Norman Davies. He was an asshole. That was taken as read. But was he an idiot? Or was he unlucky? And how badly had he screwed up my plan?
I left the Green Zebra, took a cab to Bowery and Canal, and walked the final two blocks to the Brincliffe. No one obvious was watching the exterior so I went inside and asked the clerk whether a package had been left for me. While she checked with the concierge I casually scanned the lobby. It took fifteen seconds to spot them. Two guys, sitting in armchairs midway between the exit and the bar, pretending to read the newspaper.
There wasn’t a package for me so I left the hotel and strolled west on Broome, timing it so that I just reached the next intersection as the light changed. I watched the reflection in the window of an Italian restaurant across the street and saw the two guys from the hotel lumbering after me. It would have been easy to lose them, but that would have defeated my purpose. I let them follow for another two blocks, then took a sharp left into an alley. I checked for security cameras, chefs on cigarette breaks, or anything else that could give me a headache. There was nothing to worry about so I turned and waited.
The two guys stepped into the alley side by side. One of them adjusted his coat the way an amateur does to make sure you know he has a gun, because he doesn’t realize you’ll already have spotted the bulge.
“Where are we going, fellas?” I kept my voice calm and my hands down by my sides. My argument wasn’t with them. They were just doing their jobs—albeit not very well—so it was only fair to give them the chance to walk away.
The guy with the gun stepped forward and reached out to grab me.
I stepped back and held up my hand. “Use your words. Do not touch me.”
He kept coming and tried to take hold of my arm. I waited until his fingertips brushed my sleeve, then planted my thumb on the back of his hand. I dug my fingers into his palm and twisted up and around, locking his wrist. Then I pushed back and down. The guy dropped to the ground, squealing, and ended up with one knee planted squarely in the middle of a rancid, discarded pizza.
I waited for his whimpering to die down. “OK. I’ll let you go. But if you touch me again, I’ll break your arm.”
I released the guy and he struggled to his feet, staggered back a yard, then went for his gun. I let him get it free from his waistband, then grabbed his wrist with my left hand. I jabbed him in the solar plexus to knock the wind out of him. Then I tapped him under the chin to disorient him and expose his throat. If he’d been a threat I’d have smashed his larynx. As it was, I just lifted his arm and pulled it back down sharply against mine, breaking his elbow joint. The gun clattered to the ground. I lifted his arm again and slid my shoulder under his armpit. Then I straightened up, throwing my shoulder forward and hips back. The guy windmilled around, landing on his back and knocking the rest of the wind out of himself. I was still holding his right wrist, and I didn’t let it go until I’d punched him in the face with the heel of my free hand. Then I picked up the gun, slipped it into my pocket, and turned to face the guy’s buddy.
He hadn’t moved.
“Your turn.” I took a step toward him. “Where are we going?”
Carrick was wearing a dark gray suit with a chalk stripe, a vest, and a bow tie. He glared at me as I walked into his office, and then raised his eyebrows at his goon as if to say, Where’s your buddy? The goon shrugged and looked away. Carrick told him to wait outside, then sent his receptionist out to buy flowers.
“They’re for a funeral. But don’t get anything too fancy.” He sneered. “The deceased and I weren’t that close.”
As soon as we were alone, Carrick gestured for me to sit on my usual couch. He picked up the laptop from his desk, plugged in a memory stick, set it on the coffee table, and hit Play.
Norman Davies’s face once again filled the screen. He spoke more slowly than last time. He sounded scared, and he kept glancing down to his right as if he was reading from something. He confirmed his name and the previous day’s date, then claimed that he was making the recording of his own free will. He said he wanted to clarify for the record that his previous statement accusing George Carrick of being complicit in the assault on Mrs. Mason was false. He said he’d committed that crime entirely of his own volition, and had been coerced into making the false accusation by Paul McNaught, who was acting purely out of malice. Further, Paul McNaught had assaulted him, kidnapped him, held him against his will, and had attached an illegal tracking device to his person without his permission.
The only person I’d used the name McNaught with was Carrick…
I closed the lid of the computer so that I wouldn’t have to look at the frozen image of his face. “Mr. Davies did have a troubled relationship with the truth, I guess.”
“Enough to prove reasonable doubt.” Carrick was smirking at me.
“How did you find him?”
“A little bird told me where to look.”
I thought for a moment. “Jonny Evans?”
Carrick shrugged, but he couldn’t hide his gloating smile.
“Where’s Evans now?” I couldn’t believe how stupid the guy was. Even earthworms have some sense of self-preservation.
“Somewhere you’ll never find him.” Carrick’s smile grew wider.
“We’ll see about that.” I shook my head. “And Davies?”
“Who do you think the flowers are for?”
“OK, Carrick, cut the crap.” I crossed my arms. “The deal for you to take care of your tenants. What’s the status?”
“Off, obviously.” He shook his head.
“That’s a bad idea. You should rethink your position.”
“You should rethink your position about screwing yourself. Those people are nothing but a pain in the ass. If you’re so worried, you help them. Buy them their own building with all the cash you inherited. If that was even true.”
A similar thought had crossed my mind. My father had a house in their area. I didn’t need it. And it was the thing that had brought Pardew’s fraud to light. Maybe even caused my father’s death. I’d wondered if this could be a way to put it to good use. But I’d rejected the idea. Carrick was to blame. Which meant he was the one who had to pay.
“I’ll make sure they’re OK.” I looked at Carrick across the table “One way or another.”
“Do what you want.” Carrick bounced on the balls of his feet. “Now go. Get lost. And don’t cross me again. I’m only cutting you a break because I have bigger fish to fry right now.”