Too Close to Home

by Andrew Grant

  “Did you forget our deal? I break into your files, and there’ll be no more of that gross Cadillac. Wait, Robson isn’t there, is he? Unnaturally tall people bother me.”

  “No, Robson’s not here. And I hadn’t forgotten our deal. A Jaguar? Maybe I could do that. So tell me. What did you find?”

  “I think our boy Rooney is branching out. Dabbling as a private investigator. Particularly when it comes to adultery cases. Those files are full of pictures of people caught in the act. At least I presume that’s why he has them. He could just be a garden-variety pervert.”

  “So the files were locked because of the explicit pictures?”

  “That would be my best guess. The pictures in the first two files were obviously taken from a distance, through windows, from a car, that kind of thing. They’re super enlarged, grainy, really poor quality. Then it’s like he moved up a league. And maybe stacked the deck, too. The later pictures are clear. They’re all close-ups, and they kind of look staged. I think he rigged a place and started luring people there. And get this. The final six are of the same girl, but different guys. So either someone has a very enthusiastic soon-to-be ex-wife, or Rooney’s set himself up a honey trap.”

  “That’s really interesting, Harry. Thanks. Good work.”

  “Will it help, do you think?”

  “I’m going to say it’s more exclusionary at this stage. I’m not sure how it’s linked to finding Pardew. Did you have a chance to look at the other files? See if there’s anything Robson might have missed?”

  “I did look, yes. There was nothing else raunchy, that’s for sure. We definitely switched from the R section to the G. One thing Robson might not have seen in there—I retrieved Rooney’s Google Maps history. I’ve found it useful in the past. People sometimes go where they shouldn’t and think no one will know because they deleted the search. But it never goes away, if you know where to look. Even if it’s not connected to the Pardew thing, it might kick-start some interesting conversations with Rooney. I’ll email it to you. As for the rest, Robson’s probably right. It’s just a bunch of regular records. Quite boring, honestly. Rooney’s business looks legit. It’s quite healthy. He has a decent customer base. Multiple revenue streams. Acceptable growth. It’s not all plain sailing, though. He’s spending a fortune on legal bills. The nature of the business, maybe? Do alarm companies get sued a lot? People install a system, get burgled anyway, and want their money back?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll look into it. How about my other project? Klinsman? Anything in his contacts?”

  “There wasn’t anything specific to latch onto. But it was like you must have dropped that memory stick in the sewer. I feel gross, just reading about the names on it. If they were baseball players and you were picking the all-asshole team, this is the pool you’d want to be fishing in. It’s foul, but I’ll keep looking.”

  “Thanks. And Marian Sinclair?”

  “Yes.” Harry paused. “About that. Are you sure you want me to do anything? The way you asked, I kind of got the sense it was something personal. That’s not the way to get a relationship off the ground, Paul. Trust me. You’re guaranteed to crash and burn. My advice? Do it the old-fashioned way. Take her to dinner. Have a conversation. If there are things you want to know, just ask her.”

  The house was deserted when I got home. There were two more disposable tea mugs abandoned in the living room. Both were empty. The papers were still there, though the piles had been rearranged again. But there was no sign of Robson.

  I hoped he’d get back soon. And I hoped he’d bring food. In the meantime I decided to check the documents I’d photographed in Klinsman’s office. I pulled out my phone. The process seemed too easy. The device, too mundane. In some ways I wished we could go back to the days when there was more panache to our business. And better gadgets. Cameras miniaturized in secret laboratories and built into rings and belt buckles. And before that, into briefcases and purses. It was a lost art, casually positioning the hidden lens and holding still long enough to get the proper exposure. Then there was the tension of not knowing if you’d captured a vital gem or the inside of your sleeve. The only bespoke thing now is some software that hides your pictures in an obscure folder that looks like it’s part of the phone’s operating system. It does you no good at all if some zealous customs official opens your photos app and finds all kinds of illicit images there.

  I scrolled to the correct location and opened the first picture. It’s easy to photograph documents with a phone but not so easy to read them on the small screen. It’s better on something with a larger display. And better still, on paper. I went into the kitchen and woke the printer that Robson had bought. He’d installed it on the kitchen counter, next to his kettle. I tried to connect, but discovered I needed to join the Wi-Fi network he’d also set up. I found the router in the pantry, where the phone line comes in. There was a plate underneath where the passcode was printed. I entered it into my phone, and got rejected. Had I typed it wrong? No. That was a stupid question. Robson had obviously changed it from the manufacturer’s default setting and didn’t write the new password down. Old habits.

  There was a noise from the kitchen and I saw Robson in the doorway, a smile on his face and a large paper sack in his hand.

  “Is Thai good?”

  “Thai is excellent. I’m starving. But first I need the Wi-Fi code.”

  “Sure. I have it right here.” He pointed to his head. “What are you trying to do?”

  “Print some documents I copied at Klinsman’s office. Make them easier to read.”

  “No problem. Here. Give me your phone.” He entered a long string of letters and numbers, hit a couple of other keys, and a minute later the printer whirred and pages started to appear in the slot at the front. “What did you get?” He handed me the phone back and pulled out a handful of papers.

  “A couple of things. One of them’s in Chinese. I wanted you to take a look.”

  Robson started to read the top page, and as he went along his eyes grew wider and his mouth sagged open. “Paul, this is amazing. You’ve cracked the whole thing wide open. This is a letter from President Xi. He says, ‘Dear Jim, Thanks for sabotaging that corrupt, decadent Western telecom company, on behalf of the people, with your brilliant short-selling scheme. I don’t know what that is, being the world’s foremost communist, other than Bernie Sanders and AOC, but great job, anyway. Your next mission, should you choose to—’ ”

  I grabbed the papers out of his hand. “Very funny.”

  “Come on.” He grinned. “It was a bit funny. But I’m sorry, my friend. You’re barking up the wrong tree. The letter’s really from an investor from Hong Kong who wanted to set up a meeting with Klinsman on Thursday. The guy won’t even be in town that day. No smoking gun there, I’m afraid. So. What else did you get?”

  “Bunch of contracts, waiting for him to sign. Looks like he’s buying some company. RevoTek? And selling some other stuff.”

  “RevoTek? Can I see?”

  I handed the papers back to Robson, and as he leafed through them his expression grew darker and meaner until it reached the point where, if you came across him in a dark alley, you’d shoot yourself just to get the inevitable over with. “I’m sorry, Paul. To be honest, at first I thought your obsession with this dude was unhinged. I was wrong. We need to deal with Pardew first, obviously. Then Klinsman? We’re taking the asshole down.”

  “What have you found?” I took the papers back and glanced at them. “What changed your mind?”

  “I’ve heard of RevoTek before. When I was in that cab, driving your buddy Carrodus around for you. There was a segment about it on Taxi TV. On a loop. It nearly drove me crazy. It’s like there are only three news stories a day, according to those guys. But one of them was about that company. It’s family owned. Based in Hackensack. They used to make bicycles. Now they just make the wheels. The
y specialize. They’re the best in the world, apparently. All the Olympic teams go to them. All the world records have been set with their wheels. They just brought in a new product line, for racing wheelchairs. Then they hit a snag. The owner died, and the son’s not interested. Sound familiar? Anyway, they only employ like fifty-five people, but they were worried the company would have to close. There are no other manufacturing jobs up there, especially for people with such narrow skill sets. But the report on the TV said a buyer had been found. They promised there’d be no job losses. Said they planned to invest. Grow the business.”

  Robson pointed to the paper at the top of the stack. “See that name? That’s the new owner. It’s a holding company, evidently owned by Klinsman. And the other papers? They show he’s selling the land where the factory is to a developer. The machines, to competitors in China. The patents, to a rival in Germany. He’s a two-faced lying sack of shit. If he was here right now, I’d kill him with my bare hands. Cut up his body. Dissolve it in acid. And flush it down the toilet.”

  Another reason to wish Klinsman’s trip to England had been a few days shorter. “Why would he do that? Don’t answer. I can guess. To make more money, more quickly.”

  “Unless he just likes getting hurt. Either way, he’s going to find out how that feels. Shall we eat?” Robson opened the bag, unloaded the cardboard containers onto the table, and tore down their sides to form makeshift cross-shaped plates. Then he handed me a pair of chopsticks. “Have you heard from Harry?”

  “He called a while ago.” I took a bite of Sam Rod Duck. “This is good. Anyway, Harry did get into those files. He thinks they were locked because they’re full of explicit pictures.”

  “A porn stash? Has Rooney got a wife? A girlfriend? Maybe we can use that.”

  “Harry thinks it was more likely Rooney was moonlighting as a PI. Cashing in on straying husbands and wives. He thinks the files were locked because the material was so gross. It struck me it might be because Rooney doesn’t have a license. Or because the investigations weren’t initiated by his clients.”

  “You think Rooney was freelancing? Our boy’s an entrepreneur?”

  “It seems that everyone wants as much money, as quickly as possible. So who pays more? A heartbroken spouse confronted with proof of their partner’s affair? Or a guy with kids and half his worldly goods on the line?”

  “Paul, you cynic!”

  “Plus there’s the fact that in one of the files, you have the same woman in the same place with a bunch of different guys.”

  “It could be a wife with more than one lover?”

  “True. But either way, I can’t see a link to Pardew. You?”

  “Not immediately.” Robson sucked up a rebellious glass noodle. “Not like the thing I’ve been working on.”

  “You’ve found something?”

  “I was wondering when you’d ask. The answer’s yes. Something big. A major piece of the puzzle, I think.”

  I paused with my chopsticks midway to my mouth. “So? Are you going to tell me?”

  “In a minute.” Robson’s voice was languid. “I’m eating.”

  * * *

  —

  Robson scooped up the last of the Shrimp Massaman, cleared away the detritus, fetched a set of his papers from the living room, and laid them out on the table.

  “I told you the devil was in the details.” He shuffled the papers until a particular page was on the top. “At first Rooney’s records all seemed legit. Then I started going through them with a fine-tooth comb. And when I got to his client list, guess who I found?”

  “Elvis Presley?”

  “Alex Pardew. He bought a brand-new, top-of-the-line system from Rooney’s company. A coincidence? I thought. So I took a drive to Pardew’s address. A nice place, out in Armonk. And guess what? There was no system at Pardew’s house. Which raises the question, what did he pay for?”

  “And the question, when did he pay for it?”

  “Good. We’re on the same page. He made the payment the week before his DUI charge was dropped.”

  “So alongside his legit business, Rooney runs a conduit to channel bribes to a judge.”

  “That’s the way I read it. He uses the business to conceal the flow of cash.”

  “This is a big piece, John. It’s massive. It explains why the file was taken, and why some of Pardew’s records were removed. Rooney heard his client had been caught again, and that his finances would specifically be coming under the spotlight, and was worried about the scheme coming to light.”

  “Right. And when they were done with it, they were happy to return the file because they weren’t looking to deliberately derail your father’s case. That was just collateral.”

  “Agreed. At the pier I heard Rooney say that Pardew knows the file is back and won’t be stupid enough to stick around. It sounded like Pardew running was a by-product, not their aim. He’s in the wind, not off the hook.”

  “This does raise another question, though. Why not hit Pardew up again? Businesses usually like repeat customers. Especially illegal ones.”

  “There could be a lot of reasons. The case could have been given to a different judge, who isn’t bent. Pardew could have been broke. Or too tight to meet their price. The case could be too high profile. They could have weird moral scruples, where they don’t mind helping drunks but draw the line at potential killers?”

  “Could be any of those.”

  “Maybe we’ll figure it out if we can put more pieces in place. Like, how did Rooney know to approach Pardew when he got busted for the DUI?”

  “He’s a retired cop. He probably still has contacts in the department. And the woman, Spangler—she works at the courthouse. The information could be coming from that end.”

  “Either of them could have found out about Pardew getting arrested. A better question is, how did they know he’d be open to paying a bribe? Approach the wrong person and they make a deal by reporting you. Could it have been the other way around? Could Pardew have approached Rooney?”

  “That’s the same question, but backwards. How would Pardew know who to go to?”

  “There are other questions, too. How’s the judge connected?”

  “How does he get paid?”

  “Is there more than one judge involved?”

  “This whole thing’s turning into a Pandora’s box. Is it time to be sensible, Paul? Should we hand it off to Detective Atkinson?”

  “We will do that, but not yet. Because here’s the biggest question of all. Where’s Pardew now? How well is he covering his tracks? If he hears that Rooney’s been arrested and he figures more dirty laundry could see the light of day, he might go deeper underground. And I don’t want him getting any harder to find than he already is. The guy’s responsible for my father’s death. We’re still due a little private time, before the police get involved.”

  Maybe old habits die more easily than I’d thought.

  Pardew knows the file is back, remember. He won’t be stupid enough to stick around.

  During training they taught us to use all kinds of devices to monitor people and record their conversations. There were wires to wear. Bugs to conceal. Parabolic microphones to train on subjects from crazy long distances. But more important, we were taught to listen. To everyone. All the time.

  This point was hammered home during one exercise in particular. We were told the purpose was to ensure that we didn’t become too dependent on technology. The scenario was that we were to wait in a bar for a pair of businessmen to show up and discuss the project they were working on. Our task was to eavesdrop without being detected, memorize what the business guys said, and report the key points. We were warned that the conversation would be heavy with technical details, and that at the debrief we’d be pressed for the specifics. It was vital that we get all the jargon exactly correct.

&nb
sp; When it was my turn I made sure to arrive early, figuring I’d be less suspicious if I wasn’t seen walking in. I ordered tonic with ice and a slice, and tipped the barman extra to serve me the same thing all evening without being asked. It looked like a regular drink but had no alcohol to dull the recollection and insufficient volume to prompt urgent bathroom breaks.

  The place was busy. It was noisy, too. All the tables were taken, and there was a throng of couples and groups of friends at the bar. There were only three seats left. I took one next to a pair of women who looked about my age. They were wearing cocktail dresses and getting ready for a night on the town. After half an hour the guys I was waiting for walked in. They were wearing suits and carrying briefcases. They slid onto the final empty stools, ordered beer, and chatted constantly for the next couple of hours. There was more talk about baseball than business, but I did my best to memorize all the important topics. I was fairly confident going into the debrief the next day. Which turned out to be much harder than I expected. But also, much more useful. Because the instructors didn’t care about what the businessmen had said, after all. They only grilled me about the women. What the two of them had said. What implications could be drawn about their jobs. Their relationships. Their families. Schools. Qualifications. Financial stability. The kind of conclusions you could only make if you didn’t just hear things. You had to absorb them. And think about them critically.

  Pardew knows the file is back, remember. He won’t be stupid enough to stick around.

  Robson was wide awake the instant I walked into his room, even though it was only 4:00 A.M.

  “Is the house on fire?” His voice was completely calm.

  “Rooney knows where Pardew is. Or he did. They were in contact. They may still be. And Pardew may still be in town.”

  “Are you sure?” Robson sat up. “How do you know?”

  “Rooney told me. At the pier. Only I wasn’t listening right. He said, Pardew knows the file is back. How could he know what Pardew knew if they weren’t communicating?”