But when you get stuck, when you hit that wall that stands between you and whatever it is that’s keeping you from the truth, you have to think differently, move differently, shake things up, and see what happens.
Hank Powell was about to shake things up.
He crossed the street and walked halfway down the block toward Second Avenue. On the north side, a couple of buildings from the corner, sat a four-story brownstone with a bronze engraved plate mounted on the wall next to the front door, which read: DELANEY amp; ASSOCIATES.
Hank climbed the stairs to the front door, then reached out and pressed the white button just below the plaque. A loud buzz erupted from the speaker next to the button, and a moment later, a female voice fuzzed over by static spoke:
“Yes?”
“I’m here to see Ms. Robinson,” Hank said into the speaker. “Taylor Robinson.”
The buzzer went off again, and Hank heard a relay behind the door trip, unlocking it. He grabbed the door handle and pulled, then stepped into what had once been the entrance foyer of the brownstone a hundred years ago when it was a family residence. Now it was the lobby of one of the most powerful literary agencies in New York.
A harried receptionist with dyed purple hair, a pierced eyebrow, and a petite tattoo of a rose on her right arm just at her shoulder, sat behind a desk to his left, looking like she was in multitasking hell. Behind her, and it seemed on every square inch of available wall space, were framed book covers, photographs of authors, awards. To Hank’s right, on the wall next to a polished wooden staircase, was a section of the wall devoted entirely to Michael Schiftmann. An elaborately matted and framed eight-by-ten photograph of Schiftmann was surrounded by framed book covers of the five published installments in the Chaney series.
“May I help you?” the young woman asked between phone calls.
Hank stepped forward. “Yes, I’m here to see Taylor Robinson.”
The receptionist eyed him, if not quite suspiciously, at least with a question on her face. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” Hank said, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit coat for his credentials, “but I think-”
“I’m sorry,” the woman snapped. “But you have to have an appointment. Ms. Robinson is far too busy-”
It was Hank’s turn to interrupt as he flashed open his ID
case, revealing his FBI identity card and badge. “I won’t take up much of her time.”
The receptionist cleared her throat and looked at the badge and ID. Her eyes got larger for a second. “Wow,” she muttered. “I’ve never seen one of those before.”
Hank gave her his most charming smile. “Wanta see my pistol?”
“You’ve got a gun?” the girl asked, incredulous.
“And handcuffs,” Hank answered. “They make me.”
“Bitchin’,” she said.
“Ms. Robinson?” Hank asked after a moment.
“Oh, yeah,” the girl stammered, as if suddenly coming out of a trance. Hank wondered where her mind had gone, what fantasy had played itself out in that second and a half of silence.
She picked up the phone, punched a few numbers, and spoke low. Then she nodded, hung up the phone, and pointed toward the staircase. “Ms. Robinson’s office is upstairs, far corner. Her assistant will be waiting for you.”
Hank nodded, smiled. “Thanks.”
Hank climbed the curving, polished mahogany staircase that he imagined some Victorian, gilded-aged, robber bar-on’s wife making a grand entrance on a century ago. On the second floor of the house, the rooms had been turned into offices, the once large rooms subdivided by renovation walls, partitions, and a narrow hallway that ran down the middle of the floor. Another young, hip, but this time somewhat bookish woman met him at the head of the stairs.
“Mr. Powell?” she asked.
“Agent Powell,” he corrected, knowing from years of experience how much more weight Agent Powell carried than Mr. Powell, even though they were the same person.
“Yes, Agent Powell, this way.” The woman turned and led him down the hallway, speaking in a cool, detached, professional manner as she walked. “Ms. Robinson was on a conference call a few minutes ago, but I believe she’s off now.”
They got to the end of the hallway, which let out into a common area with a sofa and a couple of leather wing chairs. Surrounding the common area were the doors to four offices, each with a desk close by for the requisite assistant.
The young woman led Hank over to the far right office and stopped at a closed door.
“I’ll see if Ms. Robinson’s available,” she explained, knocking lightly on the door. Then she opened it and stepped inside, closing it firmly behind her. Hank was alone. He took off his overcoat and folded it over his arm and stood there a few moments, looking around at another collection of framed book covers, these obviously from the agency’s less-stellar writers.
As he stood there, a rush of fatigue came over him. He hadn’t slept well the night before, had been up since four A.M. in order to make the train to New York. He tried to sleep on the Metroliner, but couldn’t turn his brain off.
Maybe it was the anticipation of meeting Taylor Robinson; maybe it was dread.
Taylor Robinson’s assistant stepped back through the door and held it open. “Ms. Robinson can see you now. May I take your coat for you?”
“Thanks,” Hank said, handing her the coat.
“Would you like some coffee? A soda?”
Hank shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”
His stomach tightening, Hank stepped through the doorway of Taylor Robinson’s office and looked around. The office was much smaller than he expected, not what one would think would be the inner sanctum of a high- powered New York agent. The room was full of clutter as well: manuscripts piled high on the floors in haphazard stacks, books stacked against the walls over a worn carpet, cheap bookcases overflowing with books and more manuscripts.
Taylor’s desk was piled high with magazines, correspondence, stacks of paper laid on top of one another in layered pyramids. A window badly in need of cleaning looked out onto East Fifty-third.
Taylor Robinson stood up from her desk and motioned to the cheap visitor’s chair on the other side. “Please,” she said.
“Sit down.”
Her picture didn’t do her justice. She was elegant, he thought, wearing a sheer silk tan blouse over a camisole, a pair of dark designer pants with a thin, narrow belt, and a simple string of small pearls around her neck. She looked educated, well-bred, and well-tended, with almost a Ken-nedyesque air about her.
Hank sat down, crossed his legs at the knee. “I appreciate you seeing me without an appointment. I know you’re busy.”
“I’m confused, Agent Powell. It is ‘agent,’ right? Not ‘officer’ or something else?”
Hank smiled. “Technically, it’s Special Agent Powell. But we don’t have to stand on ceremony.”
She leaned back in her office chair and watched him for a moment. She was cool, he thought, completely professional.
“So I’m confused, Special Agent Powell. Why would you want to see me? What can I do for you?”
Hank tried to choose his words carefully. “Ms. Robinson, I’m going to ask you for some help in an investigation that we have under way. For some time now, the FBI and a number of other local law enforcement agencies of different types all over the country have been looking into the background of one of your clients. We’ve hit a wall and we need your help.”
If Taylor Robinson’s face gave away anything, it wasn’t much. She shuffled slightly in her chair, but never took her gaze off him.
“Is one of my clients in trouble?” she asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to determine. Several weeks ago, the
