by Andrew Grant
“If you don’t know, why are you telling me about it?”
“Because if I’m right, something’s seriously out of line, and someone has to do something about it.”
We paused while our server delivered our food.
“How familiar are you with the security arrangements at the courthouse?” I inspected my tea. The color was passable so I fished out the bag and set it on the non-matching saucer.
“Been there a thousand times.” Atkinson’s mouth was full of eggplant. “Pretty familiar.”
“So you know that photography’s not allowed?”
“This better not be about some random tourist taking unauthorized pictures.” Atkinson stabbed the air with his fork to emphasize his point.
“It isn’t.” I took a sip of my tea, and immediately wished I’d stuck with coffee. “It’s not just that photography isn’t allowed. You can’t even take cameras into the building. You have to surrender them at a dedicated desk near the entrance. You get a receipt, and claim them back on your way out.”
Atkinson grunted, and waved his fork impatiently.
“Yesterday, I saw a guy coming into the building.” I set my cup down. “He went all the way through the security line, the metal detectors, the whole nine yards. Then he collected a camera. Then he went straight back out.”
“So?” Atkinson took another mouthful.
“So the guy was going the wrong way. It made no sense. If he left his camera on his way in, he should have been going the other way—out—when he collected it.”
Atkinson laid down his fork. “Maybe he forgot to collect it on the way out. Didn’t remember till he was already outside. Then he’d have to go all the way back through security to get it.”
“Maybe.” I risked another sip of tea. “But imagine this. Say someone you know hypothetically checked the camera receipt stubs. Say he could only go back two weeks, so as not to attract attention. And say he found that the same guy we’re talking about left a camera eight other times. And that it was always signed for by the same guard, even though the guy came at different times of day. Would that be a coincidence?”
“It could be.” Atkinson picked up a sliver of English muffin and used it to chase the last of his egg yolk around his plate. “It’s a little weird, but it doesn’t prove anything. And how did you get your hands on the receipt stubs, anyway?”
“I didn’t say I did. But here’s what I think. The guy’s set up a kind of dead drop routine. He writes a message. Takes a picture of it. Leaves his camera with the one specific guard. The guard hands the camera to his contact, who reads the message off the memory card. He writes a reply, or gives instructions, or whatever, again by taking a picture. Then he returns the camera to the guard, ready for the outside guy to pick it up.”
“What kind of message? Or instructions?”
“Who knows? The balance of opinions in the jury room during deliberations? Offers of bribes? Whatever it is, it can’t be legitimate. It looks like the system is compromised. If I’m right, some kind of action’s required. Urgently.”
Atkinson was silent for a moment. “What did you do in the army, McGrath?”
“I was in logistics. Why?”
“Your mind works in a weird way. Do logistics guys have much experience of dead drops?”
“Not as a rule.”
“And here, has any harm been done?”
“How could I know? But it could be a major problem, and it should be investigated.”
“How do you know about this, anyway? If you’re poking around the security station at the courthouse all day someone will end up getting suspicious of you, and you’ll blow any chance of finding the Pardew file.”
“Don’t worry. If the documents are there, I will find them. If they’ve been taken, I’ll find who took them. In the meantime, I thought you’d want to know about this.”
“Right.” Atkinson drummed his fingers on the purple tabletop. “My workload’s just so light that I’m dreaming of more cases landing on me. Listen, McGrath. This is not my area. It has nothing to do with me.”
“But it’s someone’s area, right? Can’t you pass it on to them?”
“All right.” Atkinson flopped back in his chair and was finally still for a moment. “I’ll make some calls. But I’m not making any promises.”
“Good.” I nodded. “And I’ll let you know if I find anything else.”
Atkinson wiped his mouth with a napkin, threw down a twenty, and got up to leave.
“Wait.” I grabbed his jacket. “What about Mr. Mason and his wife? Any progress on their case?”
Atkinson looked blank.
“The guy from the courthouse. Whose wife was attacked? Bob Mason? We spoke about him yesterday.”
“Right.” Atkinson threw up his hands. “That guy. With the landlord you like for being behind the attack. Look. I’ve done some digging. And I’ve got to be honest with you. With this one, I can’t help.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not my case. It belongs to a detective at a different precinct. My lieutenant won’t cut me any slack to waste time on it.”
“It’s not a waste of time. Look, give me this detective’s information. I’ll talk to him. See if—”
“You’d be wasting your time, McGrath. Without any admissible evidence, the case is dead in the water. It stinks, but that’s that. Accept it, and move on.”
“Could you at least call Bob Mason, then? He feels betrayed by the system. He needs a boost to get his life back on track. It would mean a lot, a detective taking the time to talk to him. And maybe you could tell him you’ll help—or the other detective will—if more evidence ever turns up.”
“Fine.” Atkinson balled up his napkin and flung it on the table, next to the money. “I’ll call the guy. I’ll have one conversation with him. One, singular. And that’s all.”
Chapter Twelve
I took the subway back to the courthouse that day.
I like to ride underground railroads whenever possible. They can tell you a lot about a country. Take the Tube in London, which creakily reflects England’s faded glory. The Metro in Paris, with its quiet, elegant efficiency. The Moscow metro, with its impossibly grandiose stations and ticket halls. But my favorite system has always been New York’s. I love the simple efficiency of its stations. The no-nonsense ticket barriers. The trains, with their distinctive sound and rhythm. I could ride them for hours, just watching the people. Standing. Swaying. Reading. Talking. Listening to music. Hustling. Or if you’re on the wrong line at the wrong time, sizing you up for a mugging, or worse.
I took the 2 Train from Sheridan Square to Fulton Street, then headed north on Broadway before cutting across to Centre Street. The bulk and heft of the buildings all around me felt reassuring, and I was happy to let the relentless flood of pedestrians carry me forward. I was still troubled by Atkinson’s attitude, though. His approach was so compartmentalized, it frustrated the hell out of me. A couple of weeks ago, if I’d picked up on a threat against a navy ship or an air force base, I’d have passed it on to my opposite number as a matter of urgency. And I’d have followed up, to make sure the information was acted on. There’s no way I’d have just blown it off because it affected a different branch of the service. No one I worked with would have done something like that.
As I approached the southwest corner of Foley Square I came across a security booth at the edge of the sidewalk, next to a set of raised yellow-and-black bollards on chains that controlled vehicular access to the street. A guard was on duty inside. It wasn’t clear which agency he belonged to, because there were so many active around there. But what would he do if he overheard people plotting against the Empire State Building, for example? Ignore it, because he didn’t work there? I hoped not. Maybe Atkinson could swap jobs with him for a couple of weeks. Maybe that would change his focus.<
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I continued through the square and paused for a moment next to its giant abstract granite statue. The courthouse looked small from that angle, squatting next to its federal cousin. With the position of the sun at that time, it was literally in the larger building’s shadow. I felt my hope seeping away, like a sixth sense when a mission was about to go sideways. I shook it off, crossed the street, and made my way around back.
The guard at the employee entrance was much friendlier to me this time. He mentioned his kids. We shot the breeze for a few minutes. Then I asked him about the broken glass in the door.
“Nothing happened to it.” He shook his head at the naïvety of my question. “It just broke.”
“Glass doesn’t just break.” I kept any hint of an accusation out of my voice. “Something must have broken it. Or someone.”
“The wind, maybe.” The guy shrugged. “Or a drop in the temperature. The door has a metal frame. It expands, it contracts, and bang!”
“I guess.” I tipped my head to one side. “But shouldn’t glass be strong enough to withstand that kind of thing? The weather’s the same all over, but you don’t see broken doors all around the city.”
“It should be strong enough. If it’s the right kind.”
“You think this isn’t the right kind?”
“I know it isn’t. The glass in a door like that? It should be laminated. Like a car windshield. You should be able to beat on it with a baseball bat and not get through. But this? It’s regular glass. It’s too weak. You can tell by the little decals in the corner of the pane. The day they installed it I told my wife, you better get me a coat and scarf for Christmas, because that glass ain’t lasting till the new year. And I was right. And the joke is the glass they replaced—’cause of some kind of city-wide proactive maintenance initiative—there was nothing in the world wrong with it.”
“You’re saying the door’s been broken like this since before the end of December?”
“No. They fixed it in January. It broke again in February. And it’s broke a couple more times since then.”
“So what happens? They keep using the wrong kind of glass? Why would they do that?”
“ ’Cause if they used the right kind, it wouldn’t keep breaking.” He gave me a look that said he was struggling to believe that I couldn’t see something so obvious. “And then they wouldn’t be able to keep coming back and charging for more repairs.”
* * *
—
Carrodus was on his way out of the janitors’ room just as I arrived.
“Got to run.” He slapped me on the shoulder as he hurried past. “I’m late picking my kid up from school. Any luck finding that file?”
“Not yet.”
“Sorry. Me neither. But I’ll keep looking.”
“Thanks, Frank. Hey, before you go, I have one quick question. Is there any information anywhere about the building itself? Plans. Specifications. That kind of thing?”
“Probably. But how’s that linked to your dad’s case?”
“It isn’t. This is something else. It’s probably nothing, but it’s got me curious.”
“Well, there should be something. Maybe in the maintenance supervisor’s room? Go clockwise, and take the second spoke. His is the last door on the right. There’s no sign. Just a picture of a pit bull. It’s not meant as a welcome.”
* * *
—
I’d planned to get straight on with my search for Pardew’s file. The thought of it—the absence of it—was hovering over me like a specter and the nagging vision had only become more insistent since my conversation with Detective Atkinson over breakfast. I’d finished searching the fourth floor and was itching to start on the third, right away. But I figured taking a few minutes to scratch an itch wouldn’t hurt my overall plan. I’ve learned over the years to follow my instinct in this kind of situation. The route to a goal is rarely a straight line. So I followed the directions Carrodus had given me. I found the maintenance supervisor’s room. Knocked on the door, and got no answer. It was locked, but in name only. It took me less than thirty seconds to open it. Cleaning equipment isn’t all you can carry on a janitor’s cart, after all.
The air in the room was heavy with the stench of tobacco. Not any regular kind, though. Something heavier, more potent, not unlike the cigar smoke that had lingered on the Iranian colonel’s uniform in Istanbul. I closed myself in with the fumes and took stock of the room’s contents. There were two deep-drawer cabinets, wide enough to hold building plans. Four regular file cabinets. A plain metal desk with a dusty computer and a wilted potted plant, its spindly stalk straining desperately toward the weak glow that spilled in from the light shaft in the ceiling.
The architect’s plans seemed like a good place to start, but I found nothing in them that gave any specifics about glass or doors. Next I worked my way through the regular drawers until I found copies of repair orders. They were filed chronologically and went back six years. I jumped to the most recent ones. There were twenty-seven for the last month. Most were for fixing broken lights. A couple covered the aftermath of overflowing toilets. Various elevators had malfunctioned, with differing degrees of severity. An air conditioner had leaked. And the last one in the batch confirmed the replacement of the glass in the rear door.
I checked the specification. It was clearly stated: laminated. The kind of glass that the guard said should have been used, but wasn’t. Because it wouldn’t break and require a subsequent repair. I went back another month in the records. I found details of similar incidents—and another order for glass replacement. For the same door. And the same kind of glass. Laminated. Not regular. And from the same contractor.
I found four other orders for the same work since Christmas. I took photos of all of them. And while I had my phone out, I googled local glass suppliers. I found three companies serving the Manhattan area that had the right kind in stock. And when I checked their prices, I noticed something else. Their quotes were all less than a fifth of what the courthouse had been charged.
Chapter Thirteen
Civilian life is another country. They do things differently there…
…and that’s OK, I told myself. Over and over. Atkinson had nominated the Green Zebra as our meeting place for the third day running. He was a detective. He was experienced. He knew the city. If he thought it was safe to show up at the same time in the same place, day after day, I had to trust him. Even though that still wasn’t easy.
Atkinson was even later than he’d been the previous day. The place was even busier, which gave me the choice of only two tables. I picked one in the carpeted area. It was different in terms of its location within the restaurant. Its size. And its design—this one had a garish paisley tablecloth, a vase of multicolored tulips, patchwork cloth napkins, and knives and forks with rainbow-striped plastic handles. But all of the waitstaff were the same. Eight of the customers had been there on both our other visits. Eleven of them had been the day before.
It’s all right, I kept telling myself. Civilian life…
Atkinson spotted me the moment he walked through the door. He headed straight over and plonked himself down on a heavy pine farmhouse-style chair opposite me, a little out of breath. He glanced at the menu, shrugged, then dropped it back on the table.
“All right, McGrath.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “What have you got for me this time? Have you found the file yet?”
“Not yet.” I was watching him and laying mental odds about whether he’d order the eggplant again.
“What exactly are you up to at that courthouse? Do you go there every day? You were in logistics in the army, right? So do you even know how to do this kind of work? Listen, I have to ask you something. Here’s the bottom line, Paul: Are you wasting my time?”
He was worried about his time being wasted? That was a little rich, coming from a guy who dragg
ed me twenty-eight blocks out of my way and then kept me waiting for over fifteen minutes.
“I’m not wasting your time, Detective.” I lowered my voice. “You need to learn a little patience.”
“Don’t lecture me about patience.” Atkinson leaned back in his chair. “I’m being plenty patient. But my lieutenant isn’t. He wants to know, which means I need to know: Can you do this, or not?”
“That depends.” I crossed my arms. “Is the file actually there?”
Atkinson drummed his fingers on the table, causing the cloth to wrinkle up a little. “As far as I know it is. But that’s the problem with things that are lost. No one knows where they are. Not for sure. Otherwise they wouldn’t be lost.”
“You’re a philosopher, as well as a detective. That’s impressive.” I leaned toward him. “Listen. I’ll promise you this: If the file is in the building, I will find it. If it’s not, you need to help me figure out where else it could be. I wasn’t even in the country when this all happened, remember.”
“All right.” He pinched the bridge of his nose for a second. “I’ll do what I can to buy you some time. I really, really want this guy. I’m sure you do, too. But you keep getting my hopes up with these meeting requests, and it’s frustrating as hell when you’re not giving me anything.”
“I told you. Some things take time. That doesn’t mean I’m not working my ass off. And meanwhile, I’m giving you plenty. And I’ve got something new today. Something big. The kind of thing you’ll definitely want to jump on right away.”
Atkinson took out his notebook and leaned forward. “Sounds good. Go ahead. Shoot.”
“OK. Here’s the issue. There’s this contractor, Highstead Property Solutions. They were hired to replace the glass in the rear door at the courthouse. Did you notice it was broken the last time you were there? Anyway, they’ve replaced the glass six times since last Christmas. Why so often, you ask?”
“No, I really—”