by Andrew Grant
“So who was actually on trial? The guy who attacked your wife?”
“Right. The animal. He should be put down.”
“And what about the police? Couldn’t they connect the guy to your landlord?”
“No.” Mason’s hands balled into fists. “The filthy animal came up with some cockamamie story about it being a burglary gone wrong. He said it wasn’t planned. He just took the opportunity when he saw the door to our apartment standing open. The cops didn’t believe him, but they couldn’t prove anything. Then they thought he’d do a deal when he saw how badly the trial was going. Roll on the landlord in return for less jail time.”
“Is that what happened? They let him go for giving up the landlord?”
“No.” Mason banged both palms against his forehead. “I don’t understand it. They just let him go.”
“They don’t just let people go.” I took Mason’s wrists and eased his hands back down to his lap. “Did the guy come up with some other defense? Some last-minute trick? What did the lawyers say? The judge?”
“The lawyer—the one on our side—a guy from her office came in and passed her a note, and she suddenly asked to make some kind of special statement. A motion? Something like that. The judge said OK, so she stood up. She sounded real mad, and said there was a problem with the evidence. That something was broken. The chain of command?”
“Chain of custody?”
“Right. That was it. And with this chain broken, she said the evidence was no good. It couldn’t be used. And that was all they had. There were no witnesses. Not even Lydia, because he hit her from behind. They only had the wrench, with her blood on it.” Mason paused. His breathing was fast and shallow. “And the guy’s clothes. And shoes. They had her blood on them, too. Little droplets, that had sprayed on him when he…”
“The lawyer.” I gave Mason a moment. “Did she say exactly what had happened to the chain of custody?”
He shook his head, then turned to look at me. “What am I going to tell Lydia? How am I going to explain that they lied to us? That the animal who attacked her is out walking the streets? That our landlord, nothing happened to him, either? How can she go back to that apartment? Even if she wanted to? It’s on the second floor. There’s no elevator. Lydia’s stuck in that damn wheelchair. But if she doesn’t go back, where else can we go? We can’t afford regular rent. The situation’s hopeless.”
Behind us the courtroom door opened and a judge came in. He didn’t give us a second glance. He just strode past and disappeared into his chambers, whistling “Ride of the Valkyries.”
“Situations are never hopeless, Bob, if you look at them the right way. What’s your landlord’s name?”
“George Carrick.”
“Maybe Mr. Carrick’s luck is about to change.”
“The police couldn’t change it. The lawyers couldn’t. So who’s going to? You?”
“Me? No. I’m just a janitor. All I’m saying is, don’t give up hope. You never know what might happen.”
* * *
—
I rode down to the first floor with Bob Mason and saw him to the exit, then continued to the basement to return my cart. I changed back into my regular clothes. Made my way to the rear corridor. And stopped dead. Frank Carrodus was standing at the far end with the security guard. He went to slap the guy on the back, and at the same time slipped him a fat white envelope with his other hand. It was a practiced move. Easy to miss if you didn’t know what to look for. But one thing was for certain. I’d be keeping a close eye on Carrodus—and the guard—from that point on.
Chapter Eight
I left home when I was eighteen, and since then I’ve only lived in two types of accommodations: places owned by the army, and hotels. I’ve never had a house of my own. And I’ve never had any direct experience of dealing with landlords. But somehow, despite that, I’ve managed to inherit my grandfather’s very Irish attitude toward them. One of instinctive hatred. For him it stemmed from a historic prejudice against English landowners. For me, there was an added dimension. I’d spent my entire adult life fighting for those who couldn’t fight for themselves, and that left me conditioned to kick the ass of anyone who preys on the less fortunate.
I supposed it was theoretically possible to come across a conscientious landlord. It didn’t sound as though George Carrick fit that bill, though. And it was also conceivable that the attack on Lydia Mason—Bob Mason’s wife—really was a coincidence. Conceivable, but unlikely. I was still mulling over the odds when Detective Atkinson finally arrived for our breakfast meeting the next morning.
Atkinson had chosen the place, deep in the Village. It was called the Green Zebra. It was named after some kind of tomato, apparently. I hadn’t heard of it before. It hadn’t existed the last time I’d been in the city. Despite being new, the exterior was designed to look almost derelict. The woodwork was only half painted, and what paint was there was artfully distressed. The lettering on the sign was hand-drawn and already faded. The sign itself was hanging above the window at a drunken angle, its boards cracked, and the ends of crude galvanized nails were showing at each corner, as if someone had hammered them in with the heel of their shoe.
Inside, the idea seemed to be that nothing matched. Part of the floor was wood. Part was covered with scuffed linoleum. Part was carpet. The tables—there were twenty-two—were all different sizes and styles. The chairs were even more of a mishmash than the ones in the courthouse janitors’ room. The pictures on the walls—some framed, some not—were all at odds. The only aspect with any kind of uniformity was the clientele. It was like someone had called central casting and asked for three dozen hipsters, stat. They all seemed happy, though, nibbling on their small portions of exotic, healthy food and sipping their fancy single-origin cappuccinos and lattes. All in all the place was about as far from a stereotypical cops’ donut shop or greasy spoon breakfast dive as you could get.
“I hope you heeded my warning not to interfere with a police inquiry, and to stay away from the courthouse.” Atkinson winked at me and tested his chair to make sure it would take his weight before he sat down. Given his skinny build, that seemed like an unnecessary precaution.
“I’d say I’ve treated your advice in the appropriate way.” I smiled and picked up the menu. “Incidentally, have you guys made any progress finding Pardew?”
“Nada.” Atkinson shook his head. “That’s why we need those papers. The Eggplant Benedict’s really good here, by the way.”
“I’ll stick with coffee, thanks.” I put the menu down. “Regular coffee. With nothing foamy in it. And I have information for you. Something I came across. I think it would be worth a second look.”
“Is it about Pardew?” Atkinson signaled to the nearest server.
“No. It’s something else.”
“Your message said you were on to something connected to Pardew.” Atkinson glared at me across the table.
“No.” I shook my head. “I said I might be on to something. I have come across a lead. I’ll follow it up. And I’ll let you know if it pans out. In the meantime, I have something else for you.”
“OK.” Atkinson crossed his arms. “What?”
“So I met this guy. He may or may not have been at the courthouse. There was an apparent attempt to run him out of his apartment, and his wife was assaulted so badly she’s in a wheelchair. Maybe permanently. The guy who attacked her was caught. There was enough evidence to get a conviction. He claimed it was a random burglary gone wrong, but the police think he was working for the landlord, a guy named George Carrick. They were hoping the guy would roll on Carrick. But there was a screw-up with the chain of custody, the asshole got a walk, and Carrick was untouched.”
The server arrived with Atkinson’s food and my coffee.
“That does sound fishy.” Atkinson took a bite. “But what do you want me to do? It wasn
’t my case.”
“An innocent woman was attacked, probably on this guy Carrick’s orders. The police department fumbled the pass. That’s not good enough. Mrs. Mason deserves justice. And if it wasn’t an honest mistake—if Carrick can reach out and arrange for evidence to be tampered with—you guys could have a major corruption problem on your hands. Someone needs to do something.”
“OK, OK.” Atkinson took another mouthful. “I’ll ask around. See what I can do. Meantime, you need to concentrate on finding the Pardew file. You need to make that your number one priority. And forget about the amateur social work.”
Chapter Nine
It was twenty-eight blocks from the Green Zebra to Foley Square. The sun was out, but it wasn’t too warm. Wispy clouds were spinning their ever-changing patterns across the sky. I was facing a day cooped up in the courthouse. So I decided to walk.
It took a little over half an hour, though I didn’t have much control over the time. I just let myself be carried along by the tide of people, moving at its speed, regulated only by lights at crosswalks, feeling like I was moving even when we were still. Being on foot in other cities just doesn’t feel as electric, and I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it.
In Foley Square they were still busy with the TV show. They must have been expecting some actors to show up soon, because a boisterous crowd had gathered. The security guards kept herding people back and sending clouds of pigeons flapping into the air. Then the director threw a fit when a bunch of worried-looking guys in cheap suits clutching bulging files of forms and photographs wandered in front of the cameras. A cop stepped in, calmed the director down, then steered the group toward the INS building on Worth Street. I skirted around the craziness and crossed Centre Street. A knot of photographers was waiting at the foot of the fenced-off section of steps leading to the courthouse’s main entrance. Maybe some big case was set to conclude that day. I was tempted to wait and see whether it would be a triumphant ADA who emerged, or a vindicated defendant. But I had urgent work to do, so I carried on around the side of the building without pausing.
The glass was still broken in the staff entrance door. The guard granted me a tiny nod of recognition this time, but he still wasn’t ready for conversation. I made my way quickly to the janitors’ room. Punched in. Changed into my coverall. Collected my cart. Checked my supplies. And took the elevator to the fourth floor.
Room 432 was empty this time. I double-checked for semi-comatose geriatrics, then pushed my cart through the gap in the fence, wheeled it past the lawyers’ tables, and left it blocking the doorway to the judge’s chamber with my broom balanced precariously so that it would fall and warn me if anyone tried to squeeze by.
The chamber turned out to be a triangular shape. I guessed that was so it would tessellate with the adjoining segment of the hexagonal building. It had a single window that looked out over the roof of the portico. I could see the back of one of the statues. Truth. Its crude metal support was visible from that angle, bent and rusted but still doing its job. That seemed appropriate, somehow.
The judge’s private desk was sitting under the window. It was made of old, battered mahogany with a green leather top. I searched its drawers. I love how desks are almost always left open in civilian offices. I did come across one that was locked once, in Luxembourg, on an early case. I assumed that must be where the important stuff was kept. It took me four days to get enough uninterrupted time to pick the lock. And when I did get it open, I found…sugar and powdered creamer for the guy’s coffee. I guess it’s just a question of priorities.
This judge’s priority seemed to be opera. His drawers were full of programs and tickets from the Met, and he had a signed photograph of James Levine on the wall, so I figured he wasn’t much of a #metoo guy. His shelves were stacked with masks—his tastes clearly ran to the grotesque—and a bunch of stage props I guessed he’d bought in charity auctions.
The only other piece of furniture in the room was a leather Chesterfield-style couch. Its surface was cracked and thoroughly beaten up, like it had been taken from the stage set for a London gentlemen’s club. There was a plain white pillow at one end, and it was long enough for a person to sleep on. A short person, anyway.
Next to the couch was the door to a closet. Inside it four spare shirts were hanging on a rail, along with four ties. There was a pair of dress shoes on the floor, and behind those, three pairs of women’s pumps. Each had four-inch heels. One was black. The others were scarlet. They were all a smaller size than the men’s. There had to be a story there. Any other time I’d have been consumed with curiosity, but that morning I couldn’t get past the feeling of disappointment at finding nothing more than some incongruous footwear. I knew it was unrealistic to expect to unearth Pardew’s documents in the first place I looked, and in a way it wouldn’t have been right. It would have been an insult to my father’s work ethic. He valued nothing that came too easily. I remember being in disgrace one time because my school report card came back with an A for achievement in math, but a five—the lowest score—for effort. I savored the memory for a moment—more bitter than sweet, but capturing my father’s character in a nutshell—then doubled my resolve to search every room in the building if I had to. And as many other buildings as necessary, if it turned out the documents had been smuggled out somewhere.
* * *
—
On my way back to the basement I decided to pause on the first floor. I wanted to watch the security operation for a while, and assess its effectiveness. With the current emphasis on terrorism I expected it to be capable of stopping people from smuggling items into the building. But what about the other way around?
Sometimes systemic weaknesses can stem from inadequate equipment, but usually human error is to blame. Most often, habit. People stop thinking about what they’re doing or looking at their results, and instead just rinse and repeat. Take the World War II Enigma machine as an example. My grandfather was one of the first to see an example after a prototype was stolen by the Polish resistance. The machine was soon passed on to another part of British Intelligence, because cryptography was not his strong suit. But he did hear that the key to cracking the code was the way the German operators used to set the machine’s first rotor. Their operating procedure called for it to be changed every day. If this had been done at random, there’d have been no way to decipher intercepted messages. Even with the latest breakthroughs with computers, there wouldn’t have been enough processing power to try all the possible permutations in the time that was available. But one of the analysts came up with a theory. What would happen if every morning the operators just advanced the first rotor one position? That would be the easiest way to conform with their instructions. The code breakers tested the possibility and their success rate skyrocketed, because they’d cut the number of potential combinations by a factor of ten.
Eliminating random behavior was key to defeating Enigma, and it was a similar story here. Clear patterns were emerging in the guards’ actions. There were two of them on duty. One of them was pulling every fifth person for a closer inspection. The other, everyone with a metal briefcase. If you wanted to avoid a detailed search for any reason, all you’d have to do is watch. Whether that had any implications for the whereabouts of the Pardew file wasn’t yet clear. It would require further evaluation. But the camera-confiscating guard was doing a better job that day, at least. I watched a guy emerge from the line, hand over his form, wait, then get his GoPro back and leave. There’d clearly been no unauthorized selfies for him.
* * *
—
When the elevator door opened in the basement I caught a glimpse of Frank Carrodus. He was walking fast, turning the corner into the corridor that led to the rear exit. I left my cart by the wall—one of its wheels had developed a squeak—and followed him. I reached the corner. Peered around. And could see nothing. A folding screen had been pulled across the whole w
idth of the corridor. I crept closer to it, stood still, and listened. At first there was only silence. Then a door opened. I heard footsteps. Something being carried out? Followed by more footsteps. I counted six sets. Then a seventh. I heard breathing. It was light and fast, but not nervous. There was no sense of panic or urgency. It was more like some kind of established operation was under way. I heard the exterior door scrape open. Most of the footsteps trailed away. There was a sound like hands slapping together. Then the door closed again. There was only one set of footsteps now. And they were coming my way.
Chapter Ten
I scuttled back to my cart and dragged it to the elevator. Hit the Call button. And waited.
Ten seconds crawled by. No one caught up with me from behind. Another ten seconds ticked away. And another ten. No one approached me. Then the elevator door opened. No one was inside. I checked over my shoulder one more time, then set off backward as if dragging the cart out of the elevator car. Then I swung it around. Headed for the janitors’ room. And dumped the cart in its bay.
I hurried back toward the rear exit. From the end of the corridor I could see an extra guard was there. I realized it was time for their shift change. The two guys looked like they were friends. They were standing close to each other, chatting happily. I could hear snippets about baseball. Girlfriends. Cars. But nothing about smuggling or bribes.