Authors: Jason Dean
Bishop barely registered their exit. He just sat there, the key in his hand. Thinking. 22.53. Sixty-seven minutes to come
up with something.
He hadn’t lied to Aleron. He really did hope they’d prove him wrong, but he thought it highly improbable. The file had to
be someplace else. Had to be. He just needed to figure
out where.
And to do that, Bishop needed to discover the meaning behind these two numbers. E2110. 3975642. One on each side of the key.
Which indicated they referred to two entirely different things, connected only by their common purpose: the location of the
file. They clearly weren’t map coordinates, but maybe they were pointing towards its location in
a less obvious manner. And
they felt faintly familiar to him. No, familiar was the wrong word. But there was definitely something there that struck a
chord in his consciousness, and it sure wasn’t anything to do with a combination lock.
A hand entered Bishop’s field of vision and placed an opened bottle of Dr Pepper on the table. ‘Art swears by the stuff,’
Mandrake said. He sipped from his own bottle and sat down opposite. ‘Calls it lubrication for the mind. ’Course, he gets off
on the sugar rush, too.’
Bishop nodded his thanks and picked up the bottle. He took a few sips, hoping Mandrake would lapse back into silence. Instead,
the pilot said, ‘It’ll come. You can think too hard on a problem and then
it’s right in front of you.’
‘Sure,’ Bishop said with a sigh.
He glanced down at the key in his left hand and studied the sticker. And he frowned. In the conversation with Aleron and Luke
he might well have overlooked the simplest thing. He pulled at the sticker and saw engraved letters on the face of the key.
Price
.
Keys
usually had a manufacturer’s name on them. Like Yale or Chubb. Or nothing at all. He’d never heard of Price. So maybe
locksmiths had the option to personalize their keys themselves when they ordered them
from the manufacturer. To Mandrake, he said, ‘You got a Yellow Pages here?’
‘Sure, Alex keeps—’ Mandrake stopped. And tried again. ‘There should be some in the desk
behind me. Which borough?’
‘Let’s try Manhattan first.’
Mandrake walked over to his receptionist’s desk. It was still cordoned off by bright yellow crime scene tape and he ducked
under and rooted around in the drawers. He came back and handed over a directory that looked thinner than Bishop remembered.
He guessed the internet had all of life’s answers
these days.
Opening it to the Locksmiths section, he flicked through it until he came to the Ps and started turning the pages more slowly.
And then he stopped. There, at the bottom of the left-hand page, was a quarter-page ad.
All Your Lock Problems SOLVED!
it screamed in large red text across the top. Under that, in slightly smaller letters, was the name:
Price Locksmiths
. Bishop skipped over the text and focused on the photo of the premises that took up the left third of the ad. He saw a small,
well-stocked store with a glass front and a single glass door. Apartments above it. And then he looked at the address.
110 East 2nd Street.
If you needed to fit that on a small sticker you might shorten it to 110E2. Or E2110.
Possibly. He just hoped the shop’s owner
had one of those apartments above.
Bishop checked his watch again. 22.59. He’d have to get moving. Ripping the page from the directory, he grabbed his knapsack,
placed Luke’s note in his pocket and rose from the chair. ‘Looks like you were right,’ he said to the pilot. ‘This could be
something. What you did
for us, I won’t forget.’
‘Me neither,’ Mandrake said. ‘Next time, I charge you.’
Bishop smiled and strode over to the doors and pushed into the car park. Jenna’s Honda and Mandrake’s Mercedes were the only
vehicles left. No sign of Cortiss’s Lexus on the road, either. The cops must have taken it away. When he reached Jenna’s vehicle,
he pulled
out the emergency set of keys she’d given him and used the one with the Honda logo to unlock the door. He threw
the knapsack on the passenger seat and was about to get in when he stopped, pulled the Maglite from his pocket and walked
to the rear of the vehicle.
He lay on his back and pulled his upper torso under the car. He felt
a twinge in his stomach muscles
and paused, willing it to go away. The Three Bears already seemed like months ago. Back at
a time in his life when getting out and finding who’d set him up was all he cared about. Strange how things changed. He could
never have imagined the situation in which he now found himself.
He switched on the flashlight and shone it at the undercarriage. It was only
a few moments before he found the magnetized
transmitter box next to the exhaust resonator. He detached it from the vehicle and slid his body back out. He stood up, tossed
the box towards the fence and then got in the car.
Situated on the edge of Chinatown between Canal and Franklin, Cortlandt Alley is one of New York’s few remaining alleyways.
The narrow, grimy side street spans two blocks and is almost always dark. During the day it serves as a commercial access
to the five- or six-storey warehouses and factories on either side. At night it serves
as a haven for crack addicts and the
homeless. In recent years, the alley has also become the location of choice for music video directors tasked with lending
their baby-faced employers some semblance of street credibility.
None were present at 22.57 on Wednesday, though, as Martin Thorpe steered the van slowly northwards down the cobblestoned
street.
He passed fire escapes, sweatshops, padlocked doorways and raised, shuttered entrances until he came to a stop outside
two of the latter, both emblazoned with graffiti.
‘Okay, you two,’ he said, putting the vehicle into neutral as he scanned the street ahead. ‘Out you go.’
He turned in his seat and watched Danny exit the rear doors before reaching back
in to pull Jenna out. Thorpe had already
cuffed both hands behind her back at the car park, but he needn’t have bothered; she was still too doped up to be a problem.
But she’d start coming out of it soon, and then she’d quickly wish she were under again.
Neither he nor Danny had used this place much recently, not since his undercover days, when they’d interrogate
suspected informers
here without fear of the screams reaching the outside world. The Cattrall organization still owned the lease, but these premises
had been unused for years now since their operations had been moved out west. He was surprised they hadn’t sublet it, but
he figured waste not, want not. There was a wealth of hidden spots in even the busiest of cities,
but only if you knew where
to look. And Thorpe made it his business to know.
As Danny removed the second padlock securing the brown metal door next to the shutters, Thorpe said, ‘Remember what we agreed.
There needs to be enough light so there’s no mistake, and I don’t want you going to work on her until I give the word, okay?’
Danny
gave him a nod and a smile, then pulled the door open and shoved Jenna into the darkness before turning to watch him
drive away. Thorpe knew it wouldn’t be dark in there for long. He’d checked earlier to make sure the lights on the first floor
were still working and stashed Danny’s favourite tools and instruments in plain view, ready for use later.
He smiled
to himself as he pulled out his cell and accessed the web page they’d been using to track Jenna’s vehicle. Maybe
that was why the two of them worked so well together, their little sexual peccadilloes making them outsiders to the rest of
the world. Although he couldn’t help thinking his appetite for the young stuff was probably a little healthier than Danny’s
more sadistic
tendencies. At least Thorpe’s bed partners woke up in the morning. For the most part, anyway.
Still, each to their own. And it wasn’t as if Jenna ever had a chance of coming out of this alive. Not after she’d seen their
faces. Besides, everybody died. The only difference was that the process was going to be a little more painful for her than
for most. Okay,
a
lot
more painful. But it would only last a few hours and then it would be over.
He kept an eye on the cell phone screen as he carried on up towards Canal Street. The red dot was still in the same place.
Still over the other side of the river at Metroblade, where Bishop had returned earlier to avail himself of one of their choppers.
Oh, well.
His hope that Bishop might use her car to get back to the city had been a long shot at best, but he’d leave it on,
anyway. There was still an hour to go.
Things might change between now and then.
Bishop turned into East 2nd Street at 23.43 and found the locksmiths’ a minute later. There was little traffic at this time
of night, and even fewer pedestrians. He slowed to a crawl as he passed the storefront while searching for a nearby space.
The only one was at the end of the block under a No Parking sign. Ignoring the sign,
Bishop parked up then jogged the two
hundred yards back to the shop.
The brownstone looked thinner in real life. Shutters covered the windows and door he’d seen in the photo. On the left was
a second door up some steps. Bishop saw a single, new-looking buzzer and intercom built into the brickwork next to it, which
indicated a sole tenant rather than
a bunch of separate apartments.
He kept his finger on the button for about ten seconds. When he got no response, he kept at it for half a minute more before
a deep male voice erupted from the speaker. ‘I got ears,’ it said. ‘Give me a reason.’
Bishop said, ‘A friend of Randall Brennan’s.’
A short pause. And then, ‘Wait there.’
Bishop counted forty-nine seconds before he heard the sound of bolts being pulled back from the other side. The door finally
opened inwards to reveal a thick-shouldered, dark-skinned man. Bishop guessed early fifties. He was about two inches taller
than Bishop and wore flip-flops and a black Oriental-style kimono that couldn’t completely hide his paunch. There was
a small
amount of grey showing in the close-cropped beard and at the temples, but his face still looked young. His right arm remained
behind his back, out of view.
‘What was that again?’ he asked.
‘Randall Brennan,’ Bishop said.
‘I got that part. I didn’t get your connection to him.’
The man tried to look and sound
casual, but Bishop instantly knew the guy was ex-military. The erect bearing, the obvious
gun behind his back, the way his eyes checked the surrounding area and the occasional vehicle
passing by. Probably Corps if he’d known Brennan. And then the significance of the second number hit Bishop like a bullet.
‘3975642,’ he said.
‘That supposed to mean something
to me?’
‘A soldier never forgets the serial number of his first rifle,’ Bishop said, and pulled the key from his pocket and held it
up. ‘Mine was 6758296. Yours is written on this along with your name and address. You’re Price?’
The man scrunched his eyebrows together. ‘I know you?’
‘I doubt it,’ Bishop said. ‘You planning on shooting me
or inviting me in?’
The man studied Bishop for a few moments. Then he smiled and pressed himself against the wall with his right hand in plain
sight. It was holding a .45 semi-automatic, pointed at the floor. ‘Just follow the light,’ he said.
Bishop walked past him and heard the door close behind him. The passage was lit by a single bulb. More light
came from a small
reception room at the end. When he got there, he saw a single window overlooking a small yard. He turned and watched Price
approach with his hand and gun now in his dressing gown pocket. Directly at Bishop’s left was a closed door that he guessed
provided access to the shop. There was a stairway to the right of the hallway, which Bishop assumed led to the
living quarters
above. Neat stacks of magazines, newspapers and junk mail filled the reception room floor and five large potted plants were
lined up against the right-hand wall, like a parade at attention. Attached to the same wall was a red and black payphone that
looked older than Bishop, with its receiver hanging off a hook at the side.
‘I know
where I’ve seen you now,’ Price said, head tilted slightly as he studied Bishop. ‘You don’t
look
like a psycho.’
‘You’re not the first person to notice,’ Bishop said. He knew soldiers and cops were trained to observe more, but he was still
impressed by how quickly Price had placed him. ‘Although that might change before daybreak.’
Price nodded.
‘Payback’s something I understand. If it’s warranted. What was your unit and rank?’
‘Initially, 1st Battalion 3rd Marines, Bravo Company out of Hawaii. Later, C Platoon at 2nd FAST Company, based out of Yorktown.
Sergeant.’
‘Yeah, I heard of them from buddies still in. Fleet Antiterrorism Security Team.
Deter, detect, defend
, right?’
‘That was one slogan we used, sure.’ Bishop frowned and said, ‘You knew
Brennan well enough to care what happened to him, and now you know who I am. How come you’re not pointing that .45 in my direction?’
Price shrugged. ‘Someone with your history couldn’t have killed the colonel. Or his daughter. You and I know that, even if
the judge didn’t.’
‘Thanks. I could have used you on the jury.’
‘You’re welcome. So I’m assuming you’re closing in on the real killer?’
‘I was, until he snatched a friend of mine as insurance.’ Bishop looked down at the key in his hand. ‘But I’m hoping this
can provide me with something to help get her back. Thing is, I don’t have much time left.’
‘Then I guess you better follow me,’ Price said. From the same pocket that contained the gun he took a large set of keys and
used one to unlock the door at Bishop’s left. He opened it, reached in to switch on the lights and stepped through.
Bishop did the same and found himself halfway down the first of two long aisles that stretched to the rear of the shop. The
place was as well stocked as the photo had indicated. Turning left, he followed Price and passed by examples of every kind
of safe, door viewer, buzzer, intercom, door holder, chain guard, mail box, pivot, alarm, cylinder, padlock, deadbolt, key
type or door closer he could imagine.
‘I own this whole building outright, you know,’ Price said, his flip-flops
making a clapping sound as he walked in front.
‘Thanks to him.’
‘Brennan, you mean?’ Bishop checked his watch. 23.48. Wouldn’t be long now before he got a call from Thorpe. Probably a text
message from Aleron, as well.
‘Right. About five years ago I was struggling for reasons I won’t bore you with. The usual country song shit. Couldn’t
keep
up repayments and got served with repossession papers. Then all of a sudden, my whole mortgage gets paid off in one swoop.’
Price stopped outside another door at the rear of the premises and searched through his key chain. ‘That ended the drinking
for me, at least. Turns out the colonel had been keeping tabs on his old sergeant since the war and stepped in to save
the
day.’
‘Vietnam?’ Bishop asked. ‘You don’t look old enough.’
‘Good genes and regular exercise, I guess.’ Price found the correct key and unlocked the door. He opened it to reveal a thin
stairway, with light coming from the basement. He entered first and said, ‘Anyway, the colonel showed up at my door a few
days later, and once he
picked me up off my knees, told me he only wanted one favour in return.’
Bishop joined him at the bottom of the stairway and looked around.
They were in a low-ceilinged, narrow room that ran the length of the property. Three fluorescent tubes in the ceiling provided
light. There was a large wooden workbench at this end, most of its surface taken up with the inner
workings of various locks.
The brick wall to Bishop’s left was covered with shelves full of various tools. Five metal filing cabinets were lined against
the wall ahead, next to a long black desk with mandatory computer and accessories. Built into the same wall was a waist-high
safe with a keypad lock. To Bishop’s right, a sliding wall sectioned the room off from a smaller
area at the street end. He
could make out weights and gym equipment back there. Which explained Price’s comment about regular exercise.
‘What was the favour?’ Bishop asked.
Price walked over to the safe, knelt down and keyed in a twelve-number code. ‘Told me I was to be his personal safety deposit
box and that if ever somebody came along and
quoted me the serial number of my first rifle, I was to give him this and leave
him to it.’ He opened the safe door and pulled out an old, metal, military-style footlocker about two feet in length and a
foot wide. The lid’s locking hasp was secured to the steel loop on the front by a simple key padlock.
‘Weird thing is, me and the colonel never really got
on when he was my CO. Never anything concrete, but I always had the suspicion
he was one of those who thought a brother should know his station and be satisfied with Private First Class.’ He shook his
head. ‘Shit, I dunno. Maybe he changed over time.’
‘People do,’ Bishop said. ‘And you don’t have to like somebody to trust them.’ He nodded at the lockbox.
‘You look inside
after he died?’
‘Be easy, wouldn’t it?’ The locksmith stood up and shrugged. ‘Part of the deal was that I not give in to temptation, even
if that happened. He guaranteed there was nothing illegal in there, just some kind of inheritance, so I gave him my word and
that’s how it’s been ever since. Whatever’s in there doesn’t belong
to me. I get curious every now and then, but not enough
to break my promise. I’m stupid like that.’
‘Nothing stupid about keeping your word,’ Bishop said and crouched down in front of the locker. He placed the padlock in his
palm and inserted the key into the lock. It fit perfectly. He turned it clockwise and the padlock clicked free.
Bishop worked the padlock through the loop, placed it on the floor and took the metal hasp in his hand. Then he opened the
lid.