep my momentum and not waste any time. Part of me questioned the decision I’d made. But on balance, I figured it was better not to have acted so soon. There’s nothing wrong with building tension in your enemy. Uncertainty leads to mistakes. Mistakes can be exploited. And it’s always best to avoid making assumptions.
On one of our first training exercises we were told we’d be interpreting surveillance tapes. We were taken to Prague and shown some CCTV footage that had been shot in the city. It showed two guys. One was a businessman in a suit, walking down the street. The other was dressed like a punk. He’d been in his twenties and had a 1970s throwback Mohawk, tattoos, piercings, and a bunch of chains around his neck. He was coming the other way. He saw the business guy and started sprinting toward him. The business guy held his briefcase up like a shield. The punk grabbed it, pushed him back a few feet, and finally wrestled him to the ground.
We were given a sheaf of supporting documents, told to evaluate all the available evidence and arrest the criminal. Some candidates searched the file, found the punk’s address, headed to his apartment—and burst in on our training officer. Their reward was a travel order to Fort Gordon, Georgia, where they were officially returned to their units. The correct response was to note that the map we were given showed a second camera location. Footage from that position had captured a pallet falling from a construction site. It was plummeting directly onto the sidewalk. When you watched from that angle you realized that the punk was trying to save the business guy’s life. And if you dug into the business guy’s background, you’d notice that he held a modest position at a pharmaceutical company, which was at odds with his home in a swanky development outside the city. The Jaguar that was registered in his name. And the frequent foreign holidays he took. Further digging would uncover a receipt for a plane ticket to London, purchased with cash at short notice. But if you knew where to look, you’d also find that he’d pulled up a MapQuest route to Dresden, Germany. And if you chose the right option, you’d be able to pick him up at the border, in a car rented under a false name, with the formula for a “nerve agent” hidden in his shoe.
The point they wanted us to learn was that acting on instinct is good, if that’s all you’ve got. But it’s always better to know for certain, and to build that into a deliberate plan of action. My plan now was to pay an unofficial visit to HR, to find a particular name and address. There’d be time for some more cleaning after that. Then it would be up to Robson to earn his keep.
The city never becomes entirely silent, however late at night. The sounds just become a little slower and quieter, like the heartbeat of a slumbering beast. Softer, but still there. Letting you know it’s still alive. Still dangerous. And that you should relax at your peril.
The clerk who’d taken the note from the judge’s closet was named Patricia Spangler. A handwritten note in her HR file said she preferred to go by Trish. She lived in an apartment building on 22nd Street, near the Flatiron. Robson drove by a couple of minutes shy of 4:00 A.M. His car was awful. It was a cherry red Cadillac Cimarron from the mid-1980s. Its paintwork was blotched and peeling. Its interior leather—a tan, almost orange color—was cracked and hard. Its engine was small, anemic, and woefully underpowered. But we had no choice about using it. I hadn’t gotten around to buying a car yet. I thought maybe I wouldn’t need one in the city. Then it occurred to me that there might be one in the garage at my father’s house up in Westchester. Maybe more than one. I’d figured I could check at my leisure. Suddenly, finding an alternative seemed more urgent.
We saw no red flags as the old Cadillac wheezed around the block so Robson coasted to a halt diagonally opposite Spangler’s building. I settled into the passenger seat, which was surprisingly comfortable but too big for the cockpit, making the car feel cramped, and watched Robson cross the street. I was desperate to go with him and get my hands on a person connected with the scheme that had allowed Pardew to go free.
Unless the guy I’d spoken to on the phone wasn’t lying, and they had innocently found the file. Either way, though, I couldn’t take the risk. Spangler had seen me at the courthouse and I had to maintain my cover.
I pulled out my phone and fired up the app that allowed me to view the video from the camera in Robson’s lapel pin, which was forwarded via a secure website. His legs were so long it only took him a few strides to cross the street. The building’s double glass doors were locked. Robson knocked. There was no response. He tried the revolving doors, to the side. They were also secured. He banged again, and swore under his breath. I was half expecting him to launch one of the metal planters lined up along the edge of the sidewalk through a window—standard practice in some of the countries we’d worked—when a guy emerged from behind the reception desk. His doorman’s uniform was wrinkled. His cap was missing. His tie was loose. He rubbed his eyes, shambled across to the door, and opened it an inch.
“Police.” Robson flashed his fake badge before the guy had a chance to speak. “Are you always this quick off the mark? Or are you aiming for a new record?”
“What?” The guy blinked.
“When the NYPD knocks, you open up.” Robson slid his badge back into his pocket. “I don’t care what time it is. Now step back and let me in.”