JM01 - Black Maps (18 page)

“Gee, thanks for the pointers, Mr. Neary,” I said testily.

“Hey—remember who’s asking for the favors around here, and who’s doing them, and don’t get your drawers in a knot. I’m just saying, maybe you’ve got hold of something, maybe not. But even if you do, I haven’t seen anything yet that connects it to my people. Show me that, and you’ll have my undivided attention, believe me.” Neary gestured toward the platters that had come. “Don’t let this get cold.” I started with noodles, Neary with spring rolls.

“I got some stuff on Trautmann for you,” he said, after he’d had a couple rolls. “It came out of the file my predecessor put together when Brill took over security on MWB. There may be more, but it’ll have to wait till Monday.” He took a thick yellow envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to me.

“This guy sounds like a real piece of work. He used to be on the job. Worked plainclothes, narcotics and vice, up in the Bronx, and he was a real comer for a couple of years. Lots of arrests, a bunch of commendations, everybody expected great things. But then he flamed out. A pimp and two of his girls got themselves beat nearly to death, and there was a big excessive-force complaint against Trautmann. And on the heels of it, a bunch of questions about some of his earlier cases. Allegations of coercion, evidence tampering, talk about protection payments. Ultimately, no charges were pressed—no one willing to testify, apparently—and Trautmann ended up resigning. That was twenty-five years ago.

“A couple of months after he leaves the force, he gets himself a PI license, starts working security at some clubs in Manhattan, basically a well-heeled bouncer. Then he opens a rent-a-cop outfit, Trident Security Consulting, doing more of the same—clubs, crowd control, that kind of stuff. After a while he moves up-market, starts specializing in security services for banks—specifically small branches of foreign banks. He got himself a handful of banks for clients, including MWB. As MWB New York grew, so did Trautmann’s business with them. Eventually, he gave up the rest of his clients and worked exclusively for them.”

“What’s he been up to since they folded?” I asked.

“Trident Security is still around, but very small time. Back to the uniformed rent-a-cop business—a couple of fat old drunks, a couple of skinny kids—working mall security out in Queens and on the Island,” Neary said.

“Feds didn’t like him for anything in connection with MWB?”

“They took a long look, but ultimately, no. His story was that he was just a contractor, had nothing to do with the business, and I guess he sold them on it.” Neary crunched some broccoli. “The guy must be fiftysomething by now, but he’s a serious hard case. Since he left the force, he’s had ten complaints filed against him—assault, harassment, one rape, one attempted murder. The last one just four years ago. But the complainants always seem to change their minds or lose their memories, so nothing sticks.” Neary paused to eat some fried tofu. “You look out for this guy.”

I nodded. “You’re not the first person to tell me that,” I said. We ate in silence for a while, and I thought about Trautmann. “So . . . an ex-cop, around fifty years old, hard case—where have I heard a description like that before?” I asked innocently. “Oh, yeah, it was from Faith Herman, my fax-sending bag lady, whose testimony you dismissed with such contempt.” Neary was wrestling a knot of cold noodles with his chopsticks, but he flipped me the bird with his free hand. He finished his noodles and closed in on the dumplings.

“What’s up with the feds and Nassouli?” I asked. Neary shrugged and dipped a dumpling in soy sauce.

“You asked me that two days ago. Like I said, he used to be an obsession with them. Then five, six months ago it stops.”

“Any theories?”

“There aren’t too many possibilities. One: they’ve stopped looking ’cause they found him or they’re damn sure they know where to find him. Two: they’ve stopped looking ’cause they’ve run out of places to look. Three: they haven’t stopped looking, but they want to give the impression that they have. Don’t ask me why they would do that.”

I thought about that a little. “I agree. Three doesn’t make sense to me, and I’m not sure two does either. If they really felt they’d crapped out on the search, I don’t see them advertising it.” Neary nodded agreement. “One is my favorite, then. I can see them being quiet if they’d found him but couldn’t get at him.” Neary nodded again. “But do you see them keeping quiet if they’d got him? That doesn’t fit.” Neary had another dumpling.

“Could be they’re trying to work a deal,” he said between chews. “Be pretty good for Shelly to have a guy like that as a cooperating witness, don’t you think? And if they’re still making the deal, or if they made it and have him on ice somewhere, I could see them being pretty fucking quiet about it.”

“Anybody over there willing to whisper in your ear?”

Neary frowned. “Jesus, March. How much mileage do you think you get out of some free meals, anyway?”

“It’s not like I’m asking for the keys to the Hoover Building or anything,” I said. Neary’s frown deepened, and he shook his head.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I actually
need
this job? This is not some little favor, you know? They take this shit pretty seriously.” He pushed a big hand through his hair and was quiet for a while. “I can ask one or two questions—very carefully. And if I get any push back at all— that’s it,” he said finally.

“Thanks, Tom, I appreciate it,” I said. Neary grunted and took the last two dumplings.

We walked over to Broadway and said our good-byes. Neary went south, and I headed north, toward home. I walked the whole way, stopping only at a toy store in Union Square to pick up some things for my nephews.

My building was still and empty-feeling. No neighbors to be seen or heard, all gone for the holiday, no doubt. I fired up my laptop and went online, to three of my preferred search services. I submitted to each of them the four names Burrows had given me—Kenneth Whelan, Michael Lenzi, Nicholas Welch, and Steven Bregman—and limited my initial searches to New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut. I logged off; the services would send me their results via e-mail.

I changed into running tights and a sweatshirt and went out. Being still full of tofu, and not wanting to puke all over my shoes, I set an easy pace—nine-minute miles—and wound my way through Washington Square, the Village, and SoHo for forty minutes. Afterward, I showered and changed and opened a can of tuna. Then I put on WFUV and read from a book of Carver stories until I fell asleep.

Chapter Twelve

The taxi dropped me in front of Ned’s building at three in the afternoon on Thanksgiving—only an hour late, despite my best dilatory efforts. A guy I didn’t know held the big bronze door for me. I crossed the vast lobby to the concierge’s marble bunker, and another guy I didn’t know. He rang upstairs to announce me. The elevator guy I knew. He nodded at me.

“Long time,” he said. Not long enough.

The elevator door slid open, and I stepped into a foyer about a hundred feet square. The walls were cream colored, and the floor was black and white stone, set in a diamond pattern. A small, bronze chandelier hung from the high ceiling. There was an ebony table to my left, with some flowers on it, in a tall, glass vase. Straight ahead was a pair of glossy, black doors. I pressed the bell and heard a deep chime inside.

Meg answered. She’s a jumpy girl from County Mayo, with lots of freckles and skittish blue eyes. I’d be jumpy too, I guess, if I were Ned and Janine’s maid, and had to wear that silly getup. I heard music, something baroque, and voices and glassware.

“Hi, Meg,” I said.

“ ’Lo, Mr. March. Nice to see you,” she answered in a soft brogue. I stepped inside, and she took my coat. I was in a much larger foyer, with pale gray walls and white molding. Some Dutch landscape sketches that I’d always liked were hung on the walls, and a big Oriental carpet covered the floor.

My sister-in-law Janine inspected me from the opposite doorway. Dressed appropriately? Unexpected guests? Visible contusions? Weapons? I was wearing olive corduroys and a black sweater over a blue shirt, so the clothes passed muster. I was alone, wound-free, and if I was carrying it wasn’t obvious. She smiled and crossed the foyer to greet me.

“Hello, stranger. It’s been a while,” she said. She patted my arms and made a kissing noise near my ear. Janine is forty-two, a year younger than Ned, but like Ned she looks and acts more like fifty. She’s five and a half feet tall, with a long, fragile-looking neck, reedy arms and legs, and a body like a plank. Her hair is an expensive blond, worn in a rigid page-boy. Her nose is straight and narrow, and her mouth is small, with thin lips that are prone to pursing. Her eyes are a bright, cornflower blue, with aperture settings that range from large as saucers, as when Ned presents her with some expensive bauble, to narrow as knives, as when she flays an impertinent junior member of one of her charity boards. With me they were dialed to wary.

Janine wore tailored camel pants, a chocolate-colored cashmere twinset, and pearls. Her eyes flicked to my packages and grew quizzical.

“For the boys,” I said.

“Oh, John, you didn’t have to. They have too much as it is, really. What is it?”

“Puzzles for Alec and Legos for Derek.” I gave her the packages, and she put them down in a corner.

“They’ll love them, I’m sure. They’ve been asking every five minutes when Uncle Johnny will be here.” She guided me across the foyer, to the left down a wide hallway, and finally to the living room. The music and the voices and the glassware sounds grew louder as we approached.

The living room, like the whole apartment, was large and formal. We stood at one end of the broad, high-ceilinged space. The walls were a green just darker than money, and the pilasters and molding and beamed ceiling were a crisp white. A white marble mantelpiece dominated one wall. The wall opposite us was mostly windows and French doors, framed in green and gold drapery. The doors opened onto a terrace that wrapped around much of the apartment. The waning sun filled the room with amber light.

The furniture was old and French, and though there was a lot of it, the room did not seem crowded. The ten or so people in it didn’t come close to its capacity. Most of them turned to look as we entered. Some of them smiled. Ned was there, and so was Lauren, with her husband, Keith. Liz was there, talking to an older, dark-haired man I didn’t know. My brother David was on the terrace, talking to someone I couldn’t see. His wife, Stephanie, was sitting with some more people I didn’t know. Ned crossed the room to greet me.

“We thought we’d have to start without you,” he said, and clasped my shoulder. “Good to see you, Johnny. Let me get you something to drink.” He led me to a large chrome drinks trolley. “Cranberry and soda still your choice?” I nodded, and he took a tumbler off the cart and started fishing for ice in a silver bucket.

Ned is a couple of inches shorter than I am, and broader. His gingery hair is short and wavy, and it was thinner and grayer than the last time I’d seen him. He has a ruddy complexion and a square face with blunt features. His gray eyes looked tired and distracted, and there were more lines than I remembered around his small mouth—the burdens of being the number two guy at Klein & Sons. He was wearing dark gray trousers and a navy blazer over a white shirt. Turkeys strutted over his red tie. He handed me my drink and looked like he was about to speak, but before he could, I felt a dig at my ribs and a kiss on my cheek. Liz.

“What happened, you forget how to tell time, or has it been so long you forgot the address?”

“Hey, yourself,” I said, and kissed her cheek. She was wearing a black cashmere turtleneck over a short, plaid skirt. A matching plaid ribbon was tied in her thick, blond hair. Liz is rangy and tall, just my height in flat shoes. She’s thirty-six and looks it. She has shrewd, green eyes, a strong nose, and a wide mouth, all set in a lean face. The effect is more handsome and smart than conventionally pretty.

The traders who work on the hugely profitable desk that Liz runs at Klein would probably use different words to describe her. “Scary bitch” would be the kindest of them, and they might have a point. Liz is handsome and smart, but she’s also brutally impatient, utterly intolerant of mistakes, and merciless in her sarcasm.

Her companion was cut from the same cloth as all her men friends: older, European, attractive, and affluent looking. She introduced him as Marco. He smiled with a bemused detachment that I envied.

“Back in the bosom of your family. I knew you couldn’t stay away,” she said, looking me up and down. “You’re too skinny, eat something.” Meg was walking around the room with a silver tray heaped with smoked salmon, pâté, shrimp, and a few things I didn’t recognize. Liz hauled her over. I took some salmon and felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Lauren said she’d ground you down. It’s nice when it happens to someone else. How you doing, John?” A wry smile lit Keith’s narrow face. Lauren’s husband is tall, around six foot four, and thin, with a thatch of unruly brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and a long, bumpy nose. He wore khakis, a tweed jacket, and a rumpled denim shirt, open at the collar. Keith has a Ph.D. in molecular biology, and he does things with DNA at Rockefeller University. I smiled and shook his hand. Lauren was behind him.

“See, it’s not so bad,” she said. “You’re having a great time already, I can tell.”

“Whee,” I said.

“Come meet our strays.” She and Keith led me to one of the large sofas and introduced me to a German couple and a young Italian man. They worked in Keith’s lab, and they were all new arrivals to the city. Their English wasn’t great, but they seemed pleasant enough, if a little nervous. Sitting next to Stephanie for too long can have that effect.