by James Tucker
Mei said, “Thank you, Officer.”
He said, “You have a good day.”
She closed the door. Now Ben turned toward the door. He saw her watching Officer Lingwood climb into his car. They heard the sound of the engine grow louder and then fade away.
After locking the front door, she drew close to him. Her smile surprised him, because he’d thought she was nervous, or she should have been.
He said, “I don’t like it here. I want to go home.”
“I don’t like it here, either,” she told him, standing behind him, putting an arm around his chest and hugging him.
He wriggled free, angry that they had to be in this house.
“Soon,” she said. “We’ll leave soon.”
Ben tried to believe her, but he wasn’t sure he did.
49
Staring at his phone, Buddy studied the photograph of the Haddon House sign he’d taken the previous morning. He said, “Drop me off at the EDA offices, would you? Hell’s Kitchen. Forty-Sixth and Eleventh Ave.” He hadn’t gone to the pool to request another car but made a mental note to take the time.
Mario turned right, headed west, and lowered the volume of the music. “What’s the EDA?”
“The Economic Development Agency. They’re a division of the city working with Cromwell Properties on the new condo tower that will replace the building where the Sungs lived.”
Mario looked over at him. “What are you doing, man? The case is closed. We need to move on.”
“No, it’s not that,” Buddy lied. “I’ve got a friend who works there. I want to say hello.”
“Yeah?” Mario said, looking over at Buddy. When Buddy didn’t respond or return his glance, Mario said, “Sure thing.”
A few minutes later, Buddy walked into the reception area of the EDA. It was on the eighth floor of a nondescript building. The tile floors were scuffed and stained, the walls white with more than a hint of yellow, the art on the walls showed color photographs of office buildings, residential towers, retail centers, and parks. He took it all in as he approached the reception desk, which was made of plastic modular furniture.
The heavy young woman behind the desk said, “May I help you?”
He took out his badge wallet, opened it, and held it up. He said, “I’m Detective Lock. May I speak with the executive director?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Fischer is in meetings.”
He nodded. “I need to talk with the person handling the Haddon House project in Chinatown.”
The receptionist said, “I’m sorry, but the people working on that project are out of town.”
Buddy didn’t know if the receptionist was being truthful or not. But he wasn’t going to settle for the runaround. He said, “I’ll wait for Ms. Fischer. Please let her know I’m with NYPD Homicide.”
This brought a response from the receptionist. Her eyes widened as she stood. “I’ll let her know,” the young woman said, and disappeared down a row of modular furniture to the right and beyond his vision.
The receptionist returned a few minutes later but said nothing to him, only sat behind her plastic desk and answered the phone and stared at her computer screen.
Buddy paced the small waiting area. He studied the photographs and read the tag below each of them that had been stuck to the wall. Printed on each tag was the name of the project and the date it had opened. He recognized Madison Square Park. The buildings meant nothing to him. Some appeared to be public housing, or what used to be called that. But the projects completed in more recent years looked to him like housing for the rich, buildings like Haddon House. Lots of granite, glass, and steel. The more recent, he noted, the more glass. He wondered about the mission of the EDA and whether it had changed over the years. He wondered how much money was involved and how much of it found its way to the EDA and its management.
Forty minutes later, a pale young woman with dishwater blond hair and a slender, formless body covered by a loose-fitting blue dress walked over to him. He was sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair and reading the Gazette on his phone. Salacious stuff, mostly. Embezzlement on Wall Street. Bribes in Albany. The usual.
“Detective Lock?” asked the pale young woman.
He looked up. “Yeah?”
“Ms. Fischer is available for a brief meeting. Would you come with me?”
50
Buddy put away his phone, stood, and followed the young woman as she wove through the gray cubicles and finally reached a hallway with real walls and private offices. At the end of the hallway, the pale young woman led him into a large private office. The office’s large windows looked out over the Hudson River at the bluffs of Weehawken, New Jersey. He saw houses along the river and larger houses on top of the bluffs, but he didn’t have time to study the view. In the corner of this large office stood a woman about his age.
“Good morning, Detective Lock,” she said in a high-pitched but strong voice. “I’m Erica Fischer, the EDA’s executive director.” She stepped forward and offered her hand.
“Morning,” he said, noting her small hand but strong grip and the silver bracelet on her wrist. He saw that she was shorter than average height but wore very high heels to appear taller. She had a medium build with a striking face. Her hair was expensively highlighted and extended to just above her shoulders. She wore a gray skirt, a matching turtleneck sweater, and a Burberry scarf around her neck.
She let go of Buddy’s hand, glanced over his shoulder, and said, “Thanks for joining us, Jack. Detective Lock, this is Jack Carlson, the associate director.”
Buddy turned around. Carlson was big, with a short haircut. He looked like he spent a lot of time at the gym. He wore a nice blue sport coat with a faint check pattern but no tie. Buddy noticed immediately that he was injured. A long cut marked Carlson’s forehead over his blue eyes. Additional cuts and bruises covered his hands. The cuts appeared fresh. He was using two aluminum crutches, his right foot bandaged and in an orthopedic boot.
Buddy felt himself go hot. Coincidence? he wondered. He didn’t offer Jack Carlson his hand as he asked, “What happened?”
Carlson’s handsome face tightened. “A skiing accident.”
Buddy thought the injuries were consistent with a collision between an SUV and a Dodge Charger, the bandaged foot possibly the result of a bullet wound. But he had no proof. Alert to any sudden movement from Jack Carlson, he turned to Fischer and said, “Tell me about Haddon House. What was the EDA’s role?”
She tilted her head as if condescending to speak to a small child. “We facilitate. Why do you ask?”
Buddy ignored the nonanswer. He said, “Who makes money from Haddon House?”
This time she answered straight. “The developer, Cromwell Properties.”
“Anyone else?”
“The investors who provide the financing.”
“Who are they?”
“It’s NationBank. But Cromwell pays market interest rates, of course.”
He said, “Who buys the units?”
Fischer’s eyes widened, as if he were naive or stupid. “Anyone with money. Americans. People from abroad—Indians, Chinese, Russians, English, German, Saudi, and on and on. This is an international city, Detective.”
After thinking about this, Buddy asked, “How many units in Haddon House have been sold to Russians?”
Erica Fischer smiled. “I don’t know. Foreign buyers—even some American buyers—use companies to purchase real estate in New York. So we often don’t know who’s buying.”
“What percentage of units in Haddon House,” he pressed, “are under contract to companies?”
Her smile vanished as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry, Detective, but that’s confidential information.”
He realized he wasn’t going to get anything further, not without a warrant, and even with a warrant, it was notoriously difficult to determine condominium ownership. Switching topics, he asked, “How does the EDA deal with
holdouts?”
Fischer’s face became a professional mask, as did her language. “We give holdouts every opportunity to work with the city.”
“What if . . . what if the holdouts refuse to work with the city?”
She said, “Then we use the power of eminent domain.”
“Used it lately?”
She shook her head and walked behind her desk. On its cluttered surface, he noticed a large Louis Vuitton bag—an unusual luxury for a government employee. “Fortunately not. But the threat is always there. You see, Detective, the EDA prefers to inform rather than to make threats.”
Threats, he repeated silently. He said, “Did you inform Chen Sung or Lily Sung? Or did you threaten them?”
Fischer’s mask remained impassive. “I’m not familiar with those names.”
Buddy thought, I’ll bet not. He said, “Any issues at the Nanjing building?”
She smiled. “We have everything we need. Or we’ll soon have. Cromwell has assured us. Haddon House will be a great project. A boon for the city.”
Buddy didn’t reply. His focus had shifted from her to Jack Carlson. He asked, “What did you do before you came to the EDA?”
Carlson lifted his chin. “Government work.”
“What kind?”
“FBI.”
Buddy nodded. This guy is capable, he thought. He has friends who’ll tap phones and perform deadly favors, such as shooting a police detective.
Erica Fischer clapped her hands together once. “I have another meeting, Detective. You understand.”
Buddy looked at her. She didn’t offer her hand.
Jack Carlson walked him out through the hallway and the maze of cubicles. In the lobby Buddy turned to ask Carlson more about his time at the bureau, but Carlson was already returning through the cubicles to the hallway and Erica Fischer’s office.
51
Downstairs in the building lobby, Buddy’s phone rang. He pulled it from his suit coat and checked the screen.
Recognizing the NYPD’s main line, his anxiety went full throttle. He answered the call: “Lock here.”
“Buddy, it’s Malone. Where are you?”
“Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Nice work solving the missing persons case. You notified the Sung family, now you’re done. So I’ve got a new one for you. Robbery-homicide at a bank just inside the Nineteenth Precinct—your home turf. Okay?”
Buddy said, “I’m not sure the Sung case is closed.”
“Sure it is. Mario confirmed with the doctor that Chen Sung had terminal pancreatic cancer. Nobody survives that, Buddy.”
Buddy’s chest tightened. It always did when he thought he was being railroaded. He said, “When did Mario confirm the cancer?”
“Five minutes ago. So the case is closed. Got it?”
Buddy wondered if Malone was pushing because Buddy and Mario were needed elsewhere, or if Malone was dirty. Or maybe Mario and Malone were right, and the case was solved. It made sense, didn’t it, what happened with the Sungs? Terminal cancer diagnosis. Mr. Sung wanted to die before things got ugly. His wife, a member of the generation that stood by her man, even followed him to the grave. Is that what wives of the Pharaohs had done? Yeah, it might make sense to some people.
He said, “Okay, Chief. I’ll move on.”
But he couldn’t accept that he’d solved the case. Where Mario or another detective, even a senior one, might agree and conclude the missing persons case was solved, he saw a jarring sequence of events. For him, it was as if he’d been playing one of Bach’s glasslike French Suites, and in the middle of the development section, the melody turned into Tom Petty’s “American Girl.” In the case of the Sungs, the pattern had broken. The musical line had fallen apart. He could see the wreckage, even if Mario and Malone couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
His phone rang a second time. He saw the NYPD number again and knew it was Malone calling a second time. “Chief?” he answered.
Silence on the other end of the line. Then he heard a woman’s voice, hushed but clear. “Buddy?”
Buddy felt on edge. “Who’s this?”
“Rachel Grove.”
The anxiety lessened. “Oh, hey. I thought you were the chief. What can I do for you?”
Rachel said, “I did the research project you wanted. About the One Police line that called the burner phone you showed me.”
Buddy asked, “Who was it?”
“The call went out from the trunk line, but we couldn’t trace it to a particular extension,” she explained. “But we know it came from a splinter line that serves two desk phones.”
Buddy pushed his phone more tightly against his right ear. “Which desk phones?”
“Chief Malone and his secretary, Alicia Bravo.”
Malone, he thought silently. Had he misread the chief? And was Malone’s betrayal the reason he’d ordered Buddy off the Sung case? Maybe. But what if someone else had made the call from Malone’s or Bravo’s desks? Bravo was an hourly employee, required to clock out at the end of the day.
He thought about that night and standing over Tan Jacket in the darkness, taking the phone from the back pocket of the unconscious man’s trousers. “Rachel,” he said, “was the chief still at work at five thirty or six p.m. two nights ago?”
“No idea.”
“Check the cameras in the lobby. Call me when you know when the chief left that night. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, Buddy. But that’s as far as I can go.”
“Understood,” Buddy said, and ended the call.
As he walked out through the security checkpoint and stood in the vestibule of the building housing the EDA, his headache returned. It throbbed above his left ear. Dizzy, he touched the window facing Eleventh Avenue. He stood there for a while, the glass cooling his hand.
More help, he thought. Rachel is good but I need more.
He gathered his strength, planned his route north to Gracie Mansion, and stepped outside.
52
Sloan Richardson saw the bank teller notice her watch. It had been her father’s favorite Rolex. A Submariner, stainless steel with a blue face and bezel. She rarely took it off. She knew it was too large for her—out of proportion to her wrist—but she didn’t care. There were many conventions about proportion and what ought to be done that she ignored. Maybe the teller thought her watch had been stolen rather than a reminder of her late father’s affection. Then again, many people had guessed wrong about her.
The teller counted and recounted the five hundred dollars in cash and passed the bills across the counter to her. The teller said, “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Would you jot down my balance, please?”
The teller took up a blank deposit slip and a pencil and stared at her computer screen. Her eyebrows rose, but otherwise her face remained impassive. She wrote on the deposit slip and pushed it across the counter.
Sloan Richardson read the number: $245,643.68. Still standing at the counter, she tore the deposit slip into shreds and pushed them toward the teller, saying, “Thank you.”
A half hour later, she entered Baked, the sandwich and coffee shop at the corner of Church and White Streets in Tribeca, and saw him at a table at the back. He saw her and, ever polite, stood from the banquette and offered his hand.
She ignored this gesture, removed her gray knit hat, and shook out her shoulder-length brown hair. Then she sat on a white chair facing him. It wasn’t that he was unattractive to her. She’d have slept with him happily if he hadn’t been repulsive to her for another reason. His handsome, athletic build and dark-brown hair carefully trimmed, with a touch of gray at the temples, was the look she most liked. Maybe because he resembled her late father, dead too soon from a heart attack. He was polite, well spoken, and—he’d told her—married with children. Although she was here for a personal reason, he was here for business. Their sole previous meeting had ended in a draw. She’d agreed to meet him a second time only beca
use he’d promised her an improved offer.
“How are you, Miss Richardson?” he asked once they’d sat down. “I took the liberty of ordering you a coffee. Would you like cream or sugar?”
She glanced at the coffee cup in front of her. Steam rose, twirling, out of the black liquid. For a second she suspected it was poisoned but then brushed away that notion as paranoid. She’d already begun to think this meeting was a mistake. Miss Richardson, she thought. Does he think he’s living in Downton fucking Abbey? Folding her hands around the cup, she appreciated its warmth on the cold day. She said, “I like it straight.”
He smiled. “Excellent. How’ve you been?”
She frowned. “I’m here for your offer, nothing else.”
He nodded. “I understand.” He unbuttoned his camel hair coat and sipped at his coffee.
She waited, not moving.
He said, “We’re prepared to offer you four million dollars.”
At the mention of money, she sensed the anger rising within her. She said, “I don’t want it. You know I don’t want it. Why are you offering something that won’t convince me?”
He sat back in his chair. “It’s a very generous offer, Miss Richardson. You should take it.”
Miss Richardson, she thought again. My God. She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve told you what I want. If you give it to me, I’ll sign your fucking papers and move out.”
He smiled again, but this time with animosity. “It’s impossible. I’ve told you that.”
She sipped the coffee, pushed back her chair, and stood. She pointed at him and said, “I won’t sign the papers. Not until I meet her.”
He leaned toward her. “You have to deal with me, Miss Richardson. You won’t be meeting with anyone else.”
“Then we don’t have much to talk about.” She laughed, and decided to use his first name. “Do we, Vance?”
His face tightened with anger and frustration, but she turned and left the table. As she left the café, she put on her hat, fished her gloves out of her jacket pocket, and walked home to Chinatown.
When she returned home to the Nanjing building, she noticed that a folded piece of letter-sized paper had been slipped under the door. She closed and locked the door and picked up the single piece of paper. After hanging her jacket in the closet by the entry, she walked into the kitchen and set the paper on the countertop. She knew what it was. It wasn’t the first paper she’d found in this way.
