by Andrew Grant
OK. Tonight. Usual time. Come all the way to the end.
Thanks. CU later .
Say the place, I thought. Say the time.
No more texts arrived. No more were sent. Come on! This is no time to go all cryptic. I waited a full minute. Then another. And one more for luck. No further messages were forthcoming, so I changed tack and called Robson. He answered on the first ring. “Any luck?” I asked.
“I can tell you all about her taste in music, movies, and her preferred vacation destinations. Nothing linking her to a partner, though, and nothing else suspicious.” I heard him take a swallow of tea. “I’ll keep on it. You?”
“I’ve had a bite. There’s some good news. And some bad.”
“Give me the good.”
“Spangler’s been texting with someone. They didn’t use names, but they did set up an RV to discuss what happened last night.”
“That is good news. What’s the bad?”
“They didn’t state where or when for the meet. Only the ‘usual time’ and ‘all the way to the end.’ ”
“OK.” I heard him take another swallow. “So that’s not terrible. It means they’re talking about someplace they’ve used before. Where they feel safe. Which means it’s probably off the beaten track. I’ll go back to Spangler’s GPS log and look for repeat locations that are secluded and don’t correspond with any of her contacts. Leave it with me. I’ll call back when I have something.”
“Thanks, John. And there’s one other thing. Can you also search her email and anything else you can think of for any reference to a JD? Spangler seemed worried about being linked to someone with those initials, but I have no idea who they belong to, or if it’s a man or a woman.”
* * *
—
I looked back down the corridor and saw that Hendrie had gone. I wondered if the lawyer had cleared out of room 432, leaving the coast clear for him to rehearse. I wheeled along to the end and pushed the doors open a crack to check. Hendrie wasn’t there. But I could see a woman. She wasn’t a lawyer. She was a clerk. At least, she was sitting at the clerk’s desk. I pulled out the clone of Spangler’s phone and scrolled through her contacts until I found a picture of Josie Wild. The image matched. This wasn’t the ideal time to interrogate her, but experience has shown that possible today is better than perfect tomorrow.
I elbowed the doors open the rest of the way and wheeled inside. Wild glanced up, then went straight back to the papers she was studying. I continued a little farther, parked between the first pair of benches, reached for my broom, and started to slowly sweep the floor in the public area. After a minute Wild balled up a piece of paper and tossed it into the trash. It clearly wasn’t her first of the morning. The garbage can by her desk was in imminent danger of overflowing.
“Let me get that for you.” I smiled and stepped through the gap in the fence.
“Thanks.” Wild put her pen down and pushed the garbage can closer to me with her foot.
“You’ve been busy.” I pretended I was hardly able to lift out the liner because of all the balls of paper. “Early start?”
Wild nodded. “It’s my first day back. I have lots to catch up with.”
“Been away? On vacation?”
Wild didn’t answer.
“Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, maybe? Skydiving?”
“No.” Wild hesitated. “Nothing so glamorous. Or fun. I was just out…sick.”
“Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that. Looks like you’re back on your feet now, though.”
“I am. Just about. Although it’s not the best time to pick back up.”
“No? How does that go? I’m quite new here myself. Is it seasonal, with the legal system, like in stores? Are there specials I should know about? Fall Felonies? Or does the full moon bring out the bad guys?”
Wild smiled. “No. There’s nothing like that. Although maybe there should be. I’m just getting myself back up to speed. New procedures. Things like that. It’ll take a while to adjust, I guess.”
“I’m sure it will. I hate new procedures, myself. All change is for the worse, my father used to say.”
“He had a point. Although these ones aren’t too bad. Nothing too much to argue with.”
“New ways to keep bad guys off the streets?”
“Kind of. Indirectly. It’s less glamorous than how you say it, though. It’s just about filing. Keeping things from getting lost.”
“What kind of things? Cell keys? Police cars?”
Wild laughed. “No. Just paperwork.”
I held up my bag of trash. “Does that happen often? Do I need to be worried?”
“No. You’re fine. But it can be serious when it does.”
“Is there anything you need me to keep an eye open for? You wouldn’t believe the things people leave scattered around.”
Wild paused. “Thanks. That’s good to know. If I ever do need help, I’ll know where to come.”
“You should.” I smiled at her. “I wouldn’t even charge a finder’s fee.” I put the trash can back down by her desk. “Nice shoes, by the way.”
Wild stretched out one leg. She was wearing a pair of black pumps, which were polished to an immaculate shine. “Thanks. They’re my weakness. I can’t resist. You should see my closet. My husband—make that my soon-to-be ex-husband—hates them.”
“He must be crazy. I think they’re nice. It must be hard getting to work, though. I can’t picture anyone climbing subway steps in heels that high.”
“I don’t wear them on the subway.” Wild dropped her voice to a whisper. “I keep them here. A couple of pairs. Don’t tell anyone, but Judge Majumdar lets me keep them in the closet in his chambers.”
“That sounds smart. If I were you, I’d—” I heard the sound of a text arriving. On my personal phone this time. I checked the screen. It was from Robson—10-30. An old military code, meaning request assistance. “I’m sorry. A friend just had surgery today and I need to call in and check that everything’s OK. Do you mind if I leave my cart here for a moment? I’ll be right back.”
* * *
—
There was no one in the corridor outside the courtroom, so I sat on the bench and called Robson’s number. As usual he answered on the first ring. “News?” I asked.
“Negative. No luck tracing anyone who could be JD. And there’s a big problem with nailing down the RV. Spangler’s phone is only three months old. There’s nothing in the GPS log that helps us. It doesn’t go back far enough.”
“That can’t be right. We could read her messages going back years.”
“We could get her older messages because they’re stored in her account in the cloud. Every time we refreshed her screen we were downloading more archived messages from the server. The GPS is different. It’s specific to the individual handset.”
“So we can’t tell where her phone’s been?”
“We can tell exactly where her phone’s been. Her current phone. But it’s gone nowhere interesting. We need to know about her previous phone. And maybe the one before that, depending on how often she changes them.”
“Well, that sucks. Is there anything else we can use?”
“I was hoping her calendar might help. I can get into those older records. But there was no pattern. Nothing recurring at regular times or dates. No innocuous entries. Nothing in code. No sign of anything covert.”
“So we’re nowhere?”
“We’ve got zero of any use, at this point.”
“Then how do we find out where the RV will be? And when?”
“That’s why I needed you to call. To see if you had anything. Me? I’m fresh out of ideas.”
I paused as two jurors went by, heading for the bathroom. “Nothing springs to mind. Leave it with me. I’ll try to think of something.”
“One of us bett
er.”
“Have faith. We will. In the meantime, FYI, I just ran into Josie Wild. We chatted a little and I think we were right. I don’t think she’s involved.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s not like she passed a polygraph or anything, but my money says she’s a patsy.”
“I’m not surprised. But it makes it all the more important we find Spangler’s partner.”
“I hear you. I’m on it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Clean something.”
“No. What are you really going to do?”
“I’m serious. Cleaning helps me focus. You should try it. You could start by gathering up all those empty paper cups you leave littered around the house.”
* * *
—
Josie Wild wasn’t in room 432 when I returned to collect my cart. She could have gone through to the judge’s chamber, but I didn’t check. I figured there was little mileage in finding out. I was in more danger of provoking suspicion at this stage. My time would be better spent heading down to third. Mopping the corridor. Devoting myself to uninterrupted thought. I needed to locate Spangler’s RV. And to do that I needed all the inspiration I could get. What I’d told Robson about cleaning was true.
I was heading for the elevator when I saw two guys slinking into one of the bathrooms. They’d be in their late teens, I guessed. They were tall and skinny with baggy jeans hanging off their asses, bright oversized sneakers, and pupils the size of pinpricks. My sixth sense flared. I’ve been in enough bars and back alleys in enough cities around the world to know people up to no good when I see them. I pushed my cart to the side of the corridor. Paused outside the bathroom door. And heard peals of laughter from inside, mischievous, with a nasty edge.
I opened the door and stepped inside. One of the guys had torn some lengths of towel out of the dispensing machine and was jamming them into the sinks. The one at the far end was already blocked and the faucet was running. It should have automatically shut itself off, but many of them—like that one—are broken. It was only a matter of time now before the bathroom would be flooded. And maybe the one below, as well, depending on how quickly the water was turned off.
The other guy—the slightly taller one—was standing by the side of the end stall. It was screened off with an expanse of dull cream Formica. He’d evidently mistaken it for a blank canvas. He had a red marker pen in his hand, and so far he’d managed to write, Donny sucks coc. He’d been about to complete his claim, but instead he turned and scowled at me.
“Who are you looking at?” He straightened up and folded his arms.
“Nobody.” I kept my voice neutral.
The guy puffed up a little further.
I made an exaggerated turn to make sure he knew his buddy was also in my field of view. “Make that two nobodies.”
It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did the guy stepped toward me, his arms bowed forward like a gorilla. “Get out!”
“OK.” I nodded, reasonably. “I’m going. But I’ll be coming back. And if the bathroom’s not immaculate when I do, we’re going to have a very different conversation.”
I strolled out to the corridor and paused by the door again. At first all I could hear was whooping, then there was the sound of slapping, like the guys were giving each other high fives. I crossed to my cart and selected a bottle of cleaner and a large roll of tissue. Then I went back in.
The first guy now also had the next sink in line blocked. The second guy had finished defaming Donny, whoever that was, and had moved on to making allegations about someone named Mitch’s nocturnal activities of choice. According to him, they involved a narrow range of farmyard animals. He stopped when he heard the door, turned, and gazed at the spray bottle in my hand.
“I told you to get out.” He waved the pen at me like it was a weapon.
“I went out. I told you I’d come back. And the place is not immaculate, which means you have work to do.” I held the bottle out toward the pen guy.
Neither of them moved, but their mouths did sag open.
“Perhaps I’m being unfair. Perhaps you don’t know what immaculate means?” I paused. “Is that the problem? Perhaps I should have said, perfectly clean. Which this room isn’t. So take the supplies and get busy. I’ll let you know if you miss any spots.”
The pen guy threw down his marker, pulled a set of keys from his pocket, and positioned one in the gap between his middle and ring fingers, like a short thin blade. He threw a couple of practice jabs at me, pulling back sharply each time. I flinched anyway, as if trying to avoid getting hurt. Encouraged, he came at me with a bold lunge. I didn’t back away this time. Instead I came forward, grabbed his wrist with my left hand, pushed it out to the side, and continued moving into the gap between his arm and his body. I wrapped my right leg around behind him, grabbed his hoodie with my right hand, and added just enough force to pivot him backward over my thigh. Then I helped him the rest of the way to the floor, firmly enough to wind him, but gently enough to cause no serious damage. While he was still trying to suck in some breath I jabbed my thumbnail between his middle two knuckles, which released his grip, and I relieved him of his keys. Then I let go of him, and when he finally struggled back to his feet I shoved open the nearest stall door and tossed his keys into the toilet.
“Oops.” I held up my hands. “I guess I should have checked that the last guy flushed. Oh well. I hope you have duplicates. Now pick up your supplies. This work isn’t going to do itself.” I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. It was another text from Robson. Another 10-30. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have a quick call to make. You—start on removing that scribble. You—find something to mop up that water. I’ll be back in a minute, and I expect to see some progress.”
* * *
—
This time Robson answered before I even heard a ring. “Paul, say, ‘John, you’re a genius.’ ”
“John, you’re a genius.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Are you planning on telling me how this alleged genius manifests itself?”
“I’ve made a breakthrough. I was looking through Spangler’s keychain—which is a kind of electronic notebook for passwords that you get on phones and computers—and I saw she had one for Uber. But there was no Uber app on her phone. I guess she switched to Lyft when she got her new one. So I opened Uber on my own phone and logged in as Spangler. That gave me access to her complete history. And guess what. She’s only been to one place outside the city this year. And she’s been there six times. A town on the coast called Rye.”
“I know that place. Or I did, when I was a kid. We had a few days out there. I remember big houses. Wide streets. The beach. An amusement park. I thought it was fabulous, but my dad wasn’t a fan. He thought it was too frivolous. Mrs. Vincent came with us once, too, and I don’t think she liked it, either.”
“Was that park called Playland? Because on each occasion, that’s where Spangler got dropped off. And she always arrived within five minutes of the same time: 9:00 P.M.”
“Sounds like ‘the usual time.’ ”
“It kind of does. And I looked on Google Maps. The place has a pier.”
“I remember that. An old-school boardwalk. The kind of place you could ‘come all the way to the end’ of.”
“So what do you think? Have we found the RV point?”
“It’s certainly a good candidate. Worth taking a look at. This is excellent work, John.”
“You’re welcome.”
“How long does it take to get to Rye?”
“Say seventy-five minutes, allowing for traffic and contingencies.”
“We think the RV’s at 2100. I’ll want to be in place by 1900. Let’s allow an hour for recce, so can you pick me up at the courthouse at 1645? And bring me a change of clothes? Someth
ing black.”
“You’re not coming home first?”
“I have cleaning to do.”
“Still?”
“I’ve recruited some help. Call it a youth opportunity program. These particular individuals are a little rough around the edges. They might need a little guidance and supervision. Which is where things could get interesting.”
Robson pulled his sluggish old Cadillac over to the side of the road where Rye Beach Avenue turns through ninety degrees and becomes Playland Parkway. I opened my door, slid out of the car, and drifted into the cover of a small stand of mature trees. The street was lined with ornate lights, like the kind of fancy lanterns you’d see in a picture of a child’s fairy castle, and there was only a narrow strip of sandy beach between me and the ocean. The harsh tang of salt in the air was competing with the smell of dry soil and sun-scorched grass. The evening was still warm, but the wind was starting to pick up. I could hear the waves shifting the sand around on the beach, and the few remaining leaves were rustling above my head.
I checked for protruding roots and hidden ruts, then started moving east. I slid my phone into the bag Robson had brought, along with the clothes I’d changed out of in favor of the darker alternatives he’d provided, and stashed it in the trunk of a hollow tree. I crossed the path, hopped over a chest-high metal fence that appeared to be painted night-vision green in the soft, almost setting sun, stepped out onto the sand, and turned north. I stayed on the beach for another two hundred feet, then made my way up a ramp to a patched cement sidewalk in front of a long pavilion that runs parallel to the waterline. The building was a single story high with a castellated art deco roofline, cream-painted walls, and green wooden trim that matched the fence. Its large rectangular windows had rusting metal frames. The spaces behind them—maybe once gift stores or cafés or ice-cream parlors—all appeared to be empty and the original terra-cotta supports for the awnings were supplemented by a line of temporary-looking, dilapidated wooden trusses.