Hidden Charges

by Ridley Pearson

  Reaching an intersection with a utility shaft, he climbed the metal handholds one flight up to Sub-level 1 and entered an east-running tunnel. At the far end of this tunnel, nearly a hundred yards long, the small space enlarged, allowing him to stand. Each network of utility tunnels in each pavilion had these entrances, though without a card key they were useless to the bomber except as exits. He straightened his work clothes, checked to make sure the cassette tapes were tucked away, and then, with gloved hands, twisted the doorknob, bumping the door open a crack with his foot. The sub-level utility areas rarely saw any action, except an occasional maintenance man who had a job to do. But the bomber took no chances. He peered out the crack in the door, his distorted eye peering into the underground parking area. He glanced at the surveillance camera track overhead. When it faced away from him, he confidently pushed open the door and stepped out, turning his back quickly toward the location of the camera.

  This parking facility was completely full, as were all other underground lots. By noon the only available parking was outside, in the heat and sun. Although occasional shoppers entered these underground facilities in search of their cars, the occasional shopper didn’t bother this man. To them he was simply a worker doing his job. One of the things that made his job so easy was the size of the mall and the volume of foot traffic. One man, in this continually changing sea of people, would hardly be noticed, especially with hundreds of construction workers on the job.

  Still, it made no sense to take unnecessary risks. Only the careless were caught.

  5

  Jacobs could smell the fresh latex paint. He liked the smell. Shleit’s precinct had been transferred to a new space in what had formerly been a one-story post office. In the process of conversion, the building had been stripped of any character. Human skin glowed green under the harsh fluorescent light.

  The desk sergeant spoke into the phone and then said in a raspy voice, “You can go in now. Third office on the right, just past the water fountain.”

  Jacobs waited for the buzzer. He pushed open the glass door. The springs were tight because the door was new. He passed a number of uncluttered desks. Plenty of August vacations.

  Bolted to the wall behind Shleit’s desk was a sign that read: THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING—H.P.D. Shleit had a menthol going. Its pale blue smoke spiraled toward the ceiling.

  “Got held up,” Jacobs apologized, taking a seat.

  “I would have come out there, but I’m expecting a couple of important calls and our call-forwarding is screwed up. New offices.”

  “So I see.”

  “I feel like I’m in a hospital. Hate the place.”

  “The old post office, isn’t it?” Jacobs didn’t feel comfortable socializing with Shleit.

  “Why didn’t they keep it looking old? I coulda lived with that.” The detective took an enthusiastic drag on the cigarette, which he then placed in an ashtray crowded with butts. On the side it read THE SOFT TOUCH LOUNGE.

  Jacobs eyed the rising smoke as it was broken by Shleit’s words.

  “Reason I called is we’ve got some lab reports on your explosion. Two, possibly three sticks of dynamite were used. We pulled some ash out of that rubble that could have been wrapping. Fluoroscope revealed four numbers on one of the pieces. Could be part of a date-shift code stamped on the dynamite for identification purposes.”

  “I’m familiar with date-shift codes. Have they checked the numbers yet?”

  “Stolen property. We’ve got a pretty good idea of when and where. ATF investigated it. File’s on its way down from Boston.”

  “How long ago?”

  “It’s under investigation. Some things I can tell you. Some things I can’t. You understand.”

  “No, not really.”

  “That’s how it is. Thought you might be interested.” He sucked on the cigarette and exhaled toward the overhead light, then snuffed out the butt. The ashtray started smoking. Shleit ignored it.

  It smelled awful. “I spoke to one of the construction workers. A guy I know pretty well,” Jacobs said.

  “And?”

  “He said DeAngelo works them hard. Too hard. He said any number of people would have reason to rattle DeAngelo’s cage. But not kill the man.”

  “Never know.”

  “He also said there’s a rumor going around that McClatchy finished up the electrical work and detonated the bomb by mistake. Any truth to that?”

  “I’ll check it out,” said Shleit.

  “Other than that, I’ve got zero.”

  “Give our lab people time. Impossible not to leave something behind in this day and age. What the human eye can’t see, fluoroscopes and spectroscopes can. We’ll get him.”

  “What are the chances the bomber will try again?”

  “We don’t have enough yet. No profile whatsoever. Impossible to say.”

  “He could strike again at any time.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He could do a lot of damage, hurt a lot of people.”

  “Right again. Logan airport is going to loan us a couple of bomb-sniffing dogs, though it’ll probably take a day or so to happen. I think we’ll both rest easier once the dogs have been through. If I didn’t know Marv Haverill’s reputation, I’d suggest to him that he close down shop for a couple of days. But that’s not his style, is it?”

  Jacobs avoided an answer. “You’ll keep me posted?”

  “We better talk tomorrow.”

  “Give me a call.”

  Shleit nodded.

  Jacobs rose from his chair. He asked, “Why didn’t you just tell me this over the phone?”

  Shleit slipped into a hard-boiled detective pose. It didn’t quite work. “I wanted to see how willing you were to cooperate. A lot of people on vacation around here. I’m short-handed. Wanted to see if you and I can work together.”

  “And?”

  “You came down, we did quick business, you’re leaving. Suits me fine. How ‘bout you?”

  “Same.”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Shleit’s voice was sharp.

  “Right.”

  Shleit struck his disposable lighter and lit up another menthol. He stabbed the bottom of the lighter into the smoking ashtray, fighting tiny orange embers.

  Jacobs looked around again on his way out. White walls. White ceiling. Not a single splash of color. No plants. Definitely lacking in character.

  6

  Laura Haff stood partially clothed staring into her closet, trying to convince herself she was only doing this because she and Sam were old friends. She knew it wasn’t true. When was the last time she had changed her clothes three times? No doubt for some dinner party in town with Tim—another lifetime ago.

  She was a new person now, a woman filled with sometimes agonizing responsibilities and often drained of energy. But today her energy level was high. Excitement pulsed through her veins, with a kind of intoxicating selfishness. This lunch was strictly for her own pleasure. How long had it been since she could say that?

  She pulled a cherry polyester skirt and a pink blouse off their hangers and laid them out together on the unmade double bed. When was the last time she had not made her bed? Suddenly confused, she slumped down on the edge of the mattress and put her head in her hands. What was the point of getting excited? Who wanted a widow with two kids?

  Then she recalled the local gossip her friend Georgine had passed along last night. Sam had been married too. His wife had left him, though no one was too clear on that point. It had something to do with his sister. “I told you he was available. I knew he’d fall all over you again,” she had said. “You’ve got to take some chances, kid. My God, I remember when you two…”

  Laura remembered too. So long ago it seemed, but actually only ten years—not that long. She glanced at the empty ruffled sheets.

  The refrigerator groaned in the kitchen. Some blue jays on the feeder fought over the seed, only to be chased away by a predatory squirrel who had the same breakfast
in mind. Laura had tried about everything to keep the damn squirrels off the feeder. It was the kind of thing Tim had been so good at.

  She decided on the pink blouse, white slacks, and her new white sandals. Fully dressed, she looked at herself again in the full-length mirror. She tried on a smile and then pinched her cheeks to bring some color to them. She’d seen a sign at the Green advertising a tanning booth. It might help. Be happy, she told herself. No one likes a sourpuss. Be happy, bright, and intelligent.

  Sure, and while you’re at it, sexy and charming too. Who’s kidding whom?

  And with that, she forced herself out the door.

  ***

  She found a parking space well away from the complex and rode a trolley to one of the underground lots where elevators carried hordes of housewives and children up and into the heart of the complex. Where did they all come from? Boston and Providence, Hillsdale, Worchester. The suburbs. Yankee Green had become the shopping focal point of this whole area of the Northeast. Five years ago, at the completion of the first pavilion, it hadn’t been this way. Malls had had the reputation of being tacky. But the Green had challenged the image. Now it was an inescapable fact: The Green was charmed.

  Their small talk lasted about two minutes; they verbally prodded one another, testing for soft spots or imposed walls. Then Sam said, “You’re curious about my divorce, aren’t you?”

  “A little.” She felt herself blush. “Not that I’ve any right.”

  “Of course you do. I know your past. It seems only fair you should know mine.” He paused. “Do you remember my sister, Judy?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Well, anyway, Judy had a stroke about three… no, four years ago.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “She was twenty-one and fooling around with pills.” He shook his head and swallowed hard. “It crippled her right side and impaired her speech. At that point Tan and I had been married about a year. Maybe a year and a half. I didn’t know what to do. My sister and I lost our parents when I turned eighteen.”

  “I remember.”

  “There never was a lot of money. I faced putting Judy in the only home I could afford, which wasn’t much. It was the pits, to be honest. I just couldn’t see her in one of those places. So we took her in.”

  “Of course.”

  “She wasn’t that bad, really. She had her right side. She could feed herself, dress herself, that kind of thing. She couldn’t get around very well. I usually carried her up and down stairs, though sometimes she could manage with a crutch. I obviously paid too much attention to her and not enough to Tan. That’s easy to see in hindsight. Tan got jealous. Then she got angry. We started arguing about it, which made me mad because Tan knew Judy could hear our arguments. It got progressively worse.” He looked at her with his warm blue eyes. “She left me. Bam. Just like that. No note. No nothing. Filed through a lawyer for divorce. Thank God there were no children.” He grimaced. “Sorry about that. That was rather indelicate.”

  Laura waved her hand lightly and whispered, “So how’s Judy now? Can I meet her?”

  “Let’s talk about that some other time. It really is great to see you. The last thing I want to do is scare you away with a lot of morbid talk that won’t do either of us a bit of good.”

  “I think it does help, at least it’s helping me,” she said, taking over. “Tim and I had everything we had dreamed of. Two kids we couldn’t get enough of. A nest egg for travel that Tim planned on using for a down payment on a motor home. Good friends. It was never perfect, mind you. We had little spats. But never anything that mattered—just enough to bring us back to earth. Then a gust of wind changed everything.” She hesitated. “‘Gone with the wind,’ as a friend of mine joked a few months later.”

  “That’s pretty tasteless.”

  “She’s a good friend. She meant well. Besides, she was right. She didn’t just mean Tim. She meant more like one minute everything was fine and the next it had all blown away. It’s true. We take so much of life for granted. If there’s one thing this experience has taught me, it’s to live life to its fullest each day, which is funny, because I don’t do that. Between the kids and my work, and the house—”

  “It’s good you can smile about it.”

  “I’m done crying. Thank God. For a while there it seemed I might never be done crying.”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. She accepted it somewhat reluctantly and forced a smile. To her relief the arrival of the salads interrupted them. A few minutes later he asked, “Can you handle some honest talk?”

  “I’d like to think I can.”

  “I spent most of last evening on the phone trying to find out everything I could about you.”

  “You did?”

  He nodded. “I wanted to size up my competition.”

  “And what’d you find out?” she asked with a smile. “As if I don’t know.”

  “That a couple of guys hound you all the time for dates and that you never accept.”

  “Not true.”

  “Bill Prescott and John Floode, to name two.”

  “They were being polite. You know how it is: Everyone gives you a couple of months, and then they start feeling sorry for you and trying to fix you up.” She remembered her promise to attend Georgine’s party this weekend.

  “That’s not how I heard it was.”

  “It’s sweet of you to say so.”

  “So why am I so lucky?”

  She caught his eye. “Just because. That’s all.”

  “Well, that explains it.” They both grinned.

  Laura searched her mind for something to say but all she could see was Tim’s face in the photo, smiling out at her.

  Tim’s face. Always smiling.

  7

  Peter Knorpp pulled on the edge of the hinged frame of an oil painting that hung on his office wall. The painting was a copy of a Renoir nude. Once moved, it did not reveal a hidden wall safe but a full-length mirror. Knorpp admired his dark, even tan, the result of the two-thousand-dollar tanning machine at his apartment; he examined the perfect shape of his blow-dried hair; he smiled his practiced smile, making certain no foreign matter had stuck in his teeth. He wanted to impress Chester Mann. He remembered Haverill’s words when he had first been hired. “Peter, if there’s one thing you’re good at, it’s salesmanship. What I’m looking for is someone who can represent Yankee Green’s best interests and come off looking like he’s trying to give the place away. If you can do that, you’ve got yourself a job.”

  Knorpp’s theory of sales was to avoid details and concentrate on impression. Impression was everything. Image. If you could sell the image you could lease space. Occasionally Haverill had to step in and close the sale, handle the details, because when you got down to the fine print of the Green’s percentage lease agreements, the deals weren’t all that great. The hidden charges tended to nullify the attractive financial incentives that appeared to make the complex special. That didn’t matter to Knorpp. Image was everything.

  Knorpp took image to the extreme. He owned an extravagant apartment, wore the finest clothes. Six thousand dollars and a remarkable orthodontist had bought him a Robert Redford smile.

  His secretary buzzed him. Knorpp closed the mirror against the wall, walked over to his desk, and said into the speakerphone, “Send him in, please.”

  Chester Mann, the forty-seven-year-old owner and manager of The Hauve department store, wore a conservative suit and wing tips. He had a broom-handle spine and flat hands with long piano-player fingers that wrapped around and squeezed the blood out of Knorpp’s lifeless grip. This was their seventh meeting.

  “Nice to get that rain out of the way,” Mann began, typically safe.

  “Certainly was.”

  “I do a little sailing on the weekends. How about yourself?”

  “Me? No. I’m a racket man, actually.”

  “Oh,” Mann said, uninterested.

  Knorpp checked his watch, wondering wh
at was keeping Haverill.

  “Golf’s my other interest.”

  “I’ve never played much golf.”

  “Marv knows the game. Damn good player, too, from what I hear.”

  Haverill entered the office as if on cue. His large size, his bellowing voice, his pacing all contributed to the desired effect: intimidation.

  Mann and Haverill greeted each other cordially, although an underlying tension was impossible to miss.

  Turning to Knorpp, Haverill gestured. “Peter, why don’t you sit here.”

  Knorpp had been just about to lower himself into the chair behind his desk, but he nodded and walked across the room, brushing imaginary lint off his jacket.

  He had studied Haverill over the last few years. Here was a man who could win at anything, from college football games to speculative real estate. Haverill had the Midas touch: he had profited from nearly every business venture he had ever entered into. He had the kind of power and finesse Knorpp envied.

  Haverill’s greatest asset was that he was a people person. He knew how to charm, to entertain, to negotiate. He cultivated friendships easily, giving him an apparently unshakable self-confidence.

  “Let’s get down to brass tacks,” Haverill began in a strong, clear tone. “You know, Chester, better promotion is one of the many benefits of leasing here at the Green. Our retailers have the added advantage that any promotional efforts generated for the complex as a whole reflect directly on their individual foot-traffic figures. You could look on it as free advertising. Of course, our advertising is strong as well.” Knorpp learned a new trick: Haverill was purposely mixing two separate concepts together—promotion and advertising—no doubt hoping to confuse the two in Mann’s mind. “What are our figures on that, Peter?”

  “We direct-mail approximately one hundred thousand flyers each month.”

  Mann whistled at the figure, as if he had not heard it before.

  “We advertise in twenty-seven national magazines, six regional newspapers, including the Globe and the Journal—”