by Andrew Grant
“Because they’re using regular glass when they should be using something much stronger. Laminated glass. And they’re charging for laminated glass, which is more expensive. Every time. I’ve seen the invoices. And not only are they charging for laminated, they’re charging five times the going rate.”
Atkinson flung his notebook down on the table. “Seriously? This is what you freaking called me here for? Because some repair guy is gouging? Welcome to New York City, pal. Get used to it.”
I shook my head. “Listen. This is more than just gouging. This is stealing from the city. From your city. Our city. Taking money that could be used for more cops. For new squad cars, or better equipment. Hell, for child care for city workers, even.”
“Things don’t work that way, McGrath.” Atkinson covered his head with his hands for a moment. “Who knows which budget the money for this glass comes out of? You need to know that before it can be reallocated. Even then there’d be a line of other departments with their hands out, trying to get it. And the cost of a couple of extra windows? How significant could that be? It would probably cost more to get it back, by the time the lawyers get their noses in the trough.”
“The amount doesn’t matter.” I banged my palm on the table. “Guys are stealing. That’s wrong. It should be stopped.”
“What world do you live in, pal?” Atkinson shook his head. “Cloud cuckoo land? Wake up. You’re not in the army now. You’re not in some nice cozy logistical bubble where everyone follows the same rules. You’re in the real world. And in the real world, things happen that suck. They happen every day.”
“It doesn’t matter what world you’re in.” I waited until the guys at the next table turned their attention back to their food. “Theft and fraud are wrong. And if you sit on your hands when someone does wrong, you’re only inviting more trouble. That can have serious consequences. Like the first time I was in Iraq. We were based out of an old school. The area around it had been flattened and it was fenced off to make an exclusion zone. After a few days the locals had picked holes in the wire. They started coming through at night and poking around, looking for metal fragments they could melt down and reuse. They should have been stopped right away, but the commander turned a blind eye. To be fair, the rules of engagement needed a little refinement back then. But anyway, the following week three guys sneaked through with mortars. Twenty-seven soldiers lost their lives.”
Atkinson sneered. “You’re not in Iraq now, McGrath. And no one’s going to start World War III over a couple of windows.”
“It’s not just a couple of windows. I did some research. Highstead Property Solutions has six other active contracts with the city right now. How much are they skimming off those? And that’s not all. The word on the construction blogs is that Highstead’s in pole position to be the lead contractor for the governor’s new affordable housing initiative. That’s worth, what, billions of dollars? And it’s not just money that’s on the line there. It’s people’s homes. Their lives. If the new properties aren’t built right because the contractor’s cheating, anything could happen. Remember that apartment building that went up like a bonfire in London a couple of years back? People died because someone skimped on the external cladding. You want that to happen here?”
“OK.” Atkinson spoke slowly, like he was dealing with a moron. “Maybe there’s a bigger problem. You’re probably right to report it. But not to me. Fraud cases are not what I do.”
“What about the guard at the courthouse and the security breach I told you about yesterday?”
“I don’t think you get—”
“So you’ve done nothing about that, either. What about the Masons and their crooked landlord?”
Atkinson sighed and shook his head.
“Tell me you at least called Mr. Mason, like you promised.”
Atkinson clenched his fists and leaned in closer. “Listen, McGrath. Let me tell you how this works, once and for all.” His voice dropped to a low, insistent whisper. “I’m a detective. I investigate major cases, which are allocated to me by my lieutenant. Exclusively. I don’t run around the city following up on rumors and random complaints. If you help me find Pardew’s file, then good. If you find anything else, I don’t want to know. So don’t bother me again with bullshit about cameras or windows or landlords. And talk to Mason yourself, if he’s so important to you. You’re the one who built up his hopes. Not me.”
* * *
—
I set off to the courthouse on foot after leaving Atkinson at the café. He still hadn’t ordered so I never found out if he chose the eggplant, but by then I didn’t care. I just wanted to walk. Fast. I was angry. At Atkinson, for his miserable can’t-do attitude. At the army, for delaying my father’s letter. At my father, for dying before I got home. At Pardew, for maybe killing him. At whoever had lost Pardew’s file, and consequently screwed up the case against him. But mainly I was mad at myself. Every decision I’d made since leaving Istanbul had turned to shit. Nothing had panned out the way it should have.
By the time I reached Foley Square I figured I was finally calm enough to call Bob Mason, even though I really wasn’t looking forward to it. He answered right when I thought I was going to be dumped into voicemail. He was cautious at first, then surprised when he remembered who I was. I asked after his health, and his wife’s. We chatted about the courthouse for a minute or two. And then, without mentioning his case, I suggested we should get together to chew the fat some more. There was a pause, then Bob agreed. He proposed Madison Square Park, that afternoon. He said he liked to sit there for a while on his way home from the hospital after visiting his wife. It was just about halfway to his building. And there was a place that sold good milk shakes.
* * *
—
I just nodded to the guard on the door at the courthouse on my way in because I didn’t feel like making conversation. The janitors’ room was empty so I got changed and restocked my cart as quickly as possible and headed up to the third floor. I was still feeling cranky when I grabbed my mop and started in on the tiles. But then something unexpected happened. With each pass I felt the tension ease in my shoulders. I could see a tangible result for my efforts. My mood lightened. My thoughts regained a degree of clarity.
Detective Atkinson’s words were still fresh in my mind as I traded my mop for a polishing cloth. He’d said I needed to decide which world I was in. And he was right. I was caught in a kind of limbo. I no longer fit in the military. And I didn’t yet fit in as a civilian. Would I ever fit? Perhaps a better question would be, had I ever really fit? Anywhere?
I certainly hadn’t when I was living at home with my father. I’d always been an outsider in his world. At basic training they’d deliberately kept everyone off-kilter to try and unsettle us. To me that hadn’t been a problem. Someone must have noticed because I was soon reallocated to Military Intelligence, eventually winding up in the 66th and being stationed in Europe. I was the only one from my intake to be sent there. And from then on I was a permanent, professional outsider. I was never who I said I was. I was always playing a role. Deceiving everyone I met. Using anyone who could help me. That put me in mind of a store window I’d walked past on my way from the Green Zebra. A guy was there, setting up a new display. He was dressing the mannequins. Styling their hair. Posing them in little tableaux. The scene seemed like a metaphor for my life. The only question was, which was my role? The dresser? Or the dummy?
* * *
—
After I finished cleaning my allocated area I had time to search four more chambers and two storerooms, but there was no sign of Pardew’s file. I could feel the frustration cloaking me like a shadow as I returned my cart and headed for the exit. The upcoming conversation with Bob Mason was weighing heavily on my mind, as well. I couldn’t remember looking forward to anything less in my life. Disappointing a guy who was trying to buy illegal parts for nuc
lear weapons? Fine by me. Letting down an old guy? An innocent victim, who was only wanting justice for himself and his wife? No wonder Atkinson had refused to go near it. Maybe he was smarter than I’d given him credit for.
I jumped on a 4 Train at Chambers Street and got off at Union Square, because I was running a little early. I swept across Fourteenth Street in the midst of a throng and cut through the square, heading north. All kinds of detritus from the farmers’ market they held there was blowing around. I kicked a cabbage leaf aside to avoid treading on it. Sacks of garbage had been heaped up next to the sidewalk, and they were starting to smell. A rat was sitting on one, nibbling away on a pizza crust, as bold as brass. A woman walked by with a dog on a leash. It was a timid little thing, wearing orange booties. It made me think of Istanbul. Cats and dogs live wild there, throughout the city. They fend for themselves. And there aren’t any rats.
I emerged from the park in front of Barnes & Noble on Seventeenth, then strolled half a block west to Broadway. There were more stores open than when I’d last been there. Some trendy ones, like Bonobos and Lululemon. Quirky ones, selling offbeat china goods and cute gifts. Expensive ones, like Design Within Reach and Restoration Hardware. Plus a selection of bars and restaurants. Music was pulsing from their dark interiors, and they already looked pretty full. I was glad Bob Mason had opted to meet outside.
I continued past the Flatiron Building and watched a succession of people skirt around a short, bald guy who was lying passed-out on the ground, clutching a book about baseball. Not one of them did anything to help him. That seemed to be the theme of the day. A guy with a sandwich board was wandering around near him, yelling about how the Russians are replacing us with communist sleeper clones. No one was taking any notice of him, either.
I watched the crazy guy wander away, then waited in the crowd to cross Twenty-third. The Flatiron was behind me. The Empire State ahead and to the left. The Chrysler peeking out above the Venetian-style building, straight in front. The Met Life, like an Italian campanile, to the right. Each had been the tallest building in the world, at one time. I closed my eyes, knowing they were there. I listened to the traffic and the blaring horns and the muffled rap music spilling out from some random guy’s headphones. I breathed in and smelled hot dog smoke and exhaust fumes.
New York. How can you not love it?
* * *
—
I entered Madison Square Park at its southwest corner, near the statue, and followed the path through the shrubs and toward the fountain. Bob Mason was sitting on a bench to the side of it, both hands on his cane, stooping forward a little. He struggled to his feet as I approached. We shook hands, then sat down in unison.
“Mr. Mason. It’s good to see you again. How are you feeling today?”
“A little better, thank you. And please, call me Bob. It was nice of you to get in touch. It’s good to see a friendly face.”
“It’s good to be here. How’s your wife doing, Bob?”
“She’s having a rough go.” Mason paused. “She’s stuck in her damn wheelchair. It makes her feel like she can’t leave the hospital. It’s too hard for her. But honestly, Mr. McGrath—”
“It’s Paul. Please.”
“Honestly, Paul, it’s not just the physical harm. It’s not just the injuries I’m worried about. The psychological side of it—I think that’s hit her even harder. She was making a little progress, knowing the guy who’d hurt her was arrested, and believing he’d be going to jail. When they let him go, it really knocked her back.”
“What are the doctors saying?”
“Not much. There’s not much hope.” Mason’s words dried up for a moment. “The way things are headed, Lydia’ll be in that chair for the rest of her life. One doctor’s talking about some new treatment he knows about, but it’s only done at another hospital. It’s very expensive. And we don’t have the right coverage. As far as I can tell. It’s just so complicated. There’s Medicare part this and part that, and gap insurance, and deductibles and lifetime limits. If I’d joined a bank instead of the army…”
“You served?”
“A long time ago.” Mason nodded. “Vietnam. Two tours. You?”
“Iraq. Afghanistan. A few other places.”
“I thought so. I can see it in you, Paul.”
“I haven’t been out long, actually. It’s taking me a while to adjust.”
“Tell me about it.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
“It was nice of you to talk to me the other day at the courthouse. The news about the case collapsing had knocked me on my ass. It was you who got me back on my feet. You were wrong, though.”
“I was? About what?”
“The police. The authorities. I’ve heard nothing. No one’s doing anything.”
This was the moment. It was time for me to pass on Detective Atkinson’s message. To confirm Bob Mason’s fears. That’s what I’d come to the park for. To do him the courtesy of spelling it out. Putting an official seal on it. I wouldn’t be breaking any news. He’d already reached the conclusion for himself. And it wasn’t my decision. It wasn’t the outcome I’d wanted, or argued for. I was little more than a bystander. But somehow the words just wouldn’t come out of my mouth.
“Do you hear me, Paul?” Mason slumped a little lower on the bench. “No one cares.”
“I don’t think that’s true, Bob.” I swiveled around to face him. “I’m pretty sure that someone is on your case now.”
“Who? Why haven’t I heard anything?”
“You will. When the time’s right. Justice has a way of catching up with guys like Carrick. And the guy who did the attack. What was his name? Davies?”
“Right. Norman Davies. But what makes you so sure something’s happening?”
“I keep my ears open at the courthouse. Specially around the police. I heard they brought in a new guy. It’s strictly on the QT, though. He’s an outsider. Some kind of independent contractor. He has his own way of doing things. That can be more effective in certain types of situations.”
* * *
—
I shook Mason’s hand and watched him make his way slowly toward Broadway. After a minute he disappeared from view, absorbed by the crowd waiting to cross the street, so I turned and walked the opposite way on Twenty-third. I’d heard there was a good burger place nearby. I was suddenly feeling hungry. And there’d be no more trips to the Green Zebra for me. I’d finally realized there could be advantages to not fitting in. To living in your own world. By your own rules.
The penny had finally dropped.
Some things, if you want them done right, you’ve got to do them yourself.
And the more important the things, the truer that becomes.
Chapter Fourteen
I’d heard about stories in the press, starting around the time of the second Gulf War, suggesting that in Military Intelligence circles we represented human targets as playing cards with their suit and rank indicating their value and priority.
The truth is, the playing card analogy is a technique we’ve used for decades, but the media coverage gave a very misleading impression of how it’s implemented. A king might have been an ultimate target, but that didn’t mean you could go out, wander around the ruins of some Iraqi city, and expect to snatch the guy straight up. You had to understand the enemy’s command structure. Their hierarchy. The way our system worked was more like solitaire. We started with the lower value cards and worked our way up until the board was clear. We learned as we went. We gathered evidence. Dug into the background of the characters who were involved. Built a stock of information to make it less likely that we’d walk into a trap.
That approach had kept me alive for a lot of years, so tempting as it was to go straight after George Carrick, I formed a more patient plan. I needed to start at the bottom of his organization and work
all the way up to the top.
I finished my burger, which was excellent, then continued east on Twenty-third. I took First Avenue to Tenth, then zigzagged through the East Village, past Tomkins Square Park, all the way to Sixth and Avenue D. That put me at the northwest corner of the Lillian Wald Housing Project. According to the file I’d sneaked a look at before leaving the courthouse, the place was home to Norman Davies. The guy who’d attacked Mrs. Mason.
I continued east on Sixth, then made my way around and up onto the pedestrian bridge over the FDR. It gave me a good vantage point to scope out the development. It was a dark, inhospitable place. The shadows left by the broken streetlamps were exaggerated by the light spilling down from the highway. I counted sixteen apartment blocks. Their exteriors were all stained a cancerous black by the exhaust fumes of the relentless stream of vehicles that rumbled past. The buildings themselves were scattered around like hulking, hostile jigsaw pieces that had been abandoned because they didn’t fit together properly.
Perching on the bridge was a disorienting experience. There was nothing but noise and light and movement behind me, and only stillness and silence and darkness in front. It took me more than five minutes to identify Davies’s block because all the signs around the site were either missing or too defaced to read. I eventually figured out which one it was, then tried to trace the structure of the buildings. There were lamps over the communal doorways, but they were mainly broken. The stairwells appeared only sporadically lit. There were dim, yellow lights showing in maybe ten percent of the other windows. It was hard to believe the place had been built with the best of intentions. Its architects had conceived it as a pleasant place to live. By all accounts it had been, when it was new. Now it looked like the ground had been split open and the overflow from purgatory regurgitated through the gap.
I crossed the rest of the way over the bridge, followed along the east side of the FDR on the bike path, then came back across another bridge at Houston. I passed a school, which had done its best to insulate itself from its surroundings with fences and razor wire. Then I turned north again onto Avenue D. It wasn’t the world’s greatest recce, but it was the best I could do in the circumstances. I was probably being overcautious, anyway. But then, as I kept finding, old habits die hard. And overcautious beats under-alive any day.