A Friend in the Glass (An Auden & O’Callaghan Mystery #3)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Rufus thought he’d been right behind Sam—it’d only taken seconds to relieve Anson of his phone and send it flying—but Sam had picked up speed between the bathrooms and the front lobby, and if it wasn’t for his height and that stride Rufus had come to know so well, Rufus would have lost him in the ebb and flow of the Javits crowd.

Racing out the front doors, Rufus found Sam standing at the edge of the salt-crusted sidewalk, staring at the road ahead. “Hey!” Rufus skidded to a stop at his side, a cloud of white air puffing out on his exhale. “Where’d he go?”

Sam gestured toward the street. “Someone grabbed him.” And then he shouted, “Fuck!”

“Someone grabbed—what, like something out of an old gangster flick? What’d they look like?”

People were starting to stare. Sam turned away from the street and lowered his voice. “I don’t know. Two guys. White. It wasn’t Chad and his friend. By the time I was out here, they had Del and were putting him in the car—a dark sedan.”

Rufus made a tsk sound. He echoed Sam’s “fuck” under his breath before sliding his plastic-frame sunglasses on. “Seems like someone wants to talk to Del as badly as we do.”

“Or wants him not to talk. Let’s get out of here.”

Rufus was digging out the driver’s license from his pocket as he followed Sam. “What about Chad? He’s got an address on West 122nd Street. That’s up in Harlem. We can knock and see if he’s home.”

Sam plucked at his shirt—even in the cold, he looked flushed from running. “I guess we’re going to Harlem.”

The Thirty-Fourth Street station was always a bit of a shitshow. The disorganized chaos from Penn Station had a tendency to bleed onto the subway platforms, leaving it the ideal hunting ground for pickpockets, rapists, and murderers alike—all depending on the time of day. This generally caused an uptick in police presence, which meant that Rufus couldn’t easily jump the turnstiles unless there was a train already closing its doors and he was certain he could slide in just in the nick of time. But he was unwilling to take that chance when Sam was with him nowadays, not because Sam was incapable of a little fare evasion, but it was easier to do the petty theft stuff on his own, when Rufus wasn’t responsible for someone else.

They’d swiped Metro cards under the watchful eye of a few beat cops wearing heavy jackets and NYPD winter beanies, caught the uptown A—one of the old R46 cars resembling a tin can—and rode it to 125th Street.

The neighborhood that had grown around 125th Street, known as the Main Street of Harlem, was rich in history, having once been a beacon for migrating Black families looking for higher wages and more equality than what was available to them in the deep south. This community had birthed the Harlem Renaissance—an explosive movement that explored Black music, art, literature, and politics after the first World War, forever changing the cultural landscape of America. But by the Great Depression, Harlem suffered from debilitating unemployment, housing discrimination, poor public services, and lack of educational opportunities more than any other neighborhood in New York City. The streets today were lined with historic landmarks, walkup tenements, and hundred-year-old brownstones, all reminders of the lives once lived here.

Chad Deangelis lived at 326 West 122nd Street, off the corner of Frederick Douglass Boulevard, in a five-story walkup of red brick and painted green trim. The front steps were salted, trash bins were all lined up against the building’s facade, and the vestibule that was visible through the glass front door was clean.

Rufus checked the driver’s license again. “2D. He’s probably in the back. Want me to buzz him?”

“Let’s see if he’s home.”

Rufus put his thumb on the button for 2D and leaned into it, letting it ring long enough to be so obnoxious that anyone at home would be hard-pressed to not respond. He let up, counted to five, then tried again. But when the second ring went unanswered, Rufus asked, “May I impress you with my breaking and entering skills?”

“Always.”

Rufus pressed a few of the other buttons, and said, when 3A answered, “Amazon.”

The front door buzzed open.

Rufus stepped inside. Held the door for Sam with one hand while giving 2D’s wall mailbox a quick tap—a reminder that this was all real. He pushed through the inner vestibule door and onto a hallway. Chad’s apartment was the first door on the second floor, and the doorknob looked old—like the landlord hadn’t had a reason to replace it in a long time. Chad had probably lived there for a while, Rufus decided, otherwise a new tenant would ask for an up-to-date one. Motioning Sam to stand behind him and block his body from view, Rufus retrieved a pick from his jacket and went to work on the lock.

It only took a few seconds.

Rufus loved lazy security.

The door popped open and Rufus stepped aside while saying, “Age before beauty.”

“Jesus, Rufus,” Sam said as he stepped inside. But it sounded like he was smiling.

Rufus closed the door behind them and took a look around. The apartment was a spacious one-bedroom, ideal for someone living alone, which was the vibe for sure. Wasn’t there a stereotype about straight men’s bachelor pads? Something like mismatching bedsheets, no art or photos on the walls, and lots of sports memorabilia. Minus the sports, because it’d never been a big thing for Rufus—beyond booing the Red Sox because it was a matter of pride—he was uncomfortably aware of how similar his own apartment was to Chad’s.

“Am I a straight bachelor?” Rufus asked, mostly to himself, as he crept through the railroad style kitchen and into the living room.

“How to tell you?” Sam mused.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Rufus said over his shoulder. He stopped in the middle of the room. A leather couch, glass-top desk, ergonomic chair—gotta get that lumbar support—a squat bookshelf populated mostly by titles on economics and alpha male self-help guides, a bike shoved into the far corner that was probably never ridden, and an impressive television and entertainment setup. “Look at the size of this fucking screen,” Rufus said with a low whistle.

“Look at the size of this apartment,” Sam said drily. “His toilet’s not in his kitchen.”

“It’s called multitasking, Sam.”

“Back to your ‘straight bachelor’ comment.”

Rufus rolled his eyes. “Are we here to be nosey or are we here to discuss my interior decorating skills?”

This time, the tone was definitely dry. “It’s called multitasking.”

“Oh my God, you’ve been hanging around me way too much.” Rufus went to the bookshelf and began pulling at spines, checking for anything that might have been tucked behind the books.

Sam, meanwhile, moved into the bedroom. The sounds of a search drifted out to where Rufus was still working—the thud of the mattress falling back into place, the scrape of drawers that had swollen tight in the humidity, bifold doors rattling open.

“You’re like a bull in a china shop,” Rufus called, before stopping at a three-ring binder on one of the lower shelves. Half expecting a collection of baseball cards, he yanked it free and flipped through several pages before adding, “I think I found Chad’s taxes or something.”

Sam appeared in the doorway a moment later. “I want the little fucker to know somebody was here.” His gaze fell on the binder. “No shit. Really?”

Rufus shrugged and then said, “It looks like expense reports, maybe?”

“What the fuck is he expensing?”

“Lots of meals. There’s some bridge and tunnel tolls… airfare….” Rufus’s voice trailed off for a minute before he looked toward Sam and clarified, “LaGuardia to Atlanta. He did that a few times. And there’s some car rentals here too.”

“You’re kidding.” But Sam’s voice didn’t sound like he thought it was a joke. “Benning is two hours from Atlanta. That’s where he’d fly if….”

Rufus got down on one knee, set the open binder on the floor, and started taking pictures of each page with his phone. “Each of these reports is being expensed to the same company,” he said. “Civic Catalyst.”