Holiday Grind

A woman’s voice replied, but I couldn’t make out the words.

“No. I just moved in.” Esther again.

More conversation.

“Thanks,” Esther told the stranger, “but I’m not going back inside. I was on my way out anyway, so I’ll just hit the street through the alley.”

A moment later, I heard the steel door clang. I kept the phone to my ear and waited.

“Boss?”

“I heard what happened, Esther. Where are you?”

“Back on the sidewalk out front,” she replied. “That woman was way suspicious. She waited till I left the courtyard before she went back inside. Now I’m stuck on the street. And there are like a million dog walkers out here. I can’t get back to the courtyard without being seen.”

“Don’t worry, Esther. I’m okay up here—” And now, given that tenant’s reaction, I figured she was more likely to draw attention to what I was doing than prevent anyone from noticing. “Just wait for me on the corner, in front of the White Horse Tavern.”

“Fine,” Esther said. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather wait inside. It’s freezing out here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

I’d noticed. “Just keep the line open, okay?”

“Roger.”

I pressed on. When I got to the escape’s third-floor landing, I heard laughter and conversation muffled by drawn blinds and a closed window. I flipped off my flashlight. Examining the landing and the windows on this floor, I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, so I moved on.

It was the fourth floor that gave me what I’d come here looking for: Light from a bare window spilled onto the metal grillwork. The illumination wasn’t just bright enough to make the icicles glisten, it cast a spotlight on something peculiar just below the window ledge. A small, round hole had been punched into a mound of snow. The tiny crater reminded me of those chilling little sinkholes I’d spotted the night before on the layered sidewalk— random white resting places for the change that scattered when Alf’s “Santa Bag” had been broken open and robbed.

Careful to stay hidden beneath the brightly lit window, I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled up to the pitted snow. Something shiny and smooth sat in the center of that little indentation. As I snatched it up, a shadow suddenly crossed the light.

Someone’s moving inside that apartment!

I reared back—only to be stopped short when my hoodie snagged on a sharp object hanging just below the window ledge above me. It took me a moment to detach myself from what looked like a loose cable television hook.

Finally free, I sat back on my haunches and studied the object in my hand. It appeared to be a white button. A little larger than one of those old Susan B. Anthony silver dollars, it had four holes in its center and a bold TS design embossed on both sides.

TS—Traveling Santa... Oh my God.

This was the missing button from Alf Glockner’s Santa suit!

I’d assumed Alf’s attacker had ripped the button off while trying to get to the dead man’s wallet. But Alf obviously lost the button in front of this window, probably on the same hook that just snagged my hoodie!

“Okay, Alf,” I whispered, half believing his spirit was still swirling around me on the winter gusts, “what the heck were you doing all the way up here?”

“What did you say, boss?”

I swallowed hard and put the cell to my mouth. “Stand by, Esther.”

Think, Clare, think...

When Mike talked to me about his cases, he talked method, too; most of that method involved reconstructing possible scenarios of past actions based on discovered evidence.

“It’s really not that complicated,” he’d once told me, “not if you have an imagination.”

Right, I thought. Ask questions. Imagine the possible answers...

First question: Why was Alf in this courtyard? The evidence of his button, right under this intact window, pretty well answers that one. Alf was spying on someone in this apartment.

“And?” I could practically hear Quinn challenging me. “Next question? Isn’t it obvious?”

“Who?” I murmured into the night air. “Who lives in this apartment?”

I tucked the button into the pocket of my jeans and went back to my hands and knees. The metal was freezing. Suppressing a shiver, I crawled forward.

I could see that the window blinds were half open—enough to get a good look inside. Carefully, I peeked over the ledge and saw the corner of a cherry wood end table. On its glossy surface sat an expensive-looking man’s watch, a black leather wallet, a thick ring of keys, some loose change, and what looked like a photo ID badge on a cord. Beyond that, I saw a hardwood floor and designer showroom-esque leather furniture. A halogen floor lamp, mimicking fusion as bright as the sun, reflected off the polished coffee table, where several glossy little shopping bags were lined up in a row.

Hardly daring to breathe, I pulled out the tiny pair of opera binoculars I’d brought along. A few years back, Madame had given me and Joy the pair as a memento of the night she took us to see Cosi fan tutte (one of Mozart’s lesser-known works). I peered through them now to make out the writing on the glossy bags: Tiffany, Tourneau, Saks—all elite uptown stores. More shopping bags were labeled with the names of high-end boutiques located here in the West Village.

Looks like someone’s already doing the holiday shopping, I noted, very pricey holiday shopping.

Adjusting the magnification on the opera glasses, I moved my focus to the end table. Next to the black leather wallet sat a Rolex watch as well as a security ID badge for a place called Studio 19. Under the studio’s logo, I saw the photo of a handsome black man in his midthirties. The name on the badge was James Young. There was smaller writing on the card, but I couldn’t read it.

When I tried readjusting the magnification level again, the light streaming through the window flickered—as if someone were passing in front of the floor lamp. I looked up to see a man’s figure moving swiftly out of the room.

Had I been spotted? Probably.

“Uh-oh...”

I crawled away from the window and descended the fire escape stairs as quickly as I dared, which wasn’t all that fast because the structure was still icy. Then between the second-and third-floor balconies I heard a loud clang!

I stilled, realizing the building’s steel back door had opened and closed again. It was too dark to see what was going on below me, and with Esther now sitting in the White Horse Tavern, all I could do was cling to the handrail and wait.

A moment later, I heard the grinding squeak of that big, metal Dumpster lid, the one next to the blue recycling bins. With an exhale, I relaxed. Someone’s just emptying their trash again, I decided.

I let another few minutes tick by. Except for the winter wind, the courtyard fell silent. I waited for the sound of a steel door opening and closing again, but it never came, so I decided the person emptying the garbage must have departed by way of the alley, just like Esther, and I continued my descent.

A sharp gust of wind blew off my hood, but I didn’t pause to flip it up again. As soon as I reached the second-floor landing, I scrambled onto the ladder. Almost there. Rung by rung, I moved south. Just a few feet from those blue plastic recycling bins, I thought I was home free.

“Got ya, bitch!”

Two bruising hands closed on my upper arms.

“Ahhhhhh!” I shouted. “Let me go!”