He went through the drawers and found a black ledger, a checkbook, and a pile of bills. Looked like he’d been dipping into his savings. He’d been paying only the minimum on his Master Card. A lot of late payment notices, and a couple of bad news letters from employment agencies. Luck wasn’t running his way, and maybe Mr. Richard Hollander was looking for someone to blame.
Folded between the back cover and the last page of the ledger was a receipt from the Brickell Real Estate Agency for a cash security deposit and first month’s rental on Loft #629. Dated last month. Made out to Sean McCabe.
Loft #629. Where the hell was that? And why did Richard Hollander have someone else’s cash receipt? Unless it wasn’t someone else’s. Had he rented loft #629 under a phony name? That would explain using cash. But why would a guy who was almost broke rent a loft?
Unless he was looking for a place to do something too risky to do in his own apartment.
Like holding hostages.
Jack copied down the Brickell agency’s phone number. He might need that later. Then he called Munir.
Hysteria on the phone. Sobbing, moaning, the guy was almost incoherent.
“Calm down, dammit! What exactly did he tell you?”
“He’s going to cut her… he’s going to cut her… he’s going to cut her…”
He sounded like a stuck record player. If Munir had been within reach Jack would have whacked him alongside the head to unstick him.
“Cut her what?”
“Cut her nipple off!”
“Oh, Jeez! Stay right there. I’ll call you right back.”
Jack retrieved the receipt for the loft and dialed the number of the realtor. As the phone began to ring, he realized he hadn’t figured out an angle to pry out the address. They wouldn’t give it to just anybody. But maybe a cop…
He hoped he was right as a pleasant female voice answered on the third ring. “Brickell Agency.”
Jack put a harsh, Brooklynese edge on his voice.
“Yeah. This is Lieutenant Adams of the Twelfth Precinct. Who’s in charge there?”
“I am.” Her voice had cooled. “Esther Brickell. This is my agency.”
“Good. Here’s the story. We’ve got a suspect in a mutilation murder but we don’t know his whereabouts. However, we did find a cash receipt among his effects. Your name was on it.”
“The Brickell Agency?”
“Big as life. Down payment of some sort on loft number six two nine. Sound familiar?”
“Not offhand. We’re computerized. We access all our rental accounts by number.”
“Fine. Then it’ll only take you a coupla seconds to get me the address of this place.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I have a strict policy of never giving out information about my clients. Especially over the phone. All my dealings with them are strictly confidential. I’m sure you can understand.”
Swell, Jack thought. She thinks she’s a priest or a reporter.
“What I understand,” he said, “is that I’ve got a crazy perp out there and you think you’ve got privileged information. Well, listen, sweetie, the First Amendment don’t include realtors. I need the address of your six two nine loft rented to” – he glanced at the name on the receipt – “Sean McCabe. Not later. Now. Capsice?”
“Sorry,” she said. “I can’t do that. Good day, lieutenant – if indeed you are a lieutenant.”
Shit! But Jack wasn’t giving up. He had to get this address.
“Oh, I’m a lieutenant, all right. And believe me, sweetie, you don’t come across with that address here and now, you’ve got trouble. You make me waste my time tracking down a judge to swear out a search warrant, make me come out to your dinky little office to get this one crummy address, I’m gonna do it up big. I’m gonna bring uniforms and blue and white units and we’re gonna do a thorough search. And I do mean a thorough. We’ll be there all day. And we’ll go through all your files. And while we’re at it you can explain to any prospective clients who walk in exactly what we’re doing and why – and hope they’ll believe you. And if we can’t find what we want in your computer we’ll confiscate it. And keep it for a while. And maybe you’ll get it back next Christmas. Maybe.”
“Just a minute,” she said.
Jack waited, hoping she hadn’t gone to another phone to call her lawyer and check on his empty threats, or call the Twelfth to check on a particularly obnoxious lieutenant named Adams.
“It’s on White Street,” she said suddenly in cold, clipped tones. “Eighteen twenty two. Two D.”
“Thank–”
She hung up on him. Fine. He had what he needed.
White Street. That was in TriBeCa – the trendy triangle below Canal Street. Lots of lofts down there. Straight down Lafayette from where he and Munir had played the mailbox game. He’d been on top of the guy an hour ago.
He punched in Munir’s number.
“Eighteen twenty two White,” he said without preamble. “Get down there now.”
No time for explanations. He hung up and ran for the door.
16
The building looked like a deserted factory. Probably was. Four stories with no windows on the first floor. Maybe an old sweat shop. A “NOW RENTING” sign next to the front door. The place looked empty. Had the Brickell lady stiffed him with the wrong address?
With his trusty plastic ruler ready in his gloved hand, Jack hopped out of the cab and ran for the door. It was steel, a leftover from the building’s factory days. An anti jimmy plate had been welded over the latch area. Jack pocketed the plastic and inspected the lock: a heavy duty Schlage. A tough pick on a good day. Here on the sidewalk, with the clock ticking, in full view of the cars passing on the street, a very tough pick.
He ran along the front of the building and took the alley around to the back. Another door there, this one with a big red alarm warning posted front and center.
Two-D… that meant the second floor had been subdivided into at least four mini lofts. If Hollander was here at all, he’d be renting the cheapest. Usually the lower letters meant up front with a view of the street; further down the alphabet you got relegated to the rear with an alley view.
Jack stepped back and looked up. The second floor windows to his left were bare and empty. The ones on the right were completely draped with what looked like bedsheets.
And running right smack past the middle of those windows was a downspout. Jack tested the pipe. This wasn’t some flimsy aluminum tube that collapsed like a beer can; this was good old fashioned galvanized pipe. He pulled on the fittings. They wiggled in their sockets.
Not good, but he’d have to risk it.
He began to climb, shimmying up the pipe, vising it with his knees and elbows as he sought toeholds and fingerholds on the fittings. It shuddered, it groaned, and half way up it settled a couple of inches with a jolt, but it held. Moments later he was perched outside the shrouded second floor windows.
Now what?
Sometimes the direct approach was the best. He knocked on the nearest pane. It was two foot high, three foot wide, and filthy. After a few seconds, he knocked again. Finally a corner of one of the sheets lifted hesitantly and a man stared out at him. Blond hair, wide blue eyes, pale face in need of a shave. The eyes got wider and the face faded a few shades paler when he saw Jack. He didn’t look exactly like the guy in the photo in Hollander’s apartment, but he could be. Easily.
Jack smiled and gave him a friendly wave. He raised his voice to be heard through the glass.
“Good morning. I’d like to have a word with Mrs. Habib, if you don’t mind.”
The corner of the sheet dropped and the guy disappeared. Which confirmed that he’d found Richard Hollander. Anybody else would have asked him what the hell he was doing out there and who the hell was Mrs. Habib?