Peter Spiegelman - Black Maps

“The timing,” Neary said. “Think about it-Trautmann and John trade punches on Friday morning; by Friday noon someone had called Pell. There wasn’t much time between those events. The way I see it, Trautmann told our mole about his run-in with John, and the alarms went off immediately. The mole didn’t have to play connect-the-dots, or go snooping around looking at visitor logs. Things happened too quickly for that. I think the mole recognized John from Trautmann’s description right away, because he’d met John-with me.” Mike nodded.

“But you’re right about one thing,” Neary continued. “We can pretty much discount anyone who hasn’t been on the job from day one, or close to it.”

We spent the next ten minutes in silence, as I recalled the people I’d encountered during my visit to MWB, and made a list: Chet, the guard with the scary eyes; smart, edgy Cheryl Compton; the other two Brill guys-Bobby Coe, who looked like a park ranger, and Mitch Vetter, who looked like a wiseguy wannabe; the fat uniform on the fourth floor- Tim; arrogant, sarcastic Evan Mills-an aging preppy, Neary had called him; Mills’s three forensic accountants-Greer, the thin, fair-haired guy with glasses, Desai, the slender Indian, and Koch, the hefty Jets fan; the uniform on forty-four, whose name I never caught. Neary, independently, made his own list, and then we compared notes. They matched.

“Great minds think alike,” I said. “You know how long all these people have been at MWB?”

“Not all of them.” Neary checked his watch. It was close to eight. He pulled out his cell phone and made a call. “Hi, Kevin? It’s Tom Neary.” He listened for a moment and chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, it’s still fucking miserable out there. Anybody working late tonight?” He listened some more. “None of the Parsons people either? Thanks, Kev. I’ll be in later on.” Neary looked at me. “We’ve got the place to ourselves.”

“I’ve got to bring our client up to date,” Mike said. “I only hope he hasn’t unraveled completely.”

It was still raining, and traffic in midtown was still a mess, so we got on the subway. It was damp and close and it smelled like a wet sock, but it was fast. We stood near the door and hung on as the train rumbled and swayed southward.

“Your management know the latest?” I asked Neary.

He nodded. “Yeah, and they’re praying it’s not one of our guys. They don’t want to say anything to Parsons or the client until they know for sure. They’ll let me play it out, as long as I do it quickly and, above all, quietly. Of course, they want me to check in every five minutes or so.”

“Everyone wants quick and quiet,” I said. “My client is up against a Thursday deadline, and I’m thinking these guys-the mole, at leastmay want to close up shop soon.”

He looked at me, puzzled. “Why?”

“For one thing, they seem to be in a big hurry. The day after my run-in with Trautmann, my client got hit up for cash-a nice chunk of change. They’ve given him only four days to collect it. In the other case I know about, they gave the guy a full week.” Neary looked unconvinced. I continued. “And that call to Pell-it was panicky and way too cute- not the kind of thing Trautmann would do. He would know better; he’d know to lay low.”

“You think the mole got jumpy and made the call on his own?” Neary asked. I nodded. “If that’s the case, we better find him quick, or Trautmann may not leave us anything to find.”

We rode the elevator to the third floor, where Neary stopped at the guard’s desk. Kevin was a heavyset, fiftyish guy with a thick head of white hair and a beefy face. He was working his way through a fragrant pastrami sandwich and a copy of Newsday.

“We’ll be on four. You’ve got my cell number. Give me a buzz if anyone comes in,” Neary said. Kevin looked at him for a moment without expression, and nodded.

“Sure thing, Tom,” he said. We didn’t sign in.

The reception area on four was dimly lit and empty. Neary used his card key and held the metal door for me. The floor was in darkness except for the corridor that ran around the building’s central core. Even on carpet, our footsteps seemed loud, and all the building noises, the clicks and whirrs and rumbles, were sudden and startling. I followed Neary around some corners to a locked door. He had the key. He flicked a wall switch, and lights blinked on overhead. We were in the small, windowless room, lined with shelves, that the Parsons people had called the project office. It smelled of dust and paper and the remains of someone’s lunch. Neary disappeared for a moment and returned pushing a swivel chair. He took off his coat and suit jacket.

“It’s a dirty job,” he said, and he took a big white binder from a shelf.

We spent over two hours going through binders full of weekly time sheets, and when we’d finished we’d established starting dates for everyone on our list. Six names came off because they hadn’t worked the job long enough, and there were four names left: Cheryl Compton and Mitchell Vetter, from Brill, and Evan Mills and Vijay Desai, from Parsons.

“Any of these names jump out at you as being more or less likely?” I asked him. He shook his head.

“Could be any of ’em,” he said.

“Even Compton?” Neary shook his head again and ran a big hand over the back of his neck.

“I’d like to think otherwise, but I’ve been doing this long enough to know better.” He put the last binder back on its shelf. “You have a plan in mind?”

“I have something. It might be reaching to call it a plan.” Neary looked at his watch.

“Maybe some food will encourage it,” he said.

And it did. I bought him dinner at After the Heat, an all-night barbecue place in the meatpacking district. We had ribs and potato salad and corn bread, some wicked pecan pie, and a lot of strong coffee. And while we ate, and afterward in the nearly empty restaurant, we developed something like a plan. It was not perfect, not by a long shot. It was inelegant and unsubtle and had no shortage of risk. But its faults were offset, at least in part, by the fact that it wouldn’t take a lot of time to set up or carry out. Since time was something we had little of, that was a big plus.

“I’ll talk to my management tonight. If they have no issues, I’ll arrange what we need tomorrow morning. Assuming these four guys are in the office, we can do it tomorrow afternoon,” Neary said.

I nodded. “The sooner the better.”

It had stopped raining by the time we stepped outside, but the air had turned colder and the wind had stiffened. The streets were empty. It took a while for Neary to find a cab, and I waited with him in silence. When one finally came, he gave me a small nod, got in, and rode away. I looked at my watch. Five minutes till Tuesday.

I was at once exhausted and wired, drained by a day that seemed five days long, excited and anxious about tomorrow, and jumpy from too much coffee. I walked home, through the wet, quiet streets. Overhead, the thick mantle of cloud that had covered the city all day had been shattered by the wind. Now the pieces slid rapidly across the sky, and high above them I saw a pale moon floating, amid paler stars.

I got little sleep that night, and none of it was good. Despite the late hour, I’d called Mike Metz when I got home. I’d told him about the list of names Neary and I had come up with, and about our plan. He’d told me about Pierro.

“He’s on the ragged edge, John. If this doesn’t end soon, he’s going to come apart,” Mike said.

“Things broke our way with DiPaolo. That was a piece of good news,” I said.

“It helped. But he’s desperate to get this behind him. He’s got the money together already.”