Jeffery Deaver - Hell's Kitchen

Wearing the Armani again and crowned with a stolen hard hat cocked over his brow, John Pellam walked matter-of-factly through the lobby of McKennah Tower. This part of the structure was virtually completed and was already occupied by several tenants – including two of McKennah’s development and operating companies and the real estate agency leasing future space in the building.

Pellam’s saunter told everybody in the office that he belonged here and that no one better delay what was obviously an urgent mission.

And no one did.

Clipboard in hand, he passed a row of secretaries and walked boldly through a large oak door into an office that was so opulent it had to be that of Roger McKennah, whom he’d seen leave five minutes earlier. He had several explanations prepared and rehearsed for the developer’s minions but his acting skills weren’t required; the room was unoccupied.

He strode to his desk, on which were two framed pictures – one of McKennah’s wife and one of his two children; Jolie gazed out of the expensive frame with an artificial smile painted large on her face. The boy and girl in the adjoining frame weren’t smiling at all.

Pellam started on the file cabinets. After fifteen minutes he’d worked his way through hundreds of letters, financial statements and legal documents but none of them mentioned the St. Augustus Foundation or the buildings on Thirty-sixth Street.

The credenza behind the desk was locked. Pellam chose the direct approach – he looked for a letter opener to break the lock with. He’d just found one in the top right-hand drawer when a booming voice filled the room. “Nice suit.” There seemed to be a bit of a brogue in it. Pellam froze. “But it’s not exactly you . You ask me, you’re more of a denim kind of guy.”

Pellam stood slowly.

Roger McKennah stood in the doorway, beside his unsmiling bodyguard, whose hand rested inside his coat jacket. Pellam, who’d suspected metal detectors in the Tower entryway, had left the Colt in Bailey’s office.

His eyes flicked from one man to the other.

“We’ve been looking for you,” McKennah said. “And what happens but you come to see me ?” He nodded to the assistant, who lifted something to a table. It was Pellam’s Betacam. As of a few hours ago it had been hidden away in the bedroom closet of Pellam’s sublet in the Village. He wondered if the rest of his tapes were now destroyed.

McKennah said, “Let’s take a ride.” He opened a side door into the dark garage where sat the Mercedes limo.

The assistant picked up the camera and gestured with his head toward the door.

Pellam started to speak but McKennah held up a long index finger. “What could you possibly say? That you’re looking for the truth? You’re rubbing the places that feel good? You’ve got answers for everything, I’ll bet. But I don’t want to hear them. Just get in the car.”

They drove in silence for eight blocks.

The limo pulled up in front of a dilapidated old building somewhere in the Forties on the far West Side. The paint was scaling. It looked like dirty, white confetti. The wood trim was rotten and piled up against a side door were a dozen trash bags.

McKennah gestured toward it. “Artie.”

The bodyguard opened the limo door, took Pellam’s arm firmly, led him toward the side entrance. He shoved open a door and pushed Pellam forward. They waited as McKennah entered.

Down long, dark corridor. The developer went first. Pellam followed, trailed by Artie, who carried the camera as if it were a machine gun.

Pellam looked around, squinting, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He slipped his hand into his sleeve to grip the handle of the letter opener he’d copped from McKennah’s office. It felt flimsy but Pellam knew from prison what kind of damage even the most delicate of weapons could do.

The corridor was lit by only one low-watt bare bulb. He coughed at the smell of mold and urine. A blur of motion at their feet. McKennah whispered, “Jesus,” as the huge rat passed indifferently in front of them. Pellam ignored it. He gripped the letter opener again. Felt the point against his arm. Waited for reassurance. He felt none.

Then, the noise.

Pellam slowed at the sound of the faint high-pitched wail. It seemed to be a woman’s scream. From TV? No. It was a live, human voice. Pellam felt the hairs on his neck stir.

“Keep going,” McKennah ordered and they continued to the end of the corridor. Then stopped.

The chill keening grew louder and louder.

He shoved the horrible noise out of his thoughts and concentrated on what he was about to do. His legs tensed. This was the moment. His right hand slipped to his left sleeve.

McKennah nodded to Artie once more.

The wailing rose in volume. Two people, maybe three, were howling in pain. The bodyguard pushed Pellam forward roughly. He set his teeth together and stepped forward, pulling the letter opener from his sleeve.

Artie pushed the door open, stepped inside.

He’d slash first at Artie – aiming for his eyes. Then try for the gun. He’d -

Pellam stopped just over the threshold, frozen, gripping the letter opener.

What is this?

He glanced back at the developer and his thug. McKennah impatiently motioned him forward. And, following the tacit order, Pellam began to walk forward – but he did so very carefully; it was hard to maneuver through the sea of babies. Across the room was a pale, obese woman in a stained blue tank top and tan shorts, who sat rocking the loudest of the screamers – the infant they’d heard from the hall. Trying to feed the baby a Frito, the woman stared at them in angry shock. “Who the fuck’re you?”

McKennah nodded toward Pellam then said to his bodyguard. “Okay, give it to him.”

The man handed Pellam his Betacam.

“Do it,” McKennah urged. Pellam shook his head, not understanding.

Half of the babies were in cardboard boxes and the rest wandered or crawled about, playing with broken toys or blocks. On the floor sat plastic bottles of orange diet soda and Coke, some had tipped over and spilled. Two of the children struggled to open one, like young animals trying to crack open a coconut. Ammonia from dirty diapers wafted through the room.

“Who the fuck are you?” the woman repeated, shouting. “You want me to call the cops?”

Roger McKennah said petulantly, “Sure, why don’t you?” To Pellam he said with irritation, “So go ahead. What’re you waiting for?”

He asked, “Go ahead what?”

“Well, what do you think? Play Charles Kuralt. Start filming!” The developer’s temper was starting to fray.

“Fuck you!” the fat woman shouted. “You get out of here.”

One of the babies crawled rapidly over the filthy floor and began playing with Pellam’s boot. He picked up the infant and dusted off his blackened hands and knees, set him on a blanket. “Why don’t you take better care of these kids?”

“Fuck you too.”

Okay. We’ll do it your way. Pellam lifted the Betacam. Started the deck running. “Say, ma’am, you mind repeating that?”

“I’m calling the cops.” But the woman remained seated, ignoring the intruders, and lost herself in an episode of The Young and the Restless on the small TV.

Pellam panned slowly around the room, having no idea what he would ever do with these shots; the squirming infants, the junk food and the raised middle finger of a fat woman hardly made the stuff of oral history.

Looking through the eyepiece, he asked McKennah, “You want to tell me what we’re doing?”

“This’s an unlicensed day care center. Most of the people in the Kitchen can’t afford a licensed one so they drop their kids off at pigsties like this. It’s a disgrace but there’s nothing parents can do if they want to work.”