Parker 05 - The Darkness (8 page)

of the company itself. We found public listings for a

brokerage firm, a jewelry store, three law offices, a psychiatrist, a pet psychiatrist, and a tantric yoga studio.

Only in New York.

"Look at this," Jack said. We were sitting in a conference room, two laptop computers with several open

windows each, our eyes beginning to strain from staring

at various ownership deeds. I leaned over to the computer

Jack was working on and looked at the screen he had

pulled up. "According to tax filings, the law offices of

Kaiser, Hirschtritt and Certilman occupy floors seventeen

and eighteen. No other company in the building occupies

more than one floor, or even appears to pay for more than

one office space. If you were running a drug syndicate

from an office, wouldn't you want a little more privacy

than a single office would give you?"

I stared at the screen, thought about the morning I

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61

went to the building and watched a stream of young, energetic drug dealers enter and leave with briefcases full

of narcotics. I had a hard time picturing them all fitting

inside a row of cubicles. Plus I doubted a truck pulled up

every now and then to refill their supplies. They needed

space to store the drugs. Space to allow for easy pickups

for dozens of couriers.

And enough lack of clutter to allow them to pack up

and get the hell out of Dodge on a moment's notice.

"The building is managed by a company called Orchid

Realty," I said. "According to their Web site, they have different managers for each property. It doesn't spell out which

one is managed by who, but we can call and find out."

"Screw that," Jack said. "Why call when we can show

up uninvited?"

I smiled. I liked the way Jack thought.

Orchid Realty was on the eighth floor of a stainless steel

complex in midtown, not too far from many of the tony

properties they managed. Jack and I walked into the lobby

side by side. A pair of security guards manned a long

wooden desk. They did not seem intimidated by the purposeful look in our eyes. Installed in the front of the partition were two televisions, each running infomercials for the

building itself. The sets looked recently installed, and the

volume was far too loud. My guess was, with the economy

tanking, the building had lost a bunch of leasing companies

who couldn't pay their bills, and were looking for fresh

blood (and fuller bank accounts) to replenish the coffers.

We stopped at the security desk, and Jack said, "We're

here for Orchid Realty."

"Name of contact," the monotone voice came back.

"Mr. Orchid," Jack replied.

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Jason Pinter

The guard looked up, a bored sneer on his face, like

he knew Jack was screwing with him but didn't have the

time or inclination to care.

"Name of contact," he repeated.

"Call the front desk," Jack said. "Tell whoever answers

that we're here to talk to whoever's in charge of the 718

Enterprises account." He took out his identification, underlining the words
New York Gazette
with his thumb.

The guard looked at him, the apathy turning into confusion.

"This is my official ID," Jack continued. "Which

means I have the official authorization to have a news

crew down here in less time than it takes for you to put

on that cute tie in the morning. It also means you and your

friend here will have their friendly faces on our 'Community Outrage' Web site, as impeding an official news

investigation." He pointed at the phone. "One phone call.

All it takes."

The guard's eyes went wide, and he picked up the

phone and dialed three numbers. Jack was full of crap,

but news was about information, and that was information they didn't need to know.

The guard covered the phone's mouthpiece with his

hand, his eyes growing more animated as he spoke.

Clearly the person on the other line wasn't too keen on

us coming upstairs, but it looked like the guard wanted

as much to do with our Community Outrage Web site as

I did with bedbugs.

Finally the man hung up, pressed a button and printed

out two badges from his computer kiosk. Handing them

over, he said, "You promised, right? No cameras or news

crew? I don't want my son to see me on the Internet."

"We'll see how things go upstairs," Jack said. "Come on."

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63

I followed him to a bank of metal turnstiles, manned

by another security guard, this one looking much less

awake on the job than the guys at the front desk. We

showed him our badges, and he pressed a button that

swung the turnstiles. We passed through, made our way

to the elevator bank and headed up to the fourth floor.

Jack hummed a tune I couldn't recognize as we ascended,

and I felt slightly anxious, wondering just how far this

would take us. I was also somewhat concerned about

pulling my weight on this story. As much as I wanted to

find out just what the hell was going on with this shadow

corporation, earning the respect of Jack O'Donnell was

a close second.

The doors opened, and we followed a sterile beige

hallway to a pair of double glass doors with the words

Orchid Realty stenciled on them. I opened the door for

Jack, the glass swinging out effortlessly and without a

sound. A heavyset woman with curly reddish hair sat

behind an oak desk, a pair of old-fashioned headphones

resting on her ears that looked less Bluetooth than long

in the tooth. The nameplate read Iris Mahoney.

Iris was filing her nails, pausing every few moments

to blow nail dust from her hands and onto the floor.

As we approached, her eyes rose and a wide smile

crossed her lips. "You must be those boys from the newspaper," she said. "Welcome to Orchid."

"Hi," I said before Jack could open his mouth. "Miss

Mahoney, if it's not too much trouble we'd like to speak

to one of your property managers."

"Certainly, sir. Which of our managers would you like

to speak with?"

"Whoever handles the building which until recently

leased space to a company called 718 Enterprises."

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Jason Pinter

The receptionist pursed her lips, sucked in air and

squinted. "Hmm...that doesn't ring a bell. Let me check

our database."

She put down the nail file and began typing. Two

fingered. One finger at a time. Slow enough that I could

hear Jack breathing heavier as his frustration grew. Every

few moments the lady would mutter a pleasant "no"

under her breath and continue typing. After several minutes she looked up at us and said, "I'm sorry, sir, we

don't have any records for a 718 Enterprises. Are you sure

you have the right realty corporation?"

"You do manage the building leases at sixteen-twenty

Avenue of the Americas, right?"

"Now that sounds familiar. If my memory serves me,

they have a wonderful tantric yoga studio." She blushed

slightly. I pretended not to have heard anything.

"That's the building," Jack said. "Listen, hon," he continued, approaching the desk, a warm smile on his face.

It was shocking to compare this to his countenance

downstairs. Different folks responded to different temperaments. Jack didn't get his reputation by assuming

everyone reacted the same way to everything. "We're not

here to cause trouble. We're investigating a story for our

newspapers, it's our job, really, and we just have a few

questions about the building. If you could just let us know

who manages that property, we'll be out of your hair in

no time. What do you say?"

The apple-cheeked receptionist smiled, and if I didn't

know any better, it looked like she might have suddenly

developed a small crush on the elder newsman. "Hold on

one second. If you'll have a seat, I'll have somebody out

here to assist you right away."

"You've made my day, darlin'." Her smile widened.

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65

We took seats in two leather chairs. I shuffled through

a pile of uninteresting magazines before putting them

back. Jack just sat there. He didn't need any distractions.

After thumbing through the pile of outdated magazines

for a second time--in case
Victorian Homes
had magically been replaced by
Sports Illustrated
--a middle-aged

man with a short haircut and mustache entered the waiting room. His eyes settled on us, and I caught him taking

a deep breath. He wasn't making any secret that he didn't

want to be talking to us, and resented the fact that we were

even here.

I stood up, assumed Jack would do the same. When he

didn't, I looked at him. He didn't seem to have noticed there

was someone else in the room; either that or he didn't care.

"Mr. O'Donnell?" the man said. Now Jack's eyes

perked up. He didn't say a word, waited for the other man

to speak. "Bill Talcott. How can I help you?"

Jack stood up. Gave Talcott a once-over, sizing him up.

Talcott shifted as he stood there, eyes meeting the floor.

Jack was trying to make the guy nervous, take him out of

any comfort zone he might have. It didn't look like Talcott

had much of one when he joined us, but I guess Jack

wanted to break his spirit completely.

"Thanks for finally joining us," Jack said.

"My apologies for the wait." He glanced at Iris with a

condescending, apologetic smile, as though blaming her

for the delay. Iris didn't look up from her desk. This did

not paint Mr. Talcott in an impressive light.

"Actually Iris was quite helpful," Jack said. I noticed

Iris's face look up slightly. "You have no need to embarrass her. Or yourself."

Talcott's face went pink, and he stammered. "Of

course, I didn't mean to put anybody down. We're all

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Jason Pinter

under an enormous amount of stress these days, as you

can imagine. And if I can say so, without embarrassing

myself again, I'm a fan of your work, Mr. O'Donnell."

Jack nodded, but did not respond to the compliment.

"Should we go somewhere more private?" he said.

"Is this an issue that requires privacy?" Talcott said,

confused.

"I'd say so."

Talcott nodded, said, "Right this way." We followed

him down the hallway behind the reception desk. The

corridor was filled with gray metal filing cabinets. A few

people stood by, filing, rifling through papers with a

quickness that said they'd done it for years. On the walls

hung pictures of buildings. Some residential, some commercial, obviously the properties Orchid Realty managed.

We passed by a small kitchen and a large conference

room, and eventually were led into Talcott's office. He

ushered us in and closed the door. There were two leather

chairs in front of a heavy marble desk. The desk, as well

as the windowsills and bookshelves, were lined with

snow globes from around the world. The man had literally hundreds of them.

"I buy one in every city I set foot in," Talcott said

proudly. "Three hundred and forty-eight and counting."

Jack and I sat down. Talcott seemed disappointed that

we weren't impressed. We took out our notepads and pens

as Talcott sat down. He waited a moment to see if we might

compliment his collection. When it was clear we weren't

going to, he said, "So, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"

"First off, Mr. Talcott, this is my associate Henry

Parker. My apologies for not introducing him earlier."

"Parker," Talcott said. "Where have I heard that name

before?"

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67

"It's a pretty common surname," I replied.

"Any relation to Peter Parker?" Talcott asked.

"You mean Spider-Man?"

"Is that the character's name? I could have sworn I

knew someone else named Parker. In any event, your

name does ring a bell."

I looked at Jack, hoping we could move on. He seemed

to get the nod.

"Mr. Talcott," he said, "do you manage the property at

sixteen-twenty Avenue of the Americas?"

"I do," Talcott said.

"Are you aware of a company called 718 Enterprises

that, up until recently, occupied space in that building?"

Talcott took a moment before responding, "No."

Jack's eyebrows raised. "You're saying there was

never a company at that location with the name 718 Enterprises, or anything similar to that?"

"Yes," he said.

"Yes, there was a company, or yes there was not?"

"There was no company with that name at that location."

Jack turned to me, shifting his whole body. I realized

Jack had never seen the sign for the company, he hadn't

witnessed the young men marching in and out of the

building with full bags. I was the only witness, at least

the only one who was on our side.

"Mr. Talcott, do you read the news?"

"Of course I do. I'm quite fond of Mr. O'Donnell's

work, as I said."

"Do you read it regularly?"

"I would say so."

"Well, then do you recognize the name Stephen