Peter Spiegelman - Black Maps

“This looks like an old one… here he is at the Odeon.” Neary laid another photo on the tabletop.

This one was black-and-white, and it was the only photo in which he seemed to have no awareness of the camera, the only truly candid picture in the bunch. It was a street scene, at night, taken from the backseat of a car, through a partially open window. It must have just rained, as the street was shiny and water was beaded on the window glass. Nassouli had just come out of the Odeon-part of the restaurant was visible behind him. He was coming toward the car and the camera. One hand was reaching out, as if to grasp the door handle. There were figures behind him, blurred, dark shapes, their faces white smears. Only Nassouli’s face was in focus. And it was chilling.

The other pictures had hinted at something a little dangerous beneath the attractive, well-groomed facade. This photo left no doubt. This was no stylish rogue; this was evil-and all the scarier for its handsome packaging. In the photo Nassouli’s broad face was infernal, his dark, hooded eyes gleaming, his thick lips pulled into a leering, satisfied grin. It was the look Torquemada might have worn after a busy day at work, or the smile the snake had worn, when he’d sold his first apple. It was a wonder he had hung it on his office wall.

The composition of the photo, its stark contrasts and heavy shadows, were familiar to me, and I didn’t need to see the name, penned in tiny letters at the bottom right corner of the matte paper, to recognize the work of H. Barrie.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself doing that, honey,” called one of the girls, from the corner. She had a wobbly pile of orange hair, and legs that were bigger than mine. They were covered not at all by a leather skirt the size of a napkin.

“You’re working way too hard,” called another, laughing. “Come on over here, we’ll relax you.” Her eight-inch black stilettos and red vinyl jumpsuit glistened in the streetlight. She had the neck and shoulders of a wrestler.

“Morning, girls,” I said. I waved and kept on running. “Girls” was neither politically nor anatomically correct, I knew, but it was what these guys aspired to, and who was I to argue. I was headed south on Eleventh Avenue in the predawn dark, on the last leg of a six-mile run. I passed the Javits Center and the trucks already lumbering around it, and went back on autopilot, one part of my brain on traffic and potholes, another trying to sort out exactly what I’d found at MWB. So far I had more questions than answers.

I’d seen something of the mess that Brill and Parsons faced at the bank, and how they went about cleaning it up. I’d seen their nifty document system. Slick as it was, it held only one of the items from Pierro’s fax. Was that because the other documents simply hadn’t been in the bank? From what I could tell, once something got into that system, it was hard to remove without leaving lots of footprints. But how hard was it to keep something out in the first place?

The people I’d met last night could’ve told me, no doubt. They seemed to know their business well, and also to know their way around banking, and MWB, and the document system. That kind of knowledge would come in handy if you were running a little side action in blackmail. Mike would call that wild speculation; so would Neary. They’d be right.

I had speculation to spare, and a lot of it was about Gerard Nassouli. His photography collection was an odd one. For the most part, it was vanity wall stuff-cliched trophies that strained to paint the man as mover, shaker, and fashionable rake. All that was missing was the one of him in a smoking jacket and ascot, flanked by a couple of bunnies. Helene’s picture hit the jarring note. Was that the real Nassouli she’d caught there, on that wet, nighttime street? And if it was, why did he advertise it? Did he like the way it recast the fluff photos, in a colder, more sinister light?

And what about Helene? She’d apparently known Nassouli, back in her salad days of modeling and amateur photography. But how had she known him? How well and for how long? And why had neither she nor her husband seen fit to mention it? True, I hadn’t asked, so they hadn’t lied, not exactly. But they hadn’t offered, either. It bugged me, and I was going to talk to her about it.

I had come away from MWB with one hard piece of information: Al was short for Alan. Alan Burrows. There was only one Alan Burrows on my list-the one in Manhattan. I’d called him last night, as soon as I’d gotten home. He’d answered on the first ring.

My story to him was that I was doing background research for a writer who was considering a book project about MWB. It was a decent story, and Burrows hadn’t questioned it. But neither was he eager to talk. His first response had been silence, and only the slight rasp of his breathing told me he was still on the line. Then he’d hemmed and hawed in a well-educated, soft bass about not having worked at the bank in nearly fifteen years, about having no contact with anyone from there since, about having gotten out of banking altogether. I’d pressed. I’d said that if it was more convenient, I could come to his office for a chat. He hadn’t liked that idea at all. Finally, he’d relented. I’d be meeting him tonight, at his place.

Lots of pieces, and maybe not all to the same puzzle. I turned them over and over in my head as I ran, but no two fit together. A pale, pink light was rising in the sky as I headed east on Sixteenth Street.

I put coffee on and stretched while it brewed. I had my first cup standing at the kitchen counter. Then I showered and shaved and dressed, and had a few cups more with breakfast. When I was fully caffeinated, I called Mike and told him about my visit to MWB. He listened in silence until I got to the part about Nassouli and Helene. Then he blew out a long, slow breath.

“I take it Pierro didn’t say anything to you, either,” I said.

“Not word one.”

“Anything to make of that?”

Mike thought about it. “I don’t know,” he said after a while.

We agreed that I would talk to Helene, and that we wouldn’t mention the photo to Rick beforehand. I finished my update, telling him about Burrows and the meeting I’d arranged for tonight. He was about to ring off, but I stopped him, to share my rosy view on the state of this case.

“It’s going nowhere,” I said.

“Is it going that well?” He chuckled sourly.

“There’s just nothing here to grab hold of. Some smoke, some lights in the sky maybe, some wild-assed guesses on my part, but nothing I can call remotely hopeful. If Burrows doesn’t pan out, we’ll need to have a talk with Pierro,” I said.

“I agree,” Mike said.

“How’s he doing?” I asked.

“Fair to middling,” he answered. “He’s working same as usual-long hours, on the road a couple of days a week. And he’s still got this penned up, off to one side. But I think the effort’s getting to him.”

“No more faxes?”

“No more faxes; no contact at all. Makes you wonder-why the wait?”

“To make him sweat, maybe. Soften him up for the squeeze.” Mike thought about that.

“It’s working,” he said.

I spent the rest of the day on paperwork. It was slightly less compelling than watching paint dry, but it was unavoidable. I owed a final report to my last client, a big insurance company, and I needed to bring my case notes on this job up to date. There was no putting it off any longer. I switched off my phone, made more coffee, put Charlie Haden and Norah Jones and Macy Gray CDs in the changer, and opened my laptop.

With only a few breaks, I banged away on it till six o’clock, when the intercom buzzed to tell me that I had a visitor. Seconds later, a grainy image of a woman emerged on the small video unit mounted on the kitchen wall. My baby sister, Lauren. There was no point in not answering. It was her apartment, and she had a key. That’s the way it is with my family; you can run, but you can’t hide.