Too Close to Home

by Andrew Grant

  “How did he catch on to you?”

  “He said he’d been tying up loose ends, getting ready to retire. He owned a house in Hell’s Kitchen. A brownstone. Worth a fortune. It was one of the first things I devalued. I thought it was a sweetener in an old deal, long forgotten. It turned out he’d bought it deliberately. Something to do with your mother. He said he’d left it alone for years because the interior was important to her, for some reason. Now it was time to finally get everything cleared out, and put the past behind him. I guess he meant he wanted to renovate, then sell it? Anyway, he saw its value in the books had fallen when it should have risen—a lot—and he got suspicious. It was easy to join the dots after that. But it was my own fault. I put myself in the frame.”

  “Go back a second. My father said he wanted to get everything cleared out of the brownstone?”

  “Right.”

  “Those were his exact words?”

  “As far as I can remember.”

  “What did he mean?”

  “Well, I assumed the house was full of junk.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “No. I can’t even remember the address. It was just a number on a balance sheet to me.”

  “OK. So you promised to put everything right. What then?”

  “We drew a line under the business and just chatted for a while. His housekeeper brought his tea, like she did every night. I passed, like I did every night I was there, because I only drink coffee. It got late, and I left.”

  “The tea. Did Mrs. Vincent serve it in a mug? Or a cup with a saucer?”

  Pardew thought for a moment. “A cup and saucer.”

  “What pattern were they?”

  “White, with red roses. The cup was a kind of a fluted shape, with a bouquet on all four sides.”

  “Good. Now, one last question. You said you stopped devaluing my father’s assets a while ago. Why?”

  “The plan wasn’t working. There were too many assets, and it was obvious I didn’t have enough time because he kept talking about retirement. I needed an alternative.”

  “Which was?”

  “I’m still looking.”

  “Don’t lie to me. Lie about this, and I won’t believe anything else you’ve said. That would lead to a bad outcome. For you. Like my friend here, who has poor impulse control, throwing you out of a window of his choice.”

  “I had the idea to challenge the valuation formula in court.”

  “That sounds totally reasonable. Why try to hide it?”

  “Because I asked a lawyer. He said there was no hope of winning a case like that. And now you’re really going to hate me. I floated the idea of offering the judge an…incentive.”

  “So your lawyer set you up with a bent judge?”

  “No.” Pardew shook his head. “He dismissed the idea out of hand. Said he’d never be party to anything like that. And that I’d be wasting my time anyway, because the judges in New York are too straight. I found out he was wrong about that, though. On my own.”

  “Oh yeah? How?”

  “Around the same time I got a DUI. I was in a high-stress situation. You can understand that, right? Anyway, I’m at the gym and a guy approaches me. He says he’s an ex-cop, and that he has contacts who could make my problem disappear.”

  “You were using the same lawyer for the DUI as you asked for advice about challenging the formula? Steven Bruce?”

  “That’s right. But he wasn’t involved with getting the DUI case dropped.”

  “Moron.” Robson’s whisper was audible clear across the room.

  “It didn’t occur to you that Bruce knew you were open to bribes, because you raised the idea yourself? So he denounces the concept publicly, and sends the ex-cop to see you on the quiet?”

  “No.” Pardew shook his head. “That never crossed my mind.”

  “Moron.” Robson’s voice was no quieter. “Do you believe in fairies, too?”

  “Ignore him,” I said. “So you paid?”

  “I did. My case got thrown out. And I asked the cop if he’d be up for helping me in the future, if I was ever in need. He said yes, if the price was right and they could get the right judge. I was thinking that could be the perfect solution for my formula issue.”

  “Only you wound up on trial for fraud and murder two. Why didn’t you try to use him to beat the charges?”

  “The murder charge was bogus. It was only the fraud I was worried about. I wanted to use the guy. Obviously. But I couldn’t contact him. I was in jail. I couldn’t get bail because the ADA said I was a flight risk. My case was tanking, and I got desperate. I told Steven Bruce what had happened with the DUI thing and asked him to try and cut a deal. Oh my goodness. What an idiot I am. I told a guy I was willing to testify against a conspiracy he was part of. I thought word of the possible deal had just leaked. No wonder my file was taken and the case went south.”

  “That’s what led to the mistrial. But how did you end up here?”

  “The minute I got released the ex-cop—his name’s Brian Rooney—got in touch. He said he knew something that could help me. So I met him, and he brought me here. He said I had to stay until all the evidence about the DUI thing had been destroyed. And that I was lucky he didn’t kill me for trying to roll on him. He wanted to, but JD wouldn’t allow it.”

  “JD?”

  “Judge Dredd. It’s what they call the bent judge they work for. Because of his temper. The plan was to expunge the evidence so I’d have nothing to deal. Return the file. Then let me go, and I’d either have to run or get arrested. Only the process took ages because JD insisted on fixing the file himself, and he got sick before he could finish it. In the meantime they kept moving me from one hovel to another.”

  “Why did you come back to this place?”

  “What else could I do? Run, Rooney said. But how? Where to? I’m just a regular guy. I don’t have money stashed away, or contacts who could smuggle me out of the country. I don’t even have a passport. I had to surrender it. I couldn’t risk going to my house after the police had the file back, because they’d be watching for me. I figured this was the safest place until I came up with a plan. No one would look, because it had already been abandoned.”

  “We should go.” Robson had crossed to the window. “We’ve been here too long, and that business with the car and the door was hardly discreet.”

  “You’re right.” I scanned the room, then turned to Pardew. “Grab the sleeping bag and the mattress. Leave the rest.”

  “Where are we going? What are you going to do with me?”

  “Don’t worry. We’re not going to hurt you. But I’m not going to lie. After all you’ve done, with my father and the DUI thing, your account is seriously in the red. I have an idea that might bring it back into the black. I need to iron out some details. And get some information from you. I can’t guarantee the police won’t become involved. But for there to be any chance of this ending up OK, you need to come with us and do exactly what we say.”

  * * *

  —

  Robson was in the kitchen when I came down. The newspaper was in the trash, the dishes were in the sink, and he was making tea.

  “Did you put him on the third floor?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you think he’ll stay there?”

  “Probably. I took his clothes and pointed out that if he wanders the city naked, he’ll get arrested and the police have the file.”

  “But the police don’t have the file.”

  “I know that. He doesn’t. And just in case, I wired his door handle to the electricity.”

  “What are you going to do with him?”

  “Depends on how much of what he said is true. I’m not bothered about the fraud. What he did’s a weird crime. Nothing was actually taken. It would have been, if he’d bought my
father’s company on the cheap. But he didn’t. The assets are all still there, and they’re in the process of being revalued. So it’s no harm, no foul, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “What do you make of the rest of it?”

  “I have mixed feelings. Some of it rang true. My father was more likely to forgive someone than to fight them. And he did like his tea, last thing before bed. Earl Grey. The cup Pardew described, that was from his favorite set. My mother picked it out on their honeymoon, in Paris. As for the other things, the jury’s out. Like with this place. Why would my father say he needed to clear it out? Clear what out? Remember when we first set foot in here, we both said it felt like a safe house, it was so clean and sterile.”

  “Maybe your father made the decision to call a cleaning service, then found the discrepancy with the value, but after the ball was already rolling. There’d be no need to cancel the appointment because of some accounting questions, if he really wanted the place taken care of. That would explain why it was so spotless when we arrived.”

  “That’s possible, I guess. I’ll ask Ferguson, his lawyer, to dig through the bills. See if there’s any record.”

  “What about his office getting trashed?” Robson added some milk to his tea. “That’s the biggest discrepancy, if you ask me. If Pardew didn’t wreck the place, who did? And when? Do you believe the police would really do that, just to pad a case they didn’t even know they were making yet? Could someone totally unrelated have sneaked in after Pardew left, but before your father collapsed?”

  “You can rule out anyone else sneaking in. That’s too coincidental.” I helped myself to tea from Robson’s kettle. “I could believe the police would tamper with evidence—some of them, in some circumstances. But I don’t see the motivation here. And I trust Atkinson. No. I think Pardew’s lying. And I think there’s an easy way to find out.”

  “Time for the window?”

  “Something less dramatic. More scientific. Mrs. Vincent told me she heard arguing coming from my father’s study and things getting smashed while Pardew was still there. That’s in her statement, too. She also said my father wouldn’t let her back in the study after Pardew left. If Pardew’s telling the truth, there’d be a cup and saucer—or at least broken pieces of china—in the crime scene photos and the officer’s log. I don’t remember seeing any. But to be sure I’ll get copies from Atkinson and double-check.”

  “What if Pardew is telling the truth, and your father took his cup to the kitchen himself when he’d finished his tea. That would explain why it’s not in the photos.”

  “My father would never do that. You don’t buy a dog and bark yourself, he used to say. But just in case, I’ll talk to Mrs. Vincent and confirm whether she brought my father’s tea, assuming she can remember that kind of detail after all these months. I’ll also ask if she remembers finding his cup in the kitchen, later. Then, if we figure my father’s death was an accident, I’ll be satisfied to make Pardew help with my idea. If he’s lying, and he riled my father up, trashed his stuff, and caused his collapse, the story will have a different ending. I’ll still make him help. Then I’ll make sure he winds up in a place that makes those storefronts seem like Caribbean resorts.”

  Life’s a game of give-and-take. That’s what Mrs. Vincent used to say when I was a kid and didn’t want to do something. Her words have stayed with me. Only, over the years I’ve learned that things often work out better if you do the taking before you do the giving.

  “No!” Atkinson’s voice echoed around the courthouse’s dome. The early rush of lawyers and clerks and jurors had passed, but plenty of heads still turned. “How many times? It’s just not possible.”

  “It must be possible.” I tried to keep my voice reasonable, and above all, quiet. “You showed them to me before. It stands to reason that you can show them to me again.”

  “You were a suspect before. You’re not one now. There’s no reason to show you again.”

  “Think of a reason.”

  “Give me a reason. Why do you want to see them again, anyway?”

  “They could help me shed new light on the case.”

  “How? You’ve got to understand, access to crime scene photos is controlled, and for good reasons. The events we’re talking about happened more than six months ago. The case became inactive, officially, so everything was archived. A record’s made of every request to see them now. I’d need justification.”

  “Hypothetically speaking, if Pardew’s court file was found, would that reactivate the case? Give you justification to request your own archived files?”

  “Have you—”

  “I’ll take that as a yes to the justification. So. Once the Pardew file is back on your desk, an untraceable copy of the photos could fall into my hands, guaranteed never to see the light of day?”

  “Are you saying—”

  “I’m not saying anything until I know how quickly those photos could hit my inbox.”

  Atkinson was silent for a moment. “Not on email. That’s too easy to trace. But hypothetically, if Pardew’s file was returned to me, an envelope containing copies of the photos could be at your brownstone—if I have your word they’ll be returned, and not copied—within twenty-four hours.”

  “Detective, why don’t you stay here awhile. Give me five minutes. Let me see what I can find.”

  Atkinson grabbed my arm. “You know where the file is? Is there anything in it about Pardew’s whereabouts? That’s what I really want.”

  “I doubt there’s anything in the file that would reveal where he currently is. He might still be in the city. Or we might never see him again. I have a feeling we’ll know one way or the other, very soon.”

  * * *

  —

  I felt a little bad misleading Atkinson over the file. I knew I’d feel worse, though, if I found that he’d been involved with faking a crime scene. Or embellishing one. I watched him head out of the courthouse with the bulky envelope under his arm and wondered whether he was walking into a trap. Or setting one for his partner, Kanchelskis. I wouldn’t have minded that so much. Kanchelskis had rubbed me wrong from the start.

  I made my way to the basement. I figured there was no point trekking all the way to Westchester to talk to Mrs. Vincent unless she returned my call and confirmed she was home. In the meantime, I could work. I enjoyed it, and I didn’t know how much longer I’d be at the courthouse. I came to find the file. I’d done that. It felt strange now that it was out of my hands. The Pardew chapter would soon be resolved, one way or the other. I still had to tie up the loose ends with Hendrie and Klinsman. Then I’d have a decision to make. To quote The Clash, should I stay or should I go?

  I heard laughter coming from the janitors’ room and when I went in I saw three guys sitting at one of the tables. Carrodus was standing by them. He nodded to me, slapped the nearest guy on the back, then hurried over, put his arm around my shoulder, and steered me into the corner.

  “I need to ask you something, Paul. Where were you last Thursday?”

  “I was here, working. Then I went home. Why?”

  “Where were you working, exactly? Which floor?”

  “I was allocated to the third, all last week.”

  “Did you go up to the fourth, for any reason? Particularly on Thursday?”

  “Is someone accusing me of doing extra work?” I winked at him. “I’m ex-army, Frank. You know the rule. We never volunteer.”

  “I get that. But there’s been a complaint. Some kids. They said that one of the janitors took their keys, threw them in a toilet, and made them clean a bathroom.”

  I shrugged. “So?”

  “The description they gave matches you to a T.”

  “I’m sure I’d remember if I’d done something like that. Did the kids say what they’d done to deserve such treatment? I can’t imagine anyone would respond that
way without a good reason.”

  “Even if there was a reason, you can’t go around hurting people and keeping them in bathrooms against their will.”

  “That goes without saying. Although, thinking about it, are there any guidelines in the employee handbook? Things like this are best spelled out, to avoid any misunderstandings. I could take a—” My phone rang and I checked the screen. “I’m sorry, Frank—this is my father’s lawyer. I need to take it. There are still some details I need to iron out.”

  Carrodus nodded and drifted back to the table. I stayed in the corner. There’s something about lawyers that makes me feel the need for privacy whenever I have to talk to them.

  “Mr. Ferguson, thanks for calling back. I have a question I need your help with. It’s to do with the record of an expense for a service my father may have ordered a few weeks or months before he died.”

  “I’ll certainly help if I can, Paul. That’s not the reason I’m calling, though. I’m afraid I have some sad news. It regards Mrs. Vincent. I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but she passed away. I’m sure this comes as a blow, because I know the two of you were very close for many years.”

  The room floated out of focus for a moment, and the others’ voices seemed muffled, as if they were underwater. “When did she pass?”

  “Last Wednesday. She was visiting with friends in California. It was very sudden. Turned out she had a rare heart condition that must have finally caught up to her.”

  I hadn’t known Mrs. Vincent had any friends in California. I hadn’t known if she had friends anywhere. A sudden pang of guilt jabbed me in the chest. “Who’s making the arrangements? We’ll have to bring her home. Sort out some kind of funeral.”