Restoration Heights Page 12

  “Perfect. Thanks, Thomas.”

  * * *

  He had the cop looking up his record and Thomas getting the society scoop—he needed to meet him. He had to see Franky’s face, to read its possibilities.

  The next morning he found the address for Franky Dutton Properties, ate breakfast and caught a G up to Williamsburg. Metropolitan Avenue was lively in spite of the desolate weather. The neighborhood’s edgy core was years gone but a vibrant fringe clung to its affluent base. Winter shells that were varied and flamboyant, dyed wool and fleece, colorful boots and playful knit hats with poofballs or teddy bear ears. A man in a shin-length wool cape. Reddick threaded his way through them, west underneath the highway, then south on Havermeyer, then west again on S 2nd, to a six-floor concrete office high-rise, an eyesore between two redbrick apartment buildings. He went inside, told the doorman he was going to FDP and was directed to a pair of steel-and-glass elevators in the back. Fifth floor.

  There were glass doors across from the elevator, a boxy waiting area inside them and a large reception desk, helmed by a young man with elaborate hair. His teeth were precise as Swiss machinery, so white they stole your attention when he smiled.

  “Hello. Can I help you?”

  Reddick told him he was there to see Franky Dutton, that he didn’t have an appointment. That it was about Hannah Granger. Tell him that. The assistant disappeared and returned.

  “If you could just have a seat, he is tied up at the moment but he will try and speak with you soon.”

  Reddick unzipped his coat and sat on the black leather bench that sprouted from a wall in the waiting area. Ten minutes turned to twenty turned to half an hour. He rose and approached the assistant.

  “Is he coming soon?”

  The assistant looked at him with surprise, like he was the return of a problem that had already been solved. “He knows you’re waiting.” Deliberately, as to a child. “He will let me know as soon as he has time.”

  Reddick took off his coat and hat and thumbed through his case notes to salve his impatience. Another fifteen minutes passed.

  The office was an open floor plan, neat clusters of desks split by wide walkways and looming houseplants. One wall was all windows, looking out to the roof of the adjacent apartment building; the rest were red brick, aged to recall downtown chic. Framed prints of past work—sleek, bland building facades. Opposite the windows was a pair of doors, each presumably leading to a private office. The restrooms were in the back. Reddick looked for Franky. He had to be in one of the two offices—he could find him if he got past the assistant. He stood up, hung his coat on a rack by the door and approached the desk for a third time.

  “Sorry to bother you again. Do you mind if I use the restroom?”

  The assistant directed him toward the back, his smile not quite covering his impatience. Reddick scoped the offices on his way, looking for an indication of which one was Franky’s. He didn’t see a name on either door, didn’t see a face. He turned away to avoid drawing suspicion.

  On his other side, through the towering windows, three men shoveled snow from the adjacent roof. They had dug a path across the surface and were working out, radially, their brown noses and cheeks exposed in the clefts of their deep hoods. The heights of the roof and FDP’s floor were misaligned and their faces bobbed at the waists of the seated staff. Neither side acknowledged the other.

  He went into the bathroom—more corporate gloss. A long stretch of mirror over a stone counter; swan-like, elliptical faucets. Stalls that went from floor to ceiling. Four urinals split by chest-high dividers—all of it gleaming. He realized he should use one of the urinals while he was here. He unzipped, felt the heat of his body release from the layers of winter fabric and tried to work out how to make a play at the office. He heard the door open behind him.

  The newcomer left two urinals between them. Reddick glanced at his face. It was Franky. He had one hand on his dick and the other on his phone, reading—Reddick tried to narrow his flow, to drag it out and get the timing right. He still finished ahead of him and made his way slowly to the sink, washed methodically. After a minute Franky joined him, put his phone on the counter and his hands under the faucet. They made eye contact in the mirror, nodded and smiled. His hair was thinner than the images Reddick had found online, his body twenty or thirty pounds heavier, but he was still striking, perhaps more so, his boyish good looks buttressed by the gravitas of manhood. Deeply tanned, blue-eyed and dark-haired, with a wide smile and thin lips. At least two inches taller than Reddick. The hand dryer was between the sink and the door—Reddick got to it while Franky was still rinsing.

  “Franky Dutton, right?”

  His smile was all smarm. “None other. Who are you working with today?”

  “I’m not here as a client.”

  “Oh?” His face signaled a confusion that didn’t seem to touch him, like there were responses—empathy, concern—that had been delegated to his body, to rote action. He took his dripping hands from the sink and nodded at the dryer. Reddick stepped out of his way; the two switched places so that Franky had his back to the door.

  “Hannah Granger.”

  Franky didn’t react.

  “Buckley Seward’s fiancée.”

  “I know who she is.”

  “You know she’s missing.”

  “The question here is, how do you know she is missing? This is a private matter.”

  “This is a person’s life. It’s not some affair that doesn’t involve anyone else.” Reddick’s voice pinched. He watched to see if affair stung. Franky remained composed.

  “Who are you, exactly?” Hands dry, he folded his arms and leaned back against the door, lethargic with confidence. “What are you doing in my office—my bathroom—grilling me about my friend’s girlfriend?”

  Reddick reeled himself in. He couldn’t repeat the mistake he made in Cask, couldn’t push too hard. He had to back up, to change course. He forced a smile.

  “You’re right—this is awkward. I wasn’t trying to come after you. I just came back to use the restroom while I waited.”

  “This isn’t a well-timed ambush?”

  “I’m a friend of Hannah’s. I’m worried about her.”

  “Well, I’d love to help you. But I’m not sure why you came to see me. I didn’t know her that well. You should really speak with the Sewards.”

  “What about her family? Has anyone contacted them?”

  “Yeah, of course. Both families are working together with a private investigator. Look, it isn’t like the police aren’t involved.”

  “There’s no missing person report.”

  “You have to understand, for a man like Buckley—this is tabloid fodder. They want to keep it quiet.”

  “What happens when keeping it quiet gets in the way of finding her?”

  Franky reached his arm out, performed sympathy. “That isn’t going to happen. Buckley cares about her. He will do everything he can.”

  “Except listen to me.”

  “How did you say you knew her?”

  “I’m a friend of hers. We met at a party in Bed-Stuy.”

  “Bed-Stuy? Really?”

  “Near Restoration Heights.” He kept his voice even, worked to disguise every jab as mere fact. “You were over there a few nights ago, right? Some friends of mine saw you and Hannah at a party Sunday night.”

  “I didn’t see Hannah Sunday night.”

  “Really? My friends definitely saw you.”

  “Look, I’ll be straight with you. I go to parties. I bring dates. And, you know, it’s not always the same girl.” He threw Reddick a look intended to draw him into a philanderer’s conspiracy, a we’re-both-men-here smile. “So yeah, I was at a party on Sunday. Also a couple of bars. And maybe the girl I was with looked a little like Hannah. I’m not saying a blonde is a blonde, but, you know, someb
ody else wasn’t paying close enough attention.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course. It was the night before she went missing. I’m certain.”

  “So when was the last time you saw her, then?”

  “I don’t know. I had drinks with them sometime last week.”

  “With Buckley and Hannah.”

  “Yes.”

  “When was the last time you saw her without Buckley?”

  “I’m not sure that I ever have.” He backed toward the door, half-bored, looking to wind the conversation down.

  “Do you want to talk about this in your office?”

  “I think we’re just about through.”

  “I’m not judging you. Hannah was—is—attractive. You’re around her a lot, you got to know her and you couldn’t help yourself. You and Buckley want to keep it quiet but the truth could help find her.”

  “What truth? What are you talking about?”

  “I know you were seeing each other. I know he knows.”

  “I listened to you, I answered your questions, and in return you throw unfounded accusations at me. It’s time for you to go.”

  “I know you and Buckley got in a fight at a holiday party, three weeks ago. It was because he found out.”

  He looked confused—maybe the first emotion that really seemed to reach him.

  “Three weeks... How did...? This is disturbing, do you realize that? You’re invading my privacy.”

  “Tell me the truth and we can find out what happened to her.”

  “The truth is that if I see you in here again, or find out you’re still prying into my private life, I will call the police. Got it?” He turned and left; the dampers guided the door gently shut behind him, undercut the force of his exit.

  Reddick didn’t follow. He wasn’t sure what he had accomplished, if any of his shots landed. There was a layer of calculation beneath Franky’s charm, but he had no sense of its reach, of how large a secret it could hide. He turned to the sink to splash water on his face.

  Franky’s phone lay beside the faucet.

  Without thinking he scooped it up, brought up the password screen. Six digits. He tried Franky’s name, then Hannah’s, in numeric form. Neither worked. The door opened and he slipped the phone into his back pocket.

  It was the assistant. “You have to leave. Now.”

  Reddick kept his face blank. “I was on my way out.”

  The assistant propped the door open, his cheeks flushed, either with anger or the residual heat of a reprimand. He followed Reddick to the front door, stood guard near the coatrack. Reddick waited for him to notice the phone—ordinary, a common model—protruding from his pocket. His own phone was in his coat. He put it on and walked out, expecting to be stopped at the entrance, in the elevator, as he passed the guard in the lobby. He made it outside, turned around at the sidewalk, waited.

  No one came out. He crossed the street.

  Just look at it and give it back. It isn’t stealing if you don’t keep it.

  At the end of the block he found a low stoop that had been shoveled clean. He sat on the cold cement and took off his gloves. The image on the lock screen was of Franky, years ago, his hair thick, reclining on a boat, his arm strung along the back of a shining white bench. There were taut ropes suspended behind him, and behind that a wide, dark river. He tried another password—the address here, at FDP—the street numbers plus the suite. Nothing. He was reaching too widely; he needed to narrow his focus. He took his own phone out, searched Franky, dug through profiles on social media for hints. On one of them he found his birthday, his high school, his hometown. Details bare to the public, almost indecent. He punched the birthday into the phone, month and day and year. He tried it again, the order reversed. Who else. Did Franky care enough about Hannah to bring her into his life this way, to incorporate some fringe of her into habit? It was doubtful. He looked her up anyway, the same sites he had found Franky on—aggregates of young professionals or collections of distant, attenuated friendships, outlets for mouthy snark. He had tried this with her already, but maybe he missed something the first time. She had one profile, set to private, on one site. A single square photograph available to the public. He brought his pinched fingers to the screen, magnified it. She was looking straight at the camera, skin orange in the bar light, a thicket of blurred bodies behind her. He saw a whole history on her face, a line of successes. Grades, friends, sports, clubs, a private university that you’ve heard of but can’t quite place, New York, an internship, bars, a salary, more bars. Progressive opinions. You pass girls like this every day in this city, by the dozen. The question is why you care about this one.

  He put the year Franky graduated college in the phone.

  The screen froze, warned him that he was locked out for one minute. He waited until it was active again and entered a variation on the same date. Another warning, five minutes this time. Again, high school graduation—ten minutes, and an alert that once more would lock it permanently. He laid it gently on the step beside him, picked up his own, found a contact and called.

  “Derek.”

  “Am I your mother?”

  “What? No.”

  “Because you call your mother. Your friends you text.”

  “It’s important.” He told him what he had done.

  “Where are you right now?” Derek’s teasing lilt was gone; his voice sounded urgent.

  “I’m a block away from his office,” Reddick answered. “On a stoop.”

  “You have to get the phone back.”

  “I know. I just—I want to know what’s inside it. There must be messages, coordinating times. Maybe, I don’t know, photos.”

  “Two things. One, if Franky killed her there is no way he left messages or photos or anything like that on his phone. Two, even if he is the world’s dumbest criminal and somehow didn’t at least try to erase all the evidence, you cannot break into his phone. It can’t be done. The goddamned FBI couldn’t do it.”

  “I thought they did, eventually.”

  “Christ, Reddick, it doesn’t matter. You can’t do it. You have to give it back.”

  “I’ve got one chance left. If I could just think of his password.”

  “What happens when you fail? He sees that his phone is locked and he will know someone tried to break into it. You don’t think he’ll put it together with your visit? He’ll call the police, he’ll have you fired or worse.”

  “I’ve got it in my hand.”

  “It might as well be on the moon.”

  Reddick groaned, blew steam into the air above his face. “I’ll take it back.”

  “Good.”

  “You’re right. He’s probably erased anything that would link the two of them.”

  “Be slick about it. You can’t just walk in there and hand it to the front desk.”

  Reddick hung up and walked back to the building. He nodded at the doorman on his way to the elevator, rode to the fifth floor. The assistant stood up.

  “I was perfectly clear with you that you cannot be in here. I will call security.”

  No mention of the phone. Reddick raised his hands. “I know, I know. But I left my phone in the restroom.” He started walking toward it.

  The assistant sprang from behind his desk and blocked his path. “Your phone?”

  “Yeah. I’ll just go back and grab it and you’ll never see me again. Okay?”

  “I cannot let you do that.”

  “Look, I’m sorry but I just need my phone.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “What does your phone look like?”

  “It’s black. It has a screen. You know, it looks like a phone.”

  “Wait here. I’ll get it.” He took two steps then stopped, pivoted. “If you make a dash for Mr
. Dutton’s offices while I’m gone, I will call the police. Do you understand?”

  “I just want my phone.”

  Reddick watched him march toward the restrooms. He risked a quick glance at the offices, both doors still shut. Once the assistant was in the men’s room he placed Franky’s phone on the reception desk, near a stack of paperwork. He checked that no one was watching. He placed his own on the floor, beneath the coatrack. After a few short minutes the assistant returned, shaking his head in frustration.

  “There is no phone in the bathroom. It’s time for you to leave.”

  “Man, I’m telling you I don’t have it.”

  “Well, it’s not in either restroom.”

  He nodded at Franky’s phone, on the desk. “It looks like that.”

  The assistant picked it up, tapped the screen. “This isn’t yours. I’m not sure why he left it out here, but it isn’t yours so you don’t need to worry about it.”

  “Well, fuck, man, are you telling me I lost my phone?”

  “Your phone is not my problem. You are my problem.”

  “Fuuuckk.” Reddick walked a lap, inspected the bench where he sat, looked underneath it.

  “Sir, is that it?”

  Reddick looked up. “Where?”

  “There,” the assistant pointed, his irritation overwhelming. “Under the coatrack.”

  “Damn.” Reddick walked over, picked it up. “That’s it.”

  “Now will you please leave? Or do I need to call the police?”

  “I upset him that much, huh?”

  “Go.”

  “Alright, alright. Like I said. You’ll never see me again.”

  He exhaled in the elevator, alone. He had gained nothing but lost nothing. When the door rolled open he avoided the eyes of the doorman. He yanked his hood up and walked out, hurried past a black sedan that was pulling to a stop in front of the building. He heard doors open behind him. Ducking his head, he cut between two parked cars, crossed the street and risked a look back. Buckley Seward climbed out of the rear of the sedan, the driver holding his door. He appeared regally untouched by the cold, in a black wool coat, a scarf with no hat. He didn’t look to either side as he strode into the building. The driver returned to the wheel and Reddick stepped aside to watch the car roll past, the milky exhaust bleeding into the morning’s wet air.