JM02 - Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home

by Peter Spiegelman

  Jane swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge. Her back was stiff and perfectly straight. Her voice was soft and full of sarcasm. “Hope springs eternal,” she said, and she went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  It was past noon when I awoke again, and I was alone. The breakfast tray was on the floor and breakfast was still on it. It was dark outside, and rain fell against the tall windows in a hectic clatter. It slid down the glass in sheets and cast twisting shadows on the walls. I rolled on my back and watched them and tried not to think about Jane.

  A gust of wind rattled the glass. I pulled on my shorts and stood at the window. Low clouds scrambled across the sky and caught on the jagged edges of the cityscape. I looked down and saw the tops of many umbrellas, bumping at each other like clumsy fat men. I rubbed my hands over my face and got into the shower.

  I owed Nina Sachs a final report, to go with my invoice, and I poured a cup of coffee and opened my laptop to write it. After forty-five minutes I pushed back from the table and read over my work. The INVESTIGATION section was a straightforward chronology of what I’d done, where I’d gone, and whom I’d spoken with, and the FINDINGS section was a recitation of everything relevant that I’d learned. It was depressingly short. I drank off the last of my coffee and went to the kitchen to brew a fresh pot.

  Despite my best efforts, I’d been unable to wrestle my worry about Danes into anything like a theory, and the CONCLUSIONS section of my report was still unwritten. Maybe I should keep it simple: Something bad has happened. I put the paper cone in the coffee machine and spooned coffee in and thought again about Billy. I could still hear his nearly whispered question: You know where he is yet? I flicked the switch on the machine and the phone rang.

  “You fucking bastard!” she said. She was nearly breathless with anger, and it took me a moment to place the voice. “You fucking son of a bitch! I trusted you— I talked to you— I spilled my goddamn guts— and you do this?”

  “Calm down, Irene, and tell me what it is you think I’ve done.”

  Irene Pratt huffed at the other end of the line. “Don’t give me that crap. You’re the one who was looking for him. You’re the one who was sniffing around his office. You know what you did, you lying shit.”

  I thought for a moment and listened to the coffee trickle into the carafe. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Irene, so why don’t you take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on?”

  Pratt started to speak and stopped herself a couple of times and settled into a furious silence. When she finally spoke the edge was off her voice, and something tentative had replaced it. “You’re serious?”

  “I’m serious that I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re serious you didn’t do it?”

  “Didn’t do what?”

  She seemed not to hear the question. “But if it wasn’t you, then … who did it?”

  I clenched my teeth. “Who did what, Irene?”

  It took her a long while to answer. “Who broke into my office … and into Greg’s?”

  19

  I met Irene Pratt in the lobby bar of the Warwick Hotel. There were lots of plump armchairs in there, and big windows that looked out on Sixth Avenue, and soft incandescent lighting that gave the place a snug feel against the rain. Irene Pratt wore jeans and sneakers and a school-bus-yellow rain slicker, and she looked young and scared. She was perched at the edge of a bar stool, nursing a Coke and fidgeting with a bowl of peanuts, when I came in. She looked up and looked ready to bolt.

  “Tell me again how you had nothing to do with this,” she said. Her voice was low and taut. She pushed a strand of wet hair away from her face.

  I shook the water from my shoulders and hung my jacket on the back of a bar stool. “I told you, Irene, I haven’t been near your office since you saw me there with Turpin. This isn’t me.” The bartender came by and laid a small napkin in front of me. I ordered a cranberry juice and club soda and turned back to Pratt. “What happened?”

  She took a swig of her soda. “I came in just before noon and my office door was unlocked and I knew something was wrong.”

  “Because of the door?” I asked. Pratt nodded. “You’re sure it was locked when you left last night?”

  “Last night and every night,” she said. “And then I looked at my desk, and I knew that things were … different. Not obviously different, but … neater than I leave things. A little more squared off.” Her shoulders were rigid beneath the yellow slicker, and she kept shifting in her seat.

  “The cleaners couldn’t have straightened things up a little and maybe forgotten to lock the door?”

  Pratt shook her head. “They don’t have keys to our offices, and they don’t clean them unless we’re there. I was still working when they came last night. They just emptied the trash, vacuumed, and left.” She took a peanut from the bowl and chewed it nervously.

  “What else besides the door and the desktop?”

  “My credenza— behind my desk— it’s got a set of file drawers in it and they were opened.”

  “Unlocked or actually pulled open?”

  “The lock was still locked, but it wasn’t latched on to anything, and you could just pull all the drawers open.”

  “And you’re sure—”

  “I always lock it. Always.”

  “Anything missing?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Your PCs were okay?”

  “As far as I could tell.” A big group of tourists came into the bar. They were loud and took up a lot of space, and they seemed to make Irene Pratt even jumpier. I leaned toward her.

  “And what about Danes’s office?”

  “It was locked, but the knob was loose in my hand, and the little metal thing— in the doorjamb— was dented. And when I put the key in the lock, it didn’t turn at first.”

  “It’s always locked?”

  “Always, when Greg’s not there.”

  “You know who’s got keys?”

  “I’ve got one; our assistant, Giselle, has another; and security’s got one. I think that’s it.”

  “What did you find inside?”

  “It was neat as a pin in there, just like always: desk clean, everything very orderly… .” She took off her glasses and wiped them with a bar napkin and put them on again. Her dark eyes moved back and forth across the crowd behind me. “But he has the same credenza as I do, and it was opened just like mine.”

  “When’s the last time you were in there?”

  “Wednesday or Thursday, to get a file. And don’t even ask if the drawers were locked then, because they were— and there was nothing wrong with his door either.”

  “Who has keys to his credenza?”

  “As far as I know, just me,” Pratt said, and she chewed another peanut into dust.

  I drank my drink and thought for a while. “You’re pretty careful about keeping things locked up.”

  “Everyone is, in this business. An advance copy of a research report, or even of a draft, could be worth a lot to some people. It’s like betting on the Sunday football games when you’ve already read the Monday papers. So— yeah— we’re pretty careful.”

  “Has Pace had that kind of trouble before?”

  “Leaked reports? God, no— that’s all we need.”

  “What made you go into Danes’s office today?” Her eyes fixed on mine for a moment and then flicked away.

  “I … I don’t know,” she said. “When I thought someone had been in my office, I guess I just got worried.” She looked at me, and there was color in her pale face. “The first thing I thought of was that it must’ve been you.”

  “I’m flattered.” I laughed. “But why me?”

  She looked down at her knees. “You’d called me, and come around the office and had that scene with Tampon, and then you showed up at my place. Who else was I supposed to think of?”

  “Am I the only one who’s been asking about Danes?”

>   Pratt was quiet for a while. “You’re the only one who’s come to the office or come to see me,” she said.

  “But am I the only one who’s been asking?”

  “A lot of people call us,” she said. “Some of them ask about Greg.”

  “People like who?”

  “People we do business with,” she said, looking around the room. “Industry contacts, fund managers, people from the companies we cover— the same people who called before he went away.”

  “Anyone who’s been calling more often lately?”

  She looked intently into her glass and swirled the crushed ice around. “No one I can think of,” she said finally. “I told you, a lot of people call us; I don’t keep track of them all. But I know you’re the only one who’s come around.”

  “Until now,” I said. The bartender came by and offered Pratt a refill on her soda. She nodded. “When you thought this was me, what did you think I was looking for?” I asked.

  Pratt shook her head. “I don’t know … nothing specific. Something to help you find Greg, I guess.”

  “Any ideas on what that might be?”

  She peered at me from behind her smudged lenses, and there was irritation in her voice. “I don’t know. I don’t know any more about where he is than I did the last time we talked. Isn’t finding him supposed to be your area of expertise?”

  I let that go and drank some of my drink and thought some more. Behind me, laughter erupted from the group of tourists.

  “You report this to anyone at Pace?” I asked.

  Pratt’s dark eyes were wide. “No. No one.”

  “Who are you supposed to tell?”

  “Security, I guess— and Tampon. He wants to know anything about people looking for Greg.”

  “So why haven’t you called him?”

  “I don’t know. I was … worried, I guess.”

  “About what?”

  She looked at me for a long while. “I talked to you too much that night, and I shouldn’t have. And I’ve been worried ever since about Tampon finding out. I was afraid if I told him about this, one thing would lead to another …” She sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “It could be my job,” she said softly.

  I nodded at her. Pratt sank her hands into the pockets of her slicker and sat hunched and silent. It was warm in the bar, but she looked as if she were tensed against a cold wind. A tourist barked out a loud guffaw and Pratt started.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Pratt stared at me. Her nose was red and her lips were chalky. She nodded. “This whole breakin thing is … creepy,” she said. Her voice was nearly a whisper. “When I thought you’d done it I was mostly mad, but now”— she swallowed hard and shook her head—“now it’s got me thinking and … I’m scared.”

  “Of what?”

  She looked beyond me, into the noisy crowd. “Four or five days in the last week, I’ve seen this car parked near my place, and a guy in it that I think is watching me.”

  I put my glass on the bar and spoke very quietly. “What kind of car, Irene?”

  Pratt’s eyes narrowed and came back to mine. “It’s black, a Pontiac I think, and new-looking.”

  I thought of the cars that had trailed me over the bridge, the night I’d come back from Fort Lee. One of them had been a black, late-model Grand Prix. “And the guy in it?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know … a white guy with dark hair and a mustache … in his thirties, maybe. Just a guy.” Her face was taut, and she dug her hands deeper into her pockets.

  “Was he there today?” I asked. She nodded. “Has he said anything to you, or done anything?”

  “Nothing. He’s always reading a paper or a book; he’s never even looked at me. It’s just a feeling I get.” Her shoulders twitched as if a chill had rippled through her. “What’s going on, March?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But someone besides me has been looking for Danes, and someone— maybe the same someone— has been tailing me and staking out my place. It could be the same person who creeped your office, or the same person who’s been watching you.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Pratt said, and she rose quickly and clumsily. Her voice was an angry rasp. “What the fuck is going on? What did you get me into?”

  The bartender looked at us and frowned. “Sit down, Irene,” I said, and I took her arm. She shrugged my hand away, but sat. “I told you, I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, it probably has more to do with Danes than with me.”

  “That’s great to hear,” Pratt said. “It’ll be a real comfort the next time I see that car, or when somebody breaks into my office again.” She ran her fingers through her hair, over and over. “So what the hell am I supposed to do?”

  It was a fair question, and I thought about it for a while. “You do three things,” I said finally. “First, you try to calm down. I know it’s not easy; I know this breakin thing is scary as hell, and being tailed is even worse, but I think whoever’s doing this is interested in Danes, not in you.”

  “You think—”

  “Second, you go back to work and report the breakin at Danes’s office to everybody you’re supposed to, but you leave your office out of it.” Pratt took a breath and started to speak; I ignored her. “You’ve already signed in at your building today. If Turpin and his pals find out about the breakin, and that you were at work but didn’t report it, they’ll start to wonder about you. If they also find out you’ve talked to me, you’ll be in deep shit.” Pratt sputtered but I held up my hand. “Don’t worry. They won’t hear it from me, but that doesn’t mean they won’t hear it. I assume you called me on your office phone today.” She went white.

  “Shit. Oh, shit.”

  “That’s why you don’t want them wondering about you. You tell them about Danes’s office and nobody gets suspicious; nobody has a reason to check the calls from your phone.”

  Pratt put her hand on her forehead. “Oh, shit.”

  “Third, after you report this, you go home. If that car is parked outside your place, or if you see that guy again, you call me.”

  She cursed softly for a while and then went silent. After about a minute she took a deep breath and sat up. Her voice was steadier when she spoke. “And if I see him and call you, then what?”

  “Then I’ll come over and have a chat with him.”

  “Have a chat with him. What the hell does that mean? Is that like cement overshoes or something?”

  I laughed. “It means I’ll talk to him and see if I can find out what he’s doing and why.”

  “Christ, I can’t believe this,” she said, and shook her head. “You’ll get there quick if I call you? You won’t leave me hanging?”

  “I won’t leave you hanging, Irene, but I don’t think this guy is any threat to you. I think he’s staking you out in the hope that Danes will turn up. But if you get scared or feel threatened, call the cops.”

  She cringed and shook her head some more. “The cops? Oh, Christ.”

  I put my hand on her arm, and this time she let it stay there. “Call Turpin, tell him your story, and keep it simple. You haven’t done anything wrong, Irene; this will all be fine. Just calm down.”

  Pratt took another deep breath and squared her shoulders. She stood and drained her soda and looked at me. Her dark eyes were rimmed with red. “All right … all right,” she said, and she managed something like a smile. “I can do this. But when you figure out what the hell is happening, you tell me, okay? Don’t leave me hanging, March.”

  “Okay,” I said, and she nodded at me and walked out of the bar. I watched her yellow slicker sift into the crowd.

  Something was going on— I had known that— but now I knew that whatever it was had some organization and size. Whoever followed me had also tailed Richard Gilpin out in Fort Lee and staked out Irene Pratt’s place too. More likely than not, they were also the same guys who’d been sniffing around Danes’s apartment. And now they’d broken into the P
ace offices. They were not perhaps the most skillful operators in the world, but they didn’t seem to want for manpower.

  I signaled for the check and thought about Pratt and her conflicting fears. The breakins and the tails had scared her, but she was also wary of me and anxious about her own indiscretions. It was only because her alarm had outweighed her other worries that she’d called me at all, and I got the sense there were things she hadn’t said. Which made her no different from most people I meet.

  I’d meant what I said about whoever was watching her— that their interest was probably in Danes and not her— but the breakins worried me. They implied an unhealthy appetite for risk, or maybe a certain desperation. I shook my head.

  A familiar buzz was running through me, a palpable mix of anticipation and anxiety. It was the leading edge of recognition, the sense that something was emerging from murky waters, but whether wreck or sunken treasure, I still had no idea. And it was inchoate worry, too— about Irene and Nina and Ines and Billy. About Danes. I paid the tab, found a quiet corner in the Warwick’s lobby, and pulled out my cell phone.

  Nina Sachs was in a foul mood when she answered, and it only got worse when she realized who was calling. She flatly refused to see me at first, and for a while it was all I could do to keep her on the line. But I was insistent and, despite herself, she grew curious and a little anxious. She was downtown, at Ines’s SoHo gallery, and she agreed to meet me at a bar on Broome Street. I took a cab there.

  Siren was a hip, high-ceilinged place done in blues and sea greens, and outfitted like a Philip Johnson aquarium. The lighting was cool and dim and shifting, and the background music was Brian Eno. The tiny aluminum tables were topped in frosted green glass, and at just past five on a rainy Saturday they were mostly empty. Nina was seated at the back of the room, with a bottle of merlot, two glasses, and Ines. They were vigorously ignoring the city’s smoking ban, but no one at Siren seemed to care.

  “What is it with you?” Nina asked as I approached. “You can’t take rejection?” Even in the submarine light I could see the veins in her eyes and the grainy texture and sallow cast of her skin. Her hair was loose and limp, and her hand shook as she raised a cigarette to her lips. Hangover. Her jeans and shirtsleeves were stained with paint and charcoal.