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

Chapter Twenty-Four

Eight stops on the downtown A didn’t sound like much, but in reality, it was still a thirty-five minute ride to get from Harlem to the water’s edge of southern Manhattan. Thirty-five long minutes packed into a train like sardines in a tin can because it was the start of evening rush hour. They were shoulder-to-shoulder with way too many teenagers either performing showtime to an unenthusiastic audience or trying to upsell candy bars—the latter of which Rufus wondered might be a violation of some child labor law. And then there was that one dipshit at 59 Street-Columbus Circle who held the doors open for so long that the conductor shouted over the intercom: “I will get out of this fucking car and beat your ass if you don’t let go of the goddamn doors!”

Business as usual in the New York City subway system.

Rufus had used the opportunity to catch a quick nap on Sam’s shoulder. He’d drifted in that no man’s land between sleep and awake, where rest could be obtained but he was still able to come around just as the train pulled into Fulton Street station. Leading the way up to street level, Rufus hunched his shoulders against the bitterly cold wind skimming off the water and roaring down the maze of tiny streets that defied the uptown grid system.

He moaned, “It’s colder than a witch’s tit down here.” Rufus stuffed his hands into his jean jacket pockets, stamped his feet a few times, and turned around before inclining his head in one direction. “Pine Street is this way, I think.”

Rufus and Sam wove around gaggles of men and women—probably senior finance staff leaving their high-paying Wall Street jobs for the day while interns and newly hired college graduates burned the midnight oil for peanuts. Turning off William and onto Pine—a one-way that felt more like an alleyway, what with the massive skyscrapers all but blotting out the sky—Rufus slowed as they came up on an imposing building of polished black stone and glass. To one side stood an open loading dock, a couple of guys bundled in enough Carhartt to be shooting an ad standing around on a smoke break.

Rufus asked with a curious inflection, “What’s the floor number for the office—does their website say?”

Sam checked his phone. “Eighth floor.”

“Follow me.” Head down and hands still in his pockets, Rufus walked toward the loading dock with purpose, like he had somewhere to be, and just as two of the workers dropped their cigarette butts and started shoving each other—a bunch of hot air or an actual fight, Rufus couldn’t yet determine—he slipped into the open doorway. He waited for Sam before heading deeper into the caverns of the building.

It smelled like cold cement and like exhaust and oil from nearby parked cars—most likely those of executives working in this high-rise office. The commercial overhead bulbs were bare and one flickered like a nervous tic.

Finding an elevator around one corner, Rufus jabbed the Up button and the doors immediately opened. They stepped inside, hit 8, and went up without any stops. A quiet ding welcomed them into a hallway of dark polished wood offset by light beige walls. A plaque on the opposite far wall specified Goodman, Goodman, and Goodman to the left, Civic Catalyst to the right.

“They should’ve called their company G3,” Rufus commented, pausing to tap the plaque with his knuckle before walking toward the right.

“A real missed opportunity.” Sam glanced left, then right. “It’s a ghost town.”

Rufus pointed to the bottom of the door, indicating a pale strip of light visible from inside. He whispered, “Someone’s still working.”

Outside the office of Civic Catalyst, Rufus took a deep breath, flexed his hand a few times to work the cold out of his joints, then pressed down on the door handle. Without a sound, it opened onto a small reception area with a desk, three chairs along the wall, an end table stacked with what Rufus assumed wealthy people read— Wall Street Journal , The New Yorker , Martha Stewart Living —and a fake potted plant with a wadded tissue stuck in it.

Down a hallway past the front desk were a number of internal rooms—private offices, most likely—their doors closed and no lights on. Rufus frowned at that, because he was certain he could hear a muffled conversation coming from nearby. He glanced sideways at Sam, and sure enough, the other man’s gaze was locked on something in the distance, the concentration on his face suggesting they’d both heard the same thing.

Rufus pointed toward the right.

Sam shook his head and motioned left.

Rufus figured the guy who’d once been in active combat situations probably knew which direction a potential threat was coming from, so he obediently moved to the left. He pressed his back to the wall, stood on the balls of his feet, and slowly crept toward the farthest office.

This one didn’t have its lights off.

Multiple voices—angry voices—filtered out from the partially open door. Rufus didn’t wait to catch bits of the conversation, just grabbed Sam’s arm and all but dragged him into a dark and unoccupied conference room.

“—talk to you for a moment?” The voice grew louder as the door swung open, and a wedge of light opened across the floor. Footsteps moved out into the hall—more than one man. The door shut again, and when the man began speaking again, his voice had shed its polite veneer. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I asked you to do one thing, and not only do you manage to fuck it up, but you fuck it up in broad fucking daylight. People were calling the police!”

“Mr. Nasta—” It took Rufus a moment before he thought, maybe, the voice belonged to Jarhead, the guy from the town car earlier that day.

At the same time, a stuffed-up voice said, “It’s not our fault!”

Chad, Rufus guessed. With his broken nose.

“Shut up.” Heavy breathing followed the words. “This is your mess; you’re going to clean it up. And you’re going to be goddamn grateful that I’ve got even bigger problems to deal with. Now get out of my sight.”

Rufus looked at Sam and mouthed, “Chad.”

Footsteps moved off down the hallway, but the man who’d been speaking remained where he was—taking those labored breaths only a few feet away. Then the sound came of the door opening again, and in a different voice, he said, “Sorry about that, Del, Jen. Are we all set? Del, why don’t we get you out of here?”

“It’s crucial that we all keep calm, keep quiet, until this storm passes,” said the one woman—probably Jen. “Do you understand, Del?”

“I’m not an idiot.” He emerged from the office, with a trim, dark-haired woman holding his arm. She was dressed in a blouse and navy slacks, her dark hair in a french braid. Her expression was unreadable. Rufus had seen a picture of her earlier on Sam’s phone—she was Congresswoman Jennifer Nasta, and apparently she was tied up in this mess too. As they started down the hall, Del yanked his arm away. “And I do not appreciate how this was handled.”

“I don’t appreciate finding out you were in attendance at MoDe today for God and all the city to see. That’s not how we stay quiet,” Jen countered cooly, although her posture was indicative of a woman scorned. “And I told you to stay quiet, Del. Do I need to remind you why you’re going to stay quiet?”

Del made a sputtering, wordless response.

“Do I need to remind you why you’re going to do whatever I tell you to do?” Jen still hadn’t raised her voice. “Speak up, Del.”

It took several seconds before Del said, “No.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to remind you.”

Del shuffled along without responding, Jen at his side. The man who had been addressed as Mr. Nasta trailed after them without speaking.

Rufus was starting to sweat—central heat turned up too high, mixing with an adrenaline rush. His heart was pounding in his ears as he leaned close to Sam and whispered, “Let’s follow.”

The quiet voices of Del and Jen were farther down the hall now, on their way toward reception as Rufus and Sam slipped out of the conference room and moved cautiously in the same direction. Rufus confirmed the previously occupied office was indeed empty, then continued until they reached the long wall of previously closed doors.

One now stood ajar, the interior lights on.

Rufus took Sam’s arm, moved to the same side of the hallway, and crept toward the door. The closer they got, the better Rufus could make out the nasally voice of Chad, probably talking to Jarhead. He stopped outside the room, crouched on one knee, and peered through the crack between door and frame.

“I’m good for it.” That sounded like Jarhead. “You know I am. Come on, quit dicking me around.”

“I can’t eat on IOUs,” Chad retorted.

Rufus rolled his eyes. Amateur .

“This is the last time, man. I’m sick of having to chase you down for payment.” And Chad tossed a small, palm-sized baggy of what was so obviously coke across the desktop where he sat.

“Excuse me?”

Rufus startled so badly at the unexpected voice that he fell backward into Sam’s legs before his ass hit the floor. He looked up to see Congresswoman Nasta, arms lightly crossed, painted fingernails tapping one bicep. Her presumed husband appeared beside her seconds later, looking far more irate than she did.

Ever the politician, she asked with polite severity, “Who’re you?”