I smiled teasingly. “To English class…”
“Well so am I. I got the new teacher, Davenport.”
I leaned against the tree. I was tempted to see how far he’d go, but this was my first week here, so I should at least try and start out on the right foot. “Now that really is a coincidence, because I am Miss Davenport.”
“Well here we are.”
Ralph Warner’s voice jolted me back to reality. And, suddenly, Clive was gone. The past was the past and I was standing in front of a large white suburban kind of house, wishing more than anything that I could be Miss Davenport again and Clive would just…be here.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Detective Bob
“Someone took it, I’m telling you, Bob, somebody took it.”
I looked at Margie like she’d fuckin’ lost it. “Margie, nobody comes in a police file room and takes a file. That’s in the movies. This is real life, okay. If you put it back, then it’s got to be there.”
“I did. I came in, took the file, made a copy, and then put it back. So if I could take it like that, then somebody else could, too.”
Margie was sitting in the room, surrounded by the files from Clive’s firm. She had that stubborn look on her face that made me know that there was no way she was changing her mind.
“Look, it probably just got put in another one of these piles.”
She stood up, hands on her hip, and raised one brow. “Bob, I have looked through every file in this room. It is just not here. That means that somebody took it.”
I threw up my hands and paced around the room, thinking how could a file just disappear? Who would take it? This had to be a coincidence. Had to be. “Well, you’ve got the copy, right?”
She pulled it out of her purse and handed it to me.
“Let’s not worry about it anymore.” I took the copy and sat down, flipping through it. Just like she said, numbers where names should have been, and the same numbers—504. Numbers that meant something.
“So what do you think?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s some kind of code, but I don’t have a clue for what.”I kept thinking that if I thought hard enough, Clive would float in my brain, merging his thoughts into mine, but nothing. I knew that the voices had been right. Something was preventing him from breaking through. Shit. Just when I really needed him.
I stuck my hands in my pocket angrily. My fingers scraped against a piece of paper. I crumpled it up and was about to toss it when something caught my eye. 50…I uncrumpled it and smoothed it out…SAMURAI CLUB 504 Oak Street…
“Oh shit! I was there.”
Margie looked up.
“I was there. I was at 504!”
“What are you talking about?”
“That Geisha club that Simmons sent me to—that’s 504!!”
* * *
My legs were tingling. They always felt like that when I was about to crack a big one. I was gonna pin that owner down and squeeze every bit of information out of him, no matter what it took. This was the first live lead I’d had since Laurel slipped outta my hands. The picture was starting to crystallize in my head. Simmons and January probably met at the Samurai Club to set their deal up, and the clients were whoever was behind the Samurai Club. From what I saw the other day, I’d guess that they were probably laundering the money from their prostitution ring there and dabbling in the stock market. But why kill Clive? What did he know that landed him dead??
Those thoughts were tumbling around in my head as I pulled up in front of the club. Suddenly, I saw cops everywhere, swarming the place. Somebody had just plastered a big sign on the door: CLOSED.
I ran up to a cop, yelling, “Detective Greene, NYPD. What’s going on here?”
He barely gave me a glance as he said, “Vice is closing the place down.”
“Vice!”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Why now?”
He spit across the street nonchalantly. “Hell if I know.”
“Fuck! Did they take the owner out?”
“Everybody’d split by the time we got here. Somebody must’ve tipped em off, ’cause the place was dead empty when we got here.”
I wandered away from the scene in a daze. But now new thoughts were starting to intrude on my mind. I knew that this was no coincidence, the missing file, and now the place that was probably the key to this case, closed down like this. I knew damn well that vice had known about this shit hole before. Why now…I kept asking myself, and the same answer kept coming back. It’s no coincidence. Then I knew almost instinctively that my little visit to the place is probably what had started the whole ball rolling. It was after that that the file disappeared, and not twenty-four hours later that the damn thing was closed down and the owner conveniently skipped town.
Somebody high up didn’t want me to get to the bottom of this.
The captain’s voice looped around my brain. “People…want this case wrapped up and you’re not moving fast enough for them”
“What people?”
“People…Just people…”
People…what people…people high up enough to make sure that certain things didn’t get solved…damn those people. Damn them.
* * *
I was still running over the day’s events in my mind as I collapsed on my couch. For a hot second, I’d thought about going back into the station, but I was too pissed and drained to deal with those assholes. The light on my answering machine blinked. I pushed play.
“Well it looks like you galloped off into the sunset again. Call me when you resurface. You know who it is.”
Shit. Margie. I’d basically left her hanging, and her gut had been better than mine on this thing. I leaned back on my couch and tried to relax. But my mind kept racing back and forth: in the chopper, back at the station, Clive’s office, Andy Haven. It was all starting to blur. And on top of it, I noticed that the roof musta been leaking while I was away, cause there was a dark brown spot on the ceiling where the water had dried. Shit, I gotta get outta this dump. But how long had I been saying that? Just another broken promise to myself. How many of those did I have?
For some reason I couldn’t take my eyes off that spot. It reminded me of something. Something I’d seen before. It was almost square, and about three by four inches. That spot underneath Clive’s desk, that discolored spot, was about the same size. Then I knew what it was. And I knew who else would know, too. Shit, why didn’t I think of this sooner? I scrounged through my pockets and found the number and dialed quickly. Shit, be home, be home.
“Hello.”
It was her. I knew that voice. “I want the tapes, Yolanda. This is Detective Greene.” Silence. “Yolanda, I know you’ve got ’em, so don’t bullshit me okay. A man is dead, and I want those tapes. Now!”
I could hear her breathing heavily on the other end of the line, probably wondering how she’d get out of it—lie or come clean. I was betting that she’d come clean. She had to. Click.
Fuck! I slammed the phone down. She’d hung up on me. I pushed re-dial. The line rang busy. Damn her! I knew my hunch had been right. That discolored spot under the desk, just the size of a micro-cassette recorder, the nail holes for the brackets holding it in place. And Yolanda Calloway, Clive’s secretary, the one who’d thought Andy Haven had done it to begin with. Yolanda, the one who kept Clive’s secrets, the one in charge of it all. All the conversations, taped, and I bet filed neatly and labeled for the day that he’d need them, except that now he was dead, and I needed those tapes or my ass was dead in the water on this case.
I was about to pick up the receiver and call her back when the phone rang. I picked it up. “Yeah.”
“It’s Yolanda Calloway.”
Be cool. Just be cool. You can’t afford to lose her.
“Detective, I need to see you…I’ll meet you by the deli on the corner of Fulton, right by the number two train stop, at six.” Click. She’d hung up again.
&nbs
p; I glanced at my watch. 5:45. Shit! I had to make it back to Wall Street from Brooklyn in fifteen minutes. Damn! I raced out to the car. Digging under the seat and sticking the siren on the hood, flying over the bridge and through the streets—6:05. I was late, but I was hoping she’d wait. She had to wait. I zipped down the street, dodging pedestrians and street vendors, my stomach was turning over, acid seeping into the corners of my gut. Sometimes I wished that everybody in Manhattan could just stay home for once.
A potbellied delivery truck suddenly stopped in front of me, the driver hopping out for no apparent reason. I stuck my head out the door. “Hey! What the fuck is your problem? Get the hell out of the way!”
He scratched his head and wandered back to the truck. I slammed my hand down on the steering wheel. I was only a few blocks away and now this shit. The truck driver slowly started his truck. The engine wasn’t turning over. I couldn’t believe it.
“Start the damn thing!”
“I’m trying!” he yelled back.
I revved up my motor and skirted across the sidewalk, my wheels careening over the side. Then I saw her. She was heading for the subway, looking at her watch. I slammed on the brakes and left the car in the middle of the street, the siren still blasting. “Yolanda!”
She’d already disappeared down the stairs. I jumped down the steps. The place was thick with people. I could see her smashed up against a group of suits. In the distance I could hear the subway screeching forward. She was being propelled forward by the crowd.
“Yolanda!”
She looked back, but she didn’t see me. Somehow I managed to worm my way forward knocking over people. The subway doors snapped open. She was pushing forward. I reached out and grabbed her coat. “Yolanda, wait!” I snatched her back to me just as the crowd spilled into the train.
I was panting, being badly out of shape definitely didn’t help. “Why didn’t you wait?”
She looked scared as she backed away from me. “I…I did…but I thought…” She thrust a large stiff manila envelope in my hand, motioning me over away from the crowd. “The last three months or so, Mr. January started taping all of the conversations in his office. He asked me to keep them for him. So that if anything happened. “Her eyes had dark circles under them.
I screamed over the noise of the approaching train. “Did anybody else know about this?” The deafening noise of the train blotted out her answer, and then she just started running, pushing her way through the crowd and wiggling into the open doors. I tried to follow her, but it was like the crowd was conspiring against me, closing behind her. The train pulled off, and the last thing I remember seeing was her face pressed against the graffiti-streaked glass.
I ripped open the top of the envelope. There were ten tapes, each neatly labeled: CLIVE JANUARY PERSONAL FILE, and dates. Whoever was upstairs pulling the strings on this whole thing had finally tossed me a “gimme.” At least I hoped ’cause time was running out for me and Clive.
* * *
I closed the blinds to my apartment. Shutting out the pale streetlights. After the weird shit that was happening at the station with missing files and key witnesses disappearing, I figured that I’d listen to these tapes at home, where at least I knew nobody would get them. I pushed the tape on.
“Andy, I don’t think you understand. This is my business, and I can do whatever the fuck I want to with it. So if I want to liquidate, and I’m not saying that I plan to, you ain’t got shit to say. You don’t own one share of stock, so I don’t even know why we’re having this discussion!”
I stopped the tape for a minute, taking out my notes, flipping quickly to the day that I questioned Haven. When I’d asked him if January ever thought about selling the business, he’d answered “No…Never.”
When I’d asked if January had sold the company if he could have just cashed out his stock, he’d answered, “Yes…basically.”
Basically my ass! From what I’d just heard, there was no stock. That’s why Haven was so hyped about him not selling the business. He woulda been out on his ass. I pushed the tape back on.
Haven’s whiny voice filled my room. “I’m a part of this organization. I have a right to know what your plans are. This is my future you’re talking about!”
I could hear Clive pushing a chair against the desk. I could imagine him looking at Andy with that half amused, half taunting look.“Well you know what? I never promised you anything when I asked you to come work for me.”
The tape ran out. I grabbed the last one. A few weeks later by the date. I jammed it in the machine. Haven’s voice again. “Are you sure we should do this, Clive?”
“You’re suggesting that I say no to potential commissions like these? Are you outta your fuckin’ mind?”
“No it’s just that with Jack we wouldn’t want to disappoint him if we couldn’t really service the accounts like he wanted them and…”
“And what?”
“Well, if they want to accumulate a position in those companies, confidentially and quickly, I don’t know if we’ve got the manpower to execute that many trades.”
“Since when do you get cold feet about making money?”
“I’m not. It’s just that it’s risky. If the SEC traces the trades…I just think that I should be compensated for the risk. I’m the one making the trades. It’s me they’ll go after. I think that my compensation package should change.” I heard Haven shifting in his chair.
“I think that I should have some ownership in the company.”
“Oh you do?”
“Yes. I do.”
“And how long have you been working here Andy, two years? Where the hell were you ten years ago when I was working out of a shit hole office, barely making it…huh? You were sitting up at Morgan pulling down half a mil. Now that I’ve made something, you want a piece of my business! I don’t think so.”
“Well then I’m resigning.”
I heard Clive’s laugh, deep and guttural, filling the room. “Go right ahead. If you can find someplace that’ll take you. You’ve been to every shop worth anything on the street. They all took you and they all let you go. So where are you gonna find someplace that’ll pay you what I’m paying you? But if you can, go for it. Don’t let me stop you.”
I could sense Haven’s anger through the silence. The tape stopped. I sat back thinking. It was all here…Haven afraid of losing his job…his frustration and anger at Clive—that could make a man kill. It wouldn’t be the first time. Haven wasn’t the type to do his own work.
He’d have to get somebody else to take the fall with him. Jack? Too smart…maybe these mystery clients…make them think it was in their best interest to do it. But just so Haven could keep his job. Had to be something else. A piece, and a big piece, was missing. I knew I couldn’t let anybody else at the station know I was nosing around trying to find out. And the only person who knew was Laurel. I had to find out. I just had to.
I leaned back in the chair. Trying to see Clive’s face in my mind. He knew where she was. Damn it, Clive if you want me to find out…tell me…We’ve got ten days. That’s all ten days. I tried to relax, but I couldn’t. Maybe it was the noise outside. I could hear teenagers, cursing, drinking beer.
Normally, I would’ve just turned up the TV, but shit, enough was enough…a man needed some peace in his own home, so I stuck my head out the window yelling, “Shut the hell up!”
“Yeah right, asshole!”
“It’s a free country, old man!”
Something snapped in me. I grabbed my badge and stuck my gun in my pants. I was taking those punks in. They’d see who was the old man. As I galloped down the stairs, all I could think was how pissed and frustrated I was at everything. I pushed open the front door, grabbing my .45. I was about to yell out when something stopped me.
I don’t know what it was, but I know heard a voice whisper, “Don’t do it, Bob.” Suddenly, I saw my life right in front of me.
I saw myself rushing out the door toward those kids,
flashing my badge and them laughing. I saw one of ’em grabbing something, another one shoving me. I felt the rage in me as I saw myself reach for my gun and then shoot, blood running out from one of the kids’ chest. I saw the kid turn and curse at me and try and stumble away, with his back to me. I saw myself shoot him again and again, until the kid was nothing but a bloody heap in front of me. I remembered my partner and internal affairs, only this time I was the shooter. This time I was the one they’d be glad to lock up and throw away the key—for good.
The rest of my life ran in front of me. Everything that had been, and everything that could be, the good things and the bad, and how I’d hit brick wall after brick wall and this one thing, one stupid assed thing could have been the final one. My hands were wet and shaking, and my heart was beating fast as I shoved my gun back in my pants. I knew I’d come just this close to blowing those kids away and blowing whatever was left of my future away with them. I leaned against the wall, sweat was pouring off me. Shit, is this what I’d come to? Ready to fuck up everything for a bunch of high school kids?
I stumbled back up to my apartment. I didn’t even hear their voices cursing and laughing at me, ’cause all I could think was how I’d almost thrown it all away for a bunch of punk kids. I wondered who or what it was that’d stopped me. Was it Clive? Somehow, I didn’t think so, ’cause it seemed like whatever was keeping him from me was too strong for him to break through.
For just a second I saw a face, then it was gone. But it wasn’t Clive’s face. I knew who it was. A face I’d never seen, but I knew just the same. Who’d never seen me, but who knew me just the same. I knew it was my grandfather, the man who’d died with his principles. He’d stopped me. I tried to say something, to thank him, but he was gone. Just like that.
Slumping in a chair, I tried to get my breathing back to normal. My legs felt weak. Thoughts of Clive and the case started to creep back in my head. I thought of Laurel dodging cops like a pro all over the country, nothin’ but a schoolteacher making New York’s finest look like shit.
Nothin’ but a schoolteacher—then I remembered the yearbooks. Nothin’ but a schoolteacher, but maybe she’d gone back to one of those places where she’d been, off the beaten path, someplace obscure and safe. I propped myself up. Things were starting to come together in my head.
A Dead Man Speaks Page 27
