Hidden Charges

by Ridley Pearson

  Mrs. Popolov carried her square body in short little steps, moving cautiously and slowly. She held a shopping bag containing four white aprons and a half dozen dish towels she had washed in the machine at home. Her purse dangled from her shoulder. Puffy ankles bulged out of shiny black shoes, covered by flesh-colored hose to hide her blue-veined legs. She huffed shallowly and often, in unison with her gait. When she reached the cage in front of the café she sighed and placed the shopping bag by her side.

  Mykos had not returned home last night, which meant he had, once again, worked through the night trying to prepare the new store for tomorrow’s opening. She wondered how Earl Coleman’s first overtime had gone. So typical, she thought, that after all these years Mykos should still work so hard. Perhaps he was still trying to prove he wasn’t handicapped. He had never cared for that word. Despite all the jokes, his good humor, the apparent relaxation, Mhykloteus would never fully accept the loss of his arm.

  She reached out to rattle the cage but hesitated, changing her mind. Why wake him? She searched her purse for her ID card, knowing there was little chance it was there. She always forgot the card. Not finding it, she decided to call Dispatch. Foot traffic was light enough this morning. Despite the Green’s requirements, they were already late in opening. What could a few more minutes hurt? She ambled down the concourse to the emergency phone and picked it up. This had become fairly routine for her.

  ***

  High above, on Level 3 of Pavilion C, the Dispatch emergency phone rang, its information strip lighting up with a number corresponding to the phone she had called from. Brock threw two switches and had a shot of Mrs. Popolov on the television monitors, the emergency phone in hand. He chuckled privately. He knew before he said “Hello?” that she needed to be let inside. Mrs. Popolov tended to forget her card.

  She told him just that, apologizing so wonderfully as she always did, and he assured her someone would be over in minute to help out. He radioed his nearest guard, Pollano, and sent her to the Greek Deli. Using a card, the guard could override gate security and open or close a store’s gate. This was necessary in the event of a real or false alarm or other emergencies. Although Jacobs’s card allowed such access without additional computer clearance, all other security cards required the Chubb’s permission as well. Brock typed in the necessary command to approve Pollano’s attempt to open the Deli.

  On the small box outside the Greek Deli an LED turned from red to green. Mrs. Popolov pushed o for OPEN, and the cagelike gate rose electronically.

  She tied on an apron, started a pot of coffee, and looked in the office. Mhykloteus, stretched out on the office floor, snored from a bed made of unfolded tablecloths, a pillow of piled napkins beneath his heavy white-haired head. Mrs. Popolov had no fear of waking him. Until his name was whispered in his ear he would sleep deeply. Then at a moment’s notice he would be on his feet, alert and eager to tackle another day.

  She felt heavy this morning. She promised herself she would find a way to lose a few pounds before her doctor’s warning of a failed heart came true. My heart will never fail me, she thought. Perhaps the muscle will become fatty and small, a valve will clog, the blood will stop pulsing through this old plug of a body. But my heart will never fail. My true heart is right here with my dear and loving husband.

  She was certain that Mhykloteus would outlive her. He would outlive half the world. He was a survivor. He had survived the resistance fighting of the big war. He had survived his struggle against the Germans. He had survived his poverty and had helped her to survive the six-week ride on the Spanish freighter that had eventually delivered the two of them to New York City. He had endured the months of learning a new language at an age when the mind cannot fully grasp new concepts. He had worked long hard hours for long hard years on a produce dock, one-armed. Yes, he was a survivor.

  She turned on the espresso machine, checked the refrigerator bins for milk, cream, butter, whipped cream, relish, mustard, mayonnaise, lemons, and limes. Low on shredded chocolate, she moved slowly back to the walk-in and liberated a heavy bar of Swiss chocolate from the third shelf. She placed it on the well-worn wooden cutting board that was bolted to the edge of the stainless refrigerator chest and shredded half a pound of chocolate, making sure to nibble a good amount throughout the process. Humming to herself, she put the pastries on display and, when it was ready, poured herself a cup of coffee.

  If only she could return his sense of purpose. Oh, he was jovial enough, he had a wonderful lust for life, but something was missing. It was missing. Perhaps she had dominated too much. She hoped not. She had only tried to do what she thought necessary to keep from being a burden on him.

  He had burden enough. The problem was, Mhykloteus needed to win at something. Making sandwiches, cleaning tables, pouring coffee was never going to do it for him. I can’t give you back the war, she thought. Yet all else had seemed insignificant since that time, even to her. They had been young then, fighting for their lives.

  She looked out the open mouth of the store in time to catch a glimpse of Toby Jacobs walking with that young reporter toward the Atrium. They were chatting and obviously enjoying each other’s company. How strange it was to see Toby Jacobs arriving so late—eight twenty-five was two hours past his usual arrival time. Ah, the young, she thought. The young have so much flexibility and resilience.

  She enjoyed seeing him walk so gaily with a young woman. Toby was, by nature, a loner. She knew her husband and the young man got along so well because of their mutual respect for one another. Both worked two days to every other man’s one.

  The two young people turned at the last moment and headed toward her as if they had overheard her thoughts. At first, the spring in their step didn’t match the tired look around their eyes. Then she smiled knowingly and felt a warm little tickle at the nape of her neck, reminded of a springtime morning in Italy so many years before, when Mhykloteus had led her down a path in a blooming orchard and had opened a world to her.

  Jacobs made the introductions.

  She poured them black coffees to go. Toby bought two pastries. “Where’s Mykos?” he asked curiously.

  “Asleep,” she explained. “He set up the new store last night.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. I hope he conned Bill Francis into letting him use one of Housecleaning’s golf carts again. Your husband could con the president out of politics, Mrs. Popolov. How’d the first day with Coleman work out?” Jacobs had had to approve the young man’s working at the mall and had discussed the matter with Popolov the day before.

  “I have not yet spoken with Mhykloteus. It seemed to go fine.”

  “Give him my best. It’s a courageous thing to do. If it goes well, it could mean a big difference for the Green.”

  He left with Susan a few minutes later, the two picking up their conversation where they had left off.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later Mrs. Popolov completed a small sign in her crude block printing that read:

  WE ARE OPENING A NEW STORE IN FUNWORLD. SEE YOU SATURDAY FOR THE GRAND OPENING.

  Within the last twenty minutes the concourse had begun to fill, not only with shoppers but with several workers from other shops frantically carting supplies toward the new pavilion. Mhykloteus and five other owners of existing stores had opted to lease additional space in the new wing. Pavilions A and B would have limited business for the next few months. The Popolovs had witnessed this phenomenon too many times to count—a new pavilion comes on-line and business at all other pavilions falls by 30 to 50 percent. It was one of the hidden penalties of growth that retailers didn’t find out about until well into a ironclad five-year lease. There were other equally annoying aspects of the Green from the retail point of view: The required advertising fee, like a maintenance fee, seemed exorbitantly high; the variation in lease prices, running to thousands of dollars per month, seemed totally unfair; the organization of the stores, direct competition often as close as two spots away, seemed a ridiculous
oversight by management.

  For the Popolovs, these were all valid reasons to open a second store in the new pavilion.

  To their credit, she thought, sipping her second cup of coffee, Haverill and Knorpp had finally organized a pavilion properly. The new pavilion had several interesting retail sections, all modeled after a central theme: Four Corners of the World. Gardens of the World, Toys of the World, Foods of the World, Fashions of the World—the new pavilion, home of FunWorld amusement rides, had been well-planned. Popolov’s café was located on the west side of the new pavilion in Food of the World. He had elected to work through the night in order to avoid today’s crush by other retailers anxious to set up their stores. It would be a madhouse today.

  The mail arrived precisely at eight thirty. The order of delivery was rotated each day.

  She dropped the pile, scooped the letters up, and flicked through them quickly, anxious to see if any word had come from the consulate. She scanned the return addresses.

  She slapped the stack with her hand. What was wrong with those people? Didn’t they have any sense at all?

  2

  “Toby Jacobs here to see you, sir.”

  “What’s that?” Haverill noticed his secretary standing in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. I buzzed you—”

  “It’s fine, send him on in.”

  “Sir.”

  Knorpp and Julia had left the penthouse apartment by the time Jacobs had brought Haverill around. The C.E.O. had harangued Jacobs for several minutes about letting Knorpp leave, obviously embarrassed by being knocked out. Last night he had taken a room in the Convention Center Hotel in Pavilion F. Alone, he had spent the night stewing, confronting the failure that was Julia. Despite his many business successes, Haverill considered himself a failure. He had failed with Kate. He had failed with Julia. Was there any greater failure than failing those you love? He thought not….

  “Have a seat, Jacobs. About yesterday afternoon. Peter Knorpp is through here, that much is obvious. The rest is of a personal nature. End of discussion, okay? As for my berating you, I apologize. Have you seen Knorpp?”

  “No, sir. Not yet.”

  Jacobs took a seat. Haverill looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his limp, lifeless gray hair needed a comb. His shoulders drooped. A blue-gray bruise sat on his jaw. His suit looked like it had been slept in.

  “I’ll be as brief as possible,” Jacobs said.

  “I’m all right. Honestly. I’ll be fine. What progress have you made on the investigation into the bombing?”

  “I’ve just spoken with Shleit. He and I have a meeting set for later. I told you about the note I received yesterday—”

  “Yes.”

  “And that a couple of maintenance men nearly caught up to an unauthorized entry in our tunnels—”

  “We should have had him,” Haverill snapped.

  Jacobs ignored the comment. “The FBI lab analyzed the individual letters used to paste up the note. He’s right-handed, although he wrote my department number on the front with his left to try to confuse us. Most of the letters come from newsprint available here in Hillsdale. Several of the letters were from the August issue of Hustler—”

  “My God, they can tell all that?”

  “And the remaining came from Byte magazine—a computer magazine.”

  Haverill shook his head in amazement.

  “The Bureau is cross-checking the subscription lists for this area for both Byte and Hustler, looking for someone who takes both magazines. But it’s more likely they were bought from a newsstand.

  “More interesting at the moment,” he continued, “is that they lifted and identified fibers from both notes I was sent. The fibers come from a kind of cloth manufactured for OK-Optics of Hong Kong. The cloth is used both as lining for the inside of their eyeglass cases and as a polishing cloth that comes free with a new pair of glasses. That particular line is carried in only three stores in all of Hillsdale. Again, an effort is under way to compare customer/patient lists from those stores with the subscription lists of both magazines. It’s not much, but it’s the first real hard evidence we’ve come up with.”

  “The dynamite? What about it?”

  “Shleit confirmed that the stick, or sticks, used here were part of a case that was stolen six weeks ago.”

  “And how much damage can a case of dynamite do?”

  “Plenty. But to ease your mind a bit, the police walked a pair of explosives-sniffing dogs around the new pavilion this morning, and nothing turned up. We’re clean.”

  “Were the explosives buried in the wall, or were they in the locker? You told me they found a wire.” Haverill rubbed his temples.

  “Yes, sir. Late last night they discovered an extra wire in one of the electrical conduits. It would appear McClatchy connected the wire inadvertently and, in doing so, set off the explosion.”

  “The poor bastard killed himself.” Haverill sounded defeated.

  “That’s the way it looks. The subcontractor is positive about the extra wire. His people mark all their wires with something called EZ-Code. It’s nothing more than numbered labels they stick onto a wire to tell them which circuit the wire is on. The bomber overlooked that. His wire had no labels. The police pulled the wire and have given it to the FBI for tests. No report yet, as far as I’ve heard.”

  “Damn frustrating.”

  Jacobs sat in silence.

  “So we can’t be sure there aren’t more explosives in the walls.”

  “No. We can’t be sure. The dogs wouldn’t be effective for that.”

  “I’ll tell you something. If I have to, I’ll call off the opening. Obviously that would be a terrible setback both in the public eye and financially. I’d like to avoid it if possible.”

  “I have a suggestion, one that will cost money but might give us peace of mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve been thinking about this for some time now, mainly because of the two hundred thousand in cash we’re going to have on hand. Mary-Jo did some research, and it’s a feasible option, though somewhat costly.”

  “Let’s hear it.” Haverill slumped into his chair.

  “SureGuard, outside Boston, can supply us with enough metal detectors to cover all entrances to the new pavilion. They’re the main supplier for airports. It would slow us down a little, but—”

  “No. I don’t like it. Not because of cost. It’s the idea of the thing. It would put people off immediately. Think how the press would play it up. No, that’s unacceptable.”

  “If someone walks in with a firearm, it’s anybody’s game.”

  “Yes, but this security company the police are working with will be armed, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we will have some undercover guards, will we not?”

  “Yes….”

  “Then that’s that. I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  “Whatever you say. One thing I plan on doing is stationing most of our uniforms outside the pavilions. We gain higher visibility there, and it may discourage and help reduce the chances of an incident.”

  “Whatever you think the best use of your people is. You know I’ll support you there.”

  After a pause, Jacobs said, “There is one other item worth discussing, sir, though it is mostly speculation.”

  “Go on,” Haverill said, annoyed.

  “Mind you, I don’t have all the pieces yet.”

  “You know your problem, Jacobs? You tend to be overly cautious. I’m not going to fire you if you have a bad idea. Get down to business, that’s my motto. Now what the hell is it?”

  “It’s Russo, sir.”

  “What we discussed yesterday?”

  “Yes. The way I see it, we complete the new wing, get all our retailers in place, and then it’s discovered that we’re poured from bad cement.”

  Haverill lost his color and his right hand shook noticeably. “How could something like that happen?”
>
  “According to DeAngelo, if the right people were involved, it would be fairly easy to orchestrate.”

  “Good God.” The two men sat in silence for what seemed like minutes. Haverill finally said, “I wouldn’t put it past Russo.”

  “No, sir. He knows what this would do to us.”

  “We couldn’t survive something like this. Who knows what the insurance people would say? Oh, Christ!” Haverill breathed as if on the edge of tears. He looked up, glassy-eyed. “It had completely slipped my mind: the reason I was looking for Peter yesterday…. After we talked, I found some discrepancies in the accounting, just as you thought I might.”

  “It was Peter?” Jacobs asked. “He was their inside man?”

  “Could be.”

  “It would fit.”

  “How so?”

  “Russo couldn’t very well have it traced back to him, he’d need a scapegoat. If Romanello, the cement subcontractor, convinced Knorpp to take a kickback for overlooking the cheaper cement, then it all looks financially motivated. Knorpp ends up the guilty party. Russo, not having taken a cent, stays out in the clear.”

  “But Romanello would be indicted as well.”

  “Sure he would. But someone has to testify. Romanello plea-bargains with people who are already in Russo’s back pocket and ends up with a slap on the wrist. The Green not only ends up in trouble but gets all the blame as well.”

  “That fits. I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “We better find Peter, and fast. They may have screwed up somewhere. At least we better hope to hell they did.”

  “Remember, none of this is confirmed—”

  “Thank God. If we wait that long, it will all be over.” Haverill noticed Julia’s picture on his desk and felt his blood pressure soar. He tried to relax his hands, which remained clenched in tight fists. Fear filled his deep voice, belying his usual confidence. “Where the hell is Knorpp?”