“Coveralls. That’s the janitor of the building, we think. We haven’t been able to find him yet.”
C h a p t e r 2 0
“Make sure we find it.”
CEO James West is used to giving orders and watching his minions scramble to fulfill them. He has risen to power at Élan Publishing in a relatively short amount of time, based largely on his ability to delegate.
“Yes, sir,” two dark-suited men say, exiting the office in unison, as if marching to war. James closes his office door behind them.
“Now, you people,” James says, turning to the three persons seated at the large conference table, all backlit by the sunset off the Hudson River.
James West’s office, designed by renowned interior designer Benjamin Vanderweiss, is decorated with an eclectic mix of furniture, including a steel-and-glass conference table surrounded by fourteen vintage walnut Herman Miller chairs. Six poster-sized black-and-white safari photos from his African travels are displayed on the walls throughout the room, and a bulky and weathered thousand-year-old Italian desk is the designated focal point, semi-obscured by the mound of cardboard boxes leaning against it.
“Fill me in, please.” James walks across the room in front of them, scooting a half-filled box across the jet-black floor with his foot. The box is stopped only by the far wall to his right, and the jostling of its components makes his audience wriggle in their chairs.
“The two have nothing to do with each other,” says one of the nameless faces in silhouette.
“I should hope not.”
“What I mean is that we can’t figure it out. We’ve taken care of one issue, but the other seems to be shedding some unwanted light.”
“Ya think?” James West says, walking toward the window behind them. He stares at the new Élan International headquarters to his left, his pride and joy, the third tallest building in Manhattan, nearing completion in Hell’s Kitchen and about to open its doors. The structure itself is being heralded by the international press as “one of the most remarkable and technologically advanced architectural works of the last two centuries.” The design is the brainchild of the respected architect Enrick Goldman, known mostly for his dramatic and timeless residential works that fit in perfectly with the landscapes surrounding them. He was tapped by Élan and its corporate investors to bring the same aesthetic to a commercial skyscraper, and according to most critics, he had not disappointed. With a hefty base that houses an entire mall, convention center, indoor golf course and twelve floors of parking, the new Élan headquarters then tapers inward in three sections that match the exact heights of the skyscrapers that surround it. The first section is a 3,200-room luxury hotel, the second section is a sprawling forty floors of Élan headquarters, and the top section boasts thirty floors of high-end condos, with glass penthouses offering sweeping, majestic views of New York City and beyond.
James West watches as a gigantic crane hoists an enormous Élan logo to its final resting place on the new building’s façade. “Look, we’re moving in less than three months. Our building and our ugly-ass logo are all over the news, we have stockholders asking questions, two employees dead in the same fucking night, and multiple detectives talking to our people and obtaining search warrants for our goddamn computers and servers.” He pounds on the window to emphasize the latter point. “Now, do I have to be worried about anything else?”
“Not at all, sir. We have erased any—”
“‘Not at all’ is fine. I don’t need to know what that means.”
C h a p t e r 2 1
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understood you,” Shawn says to the taxi driver, covering the mouthpiece of his cell. They are parked just outside the courthouse on Centre Street, just south of Canal.
“That is because you are on the phone,” replies the Pakistani cabbie, enunciating in a more purposeful accent than before. “I said $14.50.”
“I gotta go,” Shawn says into his phone. He swipes his credit card, opens the door, and begins to exit just as Chinatown’s subtle smell of fish and soot fills his nostrils.
He leans in to the taxi. “You’re why Uber is taking over the world.” He slams the door.
“I cannot understand you,” mouths the taxi driver, not really caring if Shawn sees his face. He peels away.
Shawn is directly in front of the Manhattan Criminal Court building, staring up at the large bronze and marble spires that bookend each of the two entrances. Quotes about the importance of justice are carved in concave relief all along the walls of the two courtyards. To his left, a gigantic copper mast protrudes from the building’s façade. The pole, weathered and oxidized over time, still manages to wave a proud but tattered American flag.
He walks up the steps through the first security screening and past the information booth. Just above the booth hangs a beautiful 1930s black globe timepiece with the clock reading 8:45. Shawn nods in approval as he makes his way to the waiting area. He checks his phone just to make sure the timepiece is still working. Yep. Beautiful.
Shawn sits on a long wooden bench surrounded by beige marble walls. His briefcase makes a thud on the green granite floors, echoing down the long hallway.
Micah should be here soon, he thinks. The Tombs is right next door. The Tombs. What a dreadful name.
✽✽✽
Having been transferred from the police station to the Manhattan Detention Complex, aka “The Tombs,” Micah is dressed in MDC-issued tan scrubs. The prison escort accompanies him across the twelfth-floor walkway that connects the Tombs to the courthouse. Micah is scared and shaking, looking for Shawn, who’d said he’d meet him. He wasn’t sure where.
The elevator doors open to the lobby of the courthouse. Micah sees the public for the first time in days. As he exits to his left, he becomes aware of his clothing,
