She stepped up next to the Volvo. “Hi there!”
He handed her the morning paper. What was there to say? It had been years since he had opened his heart to a woman, and that time it had ended in betrayal as well. He threw the Herald at her feet. “What the hell? I thought we had an agreement.” He faced her briefly. “I even thought we liked each other.” He slammed the gearshift into first, grinding it, and drove away. The sterile blankness of the near-empty underground parking facility seemed terribly symbolic.
Susan Lyme looked down at the waving pages of the morning paper, dumbfounded.
2
Peter Knorpp arrived within a few minutes of Jacobs, early for him.
Like electricity, Knorpp sought the path of least resistance. He always had. When Haverill had “discovered” him in Canada several years earlier, Knorpp had said he was in Canada because of a job opportunity. In fact, he had come to Canada a decade before to avoid the Vietnam draft. Soon he had smooth-talked his way into a public relations firm, his immediate superior a foxy redhead with a French-Canadian accent and long luscious legs. She had taken an instant liking to his California good looks. By the time their three-year affair came to an abrupt end (Knorpp had never been loyal to her, despite his pledges)—a result of Haverill’s generous offer—she was executive vice-president and Knorpp was manager.
Knorpp lived for status. His desire to impress drove him to overspend his modest salary.
His vanity and insecurity led him to teenage girls. Women of all ages had always been attracted to his beach-boy looks, but the young ones, so innocent, so full of raw, spirited energy, worshiped him. There was nothing as stimulating to him as introducing a budding, high-breasted young woman to the pleasures of sex.
As he headed toward his office, he tried to talk himself out of the affair with Julia Haverill. It had already gone on too long, could only lead to trouble, and Knorpp was anything but a risk taker. Still, he could not give her up just yet. There was more to teach. More to be done. Besides, she spoiled him with flattery. She would outgrow her innocence soon enough. She would become demanding and self-interested, like the others. But it was nothing to worry about. The Green attracted hundreds her age. Like Julia, most were dying to try cocaine, dying to be considered mature women. They molded in his hands like putty. What others wouldn’t give them, Peter Knorpp would.
***
“Jacobs,” he called out, stopping the man. He moved closer. “You don’t look so good.”
“What is it, Peter?”
“I came in early because my office received a message from Lieutenant Shleit that he wanted to see you and me at eight-thirty. My office, okay?”
“I have to do my rounds.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’ll try to make it.” Jacobs went in his office and slammed the door.
Knorpp scratched his head, brushed the sleeve of his suit free of a stray bit of lint, and turned, smiling at the secretaries, despite the fact that most were in their mid-twenties.
3
The man with the thick glasses arrived at Pavilion C early that Thursday morning. He headed straight to the east bank of elevators and waited for number three, passing up two other available cars. This caught the attention of Dicky Brock in Dispatch, who, because of the hour, was not distracted by the typical flood of things to do.
Brock used the first few minutes of every day for dry runs, to test the cameras and computer equipment. Trained to spot the unusual, he elected to keep this little man under surveillance while he went through his morning routine. The test procedure required cueing specific cameras to specific monitors. He anticipated the man’s moves, switching between cameras to stay with him. At the same time he ran the video recorder through its morning test by freeze-framing a shot of the man’s face and printing out a hard copy on the dot-matrix printer. The printer worked fine. It showed a black-and-white shot of a short, muscular man wearing jar-bottom glasses.
He cued up a camera that showed the elevator area on Pavilion C’s Level 2, and another that showed a similar view of Level 3. He waited, ready for the man to exit the elevator on one of the levels.
The elevator arrived at Level 2, and a passenger disembarked. Brock could just see the short man’s right shoulder inside the car. When the car then headed back down Brock became curious. Why would a person wait for a particular elevator car, ride up to Level 2, and then head back down toward Level 1?
With his curiosity heightened, Brock waited once again to pick up a view of the man with the jar-bottom glasses.
When the elevator didn’t arrive at any of the three floors, Brock checked the status line on the bottom of each monitor screen to make sure he had not accidentally cued the wrong camera.
The cameras were right. So where was the elevator car? Now Brock became more than curious. Sure, several times a year different elevators broke down and Security and Safety had to rescue the passengers while Maintenance tried to resolve the technical problem. But this was too coincidental.
Brock leaned over and typed a code into the Chubb computer and pushed ENTER. The screen showed a graphic representation of the four elevators on Pavilion C’s east side. Three of the four cars were moving. Car number three appeared to be stuck between levels 1 and 2. Brock, who wore a dispatcher’s headset, began to call Maintenance when he suddenly noticed an asterisk on the-screen below elevator three. The EMERGENCY switch had been thrown.
He put the call through anyway. “Paul, will you check out—” He interrupted himself. “Never mind. Sorry to bother you.” He hung up. Elevator three had begun moving again.
Brock waited, anxiously watching the television monitors, one eye on the Chubb computer.
When the car reached Level 1 and its doors opened, it was immediately flooded by boarding passengers. He had not disembarked!
Brock reviewed the events of the last few minutes. First, this guy waits specially for car number three. He rides it to Level 2 but doesn’t disembark. Then he uses the EMERGENCY switch to stop it between floors. And now he doesn’t disembark at Level 1.
He kept a careful eye on the monitors and watched as the elevator reached Level 2 and then Level 3. Still no sign of the stocky man.
He scratched his head and cursed. Had he missed him in the crowd? Owing to the steep angle of many of the overhead cameras, short people were often lost in the crowds. He kept his eyes on the top row of eight monitors, where the pictures switched automatically at five-second intervals. The bottom right monitors were used to isolate a shot from a particular camera. He reset the Chubb computer to its main menu and continued his morning tests.
***
The man with the thick glasses stared down in disbelief at the elevator as it descended into the dark well. In his right hand he held a piece of broken monofilament. He had yanked on the fishing line; the elevator’s motor had kicked on as planned, and the car had begun to descend. But then the fishing line had snapped, leaving him holding a six-foot length of what had been twelve feet of line. The rubber band was still attached to the elevator’s EMERGENCY switch. Bad news.
The situation called for immediate action.
In a low crouch he hurried through the utility tunnel. He reached an intersection with a vertical utility shaft and hurried down the ladder toward the intersection with Level 1’s tunnel. He followed this tunnel to its end, but there were people just below him. Sweating now, he backtracked, passing the intersection with the vertical shaft.
He found an unfamiliar tunnel that led north. It was more congested than he was accustomed to. He turned here and headed north, his headlamp lighting the way….
***
As Jacobs pushed the elevator call button, his walkie-talkie chirped in his earpiece.
“T.J., as long as you’re there, do me a favor and wait for car number three, will ya?” Brock requested.
“What’s going on, Dicky? I’m in no mood to screw around.”
“Take a look inside three, will ya? Either its E
MERGENCY switch shorted out a few minutes ago, or we got problems.”
***
Number three arrived. Jacobs stepped inside, annoyed at Brock. Checking switches was a job for Maintenance. The door closed behind him, but the elevator didn’t move because no floor number had been pressed. He spotted the thick rubber band wrapped around the EMERGENCY switch and moved cautiously toward it, not wanting to disturb anything. He discovered a short length of fishing line attached to the rubber band.
Jacobs looked up at the overhead escape panel. He pulled a pen from his pocket and poked the panel. It moved. It should have been set firmly in place.
He knelt by the EMERGENCY switch and ran the clear monofilament over the barrel of his pen. He stretched it several feet before the fishing line ran off the pen and floated to the floor of the car.
The car jerked into motion, summoned from another floor. The loud clunk and sudden motion startled him.
Several times a year, Security caught adolescents prowling the storm sewers that ran beneath the Green. They had nicknamed these kids tunnel rats. They had never caught anyone inside any of the utility tunnels or shafts. The thought that someone—maybe even the bomber—might be inside the labyrinth of service conduits presented a serious situation.
“Next car, please,” Jacobs told two heavy women as the door slid open. The women began to protest until one of them noticed his ID badge.
Jacobs blocked the door of the elevator and unclipped the microphone from the inside of his sports coat. “Dicky, shut down number three.”
The door slid shut and Brock’s voice came into his ear. “Three is shut down. What’s up?”
“We’ve got a tunnel rat.”
“Inside?”
“That’s how it looks. Why’d you suspect something?”
Brock explained his attempt to keep the man on camera. “I thought I had lost him in the crowd.”
“I don’t think so.”
***
Jacobs rode the escalator to Pavilion C’s Level 3 and crossed to the east side of the concourse, where he headed down a back hallway and knocked on the steel and glass door to Dispatch. He slid his ID card into the slot alongside the door and, when the red light switched to green, admitted himself.
He told Brock about the rubber band and line. Sliding into a chair, he said quickly, “Put a shot of the utility tunnels on the overhead. Tell me again what you saw.” He added, “Let’s get one of our people in that utility tunnel right away.” He picked up the phone. “Phone book?”
Brock pointed it out, and then said, “Phone number of the police is over there on that list.”
“How’d you know that?”
Brock shrugged and went back to his monitors.
Jacobs called the police and left an urgent message for Shleit. Less than a minute later, the detective called back. Jacobs explained their situation as well as he could. No crime had been committed, but even so, he requested the elevator car be dusted for prints. He recalled the detective’s earlier questioning of how well they would work as a team. Jacobs found himself wondering the same thing, awaiting a reply.
After the heavy silence of serious consideration, Shleit agreed to send the criminal investigation crew. For now, he had decided to play along. He complained about how much paperwork was involved for a crimeless investigation, and Jacobs offered to file a John Doe breaking-and-entering charge. The compromise seemed to please the detective. All give and take, Jacobs thought. They set a time for a meeting later that day.
The electronic map mounted to the far wall of Dispatch could be programmed to show any floor plan, of any level, of any pavilion. It lit up, now displaying the network of utility tunnels and shafts in Pavilion C. Jacobs and Brock briefly discussed how best to try and intercept their tunnel rat and then began electronically locking doors and dispatching security guards to various tunnels.
But they were too late. The man with thick glasses had already left the tunnels. He had, in fact, already left the Yankee Green.
4
Marty Rappaport’s curiosity finally got the better of him. Following their morning walk with the Greyhounds, Jessi had wanted a cup of that good Greek decaf, so he left her to gab with Mrs. Popolov. He, meanwhile, set off toward the new FunWorld pavilion. He had read in a follow-up article in this morning’s paper that there had been “significant” damage to the concrete in the explosion.
He had to investigate. It was in his nature.
He had been around enough construction sites to know how to act and dress: khakis and a white shirt, walk with determination, a worried look on your face, head low in concentration. It gave him the appearance of an inspector, and no one bothered inspectors.
He knew from the newspaper article that Utility Room 5 was located on Sub-level 2. He found the room at the far end of a long drab hallway. It was roped off with plastic tape.
He ducked under the police tape and threaded his way through the debris. The damage was severe. A rust-brown bloodstain darkened the floor by the door.
Concrete had been blown everywhere.
5
Alex Macdonald had thin blond hair, bright, eager blue eyes, and an engaging smile. Of all the financial movers in Hillsdale, Macdonald was one of the shrewdest as well as one of the youngest. At thirty-nine he had amassed a small fortune, mostly in real estate. He never wore a tie. Today he wore a collared T-shirt advertising a Maui windsurfing shop, white pants, and sandals. He stood a finger over six two and had the long limbs of a track star. He sat in the chair restlessly.
“What’s this all about, Marv?”
“You know the real-estate market in Hillsdale better than about anyone, Alex. We’ve done a few deals together in the past, and we’ve both made good money on them.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“I suppose you’ve heard about our problems with Northern Lights?”
“Bad break, if you ask me. I hear you got a court case worked up. You’ll take them to the cleaners, though five’ll get you twenty it won’t do you any good. They’re tits up. We won’t be hearing from them again.”
“I agree. The situation left us with an empty anchor space in the new pavilion.”
“So I hear.”
“That’s a space I’d like to fill.”
“I can understand that.”
Haverill stood from behind his oversized desk and began to pace. “The Treemont building has been for sale for some time.”
“Ridiculous price, Marv, you know that. They’d have to come down nearly four hundred K before it made any sense. I’ve bickered with the Treemont boys a half dozen times over that piece. As you know, it would fit nicely into my plans. They know it too and won’t budge.”
“So you essentially can’t move until you get the building.” Haverill turned and looked at Macdonald, who was staring out the large picture window.
“I can’t start building. That’s true. We’re going ahead with the plans anyway.” Macdonald looked over at Haverill. “Rumor has it that you’ll start an office complex next. Is that what this is all about?”
“You know I’ve supported the concept of a downtown office center for years. No one but you has made any kind of effort to get something going, and you’re stalled because of the Treemont.”
“Maybe we had better cut through the shit, Marv?”
“Yeah. Maybe so.” Haverill hung his head and returned to his seat. It groaned as he plopped himself down. “I thought we might strike a little gentleman’s deal, you and I.”
Macdonald smiled confidently. He had a boyish face but a business mind beyond his years. His security and self-worth left him looking more like thirty than forty: a complacent face void of worry lines or any hint of anxiety. He already knew what the offer was. “I buy the Treemont and make it obvious that I intend to demolish the building. The Hauve is sent packing, looking for retail space. You agree to stay out of the office space business for, say, ten years.”
“I was thinking more like five.”
<
br /> “I’ll need seven years, Marv. Three to get built, another four to get established. If I maneuver my capital correctly, by then I’ll have two or three more blocks downtown. What I’ll need then is a cooperative P and Z board to approve closing off those streets and allowing me to spruce it up some. Some tall trees and a couple of restaurants with sidewalk patios in the summer.
“You put Carter in on the P and Z. I could use his vote,” he continued.
“I could have a talk with him,” Haverill said.
“That’s all a fellow can ask. What part of the picture am I missing?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Losing a jump on the office development in Hillsdale is hardly worth a single anchor space.”
“I agree completely,” said Haverill. “Although The Hauve would give us exactly what we’re after, exactly when we need it. We can’t very well open this Saturday with our largest space empty. We expect national press coverage. They’ll tear us to shreds if our major anchor space is empty.”
“What’s the catch, Marv?”
“I arrange for the four hundred thousand through First City. For that I promise to stay out of competition with you for seven years. The four hundred grand, plus the promise, costs you a fifteen percent partnership. We work the partnership through a corporation in Worcester. My ownership in the company is so buried no one will ever make the connection.”
“No offense, but four hundred grand is hardly worth fifteen percent of that deal. After all, Marv, I’ve got a solid line of credit. I could go the four hundred if I thought the building was worth it.”
“That’s my point. It is worth it to me. Doesn’t cost you a penny more than you’re willing to spend. I make up the difference and promise to stay out of your hair. If it goes the other way, Alex, I can make the red tape bad for you. Five years from now, you won’t even have a foundation poured.”
“Is that a threat? Not exactly a nice way to treat a possible partner.”
Hidden Charges Page 18