The Dewey Decimal System (18 page)

That pulp cliché, the oldest of the old, the most tired of all tired phrases comes to me. But I dig the truth at its core.

When in doubt, look for the girl. Cherchez la femme.

Cherchez la femme.

T
here are concrete pilings, vibing Kandahar, spaced four feet apart at the mouth of the Trump International Hotel and Tower at Columbus Circle. If that isn’t enough to dissuade you, there’s a metal police barricade, piles of sandbags, and at least six national guardsmen sporting M4 carbines out in front too.

I steer the Volt into a spot on the park side of Central Park West and kill the engine. Wait. For a moment I forget why I’m here. Seriously. This happens, especially when I’m tired. I wonder where this fucking car came from. Stare out the front window at the dark park thinking, put it back together.

I hear a helicopter but realize pretty quick it’s just in my head. Come on, Decimal, snap out of it. Look for clues. Check my pockets … not helpful. Notice the briefcase on the passenger’s seat. Open it … oh yeah.

It all comes rushing back and I’m right there with it. Thank Christ I didn’t freeze at a more crucial moment. It’s frightening, let me tell you.

A few moments later, an overweight dark-skinned man in a gray suit pulls up in a Lexus, parking a few spaces down from me. He struggles out of the car, gives me the eye. I make like I’m concentrating on the GPS unit in the Volt, punching random buttons. He moves off, I hear the double chirp of the lock and alarm being activated.

I count to forty-five, make positive the man is headed into the Trump. He is. Once he’s through the revolving doors, I casually step out of my car. The cops aren’t even remotely looking in this direction.

Understand, the smell. The Stench. Plastic, burning garbage. It’s a constant. I notice it whenever I exit buildings and cars. I wonder not for the first time what exactly we’re breathing.

I mosey over to the Lexus … Yup, there’s his registration sticker right there in the windshield.
Mustafa Demir
, with a nice photo. He’s allowed long-term parking radius (LPR) in this neighborhood. Means he’s a resident. I think.

Too easy.

I pop the trunk on the Volt, stow my suitcase. On second thought, I open it back up and retrieve the digital camera and my bullshit Homeland Security badge. Shut the lid, make positive it’s locked. Get back in the Volt. Count to sixty. Choke back a pill. Get out and head for the Tower.

As I’m approaching the entrance, the guys stiffen up, and when it’s clear that I intend to go straight on in, one of them calls: “Residents and their guests only, sir.”

I hail them. “Yes, I know. I’m here to visit a colleague.” I hold up my ID.

“What’s the name?” asks the talker of the bunch, taking a cursory glance at my ID. He’s got a PDA of some kind.

“Mr. Demir. Mustafa Demir. He would have just come back from a meeting, I hope I’m not too early.”

The guardsman goes to type in the name, then stops. I note his name tag says
Reynolds
, and he enjoys the rank of sergeant.

“Demir? Sure, he just walked in. Talk to the lobby staff.”

I salute him, proceed.

Too easy. I take out my bogus Homeland Security/ Donny Smith badge. See, my operative axiom is this: people are kind of stupid; plus, if you’ve got a decent story, they want to believe you. That’s because people are also lazy and don’t want to have to do a bunch of extra shit.

The Trump Tower still attempts to project a rarefied aura. Lots of lights, dimmed. Must have one of those underground generators. This effort at respectability includes having a civilian staff, which is absolutely perfect for my purposes.

I approach the black kid behind the desk designated
Reception
, take him for midtwenties, well-tailored suit, solicitous smile. They make an effort here, even if this kid is the sole member of the “lobby staff.”

I put the badge in his face. “Good day, sir. I need to have a word with your boss.”

The kid is reading the badge, he looks ruffled for a moment but regains his cool. “That … that would be me, I am the day manager, sir, how can I help you?”

Another young black man, uncorrupted. I’m haunted by these kids. I lower my voice. “Son, I need your complete cooperation with regard to a national security matter.”

People love this stuff. Deep down. “Ah, yes … yes, of course.” His eyes flit behind me to the soldiers out the door. “Did you speak to—”

“Sergeant Reynolds, yes, but as our investigation encompasses guardsmen activity, I am bound to not raise this situation with one of their ranks. Understand?”

The kid is doing his best. “Yes sir.”

“And I would ask you not to make any kind of signal or communicate with the men outside until our conversation is complete. Understand?”

The kid nods.

“Thank you. Son, if you’ll furnish me with a list of permanent residents here, as well as guests over the last few weeks … Do you have some sort of visitors’ log, where people sign in?”

“Uh. Yes, we do.”

“I’ll be needing to look at that as well. For the last several weeks, please.”

The young dude looks seriously pained. “Sir, the difficulty … the problem is that we’re not supposed to give out that information without—”

“Did I mention this is a national security issue? Son, we … What’s your name?”

“Reginald.”

“Reginald, we have reason to believe there may well be an
active
hostile cell operating in this very building in collaboration with the very military body assigned to protect it. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes sir, very clear.”

“That was more than you should know. I need you to just stay calm and give me those records as if it were the most natural thing in the world.”

The kid cannot believe he got stuck with this. He is looking around for some sort of assist, but it’s just not happening for him.

“I’m willing to do that, sir, but I will need to take down your badge information. And it’ll take a moment for me to print out the residential list …”

“Fine, thank you, Reginald.” I hand him my badge, which he accepts with very twitchy hands. “Take your time.”

I try to angle myself so a decorative column blocks the guardsmen’s view of me.

Reginald hands me a leather-bound ledger. “This dates back to the end of May. Let me just, uh, work on the printouts …”

“Thanks, Reginald. This is a true service to your country, you’ll see.”

He tries to smile but fails, then leans over a battered PC.

I flip the book open … As expected, it’s divided into columns: visitor, who they came to see, time, etc. I know I don’t have a lot of time so I just work backward from the most current entries. Flipping pages. This morning’s entries, I flip past them, scanning names, times, nothing. Keep flipping. Yesterday. My eye goes past it but my stomach churns. I zoom in on :
B—l—is
, yesterday, about 8:15 p.m.

I can’t read a few of the letters. My gut flips and flutters. The column for whom the guest would be going to see is blank.

Iveta Shapsko, maiden name Balodis.

I fumble in my pocket for the digital camera I pulled out of my suitcase. Futz with the lens cap, get it off. Snap a picture.

“How’s that list progressing, Reginald?”

The young man looks frazzled. “It’s just … it doesn’t see the printer. Nobody uses this thing. Let me go plug it in directly.” He exits, into what looks like a small office.

I flip some more pages. Day before yesterday. Looking, looking … yeah, there it is again.
B—l—is
, in the same hand, could be another
l
in there, or a
d
. Again, no other information save the time, 10:30 p.m. I get a picture here too.

Back to the most recent signature. Wait a second. I hold my finger in place and turn the pages to the earlier one. Yeah … in both instances they’re in the same hand. Again, no other information … except the time, 8:15 p.m. and 10:30.

The kid reemerges. Goes to the computer. “Okay, this should work now …”

“Reginald, let me ask you something. The names in this book, this is dedicated to guests, visitors? And they’re visiting residents, for the most part?”

“Yes sir, our policy is that anyone who is not a permanent resident signs the book. It’s printing, I think, just a moment.” He disappears again.

“Sir!” The voice of God.

I nearly drop the ledger. It’s Sergeant Rock. Standing just inside the doorway. I place the register on the desk and close it casually. Reach in my pocket, brush my hand over the key for self-control.

“Are you not being helped?”

“Yes, I am, just … waiting.” I give him a you-know-how-it-is hand gesture.

The sergeant looks around. I’m thinking, turn around fuckface and goose-step right back out that door.

But no. Of course not. He moves toward me, taking out his PDA. “You’re a guest of Mustafa Demir, correct?”

“That’s right. He actually told me he wasn’t available for our meeting, but left some documents with the concierge for me to pick up. Regarding our business transactions.”

The sergeant looks me up and down. “All right. Well.”

“So the desk person is just—”

Reginald comes out of the office, saying, “Uh, sir? Here …” Glancing up, he freezes. Looks at me, looks at the sergeant. Looks back at me.

“Are those the documents Mr. Demir mentioned?” I ask him, my eyebrows raised, fucking roll with me, Reggie.

The kid looks back at the sergeant. The pause is much longer than I’m comfortable with. “Uh. That’s right. Here we are.” He offers them to me. His hands are visibly shaking.

I grab the loose pages, fold them, tuck them into my jacket’s inner pocket. “Appreciated,” I say breezily. Or so I hope. “Have a good evening, gentlemen.” Split. Make for the door. Not too fast.

I’m out. Enjoy a lungful of heated plastic.

Phew. Fucking guardsmen. Must be really understimulated. Not even really military. I have a beef with those fucks since they smacked around my cousin out in L.A. way back in the ’92 riots. Damn, that dates me, huh? Unless I’m just making all this shit up. Or it was made up for me, custom-tailored to fit.

I slide into the driver’s seat with key, pulling the pages out of my jacket as I do.

Something cold and hard is suddenly pushed into my neck. Godamnit. I scope the rearview.

“Hello again, fuck-o,” says Anne of the FBI.

A
gent Anne,” I say, making eye contact in the mirror. “It’s a distinct pleasure.”

“Look.” She’s projecting a much deadlier aura than during our previous run-in. “I’d prefer we just make this fast and simple. No static.”

“All right, let’s relax. I’m always happy to be of service to the Bureau,” I say.

She caught me as I was getting the papers out of my coat, my hand is still half in my jacket. I shift my reach, slow, and get a hold of the Beretta.

Anne smacks the butt of her Glock against my bad ear. I lurch to the right, hearing pink noise, and a wall of pain rushes up and tackles me.

Swearing through her teeth, she reaches around and yanks out my Beretta, throws it next to her on the backseat, then retrieves the Sig and does the same. And she hits me sideways again, on the other side of my head. I’m momentarily deaf.

She’s talking, drilling her pistol into the base of my skull. “… fuckwad, so you need to turn down the smart-ass, turn it way, way down. Don’t even speak.”

Finding it hard to focus, I try nodding to indicate I understand but my muscles won’t cooperate. I think she did some permanent damage. Try to tell her I missed the first part of her rap but the action is lost somewhere between synapses.

“I know your type and I have no patience for you, so let’s cut right to it.”

I bring my hands up to either side of my head.

“One: you stole an item out of the Do Rite office. I want you to give it to me and I want you to do this now. And two: you know the location of a woman named Iveta Shapsko. I want that information, pronto.”

My palms come away bloody. Nowhere to wipe them. I manage, “Don’t have any idea what you mean, Anne, on either count.”

“Okay, lean forward, hands behind your back.”

I try to cooperate. Really, I do. I sense her seriousness of purpose and I’m not going to play with that. Rest my head on the steering wheel. I hear the rustle of metal on metal, and feel cuffs placed on my wrists, the ratchet of the lock engaging. She’s got them on tight.