Andrew Grant - Even

“What about your editor?”

“Haven’t got one yet. I pitched it to everyone. No one bit.”

“So you’re working it on your own, anyway?”

“Yeah. Pretty stupid, huh?”

“No. I like that. It shows commitment. But what were you stirring up that’s worth all this trouble?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Wouldn’t waste my time asking if I did.”

“Could take a while.”

“Doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere.”

“OK then. It basically started as a social justice piece. I got details of all the homicides in Manhattan over the last twelve months. It was a long list, so I broke it down by clear-up rate. Then I looked at the NYPD’s results. I wanted to see how much is based on the victim’s background.”

“What did you find? Anything conclusive?”

“Oh, yeah. No doubt about it. Institutionalized discrimination, from one end of the city to the other.”

“Based on what?”

“It’s like this. If a Wall Street guy gets hit, the police go hell-for-leather. The killer’s as good as caught before the knot gets tied on the toe tag. But if it’s a bum, the detectives go straight to the paperwork. Kick it down to Open Unsolved.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. They even have their own code for it. ‘NHI’-No Human Involved.”

“It wasn’t like that last night. I found a bum’s body and the NYPD were all over me like a rash.”

“That was different. The way I heard it, there was something a bit special about the victim.”

“How did you hear that? I thought you were locked up in here?”

“I overheard the guys talking, before they went to pick you up.”

“How did they know?”

“I just heard them talking,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “So is it true? The victim was an FBI agent?”

“Yes, he was,” I said. “But they only found that out later. The NYPD didn’t know at the time.”

“See, this federal thing is confusing me. I looked into all the organized groups that could possibly enjoy killing bums. Or benefit from it. Gangs, property developers, white supremacists, psychos, other bums, you name it. And the bureau didn’t factor in once.”

“So?”

“So what am I missing? I’ve got a lot riding on this story. If there’s a huge hole in it, I need to know.”

“There’s no hole. The feds aren’t involved in your story.”

“But their guy was disguised as a bum. He was killed in Manhattan. That’s a coincidence?”

“Why not? It’s a big city. Must be dozens of investigations going on, all the time.”

“What were they looking at, then, the guys you spoke to?”

“Don’t know,” I said. After all, she was still a reporter. “They kept their cards pretty close. But it was clear they were only looking at things that happened outside the city.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then thank goodness,” she said, turning her back to the dividing wall and sinking to the floor. “I thought I’d missed something. If all this was for nothing…”

I shifted around the corner so I was sitting nearer to her. We ended up almost back to back, our right shoulders separated by the mesh. Her thick black hair was spilling through into my cage. Some of it was touching my arm. She twisted her head to look at me and a strand tickled my cheek. It smelled of coconut.

“What’s your name?” I said. “I want to look out for your byline.”

She smiled.

“Julianne,” she said. “Julianne Morgan. You?”

“David Trevellyan.”

“David, can I ask you something? I’m curious.”

“Sure.”

“About the FBI. Did they give you a hard time?”

“Not especially.”

“Why did they pull you in, then?”

“The NYPD had a tip from a bogus eyewitness. It threw them off the scent for a while.”

“But the feds believed you in the end?”

“We came to an understanding.”

“They didn’t want to throw you in jail while they checked out your alibi, or whatever?”

“They may have preferred me to hang around a little longer.”

“So why let you go? Did you pull some lawyer trick?”

“Dialogue had stalled. It was time to explore other avenues.”

“What does that mean?”

“I felt I could contribute more to solving the case if I was free to operate in a less restricted environment.”

“In other words, you escaped?”

“If you like.”

“Oh yes, I do like. How? What did you do?”

“Not much. Just walked out the door when they weren’t looking.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Any chance of fixing it so these guys aren’t looking? So you could walk out of here, too? And take me with you?”

“Absolutely. When the time is right.”

“When the time is right? When will that be?”

“Someone’s coming to talk to me. It would be rude to leave without having a chat.”

“Screw ‘rude.’ I’ve been here three days.”

“Another couple of hours won’t hurt.”

“David, ever thought what they’ll do when they don’t need us anymore? Like maybe after they’ve talked to us?”

There was another bang above our heads, then two people’s footsteps clattered down the stairs. Julianne slumped forward like she’d been shot.

“Too late,” she said.

The two younger guys appeared from the bottom of the staircase.

“Your boss here?” I said.

They ignored me and crossed to the front of Julianne’s cage. The guy who’d driven me here had the keys. He opened her door. Julianne stood up and backed away.

“Where are you going?” he said. “Come on. Out.”

Julianne didn’t move. The driver stepped into her cage. She retreated. He followed her into the corner, grabbed her upper arm and hauled her out. The passenger pulled the door shut after him.

The padlock was one of the old-fashioned English kind. You can’t just click them shut with one hand-you have to hold the hasp in place while you turn the key. They’re more awkward to use, but I prefer them. No effort has been wasted on decoration or convenience. It’s all gone into making them solid and functional. They look uncompromising, like they belong in an ancient jail or dungeon. My door had the same kind.

The driver finished with the key and the two guys moved back toward the stairs, dragging Julianne between them.

“Don’t worry,” the driver said as they passed me. “You’re next.”

That would be fine for me.

Maybe not for Julianne.

Certainly not for them.

So far, all my assignments have been in cities.

All except one, that is. It started out OK. I had a roof over my head, running water, cooked food. But things soon went downhill. It spread into the jungle. In Colombia. And I hated it. The entire place was full of creatures that spent every waking moment trying to kill you. Everything that walked or crawled or slithered or swam or flew was absolutely lethal. Even the frogs were poisonous. Apart from one type. Some exotic species that was all covered in bright red and yellow blotches. They’d evolved that way to fool people into thinking they were dangerous, apparently. Like the guys who’d taken Julianne, in many ways. Only there was a problem with that approach. Some predators fell for it and walked away, unwilling to take the risk. The rest just steamed in harder.

That may have worked for the frogs, half the time.

But neither result was going to suit me.

Julianne was brought back after only twenty minutes. I took a good look at her as the driver shoved her through the cage doorway. She seemed pretty composed. Not in any obvious pain, anyway. I tried to catch her eye but she didn’t lift her head. She wouldn’t stop staring at the floor.