by Andrew Grant
The door opened into the living/dining room. It had a tall, wide window and I saw that one thing was true—Carrick’s building did block the view of the Hudson. There was a giant chrome telescope on a matching tripod. A dark wood floor. A pair of white leather couches, with a plaid throw on each. A wooden coffee table with a book lying open on it. A biography of Baryshnikov. There was a TV on a stand with a Blu-ray player, but no additional sound system. A stack of discs. Some books, mainly about ballet and World War II. A couple of novels. And a laptop.
I took out a black, featureless box from my bag and plugged it into one of the laptop’s USB ports. It was the same kind of machine as I’d used to clone the ISIS commander’s computer in Afghanistan back in March, so I was confident it would give me an accurate snapshot of Madatov’s data. I figured I’d have to pull some favors to read it, though, because even without password and encryption issues, any documents he created would probably use the language from his homeland. Which I didn’t know.
I left the machine to do its work and checked the kitchen. It was a clean, simple space. There was a table with three chairs. A plant. A Bluetooth speaker. A stack of freshly washed plates and pots on the countertop. And enough food in the fridge to last the better part of a week. I started to wonder who’d bought it and where, then pushed the thought aside. I don’t know why, but the idea of criminals and terrorists doing their grocery shopping like regular folk always makes my skin crawl.
The apartment had three bedrooms. The first was obviously Madatov’s. His bed was made. He had a dozen suits hanging in the closet. The size labels would put him at around six feet tall. He favored black with black shirts, and no ties. He only had black shoes. They were all a little dusty, but there was no telltale dirt on the soles.
The other two rooms belonged to the women. They each had a closet full of clothes, which looked expensive. Lots of shoes, mostly with dangerously high heels. Workout gear. Makeup, and other personal stuff. But nothing with their names on it, and only one photograph. It was in the second woman’s room, in a simple wooden frame set on the nightstand and angled toward her pillows. I scanned the background, hoping I’d be able to figure out where it had been taken, but it was no good. The image was too faded. And its surface had been damaged from contact with some kind of liquid. I couldn’t be sure what it was. But if I had to guess, I’d say it was someone’s tears.
I heard a discreet tone from the other room telling me that the cloning process was complete. I collected my machine, took a couple of final pictures, and let myself out. I checked the apartment opposite, and found it was empty like the ones upstairs. I figured the apartments on the first floor, and possibly the second, would be used by the security guys, so I’d have to stay clear of those. That just left the third. Those apartments would most likely be vacant, too. I was tempted to get out of there and find someone to start work on the data I’d just stolen, but old habits. I had to go down and check, just to be thorough.
The front unit on third was empty, as expected. But when I opened the door to the rear one, I stopped dead in my tracks. It was like finding a portal to another realm. The first thing that hit me was the stink. I could smell bodies. Cheap perfume. Fried food. Vomit. Disinfectant. And maybe a couple of other bodily fluids.
I went into the living room. There were three large couches crammed in there. They were covered with cheap blue fabric, and all kinds of women’s clothes—mainly skimpy ones—had been heaped up in precarious piles. A couple dozen shoes were strewn around, and five cheap carry-on suitcases were lined up against one wall.
I moved on to the bedrooms. There were two cots in each room. None of them had pillows or clean sheets. And next to each one was an IV stand. The fluid bags were empty, and the lines were blocked with dried, bloody residue. I’d come across scenes like this before. Once in Romania. And once in Belarus. In both cases local gangs would kidnap teenage girls. Drug them up. Get them addicted. Make them good and compliant. Then take them to their brothels and use them till they died.
I wondered where the girls who’d been in those cots were now. How long they’d been gone. How much time they had left. And I prayed there’d be a clue in the data I’d taken from Madatov’s computer. Even if it was too late for these girls, this wouldn’t be an isolated incident. It would be part of a production line. Others would be coming to take their places.
They might already be on their way.
Chapter Twenty-three
Atkinson had made his feelings about my theories very clear the last time we spoke, so it came as a surprise when he called and invited me to breakfast again.
It came as less of a surprise when he picked the Green Zebra. He was there first, that morning. He picked the table we’d had for our first meeting. He picked the same food. Eggplant Benedict. I ordered the same kind of coffee. The place was as busy as usual, but I found it even more aggravating. The snippets of people’s conversations that washed over me were nothing but trivial. The arguments I overheard were petty. People kept bumping into one another and cursing. Plates were crashing. Silverware was rattling. I felt like I was crawling out of my skin. I kept picturing the bedrooms in the apartment in Madatov’s building. Imagining the women on those cots. Sick. Vomiting. Homesick. Scared. Thinking their lives had already been destroyed. Having no idea they were about to get so much worse.
“Anything on Pardew?” There was a sarcastic note in Atkinson’s voice.
“Not yet.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. I knew that was a long shot. But that’s not why I asked you to come here. I’ve got an update on another case you were interested in.” He slid an envelope to me across the table. “Have a look at these. But don’t let anyone else see.”
There were five eight-by-ten color photographs in the envelope. They were all of Norman Davies. One showed his body, covered from the waist down with a plain white sheet, lying on a stainless-steel mortuary table. One was a close-up of his head, taken from the left side so you could see where the bullet had smashed through his skull. The rest showed his torso. Specifically the parts of it that had been burned by the tip of a soldering iron.
“Recognize him?”
I said nothing.
“I think you do. He was the suspect in the Mason assault. The one who walked.”
I shrugged. “Live by the sword…”
“You were very bothered by that case, McGrath. Don’t deny it. Just tell me what you know about Norman Davies turning up DOA.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about that. When did it happen?”
“Take another look at the picture. He died from a .22 to the head. There’s an entry wound, but no exit. Meaning the slug bounced around the inside of his skull, pulping what little brain he had to start off with. It was a professional hit. But it happened after he was tortured. Somebody wanted information from him. I want to know who. And what.”
“Those are reasonable questions.” A server dropped off my coffee, and I took a long sip. “It’s a shame you didn’t act when I told you about the problem. If you had, you could have asked him yourself. Except that you wouldn’t have to, because he wouldn’t be dead.”
“I’m acting now.” Atkinson drummed his fingers on the table.
“Now? That’s more than a little late.”
“It wasn’t my case before. It is now. That’s how it works. The point is, I’m going to find the guy who killed Davies. If you know anything about that, now’s the time to speak.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Where were you last night?”
“At what time?”
“Between eight and midnight.”
“I was at my hotel.”
“You weren’t. I checked. You weren’t there all day, and you didn’t come back all night.”
“Which hotel did you check?”
“The Brincliffe
.” There was a note of triumph in Atkinson’s voice. “Under your fake name.”
I shook my head. “Well, that explains it. A simple misunderstanding. I moved to a different hotel, and forgot to cancel the old room. I’m at the Grosvenor now. Room 346. I had room service last night. Pizza with extra anchovies and a bottle of Prosecco. Give them a call. Check my account.”
It’s an old trick. Order something that’s not on the menu while you’re out. Have it left outside your room. Call for the tray to be removed when you’re back. And be generous with the tip. You never know when you might need an alibi.
“I’ll check. You can count on it.” Atkinson drummed his fingers, then looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “There’s one other weird thing about Davies.” He took out his cellphone and called up a photograph. “Look at the back of his ear.”
The chip I’d stuck on him was still there.
“It’s from a cellphone.” Atkinson put his own phone back in his pocket. “But why was it on his ear? Have you seen anything like that before?”
I shook my head. “Beats me.”
Atkinson tipped his head slightly and looked away, as if trying to make a decision about something.
“OK.” He finally nodded. “Call me if there’s any news about Pardew.”
“Of course.”
“Good. Now, is there anything else? Or has your well dried up?”
“Nothing else.” I stood up to leave. “Nothing I can’t handle myself, anyway.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Norman Davies. He was an asshole. That was taken as read. But was he an idiot? Or was he unlucky? And how badly had he screwed up my plan?
I left the Green Zebra, took a cab to Bowery and Canal, and walked the final two blocks to the Brincliffe. No one obvious was watching the exterior so I went inside and asked the clerk whether a package had been left for me. While she checked with the concierge I casually scanned the lobby. It took fifteen seconds to spot them. Two guys, sitting in armchairs midway between the exit and the bar, pretending to read the newspaper.
There wasn’t a package for me so I left the hotel and strolled west on Broome, timing it so that I just reached the next intersection as the light changed. I watched the reflection in the window of an Italian restaurant across the street and saw the two guys from the hotel lumbering after me. It would have been easy to lose them, but that would have defeated my purpose. I let them follow for another two blocks, then took a sharp left into an alley. I checked for security cameras, chefs on cigarette breaks, or anything else that could give me a headache. There was nothing to worry about so I turned and waited.
The two guys stepped into the alley side by side. One of them adjusted his coat the way an amateur does to make sure you know he has a gun, because he doesn’t realize you’ll already have spotted the bulge.
“Where are we going, fellas?” I kept my voice calm and my hands down by my sides. My argument wasn’t with them. They were just doing their jobs—albeit not very well—so it was only fair to give them the chance to walk away.
The guy with the gun stepped forward and reached out to grab me.
I stepped back and held up my hand. “Use your words. Do not touch me.”
He kept coming and tried to take hold of my arm. I waited until his fingertips brushed my sleeve, then planted my thumb on the back of his hand. I dug my fingers into his palm and twisted up and around, locking his wrist. Then I pushed back and down. The guy dropped to the ground, squealing, and ended up with one knee planted squarely in the middle of a rancid, discarded pizza.
I waited for his whimpering to die down. “OK. I’ll let you go. But if you touch me again, I’ll break your arm.”
I released the guy and he struggled to his feet, staggered back a yard, then went for his gun. I let him get it free from his waistband, then grabbed his wrist with my left hand. I jabbed him in the solar plexus to knock the wind out of him. Then I tapped him under the chin to disorient him and expose his throat. If he’d been a threat I’d have smashed his larynx. As it was, I just lifted his arm and pulled it back down sharply against mine, breaking his elbow joint. The gun clattered to the ground. I lifted his arm again and slid my shoulder under his armpit. Then I straightened up, throwing my shoulder forward and hips back. The guy windmilled around, landing on his back and knocking the rest of the wind out of himself. I was still holding his right wrist, and I didn’t let it go until I’d punched him in the face with the heel of my free hand. Then I picked up the gun, slipped it into my pocket, and turned to face the guy’s buddy.
He hadn’t moved.
“Your turn.” I took a step toward him. “Where are we going?”
* * *
—
Carrick was wearing a dark gray suit with a chalk stripe, a vest, and a bow tie. He glared at me as I walked into his office, and then raised his eyebrows at his goon as if to say, Where’s your buddy? The goon shrugged and looked away. Carrick told him to wait outside, then sent his receptionist out to buy flowers.
“They’re for a funeral. But don’t get anything too fancy.” He sneered. “The deceased and I weren’t that close.”
As soon as we were alone, Carrick gestured for me to sit on my usual couch. He picked up the laptop from his desk, plugged in a memory stick, set it on the coffee table, and hit Play.
Norman Davies’s face once again filled the screen. He spoke more slowly than last time. He sounded scared, and he kept glancing down to his right as if he was reading from something. He confirmed his name and the previous day’s date, then claimed that he was making the recording of his own free will. He said he wanted to clarify for the record that his previous statement accusing George Carrick of being complicit in the assault on Mrs. Mason was false. He said he’d committed that crime entirely of his own volition, and had been coerced into making the false accusation by Paul McNaught, who was acting purely out of malice. Further, Paul McNaught had assaulted him, kidnapped him, held him against his will, and had attached an illegal tracking device to his person without his permission.
The only person I’d used the name McNaught with was Carrick…
I closed the lid of the computer so that I wouldn’t have to look at the frozen image of his face. “Mr. Davies did have a troubled relationship with the truth, I guess.”
“Enough to prove reasonable doubt.” Carrick was smirking at me.
“How did you find him?”
“A little bird told me where to look.”
I thought for a moment. “Jonny Evans?”
Carrick shrugged, but he couldn’t hide his gloating smile.
“Where’s Evans now?” I couldn’t believe how stupid the guy was. Even earthworms have some sense of self-preservation.
“Somewhere you’ll never find him.” Carrick’s smile grew wider.
“We’ll see about that.” I shook my head. “And Davies?”
“Who do you think the flowers are for?”
“OK, Carrick, cut the crap.” I crossed my arms. “The deal for you to take care of your tenants. What’s the status?”
“Off, obviously.” He shook his head.
“That’s a bad idea. You should rethink your position.”
“You should rethink your position about screwing yourself. Those people are nothing but a pain in the ass. If you’re so worried, you help them. Buy them their own building with all the cash you inherited. If that was even true.”
A similar thought had crossed my mind. My father had a house in their area. I didn’t need it. And it was the thing that had brought Pardew’s fraud to light. Maybe even caused my father’s death. I’d wondered if this could be a way to put it to good use. But I’d rejected the idea. Carrick was to blame. Which meant he was the one who had to pay.
“I’ll make sure they’re OK.” I looked at Carrick across the table “One way or another.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Norman Davies. He was an asshole. And I guess he was unlucky. Because I was an idiot for not anticipating that Jonny Evans would put himself back in play the way he did.
Evans’s reappearance was the proximate cause of Davies’s encounter with the fatal .22. I would have preferred things not to have worked out that way, but I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. What did trouble me, though, was the collateral damage. The deal to see that the Masons and their neighbors were taken care of. That was dead in the water now, too. I was going to have to come up with a new plan. They needed somewhere decent to live. And Carrick needed to go to jail. It was his own fault. He’d brought it on himself by setting fire to the lifeline I’d thrown him. It was no good blaming Madatov and Walcott now. Carrick was going down with them. Hard. I would see to that. The only questions were when and how.
I left Carrick’s office and walked south on Fifth until I came to Madison Square Park, where I’d come to meet Bob Mason after Detective Atkinson refused to get involved with his wife’s case. On a whim I followed the path toward the fountain and saw that the bench Bob and I had used was vacant. I figured I’d sit there for a minute, on my own. It would be a good place to think. To plan my next move. I closed my eyes and leaned back. The sun was warm on my face. The city sounds were soothing and familiar. I could feel my mind clearing. Beginning to focus. Ideas starting to form. And just as they were taking shape, my phone rang.
“Paul?” The voice on the other end of the line sounded a little ragged around the edges. “It’s Harry. I think I’ve got something.”