Atkinson had nominated the Green Zebra for breakfast. Again.
It was a poor choice, I thought. Not because of the food, which I couldn’t comment on, as I’d only tried their coffee. Or the décor. Or the preponderance of hipsters. But because it went against every one of my instincts to go to the same place twice. Particularly at the same time of day. In my previous life that kind of behavior would have been unthinkable. I knew that now I was a civilian I’d have to let that mind-set go. I’d understood when I turned in my papers that I’d have some adjusting to do. I just hadn’t expected a guy like Atkinson to keep lobbing grenades in my path.
Atkinson was late. I wasn’t happy about having to wait, but at least that meant I could pick a different table. I went for one at the rear of the section with the wooden floor so that I could sit with my back to the wall. The tabletop was covered with metal ceiling tiles that had been sprayed with metallic purple paint. My chair was a curvy 1960s creation in beige vinyl. It didn’t match—obviously, or they’d probably have thrown it in the trash—but it was surprisingly comfortable. High on the wall behind me someone had hung a framed, six-foot-wide collage of Emily Dickinson poems juxtaposed with cuttings from a 1950s Sears catalog. It was for sale. The artist was asking for $7,000. I had no idea what he was trying to communicate, but he clearly wasn’t short of nerve.
It took Atkinson a moment to spot me when he finally showed up. Then he weaved around a group of eight bearded guys who were taking an inordinate amount of time to strap their various infants into a selection of complicated slings and backpacks, and sat down opposite me. A server happened to be passing, so he ordered the Eggplant Benedict again without waiting to look at a menu. I ordered tea, more for the sake of change than because I wanted any.
“What have you got for me, McGrath?” Atkinson seemed to be finding it harder than normal to sit still. “That lead you mentioned. Did it pan out?”
“No.” I shook my head. “That was a dead end. There was nothing to it at all. But I did stumble on something else. And this, it could be huge.”
“The location of the Pardew file? Who took it?”
“No.” I felt a physical jolt at the mention of Pardew’s name. In the army each mission’s priorities were clearly defined at the start. Now my life felt like a game of Whac-A-Mole, with a flurry of shifting targets popping in and out of view. I wanted to catch the guy who’d ripped off my father, and maybe caused his death. Obviously. That had to be my main focus. But I couldn’t turn my back on the Masons. And neither could I ignore a possible threat to public safety. “No. This is something else. Something I uncovered at the courthouse. I’m worried about the security procedure. There could be a major breach.”
“Which is how the Pardew documents went missing?”
“I don’t know. There may be a connection. There may not be.”
“If you don’t know, why are you telling me about it?”
“Because if I’m right, something’s seriously out of line, and someone has to do something about it.”
We paused while our server delivered our food.
“How familiar are you with the security arrangements at the courthouse?” I inspected my tea. The color was passable so I fished out the bag and set it on the non-matching saucer.
“Been there a thousand times.” Atkinson’s mouth was full of eggplant. “Pretty familiar.”
“So you know that photography’s not allowed?”
“This better not be about some random tourist taking unauthorized pictures.” Atkinson stabbed the air with his fork to emphasize his point.
“It isn’t.” I took a sip of my tea, and immediately wished I’d stuck with coffee. “It’s not just that photography isn’t allowed. You can’t even take cameras into the building. You have to surrender them at a dedicated desk near the entrance. You get a receipt, and claim them back on your way out.”
Atkinson grunted, and waved his fork impatiently.
“Yesterday, I saw a guy coming into the building.” I set my cup down. “He went all the way through the security line, the metal detectors, the whole nine yards. Then he collected a camera. Then he went straight back out.”
“So?” Atkinson took another mouthful.
“So the guy was going the wrong way. It made no sense. If he left his camera on his way in, he should have been going the other way—out—when he collected it.”
Atkinson laid down his fork. “Maybe he forgot to collect it on the way out. Didn’t remember till he was already outside. Then he’d have to go all the way back through security to get it.”
“Maybe.” I risked another sip of tea. “But imagine this. Say someone you know hypothetically checked the camera receipt stubs. Say he could only go back two weeks, so as not to attract attention. And say he found that the same guy we’re talking about left a camera eight other times. And that it was always signed for by the same guard, even though the guy came at different times of day. Would that be a coincidence?”
“It could be.” Atkinson picked up a sliver of English muffin and used it to chase the last of his egg yolk around his plate. “It’s a little weird, but it doesn’t prove anything. And how did you get your hands on the receipt stubs, anyway?”
“I didn’t say I did. But here’s what I think. The guy’s set up a kind of dead drop routine. He writes a message. Takes a picture of it. Leaves his camera with the one specific guard. The guard hands the camera to his contact, who reads the message off the memory card. He writes a reply, or gives instructions, or whatever, again by taking a picture. Then he returns the camera to the guard, ready for the outside guy to pick it up.”
“What kind of message? Or instructions?”
“Who knows? The balance of opinions in the jury room during deliberations? Offers of bribes? Whatever it is, it can’t be legitimate. It looks like the system is compromised. If I’m right, some kind of action’s required. Urgently.”
Atkinson was silent for a moment. “What did you do in the army, McGrath?”
“I was in logistics. Why?”
“Your mind works in a weird way. Do logistics guys have much experience of dead drops?”
“Not as a rule.”
“And here, has any harm been done?”
“How could I know? But it could be a major problem, and it should be investigated.”
“How do you know about this, anyway? If you’re poking around the security station at the courthouse all day someone will end up getting suspicious of you, and you’ll blow any chance of finding the Pardew file.”
“Don’t worry. If the documents are there, I will find them. If they’ve been taken, I’ll find who took them. In the meantime, I thought you’d want to know about this.”
“Right.” Atkinson drummed his fingers on the purple tabletop. “My workload’s just so light that I’m dreaming of more cases landing on me. Listen, McGrath. This is not my area. It has nothing to do with me.”
“But it’s someone’s area, right? Can’t you pass it on to them?”
“All right.” Atkinson flopped back in his chair and was finally still for a moment. “I’ll make some calls. But I’m not making any promises.”
“Good.” I nodded. “And I’ll let you know if I find anything else.”
Atkinson wiped his mouth with a napkin, threw down a twenty, and got up to leave.
“Wait.” I grabbed his jacket. “What about Mr. Mason and his wife? Any progress on their case?”
Atkinson looked blank.
“The guy from the courthouse. Whose wife was attacked? Bob Mason? We spoke about him yesterday.”
“Right.” Atkinson threw up his hands. “That guy. With the landlord you like for being behind the attack. Look. I’ve done some digging. And I’ve got to be honest with you. With this one, I can’t help.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not my case. It belongs to a detective at a different precinct. My lieutenant won’t cut me any slack to waste time on it.”
“It’s not a waste of time. Look, give me this detective’s information. I’ll talk to him. See if—”
“You’d be wasting your time, McGrath. Without any admissible evidence, the case is dead in the water. It stinks, but that’s that. Accept it, and move on.”
“Could you at least call Bob Mason, then? He feels betrayed by the system. He needs a boost to get his life back on track. It would mean a lot, a detective taking the time to talk to him. And maybe you could tell him you’ll help—or the other detective will—if more evidence ever turns up.”
“Fine.” Atkinson balled up his napkin and flung it on the table, next to the money. “I’ll call the guy. I’ll have one conversation with him. One, singular. And that’s all.”