by Andrew Grant
The guy’s fingers moved as he counted. “Few days ago. Could be more. Numbers aren’t my thing.”
“Where did Pardew go? Did he say where he was headed?”
The guy shrugged. “He just went away.”
I came down the next morning and found Robson waiting for me in the kitchen. On the table there was a large coffee he’d brought from my favorite shop. It was in a cup he’d bought specially. A china cup, with a saucer. There was a slice of raspberry Danish—my favorite kind of pastry—on a china plate he’d also bought. And between the breakfast goods there was a copy of The New York Times, folded neatly.
I stood for a moment and looked at him. “I haven’t got a car, so you can’t have crashed it. I haven’t got a dog, so you can’t have lost it. We’re in my house, so you can’t have burned it down. So, John, what’s this all about?”
Robson shrugged. “I wanted to do something nice.”
“Well, this certainly is nice. But why?”
“To let you know how sorry I am.”
“Sorry for what?”
“The whole thing with Pardew.” He held up his hand with his finger and thumb half an inch apart. “We were that close to finding him. What are the odds now? His trail will be stone cold.”
I shook my head. “If we’re honest, John, we were days away from finding him. And that’s my fault. If I’d acted faster after finding the file, maybe we’d have had a chance. In the event we only got close because you figured out the connection between Rooney and the abandoned stores. You’re the only one to come out of this thing with any credit. You certainly have nothing to apologize for.”
Robson looked away. “So. What are you going to do now?”
“First I’m going to enjoy this outstanding breakfast.” I sat and picked up the coffee cup. “I’m going to read the paper. Then I’m going to call Atkinson. Set up a meeting. And give him everything we’ve got on Rooney’s bribery ring.”
“What about Pardew?”
“There’s nothing to do about him.” I took a sip of coffee. “I’ve let it go. I’m over it. I’m glad we did what we did. Look what we got out of it. A judge. A clerk. A lawyer. A retired detective. They’ll all be seeing the inside of a jail cell, soon. And they’ll be joined by thirty-two—well, thirty-one, since Pardew’s in the wind—people who cheated their way out of getting convicted before. That’s a pretty good return on our effort. It’s better than finding Pardew, actually. What would I have done to him? My father was a pacifist. Do you think he’d have wanted me to hurt the guy? If he’d had a choice, he’d probably have turned the other cheek, anyway. All things considered, I’m pretty sure he’d have been happy with the result.”
“Maybe.” Robson poured some tea and took the other seat.
“Danish?”
“No, thanks.”
“Part of the paper?” I picked up the Times and unfolded it. “Wow. It feels much thinner than it used to be.”
“You know how it is these days.” Robson took a sip of his tea. “They don’t put everything in the print edition. There’s more online, if you subscribe.”
“Maybe there’s a section missing? Was it the last one left at the store?”
“No. There was a stack. I’m sure it’s complete.”
I started to leaf through the pages. “Yes. Look. Business isn’t here.”
“Oh, all right!” Robson levered himself out of the chair, stomped over to the fridge, and pulled a section out from between it and the wall. “Here.”
“Thank you. But why did you hide it?”
“I thought today we should aim to avoid all sources of aggravation. There’s a story in there you might not like.”
“You read my paper?”
“Well, I bought it, and I hadn’t given it to you yet, so technically it was my paper. But yes.”
I scanned the front page. “Which story?”
“It’s on page three. It relates to Klinsman. Another of his holding companies. He’s mentioned briefly at the end. The headline’s about sleeping sickness.”
I opened the cover and found the article. It started with a lot of detail about how there’s a cure for the disease that kills thousands of people, mostly in Africa. The medicine for it is very effective, but making it depends on being able to source one key ingredient. It’s very rare. And there’s competition. It’s also used in cosmetics. In Europe. And North America. There’s been tension for years over the allocation of supplies. Recently, the scales have tipped—in favor of makeup. Pharmaceutical access has dried up. Because one company has secured almost all the reserves. It shifted its strategy to focus only on the more profitable market. As directed by its new owner. Klinsman.
I put the paper down and drained my coffee. “You know what I think? It’s a shame Klinsman wasn’t in his house when Hendrie burned it down.”
“He has other houses.” Robson looked at me. “He could have other fires.”
“He could. But maybe that would be too quick. Maybe we could snatch him, infect him with sleeping sickness, and when the disease reaches its height, take him to Bergdorf’s, tie him to a pillar in the cosmetics department, and make him watch people having makeovers using the cream that contains the only substance that could save him.”
“That would be poetic.”
“It would be satisfying, it’s just…”
“What, a bit passive? You want something a bit more hands-on?”
“Not really. I’d be happy to watch him go that way, knowing he’d brought the end on himself. I just can’t shake the feeling—the bike company, the way he abuses his employees, this Africa thing. Could it all be noise? A smoke screen, to divert attention?”
“You’re not circling back to China, are you? The telecom contracts?”
“You know the saying. No smoke without—” My phone rang. I checked the screen. “Sorry. This is Carrodus. From the courthouse. You don’t mind?”
I hit Answer. “Hey, Frank. Is everything OK?”
“Where are you?” Carrodus sounded out of breath.
“At home. In Hell’s Kitchen. Why?”
“I need help. It’s Cynthia. My little girl. She’s missing.”
I was on my feet before I realized I’d moved. “I’m on my way. I’ll help you look. Don’t worry. We’ll find her.”
“No. That’s not it. Rita’s family’s here. Our neighbors are all helping. We’ve got the search under control. I need you at the courthouse. To cover my shift. I know it’s your day off, but I’m desperate. I’ve got to stay here, and I can’t lose my job.”
“It’s not a problem. I’ll head over there now. Let me know when you find her.”
* * *
—
Centre Street was clogged with people when I arrived, thirty-five minutes later.
That was nothing new. The courthouse is a magnet for tourists, snapping selfies in front of the columns and gazing up in awe at the pediment before rushing off to tick the next box in their guidebooks. Eager spectators flock to the place, too, high on schadenfreude, hoping for a glimpse of someone famous—or infamous—taking a sorry climb up the steps of justice. But there was something different about this crowd. It was less animated than usual. Quieter. No one was splintering off or drifting away. Even the regular stream of commuters was giving it a wide berth rather than angrily forging through.
I figured I could spare a few minutes, so I joined in at the back and started to ease my way forward until I saw that the front row was being held at bay by a police officer. He looked young—barely out of the academy, I guessed—with a neatly pressed uniform and the kind of still-shiny cap badge you wouldn’t want to be wearing in certain neighborhoods, late at night. His partner was a couple of yards behind him. He was wearing latex gloves and crouching over a body—a woman’s—like he was cautiously checking her vitals. He straightened up an
d I saw that the victim was probably in her thirties. She was wearing a tan trench coat, belted tight against the drizzle, and she was lying on her back. Her right leg was bent under her left at an unnatural angle. Her arms were stretched out and her black hair was splayed in a dark halo over the shiny gray stone.
Was it a robbery? Had someone been trying to steal confidential documents? That was unlikely. She still had her purse and two briefcases. Had she been attacked? It could have been a warning of some sort. It probably wasn’t a murder attempt—not so close to a road that was full of much safer bets like the crazy cabs, and even the bikes.
A baleful siren cut through the traffic sounds and a few seconds later an ambulance arrived and swayed to a halt. People shifted for the paramedics to squeeze through, and I noticed that the woman who’d fallen had one shoe missing. I could see the seam in her pantyhose around her toes. I pushed a little closer and saw the shoe, lying on the bottom step. Its heel was broken. The stone was wet. The explanation was suddenly obvious. She was hurrying. She slipped. She hit her head. My old habits—old instincts, always looking for something sinister—had almost steered me wrong. Maybe they were steering me wrong regarding Klinsman, too. Maybe there was a simpler, civilian explanation to his involvement with the telecom company. Maybe there was a simple, civilian solution. And maybe there was an ambulance in his future, too.
* * *
—
I was in the locker room, about to fasten the last button on my overalls, when Carrodus called back.
“Frank. Tell me it’s good news.”
“It is.” I could hear the relief in his voice. “We found her. She’s safe.”
“That’s fantastic. I’m so happy for you guys. Where was she?”
“You’ll never believe it. She was in her bed.”
“No one thought to look there before?”
“No. Not since Rita got her up and dressed, first thing. After that she had breakfast and five minutes to play before school, like always. That’s when she disappeared. We searched the apartment. The building. The roof. The basement. The furnace room. The street. The alley. The dumpsters. Our friends’ houses. Then Rita had the idea she might have run away, so she went to see if any of her toys were missing. The toys were all there. And so was a big bulge in the comforter.”
“What was up with her? Was she sick? Tired?”
“Neither. She was just smart. She didn’t want to go to school, and figured her bed was the last place we’d look since her mom had already found her there earlier. And it worked.”
“That is smart.” It actually reminded me of something my grandfather had told me about WWII. About naval battles. He said that if you came under attack from a bigger enemy vessel, you were in major trouble. The opponent would have longer-range guns, so you couldn’t get close enough to attack. And you couldn’t run, because the other ship would have more powerful engines. The only option was to evade the enemy’s fire until help arrived. And the most effective way to evade was a technique known as follow the splashes. Each time an enemy shot missed, you plotted a course to the spot where the shell hit the water. The assumption was, he wouldn’t aim for the same place twice. “Frank, thanks for letting me know. I’m glad you’re all OK. But now you’ve found Cynthia, will you be coming in? There is actually something I need to do.”
“Sure. I’ll be there in an hour and I’ll make up the time. There’s no need to wait. Thanks for stepping in.”
I hung up, then called Robson.
“John, this is important. You told me there were three locations where Pardew might be. The Village, SoHo, and the Bronx. Is that the order Rooney cased them?”
“No. It was based on their distance from the brownstone. I was thinking about an efficient search pattern.”
“OK. In that case, what order did Rooney have them in?”
“Wait one.” I heard footsteps, then the rattling of computer keys. “Rooney went to the Bronx first. Then the Village. Then SoHo.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say. I have an idea. Pick me up at Foley Square, as soon as you can.”
* * *
—
The storefront in the Bronx was in an even sorrier state than the other two we’d visited. I guessed it had been abandoned for longer. Shingles were missing from the roof. Glass in two of the second-floor windows was cracked. Mortar was missing in several places and many of its bricks were crumbling. The graffiti was layers deep with bright fresh paint overlapping with faded older shades. The metal screen was in three sections—wider on the outsides, covering the windows, and a central section over the door that had been pried open at some point and then inexpertly bent back, leaving parts of it not quite flush.
The building was on a corner lot, so the entrance to the apartment was at the side. It had a wooden door, which had once been white. There was a new lock, the same as at the other places. There was no need to pick this one, though. A bar had been shoved between the face of the door and the jamb at some point to lever it open, wrecking the frame and leaving nothing for the tongue to engage with. I pushed the door, and it moved. Less than an inch.
“It’s wedged from the other side.” I looked at Robson. “Someone’s home.”
“I guess after they busted it open someone took a piece of the frame and braced it against the stairs.” Robson slammed his shoulder against the door. It gave a fraction, then bounced back. “There’s nothing too solid holding it.” He slammed the door again and it gave slightly more, but there was no sign of it opening. “Wait here. I have a better idea.”
Robson was back two minutes later, in the Cadillac. He slalomed across the mouth of the side street to line up with the apartment door, then reversed, bumping over the curb and stopping eighteen inches from the side of the building. He popped the trunk, removed the spare wheel from its carpeted enclosure, and centered it in the doorway. Then he jumped back into the driver’s seat and reversed again until the rear fender made contact with the spare wheel. He gunned the engine; the car swayed for a moment, then lurched backward as the door gave way. He slammed on the brakes and the car stopped, wallowing on its soggy suspension, two inches from the wall. He pulled away, bounced down from the sidewalk, and stopped at the side of the street.
We stepped over Robson’s spare wheel and a few pieces of broken frame and ran up the stairs. Surprise was out, so we had to hope for shock and awe. And for no one to be waiting with a gun. Or a deep fryer full of boiling oil, if they were continuing their improvised security regime.
I came face-to-face with Alex Pardew in the living room at the front of the apartment. It was the first room I tried. He was standing in front of a camp chair, which was bizarrely the same brand as the ones I’d picked out to use at the brownstone. He also had a camp table. A lamp attached to a long wire trailing down from the ceiling. An air mattress. And a sleeping bag.
“Hello, Paul,” he said.
It took me a moment to process what I’d walked into. It wasn’t just the sound of him saying my name that was unsettling. It was the sight of him. He was standing there, stooped, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. His hair was lank. He was unshaven. Deflated. Defeated, even. When I’d imagined this moment, I’d pictured Pardew as a cornered tiger, ready to rip out my throat. A worthy adversary putting up a valiant fight as I avenged my father. Instead he looked more like a half-starved prisoner or a brainwashed hostage who’d lost all hope of rescue and was now wondering whether he had the will to survive the journey home.
“You know who I am?” I was struggling to continue looking at him.
“Of course.” His voice was quiet and wheezy. “Your father showed me pictures of you, hundreds of times. He was very proud of you.”
“I guess you knew my father well?”
Pardew nodded.
“He trusted you.”
He nodded again.
“Did
that make it easier to plunder his life’s work? Or harder?”
Pardew held his hands up in surrender. “If you’re here to hurt me, or kill me, fine. Go ahead. I can’t stop you. But before you do anything, you should know…what the cops say? What the ADA says? It’s wrong. If you kill me, you’ll be killing an innocent man.”
“So you didn’t steal from my father?”
“Oh, yes. I did that. Attempted to. Kind of. Technically.” He took a moment. “What I did was make it look like some of his assets were worth less, so I’d owe him less when I bought the company. It was more fraud than theft, honestly. But that was in the past. I stopped doing it ages ago. Your father knew all about it. I confessed what I’d done. Tried to do. And he forgave me.”
“Cut the weasel talk. You mean you got caught, you fought, and my father dropped dead.”
“No. Well, I guess he did die, but that had nothing to do with me. When I last saw him he was smiling, healthy, sitting at his desk, drinking tea. I only heard he’d died when I got arrested. I was shocked.”
“When did you last see him?”
“The night he died. At his house.”
“The night you fought.”
“There was no fight.”
“I saw the crime scene photos. His study was trashed.”
“I saw those photos, too. All I can tell you is that it was fine when I left. There wasn’t even a coaster out of place.”
“So what happened? My father wrecked the place himself?”
“I have no idea what happened. If I had to guess, I’d say the police did it. So they could hang his death on me, in case they couldn’t sell the jury on the fraud thing.”
“Why did you go to the house that night?”
“Your father asked me to. He’d found out what I was up to. I figured he would, sooner or later. He asked me, and I told him everything. It was a weight off my chest, in the end. And it was the strangest conversation I ever had. I was confessing to defrauding him out of millions of dollars and yet we were sitting there, quiet, calm, polite, like friends chewing over childhood memories. I told him I had a record of everything I’d done, and a plan to put it all back the way it was. He accepted that, and forgave me. He said he took an element of the blame on himself for making the valuation formula too harsh, and giving me such an incentive to cheat.”