“On the theory that it will be way too much trouble for the manager to get inside the storage vault, and he couldn’t possibly bring the contents-whatever they are-with him to the courthouse, so he’ll just roll over and let Mercer have a look.”
“Something like that.”
Nan paused for several seconds. “Alex, how far out on a limb are you going to go?”
“Probably not much further. Battaglia has a chain saw, and I can hear him buzzing while he tries to cut me off. I get it if you can’t come along.”
Nan sighed. “Just a subpoena.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you once we’re inside.”
Mike was out of the car, directing Mercer to a parking spot across the street from ours. As he made his way to us, he showed us the large manila ticket, bearing the name Day & Meyer, which was in a small plastic bag.
“Let’s get inside before they close,” Mike said.
The building was about fifteen stories high. The walls were solid to the rooftop, except for a double row of windows that formed a strip down the middle. The Portovaults were probably parked on both sides of that. Many prisons looked less forbidding than this private fortress.
Once inside, a security guard directed us to the manager’s office. When the three of us entered, he raised his eyes from his desk to ask how he could help us.
“NYPD,” Mercer said, showing his blue-and-gold shield and introducing each of us.
The man was unperturbed. He pushed his reading glasses to the top of his bald head and listened to our request. The plastic sign on his desk said WILL JARVIS.
“I’m trying to get some information about Lavinia Dalton’s account,” Mercer said.
“Then you should speak with Ms. Dalton. We’re not in the business of giving information.”
“It’s about a homicide investigation,” Mike said. “You might be aware that Ms. Dalton isn’t able to help us.”
“You should talk to Ms. Sorenson, then,” Jarvis said.
“We’ve done that.”
“She’s given permission for me to answer your questions?”
“No need to ask her permission. She’s a witness in our investigation. She doesn’t get to call the shots.”
It was obvious the man was quite familiar with the Dalton account, seeing as how he had Jillian Sorenson’s name at the tip of his tongue.
“She’s a witness to murder?”
Mike leaned both arms on the manager’s desk. “We’re not in the business of giving information, either.”
Will Jarvis reached for the telephone on his desk, opened his old-fashioned Rolodex, and started to dial a number. I assumed it was Lavinia Dalton’s home.
Mike put his finger on the button to stop the call from going through. Then he turned to me. “Ms. Cooper, you got that subpoena you were talking about?”
“If Mr. Jarvis will kindly give me his fax number, I can have it sent through in a matter of minutes.”
Jarvis wasn’t happy to hear the word “subpoena.”
“A search warrant,” I said, “will take five or six hours longer.”
“We close at six.”
“The warrant won’t get done until night court,” I said. “We’re used to waiting it out.”
“And the subpoena?” Jarvis asked after slowly reeling off the fax number as I wrote it on a Post-it from my tote.
“Much easier,” I said, stepping back near the doorway to call Nan and tell her what to ask for and where to fax it.
“What’s the information you want?”
“Basic stuff,” Mike said. “I’m not looking to break chops. It’s not about you, Will.”
“Like what?”
“Like how many storage units does Ms. Dalton maintain here?”
Jarvis’s computer was on a table behind him. He swiveled his chair and logged on, searching the database for the accounts while I whispered to Nan.
“The accounts are held by the Dalton trust, actually,” Jarvis said. “And there are eight vaults.”
Even if all the Daltons going back to Lavinia’s grandfather had been collectors, that was still a massive amount of possessions to hang on to.
“How many does the building hold?” Mike asked.
“Five hundred vaults,” Jarvis said. “About fifty per floor, and then we have special areas climate controlled on other floors for things like paintings. The eight Dalton units are together on the twelfth floor. Archer Dalton was among Day & Meyer’s first customers in 1928. We take their family business very seriously, if you get my drift.”
“I’m drifting with you,” Mike said.
I stepped closer. “That fax should be coming through momentarily.”
Mike and Mercer continued to ask questions about the building-obviously impressed by the level of security offered to customers-warming Jarvis up enough that he offered to tour them through to show them how the rail system worked.
Three minutes later, his fax machine lit up and set its gears in motion, and a copy of the subpoena rolled out of the printer.
Will Jarvis picked it up, read it, and lost every trace of good humor Mike and Mercer had just lured out of him.
“You’ve set me an impossible task. There’s simply no way I can produce all the Dalton records, all the receipts of entry for the Dalton vaults-and it’s preposterous to suggest that I can take out the contents of a locked vault that belongs to a customer.”
“Stay calm, Mr. Jarvis,” Mike said. “By all means don’t get all herky-jerky here.”
“This document says I have to appear before the grand jury on Monday. That’s not an option, Ms. Cooper.”
“Options,” Mike said. “I like options. Prosecutors can be so damned unreasonable. You want to discuss the options with us, Coop?”
“I certainly didn’t mean to impose a hardship on you, Mr. Jarvis. Let’s take this one step at a time.”
Jarvis was fuming. He eyes darted back and forth between us. He reached for the receiver again, and again Mike tamped down the button. “Let’s leave Ms. Sorenson out of this.”
“I’m calling our lawyer, Mr. Chapman. He’ll have something to say about this.”
“That’s fine. Go right ahead.”
The number rang five times before going to voice mail. Jarvis slammed the phone down without leaving a message.
“What about the record keeping you do here for each account?” I asked. “Perhaps if you explain it to me, we can put that issue to rest.”
Will Jarvis was on high alert and reluctant to trust me. He thought his answer through before speaking. “We’ve been computerized for twenty-five years, Ms. Cooper. Before that, everything was done by hand.”
“So you can call up the Dalton account right on your computer?”
“If I chose to do so, yes. It would give me a quarter of a century of information.”
“So a family or individual with eight vaults, would the contents of those vaults be listed?”
“Never. Do you tell the bank what’s in your safety-deposit box?”
“Is there a date when each vault was rented?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“And a record of every time the Portovault leaves this building to go to an account and make a pickup?”
“Or a delivery,” Jarvis said. “Yes.”
“And a notation when an account holder comes to this building to get access to his or her vaults?”
“Just like a bank, Ms. Cooper. A record is made, signed by the holder or his representative, and countersigned by one of our agents, too.”
“And what if something is added into a vault during one of those visits?”
Will Jarvis took a few seconds to answer. “That wouldn’t be information we’d know. That’s our client’s right.”
“How about if something is removed?”
He scratched his head. “Removed from his or her own vault? You don’t seem to get my point, Ms. Cooper.”
“So you don’t issue receipts for that kind of thing?”
“We’re very discreet, you understand. The customers entrust their objects to us-everything from moose-head mountings to Queen Anne furniture to solid-gold Krugerrands. If they want to pay a visit, we ask them to sign in-we have a signature card with assorted permissions for family members or trustees-and we provide an armed guard to secure their visits, their transactions,” Jarvis said. “We don’t issue receipts, Ms. Cooper. This isn’t a pawnshop.”