Black Maps

Chapter Six

The day had dwindled to cold, blue twilight by the time I got home. There were no moving vans out front or boxes in the hallways, no rumble of freight being hauled across the floor upstairs. I emptied my pockets of the contraband I’d taken off the kids in the park, flushing the drugs and tossing the knives in a drawer with my loose change. Then I checked my messages. There were two. One was from Clare. She’d called in the morning to say she couldn’t make it, but would see me next week. She spoke hurriedly, and there was traffic noise in the background. Well, I hadn’t exactly planned my day around her, either.

My older sister, Liz, had also phoned, to invite me to Thanksgiving with the family. She and Lauren had a good cop-bad cop thing going, and Liz was definitely the bad cop. The thrust of her argument, delivered in her tight-jawed, nasal drawl, was that if I didn’t come I’d be running true to my usual asshole form, so why didn’t I just surprise everyone and show up. She added at the end of her message that it had been too long since she’d seen me. That last bit must have been an effort for her. Liz is many things-smart, tough, acerbic-but nice is not one of them.

I had no call back from Tom Neary, so I left another message on his voice mail and went for a workout-a five-mile run and some weights at the gym on Fourteenth Street. I was back in less than two hours, just in time to miss Neary’s call. He was having dinner at an Indian restaurant downtown at seven, his message said; I could join him there if I wanted. I showered, dressed, and walked to the subway.

Taking Tiger Mountain is a few blocks from city hall, and close to the Brill offices. It’s a small, dimly lit place, with walls the color of paprika, and chairs and tables the color of saffron. I got there just after seven and it was still pretty empty, but even if it had been packed, it would have been hard to miss Tom Neary.

Neary is big-around six foot four and two hundred fifty poundslike a refrigerator in a dark suit and tie. The feds who’d worked with him in Utica had called him Clark Kent. When I’d first heard it, I figured it was because of his looks-the dark, wavy hair, the chiseled features, the horn-rimmed specs-and the earnest, Eagle Scout quality he projects. As I’d gotten to know Neary better, I’d seen the subversive secret identity behind the mild exterior-the ironic sense of humor, the independent streak, the disdain for pompous authority-and I’d thought the nickname even more apt. That independence, along with his smarts and his basic sense of fairness, had made it hard for him to find much peace with the FBI. I’d seen that firsthand, upstate. He had treated me decently at a time when it would’ve been easier for him not to, and he’d caught hell as a result.

In some respects I knew Neary well, but there was a lot I still didn’t know. I knew he was married, but I didn’t know his wife’s name. I knew he had kids, but not how many, or how old, or what kind. I knew he lived in Jersey, but I didn’t know the town. One thing I did know, from years back, was that he loved good food-foreign food especially. And after years in the culinary wilderness of Utica, Neary had come to the Promised Land.

He was sitting alone at a table for four, poring over the menu like it was a holy text. His suit jacket was on the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up over his big forearms. I took the seat across from him. He gave me a hand like a porterhouse and we shook. The waiter took my order for a cranberry juice. Neary was working on a ginger ale and ordered a backup.

“Cheap dates, huh?” he said, smiling. “But you’re still living healthy, that’s good.”

“Have you ordered yet?” I asked.

“Just bread.” He pointed to a basket of naan, plates of stuffed roti and puri and small bowls of various chutneys. “I’m thinking about a tandoori,” he said.

I took a piece of naan from the basket where it lay wrapped in a white cloth napkin, and bit into it. It was warm and a little spicy. Delicious. The warm bread and the riot of cooking smells coming from the kitchen spoke to my stomach, and my stomach answered back. I scanned the menu.

The waiter returned with our drinks and we ordered, then Neary sighed and turned his attention to me.

“Life still good in the private sector?” I asked.

“Life is busier than hell. It seems like every client I’ve got wants their security procedures overhauled, or their management vetted, or needs a few dozen investigators to help out on their shareholder lawsuits. Even with all the cops and feds jumping ship, I’ve still got more gigs than I’ve got people to fill ’em. But the money’s good-we must be the only growth industry left these days. That’s the upside,” Neary said.

“And the downside?” I asked. He thought about it for a while.

“The gray areas are bigger, I guess, and there are more of them. The bureau was a political swamp, no question, and it had more than its share of professional assholes. But you always knew that you were one of the good guys, or that you were supposed to be. In the private sector, what you know mainly is who’s paying the bill. For some people, that’s enough. Me, I worry a little more. Must be the Jesuit schooling.” He took a bite of potato-stuffed puri.

“You keeping busy?” he asked. I nodded, and we were quiet for a bit. Time to get to the point.

“I can count the number of times I’ve called you when I wasn’t looking for a favor,” I said.

“So can I. My tally is zero. Don’t tell me you’re going to screw up your stats now,” Neary said, deadpan.

“No, I wouldn’t disappoint you. I’m looking for a favor. But maybe I can do something for you, too.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting.

Without using any names besides MWB’s and Nassouli’s, and staying vague about the dates, I laid out the bare bones of the case. It was blackmail, I explained, on account of some dealings my client had had almost twenty years ago, with Nassouli and another firm, an MWB client. I told him that my guy had gotten some documents, which might have come from MWB’s files.

“If they did come from MWB, it could mean that the investigation is compromised, or that your liquidation work is. It could mean that somebody is doing a little freelancing.” Neary stopped eating and stared at me as I spoke, his face empty. When I finished talking, he stared at me some more. Then he shook his head slowly.

“I must not be following,” he said. “Your guy gets faxed a bunch of documents from a deal he did with MWB, twenty years back. Somebody wants to squeeze him. Now, you’re trying to backtrack the documents. Okay, I’m with you up to there. It’s after that I’m missing somethinglike the part where this has anything to do with me.” Neary paused to tear off a mouthful of naan, and continued.

“These documents are twenty years old. You have no idea how many copies of these things were around back then, or who had them. And you have no clue where those copies could’ve got to in twenty years’ time. But somehow you decide-I don’t know why-that maybe they came out of my shop, or from the feds.” He shook his head more vigorously. “I’ve got to tell you, this is the thinnest damn thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

“It’s pretty thin,” I agreed. “But pretty thin is all I’ve got.” Neary stared at me and shook his head some more. I continued. “I can’t give you the details, but believe me, of the possible sources for these documents, MWB looks the best. Plus, I have reason to believe that a cop or an ex-cop might be involved.” I figured it couldn’t go much worse, so I told him about my chat in the park with Faith Herman, and how she pegged the guy who paid her as a cop. Some amusement mixed with his incredulity.

“This just gets better and better. Your solid lead is a bag lady who’s probably off her meds and thinks everybody’s a cop or a werewolf or a space alien. And based on this you figure it’s got to be one of my guys, right?”

We paused as the waiter laid bowls of steaming soup before us. Neary regarded his with some reverence and tucked his tie inside his shirt. He had a few peppery spoonfuls and sighed heavily before he continued.

“Your star witness give you a description?” I gave him what I had. “Could be anybody,” he said after a while. He had some more soup. “So, assuming I gave this an ounce of credence, which I don’t, what’s this favor you want?” he asked.

“I want to look around MWB, meet some of the people on the job, see how the records get handled, see who has access to what. See if I can find copies of the documents in the fax.” Neary snorted.

“While we’re at it, maybe I could put my whole staff in a lineup, for your bag lady to look over.” Neary shook his head and had some more soup. “You want to tell me anything more about the documents, or your guy?” he asked. I looked at him, but said nothing. “But I’m supposed to just invite you in and hold your coat while you rifle the drawers. I guess client confidentiality only applies to your clients, huh?” He sat back in his chair and looked at me, expressionless again. He was skeptical of the trail I was following, and indignant at the suggestion that his operation might be compromised. But behind the sarcasm and the studied dismay, there was something else-a little worry.

“Look, I’ve got a very narrow set of interests here, Tom. I could give a shit about MWB, or how your people pad their time sheets or how the feds get tangled in their own underwear. I just want to know if these documents are in MWB’s records and, if so, who might have got at them. Chaperone me if you’re worried. You can slap my wrist if I step out of line.” I paused to taste some soup. “But if you’re really concerned about confidentiality, then you’ve got to be interested in whether one of your people has something going on the side.” He turned this over in his head for a while, and then decided.

“Okay, you get the cheap tour. You can meet a couple of people, see how we manage the documents. And we’ll have a look for your stuff. But unless we turn up more than the nothing you’ve got now, that’s where it ends. And, trust me, I’ll do more than slap your wrist if I think you’re out of line.” I believed him.

“Thanks, Tom,” I said, and went back to my soup.

“You work closely with the feds on this?” I asked.

“Pretty close,” he said. “I see them once a week, sometimes more.”

“They hang around the office much?” I asked. Neary looked up.

“Not so much anymore. Why? You looking to avoid awkward encounters?” I nodded.

“I’d like to keep a low profile,” I said.

“I bet you would,” Neary said, nodding. But there was a knowing edge to his voice that I didn’t understand.

“What?” I asked. Neary looked a little puzzled.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just not surprised you’d want to keep clear of him.” It was my turn to be confused.

“Keep clear of who?” I asked. Neary stared at me, an odd look in his eyes.

“Shit. You don’t know, do you? You don’t know who the special agent in charge on this thing is?” I shook my head. “It’s Fred Pell, John.” The waiter came to clear our soup bowls and lay out the main courses. But suddenly I wasn’t so hungry.

Fred Pell, there was a name to conjure with. He was FBI, based in D.C. but posted to upstate New York when I’d met him, there to work the case with Neary and the rest of us-the state police, the Mounties, and the Burr County Sheriff’s Department. Technically, he’d been Neary’s boss, a fact Neary had all but ignored. It hadn’t done much for their relationship, or for Neary’s prospects in the bureau. But Neary had never actually hit the guy, and that was a claim I couldn’t make. Of course, Pell had never threatened him with murder and conspiracy charges, or had him worked over in a holding cell, either, so maybe Neary just lacked the proper motivation.

Pell was all kinds of bad news. He was a career thug who saw everything through the lens of what was best for Freddy, and who divided his time between blatant self-promotion, vigorous ass-kissing, and plotting the downfall of his rivals. He was quick to lay claim to other people’s successes, and quicker to run like hell from his own screwups, usually leaving some poor fool behind to hold the bag. And he was a bully, with an explosive temper and a wide violent streak. As Neary once observed, he was the guy most likely to be shot in the back by his own men.

But what made Pell really dangerous was that he was not a dumb guy. He wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, and his ambition and malice often blinded him, but Pell had a certain animal cunning-like a mean, clever pig. When I’d last seen him, he believed that I had done just about the two worst things that anyone could to Freddy: loused up his shot at glory, and made him look stupid. So, he hated me. Knowing him, he’d nursed that hatred carefully for the past three years. Fred Pell. Small world.

“That’s unfortunate,” I said evenly.

Neary gave a grim little laugh. “Unfortunate, yeah, like a root canal with a wood chisel. He came on nearly two years ago. And in case you’re wondering, he’s the same asshole he’s always been, only fatter now. All in all, a low profile is a good idea.” He dug into his food. I did the same.

We worked our way through dinner, and as we did, Neary gave me some background. Brill and Parsons and Perkins, the accounting firm, were serving, in part, as high-priced librarians-sifting through the ocean of paper left behind when the bank was closed, and classifying and cataloging each document they found. And there were lots of them, dealing with everything from a multimillion-dollar bond issuance to an order for a thousand desk calendars-and a whole range of things in between. Loan applications, catering bills, deal tickets, expense reports, meeting minutes, account statements, car leases, letters to clients, and contracts for cleaning services. As Neary put it, it was like trying to alphabetize sand.

Taming the paper was only part of the job. Parsons used the documents to help evaluate creditor claims, sometimes reconstructing years of transactions to calculate what MWB owed to someone. Brill helped MWB’s lawyers respond to the endless stream of subpoenas and discovery motions churned out by the task force and assorted defense counsel. Brill also provided physical security for the MWB offices around the world. In New York alone, Brill had twenty people at MWB, not including security guards. Parsons had over forty.

Neary echoed Mike’s view that the investigation was a zoo, especially when it first got going. According to him, the first few months were classic interagency feeding frenzy, with everybody seeing MWB as a chance to make his or her bones. Things had settled down with the formation of the joint task force, though Neary thought there was still plenty of bad blood between DiPaolo and her counterpart in San Diego, Chris Perez.

“In a fair fight, I’d have to pick Shelly,” Neary opined. “Perez has her on weight and reach, but she’s got him hands down when it comes to just plain mean.”

“She really that bad?” I asked.

“And getting worse,” Neary said. “She made a good start on this case, got some convictions right off the bat. But now it’s been a long time between wins. Rumor has it the folks in D.C. are getting a little antsy with Shelly. They’re looking for some good news on the terror front, I guess, or to show how tough they are on white-collar crime. Apparently she’s feeling the heat, and it’s not helping her mood.”

The waiter had cleared our dishes and brought the dessert menu. Neary ordered a flan and I went for the rice pudding and we both had coffee. We were quiet for a while, then Neary cleared his throat.

“You hear from the old guy?” he asked. I knew he meant Donald. I nodded, thinking about the call I hadn’t yet returned.

“He doing alright?” Neary asked. His voice was low.

“He’s still working, still fishing and hunting. And they still love him up there. He’ll be sheriff as long as he wants. If he’d let them, they’d probably elect him to Congress,” I said. But I wasn’t answering his question. The answer to that question was no, Donald wasn’t alright. He was light-years from alright, and he’d never get back there again, not any more than I would.

The waiter came by and topped off our coffees. I picked up the check, and we said our good-byes on the sidewalk. Neary would call me next week to set up a visit to MWB. He headed toward the Brill offices, and I caught a cab.

The sky had filled with bruise-colored clouds that promised rain or snow. On the ride uptown, it started to do both. I leaned my head against the cab window, and watched through half-closed eyes as it all came down. My head was full of upstate, memories of the case, of Pell, of Donald, and, inevitably, of Anne.

I shut my eyes completely and saw the dock, the gravel path and the porch steps, the blood and the fat, black flies. Suddenly, I was bone weary, and every breath was an effort. I’d intended to do some work that night, maybe start to look for Al Burrows, but when I got back home I lacked the energy even to turn on the lights. Still in my coat, I stood in the darkness, looking out at the night. My chest felt hollow and cold, empty except for a dull ache. I put my hands over my face.

It had snuck up on me. It had been so long since I’d felt like this, I’d gotten complacent and it had snuck up on me.

“Fuck this,” I said softly.

And then I heard it. From upstairs. Thump, thump — whump. Thump, thump — whump. Rhythmically, and in rapid succession. Not boxes being moved. Not furniture. Probably not livestock. A pogo stick? Tennis? Thump, thump — whump. Thump, thump — whump. Enough was enough. I took the stairs up.

The fifth-floor corridor was just like the fourth-long and narrow, lit by hanging fixtures of thick, frosted glass. The stairwell was at one end, the elevator at the other, and the apartment door was in the middle. Thump, thump — whump. It came through the door, along with some music. Annie Lennox, it sounded like. A small, embossed card was taped above the doorbell. “J. Lu,” it said, in thin black lettering on thick, cream-colored stock. I knocked-hard-and the noise stopped in mid-thump. Then the music got lower.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice called from inside.

“It’s John March. I’m your neighbor on the fourth floor. I don’t know what you’re banging on in there, but could you keep it down-just for tonight?” I sounded peevish, even to myself. I heard footsteps approaching the door, and someone opening the peephole. Then some locks slid back and the door opened.

“Oh, gosh. I’m sorry. Really. I couldn’t find the box with the mats, and I didn’t think sound would carry through these floors. Really, I’m very sorry,” she said as she toweled off her forehead and neck. Her voice was a pleasant contralto. She wore a genuinely fretful look. But she made it look good.

She was Asian. Small, but not tiny, maybe five foot three or four, and slim, but not skinny. No, there was nice, compact muscle in her arms and thighs and calves. Her abs and obliques, too, from what I could see-which was a lot. She had on gray spandex shorts that came to mid-thigh and a matching tank top that left her flat midriff bare. Her hair was inky black, and cropped short-just to the stylish side of severe. She had a heart-shaped face, with delicate brows, large, brown-almost black-eyes, and high cheekbones. Her nose was small, with a nearly flat bridge. Her mouth was beautifully formed, her upper lip a perfect bow shape, her lower one full-almost pouting. She wore an emerald stud in each ear, and in her right ear, above the emerald, she wore a diamond stud as well. I guessed she was around thirty.

Her face and slender neck were flushed from exertion. Her tank top, between her small, round breasts, was dark with sweat, and so was the waistband of her shorts. Sweat glistened on her arms and on her belly too, and her hair was damp at the ends. Behind her, I could see the reason. In the center of the apartment, in a space cleared from a thicket of stacked boxes, a heavy bag swung from a metal stand. Her hands and wrists were taped like a boxer’s, and so were her ankles and bare feet. I could see where some layers of tape, over the striking surfaces of her hands and feet, had been scuffed away by contact with the bag. Her elbows and knees were a little scraped up too.

She was looking at me, and I realized I was staring. I was also regretting my peevish tone. Her fretful look vanished, replaced by a little smile. “You’re Lauren’s brother, aren’t you? You guys look alike.” She stuck out her taped right hand. “I’m Jane Lu.”