Lee Vance - The Garden of Betrayal

“Were you able to hear?” she asked.

“Yes. No problem.” Claire had her phone clipped to her skirt at the small of her back and hidden by a jacket. “You want to review names?”

“I think I have it. The woman I spoke to is Sue Dye. Her boss is Mike Paulson, and he manages SureView Insurance. The building maintenance guys are Rahim and Joe.”

SureView was on the fourth floor of the building, directly below Ganesa.

“Right,” Kate confirmed, following along on her screen. “And the temp agency they use is People Now, on Mamaroneck Avenue.”

“So, what do you think?” I asked nervously. “You ready to tackle Ganesa, or you want a little more time to recover?”

“I’d rather get it over with,” Claire said.

“Any sign of trouble, or anything that doesn’t feel right, and I want you out of there immediately. You have difficulty leaving and you shout for Reggie. He’ll be right outside in the hall. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Give me to Reggie again, please.”

“Mark?” he said.

“You’re going to take care of her if there’s a problem, right?”

“Absolutely. Don’t worry about anything. She’s doing great.”

I heard their footsteps on the stairs, and then another door opening and closing. My palms were sweating, Reggie’s assurances regardless. I couldn’t believe Claire had talked me into letting her do this.

“She’s headed in now,” he murmured.

“Hi,” Claire said. “Rachel Whitson. I’m temping downstairs at Sure-View Insurance.”

“Ellen Cho,” a woman answered. “Nice to meet you.”

“Sue asked me to come up because we noticed some water dripping into our phone closet. She talked to the building guy-Rahid?”

“Rahim.”

“And he said that he and Joe would be up in about ten minutes. But Sue wanted me to let you know, in case you have a leak.”

“I haven’t noticed anything.”

“My husband’s a plumber. You mind if I just check the sink in your pantry?”

“Please.”

“Your pipes are dry,” Claire said a minute later. “And there’s no water puddling under the dishwasher. But I’m turned around. If the pantry’s here, where’s your phone equipment?”

“There.”

“Should we take a quick look? I really like your hair, by the way. Do you get it done locally?”

I was amazed by how calm she sounded.

“Thanks. At a place called Isobel’s, on Main Street in Dobbs Ferry.”

“You live there?”

“For about six years now.”

“My husband and I are in the Bronx. We’re always talking about moving out, but it’s hard, because we have so much family nearby.”

“Dobbs Ferry is only fifteen minutes from the Bronx on the Saw Mill River Parkway. It’s a nice place. You should drive by and take a look.”

“You’re right, we really should. Your equipment closet seems dry also. It must be something in our ceiling-maybe a drain line from somewhere. So, how do you commute here from Dobbs Ferry?”

Fifteen minutes later Reggie and Claire were in the backseat of the car. I leaned over the front seat to give her an awkward hug and a kiss.

“You were great.”

“Thanks.” She took a yellow pad from the seat pad and began sketching. “It’s even smaller than we thought. Reception area, conference room, office, pantry, equipment closet. The door to the office was shut, but I could hear a guy talking inside. And I didn’t spot any special security gear-no cameras or anything like that.”

The guy she’d heard was presumably Karl Mohler, president of Ganesa. We hadn’t been able to learn much about Mohler or Ganesa other than his name and the location of the office. According to their corporate registration and the Petronuevo prospectus, Ganesa ran offshore investment funds, which meant it was almost entirely unregulated.

“Small could be good or bad,” Reggie said. “Less people to worry about, but anybody you bump into is likely to ask what you’re doing. In a big office, everybody assumes someone else knows why you’re there.”

“You’re the guy who doesn’t like the alternative,” I reminded him.

“The alternative,” he repeated. “You mean breaking and entering?”

“Enough,” Kate said, rolling her eyes. “We’ve been over this a million times. What about the equipment closet?”

Claire flipped a page and began sketching again.

“It was like you said. A white TV cable connected to a box mounted on the wall, and then a red computer cable connecting that to another box, and then another red cable connecting that to a panel with a whole bunch of blue wires coming out.”

“Modem, router, switch,” Kate said, leaning over the seat and pointing to each of the items Claire had drawn in turn. “Was there a brand name and a model number on the router?”

“Cisco two-five-oh-two.”

“Good,” Kate said, turning around and tapping at her laptop again. “Connection’s slow through my cell phone, but I should have the manual in a few minutes.”

Reggie’s phone rang. He checked the number and then answered it.

“Uh-huh,” he said, motioning to Claire for her pad and pen. “Right. Right. Got it, thanks.”

He hung up and tore the piece of paper he’d written on from the pad.

“Ellen Cho. Lives at one-oh-eight Northmeadow Avenue in Dobbs Ferry, New York. Two cars registered to the address-a black ’06 Audi A4 sedan and a red ’03 Volvo wagon. I got plate numbers on both. I’m betting she’s the wagon.”

Claire had learned that Ellen parked in a lot two streets over. I turned the key to start my engine and dropped the transmission into gear.

“So, let’s go find it,” I said.

Reggie, Kate, and I stepped off the elevator and onto the fifth floor of Ganesa’s building forty-five minutes later. Reggie pointed right, indicating a dark wood door that had GANESA CAPITAL spelled out in stenciled gold letters, and then led us left, toward the fire stairs. Once in the stairwell, Kate perched on the steps and opened her laptop while I stripped off my winter coat. Reggie examined me critically. I was wearing a red polo shirt with a Verizon logo, khaki pants, and tan work boots. Reggie had supplied the shirt, courtesy of a friend in the city’s Special Investigation Unit. SIU was the outfit that did all the wiretap work for the NYPD.

“You look too white-collar,” he said. “You need a tattoo or something. Maybe a beer gut.”

“Not much I can do about that now. You got the belt?”

He lifted a small duffel bag from his shoulder and handed it to me. I extracted a leather lineman’s belt loaded with tools and a dangling line tester and strapped it around my waist.

“Too tight,” he said. “Loosen it up a little bit, so it hangs down some.”

I did as he suggested.

“Better. You good to go?”

I took a deep breath and nodded.

“Kate?”

She gave him a thumbs-up, eyes fixed on her computer screen.

“Okay, then.”

He took his phone from his pocket and dialed.

“Ellen Cho, please… This is Sergeant Landon of the New Rochelle Police Department. I believe you own a red Volvo wagon, New York plate number CSN one-one-three-six… Probably not. It’s just that one of our patrol cars found your license plate in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven off the Post Road this morning, and we wanted to let you know that we have it, and to make sure that you drove the car out that way… Really? Has anyone else driven the car?… Well, I hate to say it, but that actually is kind of troubling, because the two things that occur to me are that somebody stole your plate, or maybe even that someone stole your car… I’m absolutely sure. I’ve got the plate right here in front of me. When did you last see the car?… Uh-huh… Right. That’s exactly what I think you should do. If the car’s there, don’t worry about it. One of my guys lives out in your neck of the woods, and I’ll have him drop the plate off this afternoon on his way home. On the other hand, if the car’s missing, you should probably head over to the White Plains police department as soon as possible and file a report… Right. They’d be the ones to handle it… You’re welcome. We’re happy to help. Have a nice day.”