by Gregory Colt
“Not much. Went over the morning’s events. You called. He came. The police were already there. He spent most of the time cancelling the opening today and shutting the museum down through the weekend. Then he handed me this,” he said, pulling a thick manila envelope out of his jacket and handing it to me.
I opened it and slid out the papers. “Oh, it’s my work,” I said. “You know, copies of my research and journals and things from the last several months.”
“Yeah. Lot of info there. I was hoping you could highlight what’s relevant. We should go over it in detail later, but right now let’s focus on the stolen pieces.”
“Yes. No, this is good. I meant to grab this myself when I thought I was going to be doing this on my own.”
“And that’s why you’re not sitting in the parking lot behind the museum right now.”
“What? What do you mean? That you’re tolerating me because of this?” I asked, waving the folder.
“It helps,” he said. “But also the part about doing this on your own.”
“I was going to. I would have.”
“I know.”
“I just led a team for nine weeks in Central America. I can take care of myself, Mr. Knight.”
He looked at me long enough to make me worry about him watching the road before he turned back. “So could George Wilkins,” he mumbled, looking straight ahead.
That was sobering. And terrifying. The part of me that wanted to be insulted lost out to the part frightened by the worry in his voice. Maybe it was more than selfish ego saying he worked alone. Maybe he had a reason.
And maybe I suffered a blow to the head without realizing it. This was the same man who took ten times the money to do almost the same job I did and then spent it on, well, certainly not his car. I had to put the events of this morning behind me and not hide, like I did earlier; save the grief for tonight. For as many nights as it took, as long as I could keep focused during the day. None of that had anything to do with Knight. As for any lingering confusion I had over certain expectations, well, that started last night at the gala. I’d seen him rubbing his wrists all evening. He’d mentioned getting handcuffed, while telling his ridiculous story about the adventure involved in recovering one of the pieces. Everyone laughed, but he hadn’t exaggerated the pain in his wrists. He had tried to hide it. Sore and bruised as I was from the last two months, I felt sympathetic right then, more so with everyone laughing. So, when our dinner arrived, I asked the server to keep his warm in the kitchen, until he was done speaking. I doubt he even noticed.
We parked by the curb outside a building in Lower Manhattan that, if not for a couple of open windows on the second floor that let us see shadows moving around, I would have thought it abandoned. The entire street was like that. Not a bad part of town, per se, but another block or two and there would be no question.
We got out of the car and walked to the big glass double doors.
“Afternoon, Mr. Knight,” said an older gentleman who opened the door. He was dressed to the nines. Or would be, if it were 1940. It suited him, though.
“Ma’am,” he smiled at me. Handsome, even. I smiled back.
Adrian smiled at him too. “Hi, Abner. What are you doing here this afternoon?”
“Bah, one of those new girls sent the elevator to four and none of them want to go up there, much less step inside and send it back down,” he said. “Them stairs are too much for me these days. Called Mr. Adams and he says to cordon off the doors down here; keep folks away in case she falls. Adams says he’s gonna call a guy and have her brought back down and disabled for good,” he said, pulling the door closed behind us.
“Probably for the best,” said Adrian. “I’m headed to the office now, if you want me to send it down.”
“No, thank you. Mr. Adams doesn’t want to risk anything happening until the elevator man gets here,” said Abner.
“You mean doesn’t want any claim on his insurance. The repairman is bonded and insured,” said Adrian.
“Aye,” Abner chuckled. Which led to a coughing fit. Adrian moved toward him, but Abner waved him off. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
“Old war wounds acting up?” Adrian asked.
“Left lung never did heal right,” said Abner, grabbing his chest and taking deep breaths.
“What war?” I asked.
“What’s that?” Abner asked.
“She asked what war you were wounded in?” Adrian repeated to him.
“The South—I was fighting in South—” Abner coughed, and took a moment to get his breath.
Adrian turned to me. “That’s right,” he said solemnly. “Abner is a veteran of the American Civil War.”
Abner guffawed and had to sit down when the accompanying coughing fit followed. “Quit—quit making me laugh,” he said smiling and coughing.
He seemed to relax after a few more deep breaths.
He looked at me. “Four years in Europe and North Africa and not a scratch. Five years later, I’m flying into Korea. Get hit my first night, shrapnel from a mortar round. I’m walking into my barracks, I mean right there at the door under the awning, and I hear this whistling. Barely got the door shut when it went off outside. Blew the steps clean away. You could see where the tail fin cut through the awning. Took a piece of metal right into the lung.”
I gasped. It wasn’t a surprise. I mean, you hear stories of narrow escapes all the time. But, I couldn’t picture this small elderly gentleman as a soldier. Or maybe I didn’t want to.
He smiled again. “I was lucky. You should have seen the door I was behind. More than a dozen shards of metal stuck right into it. All with my name on it. I’ll take the coughing any day.”
“You never told me the long version of what happened,” Adrian said to Abner.
“Some company I want to keep longer than others,” Abner winked at me. I couldn’t help smiling. I liked him.
“That hurts, Abner. That really hurts,” Adrian said, walking away backwards towards the stairs.
“It was very nice meeting you,” I said sincerely. And, in that moment, he reminded me of Henry.
The look on my face must have changed because the next thing Abner said was, “Don’t worry miss. Mr. Knight’s as good as his name. Don’t know what trouble you’re in. Don’t want to know. But whatever it is he’ll take care of it right proper.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said.
Abner’s eyes twinkled and he tapped his forefinger to the side of his nose before turning away to work around the elevator. What a curious man.
I could hear Adrian still making his way up the creaking stairs. He was taking his time waiting for me to catch up, but wasn’t slowing either. He’d already said Nick’s office was on the fourth floor, and from what I’d gathered—and from the general look of the place—there wasn’t much else in the building.
I was right. The second floor seemed busy. Four or five women, all of different ages, busied themselves with phones and fax machines. No one had occupied the third floor for some time, given the layer of dust over everything, and the general musty smell. I caught Adrian as he reached the top floor.
“Abner seems fond of you,” he said.
“Abner has excellent taste,” I replied.
He pulled his keys out and opened the third door on the right. Nick Roarke. That’s all it said on the glass. I followed Adrian in and he shut the door behind us.
“Worried everyone else on this floor will overhear you?” I asked.
“Lot of phone calls to be made; sound could carry down the stairs. Anyone hears the wrong thing and they could be in danger. Or put us in danger. The fewer people connected to this, the better,” he said.
I agreed, and sat the manila envelope down on the big wooden desk along with the bag that had my bloody clothes in them. I didn’t know why I’d brought them with me. Now that my hands were free, I made for the only thing of any significance in the old office—the coffee maker.
I noticed several things as I
busied myself searching out the filters and styrofoam cups. The room was sparse, Spartan even, with only the desk and some file cabinets in the way of furnishing. I found the can of coffee grounds next, on the shelf beside the coffee maker, and the box of filters in with a row of books on top of a cabinet, before I was able to define the scent of the place. I detected old musty wood, some leather, and a pinch of tobacco as I sat everything on the desk between the old rotary phone and a weird black candle. I used the sink in a small restroom the office had to wash out the pot and fill it. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked.
“No, thank you,” he said, opening and shutting drawers on the far cabinet, looking for something.
One cup it was then. Once I had that running, I sat at the desk, dumped out the contents of the manila folder, and flipped through the pages, looking for ones that pertained to the missing items. I was ready to go by the time the coffee finished. I wasn’t thrilled about using city tap water in this old building, but if it was good enough for them, it was good enough for me. At least the pot was clean.
I poured a cup, hoping it would help my stressed mind to process the items in the file. It wasn’t great, not even good, really, but it was caffeinated, and that’s what mattered. I even thought of making another cup. “Sure you don’t want some?” I asked, looking for an excuse to make more.
“Liked that so much you want more, eh?” he asked with a grin, before walking over to open a cabinet door half-hidden behind a stack of yet more books. I choked when I saw the gallons of purified water. He grabbed one and sat it next to me. “Yes, that would be wonderful, Dr. Spurling, thank you,” he said. I grimaced and punched him in the shoulder. Ass. He went back to the file cabinet where he was accumulating a growing stack of folders while I made more coffee.
By the time we were through enjoying the upgrade in slow roasted satisfaction, we both had our respective pile of papers in order, and stacked neatly in front of us on the desk.
And I was dying. I couldn’t take another minute sitting in that leather chair, sweating into the trench coat. I stood and grabbed my sack of clothes, intent on walking into the bathroom to dump them into the sink and wash them, but Adrian slid the big trashcan across the floor in front of me with his foot.
“What?” I asked.
He got up and lifted the lid. “Is there ever going to come a day when you can wear that again and not think of this morning?”
He was right. It would drive me insane. I knew I couldn’t have those clothes sitting in my closet, or lying around where I would be forced to see them every day, a constant reminder. I sighed and tossed the bag in the trash. Adrian put the can back. I shut the bathroom door and threw off the trench coat for a respite. I could handle it for an hour at a time, maybe, if I had to.
I heard Adrian make a call while I was in there. It was to a Ms. Summerfield, I think, something about him not making it this weekend and not to worry about anything because, Zhai Mun?, or somebody would take care of it. He hung up, and I heard him unlock one of the drawers in the desk before he walked over and knocked on the bathroom door. I threw the trench coat back on and opened it. “What?” I asked.
He looked at me for a moment, then rolled his eyes and stepped past me into the bathroom. “What are you doing?” I asked.
He went to a cabinet built into the wall at the back, opened it, and grabbed a stack of folded clothes. He pushed them into my arms. “Here,” he said walking out. “You have work to do, doctor.”
I followed him out. “What do you mean I have work to do?” I snapped.
“I’m meeting a contact. Very shy. Won’t come close unless I’m alone. We need to start making phone calls. I left a list of the contacts I have that might hear something over on the desk. Give them a call after talking to yours. Tell them you’re calling on my behalf and they shouldn’t give much trouble.”
“You are not leaving me here.”
He walked over to the desk and opened the unlocked top drawer. “Nick’s .38 is in here. It’s loaded. You shouldn’t need it, but I want you to know where it is. Double-action, so all you have to do is pull the trigger. Almost no one ever wanders in here, so if you hear someone on the stairs you get ready.” He turned away and then quickly spun back to face me. “But the ones who do are normally kids off the street, or someone in trouble. In that case, you know, don’t shoot them.” He leaned over the desk, grabbed a pen, and scribbled a number down on the top paper. “That’s my cell, in case you need me.”
“I need you here now, doing your job!”
“I am doing my job,” he said flatly, looking right into my eyes. Then he left.
I could have screamed. And of course, the universe chose that very moment to cause every spot that had itched on my body to need scratched, immediately.
Aaaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhh…If those sweat pants and socks didn’t smell so clean and feel so soft, I would have chased him down the stairs to verbally destroy him and everything he stood for!
Chapter Six
I took the stairs two at a time. I didn’t think she would come after me, not with how important the investigation was to her, and not with how much she wanted out of that trench coat, but I’d been wrong before. As long as I left quickly, she would stay and make those calls. I needed to get to the Jordan’s neighborhood. I know Claire didn’t understand why I wasn’t staying to help find Henry and George’s killer. They were my friends, or as close as I had, but I’d taken the boy’s money first. I couldn’t save my friends, but the girl could still be alive. But even if not, I’d find her. And Claire was right. Too much time had gone by. It could take days, weeks even, to get the right leads in the museum case. I could work on both. I would do both.
I jumped the last three steps, landing so loud on the lobby floor even Abner heard me.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Knight?” he asked as I passed.
“Yeah. Fine,” I stopped a second to catch my breath. “On a case.”
“And the lady is working alone up there?” he asked.
“She’s a specialist in her field. Helping me with some research,” I checked the stairs behind me. I didn’t hear anything. “Don’t suppose I could trouble you to stick around a while longer, keep an eye on her?”
Abner lit up. “Yes sir. Adams has me here most of the day anyhow in case the repairman can come by. I’ll run to Joe’s and grab a sandwich. Maybe ring Miss Claire and see if she would like something. Haven’t had a lunch date with a beautiful woman I wasn’t married to since the Eisenhower administration,” he winked.
I slapped him on the shoulder. “Good man.”
It took a half hour to get to the Morrisania area of the South Bronx. On the way I phoned local hospitals, checked for any Jane Doe’s matching Ruby Jordan’s description. There were none. Now for the fun part…finding a pimp in the Bronx.
I wanted to talk to the boyfriend, Brandon, too, and head out to the shelter to see whatever there was to see, but this guy M&M would know the streets. If he kept a close tab on his girls, then he had eyes out, people he trusted. If the neighborhood were his, then word of anything happening here would get around to him. I thought of looking for one of his girls. She could find him, and may know Ruby. However, I didn’t know this part of town well, and I’d lose a lot of time. I needed a more direct approach. The diner. It was the only place I knew the location of anyway.
When I heard, The Box, I pictured one of those old boxcar diners. Like the ones where they literally use an old dining car that’s out of service. This wasn’t anything like that. The Box was a hole-in-the-wall café made from a big converted garage. By converted, I mean someone put mismatched tables and chairs inside a garage and attached a small kitchen area. It still had the garage door. And oil stains on the concrete. And no windows, excepting of course the open garage door. The place was packed though; always a good sign, especially with noon come and gone. The more people around, the more chances for information. Would it be weird to just walk in and ask for a pimp? Yeah, but sub
tle isn’t always my strong suit.
I circled the block until I found an opening to park along the curb nearby.
I stepped out of my car and into a wave of mouth-watering goodness. The ambrosial aroma emanating from the diner taunted me with reminders of having skipped lunch. So maybe I have an addiction to good food. Sue me. Some people spend a decade overseas and come home with different tastes. I wasn’t one of those people and I had a lot of time to make up for.
I navigated the tables, aiming for the bar in back. Most everyone was busy eating, but one or two turned to stare. I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t heard them laugh when the big guy at the counter said “Nadhani mtu nyeupe ni kupotea.”
What was that? Bantu of some kind. Swahili. The white man is lost? No. I think the white man is lost. Right. I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d spent nearly my entire adult life in Africa. I was more comfortable walking in here than I ever had at those museum events. But, this wasn’t Africa. This was New York.
I sat at the bar and smiled. “Si woliopotea. Njaa!” Not lost. Hungry!
My Yoruba was better than Swahili, thanks to Djimon, but I could manage. The big guy was well spoken, which helped. Not the Kingwana or bastardized Bantu-French I was used to hearing.
The big man stared at me when I turned back to the bar. I’ve had no end of intimidating looks leveled at me over the years, and his was one of the best. And when I say the guy was big, I’m not saying large and round, nor am I saying huge and muscular. He looked like a normal guy. Just, you know, times two. No one else seemed to have any idea what we were talking about.
“Jinsi gani unajua Swahili?” he asked. I couldn’t tell if he was surprised or angry. If he wanted to know how I spoke the language, there was only one way I could think of to prove the truth. I had a scar, a very unique scar, that would settle the matter. But that was dangerous in the wrong company. I could have lied, but I’ve always believed if there’s going to be trouble it should at least be over the truth.
“Baba yang alikuwa missionary,” I said. My father was a missionary. There. True. Believable. And sort of the reason I knew Swahili, in a roundabout way.
