F Wilson - Fatal Error

Folded between the back cover and the last page of the ledger was a receipt from the Brickell Real Estate Agency for a cash security deposit and first month's rental on Loft #629. Dated last month. Made out to Sean McCabe.

Loft #629. Where the hell was that? And why did Richard Hollander have someone else's cash receipt? Unless it wasn't someone else's. Had he rented loft #629 under a phony name? That would explain using cash. But why would a guy who was almost broke rent a loft?

Unless he was looking for a place to do something too risky to do in his own apartment.

Like holding hostages.

Jack copied down the Brickell agency's phone number. Might need that later. Then he called Munir.

Hysteria on the phone. Sobbing, moaning, the guy was almost incoherent.

"Calm down, dammit! What exactly did he tell you?"

"He's going to cut her… he's going to cut her… he's going to cut her…"

He sounded like a stuck record player. If Munir had been within reach Jack would have whacked him alongside the head to unstick him.

"Cut her what?"

"Cut her nipple off!"

"Oh, jeez. Stay there. I'll call you right back."

Jack retrieved the receipt for the loft and dialed the number of the rental agent. As the phone began to ring, he realized he hadn't figured out an angle to pry out the address. They wouldn't give it to just anybody. But maybe a cop…

He hoped he was right as a pleasant female voice answered on the third ring. "Brickell Agency."

Jack put a harsh Brooklynese edge on his voice.

"Yeah. This is Lieutenant Adams of the Twelfth Precinct. Who's in charge there?"

"I am." Her voice had cooled. "Esther Brickell. This is my agency."

"Good. Here's the story. We've got a suspect in a mutilation murder but we don't know his whereabouts. However, we did find a cash receipt among his effects. Your name was on it."

"The Brickell Agency?"

"Big as life. Down payment of some sort on loft number six-two-nine. Sound familiar?"

"Not offhand. We're computerized. We access all our rental accounts by number."

"Fine. Then it'll only take you a coupla seconds to get me the address of this place."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. I have a strict policy of never giving out information about my clients. Especially over the phone. All my dealings with them are strictly confidential. I'm sure you can understand."

Swell, Jack thought. She thinks she's a priest or a reporter.

"What I understand," he said, "is that I've got a crazy perp out there and you think you've got privileged information. Well, listen, sweetie, that kinda thing don't include Realtors. I need the address of your six-two-nine loft rented to"-he glanced at the name on the receipt-"Sean McCabe. Not later. Now. Capice?"

"Sorry," she said. "I can't do that. Good day, Lieutenant-if indeed you are a lieutenant."

Shit! But Jack wasn't giving up. He had to get this address.

"Oh, I'm a lieutenant, all right. And believe me, sweetie, you don't come across with that address here and now, you've got trouble. You make me waste my time tracking down a judge to swear out a search warrant, make me come out to your dinky little office to get this one crummy address, I'm gonna do it up big. I'm gonna bring uniforms and squad cars and we're gonna do a thorough search. And I do mean thorough. We'll go through all your files. But we won't do it there. We'll confiscate all your computers and storage devices and take them down to the one-two and keep them for a while, just to be sure we didn't miss anything. And maybe you'll get them back next Christmas. Maybe. And maybe when you do some information'll be missing. And maybe an obstruction of justice charge as a kicker. How's that sound?"

"Just a minute," she said.

Jack waited, hoping she hadn't gone to another phone to call her lawyer and check on his empty threats, or call the Twelfth to check on a particularly obnoxious lieutenant named Adams.

"It's on White Street," she said suddenly in cold, clipped tones. "One-thirty-seven. Two-D."

"Thank-"

She hung up on him. Fine. He had what he needed.

White Street. That was in Tribeca-a trendy triangle below Canal Street. Lots of lofts down there.

He punched in Munir's number.

"One-thirty-seven White," he said without preamble. "Get down there now."

No time for explanations. He hung up and ran for the door.

"The Order may have found you."

Weezy felt her chest tighten at Eddie's words.

"What-what do you mean?"

"They have a photo but weren't sure it was you. I told them to keep looking."

"I'm confused. You're saying they found me but may not be sure it's me?"

"Right."

"What does it all mean?"

"I don't know, but maybe you should think of moving back in with-"

"Can't do that," she said, cutting him off before he could mention Jack's name. Who knew who might be listening? "He needs his space and I need mine. Besides, I've caused him enough trouble. And you as well. Please drop this, Eddie."

"I can't. Not till I find out why the Order is interested in you."

She begged, he refused, they argued, but Eddie wasn't budging. Finally they ended the conversation.

Weezy wandered her apartment, rubbing her suddenly cold hands. A photo of her-how? Where? When? Had they followed her home? She'd seen a number of new faces lately. The girl on the elevator yesterday… the guy looking for his dog…

But the building was new and half empty and new people were moving in all the time.

She went to the window to watch the Broadway traffic, then backed away. Someone could be watching her from an apartment across the street. She pulled the curtains, darkening the room.

She hated this. She'd been so comfortable here, able to concentrate on the Compendium. All the disparate pieces were fitting together into a cohesive picture of the First Age and its secrets. And maybe… just maybe a way to stop Rasalom, referred to in the Compendium only as "the One."

She heard noise outside and hurried to her door. Through the peephole she saw men in overalls angling a new mattress through the door across the hall. That apartment had been empty since she'd moved in. Looked like someone had rented or bought it.

The Order gets a photo of her and then someone moves in across the hall. For some reason, that didn't sit right.

She'd have to keep a careful watch.

The building looked like a deserted factory. Probably was. Four stories with no windows on the first floor. Maybe an old sweatshop. A NOW RENTING sign next to the front door. The place looked empty. Had the Brickell lady stiffed him with the wrong address?

With his trusty credit card in his gloved hand, Jack hopped out of the cab and ran for the door-a steel leftover from the building's factory days. An anti-jimmy plate had been welded over the latch area. Jack pocketed the plastic and inspected the lock: a heavy-duty Schlage. A tough pick, even with a bump key. Here on the sidewalk, with the clock ticking, in full view of the passing cars and pedestrians… no go.

He ran along the front of the building and took the alley around to the back. Another door there, this one with a big red alarm warning posted front and center.

Two-D… that meant the second floor had been subdivided into at least four mini lofts. If Hollander was here at all, he'd be renting the cheapest. Usually the lower letters meant up front with a view of the street; further down the alphabet you got relegated to the rear with an alley view.

Jack stepped back and looked up. The second-floor windows to his left were bare and empty. The ones on the right were draped with what looked like bedsheets.

And running right smack between those windows was a downspout.