Even (11 page)

“You two,” he said. “Where are your manners? Help our guest.”

My feet were on the ground long before the passenger ambled across to the car, so he just took my elbow and steered me toward the internal door. The older man stepped through first, leading us into a basement area. It was basically a long rectangle, but with a block taken out at our end for a set of stairs. Another area was paneled in at the far end for something—I couldn’t see what—which made the remaining space into a shape like a capital H.

The floor was gray concrete throughout. There were wooden shelves all around the walls with piles of suitcases, bags, plastic containers, and cardboard boxes neatly lined up on them. There was a lot of stuff in there, but you could have emptied the place inside ten minutes. The ceiling was the only part that wasn’t tidy and organized. It was mostly boxed in, but in several places the boards were missing and wads of pink fiberglass insulation were hanging down. Either the place had recently been searched, or they had a major mouse problem.

The corner between the door and the stairwell was taken up with a washing machine, a dryer, some ironing equipment, and various baskets of clothes. The older man ignored them and hurried straight through, heading for the alcove on the opposite side. That was about the same size as the laundry area, and was also fitted out for a particular purpose. But not with white goods. Two giant cages had been crammed in there. They must have been ten feet deep by six wide and seven high. The floors as well as the sides and roofs were made of heavy-gauge wire mesh. Each one had a mesh door at the front. Both were padlocked.

The cage on the right, next to the stairs, was empty. There was a person in the other one. It was a woman. She was lying curled up on her side in the far corner, facing away from us. Her clothes looked smart. She had gray-green trousers, a matching suit jacket, and black
low-heeled boots. I watched her carefully. Her shoulders flexed slightly as she breathed, but otherwise she didn’t respond to our arrival in any way.

“Need the john?” the older guy said.

“No,” I said.

“Hungry? Thirsty?”

I didn’t answer.

He took a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the empty cage. I stepped inside.

“Hang in there,” he said. “I’ll be right back with some food. Then you can eat. Or not. It’s up to you.”

The guys from the car trailed meekly away after the older man. Their footsteps were hard and hollow on the bare wooden stairs, and the ceiling creaked loudly as they walked about above my head. I was glad they’d gone with him. With them all out of the way I could start to look around. I’d never been in a cage like that before. I wanted to know how it was made. Where its weaknesses were.

“Don’t you know what these things are?” a female voice said. It sounded harsh and irritated. I looked around and saw my neighbor had stood up. She was tall. Five eleven, allowing for the heels. It hadn’t been so obvious when she was curled up.

“They’re dog cages,” she said. “Made to hold big, angry dogs. Dobermans and Alsatians, for God’s sake. And you think you’re just going to claw your way out? Some fingernails you must have.”

“Have you seen any dogs around here?” I said.

“I didn’t say I’d seen dogs. I said these were dog cages. Which they are. Look.” She pointed with her right foot to a metal tag attached to the mesh low down at the side of her cage. It said
HOUND COMPOUND INC
.

If these were dog cages, where were the dogs? I’d had more than my fill of trouble with them in the past, and there was no room in my plans for them now. Especially not big, angry ones. I scanned the rest of the basement. There were no leads or bowls or baskets. No packets or cans of dog food. No dog paraphernalia of any kind. No dog hairs on the floor. No smell of dogs. And no sound of barking.

Maybe the dogs were dead.

Maybe a previous owner had left the cages behind.

Or maybe these cages hadn’t been bought with dogs in mind.

A door banged above us, then I heard footsteps on the stairs again. The three guys reappeared. The older one was carrying a rectangular tray. It was brown plastic with fake wood grain like they use in cheap cafeterias. Two items were on it. Something tall and square wrapped in shiny white paper, and a small bottle of Coke. It was plastic. There was no cutlery.

The driver took the tray and the older man fished in his pocket for the keys. He motioned for me to move back then opened the door. The driver put the tray down just inside the cage. He moved slowly and kept his eyes on me until he’d stepped back out and fixed the padlock into place.

“There you go,” the older man said. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Maybe I will. Then what?”

He studied me for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer.

“Someone wants to speak to you,” he said, finally.

“Who?” I said. “When?”

“Someone important. They’re on their way now. Be here soon. Better eat. Might not get the chance, later.”

He stayed and looked at me levelly for another few seconds. It didn’t seem threatening. More like he was curious about me. Then he turned and led the others back upstairs.

I picked up the tray, took it to the back of the cage and sat down. I took a mouthful of Coke—nice and cold—and then unwrapped the white paper package. A sandwich was inside. The largest sandwich I’d ever seen in my life. It was fully three inches thick. There were two large chunks of white bread crammed with dozens of slices of pastrami and big wedges of Swiss cheese. Mustard was dripping out between the layers. Fitting it into my mouth would be quite a challenge.

“This is huge,” I said to the woman. “Like some? There’s plenty for both of us.”

She came across to the boundary of the cages and had a look.

“Don’t like pastrami,” she said.

I shrugged and picked up the sandwich.

“Suit yourself.”

The woman waited until I’d finished eating and then moved down inside her cage so she was level with me. She leaned forward and took hold of the wire. Her hands were close together, about shoulder height, and I could see her wrists were bound with the same kind of cable tie as mine.

“Same jeweler?” I said, raising my arms. She smiled.

“Sorry about before,” she said. “If I was rude.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“ ’Cause I could really use a friend right now. Think we could be friends?”

“No. I shouldn’t think so.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“Different taste in sandwiches. I might want more pastrami, you’d insist on something wholesome—it would be a disaster. We’d probably kill each other inside a week.”

“Oh, yeah. I see what you mean. Could be a problem, the food thing. Think we could work around it?”

“Maybe. In the circumstances.”

“That’s good. ’Cause I really need to talk. You mind? You’re not one of these silent, solitary-type guys are you?”

“Me? No. I’m like the village gossip.”

“Good. But, you know, I’m not normally chatty like this. If we were in a bar right now, I’d be trying to decide whether to take my hat off to you or punch you in the face.”

“Well, given you’re not wearing a hat, I’m glad we’re where we are.”

“Nothing personal. Just I’ve got a funny feeling you’re in the same line of work as me.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“How so?”

“Bit of a coincidence, both of us ending up here, if we were.”

“I don’t agree. You follow the same story, you end up in the same place. You’re bound to.”

“You’re following a story? You’re a reporter?”

“Like you’re not. And forget about following. You’re not following. You’re stealing. My exclusive. And somehow getting further with it than me. You asshole. You must be very good.”

“Listen, don’t worry. A reporter is the last thing I am. Journalists and me—we’re like oil and water.”

“Really? I’m offended now. What’s wrong with reporters? Everyone should mix with us.”

“Nothing’s wrong. But let’s just say we don’t really seek publicity, where I work.”

“Where do you work?”

“My office is in London. I do a lot of telecoms consultancy. For the government. Tend to be a bit secretive, some of those guys.”

“Sounds interesting. That why you’re in New York?”

“See? That’s why we don’t mix. Can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Sorry. But my problem is, if you were lying, that’s exactly the sort of thing you’d say.”

“Good point. Maybe next time we meet I’ll be picking up the Pulitzer and you’ll be on table Z, crying into your Chardonnay.”

“You know about the Chardonnay? Now I’m really suspicious.”

“Yeah—I was there last year, at the ceremony. Hiding behind the curtains, deciding which big scoop to steal.”

“Then you would never have got mine. I never talk about a story until it’s published. Except to my editor. It brings bad luck.”

“It brought bad luck anyway. I’m guessing it was your story that got you in trouble?”

“So it would seem.”

“What happened?”

“Two guys—the same two that got you—set up a meeting. In a parking lot. Said they had information for me. Then they pulled guns. Put me in the trunk of their car. Drove me out here. It was horrible. I nearly puked.”

“Any idea where we are?”

“Not really. But it’s quiet. And from the length of the drive I’d guess maybe Connecticut? Upstate New York?”

“When did they grab you?”

“Three days ago.”

“Been here all that time?”

“Apart from trips upstairs, to the bathroom.”

“Will anyone have missed you? Raised the alarm?”

“No.”

“What about your editor?”

“Haven’t got one yet. I pitched it to everyone. No one bit.”

“So you’re working it on your own, anyway?”

“Yeah. Pretty stupid, huh?”

“No. I like that. It shows commitment. But what were you stirring up that’s worth all this trouble?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Wouldn’t waste my time asking if I did.”

“Could take a while.”

“Doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere.”

“OK then. It basically started as a social justice piece. I got details of all the homicides in Manhattan over the last twelve months. It was a long list, so I broke it down by clear-up rate. Then I looked at the NYPD’s results. I wanted to see how much is based on the victim’s background.”

“What did you find? Anything conclusive?”

“Oh, yeah. No doubt about it. Institutionalized discrimination, from one end of the city to the other.”

“Based on what?”

“It’s like this. If a Wall Street guy gets hit, the police go hell-for-leather. The killer’s as good as caught before the knot gets tied on the toe tag. But if it’s a bum, the detectives go straight to the paperwork. Kick it down to Open Unsolved.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. They even have their own code for it. ‘NHI’—No Human Involved.”

“It wasn’t like that last night. I found a bum’s body and the NYPD were all over me like a rash.”

“That was different. The way I heard it, there was something a bit special about the victim.”

“How did you hear that? I thought you were locked up in here?”

“I overheard the guys talking, before they went to pick you up.”

“How did they know?”

“I just heard them talking,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “So is it true? The victim was an FBI agent?”

“Yes, he was,” I said. “But they only found that out later. The NYPD didn’t know at the time.”

“See, this federal thing is confusing me. I looked into all the organized groups that could possibly enjoy killing bums. Or benefit from it. Gangs, property developers, white supremacists, psychos, other bums, you name it. And the bureau didn’t factor in once.”

“So?”

“So what am I missing? I’ve got a lot riding on this story. If there’s a huge hole in it, I need to know.”

“There’s no hole. The feds aren’t involved in your story.”

“But their guy was disguised as a bum. He was killed in Manhattan. That’s a coincidence?”

“Why not? It’s a big city. Must be dozens of investigations going on, all the time.”

“What were they looking at, then, the guys you spoke to?”

“Don’t know,” I said. After all, she was still a reporter. “They kept their cards pretty close. But it was clear they were only looking at things that happened outside the city.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then thank goodness,” she said, turning her back to the dividing wall and sinking to the floor. “I thought I’d missed something. If all this was for nothing . . .”

I shifted around the corner so I was sitting nearer to her. We ended up almost back to back, our right shoulders separated by the mesh. Her
thick black hair was spilling through into my cage. Some of it was touching my arm. She twisted her head to look at me and a strand tickled my cheek. It smelled of coconut.

“What’s your name?” I said. “I want to look out for your byline.”

She smiled.

“Julianne,” she said. “Julianne Morgan. You?”

“David Trevellyan.”

“David, can I ask you something? I’m curious.”

“Sure.”

“About the FBI. Did they give you a hard time?”

“Not especially.”

“Why did they pull you in, then?”

“The NYPD had a tip from a bogus eyewitness. It threw them off the scent for a while.”

“But the feds believed you in the end?”

“We came to an understanding.”

“They didn’t want to throw you in jail while they checked out your alibi, or whatever?”

“They may have preferred me to hang around a little longer.”

“So why let you go? Did you pull some lawyer trick?”

“Dialogue had stalled. It was time to explore other avenues.”

“What does that mean?”

“I felt I could contribute more to solving the case if I was free to operate in a less restricted environment.”

“In other words, you escaped?”

“If you like.”

“Oh yes, I do like. How? What did you do?”

“Not much. Just walked out the door when they weren’t looking.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Any chance of fixing it so these guys aren’t looking? So you could walk out of here, too? And take me with you?”