Too Close to Home

by Andrew Grant

  “It’s possible. Rooney was desperate for the file to be put back. That much fits. But it’s not a lock.”

  “Look, I’m not saying it’s a sure thing. It’s just a theory. But the beauty is, it’s so easy to prove or disprove. There are three addresses. One in the Village. One in SoHo. And one in the Bronx. We check them out, and we’ll know immediately, one way or the other. A tiny effort, but a huge reward if Pardew is at one of them.”

  “And not much to lose if he’s not.”

  “Agreed. Which is why I’m on my way to the first place now. You stay on Rooney, and I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Negative. Text me the address. Rooney just got in a beef over an alarm system with a guy who can’t walk without a cane. I can’t see him standing around and getting a walking stick shoved in his face if he believed Pardew was freaking out somewhere and yelling for the cops. Either we’re way off the mark, or Rooney knows the story isn’t true for another reason. Like he has a partner in place, sitting on Pardew and keeping him quiet. In which case, it would be better for the two of us to go.”

  The address Robson sent for the first derelict property was on Bleecker Street, which surprised me. The last I’d heard, the area was booming with all kinds of high-end fashion stores opening up alongside gentrified versions of legendary music clubs. I soon saw how much things had changed.

  I crossed the river via the Queens Midtown Tunnel, which was its usual bottleneck, and headed west along 42nd Street. I glanced up at Ro’s building as I passed Bryant Park, where the usual unruly crowd was spilling out onto the sidewalk, and kept going all the way to Ninth Avenue. Then I swung south to Hudson Street, continued to the part of the city where the grid starts getting messed up by the corner of the island that’s been snipped off by the river, and forked left into Abingdon Square. From there I followed Bleecker southeast until it crossed Sixth. I was moving slowly—there was no choice in that traffic—and in fifteen blocks I counted twenty-nine vacant storefronts. I couldn’t help but wonder what had forced so many previously healthy businesses to close. They looked like rotten teeth in a once white smile, or diseased victims of a deadly commercial plague that had swept through the area.

  I saw the familiar cherry red Cadillac parked on the street near University Plaza, so I drove past and made a right onto Mercer. I found a spot midway down the block and dumped the car. Then I walked back and joined Robson, who was pretending to browse the window of a hat store.

  Robson nodded to me in the reflection in the glass. “Behind us, three to the west, no awning.”

  I located the storefront he’d been watching and saw that its entrance and window had been covered with separate roll-down metal shutters. Both were covered in graffiti, with big balloon initials overlapping one another in a garish rainbow of unwelcome colors. Above that, in the space that would normally have been covered by the awning, the rusty frame of an air conditioner was jutting out from a band of weathered, uneven brickwork. Over the store there were three windows, too filthy to see through. I guessed they were part of the apartment where the owners would originally have lived.

  “No one’s watching it from the street,” Robson said. “And not from any vehicles, or on foot. I can’t tell about the other buildings.”

  “Safe enough to take a look inside?”

  “Safe enough.” Robson nodded. “I already walked by. The padlocks on the shutters are rusted solid. They haven’t been opened in months. But the door to the left? The lock’s brand-new. Probably leads to the apartment on the second floor. That makes more sense than the store itself as a place to hold someone. We should try there.”

  “Got it.”

  Robson stood and obscured the view from the street while I picked the lock. It was much more substantial than I’d expected, given the overall state of disrepair the place was in. It took almost two minutes to get it open. Inside, there was just enough space for the door to swing open before the stairs began. The walls had once been painted cream, but now they were covered with chips and stains, and there was a diagonal series of holes where the banister rail had been torn off. The carpet, which had maybe once been burgundy, was now filthy brown and threadbare. It gave off a damp, musty smell with an overtone of something vaguely biological. Whether the origin was human or another kind of animal, I couldn’t say.

  We started up the stairs, keeping to the sides, where the treads were less likely to creak, but it was hardly a covert entry. At the top there was a landing that opened onto four rooms. The first one at the front of the building would have been a living and dining space. It accounted for two of the unit’s three windows, though each of them was now barred and nailed shut. The walls were beige, with lighter patches where pictures would once have hung. A wire was hanging limply from a broken ceiling rose. The wooden floor was blotchy and sticky, like a carpet had recently been removed along with all the furniture.

  The next room was the kitchen. Its window was also barred and nailed shut. There were cabinets all along one side with dated fake-wood fronts. The countertop was made of aged Formica with a random swirly pattern and dozens of deep parallel scratches. There was linoleum on the floor, made to look like quarry tiles but now pocked with cigarette burns and covered with stains around the space where the stove would have been. There was a single stainless-steel sink, scratched by years of washing dishes and stained by countless pots of tea and coffee. Robson tried the faucet, and it released a feeble stream of yellowish water. He turned, and pointed to the space behind the door. There was a black trash bag, its top bunched up but not tied. He unfurled it and peered inside, keeping it at arm’s length. Then he tipped the contents out all over the floor. There were a dozen or so empty water bottles and packets of the kind of food you can heat in the microwave.

  “Look. Civilian MREs.” He poked the heap with his foot. “There’s oatmeal for breakfast. Pasta and stew for lunch and dinner. What can I say? I’ve got by on worse.”

  The door opposite the kitchen led to the bathroom. There was a sink, a tub, and a toilet, all with cracks and stains in their porcelain, but all with working surfaces that showed signs of scrubbing. There was a bleach bottle on the floor. A shower curtain attached to its rail with cable ties, which looked fairly new. It depicted a map of the world, though some of the countries were labeled incorrectly and some were misspelled.

  Robson shrugged. “Usable, if your vaccinations are up-to-date. And you don’t have a geography quiz to study for.”

  The final room had been a bedroom. Its window was nailed and barred in the same way as the others, but it was covered by a heavy gray curtain. The bare boards on the floor were sticky and a rectangle in the center, about eight feet by five, was covered with wispy bluish fluffs. The remnants of psychedelic turquoise-and-brown wallpaper were clinging in patches to the walls. A bare lightbulb was lying on the floor at the end of a wire that stretched all the way to the ceiling and still left ten feet of slack. Robson picked it up and took a closer look.

  “Only twenty-five watts. That’s not much light. Why’s it on this crazy long cable? And what are those?” He was pointing to a pair of small shiny round hooks that had been screwed into the ceiling, four feet either side of the lighting rose.

  “There are more, down there.” I pointed to the skirting. “Four on each side wall. Maybe this place was a kennel for the world’s smallest dogs. The craze for pocket pooches, taken to the extreme.”

  “No.” Robson shook his head. “They were for guy ropes.” He pointed to the fluffy patch with his foot. “Someone laid out a blanket on the floor, and pitched a tent over it. Like an indoor camp. All they’d need is a mattress and a sleeping bag. Then the cable would stretch all the way in and they could read or whatever without the light being seen on the street. It’s an interesting setup.”

  “It is. But was it set up for Pardew?”

  Robson shrugged. “And if it was, where is he now?” />
  * * *

  —

  The next address Robson wanted to check was on West Broadway, in SoHo. It was one of five derelict storefronts on a single block. In terms of size and age it looked similar to the one in the Village, but it had a wider set of shutters that covered both the door and the window. These also had graffiti on them, though different tags had been sprayed, coming more from the red end of the spectrum. And this one still had its awning. Faded and frayed at the edges, but clinging on with an air of forlorn hope.

  I persuaded Robson to leave his Cadillac a block away, so we sat in my rental, diagonally opposite the store, and looked out for watchers for half an hour.

  “I never realized it was so hard to run a store.” I shifted a little in my seat. “I figured as long as you don’t set up in some completely inaccessible place, you open at least some of the time, your merchandise isn’t terrible, you don’t rip your customers off too badly, or yell at them when they come in, then you’re good to go.”

  “The McGrath philosophy of retailing.” Robson nodded. “I like it. You should write it out by hand in big copperplate letters and frame it. And then one day it’ll take pride of place in your corporate global headquarters. New recruits will be required to learn it by heart, and recite it whenever they’re asked by management. Any hesitation and they’re fired. Word will spread, you’ll be invited to lecture at business schools…You know what, though? You probably wouldn’t be too far off the money, if it wasn’t for the landlords. Those assholes are worse than drug dealers.”

  “It can’t be all their fault, surely. They wouldn’t drive people out of business on purpose. It can’t be in their interests to have their properties sitting empty.”

  “You’d be surprised. It all comes down to the holy trinity. Greed. Stupidity. And the tax code. I’ll give you an example. My cousin in Chicago wanted to open a clothing store. He found a great storefront and the landlord offered it to him for three months, rent free. The next nine, the rate was reasonable. During that time his store took off. So the next year? The landlord tripled the rent. Tripled it. My cousin couldn’t pay. He went bust. Then the storefront sat empty while the asshole claimed a tax loss. And he did exactly the same thing to six other businesses on that street.”

  “That makes no—” Robson put his hand on my arm, cutting me off. He gestured to the other side of the street. A guy was approaching the store. He slowed down. Stopped at the door. Pulled out a key. And worked the lock. I couldn’t see his face, but he was the right height for Pardew. He had the right hair color. The same slacks and jacket I’d seen in a picture in Pardew’s file.

  “Is that…?” Robson raised his eyebrows.

  “I’ve never met him in person. He matches the photograph, though. What I can see of him, anyway.”

  “This guy’s not being held against his will. He has a key. He’s letting himself in. So what’s going on? Have we got this ass backwards, somehow?”

  “I don’t know.” I opened my door. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  * * *

  —

  Robson blocked while I picked the lock. It was the same kind as the one I’d just dealt with in the Village, which helped. It looked new, too, although it showed a few more signs of wear. I had it open in just over a minute. I eased the door back and stepped inside, testing each footstep for sound before committing my full weight. I waited for Robson to follow. He nursed the door back into place and we started up the stairs. They were old and there was no carpet, so we couldn’t avoid a few creaks. We reached the landing and saw that here the front half of the apartment was all one room. The doors and internal walls had all been removed, creating an open space that appeared to still have been in the midst of a renovation when it was abandoned.

  There were three doors to the rear. Two were open. The one on the right led to the kitchen. The center, to the bathroom. And as we stood I heard a click from the one on the left. Someone had just worked the lock. We made our way around to it and I knocked, then dodged back so I wasn’t in front of the door for a second longer than necessary.

  “Alex Pardew?” I paused. “We know you’re inside. We need to talk.”

  “Go away.” It was a man’s voice, muffled and distant.

  “Mr. Pardew—open the door.”

  “I’m not Pardew. I don’t know who that is.”

  “If you’re not Pardew, who are you?”

  There was no answer.

  “Open the door. We need to talk. Right now.”

  “Go away.” The man’s voice was higher-pitched now, and sounded more desperate. “Don’t come any closer. I’ve got a knife. I’m warning you. Try to come in and I’ll cut you.”

  “I understand. Now just listen. No one’s going to try—” I drove the ball of my foot into the door just below the handle. It flew open, swinging around, hitting the wall, and raining pieces of shattered frame down all over the floor. I moved aside again and waited. No bullets came my way, so I risked a peek. The space inside the room was dominated by a tent. It was made of orange-and-brown nylon, and was held up by ropes attached to circular hooks in the walls and ceiling. A cable snaked its way down and disappeared inside. Behind it the window was closed and barred. There was no sign of any person.

  “Go away.” The voice came from inside the tent. “I’m not coming out.”

  “No?” Robson stepped past me, leaned down, tugged the zip that fastened the entrance of the tent, reached inside, and hauled a guy out by his ankle. “Are you sure about that?”

  The guy curled himself into a tight ball. “Let me go!”

  “Why would I do that?” Robson didn’t relax his grip.

  The guy straightened out, kicked at Robson’s hand, and tried to crawl back to the tent. Robson used his other hand to grab him by the lapels of his jacket, haul him upright, and press him against the wall. The guy was at least sixty. He had sunken cheeks, his left eye was stitched closed, and the top of his ear was missing.

  “OK.” Robson glared at the guy. “You’re not Pardew, but you’re wearing his clothes. Why?”

  The guy started to wriggle, trying to free himself, but he didn’t answer.

  “Where did you get them from?” Robson tightened his grip.

  The guy didn’t answer.

  “What’s your name?”

  The guy shook his head and wriggled more frantically.

  “Any weapons on you?”

  The guy gurgled and kept on wriggling.

  “If you won’t answer, I’ll have to search you.” Robson pressed the guy against the wall a little harder. “And you know what they say. It’s easier to search a man’s pockets after he’s dead.”

  The guy sagged in Robson’s grip. “All right. Please, don’t kill me. I’m sorry. I’m not used to people. Are you here to make me leave?”

  “No.” Robson let the guy go. “Why would we do that?”

  “That’s what happens when you find a good place.”

  “Well, we’re not going to do that. We’re happy to leave you here, alone. We just need to know, when did you last see Alex Pardew?”

  “I keep telling you, I don’t know who Pardew is.”

  I pulled out my phone and called up Pardew’s picture. “This guy. You have his clothes. So tell us. When did you last see him?”

  “Him?” The guy scratched his temple. “He’s Pardew? Yes. I’ve seen him. Of course I have. He gave me this place.”

  “He gave you the place?” I lowered my voice. “Come on. I need more.”

  “The guy, Pardew, he lived here for a while. With an asshole.”

  “Pardew lived here with someone else? There were two people?”

  The guy nodded. “The asshole was different. He came, he went, he was in, he was out. Pardew, he was here all the time.”

  I showed him another picture on my phone. “Is t
his the asshole?”

  He nodded. I showed Robson my phone. A picture of Rooney was on the screen.

  “You saw the asshole come and go? How often?”

  “Every day. He never stayed long.” The guy shook his head. “He must be crazy.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I was,” the guy looked down, “having an outdoor spell. Staying at the Sidewalk Sheraton, if you know what I mean.”

  “We know.” I nodded. “But if you were outdoors, and Pardew never left, how did you know he was here?”

  “I saw him come in one day. I didn’t see him come back out. Not like the asshole. He came in and went out every day.”

  I didn’t feel like disputing his logic. “Well, if he never left, how did he come to give you the place?”

  “One day the asshole came. He didn’t shut the door. Usually he did. It was raining, so I went inside. He came upstairs. I followed, like, halfway. I stopped when I heard him talking. To Pardew. He said he had to go. Because of his tools.”

  “What tools?”

  “His lever. That was gone. His file. That was back. Like that. Weird stuff. Then I guess I must have sneezed or coughed or something, because the asshole ran over and found me. He kicked me down the stairs and threw me out into the street. I tried to fight him, and I grabbed him and spun him around and tried to cling to his coat, but he punched me in the face. I stayed down till he’d gone. Then I got up and saw he’d dropped the key. I went in. Tried to give it to Pardew. That’s when he said, ‘Keep it.’ He said I could stay if I wanted. He left me his food. Some things to wear. His tent. All he took was his bed.”

  “When was this?”