by Andrew Grant
“What do you want?”
“I want you to step back and let me in, like I just said.”
The guy didn’t move, but his fingers curled a little more tightly around the edge of the glass.
“Don’t worry.” Robson softened his voice. “I’m not from INS. You’re not in trouble. Not yet…”
The guy opened the door all the way.
“Good decision.” Robson patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to get back to sleep now. I just need one piece of information. Ms. Spangler, unit 1415. Does she live alone?”
The guy nodded. “Yes. She has no husband. I’ve never seen any boyfriends.”
“Does she have a dog?”
“No. No pets.”
“That’s good. Is she home, do you know?”
“I don’t know. I start work at 11:00 P.M. She was probably in bed when I arrived.”
“When did you last see her?”
The guy shrugged. “I don’t know. Not since a couple of weeks? I remember she collected a package.”
“All right. I’m going to her apartment to talk to her now. If I get there and she’s expecting me, the thing I said about you not being in trouble? That’s going to change. Are we clear?”
The guy’s expression went blank for a moment, then he nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. I won’t tell a word.”
* * *
—
I watched my screen as Robson made his way down a long hallway. It had gray carpet with darker stripes along both sides. The walls were also gray, darker at the bottom and fading to white at the top, to blend with the ceiling. There were groups of planters laid out every fifteen or twenty feet. They were of varying heights, and were sparsely stocked with ferns and bushes. After the last set there was an alcove filled with mailboxes and an ATM, then the corridor broadened out to house the elevators. There were six, laid out in two rows of three. Robson hit the call button, and the door to the first elevator on the right opened straightaway. No one was inside. I saw Robson’s hand reach out and select the fourteenth floor. The car made no extra stops on the way up, and Robson stepped out into another gray corridor. He followed it around to the right. All the apartment doors were white, and they were plain except for a fixture in the middle, five feet up, that combined a bell push, a viewing lens, and a nameplate. Robson found apartment 1415. He banged on the door with his fist and stepped aside, away from the lens. I guess I’m not the only one with old habits that refuse to die.
The door was snatched open. A man appeared in the frame, his dark hair in disarray, a pillow crease on his cheek, and his white fluffy robe gaping open to reveal his stripy blue boxer shorts.
“Justice Department Investigative Division.” Robson flashed another badge, flipped his wallet closed, and had it back in his pocket before the guy’s half-awake eyes had time to focus on it. “I’m Agent Rasmusen. I need to speak with Patricia Spangler. It’s urgent. Please step aside.”
“You can’t. Patricia’s not here.” The guy tugged the sides of his robe together.
“Who is it, honey?” A woman’s voice, heavy with sleep, called out from deep inside the apartment.
“Are you sure?”
“That’s not Patricia. She doesn’t live here. This isn’t her apartment.”
Robson pointed at the nameplate on the door.
“Oh.” The guy’s face sagged. “Does this mean we’re in trouble?”
“Well, you lied. That’s not a good start. So now you have two minutes to convince me why you shouldn’t be in a whole heap of trouble.”
The guy ushered Robson inside, peered out into the corridor, and then closed the door. To the right of the narrow entryway was a pocket door leading to a crisp white powder room. To the left was the kitchen area. There was a small four-burner cooktop, an under-counter fridge, a drawer-style dishwasher, and a roll-up appliance garage with a stainless-steel door. The few cabinets and drawers looked like they’d cost top dollar and the breakfast bar was finished in mirror white marble. Ahead was a small living room. It had a line of low built-ins running across its whole width, with tall windows above to give an unbroken view uptown. The night sky was punctured by a million lights, while the shadowy forms of sharp-edged buildings gnawed on its lower edge. A few cabs were still out patrolling. The odd garbage truck rumbled past. Somewhere nearby a jackhammer started work on an emergency repair. I could hear it twice—live in real time, and with a momentary delay through my phone—which produced a strangely disconcerting echo like a special effect in a movie.
A woman appeared through a doorway in the far corner of the lounge. She had shoulder-length blond hair and was wearing a pink toweling robe, cinched in tight around her waist, and matching slippers. She crossed to where the guy was standing near the center of the room, touched her forehead to his shoulder, and turned to Robson.
“I want to be up front with you.” She held up both hands as if she was surrendering. “This whole situation is my fault. It was my idea. I made Dave do it. He didn’t want to. He said it was wrong from the start. So if anyone gets in trouble, it should be me.”
“You made Dave do what?”
“Move here. With me.” The woman’s eyes widened. “I’m not going to lie to you. I knew it was against the rules. I just couldn’t resist the opportunity. I could never afford it, otherwise. Trish said I’d be doing her a favor. This way, she doesn’t lose all her rent money. No one was supposed to find out. It’s a big building. Other people do it all the time. We thought no one would notice.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re talking about subletting? That’s what’s going on here?”
The woman nodded and started to chew her lip. “I’m so sorry. We’ll go. We’ll move out. Right away. First thing in the morning. By the end of the week.”
“We can talk about timescales later.” Robson took out a notebook and flipped it open. “Now, tell me where I can find Trish.”
“I don’t know where she went.” The woman looked down at the floor. “Somewhere uptown, I guess. She didn’t leave her exact address. She was still looking for a place, last time we spoke.”
“If you keep lying, you won’t be helping yourselves or your friend.” Robson paused and waited for the woman to look up. “Let me explain. Think of my organization as the internal police service for the courthouse where Trish works. We think something bad is going to happen there, very soon. Someone has left a trail of bread crumbs that make Trish look guilty. Now we think she’s being framed. We don’t think she’s actually involved. But we need proof. Hard evidence. So we must talk to her. Tonight. Tomorrow it’ll be too late to save her. So if you want to help your friend, tell me where she is.”
“Oh my God! Poor Trish. Will she be OK?” The woman’s eyes looked ready to pop out of their sockets.
“Honestly, I don’t know at this point. But I do know she won’t be if I can’t talk to her. So please, tell me where she is, and I’ll do my best to keep her out of trouble. I promise.”
“OK.” The woman beckoned for Robson to pass his notebook, and she scribbled down an address on the Upper West Side. “Please, keep her safe. We’ve been friends since we were four years old.”
“I’ll certainly try.” Robson took a couple of steps toward the door, then turned back. “There’s one more thing. Something I need you to understand. There are people watching Trish. They’re listening to her calls. Reading her texts. Intercepting her email. It’s vital that you do not try to contact her. If you do, you’ll be putting her life in danger. Is that clear? If you try to reach out and anything happens to Trish, it’ll be on you.”
* * *
—
It took Robson nine minutes to emerge from the building and join me in the car, due to the need to rouse the sleeping doorman and coerce him into erasing the recordings made by the security cameras in the lobby. It took ano
ther eight minutes on the relatively clear nighttime streets to reach the address Spangler’s friend had given Robson. He drifted as smoothly to the curb as the car would allow, set the parking brake, then movement caught my eye from the side window. It was a rat. It was dark and plump, sitting on a bench by the wall bordering the park. I stared at it. The rat stared back, but lost its nerve when Robson climbed out and slammed the car door. The rat jumped back through the railings above the stonework and melted into the shadows. Robson ignored it, crossed the street, and reactivated his lapel camera as he walked. This time the doorman was wide awake. He was older than the last guy, maybe in his mid-fifties, and was wearing a neatly pressed uniform with a cap larger than those of the officers in some countries’ armies. He appeared without Robson needing to knock, didn’t blink at his badge, and looked mildly offended when he was told not to warn Spangler that someone was coming to see her.
The building’s lobby was like a lounge in a London club. There was a cluster of deep leather armchairs arranged near a window. The gold-and-blue curtains looked heavy and stiff. The tile on the floor was richly polished, and two smaller chairs were conveniently placed near the doors to the pair of elevators. The doorman hit the call button. He’d pulled on a white glove to avoid tarnishing the brass, and the doors parted after a couple of seconds with an unhurried, graceful sigh.
Robson rode up alone to the tenth floor. The carpet in the corridor was a deep blue with a Greek key border picked out in gold. Only one door was visible without heading around the corner. The number on the frame matched Robson’s information, but there was no place for a name to be displayed. Robson knocked. There was a pause, but the door opened before he had to try again. It was a woman who answered. She was wearing silk pajamas. They were pink with inch-wide white stripes. Her hair was wilder than when she was at the courthouse, but it was definitely Spangler this time. And when she saw Robson’s badge, her expression was identical to the one on her face in the video of her closing the closet in the judge’s chamber as she fled with the note.
“Patricia Lee Spangler?” Robson closed his wallet. “I’m Agent Rasmusen with the Justice Department Investigative Division. I’m here because we have a situation. We need to talk.”
“Who?” Spangler crossed her arms. “What division? I’ve never heard of you. Or it.”
“That’s good.” Robson put his wallet back in his pocket. “The kind of people who’ve heard of us are generally mixed up in things they shouldn’t be.”
“I’m not mixed up in anything.” Spangler shifted her hands to her hips. “I want to know why you’re really here.”
“I hope that’s true. I’m here because you’ve worked at the courthouse for six years, three months, one week, and four days. All but two of your quarterly appraisals have been rated generally satisfactory. However, questions have recently arisen. One in particular is serious. It needs to be answered.”
“Here? Now? At 4:30 A.M?”
“Yes. Now. Either here, or at Centre Street. It’s your choice.”
“Let me see your badge again?”
Robson handed her his wallet. Its leather was suitably creased and worn. The badge itself was shiny and certainly looked official. It was a little light, but there’s only so much you can do at short notice with a 3D printer.
“OK.” Spangler returned the wallet and stepped back into her entryway. “We can talk here. It shouldn’t take long. I’m sure whatever it is, it’s just a misunderstanding. We’ll soon iron it out.”
Robson followed her inside into a wide rectangular space with black-and-white floor tiles that were polished to such a shine it looked like liquid had been spilled on them. There was a delicate yew writing desk next to the right-hand wall. Its surface was protected by a silver tray that was holding a set of keys, some sunglasses, gloves, and a purse. The walls were finished with a marble effect, and a dozen photographs—portraits and family groups, formally posed—were hanging in heavy silver frames.
Spangler gestured to her right between two white pillars, toward the living room. “Take a seat.” She turned the other way and disappeared into her bedroom. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Robson remained in the entryway and watched Spangler cross behind her ottoman and continue into her bathroom. The moment the door closed behind her he followed into the room. He moved fast for such a big man, and he was quiet. He headed for the bed. It was a king, with a walnut sleigh-style frame. The cream comforter was thrown back and a pink eye mask was lying discarded on the pillow. He turned to the nightstand. It was made of matching wood. There was a Tiffany lamp that was shaped like a tree, a TAG woman’s watch, a retro pastel clock, a phone on a charging pad, a tin of foot cream, a hair scrunchie, and a bottle of water on a coaster. It was unopened.
I heard a metallic noise from the bathroom. Robson must have, too, because he glanced across toward the door. Then he hurried out, crossed the hallway, and went into the living room. The floor treatment changed to pale wood, which was arranged in a herringbone pattern. A deep chocolate leather couch stretched in front of a whole wall of built-in bookshelves. They were made of white wood, and were full but with no discernible organization to the titles. Robson skirted a glass coffee table and a pair of leather armchairs that matched the couch. He continued to the window and looked out over the park, directly over the car I was sitting in, giving me two simultaneous elevations of the same view. I heard shuffling footsteps approaching Robson from behind, and he turned to reveal Spangler, now wearing fluffy slippers and a red silk robe. Her face was pink and bright, like she’d just splashed it with water.
“Please.” Spangler gestured to an armchair, then settled herself in the corner of the couch. She kicked off her slippers and pulled up her legs, folding them beneath her. “Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Something stronger, maybe?”
“Thanks, but no. I’m here for answers, and nothing else.”
“OK, then. Fire away.”
“Tell me everything you know about the file of evidence in the Alex Pardew case.”
Her face grew noticeably paler, even over video. “I know it went missing.”
“Did you take it?”
“No!” Her legs shot out and she jammed her feet down into her slippers. For a moment I thought she might be about to run.
“But you did put it back.” Robson didn’t phrase it as a question.
“What makes you think I did that?”
Robson pulled out his phone and called up a screen shot of her stuffing the note into her bag.
“Where did you get that?”
Robson didn’t respond.
“That picture. I didn’t have the file. I was just holding a piece of paper.”
“Correct.” Robson put his phone away. “A piece of paper with a note written on it, referring to the Pardew file.”
“It didn’t say Pardew. It could have been any file.”
“How many files go missing, and then turn up on the floor of that particular closet? One a day? A week? A year? Or one, ever?”
Spangler looked around the room as if she was searching for an answer.
“If you had nothing to do with the Pardew file disappearing and reappearing, why did you take that note?” Robson softened his voice and leaned forward. “How would you even know what it meant?”
Spangler’s hands balled into fists, deep lines spread across her forehead, but she didn’t answer.
Robson shifted his whole chair forward six inches. “Listen, Trish. Is it OK if I call you that? I don’t think you’re a bad person. I think maybe you’ve been caught up in something. That’s probably very hard for you, and I’m not looking to make things worse. I’ll help you if I can. But if you keep lying and prevaricating, what am I supposed to think? So come on. Work with me. Just a little bit.”
Spangler covered her eyes with her hands for a moment, then shook her head.
“OK. All right. I admit it. I put the file in the closet. But I didn’t take it in the first place.”
“Then why did you put it back?”
“I was trying to help.”
“Who were you trying to help?”
She stayed silent and sat on her hands.
“Don’t stop now, Trish. Tell me the truth. If I can fix the situation, I will.”
“Josie.” Spangler clasped her hands on her lap. “I was trying to help my friend. Josie Wild. She’s a clerk, and she’s assigned to that courtroom.”
“OK, now we’re getting somewhere. So it was Josie who took the file?”
“No! Josie would never do anything like that.”
“Then how did Josie come to have it?”
“She didn’t have it.” Spangler paused, like she was trying to figure out why Robson didn’t understand. “That’s the whole point. She didn’t have it. She lost it!”
“The file wasn’t lost, Trish. It was taken by someone.”
“No.” Spangler shook her head. “That’s not what happened at all. It was just an accident. You see, Josie—she’s a mess. Her life’s totally falling apart. Her husband left her because he found out she was having an affair, which she knows was a huge mistake. The whole thing’s left her on the verge of a catastrophic meltdown. Her head’s not in the game. Not even close. It hasn’t been for months. And here’s the real problem. Josie was the last person to have had the file. It was her job to safeguard it. But she forgot what she did with it. She was terrified she’d get blamed for the whole fiasco. Because the Pardew guy? Who might have killed someone? He walked as a result. It was declared a mistrial. Josie was terrified she’d get fired. What she did counts as gross misconduct, probably. Losing her job’s the last thing she needed, so we all helped her look for it. All the clerks. No one had any luck. Then I found it. It was in the file room all along. On the wrong shelf.”
“So you found the file in the file room. No one thought to look in there before?”