The Manuscript

The Manuscript Page 10

by Russell Blake

  Ken checked the time. Two forty-five. He tried to come up with a convincing reason not to head to the old man’s office downtown and drew a blank. Ken had been on the force for eighteen years and had worked himself up to detective rank, where he’d maxed out on his career possibilities given his penchant for speaking his mind and being bluntly honest. If you wanted to climb the ladder any higher, you needed to be willing to invest a lot of time in scheming, back-stabbing, sucking up, and generally doing things unrelated to catching criminals, which didn’t interest him – he’d become a cop because he wanted to nail perps to the wall and right wrongs, not play politics in the Byzantine world of the New York Police Department.

  His partner and longtime friend, Chuck Barron, looked over from where he sat fiddling with his ancient computer monitor. It occupied a third of his desk and had the bulk of a small television. Budget freezes meant that the department’s once high tech gear was now years out of date. In scowling frustration, Chuck slammed the side of the old contraption with his open hand.

  “Dude. Calm down. All that anger can’t be good for you. Peace and love, you know?” Ken counseled.

  “It’s just that fucking thing is flickering constantly, and no matter what I do it keeps doing it. It’s giving me a headache,” Chuck complained.

  “That’s probably the incipient tumor in your brain.” Ken switched to a sympathetic countenance. “I’m so sorry. Maybe you should take the rest of the week off and put your affairs in order?”

  “Your wife will be heartbroken, that’s for sure. She says my visits while you’re in the field are the only things she looks forward to in her otherwise drab and depressing life,” Chuck fired back.

  “She’s been like that ever since she contracted AIDS,” Ken shared helpfully.

  The banter was a longtime fixture of their relationship, as was the gallows humor, aimed at making more bearable what was at times a mind-numbingly boring job that was punctuated by horrifying scenes of death and violence. Ken’s wife, Sheila, was pregnant with their third child. She’d been Ken’s high school sweetheart, so the disparagements were simply bids to one-up each other in the shock and awe department.

  “I suppose since we’re both staring at our navels, we might as well go interview the people our latest stiff worked with,” Ken stated in a desultory tone.

  “That sounds like a hoot,” Chuck said. “I’m sure one of them will be able to lead us directly to the killer. I love how that always happens – ‘Officer, I wonder if it’s relevant that the pasty-faced man with the artificial leg who’d sworn to kill him was lurking outside the office every night for the last month?’ You think we can knock it out in an hour? I really don’t want to get stuck in rush hour traffic.”

  “It’s probably a small group, but who knows? Let’s just do the deed and see what happens.” Ken had resigned himself to an afternoon of drudgery.

  They donned their blazers and headed for the precinct front entrance – an unlikely couple. Ken’s gray jacket was stylishly cut. He resembled a moderately successful small-business owner, whereas Chuck looked like he’d been given his clothing that morning by a homeless shelter; he exuded a rumpled look, as though he’d been sleeping in his outfit for a week and had just awakened moments before. This image was also bolstered by their physical differences. Ken stood at over six feet tall, genetically thin and lanky, whereas Chuck was six inches shorter, chubby and almost completely bald. Yet, they had been partners for half a decade and worked well together. Chuck’s slovenliness was limited to appearance; he was extremely detail-oriented and methodical. Ken often referred to him as a Pitbull because he was inordinately tenacious and given to working long hours on minutiae that often resulted in breakthroughs they might have missed were it not for his efforts.

  Ken was more intuitive and fast-moving, although his breezy demeanor concealed a rigorously logical personality. The pair were a good match, with each man’s strengths complementing that of the other; it was a successful teaming, reflected by the fact that their crime solution rate was the highest in the department.

  They climbed into their NYPD plainclothes car, a four year old Chevrolet Malibu, and twenty minutes later pulled to the curb in front of Abe’s office building. Chuck flipped an NYPD official business placard up onto the dash so they wouldn’t get ticketed – the only open spot being a stained, crimson curb; the red zone reserved for emergency vehicles.

  Ken had filled Chuck in on the high points of the case on their way downtown – he hadn’t accompanied Ken to Abe’s flat because he was working another case, and a simple stop-in while CSI was doing their thing didn’t justify an extra detective’s involvement. There wasn’t anything other than the preliminary findings on the blow to the kidneys to go on. Ken wasn’t enthusiastic about their prospects.

  The pair rode up in the creaky elevator to Abe’s seventh floor offices. They opened the door and were relieved to see there were only four desks and a reception area. A twenty-something man with a pallor that spoke of years without sun looked up from the nearest computer at the two men standing in the foyer.

  “May I help you?” he asked in a rattled kind of tone.

  Ken flipped out his badge. “NYPD. I’m Detective Ken Romer and this is Detective Charles Barron. We’re here to speak with everyone about Abe Sarkins. And you are…?”

  “Doug Pelzer. I’m an associate with the firm,” he said. His words had a different rattle now. He motioned at two women in their early thirties sitting at two of the other desks. “And this is Dinah Stark and Ellen Bowers, also associates.”

  The two women smiled hesitantly at the detectives and then resumed whatever they were doing, which appeared to be editing documents on their computers.

  Doug affected a grim smile before saying, “But you guys should know all this. We already told you everything we know, which is basically nothing.”

  Ken glanced at Chuck, his face impassive. Chuck looked like he was about to fall asleep on his feet.

  “Yeah, well,” Ken said, “we’re here to take it from the top. Is there someplace we can sit and speak privately?”

  “Sure. We can use the meeting room.” Doug waved his palm in the direction of a small area toward the back of the workspace next to what he presumed was Abe’s office, given that it was the only other door.

  “Thanks. That would be great,” Ken replied, and then followed the young man to the small room. Chuck hadn’t spoken since they’d gotten out of the elevator. He didn’t look like he planned on starting any time soon.

  The room was just large enough to fit a small conference table and six chairs. They took seats, and Ken launched into some routine questions. How long had Doug been working there, how old was he, what was his address.

  “Did Abe have any enemies or anyone he was in a disagreement with?” Ken asked.

  “No, he got along well with everyone,” Doug said with conviction. “Even his difficult clients liked him, and he was universally respected in the business.”

  “Did he seem afraid of anything in the last few weeks? Preoccupied over something? Was he involved in any altercations, anything adversarial?” Ken continued.

  “No, he was the same as ever. I mean, look, it wasn’t like we were best friends, so I can’t say for sure, but the entire time I’ve worked here he was always the same.”

  “I see. Okay.” Ken tried again. “So, is there anything you can think of that might have put Abe in jeopardy, or did he ever mention that he was in danger?”

  “Nope. And like I told the other guys, I don’t know anything about any manuscript, either. So I’m afraid I can’t really help you much. Sorry,” Doug finished, placing both hands face down on the table, preparing to
rise.

  Ken and Chuck exchanged glances again. This time Doug sensed something amiss.

  “Why are you so interested in some manuscript, anyway?” Doug demanded. “I never got a straight answer on that. What does a manuscript have to do with Abe having a heart attack, anyway?”

  Chuck perked up at this and said, “Well, now that you brought it up, what can you tell us about this manuscript? We’re with a different division than the last group you spoke with. By the way, you wouldn’t happen to remember the names of the officers you talked to, would you?” he added nonchalantly.

  “I remember one was named Smith and the other Reynolds. I’m good with names. You have to be to do reasonable editing work,” Doug replied.

  “Did they show you their badges like I did?” Ken inquired, equally easily.

  “Sure. At least, I think so. I’m…I’m sure they must have,” Doug assured them, and also himself to some degree.

  Ken swiveled to face Chuck. “Officer Barron, would you follow up with officers Smith and Reynolds so we can compare notes with them?” Ken then returned his gaze to Doug. “Did they mention their first names? There are a lot of cops in the NYPD.”

  “Yeah, I think it was Alan Smith and Richard Reynolds. The Alan and Dick show,” Doug said, eyes rolling towards the ceiling as he recollected.

  Chuck spoke again. “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. I mean, it was only this morning.” Doug returned to his original question. “So what’s the big deal with this manuscript, and why is everyone so interested in where it is? Today was the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “We don’t get told everything. Sometimes one group will be working on one angle of a case, and we’ll be working another. But just so we’re on the same page, what were they asking? Maybe that will ring a bell. We handle so many of these cases, it’s hard to keep them all straight,” Chuck explained reasonably.

  “You know, that was the weird thing. They seemed to know a lot more about it than anyone here did. He got tons of submissions and queries every week, so how could any of us keep up with everything he was doing?” Doug complained.

  “Yeah. I’d guess it would be impossible for anyone to know everything that was being read at any given time. And Abe never mentioned it?” Ken tried.

  “No, for the twentieth time, I don’t know anything about any manuscript. And I still don’t see what it has to do with Abe’s heart attack.”

  “This is all routine,” Ken said. “When it’s slow, NYPD takes more time with simple cases than if it’s a busy week. It’s just really quiet right now, thank God, so we’re trying to be especially thorough. I’m sorry to inconvenience you and take up your time like this – I can see you guys are busy today.”

  “Well, we’re trying to figure out what to do now that Abe’s gone. There’s still a mountain of work here, and we’ve already had a number of other agencies call to see if there was a formal transition plan,” Doug lamented. “And then there’s all the authors wanting to know who’s going to be handling them…and then Mona doesn’t show up today…”

  “And Mona is…the receptionist?” Ken guessed, looking out at the work area and seeing the empty station.

  “Yeah. Everyone’s kind of off balance right now. This totally caught us unprepared. I mean, one day Abe’s here, bigger than life, taking care of things, and then the next he’s gone forever – to be replaced by a steady stream of cops.”

  “Right. And then your receptionist doesn’t show up, adding to the workload. Is she like that? Undependable? Is she new?” Chuck asked blithely, as if anxious to wrap up the interview.

  “Mona? God no. She’s been here forever. Decades. And she’s never out sick. But I guess the Abe thing has hit us all differently. Besides, she’s kind of the office manager, too – so who would she even call in sick to? You see the problem we have here? Nobody is running the show,” Doug grumbled. “I’m not even sure how we’re going to get paid. Abe’s lawyer is supposed to show up in the next day or so and give us some news, so hopefully that will clarify things. But right now, I don’t even know whether we’re all working for free or not.”

  “Well, I can’t think of anything else to ask, can you?” Ken asked, looking at Chuck while raising an eyebrow ever so slightly.

  “No, not really. Oh – yeah. Did the other cops…” Chuck fumbled with his little notebook and squinted at it, “…this Smith and Reynolds…was there anything distinguishing about them? Anything that would help us figure out which division they’re with? Were they both Caucasian? Age? Height? Anything?” Chuck appeared to be completing a routine interview and was just being detail-oriented.

  “Uh, well, Reynolds was African American, Smith Caucasian, and they were both in their forties, I would guess. Nothing unusual. Just very professional,” Doug said, with a hint of implication that they’d been more professional than Ken and Chuck.

  “Okay. I think that should do it for now,” Ken said. “If you could give us a few minutes, Doug, we’ll want to talk to your colleagues as well. Can you send in, what was her name, Diana?”

  “Dinah,” Doug corrected. He got up and went to collect the diminutive Dinah from the open office area.

  Ken glanced at Chuck, who made a movement with his head. They both got up and moved through the office.

  “We’ll be right back. Going to grab some coffee downstairs. You want anything?” Ken asked over his shoulder as they approached the front door. Nobody did.

  Once they were outside, Ken and Chuck both made calls from their cell phones. Ken wanted to know how much longer it would take to get the electronics specialist over to the office to remove the bugs, and Chuck was following up on the phantom cops. After a few minutes they signed off and Chuck spoke first.

  “There is no other team working this, Ken.”

  “Yeah, I kind of got that within the first second of the kid’s mentioning it. Good job on the low-key fishing, by the way,” Ken replied.

  “It was magical to watch, wasn’t it? I should have been in the movies. But meanwhile, this just went from routine to completely weird. A mystery team interviewing the staff this morning, impersonating cops…” Chuck started.

  “Worse than that, Chuckee, me boy. We didn’t even know that this was a homicide until late morning. I talked to the coroner at around ten or so and confirmed it. So the only people who could have been here…” Ken trailed off.

  “…Had to be aware Abe didn’t die of natural causes and were really concerned over some manuscript. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Chuck asked.

  “We’re on the same wavelength. I think we go back in, interview the others while we wait for tech to show up, then tape the office off and dust it before we pull the bugs my contact told me about. Which reminds me; I think I need to have an in-person sit down with my buddy who put me onto this, because it just took a major turn down the weirder-than-shit road, and I have a feeling we’re operating in the dark. I’ll kill him with my bare hands if he’s holding out on me,” Ken promised, stabbing at his cell phone keypad as he talked.

  He held the device to his ear and listened as the line rang four times, then Michael’s voice came on advising him to leave a message, and he’d return the call as soon as possible. Ken left a perfunctory greeting and requested Michael call him the second he got the voice mail.

  “Tech will be here in twenty minutes,” Ken said, “along with CSI, so let’s play it low key when we go back in, get some statements, and then do a Columbo on them.”

  A Columbo was where they played dumb, and then just as the interview was winding down, they hi
t their subjects with a, “Oh, just one more thing,” and then lowered the boom. No need getting everyone agitated until they needed to. They had a few minutes before the other NYPD units showed up to process the office, so it was best to hear unstressed statements before the storm troopers paraded through the office.

  “No way we’re out of here before this evening, earliest. Sorry, buddy,” Ken said.

  “Yeah, I sorta figured that out on my own. And anticipating we’d be here a while, I also asked HQ to send a sketch artist ASAP so we can get a drawing of the ghost officers.” Chuck’s demeanor was now completely different than the shlumpy, disheveled career bureaucrat who’d walked out of Abe’s offices.

  “It’s going to be a long one. But I don’t like the way this is shaping up, and we just got here,” Ken said.

  “Roger on that. So you wanna grab some coffee before we interview the two women?”

  “Might as well. It’ll only take a minute or two, and I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

  Chapter 8

  Michael’s afternoon surfing the internet in an effort to find out more about the claims made in the manuscript transitioned into evening, but yielded no further revelations. His head hurt from staring intently at the screen for hours, and by early evening, he’d about had it. Reflecting on his day, he called Samantha one more time to see if she’d made any progress. She picked up on the second ring.

  “So, I was thinking about shooting myself in the back of the head due to my lackluster romantic life…” Michael started.

  “Seems like doing it the hard way, but what can I say? If you gotta go, you gotta go…” Samantha fired back.

  “I was just checking in to see if you were able to corroborate any of the other search items I gave you,” he explained.

 

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