The Concrete Pearl (30 page)

“Get out,” Joel said. His voice sounded like dried up asbestos insulation being ripped away from some old piping. “Get out of my office before I call the police.”

“Not if I do it first,” I said.

I smiled at Tommy. Like he did many years ago when I stepped on a sixpenny nail, he held the door open for me while I exited an unhealthy place.

Chapter 72

Another forty-eight hours passed.

I was fixing dinner in my apartment and glancing at the six o’clock news when my new iPhone vibrated a single time against my hip.

“See U in 10,” the text message read.

It had come from Spain. It was the first time I’d heard from him in a few days. At his urging, I was not to contact him until he contacted me first. He was working something, he told me. Work took his mind off the pain of his recovering facial and jaw wounds.

Back to the television news.

“…The drama continues tonight for Albany’s troubled Pearl Street Convention Center project,” said Chris Collins into her handheld mike from where she stood just outside the soon to be reactivated PS 20 jobsite. “What began as a simple case of asbestos removal at the old Pearl Street school has ballooned into a complicated plot of deception, greed and murder. When high levels of asbestos were discovered at the school and the subcontractor responsible for its removal, James Farrell of A-1 Environmental Solutions, was reported missing, Harrison Construction President, Ava ‘Spike’ Harrison, took it upon herself to go hunting for the asbestos removal tycoon.

“What she found instead was an accusation of murder when Farrell’s long-time adulterous interest, Natalie Barnes, showed up at the PS 20 jobsite brutally murdered—the victim of blunt-force trauma to the head via Harrison’s own framing hammer. Forensic investigators now tell us that Peter Marino, the late CEO of Marino Construction Corporation and contracted construction manager of the convention center, stole the hammer from out of Harrison’s Jeep. Then, having lured Barnes into a clandestine rendezvous at the construction project trailer, proceeded to assault her with it.

“Why would a long-time respected businessman like Marino carry out such a heinous criminal act? By all appearances, to silence Barnes after she’d been witness to Farrell’s shooting and eventual murder. It’s also possible she knew all about Farrell’s long time asbestos removal scam the local contractor ran in partnership with Marino, who also happened to be his father-in-law.

“In silencing Barnes, Marino set the stage not only to make Spike Harrison look like a corrupt general contractor, but also a woman capable of murder. With Marino and upstate New York’s OSHA Chief, Diana Stewart, having suffered fatal wounds during the June 18 murder/suicide enacted by Marino’s daughter, Tina, the fate of the grandiose half billion dollar Pearl Street project is up in the air.

“The first of two surviving Albany Development Limited partners, the organization in charge of the redevelopment project, is noted construction attorney, Joel Clark. Clark is presently being charged by Albany County Prosecutor Derrick Santiago with several counts of conspiracy to commit collusion with Marino Construction, as well as three counts of accessory to murder and two counts of accessory to attempted murder.

“The second known individual is Victor Dott, 62, of Wilton, who is being held for questioning by State Police.

“This is Chris Collins with a special live report from the Albany Public School 20 construction site.”

I shut off the TV, opened the fridge, reached in for a beer and twisted off the cap. I took a swallow, felt the good cold feel of the beer swimming down my throat.

When Spain came in without knocking, I was already half finished with the beer. He was wearing Levis, black motorcycle boots and a T-shirt that fit tight to his arms and chest. He appeared the epitome of health. Except for his face. The face was bandaged where the .22 caliber bullet had entered and exited the cheek, and his left eye was still colored a combination black, blue and purple. As for his jaw, it would remain wired shut for six more weeks. He could talk, but without the benefit of lower jaw movement, making it easier for him to bang out text messages from his new cell phone.

“Let’s go,” he mumbled.

“Let’s go where?” I said.

But he didn’t answer. It hurt too much to talk.

Chapter 73

We got in Spain’s Charger.

He pulled out of the apartment complex, went left onto the main road, then made a beeline down to the Concrete Pearl.

We drove for a bit until we came to a section of ten or twelve abandoned townhouses that had been long ago boarded up with old sun-baked sheets of plywood. Spain pulled up against the curb out front, shut down the Charger. He reached across my lap and opened the glove box. He grabbed a flashlight and opened his door.

Together we got out.

He walked up to one of the old brownstone entrances, stuffed the handle of the flashlight in his pants. He then reached out with both hands, pulled the plywood off the entrance, popping the nails. We slipped inside and greeted a vestibule that was covered in dust, dirt and spider webs. He led me to a room on the left. He opened the old wood paneled door, shined the flashlight inside revealing a bare space that housed an old spring mattress positioned atop a metal bed frame. There was an old dresser of drawers in the far corner, a standup lamp set beside it, the shade long gone.

In his muffled, constricted voice he said, “In this room Tess gave birth to Derrick Santiago’s baby. He refused to send her to a hospital. He was married; a cop on the way up. A detective. Eventually he’d become a lawyer and a district attorney. He had goals and a vision. The birth of an illegitimate child to a prostitution Madame would mean certain shame. He refused a hospital and a doctor. He forced Tess at gunpoint to deliver her baby with some strung out quack doctor attending to her. When complications arose, the baby would lose her hearing.”

I found myself pressing both hands against my belly. I was a woman after all. Didn’t matter that I lived in a man’s world.

“Tess,” I said. “
Our
Tess.”

“They named her Stella. It all had to be kept quiet. Santiago and Tess together, the pregnancy, the birth. He was a top cop. Tess was a well known Madame with a half dozen girls working under her.”

“If word were to get out…”

“End of career for Derrick P. Santiago. End of his cop life in Albany or anywhere in upstate for that matter.”

“What happened to baby Stella?”

A shrug of the shoulders.

“Whatever happens to a kid born under those circumstances? A secret kid. Tess could have terminated the pregnancy at any time. But she wanted a child. She wasn’t about to blackmail Santiago, even though she had the power to destroy him if she’d wanted to. But that wasn’t Tess’s way. So in the end, she had Stella with Santiago’s service weapon staring her down. Later on, she would ease her way out of the prostitution racket, move uptown, buy the Lark Tavern with her bankroll, raise Stella while she worked her ass off as a legit businesswoman.”

A face flashed before my eyes.

“The young lady who served us at the Lark Tavern. The pretty girl with the hearing disability. She knew your drink order, how you like your steak. She calls you Uncle Damien.”

He nodded.

“Sometimes Santiago tried to do the right thing,” he said. “He’d go through bouts of taking care of her needs when she was growing up. Medical, private grammar school, private high school.” Spain shook his head. “But then he drops out and sends nothing. Eventually it’s Tess who pays up for private college. Now it’s law school. Stella’s going to be a lawyer, work on behalf of neglected children; abused children. She’s going to make it her life’s goal to make parents take responsibility for their actions…‘Step up to the plate’…That’s what she says. She wants to make deadbeat parents step up to the plate.”

“And what about you? How did you help?”

“I took care of the extra stuff. Spending money, new clothes when she wanted to go shopping. On occasion I footed the tuition bill.”

He pressed tight lips together. For a second I thought he was going to shed a tear.

I said, “When we met with Santiago on that early morning with Collins filming our every word, you spoke about Stella. But what you were really doing was sending a message to the DA. Back off and do the right thing or your life in Albany is over.”

With a slow shake of his head, Spain turned and walked out of the bedroom. I knew then that all the pain he felt in his jaw didn’t compare to the pain he suffered in his broken heart.

Chapter 74

We weren’t done with Pearl Street yet. Its quiet road and the empty buildings that flanked it held more secrets. From the looks of things, Spain was determined to reveal them to me.

Making a tight U-turn, he slowly drove until he hit lower Pearl Street.

Over one shoulder you could see Nipper the Dog sitting up atop the old RCA building. The plaster dog looked down at us with big black eyes. Over the other, abandoned building after abandoned building—old historic townhouses and multi-story brick-faced office buildings, all of them emptied after being bought out by Albany Development; all of them awaiting a wrecking ball that at this point might never come. One of these buildings included the Key Bank that Harrison Construction had renovated inside and out—the project where Jordan lost his life.

When Spain pulled into the empty parking lot of the old bank, my heart began to speed up. At the same time, my stomach sank.

“What are we doing here?”

But he didn’t answer me. I knew it was a profound effort for him to talk.

He drove the Charger around the back of the ten-story structure. The last time I’d been on site, the red brick façade had been covered entirely with scaffolding and Jordan was lying on his back on the solid ground, his body shattered. We completed the job even after he died, per the signed contract. But I had nothing to do with it.

Spain stopped the Charger.

We got out.

I followed close behind while he walked the length of the deserted lot until he came to the empty building’s brick wall. About-facing, he eyeballed me.

“How deep is a scaffolding section?” he asked in that painful mumbled voice.

“About five feet from brace tip to brace tip.”

He stepped forward, taking three distinct paces.

“That’s about five feet,” he said to himself. Then he stepped three more paces. “Police and OSHA reports indicate that when Jordan fell from the top most scaffolding section, he landed right about here.” Pointing with both hands at the section of empty lot under his feet. “That’s a good ten feet away from the bottom most section.”

I had no idea what he was getting at. Or maybe I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to get the hell away from that empty building; away from that ghost town.

“You told me that Jordan climbed the scaffolding to the top floor to meet face to face with Diana. At that time she was a Harrison project manager.” 

I nodded.

“He met her up there to inspect the repaired cornice,” I said.

Spain tried to purse his lips, like it helped him to think. But I knew with that wired jaw, it wasn’t easy to do anything with his mouth.

He mumbled, “How could a man with Jordan’s athleticism and construction site experience fall off a scaffolding on a beautiful fall day?”

I swallowed something bitter. Then my mouth went dry.

“Sometimes even monkeys fall from trees,” I said, my eyes filling. In my head I saw Jordan’s beaming face as he refused to take the interior staircase to the bank’s top floor, preferring instead to climb the scaffolding. In my brain I saw him climbing.

“That what you really believe?” Spain said. “Diana loved Jordan. But she could not have him. So what does she do? She meets him at the top of thirteen sections of scaffolding, blocks his path by keeping him on the edge. Before he can say a word, she asks him for a light. He pulls out a New York Giants lighter. And while he goes to light her cigarette like a perfect gentleman, she reaches out with both hands, shoves him against his chest, sending him over the short safety rail.” He glared down at the spot in which Jordan fell. “Before he falls, he drops the lighter. Diana picks it up, stores it in her pants pocket. A souvenir of the man she loved, but could not have.”

I saw it all in my head as it happened.

Jordan going over the side.

I saw him falling, saw him dropping from out of the sky on bright, warm, fall day. Saw him hitting the ground. Heard the thud. Saw his crushed face, his shattered body, saw me kneeling over it. I saw him lying in the ICU hospital bed, emerging in and out of a coma, trying to tell me something, but not able to tell me because he could no longer speak. I saw him the same way I’d been seeing him in my dreams ever since the day he died. The dreams that left me feeling like Jordan’s story was not complete—that the truth had been kept from me.

“Diana killed Jordan,” I said, a single tear running down my cheek. “In the hospital he tried to tell me she pushed him…but he couldn’t get it out.”

Spain nodded.

“Had he simply slipped and fallen from the scaffolding like the police report stated,” he said, forcing his words, “he would have landed directly beside the lowest section. But because he was pushed off, he landed a good five to ten feet away from the lowest section. No one in the APD ever questioned it because Diana was perceived as an honest woman.”

“Diana pushed Jordan,” I repeated, making it sink in. A truth I had always suspected, but never accepted. Until now.  “Jordan didn’t die by accident. He was murdered.”

The tears fell hard now. But the tears were not for me. Nor were they for Jordan. The tears that fell down my face were for Diana. My heart ached for a woman who had to turn to murder in the face of rejection. I pitied her. Didn’t matter that she was dead and buried. The bloodguilt fell squarely on her soul.