The Darkness hp-5 Page 5

  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 shipped off as quickly and as easily as a parcel.

  “Back to the office,” Jack said. “We’re not going to 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 pissed 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 “hell 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 shitless, 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 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 competitors. Then, a week ago, Morgan got a call from his boss at eleven-thirty on a Saturday night, telling him to be at the office at 9:00 a.m. Sunday morning.

  Morgan was there, dressed in a suit and carrying his briefcase, unsure of what to expect. When he got to the conference room he was informed, along with several dozen of his colleagues, that the firm’s equity had been bought for five cents a share, that the employee stock purchase plan was essentially worthless. Oh yeah, and that they were all out of a job. They would not be permitted back to their desks, and any personal items would be mailed to their forwarding addresses.

  Morgan blinked. It was all he could do. They would receive one month’s severance for each year they’d been with the company. For Morgan, that was three months.

  Three months that would cover his mortgage and BMW payments until he could find a new job. Surely that wouldn’t be hard. He had his MBA, his CFA, and had graduated from Wharton in the top five percent of his class.

  Whether that severance would pay for the nearly thirty-three thousand dollars in credit card debt he’d racked up…he didn’t even want to think about it. Uncle

  Sam giveth, and Morgan would be damned if he’d let

  Uncle Sam taketh away.

  Then the next day another bank closed. And suddenly the terrifying realization hit Morgan that he would be competing for jobs in a market where opportunities had just been halved, and his competition increased by two hundred percent. In less than a month there were nearly twenty thousand young men and women just like him, many of whom were just as qualified if not more, looking for the same opportunities he was.

  Suddenly those monthly payments, over eleven thousand a month, loomed like a pile of bricks about to rain down on his head.

  He went out that night to a dive bar in his neighborhood, fully intent on getting stinking drunk and hooking up with whatever girl noticed the two grand in jewelry he wore. Brianna be damned, she was going to break up with him anyway. He had no illusions about why she was with him. She didn’t care about cuddling or having doors opened for her. She wanted the gold. Literally.

  Just like Morgan, Brianna would be getting a severance package, maybe a small diamond necklace, no more than a grand. Morgan was a big fan of The Sopranos, and he always thought Tony was brilliant for giving his jilted paramours a small token when he divested himself of them. The kind of women who dated Tony Soprano were the kind of women who dated Morgan Isaacs; they loved the money, the power (granted with Morgan it was on a slightly smaller scale). Once Brianna learned the truth, she’d be gone and in the pocket-and pants-of some upper manager who managed to hold on to his sevenfigure job.

  So it was a morning like this, a Monday, a day where he should have already been on to his third Red Bull and second cigarette break, that Morgan Isaacs couldn’t bring himself to unwrap himself from the fifteen hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.

  He’d let his dirty blond hair grow too long, and whereas he used to weigh a trim hundred and eighty pounds, Morgan was now threatening to blow past the two bills mark. In fact, there was a pretty good chance he’d already done so, but was too frightened to step on the scale and know for sure.

  Maybe he’d fix a breakfast. Toast with peanut butter and strawberry preserves sounded good. There were some good judge shows on in the afternoons. For some reason watching brainless poor people fight with some condescending judge over twenty-three dollars made Morgan feel better about his own situation.

  Then he heard the chirp of his cell phone, still set to

  The O’Jays’ “For the Love of Money.” He didn’t recognize the caller ID, and assumed it was a telemarketer. He was about to spin the dial to Ignore when he considered the faint possibility it could be one of the firms that still had his resume and had sworn to get back to him.

  He answered the phone with a peppy “This is Morgan,” hoping to sound like a man who’d been awake all morning and not someone trying too hard to sound like he didn’t still have sleep schmutz in his eyes.

  “Morgan Isaacs?” the man on the other end replied.

  “That’s right.”

  “I was referred to you by a former colleague, Kenneth

  Tsang. I hope you don’t mind my calling.”

  “Kenneth, yeah, of course,” Morgan said. Ken was a good guy, went a little too crazy at the strip clubs back when he was still working at Wachovia, and even after he was laid off the guy threw bills around
like they were tissue paper. Ken was a good guy, but if you were stupid and careless, eventually you’d piss off the wrong person.

  At some point, Morgan was sure, Ken would do just that.

  “My name is Chester. Kenneth was doing some work for my firm and he passed your name along to us before his unfortunate passing.”

  “That’s mighty kind of him,” Morgan said, scooping some gunk from his eye. “What firm did you say you were with?”

  “If you’re interested in employment that will pay you quite handsomely with fair hours, meet me on Fifth

  Avenue at noon. Northwest side of the street between

  Fiftieth and Fifty-first. Right in front of the statue of Atlas.”

  “I’m sorry,” Morgan said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but can I have a little more information? I want to be prepared, you know, just in case.”

  “Noon in front of the statue,” Chester said. “Ken vouched for you. He said you were reliable and that you enjoyed the lifestyle your former employment afforded you. I promise that if that’s the case, you won’t be sorry you came.”

  “Wait, how will I know who you are?” Morgan said.

  His voice reached only an empty phone. Morgan sat there a moment, thinking about the call. Then he stood up, tossed off his briefs and marched right to the shower.

  He had just over an hour and a half. An hour and a half to get his life back.

  8

  Sifting through ownership records and property deeds was nearly as much fun as it sounded. We found papers for the nearly two dozen companies who currently held leases in the building formerly housing 718 Enterprises, but for whatever reason there was no deed of ownership of the company itself. We found public listings for a brokerage firm, a jewelry store, three law offices, a psychiatrist, a pet psychiatrist, and a tantric yoga studio.

  Only in New York.

  “Look at this,” Jack said. We were sitting in a conference room, two laptop computers with several open windows each, our eyes beginning to strain from staring at various ownership deeds. I leaned over to the computer

  Jack was working on and looked at the screen he had pulled up. “According to tax filings, the law offices of

  Kaiser, Hirschtritt and Certilman occupy floors seventeen and eighteen. No other company in the building occupies more than one floor, or even appears to pay for more than one office space. If you were running a drug syndicate from an office, wouldn’t you want a little more privacy than a single office would give you?”

  I stared at the screen, thought about the morning I went to the building and watched a stream of young, energetic drug dealers enter and leave with briefcases full of narcotics. I had a hard time picturing them all fitting inside a row of cubicles. Plus I doubted a truck pulled up every now and then to refill their supplies. They needed space to store the drugs. Space to allow for easy pickups for dozens of couriers.

  And enough lack of clutter to allow them to pack up and get the hell out of Dodge on a moment’s notice.

  “The building is managed by a company called Orchid

  Realty,” I said. “According to their Web site, they have different managers for each property. It doesn’t spell out which one is managed by who, but we can call and find out.”

  “Screw that,” Jack said. “Why call when we can show up uninvited?”

  I smiled. I liked the way Jack thought.

  Orchid Realty was on the eighth floor of a stainless steel complex in midtown, not too far from many of the tony properties they managed. Jack and I walked into the lobby side by side. A pair of security guards manned a long wooden desk. They did not seem intimidated by the purposeful look in our eyes. Installed in the front of the partition were two televisions, each running infomercials for the building itself. The sets looked recently installed, and the volume was far too loud. My guess was, with the economy tanking, the building had lost a bunch of leasing companies who couldn’t pay their bills, and were looking for fresh blood (and fuller bank accounts) to replenish the coffers.

  We stopped at the security desk, and Jack said, “We’re here for Orchid Realty.”

  “Name of contact,” the monotone voice came back.

  “Mr. Orchid,” Jack replied.

  The guard looked up, a bored sneer on his face, like he knew Jack was screwing with him but didn’t have the time or inclination to care.

  “Name of contact,” he repeated.

  “Call the front desk,” Jack said. “Tell whoever answers that we’re here to talk to whoever’s in charge of the 718

  Enterprises account.” He took out his identification, underlining the words New York Gazette with his thumb.

  The guard looked at him, the apathy turning into confusion.

  “This is my official ID,” Jack continued. “Which means I have the official authorization to have a news crew down here in less time than it takes for you to put on that cute tie in the morning. It also means you and your friend here will have their friendly faces on our ‘Community Outrage’ Web site, as impeding an official news investigation.” He pointed at the phone. “One phone call.

  All it takes.”

  The guard’s eyes went wide, and he picked up the phone and dialed three numbers. Jack was full of crap, but news was about information, and that was information they didn’t need to know.

  The guard covered the phone’s mouthpiece with his hand, his eyes growing more animated as he spoke.

  Clearly the person on the other line wasn’t too keen on us coming upstairs, but it looked like the guard wanted as much to do with our Community Outrage Web site as

  I did with bedbugs.

  Finally the man hung up, pressed a button and printed out two badges from his computer kiosk. Handing them over, he said, “You promised, right? No cameras or news crew? I don’t want my son to see me on the Internet.”

  “We’ll see how things go upstairs,” Jack said. “Come on.”

  I followed him to a bank of metal turnstiles, manned by another security guard, this one looking much less awake on the job than the guys at the front desk. We showed him our badges, and he pressed a button that swung the turnstiles. We passed through, made our way to the elevator bank and headed up to the fourth floor.

  Jack hummed a tune I couldn’t recognize as we ascended, and I felt slightly anxious, wondering just how far this would take us. I was also somewhat concerned about pulling my weight on this story. As much as I wanted to find out just what the hell was going on with this shadow corporation, earning the respect of Jack O’Donnell was a close second.

  The doors opened, and we followed a sterile beige hallway to a pair of double glass doors with the words

  Orchid Realty stenciled on them. I opened the door for

  Jack, the glass swinging out effortlessly and without a sound. A heavyset woman with curly reddish hair sat behind an oak desk, a pair of old-fashioned headphones resting on her ears that looked less Bluetooth than long in the tooth. The nameplate read Iris Mahoney.

  Iris was filing her nails, pausing every few moments to blow nail dust from her hands and onto the floor.

  As we approached, her eyes rose and a wide smile crossed her lips. “You must be those boys from the newspaper,” she said. “Welcome to Orchid.”

  “Hi,” I said before Jack could open his mouth. “Miss

  Mahoney, if it’s not too much trouble we’d like to speak to one of your property managers.”

  “Certainly, sir. Which of our managers would you like to speak with?”

  “Whoever handles the building which until recently leased space to a company called 718 Enterprises.”

  The receptionist pursed her lips, sucked in air and squinted. “Hmm…that doesn’t ring a bell. Let me check our database.”

  She put down the nail file and began typing. Two fingered. One finger at a time. Slow enough that I could hear Jack breathing heavier as his frustration grew. Every few moments the lady would mutter a pleasant “no” under her breath and continue typing. After several min
utes she looked up at us and said, “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have any records for a 718 Enterprises. Are you sure you have the right realty corporation?”

  “You do manage the building leases at sixteen-twenty

  Avenue of the Americas, right?”

  “Now that sounds familiar. If my memory serves me, they have a wonderful tantric yoga studio.” She blushed slightly. I pretended not to have heard anything.

  “That’s the building,” Jack said. “Listen, hon,” he continued, approaching the desk, a warm smile on his face.

  It was shocking to compare this to his countenance downstairs. Different folks responded to different temperaments. Jack didn’t get his reputation by assuming everyone reacted the same way to everything. “We’re not here to cause trouble. We’re investigating a story for our newspapers, it’s our job, really, and we just have a few questions about the building. If you could just let us know who manages that property, we’ll be out of your hair in no time. What do you say?”

  The apple-cheeked receptionist smiled, and if I didn’t know any better, it looked like she might have suddenly developed a small crush on the elder newsman. “Hold on one second. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll have somebody out here to assist you right away.”

  “You’ve made my day, darlin’.” Her smile widened.

  We took seats in two leather chairs. I shuffled through a pile of uninteresting magazines before putting them back. Jack just sat there. He didn’t need any distractions.

  After thumbing through the pile of outdated magazines for a second time-in case Victorian Homes had magically been replaced by Sports Illustrated -a middle-aged man with a short haircut and mustache entered the waiting room. His eyes settled on us, and I caught him taking a deep breath. He wasn’t making any secret that he didn’t want to be talking to us, and resented the fact that we were even here.

  I stood up, assumed Jack would do the same. When he didn’t, I looked at him. He didn’t seem to have noticed there was someone else in the room; either that or he didn’t care.