Hell's Kitchen (31 page)

*   *   *

Walking east, toward the Fashion District on the way to the subway.

Crazy name for a neighborhood, Pellam was thinking. The least fashionable of any neighborhood in the city. Trucks double- and triple-parked. Tall, grimy buildings, dirty windows. Feisty workers in kidney belts and sleeveless T-shirts, pushing racks of next spring’s clothing.

A woman stood at a phone kiosk, hanging up the receiver then tearing a slip of paper into a dozen shreds. Now
there’s
a story, Pellam thought. Then he forgot the incident immediately.

He paused at a construction site on Thirty-ninth Street to let a dump truck back out, its urgent beep-beep-beep reverse warning jarring his nerves.

“. . . Thirty-ninth Street—that was Battle Row, the headquarters of the Gophers. The worst place in the city. Grandpa Ledbetter said the police wouldn’t even come west of Eighth a lot of the time. They wouldn’t have any part of it over here. He had a boot with a streak across the toe where he got hit by a bullet from this shoot-out on Battle Row when he was a boy. That’s what he said to us children. I never quite believed him. But maybe it was true—he kept that old boot till he died.”

Two shrill whistles rose from the pit of the construction site. The sound brought more spectators to the viewing holes crudely cut in the plywood fence lining the sidewalk. He paused and looked through one. A huge explosion. The ground leapt under Pellam’s boots and the mesh dynamite blanket shifted as the explosive shattered another fifty tons of rock into gravel.

Ettie’s words wouldn’t leave his mind, they looped endlessly.

“There was always construction going on here. Papa had an interesting job for a while. He called himself a building undertaker. He was in one of the crews that’d take the old demolished tenements out to Doorknob Grounds in Brooklyn. They dumped hundreds of old buildings in the water. Build up a shoal with the junk, and the fish’d love it there. He always came back with bluefish or halibut to last for days. I can’t look at fish now for any money.”

Three loud whistles. Apparently the all clear from the demolition crew. Hard-hatted workers appeared and a bulldozer moved forward. Pellam started back up the sidewalk. Something caught his eye and he glanced at yet another developer’s billboard.

He stopped, feeling the shock thud within him like a replay of the explosion a moment before. He read the sign carefully, just to make sure. Then he started off at a slow walk but, despite the overwhelming August heat, by the time he was at the corner he was sprinting.

“It’s a construction site.”

Bailey asked, “What is?”

“The St. Augustus Foundation. I remembered the number—Five hundred West Thirty-ninth Street. It’s across the street from the church. But it’s just a hole in the ground.”

They were in Bailey’s bedroom—his temporary office—because of the fire in the main room. It didn’t seem much different from his office; the most noticeable difference was that the cooler for his wine rested beside the bed, not the desk. This room also sported a better used air conditioner than the office; if not cold, at least the air was less stifling. The burnt smell was overwhelming but Bailey didn’t seem to mind.

“Maybe the Foundation moved,” Bailey said.

“Gets better,” Pellam said. “I asked at the church office. No one there’s ever even
heard
of a St. Augustus Foundation.” He walked to the dusty window, which was momentarily darkened by the shadow of a crane that was lifting a large piece of sculpture into the open plaza in front of McKennah Tower.

The statue was wrapped in thick kraft paper and it appeared to be in the shape of a fish. The derrick moved very slowly and he guessed the piece of stone or bronze weighed many tons. Around it workmen cleaned the grounds and tacked up banners and bunting for the Tower’s topping-off ceremony.

“But there
is
a St. Augustus Foundation,” Bailey said and shuffled through documents on the bed and found a stack of scorched photocopies bearing the seal of the Attorney General of the state. “It’s been incorporated under the not-for-profit corporation law. It exists. It’s got eight members on the board.”

Pellam looked over the list. The men and women on the board all lived nearby. He touched one name—at an address on Thirty-seventh Street, a block away. James Kemper.

“Let’s see what he has to say.” Bailey picked up the phone. But Pellam touched his arm.

“Let’s pay a surprise visit.”

But there was no surprise, not to Pellam. Construction was scheduled to begin in two months on the vacant lot where the Mr. Kemper supposedly lived.

“It’s all fake,” Bailey muttered as they returned to his office.

“When you called the director—that minister—who did you get?”

“Answering service.”

“How do we find out who’s behind it?” Pellam asked. “Without tipping our hand?”

From the movie business he knew the complexity of incestuous corporate entanglements.

“It’s a not-for-profit foundation, which’ll make tracing
things a lot harder than with Business Corporation Law companies.”

In Bailey’s bedroom again Pellam happened to glance down at a paper, also scorched, sitting next to the corporate filings. It was the expert’s report on the handwriting on the insurance application, comparing Ettie’s to the sample.

He’d asked Ettie about letters she might have written lately, thinking someone might’ve stolen a sample of her handwriting. But he and Ettie both had forgotten about the waiver she’d signed for McKennah’s company—giving permission for the Tower to exceed the Planning & Zoning height limit.

“It’s McKennah,” Pellam announced. Then, seeing Bailey’s expression, he held up his hand. “I know, you don’t think a top-of-the-line developer like him’d torch a tenement. And he wouldn’t for the insurance. But he
would
if the whole success of the Tower depends on the tunnel to Penn Station. Newton Clarke—and McKennah’s wife too—told us how desperate he was.”

“But . . .” Bailey lifted his hands, dismayed. “Why are you bothering? Even if McKennah’s behind the Foundation Ettie still confessed to the arson.”

“That’s not,” Pellam said, “going to be a problem.”

“But—”

“I’ll deal with that. The big question is how do we prove a connection between McKennah and the Foundation.”

The lawyer’s face grew troubled. “Developers’re geniuses at this sort of thing. And McKennah’s top of the line. We’ll have to trace offshore corporations, doing-business-as statements. . . . It’ll take some time.”

“How long?”

“A couple of weeks.”

“When’s Ettie being sentenced?”

A pause. “Day after tomorrow.”

“Then I guess we don’t have a couple of weeks, do we?” Pellam’s eyes were on the construction site across the street. The wrapped sculpture was seated as unceremoniously as a girder. Several passersby gazed at it intently, wondering what it might be. But the workers walked away without tearing off the paper.

*   *   *

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 a 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 a 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?”