by A. C. Fuller
Cole was puzzled. “Says she doesn’t think anyone has been there yet. Got the address from the Department of State, but I checked there. Wragg’s business didn’t show up when I searched. I searched everywhere.”
Warren chuckled. “You think she’s hopping on DOS.NY.GOV?”
“Is there a defunct business list or something?”
“Something like that. Put the address into your maps and let’s go.”
Cole tapped the address into her phone. They were only thirty minutes away.
As the phone led them north on Route 7 through Newark and Kearney, Cole noticed that Warren drove like a professional. She and Matt hadn’t owned a car since moving to Manhattan, but even when she’d driven regularly, she’d never driven like Warren. He weaved in and out of traffic, leaning into his lane changes as he accelerated, like the car was an extension of his body.
They pulled into the small town of Nutley just after midnight and slowed at a sign that read, “E-Z Storage.”
Warren pointed. “I thought you said it was called Ship, Store, and More.”
“That’s what Gabby texted.”
The parking lot was poorly lit and nearly deserted, but a light was on in the small office. Instead of turning in, Warren drove past and parked a block away.
As they walked back toward the office, Cole gave him a questioning glance.
“I don’t know what this is yet,” Warren said. “Plus, I saw the company you keep.”
“Mazzalano?”
“We’ll talk about him later.”
Behind the desk, a young man sat on a stool, watching a video on his phone. When a bell on the door broke the silence, he looked up and brushed greasy red hair from his eyes.
Cole strode up to the desk and gave it a double-tap. “That’s not porn, is it?” She’d read his expression right as she walked in—confusion and surprise—and wanted to keep him off guard.
“Um, no, no ma’am,” he mumbled. “Can I help you?”
Warren stood a step behind her, thumbing through a rack of pamphlets. “You know a Michael Wragg?” he asked calmly.
“No, I…who’s that?”
Cole held up a picture of Wragg on her phone. It was from a story in The Sun, which had published its first piece on his death only hours earlier. The photo had been leaked to a Sun reporter from a source who’d found it when going through his apartment after Wragg jumped to his death. In the photo, Wragg smiled by the side of a lake, holding up a large fish. It was from at least ten years earlier, Cole thought, judging by his hairline. “Has he been in here lately? Would have been older, less hair on top. Face more withered. Probably not smiling.”
The kid leaned in. “Yeah, I think so. Ponytail?”
“Yup,” Cole said. “When was the last time he was here?”
“Week or so. Why? You cops or something?”
Warren set a pamphlet back on the rack. “We’re investigators.” It was technically true, since they were investigating, and if this guy wanted to assume it meant they had legal authority, so much the better. “Did Wragg have a storage container here?”
“Yes, but—”
“Where?” Warren pressed.
“Sir, I can’t tell you that.”
Cole put a hand on Warren’s forearm and pushed him back gently. “Have the police been here in the last day or two?”
“No, what? Why?”
“You sure?”
“I was here the last three nights, and Monica would have told me if the cops came during the day. Not much happens out here.” He waved an arm at the rows of storage sheds behind a fence through a large picture window.
“Ever heard of Ship, Store, and More?” Cole asked.
“No.”
“This business didn’t change its name from that or anything? We were told that this was the address of Ship, Store, and More.”
“No, I mean, I don’t think so. I really should call the manager if—”
Cole rested her elbows on the counter and leaned in. The kid was standing a little taller and was over his initial surprise. “You don’t want to do that. My friend here is a cop and—”
“Cole!” Warren glared at her, a look she took to mean leave me out of this. He leaned down and whispered. “Don’t say I’m a cop. I’m not. There’s no way into that storage shed without breaking the law.”
A half dozen objections leapt to mind, all starting with the word “But.” His look told her they wouldn’t do any good. Apparently Warren wasn’t willing to push their bluff that far. “I’m getting in there,” she whispered.
“The man I showed you is dead,” she said to the kid, stepping back to the counter. “You want to know how?”
He nodded.
“He killed himself after being caught for the murder of a billionaire named Raj Ambani. You heard of the case?”
He nodded again.
“I believe evidence from that murder is in one of your storage sheds. You following me? That means EZ Storage and all its employees might be accused of harboring or even abetting a murderer.” It was a risk to lie so nakedly, but without Warren’s help, she couldn’t think of anything else.
“Look lady, I don’t know what that guy did, but we don’t ask questions about what people are storing, and they all have to sign a form that says no illegal activity in the units. I’m calling my boss.”
He reached for a phone, but Cole grabbed his hand. “Please,” she said, catching his blue eyes. “I’m a reporter. Give me five minutes in his unit and I swear you won’t get in any trouble.” She didn’t expect it to work, but if Warren wasn’t willing to play the cop card, it was all she had.
After a moment, he tugged his hand free. “Hundred bucks, you only get three minutes, and you promise not to do anything that leads back to me. No photos. No writing what you see.”
This was the equivalent of talking to a source on “deep background.” She might get some good information from it, but nothing she could print. She pulled five twenties from her purse, which hung on her hip like a fanny pack, and slid them across the counter.
He stashed them in the pocket of his jeans. “I’ll get the access code.”
7
The kid led her through a low gate, Warren following reluctantly. They passed under the watchful eye of a security camera, then through a metal door that opened into a rectangular building. Inside, fluorescent lights clicked on the moment they entered, revealing a long hallway with units on either side. A security camera had been bolted to the ceiling over the door, capturing them as they walked in.
They passed ten units—five on the left, five on the right—each enclosed by a sliding metal door. They stopped at the end of the hallway in front of a door marked “12.”
The kid typed a code into the keypad. “Three minutes.” The keypad beeped and the kid slid the door up.
The screech of metal on metal jolted Cole. “You gonna stay and watch?” she asked.
“Nah, I need to be at the desk. Boss calls a few times a night to make sure we’re not sleeping on the job. Close the door when you leave and it’ll lock. I’ll check it later.”
When he left, Warren stopped her as she entered the unit. “I’ll be waiting outside.”
She opened her mouth to object, but he was already opening the back door. She watched him leave, trying to decide if he was being overly cautious or if she was being reckless. Not that it mattered. Neither answer would be enough to keep her from entering the unit.
Behind a stack of cardboard boxes to the left of the door, she found the light switch. She flicked it on. Jackpot.
The unit was roughly ten by ten, and to her left and right, stacks of unmarked cardboard boxes reached just short of the ceiling. Otherwise, the storage unit was uncrowded. It looked more like an office than a storage space.
Along the back wall, papers covered an old metal desk. A cork board hung behind it, papers and business cards jutting from all angles, held in place by thumbtacks. Next to the corkboard, a colorful world map hung on
the wall, dotted with silver pushpins that marked cities in multiple countries. A single bookshelf stood to the right of the desk. She made a quick scan of the spines. Warren had been right about Wragg’s motive.
The Jewish Problem
Identitarianism
The Great Replacement and the Path to Freedom
America 2.0
Mein Kampf
To the left of the desk, a display case held a collection of military artifacts, including an old rifle with a wooden scope and a rusty green grenade. She hoped it wasn’t live. Quickly, she browsed the papers on the desk. She didn’t have time to read them if she was going to stick to her promise of only three minutes.
She couldn’t stick to it. The motive for Wragg’s crime was in this room. Quite possibly, so were names of accomplices and details of any future killings. There was no way she was going to leave before finding it.
“Cole.”
The faint call had come from outside. Maybe Warren had decided to join her.
“Cole.” Louder this time, more urgent.
She froze, listening intently, eyes darting around the unit, trying to soak up as much information as possible. The panic in his voice told her something terrible was happening. His call wasn’t saying, “Cole, let me in.” It was saying, “Cole, get the hell out of there!”
Had he had second thoughts about letting her go into the unit? Had the kid had second thoughts and called the cops? No, he’d only left her sight a couple minutes ago. They couldn’t have arrived so quickly. Maybe he’d pressed an emergency button under the counter as they spoke. Unlikely, but possible.
Banging on the back door. “Cole!”
She shot a frantic look at Wragg’s desk. Her instinct was to grab every piece of paper, but Warren’s admonition rang in her head. She hadn’t yet committed a crime—not much of one, anyway—but stealing from what would soon be a crime scene would change that. She’d promised not to publish anything that would lead back to the kid. Surely taking a few photos, just for herself, would be okay.
She yanked her phone from her purse and trained it on the map next to the corkboard.
Warren banged on the door again. “Cole, I’m leaving.”
She snapped photos of the map, then a few of the papers scattered on the desk. Racing from the unit, she busted through the back door, nearly colliding with Warren.
“We gotta get out of here.” He pulled her back through a winding maze of low rectangular buildings, away from the parking lot and the office.
Cole glanced over her shoulder as they passed between two buildings. A car was parked in the front of the lot, high beams trained on the office. “Police car?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Warren led them past three more buildings and stopped along what appeared to be the back fence. Roughly six feet tall, it was topped with two feet of curled barbed wire.
Cole looked up, then back at the parking lot. “Don’t tell me you’re going to climb this.”
Warren ignored her, shuffling along the fence to a spot where a solid pole connected two sheets of fencing at a ninety-degree angle. He pulled off his leather jacket and held it in his mouth, then gripped the pole and shimmied up, stopping when his head was just below the top of the fence. He steadied himself with his right hand and swung his jacket up with his left, laying it over the barbed wire.
Cole watched in astonishment as he swung his feet up and over like a pole vaulter going feet first over a bar. His legs landed on the jacket. Arms still on the pole, he pulled down hard, compressing the barbed wire. Then, pushing himself up, he slid his belly over the jacket and dropped onto the other side of the fence. “Now you.”
She latched her fingers through the fence and pulled herself up. A second later, she lay face first on the jacket, pressing down into the partially-flattened barbed wire, head dangling over the other side of the fence.
She tried to swing her legs around but her pants caught on a piece of wire, ripping a small hole in them before she shook loose.
Warren extended his arms. “Just fall.”
She scooched forward and turned sideways, then let herself fall awkwardly into Warren’s arms. He set her down, then leapt up and grabbed his jacket.
They edged along the fence, eyes on the parking lot. “If the kid called us in, they’ll head back to the unit. If we were tailed…”
He didn’t finish the thought. Cole’s mind flashed with possibilities, but she didn’t have time to piece them together because Warren was pulling her forward. They crept along the fence through the darkness a dozen paces, then a dozen more.
Warren stopped. “There.”
He pointed at the office window. The kid had come out from behind the counter and was speaking with a figure in a dark uniform.
They watched in silence as the kid led him through the same gate he’d taken Cole and Warren through only minutes earlier. When they disappeared behind a building, Warren said, “Now.”
They sprinted across the parking lot and down the block to Warren’s car. Warren pulled out slowly without turning on his headlights. After a block, he flicked on his headlights and slammed the gas, jolting Cole back into the seat.
In shock, she said the only thing she could think of. “Back there you said ‘Tailed.’ Like someone might have tailed us here. Who? How? What made you say that?”
Warren’s eyes were on the rearview mirror. Cole turned. The road behind them was black. Warren swerved suddenly, following a sign for the Garden State Parkway south.
Cole watched him watch the rearview mirror for what felt like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes. She followed his eyes to a road sign that read:
Philadelphia: 89 Miles
Baltimore: 190 Miles
Washington, D.C.: 227 Miles
His shoulders dropped. His hands, which had been gripping the steering wheel ferociously, relaxed.
“Rob, why’d you say we might have been tailed?”
“Because I saw you at Antonio’s, meeting with that scumbag, Joey Mazzalano.”
8
Joey Mazzalano was well past tipsy. He’d started on the amaretto at four, then killed a third of a bottle of grappa before and during his meeting with Cole. He’d knocked back a triple shot of espresso before following WB’s lead through the Holland Tunnel and into New Jersey, but the effects of the coffee had faded and the alcohol still coursed through his blood.
The key to driving drunk was engaging all the senses. He rolled down the car windows, letting the cold air dry his hot, sweaty skin. Over the stereo he blasted a Perry Como ballad that reminded him of his mother. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles popped.
When he saw the sign for EZ Storage, he made the right turn a little too early, bumping the curb with his right-front tire. He jerked the wheel to the left to avoid doing the same with the rear tire, causing it to skid along the face of the curb, the rubber shrieking loud enough to cut through the music. It didn’t matter. Only one other patrol car was in the parking lot, and it belonged to WB. His guy.
He parked sideways across three spots near the office and poked his head in. Empty. He radioed WB. “Out front. You back in the stacks?”
His radio crackled, then went silent. Letting his head fall back, he looked up. Thousands of stars shone in the clear night sky, more than he usually saw from the roof of his apartment in the city. Growing dizzy, he slapped his face with both hands, then shook his head, trying to clear the haze. He considered heading back to his car to sleep it off, but WB’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Boss.”
A low gate was sliding open and WB stood there with a tall, redheaded teenager with a round face and a stupid haircut.
“Kid,” WB said, “this is my lieutenant.”
WB was well trained. He knew not to identify Mazzalano by name in situations like this.
Mazzalano nodded, then waved at the rows of storage buildings. “Let’s go.”
They followed the kid to the unit, Mazzalano intentionally bringin
g up the rear because he wanted to find his footing without them noticing. As they walked, WB explained. “Been here half an hour. Kid says two people came. White woman about forty, black guy around the same. Showed him a photo of Michael Wragg. Said the woman paid him a hundred bucks for a few minutes in the unit. The man didn’t follow her in. They were gone by the time we got back here.”
WB had described the events as though he didn’t know who the suspects were, probably because the kid could hear. Always best to give civilians as little information as possible.
“You lost them?” Mazzalano asked. He was over-enunciating, trying to sound sober. Problem was, he couldn’t tell if it was working.
“If I’d had another car...anyway. Kid led me back to the unit, which was open, and they were gone. But you’re gonna want to see what’s in the unit. It’s…”
“What?”
“Just wait.”
They reached the building and walked down the hallway to unit twelve. The sliding metal door was open.
“Give us a few minutes,” Mazzalano said to the kid, who retreated down the hallway.
Mazzalano walked to the desk and picked up a few papers with one hand, steadying himself on the desk with the other. He glanced at the map on the wall, the books, and the military artifacts. “Goddammit,” he said to himself. This was worse than he thought. Worse than he knew.
“You want me to bag all this up and—”
“Did they take anything?” Mazzalano asked.
“How would I know?”
Mazzalano inhaled deeply, taking in the dusty, mildewed smell, but said nothing.
“Kid said she was only here three minutes, tops. You think she was looking for something in particular? Or maybe they just got a tip about the location and bolted when they saw me? Anyway, you want me to call CSI, fingerprints, the whole nine? What would it be anyway, Jersey? CID?”
Mazzalano’s next decision mattered, but his thinking was dull and labored. He needed another espresso. He stared at a business card on the desk, mind churning like a tugboat through mud. His next action had to be right, could make or break him. “You’re sure they didn’t make you?”