Too Close to Home

by Andrew Grant

  “Of course we did, smart-ass. Do you know how many files are in there? Literally millions.”

  “OK. So you found the file. Why didn’t you just give it to Josie?”

  “That’s kind of what I did do. It was just, I didn’t want to embarrass her. It’s still a pretty sore point. And I figured, if there was an investigation, I didn’t want to get sucked into it. I like my job, and mud sticks.”

  “Why did you pick that closet to use?”

  “Because I had a good reason if I was seen in there. Returning the shoes Josie lent me. She keeps a couple of pairs in that closet. She started when she was having the affair. A saucy dress you can cover with a coat, but if her husband had seen her in four-inch stilettos, it would have been game over, there and then. And as well, because that’s the closet Josie uses all the time, I knew she’d find the file in there. Or the judge would have. Either way would have been good.”

  “Where’s the file now?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Why did you take the note?”

  Spangler paused for a moment. “I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. If the judge found the note and it came out that I’d found the file and left it there instead of following procedure, I’d have been in big trouble.”

  “What did you do with the note?”

  “I gave it to Josie. I figured the situation was spiraling even further out of control. It was time she knew.”

  “What did Josie do?”

  “She hugged me. She cried. She was just happy I tried to help.”

  “With the note!”

  “Oh. I don’t know.”

  “So who called the number that was written on it?”

  Spangler paused again. “I don’t know. Her boyfriend?”

  Robson got up and took a step toward the door. “All right, Trish. It’s late, and you’ve been helpful, so I’m going to leave my inquiry where it stands, for now. You’re not out of the woods yet, though. I’ll need to verify a few details. Speak to Josie, obviously. And when I do, if it seems like she’s expecting me, I won’t be happy. I’ll come straight back here and arrest you for obstructing a state investigation. Then I’ll see to it that your friends who you sublet to are thrown out on the street.”

  * * *

  —

  The Central Park rat crept back to his bench while Robson was riding down in the elevator. He held his ground this time, though, and didn’t run when Robson slammed his door. We didn’t hang around to observe how long he stayed. Robson cranked the engine and when it reluctantly fired he pulled a U-turn and headed back to the construction site in the Kitchen where he liked to park.

  Robson wanted tea when we arrived at the brownstone, so I went to the kitchen with him. I took a seat, which felt very skinny and insecure after the saggy throne in his Cadillac, and waited while he fussed with the controls on his fancy kettle.

  “What do we think?” Robson placed a cup in front of me and settled into the other chair. “Spangler. Is she guilty?”

  “As sin.” I picked up my cup, but the tea was still too hot to drink without milk to cool it.

  “She stuck to her guns, though.” Robson stretched out his legs. “There were parts of what she said that were plausible. And her story was basically consistent with the guy who called you.”

  “That’s true. But the apartment she’d moved to? That place is way too nice for a clerk’s salary. And how did she know it was a man who called my number?”

  “You’re probably right. I’m just making sure we see things from all sides.”

  “We’ll find out for sure, soon.” I blew on my tea. “Assuming you got it?”

  “Damn.” Robson frowned. “I forgot.”

  I turned to glare at him and Robson’s face cracked into a huge smile. He reached into his pocket, pulled out Spangler’s phone, and dropped it onto the table. “You seriously thought I wouldn’t have? My feelings are hurt. I might have to find someone new to work with.”

  Hope for a moron. Prepare for a Machiavelli.

  That was the mantra of one of my training officers. It was good advice. It’s served me well over the years. You can’t rely on an adversary to give themselves away, but you’d be surprised by how often it happens. Often enough to make it crazy not to check.

  Spangler’s phone was protected by a facial recognition system, but fortunately those are easy to get around. The NSA would never have allowed the technology into civilian hands, otherwise. Robson took a device from his keychain, about a quarter inch by a half, in space gray—because even geeks have aesthetics—which was itself not supposed to be in civilian hands. He switched off the phone. Plugged the unit into its charging port. And powered it back up. The reboot took a few seconds longer than normal. An official-looking seal swirled around on the screen before the manufacturer’s logo appeared. Then the phone was switched on, unlocked, its contents free for us to view.

  It usually makes sense to start with low-hanging fruit, so we searched for the number that the guy called from when he demanded that I put the file back in the judge’s closet. There was no match, so next we checked for text messages starting half an hour before the time stamped on the video recording of Spangler finding the note. There was one, sent right after she left the chamber. It was to Josie Wild, thanking her for the loan of the shoes and confirming their return. I showed it to Robson.

  “Is it a code, do you think? Is Wild involved?”

  “I think that’s doubtful.” I took the phone back. “Spangler did return the shoes. That was a good cover. If Wild had originally taken the file, why wouldn’t she bring it back herself? Why would she involve Spangler? Let’s see what else there is between them.”

  My thumb got tired scrolling through the messages. There were hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Some were from Spangler, asking about the state of Wild’s marriage, and suggesting drinks or coffee. Most were from Wild. She complained about her husband. “Mr. X.” Her lack of self-esteem. Life in general. Her gloomy employment prospects if she got fired. All-around impending doom. They went back years, but there was nothing after the shoes were returned on the day the note was taken.

  “Can you remember when Pardew’s file first went missing?” Robson took a swig of tea.

  “I don’t remember because I was overseas. Still in uniform. But I can figure it out based on what the cops and the ADA told me.”

  “That’s good enough. Why not plug the date in, and check comms between Wild and Spangler around that time.”

  I scrolled back, which was a slow process because of the number of times the cache of messages had to be refreshed, and eventually found the estimated date. There was a dense flurry of texts. At first the content was vague, with Wild blaming herself for making a terrible mistake. She said something was lost, and that it was her fault. She started to panic about getting fired, which she felt would be the final straw. Spangler was supportive. She promised to help conceal the fact that Wild was the last one to have the file. She assured her that all her co-workers would help search for it, and expressed nothing but optimism that the file would soon be found.

  I handed the phone to Robson. “What do you think?”

  He read the messages over several times, then shook his head. “I’d like proof. It could be the way it looks, with Spangler trying to keep Wild’s spirits up. But my gut? I think Spangler played her friend for access and took the file herself. That’s how she could afford to be so confident, because she knew the file would be returned when it was finished with. If I’m right, that makes her one cold operator.”

  “I agree with your gut. Josie Wild was most likely a patsy. We should check her out anyway, though. But assuming Spangler’s involved, was she working alone, or with others?”

  “Good question.” Robson drank some more tea. “Hey. What was the date when you saw Spangler leaving the chamber, and y
ou found the file?”

  I told him and he tapped the screen, scrolled, and passed the phone back to me.

  He’d found a message at the correct time and date. It had been sent to a number with no name attached to it. There was one word. Done.

  I pulled out my own phone, put it on speaker, and dialed the number. The call went straight to voicemail.

  “It was a burner.” Robson suppressed a yawn. “Ended up in the East River, long ago. I guarantee it.”

  “Were there any other messages, to or from that number? Or any calls?”

  Robson picked up the phone and tapped its screen. “Nada.”

  “Any mention of it in her contacts?”

  “Negative.”

  “How about any other messages that just say, ‘Done’?”

  Robson put the phone down in front of me. “There’s one. Sent the day the file was taken. To a different number.”

  I dialed, and got shunted straight through to voicemail again.

  “This isn’t looking good for Spangler.” I put my phone back in my pocket. “And she clearly was working with someone—whoever she texted Done to. We need to flush this partner out. Or partners. We should copy everything on her phone and go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Analyze her messages for any kind of code. Check her calls for repeating patterns. Look at the GPS log in case she’s been to any suspicious places. Search her contacts and see if anyone stands out.”

  Robson blew out his cheeks. “That’s a lot of legwork.”

  “It is. Are you up for it?”

  “Sure. Why not?” He set his cup down and stared at the phone as if it might instantly give up its secrets if he appeared to be fierce enough. “What are you going to do?”

  “Go for a second bite at the cherry.” I hauled myself out of the chair. “Clone her phone, and plant the real one at the courthouse. If she doesn’t have a backup, and she’s in enough of a panic, she might just use it.”

  Robson shrugged. “Worth a try, I guess. But in the meantime—the kettle, if you don’t mind.”

  I left earlier than normal the next morning to make sure I’d arrive at the courthouse before Spangler. The streets, already busy, grew more and more congested the farther downtown I went. The atmosphere was different than it was later in the day, too. It was dour and hostile, and during the entire journey I had a weird sensation that I was swarming in the same direction with a mass of people, but somehow still moving separately.

  I reached the employees’ entrance, delighted to break free from the stream of grumpy humanity, and was making my way down the steps when it struck me that it might draw unwanted attention, carrying in three phones. I needn’t have worried, though, because the guard didn’t turn a hair. I kept our conversation to a minimum, hurried to the janitors’ room, nodded to the one guy who’d gotten there earlier than me, changed, and took my cart up to the first floor. I wheeled it across the glossy marble surface at a suitably respectful speed, skirted around the signs of the zodiac within the outer ring of the design, which matched the proportions of the dome, and wound up as planned at the main security station. I picked out one guard in particular to approach. He’d been on duty all night, so I knew he wouldn’t pay too much attention to my face when I scrawled illegibly on a lost property form and handed over Spangler’s phone.

  The area near the elevator doors was a mob scene at that time of day, so I held back to allow some of the crowd to pass. Above my head the mural inside the dome traced the history of justice from the Assyrian period up to the founding of the United States. I realized I’d come to a halt somewhere in the middle of the Colonial era so was about to shift myself forward in time when a familiar face caught my attention. Len Hendrie. He’d just come in the main entrance and had joined the line of visitors waiting their turn to go through the metal detectors.

  I went back to admiring the ceiling until Hendrie had nearly reached the head of the line. Then I wheeled forward to a spot that left me well positioned to take any of the available elevators. Hendrie emerged from the security area and started toward the first bank on the left. I followed him. The doors opened, and as usual some people were reluctant to get in alongside me and my cart full of cleaning supplies. Four of them turned away. Hendrie wasn’t one of them.

  He rode up to the fourth floor and I followed him from the elevator to room 432. He opened the door a crack, peeked in, then turned away and flopped down on a bench in the corridor. I pushed my cart level and paused as if I’d just noticed he was there.

  “Do you mind if I sit?” I settled into the opposite corner. “Remember me? We talked a few days ago.”

  Hendrie looked startled, but he placed me after a moment and quickly relaxed. “Sure. I remember. Are you waiting to get in the room again? There’s someone in it right now.”

  “It’s probably a lawyer getting set up for a trial. Is that why you’re back today? More preparation?”

  Hendrie nodded. “You know what they say about practice. I have one shot at this. One chance to make my voice heard. I want to make it count.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. What you told me really made an impression. I guess if they go all letter-of-the-law, some people might say you went a little too far but what happened to you was definitely unfair.”

  Hendrie smiled. It was small with more than a hint of bitterness, but it was the first time I’d seen him with anything other than a frown on his face. “I wish I could make everyone think like you.”

  “Thanks. But I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of people already do. I bet there are more than you realize. You just need to lay it all out, nice and simple. Show everyone what an asshole this guy is, for costing you your house.”

  “That, I can do.” His smile grew a tiny bit wider.

  “You can start with all the stuff about greed, right? That’s bad on its own. Him caring more about his wine cellar than the roof over your head. But what else is there? The more reasons you give people to hate him, the better.”

  “A guy, rolling in money, ruined his friend to make a quick buck. What more do I need?”

  “I don’t know.” I paused for a moment. “How about something political? People love a good conspiracy theory. Take the company you invested in. It was competing with the Chinese. Could there be anything there?”

  “Like what?”

  “Sabotage, maybe?”

  “You mean Jimmy Klinsman is in league with the Chinese?” He shook his head. “I don’t see it. With all the money he has, he’s hardly communist poster-boy material.”

  “You’d be surprised what people do for money.”

  “Maybe. But Jimmy’s just a greedy sociopath. He’s not a spy. Or a secret agent.”

  “Perhaps not in the ordinary way. But at college, did he ever—” One of my phones beeped. It was the cloned copy of Spangler’s. She’d just sent someone a text. “I’m sorry, Len, this is urgent. There’s something I have to take care of right away. Good luck with your trial. I hope I’ll see you again.”

  “You might, but only if you’re up for visiting me in jail. I did it, remember. I’m guilty. I’m not looking to wriggle out of this thing.”

  I took a couple of steps along the corridor, then stopped and turned back. “Are you sure your trial will be in room 432, by the way?”

  “No.” Hendrie shook his head. “It was the first one I found empty, the other day. I just came back here out of habit, I guess.”

  “Might it be worth practicing in a few others as well? You could make sure you’re comfortable wherever you end up, that way.”

  “That’s a good idea. Thanks. I’ll try it.”

  “My pleasure. And here’s another idea. Have you got a pen and paper?”

  “Sure.” Hendrie unzipped his folder and handed me a notepad. “Why?”

  “I’m going to write down my cell number. Anytime you want
an audience to practice with, call me. And give me your number, too. I hear things around this place. I’ll let you know if I pick up anything helpful.”

  * * *

  —

  I wheeled my cart the rest of the way around the corner into the hexagonal corridor, stopped next to the window, and checked my phone. Spangler’s initial message was there, along with a whole bunch more:

  We need to meet!!!!!! Urgently!!!!!!

  No. Too risky.

  Yes!!!!

  Why?

  I had a visitor last night. An investigator from the justice department. He asked all about the Pardew file.

  Must be the same guy I spoke to. He seem genuine to you?

  How should I know? I think so. His credentials looked real. He knew a whole lot about me. Things only court officials could find out.

  Good, then. Relax!

  Good???????? WTF?????? How on earth can I relax?!?!?!?

  Because this is better than a shakedown.

  It’s not better! He could come back and arrest me. I could go to jail.

  You’re not going to jail. They have nothing. It was just a fishing expedition.

  That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have a giant creepy guy in your house in the middle of the night.

  That’s true. But he’s gone now and he’s not coming back so you need to calm down.

  We need to talk!

  There’s nothing to talk about.

  There’s plenty to talk about. Like, he had a picture of me taking the note in the judge’s chamber. How did he get that? Does he have more? And my prints are on that file. I couldn’t wear gloves, putting it back. Is there anything inside that can link us to JD? Then we’d have real problems.

  I waited for a response, but none came right away. Twenty seconds ticked past without an answer, so I clicked over to Spangler’s contacts to check for anyone with the initials JD. There were plenty of D surnames, but none with matching J first names. I’d just started searching all the J first names I could think of to cross-reference with D middle names when the phone finally buzzed again with an incoming message.