“The Copenhagen Window,” Constance translated.
“Yes. The documents reference it frequently, but never explain it. It seems to have to do with genetic manipulation, or quantum mechanics, or perhaps some combination of the two. But it’s clear that the scientists working on the Copenhagen Window believed it held vast promise for the future of the master race. Perhaps it is related to the power you mention.”
Constance did not answer. In the silence, Pendergast clenched, then unclenched, his fingers. “I’ll follow your advice.” He glanced at his watch. “I can be in Brazil by dinnertime. I’ll finish this, one way or another.”
“Take extreme care. And remember what I said: sometimes violence is the only answer.”
He bowed, and then raised his head again, fixing her with glittering, silvery eyes. “You should know this: if I cannot bring Tristram back with me, safe and sound, I will not return. You will be on your own.”
The detached, almost oracular expression faded from her face, and a faint flush rose in its place. For a long moment the two simply looked at each other across the table. Then, at last, Constance raised one hand and caressed Pendergast’s cheek.
“In that case, I wish you a tentative good-bye,” she said.
Pendergast took the hand, squeezed it gently. Then he rose to leave.
“Wait,” Constance murmured.
Pendergast turned back. The flush on her face deepened, and she looked down, not meeting his eyes.
“Dearest guardian,” she said in a tone almost too low to be heard. “I hope… I hope that you find peace.”
48
CORRIE STOOD OUTSIDE THE DEALERSHIP. IT WAS THREE o’clock in the morning, on a night as dark as sin, the air ten degrees below freezing. The ugly sodium lights blasted the rows of parked cars with a sickly yellow glow, glittering on the frost that rimed the windshields. They hadn’t given Corrie any keys to the dealership, but she had managed to swipe Miller’s when he left them around—which he did all the time, sending him into a fit of rage, searching and searching, cursing, kicking trash cans, and generally displaying his assholery in full bloom.
Corrie had expended a lot of research—and thinking—on the scam the salesmen were all so proud of. It turned out to actually be pretty common, known as a credit cozen. Miller had been right in saying it was widespread among dealerships, and rarely prosecuted. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that the only people at the dealership who would be threatened by such exposure would be the owners, not the salesmen. That meant the Riccos, Senior and Junior. If her dad had made good on his threat to blow the whistle, they were the ones with the most to lose.
Corrie decided to focus her attention on father and son.
Keeping well outside of the gaudy pool of illumination, she circled the dealership and came up to the building from behind, where the service and repair operations were located. There were still some area lights here, but the spot was hidden from the road; behind the dealership were only large cornfields, now rows of dry winter stubble.
She darted past the area lights and came up to the back of the building. There she slipped on a pair of latex gloves and waited. The place was empty, with no evidence of a night watchman or private security.
Or at least, none that was visible.
She crept around to the side entrance to the showroom. She tried the keys, found the right one, and entered.
Now—to keep the alarm from going off.
Earlier in the day, she had scoped the place out, noting the alarm keypads next to each door. That afternoon she had “accidentally” leaned on the keypad, pressing the red alarm button, setting it off and causing Miller to rush over and punch in the reset code. Which she had carefully noted. Now, as the warning light blinked on the pad and the LCD screen counted down, she pressed in the code. The light turned green.
The plate-glass windows of the showroom let in plenty of light from the lot—almost too much. Keeping to the shadows, she crept over to the Riccos’ small suite of offices—where the two men, offices side by side, shared a secretary in an anteroom.
The door wasn’t even locked.
She slipped inside and moved to Ricco Senior’s office. A row of fake wood filing cabinets lined the back wall. She took out the small pry bar she had brought, inserted it into the edge of the top drawer, and applied pressure. The drawer opened with a jerk and a snap of cheap metal.
The drawer rolled out to reveal a deep row of files—hundreds, it seemed. And this was one drawer out of twenty. Now that she thought about it, she had no targeted idea of what she was looking for. Proof of the credit-cozen scam? She already had that. What she would start with, she decided, would be her father’s personnel file. Beyond that, she would simply look through the files on a fishing expedition.
The first drawer contained only sales files. She flipped through them, forced open another drawer, then another. God, what a lot of paperwork.
After thirty minutes she finally arrived at the personnel files. They were in their own unmarked drawer, with nothing else. Flipping through them, she almost immediately came to SWANSON.
She hesitated, thinking. Even though it would be obvious the place had been broken into, she couldn’t steal just his file—that would direct attention to him. No—what she’d do was steal a whole bunch of personnel files, along with some other random files. That way they wouldn’t be able to pinpoint which file she was interested in.
She stuffed the SWANSON file into her shoulder bag and was starting to pull out other files at random when she suddenly heard a noise. The soft shutting of a door. Unmistakable.
She froze. She couldn’t leave the little suite of offices by a back door—there was none. The only way out was through the big glassed-in showroom, bathed in light from the lot. Even as she waited, she heard another door shut and the click of footfalls on the polished granite floor of the showroom.
She silently closed all the file drawers, hoping they weren’t too obviously mangled, slipped the pry bar into her shoulder bag, and retreated toward the back of the suite. Where?
The bathroom.
Easing open the door, she slipped in, bolted it behind her, and went into the stall, shutting and locking that as well. She climbed onto the toilet.
All was silent. Whoever was in the showroom wasn’t likely to come into Ricco’s office. And even if they did, they wouldn’t come into the bathroom. Or would they? Too late, she realized she shouldn’t have shut and locked the damn bathroom door. That would look suspicious, especially if they tried it and found it locked. She should have left the door partway open.
She started to sweat, the stupidity of her B&E sinking in. She had committed a serious crime—yet again. What was wrong with her? Was she a criminal at heart? Why did she take these crazy risks?
The click of footsteps came closer, and she heard the outer office door open. They were coming in. The footsteps now fell more softly on the plush carpeting of the outer office. She strained to hear.
A loud screech caused her to jump—the person had opened one of the jimmied filing cabinets. He slammed it rather loudly. Now the footsteps, brisker, moved through the suite of offices.
Suddenly there was a loud rattle of the bathroom door. A brief silence, then another, even more forceful attempt to open the door, with the muffled sound of a body pushing itself against it.
Who was it? Ricco? This was it. She was toast.
And now came a crash as the person hurled himself against the door, another crash, the splintering sound of wood—and light flooded into the bathroom.
A momentary silence. Corrie couldn’t even breathe. Her heart was rattling in her chest like a rock being shaken in a tin can.
A quick footstep and the stall door was flung open so hard the flimsy latch went flying.
“You!”
Charlie Foote stood there, his pale face sweating. He was almost as frightened as she was.
“Let me explain—” Corrie began all in a panic.
; Foote let out a long breath, held up his hand. “Please… get down off that toilet. You look ridiculous.”
Corrie got down. He turned without a word and she followed him out of the bathroom. She could see the future parading before her eyes: the police arriving, her arrest, the discovery that she was her father’s daughter, which in turn would lead to her father’s arrest. Both of them convicted, sentenced to prison—maybe for years. It was the end of her career and her association with Pendergast… the end of her life, in fact, which she had only recently dragged up and out of the shit.
The train of thought was so awful that she staggered.
Foote caught her arm. “Easy.” His voice was quiet. “Let’s go into the lounge, where they can’t see us from the street.”
Corrie collapsed into the first chair she came to. Foote took a chair opposite her, elbows on his knees, staring at her.
“Please—” she began, ready to do anything, anything, to get out of this. But he shook his head and pressed her hand for quiet.
“Look, Corrie,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on.”
She stared.
“You’re Jack Swanson’s daughter, right?”
She said nothing. This was worse than she thought.
Foote went on. “It’s okay. Just calm down. I’m not going to rat on you. I already had my suspicions—the way you were always looking around, asking a lot of questions. And now, going through Ricco’s office—you’re trying to help your father, aren’t you?”
Corrie said nothing.
“You may not look much like him, but I can hear his voice in yours. Corrie, I always liked your father. He and I were friends. I didn’t—and don’t—like what’s going on around here, just as he didn’t. Maybe he got a bum rap.” He paused. “Is that what you think? Is that what this is about?”
Corrie looked at him. It was true, he’d always been polite to her, rather quiet, rarely joining in with the other salesmen’s crude jokes. And she knew he was no fan of the credit-cozen scheme. Still, Corrie didn’t know what to say. She was afraid to confirm or deny anything.
Foote nodded to himself. “Yeah. That is what you think—that he was framed. And you’re here, breaking into the place, to prove it.”
She was astonished at his perspicacity.
He reached over and gently grasped her bag, opening its flap. “And there it is: Jack’s personnel file. Now I know I’m right.” He mustered a wan smile. “You know what? You could use an ally. We can work together. Maybe I can help you—and clean this place up at the same time.”
“You’re not going to turn me in?”
He laughed, shook his head. “No way. But we’d better get out of here before Ricco Senior arrives. The old skunk sometimes comes in as early as five to do paperwork.”
He held out his arm. Corrie almost felt like crying with relief. She staggered to her feet and caught it.
“I know an all-night diner where we can grab coffee and breakfast—and you can tell me all about your father and why you think he was framed.” And he gestured toward the rear door of the dealership.
49
THE CABLE STREET DINER WAS LIKE A TIME WARP, CORRIE thought. No retro Hollywood chain could touch it. It was perfect down to the broken jukeboxes at each table, the bubbled linoleum floors and Formica tabletops with their decorative peach and turquoise triangles, the fly-specked menus, and the bleached-blond waitresses belting out the early-morning orders to the fry cooks in the back.
At least the coffee was strong.
Corrie went to the ladies’ room, reached into her pocket, and threw away the wadded ball of latex gloves she’d worn when she broke into the dealership. She wondered what old Ricco would say when he found his files had been rifled. At least she could take the day off so she wouldn’t have to listen to him rant. Exiting the ladies’ room, she returned to the booth, drank coffee, and listened to Foote. He was angry, and the more he talked, the angrier he got.
“It frosts me,” he was saying, “that those guys can’t make an honest dollar. I’m the number two salesman there. And you know why? Because people sense that I’m not a cheater. I don’t need to run nickel-and-dime scams to make money.”
“I’m convinced they framed my father.”
“The more I think about it, the more I think you may be right. Jack was a good guy. Not much of a salesman, but he had integrity. Hard to picture him robbing a bank.”
A silence.
“So how do you make money if a guy wants a car two hundred bucks over invoice?” Corrie asked.
Foote sipped his coffee. “There are all kinds of honest profits in selling a car. Let’s say you sell one for seventy grand. First off, you’re going to get a three percent dealer holdback. That’s not deducted from the invoice price, and it’s twenty-one hundred bucks right there. Then you might get a spiff—that’s a dealer incentive—worth another one to two grand. And on top of that there’s a reasonable profit in honest financing. There’s no need to jack up the rate.”
He bit down on his toast with a crunch, his jaw muscles bulging.
“Anyway,” he continued after another gulp of coffee, “the credit cozen isn’t the only scam they pull. Sometimes they’ll actually sell one vehicle and then, if the customer is old or inexperienced, and if he leaves for a while and comes back to pick up the car, they’ll rework the paperwork and switch the car he bought with a cheaper one that looks the same. Twice I’ve seen salesmen fix up cars wrecked in a test drive and sell them as new. And the Riccos encourage it. Not directly—they’re not that stupid—but with a wink and a nod, if you know what I mean.”
Foote flagged down the waitress, ordered a second round of fried eggs. The man had an amazing appetite. He looked at her appraisingly across the table. “You absolutely sure your father didn’t rob that bank?”
“He didn’t,” Corrie said, flaring up. “I’m sure, damn it!”
“Right, okay, I believe you.”
Another silence.
“Maybe we could set a trap,” Corrie said.
“I was just thinking along those lines myself.” Foote finished his coffee, signaled the waitress over again, and pointed to the cup. “You know, maybe we could do more than just clear your dad’s name. Maybe we could bring down the whole rotten operation in the process.”
“How?”
Foote thought a moment. “We bring in a phony buyer. Wired up. Make sure Ricco himself handles the sale. Then we take the evidence to the police, get the place investigated. Once that happens, the cops will be a lot more receptive to the idea that your dad was framed.”
Corrie thought back to her courses at John Jay. “A wire? Without a court order, I don’t think that’s admissible. The cops couldn’t even act on it.”
“What about your dad’s alibi, then? Where was he when the bank was robbed?”
Corrie colored. “I never asked him about it. It didn’t seem… right.”
“He probably thinks he has a weak alibi, otherwise he wouldn’t have run. But he may be mistaken in that. If his cell phone was on, that could track his location. Maybe someone saw him, saw his car. He may have used his credit card around the time of the robbery. Or maybe he was online with his computer at home. These days, there are a million ways to pinpoint someone’s location at a particular moment. Jack might have an ironclad alibi and not even know it.”
Corrie thought this over. It made sense.
“Is there any way to get hold of your father?” Foote asked.
“No. I have to go to where he is personally.”
“I’ve got a car. We could go together.”
Corrie looked at Foote. He was an earnest enough young man. But she didn’t want to reveal her father’s location to anyone—not even him. “Thanks, but I don’t feel comfortable with that. I’ll take tomorrow off from work and go see him. Then I’ll give you a call.”
“That’s cool. Meanwhile, I’ve got a friend who I’m sure would be willing to wear a wire and expose those bastards. He
’s a professional actor, and he just loves stuff like this. I’ll set it up. Maybe you’re right, maybe the cops can’t act on it—but it sure as hell will get their attention. If we let the DA hear it, he can get the court order.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey, listen, I like Jack. I’d like to help him. But I’m no knight in shining armor—this is for me, too. Getting rid of those lousy salesmen will give me a crack at more clients, maybe even get me my own dealership.” He smiled. “But you need to find out about where your father was at the time of the robbery and call me. I’ll bet you anything there’s a way to prove he wasn’t there.”
50
PENELOPE WAXMAN SAT, QUITE PRIMLY, ON THE UNCOMFORTABLE straight-backed chair in the waiting room of the Polícia Militar station in Alsdorf, Brazil. It was a large room, painted yellow, with windows open to a pleasant breeze, a picture of the president on one wall, and—as in most of the official spaces she’d seen in Brazil—a crucifix hanging on another. A low wooden rail and gate bisected the room, separating the waiting area from the workers in the police station, busily filling out forms or typing on computer terminals. Occasionally a member of the police force, dressed in a blue shirt and red beret, would cross the room and disappear through a doorway.
Mrs. Waxman sighed and moved restlessly in her chair. She’d been living in Brazil for two years now, in a nice two-bedroom apartment in Brasilia—her husband was a textile exporter—but she had never grown used to the glacial pace at which official business was conducted. She’d been waiting over half an hour and so far hadn’t yet even had the opportunity to file a report. The only way to speed it up in this country seemed to be by flashing a wad of money, but she had her pride and wasn’t going to resort to that. She checked her watch: almost three PM. What on earth was taking so long? There was only one other person in the waiting room—the loud one.
It was really her husband’s fault. He’d heard of this city, Blumenau, in the southern state of Santa Catarina, that was a near-perfect replica of an old Bavarian town. He’d dragged her down from Brasilia for a long weekend vacation. And she had to admit, Blumenau was a remarkable place. It did look exactly like a German city, plopped down, in all places, amid the rain forests and mountains of Brazil: it had beer halls, shops painted in festive colors, half-timbered buildings of white plaster and dark wood, ancient-looking gothic structures whose massive slate roofs—dotted with two or sometimes three layers of dormer windows—were as large as the façades below. And most of the townspeople were blond, blue-eyed, and pink-cheeked. In the streets, more German was spoken than Portuguese. Mr. Waxman, who was very proud of his own German heritage, was entranced.
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