The Darkness Part 4

Then she tucked herself under the warm covers and turned off the light. Not for sleep. That wouldn't come.

Not until the phone rang. Not until she knew for sure Henry was on his way home.

When I got home it was close to midnight. I sloughed off all the detritus from the day: wallet, keys, loose change, cell phone. The phone was off. I'd forgotten to turn it back on after Jack and I had left the crime scene. I turned it back on, saw there were two messages waiting for me.

My heart sank when I heard Amanda's voice on both of them. In the first she seemed relaxed. The time stamp meant she'd likely sent it just after getting home from work. The second was sent less than half an hour later, but she sounded worried, hesitant. I had no idea what could have happened in that short time frame, but the moment I erased the messages I was calling her back.

She picked up before the first ring was finished.

"Henry?" her sweet voice said.

"Hey, baby, it's me."

"Are you home?"

48."Sure am. Pretty exhausted, but it's been a h.e.l.l of a day. I'll fill you in tomorrow."

"Are you home for good?"

"You mean tonight?"

"Yeah."

"Yes...just getting ready for bed."

"Do me a favor. Make sure your door is locked."

"Is everything okay?" I didn't know where all of this was coming from. "Do you want me to come over?"

"No. Just promise me you'll stay safe."

"I promise," I said.

"Good. Thanks, Henry. Now get a good night's sleep.

I'll talk to you tomorrow."

She hung up, but something gnawed at my gut. Like Amanda knew something I didn't.

6.Tuesday

I was on the corner of Fifty-seventh and Sixth. It was seven-thirty in the morning. Jack had told me to meet him at eight-thirty. So unless he showed up an hour early just to prove a point, I'd be the first one there. Of course you could make the argument that I showed up an hour early just to make my own point, but that was semantics. I wanted and needed Jack to respect my work ethic. If my professional accomplishments hadn't yet convinced him, he'd just have to witness it firsthand.

I was still a little on edge from my conversation with Amanda. We'd spoken briefly this morning before she left for work, and something was definitely wrong. Again she'd told me to promise that I'd stay safe. She'd never done anything like that, at least not without cause or some psycho killer breathing down our backs. I'd see her tonight.

We'd talk, and hopefully everything would be all right.

They needed to be. I needed that much stability in my life right now, and I needed her to know that I was reliable.

At eight-fifteen the familiar tweed jacket rounded the corner. Jack was clutching a large coffee and munching on 50.a bagel. Cream cheese was stuck in his beard. He nodded as he drew close, said, "Henry. Way to be on time."

"I could say the same thing to you. Hey, got a little cream cheese there." I motioned to his beard. He ran his hand through it, but all that did was spread it around. I laughed, which Jack didn't take kindly to. He took a napkin and wiped himself down thoroughly, finally getting it out.

"Better, Dad?" Jack said.

"Better, sport."

"Good. Now that the silliness is over, let's go talk to some of these 718 guys."

"I don't know all of them," I said, "but the ones I did meet got pretty vicious. Two of them, Scott Callahan and Kyle Evans, are dead. Two others I didn't know, Guardado and Tsang, are dead, too."

"They must have a h.e.l.l of a life insurance policy,"

Jack said.

"I don't get it," I said. "Stephen Gaines worked for these people. He ends up dead. Tsang has his bones ground to powder, and there are still people dealing for these clowns. I mean, if your colleagues are dropping like flies, why do you stay on? Why not go to the cops, spill on whoever's paying you? Seems like you have a better chance of staying alive at least."

"That's a good question, Henry, and it's one that we're going to have to answer because obviously these people disagree with your a.s.sessment."

"Survival," I said.

"Come again?" replied Jack.

"Human instinct. The number-one priority is survival. If someone isn't opening up, it's because they want to survive.

Ken Tsang, that wasn't just a murder. It was a message."

51."I think I've seen that kind of message before."

"Yeah? Where?"

"Wrote a story once where I had to interview the foreman after an accident at a quarry. The foreman told me the victim's body looked like the bad guy after Indiana Jones smushed him in that rock crusher. Said he looked like something that was squeezed out of a tube of toothpaste."

"You know, sometimes I feel I'd be better off not knowing about all your previous stories."

"Thought it might be pertinent," Jack sniffed.

"Come on, the building where 718 operates out of is over there."

We entered the building, and I wasn't shocked to find a different security guard on duty than I remember. He was an older man, mid-sixties, with a tuft of gray hair parked on the top of his head like a wind ornament. He had on thick reading gla.s.ses and was reading a newspaper. We approached, and I said, "We're here for 718 Enterprises."

The man looked up. I could see a crossword puzzle on the table in front of him. Only three of the words had been filled in. And let's just say he wasn't aware the word nuclear had an had an a. a.

"Sorry, come again?"

"718 Enterprises," Jack said. "Can you ring them up?"

"Just a second." He pushed the newspaper away and brought out a large binder. Opening it, he began to flip through pages, studying the telephone numbers with his index finger. I watched as he scanned, unable to see the numbers for myself.

"I'm sorry, there's no company here by that name.

718 Enterprises, you said?"

"That's right. They definitely work here," I added.

"I've been here before," I lied.

52.The guard curled his lip up, flipped through the binder again. He looked confused, frustrated. "Sorry, nothing here by that name."

"Hold on a second," I said. I took the logbook from the counter, began to look at all the people who'd signed in. Last time I was here, Scott Callahan and Kyle Evans had signed in when they visited 718 Enterprises. But to my surprise, n.o.body was here to visit the company. Not a single name I recognized.

"Sir, please give that back," he said, his voice growing impatient. "If you don't I'll have security down here right quick." Figured they'd have security. Old Man River here didn't look like he was hired to do much strong-arming.

"What's your name, friend?" Jack said.

"Edgar," the guard replied.

"Edgar, I'm Jack. My friend Henry here is a little impatient, for that I apologize. We were under the impression this company was located at this address.... How long have you been working here?"

"It's my fourth day," Edgar replied.

"Really," Jack said. His voice was modulated to feign interest, but I could tell that bothered him. "Who else works this s.h.i.+ft?"

"n.o.body anymore. Building manager called the agency that was looking to place me, said they needed a new morning man five days a week, Monday through Friday.

They didn't tell me about the last guy, but this is a full-time job. Thank G.o.d, because in this economy heaven knows my savings and 401k aren't worth squat anymore."

"Thanks, Edgar," Jack said. "Come on, Henry." He didn't say my name like we were partners, but like I was his subordinate.

As we left the building, I said to Jack, "Next time 53.you're going to do the good cop, bad cop shtick, how about letting me know ahead of time that I'm going to be the bad cop?"

Jack shook his head. "This is about the story, Henry.

Not your pride or your feelings. If I need you to be my patsy to get someone to open up, that's just what I'll do.

And I'd expect you to do the same with me if the situation called for it. In fact, if you didn't, I'd wonder why I was letting you tag along in the first place."

"Tag along? This is my sto..." I stopped talking. This wouldn't get us anywhere. "I can tell what you're thinking."

Jack nodded. "Whoever did work here packed up and left faster than my second wife left with my collection of antique pens."

"You think it's because of Tsang?" I asked.

"No way. At least not entirely. Tsang was killed yesterday. Edgar started a few days ago. If Tsang was connected to 718 Enterprises--and ipso facto your brother--they were long gone before they crushed his bones into oatmeal."

I don't know what we should have expected to find, but I guarantee it wasn't nothing. Not the nothing as in "well, we got there but didn't quite find what we were looking for." There was no trace of 718 Enterprises whatsoever. It was simply gone.

And as Jack and I stood there in the morning sunlight, I couldn't help but think about the hundreds of people who went about their day oblivious to this. Who'd walked by this building for perhaps years, unaware that it was a drug refueling station. And that all of a sudden whatever had been there had suddenly been packed up and s.h.i.+pped off as quickly and as easily as a parcel.

"Back to the office," Jack said. "We're not going to 54.learn anything standing on the corner waiting for melanoma to sink in."

His hands were on his hips, a look on his face that showed he was p.i.s.sed off but wouldn't stop here. I'd never seen Jack work, unless you counted watching him hunched over a keyboard sipping coffee that smelled suspiciously like something you'd find on tap at an Irish pub.

I had the same gene. The "h.e.l.l if I'll stop now" gene.

I smiled inwardly as Jack ran into the street to hail a cab, moving like a man half his age. Not only did he have a story to chase, but after months spent away from the game, this was the closest he'd been to fresh meat in a long time.

"There has to be a building manager," I said. "A corporation who cashes the lease payments."

"Great minds, Henry. Great minds." He told the driver to take us back to Rockefeller Plaza. I felt my cell phone vibrate, picked it up, saw Amanda had left me a text message. I opened the mail. It read, Luv u. I smiled. Sent her one back that read, u 2 babe.

Then just before I closed the phone, I saw that I had another unopened text. This one was from Curt Sheffield.

It read: News out about Ken Tsang's murder. Undercover cops say dealers are scared s.h.i.+tless, holing up.

Informants running like roaches.

And the text ended with one line that gave me chills.

Message delivered.

7.

Morgan Isaacs didn't want to wake up. He was lying in bed, forcing his eyelids closed, even though a few quick peeks told him it was after ten o'clock and the day had started without him. Again.

It had been just a week since Morgan had met with the real estate broker as well as his dad's accountant (who didn't charge him, thankfully, chalking it up to years of family service). Both advised him, without a moment of hesitation, to sell his two-bedroom apartment on Park Avenue. Morgan pleaded his case, said he'd be back on his feet in no time, but Morgan wasn't trying to convince the advisor as much as himself.

He'd have to give it up. All of it.

It was a sweet pad, with nearly seventeen hundred square feet, brand-new appliances, a hundred-fiftysquare-foot terrace, a fifty-two-inch plasma and a view that most Manhattanites would chop off their left thumb for. It was the kind of place Morgan dreamed of when he first enrolled in business school five years ago, taking on the kind of debt that would choke a third world country.

Sure, there were bigger apartments in NYC, but you had to start somewhere. And even with the real estate market 56.taking a nosedive recently you couldn't find a good twobedroom for under a million three. To get the three-and four-bedroom pads you had to plunk down close to two mil, and even though his debts were almost all paid off he thankfully had decided to stick with the twofer until his next promotion.

But then it all crashed down faster than a load of bricks.

The rumors began to swirl about a month ago that the bank Morgan worked at as a trader was having tough times, that its liquidity was nowhere near what the CEOs were claiming. Then he read a newspaper article saying there was a chance it would be bought out by one of the company's compet.i.tors. Then, a week ago, Morgan got a call from his boss at eleven-thirty on a Sat.u.r.day night, telling him to be at the office at 9:00 a.m. Sunday morning.