Invisible

by Andrew Grant

  “Speaking of temptation…” Atkinson signaled for another beer. “So. What are you going to do next? Are you going to stick around?”

  “It’s not time for next. I’m not done yet. I still have to find Pardew’s missing file.”

  Atkinson slammed his palm against the bar. “And you will. I know it. I wasn’t sure before, but now I’m certain.”

  “Thanks. I guess.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about his newfound surge in confidence.

  “And after that? Will you stay in the city? You can’t keep living in a hotel room. But you have that house now, right? Up in Westchester?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead. But I’m not going to live in that house. Not yet. I’ll let Mrs. Vincent stay there. My father’s housekeeper. It’s her home, more than it is mine. Maybe I’ll move into the brownstone? That’s a nice place. And it’s a shame to leave it empty.”

  “What about work? You can’t hang around the courthouse forever. Will you take over your father’s business?”

  “I hadn’t thought about that. It would be nice to honor his memory somehow. But running his business? I’m not sure that would be a good idea. It’s in safe hands now. My father’s lawyer took care of the arrangements. It may be wise not to mess with it. Better to get the Pardew thing squared away, then decide.”

  Chapter Thirty

  One day, a fortnight later, I found myself back in courtroom 432.

  Being there wasn’t part of my original plan. I’d started with two things on my agenda. Clean the section allotted to me. And search a pair of chambers on the second floor. They were the last ones I had left to check, and every time I tried to get into them they were either occupied or there were people in the adjacent courtrooms. I’d tried them first thing on my way up from the janitors’ room. A trial was already under way in one of them, and a judge was talking with a clerk in the other. I tried again when I was halfway through cleaning, and still couldn’t get in. I tried again when I was done with my section, and still couldn’t get in. I figured there was nothing to do but swallow my frustration and resolve to come back the next day, but when I steered my cart out of the elevator in the basement I ran into Frank Carrodus.

  “Paul?” He sounded out of breath. “Can you help me? I need someone to cover for Jane while she’s down in Doomsday Daycare. Jas promised to, but she’s gone home sick. It won’t take long. There’s just 428 to 434 left to do.”

  Why not? I thought. I was happy to do my bit for the kids, and heading back upstairs would give me another chance to check the chambers on the second floor. Maybe I’d get lucky this time.

  Room 432 was empty when I arrived. And it wasn’t too dirty. I figured it would take me ten minutes to do what was needed. Twelve at the most. It actually took eight, and just as I was finishing a woman emerged from the chambers. I recognized her. She was one of the clerks, but I hadn’t seen her in that courtroom before. She normally worked elsewhere in the building.

  The woman walked straight past me, heading for the door to the corridor. She was looking down. Moving fast. She didn’t acknowledge me at all. But not in the I’m too important to bother with you way that some of the judges have. And not in a busy or preoccupied way, like some of the lawyers and jurors and spectators. It was more of the stiff, shifty way of a child caught in the midst of some mischief who thinks, If I can’t see you, you can’t see me. But I did see her. And I noticed something. Her shoes. They had four-inch heels. And they were scarlet. Just like two of the pairs I’d seen in the closet when I’d first searched the chambers. I’d held my curiosity at bay on that occasion, but it was too much to ask for me to do so again.

  I positioned my cart in the doorway with my broom set to fall if anyone tried to get by, then went inside and crossed to the closet. There were only three shirts hanging on the rail this time, and three ties. Both pairs of men’s shoes were there. So was the black pair of women’s pumps. But only one of the red pairs. And behind them, there was something new. A padded envelope. It was well stuffed. There were no markings, and it was tied up with string. I pulled it out and loosened the knots. Inside there was a thick manila folder. I checked the label:

  The State of New York vs Alexander Michael Pardew.

  * * *

  —

  I reached for my phone. My first thought was to call Detective Atkinson and tell him I’d finally found the holy grail. But old habits die hard. Who knew what was really inside that thing? So I took the folder over to the couch and started to read.

  I’d never studied a legal file before. For some reason I was expecting a jumble of incomprehensible documents, full of impenetrable jargon. I thought it might be impossible to make sense of it. But I was wrong. The contents were very logically organized. ADA Dixon had done a great job. The story was easy to understand. I didn’t get all the financial nuances, necessarily, but the overall gist was simple to follow. It took ten minutes to get through it, and after my first pass the events seemed exactly as Atkinson and Dixon had outlined. Only with a lot more detail, which I had to believe would be a good thing when it came to ultimately nailing Pardew’s ass.

  I pulled out my phone, then remembered Atkinson saying he hoped the file would give him something else. An idea about where to look for Pardew. Recurring travel costs, maybe, or utility bills for some remote mountain retreat. Any clue as to where the bastard was hiding. I figured it might be beneficial to spend a little time with him myself, before the police reeled him back in, so I leafed through the file again. Cover to cover. Then I went back to the start. I double-checked some of the dates. Checked for misfiled entries. And photographed certain pages. Not to use as evidence—I remembered Dixon’s explanation about the problem with copies. But for my own reference. Because as I sat there reading, I was picking up an echo from my past.

  One of our early training modules at Fort Huachuca had covered reconnaissance photographs and how to interpret them. It wasn’t one of my favorite subjects. It had been incredibly tedious, cooped up inside a dingy classroom poring over a seemingly endless sequence of boring, virtually identical prints. But it had taught me an important lesson. It had changed the way I looked at things. It had shown me that sometimes it’s not what is there in a picture that counts. It’s what’s not there. And a couple of things weren’t there in the image that the documents were developing in my mind.

  Pardew had been illicitly reducing the value of my father’s assets for over a year. But there was no evidence of any fraudulent activity during the six months before my father confronted him. Had Pardew stopped cheating? If so, why? The business still had more than enough assets to ruin him, based on the formula he’d signed up to. And there were no bank statements for the month when the DUI charges against Pardew had been dropped. That incident also occurred six months before the confrontation with my father. And that was the only period when the financial records weren’t complete. Could these things be coincidences? Possibly. But no one in my business—my previous business—believed in coincidences.

  The DUI charge had been dropped. The bank records were missing. And the fraud had stopped. All at the same time. Would that be enough to whet Atkinson’s appetite? Probably not, based on his track record.

  But did it raise a red flag for me? Most definitely.

  Instinct couldn’t be taught, as my instructors used to say, and I could sense there was something bigger going on here. I needed to figure out whom I could trust before I passed the information to anyone else, so I slipped the folder back into its envelope. Then I wrapped the package in a garbage bag and slid it into my cart. I’d need to find a place to keep it safe. But that wouldn’t be hard. I had the whole building at my disposal, after all.

  * * *

  —

  I’d just emerged from the chambers with theories and suspicions about Pardew sparking away in my head like fireworks when the main courtroom door opened and a man came in. I realiz
ed it must be Bob Mason, but I hardly recognized him. He looked taller somehow. Younger. Stronger, even. And he was walking without a cane.

  “I was hoping I’d find you, Paul.” He held out his hand. “I wanted to let you know, you were right.”

  “About what?”

  “You said things would work out. And they did. Like I’d never have believed. A lawyer got in touch, out of the blue. A guy called di Matteo. He said someone had set up a trust to help all the people who lived in our building. It paid for new apartments for all of us, all together, in a much nicer low-rise a couple of blocks south. We’ll be moving in a month or so. And it pays for us to have health insurance, too. Which is a godsend for Lydia, because it means she can go to that other hospital and get the new treatment. The doctors there think that soon she’ll be able to walk again, before Christmas.”

  “I’m very happy to hear that, Bob. It’s great news.”

  “It is, but one thing’s still bugging me. I don’t know who to thank.”

  “Maybe it’s just the universe, working its magic and looking out for good people.”

  “Or maybe it’s a good person who’s doing the looking out. You. You’re the only one I told about our problems. Paul, did you do this?”

  “Me?” I picked up my broom. “No. How could I have? I’m just a janitor.”

  For the ninety-nine percent.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to extend my deepest thanks to the following for their help, support, and encouragement while I wrote this book. Without them, it would not have been possible.

  My editor, the excellent Brendan Vaughan, and the whole team at Random House.

  My agent, the outstanding Richard Pine.

  My friends, who’ve stood by me through the years: Dan Boucher, Carlos Camacho, Joelle Charbonneau, John Dul, Jamie Freveletti, Keir Graff, Tana Hall, Nick Hawkins, Dermot Hollingsworth, Amanda Hurford, Richard Hurford, Jon Jordan, Ruth Jordan, Kristy Claiborne Graves, Martyn James Lewis, Rebecca Makkai, Dan Malmon, Kate Hackbarth Malmon, Carrie Medders, Philippa Morgan, Erica Ruth Neubauer, Gunther Neumann, Ayo Onatade, Denise Pascoe, Wray Pascoe, Dani Patarazzi, Javier Ramirez, David Reith, Sharon Reith, Beth Renaldi, Marc Rightley, Melissa Rightley, Renee Rosen, Kelli Stanley, and Brian Wilson.

  Everyone at The Globe Pub, Chicago.

  Everyone from Fish Creek Ranch Preserve, Wyoming.

  Jane and Jim Grant.

  Ruth Grant.

  Katharine Grant.

  Jess Grant.

  Alexander Tyska.

  Gary and Stacie Gutting.

  And last on the list, but first in my heart—Tasha. Everything, always…

  By Andrew Grant

  Even

  Die Twice

  More Harm Than Good

  RUN

  False Positive

  False Friend

  False Witness

  Invisible

  About the Author

  ANDREW GRANT is the author of RUN, False Positive, False Friend, and False Witness. He was born in Birmingham, England. He attended the University of Sheffield, where he studied English literature and drama. He ran a small independent theater company, and subsequently worked in the telecommunications industry for fifteen years. Grant and his wife, the novelist Tasha Alexander, live on a wildlife preserve in Wyoming.

  andrewgrantbooks.com

  Facebook.com/​AndrewGrantAuthor

  Twitter: @Andrew_Grant

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