Brad Meltzer - Dead Even

“Why’d he call you?”

“To make sure you’d have enough time to work on the case. To be honest, I thought you put him up to it. He knew I was your supervisor and said the only reason he came to us was because of your good reputation. He said that if things work out with this case, he might throw all of his business our way. And it sounds like he has a good deal of potential business.”

“Wouldn’t that be great?”

“You bet it would,” Lubetsky said. “Anyway, I just wanted to say congrats. I’m sorry about yesterday, but it looks like you’re turning things around. Keep at it.”

“I’ll try,” Jared said as Lubetsky left the office.

Jared reached into his pocket and pulled out the matchbook from the club. Gold letters spelled out TWO ROOMS. He hit the intercom button on his phone.

“What’s up?” Kathleen asked.

“I need a quick favor. There’s a club called Two Rooms on East Fifty-eighth Street. Can you ask Barrow to run a quick search on it and tell me what comes up?”

“No problem,” Kathleen said. “Who should I bill it to?”

“No one. I’m paying for this myself.”

“What’d you find?” Jared asked as he anxiously leaned toward his speakerphone twenty minutes later.

“Did you get the fax?” Barrow said from the phone.

Before Jared could answer, Kathleen entered his office holding a small pile of papers. “Here you go,” she said, dropping them on his desk.

Jared flipped through the stack of press clippings and real-estate records.

“You’re welcome,” Kathleen said. He still didn’t respond. She was tempted to say something, but she knew now wasn’t the time. Instead, she left the office, closing the door behind her.

“As you can see, it’s just the usual high-society nonsense,” Barrow explained. “There’s no sign out front, but it’s somehow still known by all the right people. And it used to be called Le Club, until someone finally had the good sense to change the name. Otherwise, the only things I can find are society column mentions and a few restaurant reviews. It’s a serious place, J – superexclusive. Apparently, it’s impossible to get in, which means the Ladies Who Lunch casually stalk the place on a regular basis.”

“Is it private membership only?”

“Don’t know – they weren’t answering the phone. If you want, the number’s on the top sheet.”

“Thanks,” Jared said, still distracted.

“Also, I looked up your friend Kozlow. Have you seen his file yet?”

“We’re still waiting for it to come over from his old attorneys. Anything interesting?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it interesting, but I’ll tell you one thing: The guy is one sick bastard. Anyone who uses a screwdriver to-”

“I’ll read it myself,” Jared interrupted.

“You have to hear this, though. He took a screwdriver and-”

“Lenny, please, I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

There was a short pause on the other line. Finally, Barrow asked, “Does this have anything to do with what got you so upset at lunch?”

“How do you know I was upset at lunch?”

“Kathleen. She said you came back a mess.”

“That’s not even true. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“J, we’ve been at this a long time. You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not,” Jared insisted. “And even if I was, I’d never do it to you. Now how much do I owe you for the research?”

“You think I’d take money from you? If I did that, Sara would starve,” Barrow said with a deep laugh. “If it’s important and it’s personal, it’s free. Just make sure you get the next dinner check.”

“Thanks, Lenny.”

“No big deal. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Jared hung up the phone and dialed the number for Two Rooms.

“Two Rooms. Can I help you?”

Jared recognized the voice of the uniformed attendant. “Hi, I wanted to get some information on your club. Is it private, or is it open to the public?”

“We’re open to the public, sir,”

“So that room downstairs – anyone can rent that for lunch?”

“Sorry, we’re not open for lunch. Just for dinner.”

Confused, Jared said, “I was just there an hour ago. I had a meeting with Oscar Rafferty.”

There was a short pause on the other line. Then the attendant said, “There haven’t been any meetings today.”

“Sure there were,” Jared insisted. “I even recognize your voice – you’re the guy who walked me downstairs.”

“Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Believe me, there was no meeting.” A moment later, Jared heard a click. The attendant had hung up.

What the hell is going on? Jared wondered.

As he walked home from the subway, Jared felt exhausted. Throughout the entire commute home, he had looked over his shoulder at least thirty times, trying to see if someone was following him. On the subway, he had cut through three different cars, and just before the doors slammed shut, he had gotten off at the Seventy-second Street stop rather than his usual Seventy-ninth. As he headed up Broadway, he checked his reflection in every storefront window he passed to see if anyone was nearby. He then spontaneously started running. Not jogging. Full-speed running. Moving as fast as he could, he made an abrupt right on Seventy-eighth and ducked into the first doorway he came to – a narrow service entrance for the corner grocery store. But from what he could tell, no one was in pursuit. Maybe Rafferty was bluffing, Jared thought as he approached his home. Maybe it was just a threat to keep him in line.

Jared walked into his building and pulled out his keys to check the mail. At his feet, he heard a quiet crunching. Looking down, he noticed shards of broken glass scattered around the small alcove. He used his foot as a makeshift broom and swept the glass into one corner. On his way upstairs, he stepped over more shards of glass. He saw the source of the broken glass at the top of the stairs: The large framed picture of sunflowers on the landing was smashed to pieces. Then he noticed that the front door to his apartment was ajar. A cold chill ran down his back as he stepped forward cautiously. Ignoring the crushed glass beneath his feet, he looked up and down the short hallway and checked the next flight of stairs to make sure he was alone. There was no one in sight. Slowly, Jared opened the door and peeked inside.

The first thing he noticed was the overturned oak bookshelves that he and Sara had spent so much time putting together. Then the country pine chairs that had been thrown in the corner. Then the matching table that was flipped over. Then the ransacked kitchen.

He headed for the living room, stepping over the hundreds of books that covered most of the floor. His Bogart poster was pulled from the wall, the cushions had been ripped from the armchair, the sofa was turned on its side, the halogen lamps were knocked over, the glass coffee table was shattered, the TV was facedown on the floor, the videotapes were scattered everywhere, and the plants were tipped over, their soil spilling onto the carpet. Although all six of Sara’s portraits of Jared were still hanging on the wall, their glass frames had been shattered. Oh, my God, Jared thought as he looked around the room. Not a single item had gone untouched.

As he searched for the phone to call the police, Jared heard a blunt thud from the bedroom. Someone was still in the house. Jared scrambled to the corner of the living room and ducked behind the overturned sofa. From there, he heard the intruder leave the bedroom and walk toward the kitchen. Heavy footsteps pounded against the hardwood floor. He heard the stranger picking through the kitchen drawers. In the center of the room, Jared spotted a silver letter opener. It wasn’t far. He had to get it. Slowly, Jared crawled forward, carefully avoiding the compact discs that were scattered everywhere. Praying that he wouldn’t hit a creaking floorboard, he picked up the letter opener. As silently as he could, he climbed to his feet. He still had the element of surprise on his side. But as Jared readied his makeshift weapon, he heard the stranger return to the bedroom.