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Authors: Catriona King

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BOOK: The Carbon Trail
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Chapter Sixteen

 

Devon wandered back to the office slowly, composing himself in case Jeff was still there and saw the deceit written on his face. He corrected himself. It wasn’t deceit, it was concern. They were all concerned about Jeff; he was just the one who could observe him at close quarters. A quick thought came that Scrabo might ask Karen to watch him too, but Devon shook it away instantly. There was no way Karen would tell them anything about her husband. He’d seen the way she’d looked at Jeff that morning when she’d dropped him off. She was in love with her husband, the sort of love that meant she would hide anything that might hurt him.

Not that he was trying to hurt Jeff, God no. He liked him. He’d always been a good boss, willing to share his knowledge, not sparing in his praise. And lately…well lately he’d been nicer, easier somehow. No, he wasn’t trying to hurt Jeff Mitchell; he was just keeping an eye out for him. For the work.

Devon nodded in self-justification and lifted his jacket, then he pulled his door behind him, casting a quick look at Mitchell’s darkened office across the hall. He stood for a moment, considering, then he opened Mitchell’s door, scanning the room quickly. It looked the same as always. Devon walked to the desk and tugged at the top drawer. It was unlocked; the sign of a man with nothing to hide. He tried the others one by one; they were filled with nothing but the detritus of office life. Devon turned towards the computer then he shook his head; that was a step too far. He left the room as swiftly as he’d entered; the snooping would have to wait for another day.

***

 

Washington Avenue. Prospect Heights.

 

The yellow cab halted abruptly, throwing Mitchell forward in his seat. He shrugged to himself. New York cabbies weren’t renowned for their charm. That cost extra. He paid quickly and stepped out onto the broad suburban street. It was lined on one side with tall brownstones, on the other sat diners and shops. Inner city it might be but the neighbourhood was still OK. It was when the girly bars moved in that you knew you were in trouble.

Mitchell glanced quickly at the address he’d scribbled down then he marched towards a house with a flight of high steps leading up to a green front door. It was a deep moss colour, like the Massachusetts countryside. He wondered when he’d been to New England then remembered Scrabo mentioning Harvard and chalked it up as another memory lapse.

As Mitchell climbed the steep flight he felt his sense of familiarity grow. He’d been there before, he was sure of it. He reached the top and scrutinised a row of buzzers with names beside each one. Chapman was written just where the address had said it would be, beside number thirty-two. He buzzed once, half-expecting an answer, but there was none. He rang again just as the green door opened and a young woman emerged. She looked at Mitchell warily and then smiled, seeing his finger poised on thirty-two.

“You looking for Greg?”

Mitchell smiled involuntarily. He recognised her and he knew her name!

“Yes, Annie. Is he in?”

The woman stared at him curiously, but without any fear, Mitchell’s middle-class preppiness giving her comfort.

“I’m sorry, but how do you know me?”

Mitchell didn’t know, but he knew the wrong answer would earn him a slammed front door and a call to the cops.

“Greg told me all about you.”

Annie blushed, giving him more information. She found Greg Chapman attractive, maybe they’d even dated. No. He was certain that they hadn’t. Now, how the hell did he know that?

“I don’t think Greg’s in. I haven’t seen him since last week, but you can try knocking his door.”

In the time it took the thoughts to flash through Mitchell’s head, Annie had let him in and waved a cheerful goodbye. The door swung closed behind him and Mitchell found himself standing in a high-ceilinged lobby typical of the building’s type. Yards of brown-beige wall were broken only by a cycle rack and a row of mail-boxes. The tiled floor’s once bright glaze was worn dull by years of hard shoes.

Mitchell squinted at the boxes, running his gaze along them until he reached number thirty-two. If Chapman wasn’t upstairs he’d break the box open before he left and see what he could find. Mitchell’s curiosity was growing by the minute. He knew the street and this building; he’d definitely been there before. His heart raced as he climbed the three flights to number thirty-two, more certain with each step that the apartment’s interior would be familiar as well.

Mitchell’s hands grew clammy with sweat and he felt something that he knew he hadn’t felt for years. Fear. He was afraid. Afraid of what? There was no threat here, he was certain of that. Then it came to him. He was afraid precisely
because
he knew that; because he knew so much and couldn’t remember how. He’d been here before but he couldn’t remember when. The knowledge that he’d forgotten so much scared Mitchell stupid.
Was
he losing his mind? Was Karen right? Did he need medical help?

As Mitchell reached the landing he turned instinctively to his left, walking until he was outside number thirty-two. He knocked the door once, not expecting an answer, then he reached above his head without thinking. There, on a narrow ledge above the door lay a key, just where he knew it would be. Mitchell reeled back in shock then gathered himself quickly. If anyone saw him entering a stranger’s place he’d be in trouble, far better to feel shocked inside.

Ten seconds later Mitchell was standing in Greg Chapman’s apartment. He stood in the hall for a moment, scanning the abstract prints and the pale-pine floor. He liked it, it was tasteful. He walked from room to room opening each door, already knowing what lay behind them. Each room disconcerted Mitchell more. He knew Greg Chapman, he was certain of it, and he’d been here before. Maybe that was why he had his phone. But if he knew Chapman so well then why couldn’t he remember a single thing about him?

At the final door Mitchell paused. It had to be the living room; it was all that was left. If there were clues to Chapman’s life they would be in there. He paused for a moment then grasped the handle and pushed the door open wide.

The room was wide and bright, with sunlight streaming in through windows along two walls. The pale wood of the hall gave way to a deep wool carpet that said louder than any words this was the place Greg Chapman relaxed. Mitchell gazed around him feeling strangely at home. The furnishings were clean and pale, no children’s sticky fingers or pets’ hairs to make a mess. A kitchen area in one corner held a dining table, its glass top covered by a thin patina of dust. Magazines lay on a worktop; car and boat monthlies, too impersonal to give anything away.

Mitchell stood in the silence searching for clues to who Greg Chapman was. He knew instantly where he would find them. Turning towards the corner where a high-end sound system stood gleaming in the still air, he lifted the open CDs. They were jazz and blues, but not the mainstream stuff that everyone knew. This was real fan stuff. Cannonball Adderley and Ike Quebec, Jimmy Smith and Dexter Gordon. Mitchell chose one by Gordon and slipped it on, turning the volume down low, then he reached across and poured himself a bourbon, certain that it would have a taste he enjoyed.

As Mitchell listened to the music he lifted the only photograph in the room. An elderly couple smiling at the camera, with their arms around a brown-haired younger man. Parents smiling the way they always did, proud of their son. It was the only personal thing in the room. There were no cards from friends, no picture of a woman, no signs of entertaining or love. Greg Chapman lived for his work. He was a loner. No. He was lonely. Mitchell was certain of it.

Mitchell sat down on the settee and stared at the photo. Greg Chapman. So that was what he looked like. His face felt too familiar for them not to know each other. If only he could remember how.

As Mitchell made himself at home in Chapman’s apartment Rosie Pereira stood in the street below, staring up at the third floor. A chill ran down her spine. Mitchell knew where Greg Chapman lived. That could only mean one thing; he knew where Chapman was. If Mitchell had harmed him then she’d kill him herself.

***

Worth Street. 9 p.m.

 

Richie pressed the street level buzzer and the agency’s side door swung open noisily, accompanied by a hoarse. “You’re late.”

He took the stairs two at a time until he reached the appointed office, then slowed and tugged his suit jacket into neatness, pushing cheerfully at the door.

“I’m sorry. The traffic was crap.”

Five faces turned towards him in unison, Eric Dane’s and Pereira’s stifling a laugh. An older man at the table waved Richie irritably to a seat. Richie didn’t know him, but then this was the first time that any of them had been called to Magee’s office. Memos were the usual mode of contact, but he supposed that having two agents down called for extreme measures. Richie guessed that the man was one of Magee’s minions, wondering when they’d meet the great man himself.

“Can I get a coffee first?”

Richie’s tone bordered on insubordinate and the blush that had covered Pereira’s face since he’d entered took on a deeper hue. The others watched him with a mixture of awe and amusement; everyone except the older man. He tapped at his watch pointedly and then turned back to a pile of papers, nodding Pereira to pass them around. There was a moment’s silence while they read and then Richie spoke again.

“Has anyone heard from Greg?”

The man sighed in exasperation and put down his file. The sigh became a wheeze and Richie’s mouth fell open in realisation. It was Magee! Richie kicked himself for not knowing and then again for the casual way he’d behaved since he’d entered the room.

Magee stared at him balefully and Richie stared back, unable to conceal his surprise. Magee was an odd looking man, with a round, fleshy face and dark circles under his wet blue eyes. He reminded Richie of an actor from Hollywood’s film noirs; Peter Laurie. He’d been Humphrey Bogart’s nemesis many times. Magee’s odd appearance was enhanced by his habit of sniffing and then gasping for air. The man couldn’t help his asthma but Richie did wonder if he used it for effect.

In the few seconds it took Richie to have his thoughts, Magee was having his own. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the younger man, actually he did, what he knew of him from their remote conversations in the car. Richie record proved he was a good agent and he had a certain boyish charm. Someone else in the room obviously appreciated it even more than he did and they’d be having words about that soon. But Richie’s need to make a joke of everything alternately amused and irritated him. It reminded Magee of someone else he’d once known. There was silence while the others watched the silent interaction, then Magee finally answered Richie’s question in a tone of frayed tolerance.

“We’ll get to Greg later. First, I’d like to introduce our two new agents.”

He turned towards a slight blonde woman, whose regulation suit fitted her like a glove. Pereira sniffed. They never fitted like that without tailoring.

“This is Agent Howard. Amelia. She’s joining us from the Maine office.”

The woman nodded graciously, her fresh preppiness giving her a regal air. Richie smiled to himself. Rosie wasn’t going to like her. A quick glance told him that she already didn’t. Magee talked on, gesturing towards a well-toned man younger than the rest. He had a blond buzz-cut and the edge of a small tattoo peeped out from underneath his cuff. Ex-military, there was no doubt. Richie bet he’d be called Brad or Todd. He was right.

“This is Brad Whitman. He’s been an agent in Virginia.”

Headquarters. Richie sighed inwardly. A desk jockey with an ego the size of the Pentagon.

“They’ll be taking over Brunet and Chapman’s duties until further notice. Now, I want to discuss what occurred this week.”

Richie and Pereira took it in turns to update the newbies on the operation then Magee chipped in with background. He ended by playing the call from Chapman’s cell-phone the day before, shocking them all.

“We don’t know who the caller was, but it came from Scrabo Tower.”

When Magee had finished he nodded at Pereira and she turned to the back page of the papers he’d handed out.

“The map in front of you shows the route from Scrabo Tower to Prospect Heights. Greg Chapman’s home address.”

Richie raised a questioning eyebrow and she nodded.

“Jeff Mitchell caught a cab to Chapman’s apartment block at seventeen-ten today. He entered the building at seventeen-fifty, after talking to a girl who was exiting the block. He spent seventy minutes inside the building, leaving at nineteen hundred, so it’s safe to assume that he entered an apartment inside the building, in all likelihood Greg Chapman’s apartment. When he left I radioed for cover.” Buzz-cut nodded graciously. “Then I entered the building and checked Chapman’s apartment for forced entry. There was none. That means Mitchell had a key.”

Richie leaned forward, interrupting. “If it was Greg’s apartment he entered and he had Greg’s key then he must have taken it from him. That settles it, Mitchell did something to Greg. He knows where he is. We have to lift him.”

Magee raised a hand to still him and nodded Pereira on.

“Nothing was disturbed in the apartment but there was a newly washed tumbler on the sink. As if Mitchell had a drink while he was here.”

A shocked look crossed all their faces. Drinking from the glass of a man you’d killed. That was cold.

“I went downstairs and checked the post-boxes. Number thirty-two, Greg’s post-box, had been broken open. I don’t know if it was today or not, but there was no mail inside, not even junk. I sealed the box and reported in. Brad can tell you the rest.”

Whitman unfolded his broad arms and spoke. His voice was surprisingly soft, with an accent from somewhere on the west coast. Richie could picture him hazing new kids in a frat-house named something Greek.

“Mitchell called a hire cab at nineteen-hundred and I tailed it from Chapman’s apartment to his home in Lloyd Harbor. He arrived home at twenty-ten and the local cops are keeping a watchful eye on him until I get back. My understanding is that he doesn’t tend to go out in the evening on weekdays. His wife’s Lexus was in the drive.”

BOOK: The Carbon Trail
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