Too Close to Home

by Andrew Grant

  As I continued toward the main part of the park the cement underfoot gave way to diagonal planks, their wood grayed and roughened by the weather. There was a taller section of building in the center part of the pavilion, and the symmetry was emphasized by a pair of matching towers topped with white louvered cupolas and copper weather vanes that were heavy with verdigris. Beyond the building the curve of the walkway grew more pronounced as it followed the contours of the bay. It broadened to allow space for a line of benches and more fancy lights appeared, though on heftier pillars to withstand the wind.

  I reached the walls of the park without incident. They were painted a crisp white, with curving green roofs rising up behind them. I could see a dome, and the bright flags waving on top of the Grand Carousel. My father had so disapproved of that thing. If he’d thought wanting to ride it as a kid was bad, he’d have blown a fuse to see what I was doing there now.

  I moved on past a bizarre pair of giant blue Adirondack chairs with a gnarled old tree in between them and came to the park entrance. A tiki theme had been introduced since my childhood visits, with benches with creepy faces carved into their supports dotted around, amid conical cabanas to shelter in from the sun. There was a lone, unhappy palm tree, banners tied to the fences advertising the park’s restaurants, and to the right, the pier.

  All the gates at the entrance to the pier were locked. Stout cream metal railings—they looked more like prison bars—continued all the way up to the overhanging edge of the roof, so it was impossible to climb over. It was easy enough to shimmy around the side, though. The spacing of the fence rails provided convenient footholds, and their rounded tips were perfect to hold on to.

  Beyond the area that was dedicated to selling things—refreshments, souvenirs, and so on—the pier was very basic. There were wide wooden slabs underfoot, like railroad ties. A chest-high wooden fence on each side, made with planks of a similar width and with equal gaps between them. After about twenty feet, behind a padlocked gate, a gangplank led down on the right-hand side to a pontoon for docking small boats. There were signs warning against swimming. And lights mounted on green swan-neck poles. They would originally have been a darker shade, but now most of their paint was missing thanks to the flaying wind.

  The deck gently curved to the right and broadened out around threefold by the time it reached its end. There were groups of benches and wooden chairs, all new-looking and all bolted down. A couple of life belts, their bright red-and-white surfaces contrasting with the faded orange nylon ropes attaching them to their posts. There were bins, for trash and recycling. And a pair of assemblies like giant soccer goals, which I didn’t remember being there when I was a kid.

  The structures were made up of steel girders, painted black. They were flanked by mooring bollards and had red-cased electric motors mounted at the center of their crossbars. Taut steel cables led down from each one to perforated metal walkways that could be swung out for passengers to use when larger boats came alongside. Both walkways were currently suspended at a fifteen-degree angle, with their lower edges around eight inches off the ground. That made for a tight space, but I didn’t care. I’d been prepared to wait with no cover, or to even semi-submerge myself in the water below the pier if that had been necessary. Being wedged under the metal mesh would be a luxury, in comparison. The only question was which walkway to station myself beneath. I wanted the best chance of hearing Spangler’s conversation, but the wind was stronger out there and the water was lapping loudly against the pontoons. I thought back to the text Spangler’s contact had sent. He or she had said, “come all the way to the end,” so I settled on the walkway farthest from the shore. Wriggled underneath. And waited.

  * * *

  —

  Two hours, ten minutes later, my arms and legs heavy with inactivity and my neck stiff from the unnatural angle, I heard footsteps. One set. Light and quick. They continued past my position, then stopped, close by. I guessed at the railing. Then a second set approached, with heavier, longer strides. They stopped in the same place.

  “You asshole. I can’t believe you dragged me all the way out here.” I recognized the voice from Robson’s interrogation. It was Spangler. “Why couldn’t we have stayed by the gate? There’s no one here.”

  “Stop complaining. You’re the one who wanted to talk.” I recognized this voice, too. It was the guy who’d called me in response to the note. “Either there’s a security problem, or there isn’t. If there is, this is no time for a half-assed response. Personally, I think we’re OK. I’d have been happy to stay home and let things work themselves out on their own.”

  “The guy had pictures of me, Brian! Were you not paying attention? That means he has cameras hidden inside the judge’s chambers. That’s serious shit!”

  “The guy’s courthouse security, right? So he’s just doing his job. The pictures are no biggie. They prove what? You took a note? So what?”

  “He was intimidating, Brian. I admitted I put the file back, too.”

  The man paused for a moment. “Don’t worry about it. That was the right thing to do. You didn’t panic. You didn’t hesitate. You stuck to our story, which is exactly why we had the story already mapped out and ready to go. It’s completely plausible, and it tallies with what I already said to the guy on the phone. So relax. There’s nothing here for him.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Spangler’s voice was no less insistent. “How did he know to put cameras in those specific chambers?”

  “Maybe he put cameras in all the chambers. Or maybe because that’s where the file was found.”

  “How did he know where to find it?”

  “Maybe it was dumb luck. Maybe he searched every closet in the building. Who knows? Who cares? We wanted the file to be found so it could get back to where we need it to be. Dumb Josie was supposed to find it. This guy found it instead. It’s like we cut out the middleman, is all. The only difference is he knows you returned it. There’s no way to prove you took it, too. You should get a reward for going above and beyond.”

  “My prints are on the cover.”

  “We don’t know that. They might not be. The cover’s rough, not like paper. Not a great surface for prints. And even if they are there, of course you touched it! When you found it and put it back. Everything’s consistent. There are no red flags.”

  “What about inside the file? The contents? Could anything lead back to us?”

  “No way. Not possible. JD went through it himself. Do you think he’s an idiot? Do you think he’d leave a trail? This isn’t his first rodeo, you know.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We sit tight. We’re golden. The only way this goes south is if you do something stupid. So relax, stay calm, and it’ll all come out good. I promise.”

  “What about Pardew?”

  “What about him? He doesn’t know anything about you. He doesn’t know my name. The only one who’s obvious is JD. Even if Pardew got caught, there’s no evidence now. So it would be he said, JD said. And you know who wins that contest.”

  “I guess.”

  “It’s a fact. And Pardew knows the file is back, remember. He won’t be stupid enough to stick around. Not with that hanging over him. Imagine the stress, crapping himself about getting picked up every time he sets foot in a grocery store? Or a bar? He’d end up shooting himself, sooner or later. Maybe we could make that sooner, if it would help you sleep.”

  “No! That’s a terrible thing to say. I don’t want any harm to come to him. I just don’t want the truth to come out.”

  “I get that. But don’t worry. It won’t. Just hang tough. Do that, and we’re home and dry.”

  * * *

  —

  Back in the car I recounted everything I’d heard to Robson, and he responded in the way I knew he would.

  “I don’t get it.” He threw up his hands. “No one else w
as there. Why didn’t you knock the woman out and hang the guy over the rail by his ankles until he told you everything he knew about Pardew? We could have got a jump on where he’s gone.”

  “I was tempted. But if he’d clammed up, what then? Throw him in the ocean? Let him drown? And he seemed scared of this JD, so even if he talked, how would we know if he was telling the truth? He’d have been in the wind by the time we verified anything.”

  Robson grunted dismissively.

  “And who is this JD? I want to know. I want to round up the whole pack. Dismantle their whole operation. You know how it works. The better the preparation, the better the ass-kicking that follows.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Robson sighed. “What do you think their operation is? Taking bribes to force mistrials? Pardew could have paid them to misplace the file. He seems like the biggest winner in this scenario. And now they could be using the return of the file to keep him out of the picture. Keep their secret safe.”

  “It’s possible, but I think there’s more to it. The way they talked, Pardew didn’t sound like he was in the driver’s seat. And the file didn’t just temporarily disappear, either. Documents went missing from inside it. We need to figure out what they were. Why they were taken. We need a full ID on the guy Spangler’s hooked up with. All I got is that his first name’s Brian. And then there’s JD. Could be he’s the boss.”

  “OK. We’ll start with Brian. Work our way up the food chain.”

  “Did you get anything on him tonight?”

  “Not much.” Robson frowned. “The guy’s clearly experienced. I didn’t pick him up until he was already on foot, approaching the pier. I followed him back to his car after the RV. A silver Taurus, maybe five years old. I got the plates, so I’ll have them traced. I know someone who can handle that. I met him at Atkinson’s shindig after we wrapped up the Azerbaijani thing. We’ll get Brian on the hook. And we’ll reel him in.”

  “What about Spangler? How did she get here? Uber again?”

  “No. She used a car service. One that caters to celebrities. It’s discreet, and she had the driver wait.”

  “How did she contact them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We should find out. It might be useful to follow her in the future.”

  “I’ll add it to the list.”

  After another night when my head hardly touched my pillow, I would have liked the chance to sleep late. And if I had to get up early to go somewhere, I would have liked something hearty to eat, as compensation. The next morning, I went 0 for 2. There was a message waiting for me on my voicemail. It was from Detective Atkinson. He had news about Klinsman. And inevitably he wanted to pass it on at the Green Zebra.

  I might not be the fastest student in the class, but you can’t say I never learn. I remembered to take some paper, a pen, and a small scissors with me to the café. Atkinson was inevitably late. The chess table was free, so I broke a golden rule—or demonstrated a newfound civilian flexibility—and I took it. I ordered coffee, and while I waited for it to arrive I designed a set of my own chess pieces—I’d like to think they fell somewhere between Isle of Lewis and Man Ray—cut them out, and set a board. It was challenging to stop them from blowing away when anyone walked past, but I’d managed to complete the first six moves of the King’s Indian Defense when Atkinson arrived. He glanced at the paper shapes, momentarily intrigued, but didn’t spot the connection to his timekeeping and took the seat opposite mine. He waved to our server, ordered his usual eggplant Benedict, then called him back and added an energy-boosting kale smoothie. Judging by the intensity of his fidgeting, that wasn’t strictly necessary.

  Atkinson waited in silence for his drink to be delivered, then took a sip and grimaced. “OK.” He briefly drummed his fingers on the table. “I asked you to come because I have news about the guy you thought possibly had links to China. I want you to know, very thorough inquiries have been made. You deserve that, given how your theories held water in the past, and I’m the first to admit that I benefited from them even when I doubted you. My contacts dug deep and what they found is, there’s no connection. No cause for concern.”

  “Are you sure? Who did you talk to? Because it’s natural for people in certain positions to deny—”

  “I can’t give you names, McGrath. But one guy’s high up in FBI counterterrorism. One’s a longtime NSA cyber task force expert, and he knows telecom inside out and backward. The other’s at the Treasury Department. She’s an expert in financial crimes. All of them say the same thing. There’s no there there.”

  “I don’t get it.” I moved a random white pawn. “The stock damage Klinsman caused only helps the US firm’s Chinese rival. And as we all know, those so-called corporations are basically fronts for their government.”

  “That’s not actually the case.” Atkinson drummed his fingers. “The share thing doesn’t help the Chinese at all. It’s irrelevant to them. Our government hasn’t lost confidence. The US company is still nailed on to win the same contracts. And its share price is already bouncing back. The official announcement was delayed, is all. Klinsman found that part out through some contact of his, and used the knowledge to his advantage. But when the information is made public, the stock will go through the roof. I shouldn’t even be telling you this. I could be guilty of insider trading, myself. But the only guy Klinsman helped was Klinsman. From what I’ve been told, anyone else with sufficient resources and the same facts at their disposal would have made the same play. And ironically, if the arson guy had pockets deep enough to ride out the storm, he’d soon be benefiting, too.”

  “This smells all wrong.” I moved another pawn. “My father was a businessman. A good one. And he taught me that you make money by working hard. By building things. Inventing things. Not by trading paper and screwing your friends in the process.”

  “Welcome to Wall Street, my friend.”

  “Even if he’s not working for the Chinese, Klinsman shouldn’t be allowed to walk away from this. He’s just as guilty as Hendrie. It was a house for a house. If one guy’s punished, they both should be.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?” Atkinson shifted in his chair. “One of them broke the law. The other one didn’t. Right or wrong, that’s the way it is.”

  “Immoral, is the way it is.”

  Atkinson made a show of looking at his watch. “I’m sorry, am I keeping you? Do you need to get back to kindergarten?”

  “You should investigate. Find out what’s behind Klinsman’s golden façade. No one amasses that much money without cutting a few corners.”

  “Maybe so. But I can’t investigate without evidence of wrongdoing. Or probable cause, at least.”

  “OK, then.” I drained the last of my coffee, slammed my mug on the table, and gathered up my paper chessmen. “I understand. I’m not naïve. You need evidence first? I’ll find you some.”

  “Like you found Pardew’s missing file?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  “Come on, McGrath. Focus. Prioritize.”

  “Don’t worry.” I stood up. “Another few days, you’ll have Pardew’s file and dirt on Klinsman. Both. I guarantee it.”

  * * *

  —

  I turned right out of the café, stepped into the street, and immediately had to dodge around a group of slow-moving sightseers. That just added to the impatience and anger I was feeling toward the world. Had I really spent twenty years of my life defending a system that was so inherently unfair? So frivolous, as my father would have said?

  The thought of my father made me redirect my anger toward myself. The truth was, whatever good came out of my time in the service, my original motivation had not been noble. The old man was a committed pacifist. He freaked out over my reaction to witnessing a shooting and demanded I get counseling. I joined the army instead, to spite him. It was a mistake I n
ever got the chance to correct.

  I swerved around a messenger who’d stopped in the center of the sidewalk while he scanned the nearby buildings for an address, pulled out my phone, and called Robson. I wanted news about Brian—the contact Spangler had met at the pier—but he had nothing for me. So I switched tack. I tried Ro Lebodow instead. Ro was my go-to expert when it came to finance questions. The murkier the waters, the more valuable her advice tended to be. I first met her years ago when she helped me defeat a terrorist plot by unpicking a tangle of real estate transactions. I’ve consulted her many times since, most recently over a money-laundering case, where her insight helped me boost the local jail population, while another asshole landed himself in the morgue as an added bonus.

  Ro sounded breathless when she answered. I guessed she was on her treadmill, which was one of her favorite places to work. She was the queen of multitasking, with such boundless drive it was as if she was tapped into the energy of the city itself. I asked how her schedule was looking and she said she was impossibly busy. There was no way she could see me until soon after lunch.

  I decided to fill the intervening time at the courthouse. There were always floors that needed to be cleaned, and part of me was hoping that the bathroom guys might come back. They might need more guidance. I was still mulling that prospect over when my phone rang. It was Robson.

  “Finally, some news. My contact at the NYPD came through. The guy from the pier last night was driving a car registered to a company. Rooney Home Security, Inc., out of Queens. I googled, and it looks legit. They install burglar alarms, things like that.”

  I felt my mood begin to improve. “Good lead, John. Very interesting. And you know, I was just thinking we might need an alarm at the brownstone. Maybe I should go by. Get a quote.”