I left home when I was eighteen, and since then I’ve only lived in two types of accommodations: places owned by the army, and hotels. I’ve never had a house of my own. And I’ve never had any direct experience of dealing with landlords. But somehow, despite that, I’ve managed to inherit my grandfather’s very Irish attitude toward them. One of instinctive hatred. For him it stemmed from a historic prejudice against English landowners. For me, there was an added dimension. I’d spent my entire adult life fighting for those who couldn’t fight for themselves, and that left me conditioned to kick the ass of anyone who preys on the less fortunate.
I supposed it was theoretically possible to come across a conscientious landlord. It didn’t sound as though George Carrick fit that bill, though. And it was also conceivable that the attack on Lydia Mason—Bob Mason’s wife—really was a coincidence. Conceivable, but unlikely. I was still mulling over the odds when Detective Atkinson finally arrived for our breakfast meeting the next morning.
Atkinson had chosen the place, deep in the Village. It was called the Green Zebra. It was named after some kind of tomato, apparently. I hadn’t heard of it before. It hadn’t existed the last time I’d been in the city. Despite being new, the exterior was designed to look almost derelict. The woodwork was only half painted, and what paint was there was artfully distressed. The lettering on the sign was hand-drawn and already faded. The sign itself was hanging above the window at a drunken angle, its boards cracked, and the ends of crude galvanized nails were showing at each corner, as if someone had hammered them in with the heel of their shoe.
Inside, the idea seemed to be that nothing matched. Part of the floor was wood. Part was covered with scuffed linoleum. Part was carpet. The tables—there were twenty-two—were all different sizes and styles. The chairs were even more of a mishmash than the ones in the courthouse janitors’ room. The pictures on the walls—some framed, some not—were all at odds. The only aspect with any kind of uniformity was the clientele. It was like someone had called central casting and asked for three dozen hipsters, stat. They all seemed happy, though, nibbling on their small portions of exotic, healthy food and sipping their fancy single-origin cappuccinos and lattes. All in all the place was about as far from a stereotypical cops’ donut shop or greasy spoon breakfast dive as you could get.
“I hope you heeded my warning not to interfere with a police inquiry, and to stay away from the courthouse.” Atkinson winked at me and tested his chair to make sure it would take his weight before he sat down. Given his skinny build, that seemed like an unnecessary precaution.
“I’d say I’ve treated your advice in the appropriate way.” I smiled and picked up the menu. “Incidentally, have you guys made any progress finding Pardew?”
“Nada.” Atkinson shook his head. “That’s why we need those papers. The Eggplant Benedict’s really good here, by the way.”
“I’ll stick with coffee, thanks.” I put the menu down. “Regular coffee. With nothing foamy in it. And I have information for you. Something I came across. I think it would be worth a second look.”
“Is it about Pardew?” Atkinson signaled to the nearest server.
“No. It’s something else.”
“Your message said you were on to something connected to Pardew.” Atkinson glared at me across the table.
“No.” I shook my head. “I said I might be on to something. I have come across a lead. I’ll follow it up. And I’ll let you know if it pans out. In the meantime, I have something else for you.”
“OK.” Atkinson crossed his arms. “What?”
“So I met this guy. He may or may not have been at the courthouse. There was an apparent attempt to run him out of his apartment, and his wife was assaulted so badly she’s in a wheelchair. Maybe permanently. The guy who attacked her was caught. There was enough evidence to get a conviction. He claimed it was a random burglary gone wrong, but the police think he was working for the landlord, a guy named George Carrick. They were hoping the guy would roll on Carrick. But there was a screw-up with the chain of custody, the asshole got a walk, and Carrick was untouched.”
The server arrived with Atkinson’s food and my coffee.
“That does sound fishy.” Atkinson took a bite. “But what do you want me to do? It wasn’t my case.”
“An innocent woman was attacked, probably on this guy Carrick’s orders. The police department fumbled the pass. That’s not good enough. Mrs. Mason deserves justice. And if it wasn’t an honest mistake—if Carrick can reach out and arrange for evidence to be tampered with—you guys could have a major corruption problem on your hands. Someone needs to do something.”
“OK, OK.” Atkinson took another mouthful. “I’ll ask around. See what I can do. Meantime, you need to concentrate on finding the Pardew file. You need to make that your number one priority. And forget about the amateur social work.”