Invisible

by Andrew Grant

  “Did he say what the guy looked like?”

  “Kind of. He said he was white. Skinny. About five foot ten. And he had close-cropped ginger hair.”

  “Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Milner. You’ve been very useful. I need to head out now, but I’m going to leave you a number. If you have any further problems in the building I want you to call it and ask for Detective Atkinson. He’ll take care of you.”

  * * *

  —

  Mrs. Milner’s description of the guy her husband had seen loitering in the neighborhood certainly was very useful. Because a skinny white guy, about five-foot-ten tall, with cropped ginger hair, was standing diagonally opposite the building when I left, clumsily pretending not to be watching out for me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I made my way back to Eleventh, then headed slowly south, checking the reflection in the angled windows I passed to make sure the ginger-haired guy was following me. He was, a constant twenty yards behind. I turned east on Forty-third, maintaining the gap between us until I reached a pair of old apartment buildings that were being torn down, presumably to make room for something taller and larger. The closer building was already in ruins. It offered no cover whatsoever. The next one was fenced off. Its windows were boarded up, so I slipped through a gap where two posts didn’t quite join and hurried around to the rear.

  The ground had been completely cleared. The surface was smooth, obviously done by a machine, except for a pit that was directly at the back of the building. It was about eight feet deep and twelve square. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe they were rehabbing the building, or putting up an addition. But whatever the reason, I wasn’t going to argue. This setup was better than I could possibly have hoped for.

  “Hey.” The ginger-haired guy appeared around the side of the building and puffed himself up, thinking he had the advantage when he saw that I was cornered. “I want to talk to you. Stay where you are.”

  I took a step toward him. “Have you got any weapons on you? Any hard objects in your pockets? Anything sharp?”

  The guy looked confused. He didn’t answer, but I saw his right hand brush across the back pocket of his jeans.

  “I’ll take that as no, then.” I snaked my left leg around the guy’s ankles and shoved him hard in the chest. He fell back, and landed square in the center of the pit. There was a hollow squelching sound as the dirt knocked the wind out of him, so I gave him a moment to catch his breath before I continued. “Age before beauty, my friend. I’m going to be asking the questions. Starting with, why were you following me?”

  The guy hauled himself to his feet, rage distorting his already unfriendly face. “What the hell? What’d you do that for, man? I’m going to kill you. Get me out of here!”

  “If you’re going to kill me, that’s not much of an incentive for me to get you out, is it? No. So this is how things are going to work. If you want out, you have to answer my questions first.”

  “Screw your questions.” The guy paced up and down, looking for handholds in the wall. The dirt was smooth and slick. He tried to dig his fingers in and kick footholds with his toes, but the sides of the pit were as hard as cement. Eventually he gave up and tried another tack. “Help! Help! Somebody? Get me out!”

  The guy yelled for nearly two minutes straight. Then he stopped in the center of the pit, his fists by his sides and the veins bulging in his forehead, glaring up at me.

  “It’s no good shouting help.” I shook my head. “This is New York. No one cares. Usually fire is your best bet, but you’re in a construction site. Who’s going to notice? It’s like I said. Your only way out is to answer my questions. So. Why were you following me?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “If you don’t talk to me, I’ll leave. How long will it be till anyone finds you? Will it be tonight? Tomorrow? Next week? I hope you had a good breakfast…”

  The anger on the guy’s face suddenly turned into a smirk. He reached for his back pocket. Started to look worried. Tried his other pockets. Then began moving around, staring intently down at the ground.

  “Are you looking for this?” I held up the slim flip phone I’d removed from his pocket as he fell.

  The guy punched the earth wall in rage, then whimpered and tried to shake the pain out of his hand.

  “Why were you following me?” I kept my voice gentle.

  “Look, it’s my job, OK?”

  “Your job is to follow me?”

  “Not just you. I work security. At that building you were poking around, with no business being there. We’ve had problems recently. So the landlord promoted me, and sent me to protect the residents.”

  “In that case I feel even worse for the residents. What’s the landlord’s name?”

  “I don’t know. He never said.”

  “Is it usual to get a job and not know your boss’s name?”

  The guy didn’t answer.

  “I guess that’s not a fair question.” I softened my voice a touch. “It’s probably not usual for you to get a job at all. What does the guy look like?”

  “I don’t know.” The guy scowled. “I never met him.”

  “So how did he hire you?”

  “Over the phone. A friend introduced us.”

  “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Norm.”

  “Norman Davies?”

  The guy nodded. “How did you know?”

  “It’s a small world. Where’s Norman now?”

  “I don’t know. He said he was going away.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  The guy shrugged. “Couple days ago.”

  “So if Norman introduced you, he must have worked for the same guy?”

  “Right. But he got fired. A few weeks ago.”

  “Fired, why?”

  “He got arrested. He was in jail. I don’t know why.”

  “But then he got out?”

  “Right. The police screwed something up, he said. He was lucky.”

  “What if it wasn’t luck?”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “So, your job. You provide security. Does that mean you’re at the building twenty-four/seven? Do you live there?”

  “No.” The guy leaned on the pit wall. “I get paid to stay in the area. On call. I can’t be more than ten minutes away. So I hang out on Eighth. In the bars there. If there’s a problem, I get a call.”

  “How does your boss know if there’s a problem?”

  The guy shrugged.

  “Did he call you just now, and tell you I was a problem?”

  “He said you might be. He wanted you checked out.”

  “Was that the last call you took?”

  The guy nodded. I checked the call log in his phone. Found the last incoming call. The number was withheld.

  “How do you get in touch with your boss?”

  “I don’t.”

  “How do you get paid?”

  “In cash. Sometimes it’s waiting for me at the building. Sometimes it’s dropped off at home. Sometimes it’s at the bar. He calls and tells me where it’ll be each week.”

  “One last question. What’s your name?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “It can’t hurt to tell me. And if you want to get out…”

  “It’s Jonny. Jonny Evans. What’s yours?”

  “My name’s not important. I’m just a janitor. I clean up dirty buildings. Now I’m going to check on what you told me. If it’s true, I’ll come back for you. Or at least send someone with a ladder. Like maybe the cops.”

  * * *

  —

  I went directly back to the building where the Masons lived, let myself in, and stomped upstairs to the top floor. Then I came back down, making no effort to be quiet. I was
on the bottom step, about to turn and head back up, when the phone in my hand started to ring.

  “Mr. Carrick?” I kept my voice bright and cheerful. “It’s good to finally speak.”

  “I don’t know who that is.” It was a man’s voice on the line, hesitant and cagey. “Who are you?”

  “Let’s not play games.” I sat down on the stairs. “I was just speaking with Jonny, your security guy. He said this was the best way to get in touch with you. My name’s Paul McNaught, Mr. Carrick, and I’m here to buy your building.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “Let’s not be hasty. I’m very sentimental about the place. My aunt Jenny used to live here. So here’s the deal. I’ll pay twenty percent over market price, which can be independently verified. That gives you a very generous premium. Plus it saves you the cost and aggravation of making all the outstanding repairs. And it means you’ll be able to avoid a whole bunch of lawsuits. What do you say?”

  “The building’s not for sale.”

  “Let’s at least meet. We should talk. Try to find a way forward. You see, Jonny gave me some interesting information about his friend Norman. Did you know they’d met after Norman’s release from jail? Evidently they’re very close, because Norman told Jonny all about how you ordered him to attack one of your residents. They seemed like just the kind of details the police would love to know.”

  “That’s complete crap. Let me talk to Jonny.”

  “Jonny’s not here right now. It seems he’s gone underground for a while.”

  The line went silent for a moment.

  “Listen. For the record, I don’t know this Norman guy. But from what I’ve heard, you’re too late. He was tried for this alleged assault already, and he got acquitted. So now he’s safe. Double jeopardy protects him.”

  “That’s an interesting theory. But here’s the thing. Norman wasn’t acquitted. It was a mistrial. Which means the whole double jeopardy thing doesn’t apply. The DA can re-file the charges at any time. And he’s pissed as hell about what happened. If my information gets into his hands, you’re screwed. So. Does 8:00 A.M. Monday work for you?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  When I was a kid the Empire State Building was pretty much the center of my universe. I must have gone to the observation deck with my father at least two dozen times. Security wasn’t as crazy in those days, and the lines moved much more quickly. Even without fast passes. Not that my father would have let me get one, had they been available. He’d have said it was wrong for some people to pay extra and jump the queue.

  I always walked around the outdoor platform clockwise, starting with the view to the north. I’d take my time and study the city from all four sides. My father would stand behind me, and tell me all about his favorite architects and the buildings laid out around the grid below us. As I grew older he’d quiz me. He’d check what I remembered. And test to see if I noticed which buildings had gone up or had been demolished or altered since our last visit. I was always right. It was one of the few things that pleased him about me. Afterward, if there was time, we’d eat at the diner on the first floor. That made the building a very nostalgic place for me. I’d often pictured going back. Maybe taking my own kids, on a weekend or during a school vacation. But I’d never imagined starting my working week there with an early-morning meeting.

  George Carrick’s office was on the twenty-fifth floor. The area outside the elevator was like a little time capsule. All kinds of fine art deco details had survived around the doorframes and light fittings and windows. I gazed around at them, so distracted that it took me a moment to realize that Carrick’s was the only suite on the corridor that had a nameplate.

  Carrick’s reception area was a reasonable size, but it was completely dominated by a museum-style display case standing in the center of the space. It was full of scale models of new buildings. A couple looked familiar—ones that had recently sprouted in billionaires’ row—but it wasn’t clear if ground had ever been broken on some of the others. There was an expensive-looking leather-and-chrome couch against the wall to the right, with framed black-and-white photographs of buildings above it. The reception counter was on the opposite side of the room, between two pale wooden doors. A guy was sitting behind it, tapping away on a laptop computer. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties. His hair was cropped short. He had an expensive navy blue suit, a brilliant white shirt, and a narrow blue tie with a faint camouflage pattern.

  “Mr. McNaught?” The guy stood up. He had a pronounced French accent. “Mr. Carrick’s expecting you. Please, go straight through.” He indicated the door to his right.

  Carrick was sitting behind a brown leather desk. It looked like it was made out of ancient, beaten-up steamer trunks. He closed the lid of his slim silver laptop and emerged, holding out his hand. He was around five-feet-six tall, but stocky. I guessed he’d have been a powerful man when he was younger despite his lack of height. Now he was in his early sixties. His hair was thin and gray, but his face was hard and determined. His eyes were dark and piercing. His black suit was well tailored, and he wore his plain white shirt with no tie.

  We shook hands, then he dropped onto a couch in front of his desk like the one in reception. He gestured for me to sit on an identical one on the other side of a low coffee table. The table had a glass top that covered a deep cavity full of more models of buildings.

  Carrick held up both hands, palms out. “Before we even start, let’s get all the cards on the table. Who are you working for? Vidic? Shevchenko? Ibrahimovic?”

  “None of the above.” I settled back on the couch. “I’m not working for anyone. I’m here on my own behalf. And I have a very simple proposition for you. I recently came into some money. A lot of it. I want to use some of it to buy your building. I’m prepared to be generous. Like I told you on the phone, the place has sentimental value. So please, name your price.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Carrick glared across the table. “You came into money? Bullshit. You’re working for the Russians.”

  “Why do you think that? I’ve never even heard of those guys you mentioned.”

  “I don’t think.” Carrick smiled, but without a hint of warmth. “I know. Because the Russians have been plaguing me for two years to sell to them. Have you seen the area recently? It’s hot. Everyone wants a piece. But I’m not interested in selling. It’s not just a building we’re talking about. It’s people’s homes. Have you seen the places the Russians build? They’re all empty. All the time. It’s the same as London. It’s just a way for those guys and their fat-ass buddies to move their money around. To hide it. And to park their other assets, like paintings and wine collections. They’re sucking the soul out of the city, and I won’t be part of that. I love this place too much. So go back to your bosses and tell them, when George Carrick says no, he means no.”

  “Let’s cut the crap, Mr. Carrick. I have no bosses. I want the building for myself.”

  “Even if that were true, it’s not for sale.”

  “We haven’t even discussed the price.”

  “That would be a waste of time. The building’s fate is sealed. I’m knocking it down.”

  Carrick went to his desk, took a file from a drawer, and dropped it onto the coffee table.

  “See for yourself. It’s all in there.”

  I looked through the file. There were quotes from movers for transporting furniture and possessions. Quotes from demolition specialists. A timeline for permit applications. And the draft of a legal document gifting the land to the city for use as a park.

  “Is this for real?”

  “Every word.”

  “The deed’s not executed.”

  “Not yet, no.” Carrick bounced up on the balls of his feet, making himself momentarily a couple of inches taller. “I’m still negotiating with the city. I need a watertight deal that ensures the land can on
ly ever be used as a park. I don’t want those sneaky Russian bastards getting it through the back door.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you seem pretty obsessed by these Russians.”

  “I am. And I have good reasons. Those guys will go to any lengths to get what they want. They started with a lowball offer. It was insulting. I refused. Then the tricks started. They tried to drive my tenants out of the building, to hurt me in the pocket. They sabotaged the place. Burst the pipes. Made holes in the roof. And when I sent contractors round to do the repairs, they attacked them. Then they brought a bunch of rats and let them loose. But I didn’t budge. I was hoping to ride it out. I thought they’d find something shinier, and lose interest. Then they attacked a tenant. A nice old lady. They put her in the hospital. That was the final straw. I thought, screw you! If I can’t have the place, no one can. I’ll flatten it, and make it impossible for anyone to build anything new there. In the meantime, I’ve brought in security to protect my tenants. And I’m making plans to find new accommodations for them in other buildings I own.”

  “Are you getting some kind of tax break for donating this land?”

  “No.”

  “But you will end up making more on the rent.”

  “Wrong again.”

  “How so? At least two of the apartments are rent controlled. If the tenants move, they’ll lose that protection.”

  “Correct. Technically. But I’m prepared to honor our current terms. I won’t charge them a penny more.”

  “That all sounds great, George. But if you’ll forgive me, it doesn’t tally with what I’ve been hearing from the tenants. They say you’re impossible to reach. That you refuse to do any repairs.”

  Carrick bowed his head for a moment. “It’s like I told you. I tried to get the repairs done, but the Russians scared off my contractors. And I have to lay low, for my own safety. You should see the threats I’ve had. These guys don’t mess around. And I can’t help my tenants if I’m in the hospital. Or the cemetery.”