CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

CARRERA’S OFFICE WAS a far cry from the tired, chaotic sprawl of the precinct building. Where the cops had grown into their space—cramming desks into every available corner, treading spilt coffee and food into the hardwearing carpets—Carrera’s space had been designed.

The first thing O’Shea noticed was the view; one whole wall consisted of plate glass, with a view looking out over the hazy Manhattan skyline below. From up here, the surrounding skyscrapers looked like glassy protrusions, shards of sparkling light twisting out from the grey landscape below. Neon lights flickered in the distance—a recent trend to place the names of the immense new tenement buildings being erected in upper Manhattan on the sides of the buildings themselves. She supposed it helped, given that so many of them were being built to the same design. Soon, the street level would be nothing but a labyrinthine warren of narrow lanes and walkways between identical housing blocks. She noted the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. The storm was coming in, just as predicted.

She turned to regard the rest of the room. Diffuse light strips ran along the back wall, upon which the legend CARRERA ENTERPRISES had been emblazoned in foot-high steel letters. Beneath them, a woman stood behind a curved desk, looking nervously across at them and refusing to meet O’Shea’s gaze.

The room was otherwise sparsely furnished, with a low wooden coffee table, surrounded by a pristine leather sofa and two matching armchairs. Three datapads rested on the table’s surface, presumably to allow waiting visitors to browse. A wooden door—currently closed—led through into what she assumed was Carrera’s personal office.

Everything about the place was designed to impress. It was impeccable, and expensive. Not a thing was out of place—aside from Carrera himself, of course.

Detective Pennhouser approached the woman at the desk, flashing his badge. He introduced himself. “This is my colleague, Detective Hartigan, and these”—he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder—“are the Judges assigned to Mr. Carrera’s case.”

O’Shea tried not to take it personally.

“We’re here to ask you some questions about your employer,” said Ramos, stepping around O’Shea so he was standing at the desk beside Pennhouser, who glowered at him but remained silent. “Tell me, what’s your name?”

“E—El—Elizabeth,” stammered the woman. “Elizabeth Soames. I’m Mr. Carrera’s personal assistant.”

“You’re the person who reported him missing,” said Ramos. It was a statement of fact, rather than a question.

The woman nodded.

“All right. I’m sure you’ve already explained this to the police, but I’d like to run through it again. When was the last time you saw Mr. Carrera?”

The woman cleared her throat and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. She was undeniably beautiful, but clearly nervous, pale and quiet; not at all the sort of person that O’Shea would imagine surviving for long in Carrera’s world. Perhaps there was something O’Shea was missing. Or perhaps the woman was simply intimidated by the presence of two Judges. That was something she was still getting used to—the power inherent in her uniform. Ramos, in particular, had a manner that seemed to put people on the back foot, and he used it to great effect.

“Um, well… three days ago,” said Soames. “Just before I locked up the office for the night. He left as usual. There was no sign that anything was wrong.”

“Until the next day?” pressed Ramos.

“Yes, the following morning. At first, I didn’t think too much of it. I mean—he’s a busy man, always running about. I thought it was odd that he didn’t show up for an appointment—”

“This was Tuesday, right?” interrupted Pennhouser. Inwardly, O’Shea groaned. She hoped the whole day wasn’t going to be like this, with Pennhouser and Ramos constantly trying to one-up each other.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Soames. She had a kind of breathless quality to her voice, as if constantly struggling for air. “Tuesday. He had an appointment with Charles Rattinger, head of one of the building contractors he’s engaged to help with redevelopment.”

“But he didn’t show?” said Ramos. “Was that typical of Mr. Carrera, to miss an appointment like that?”

“No, not at all,” said Soames. She shook her head emphatically. “I tried to reach him on his personal cell phone, but he didn’t answer. I presumed he’d been held up elsewhere, so I made his excuses to Mr. Rattinger and rearranged the appointment.”

“And you didn’t hear from Mr. Carrera at all?” said Pennhouser.

“No. He wasn’t picking up my calls, and he didn’t return to the office that day.”

“So you called the station the following morning,” said Pennhouser.

“Yes. By then I was starting to worry. It’s so unlike him. He’d mentioned something about the police—about being on some sort of list—and so, after I’d tried him a few more times, I called the station to report it. Then I called ahead to cancel all of his appointments for the day.”

Hartigan glanced at O’Shea. “We sent a patrol car to his apartment, but he wasn’t there either. The bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“All right, Ms. Soames. Thank you. We’re going to take a look in Mr. Carrera’s office now,” said Ramos.

The woman chewed her bottom lip for a moment, as if considering whether she should protest, but then nodded. “Of course. Just… You will find him, won’t you?”

“We’ll do our very best, ma’am,” said O’Shea. She watched as Hartigan led the others through the door into Carrera’s office, and then approached the desk. “Just one more question,” she said. “What’s your relationship with Mr. Carrera?”

The woman eyed her nervously. “I told you, I’m his personal assistant,” she said. There was a tremor in her voice.

“Nothing more?” said O’Shea.

“That would be improper,” said Soames.

O’Shea turned towards the door.

“He’s a good man, you know,” blurted Soames suddenly. O’Shea turned back to face her. “Kind. Considerate. I know he has a… reputation, but it’s not true, not really. He’s just been unlucky, that’s all.”

“What reputation would this be, Ms. Soames?” said O’Shea.

“You know, with women.”

“There’s no one significant in Mr. Carrera’s life? No girlfriend, boyfriend?”

Soames shook her head. “No, no. No one like that. As I said, he hasn’t been very lucky. Tends to meet the wrong girls.”

“What do you mean by that, Ms. Soames? The wrong girls?”

“You know,” said Soames. “They’re always pretty enough, but they’re only really attracted to his money and his influence. They see him as a step up, rather than a man.”

O’Shea nodded. “All right. Thank you. We may have more questions once we’re finished in there.”

She crossed to the adjoining room. The tension was palpable. The office was even more sparsely furnished than the waiting area—just a single desk containing a large monitor and a keyboard, along with two chairs. There were no personal effects, no photographs, no scrawled notes. The only object of any real note was a large abstract canvas on the wall, filled with colourful shapes and splashes of paint. The original designers had probably placed it there when they’d first furnished the office.

Ramos was standing over the monitor, scrolling through a list of appointments. Pennhouser was peering over his shoulder, while Hartigan stood by the window, staring out over the city.

O’Shea noticed something flickering on the glass surface, and went to stand beside him. As she got closer, lines and shapes began to resolve into wireframes, describing towering structures; an overlay, she realised belatedly, of Carrera’s planned remodelling of the Chelsea district. She stepped back, taking it all in. It was impressive, ambitious—everything she’d expected it to be. Where smaller, more characterful buildings now stood, immense tower blocks would rise, dominating the skyline for miles around. Walkways or roads criss-crossed the space between them, creating a new network of city streets, up amongst the canopy of the city. Here, the rich elites would migrate, lording it over all those below; a true upper class, intent only on growing fatter and richer, looking down upon those who failed to reach the heights.

It was obscene, and yet it was the story of the city, of America, of the world. It was an unstoppable tide now, the way of things. The rich would rise, and the poor would sink. She had no illusions. She’d grown up in a downtrodden district in Queens, amongst the alleyways and the gangs, the real people struggling to carve out a space for themselves, to live a meaningful existence in a world that barely noticed them. That was why she’d enrolled in the Judges programme in the first place: to protect people like that, and to prove to the world—and to herself—that everyone mattered. The rich were not above the law. No one was.

“I suppose it’s impressive,” muttered Hartigan, beside her. She glanced over, but his eyes were fixed on the city, and the coruscating overlay of Carrera’s ambition. “If you like that sort of thing.”

“Progress,” said O’Shea.

“Progress?” echoed Hartigan. “I suppose you’d know all about that.” There was no malice in his voice. Just weariness.

“We want the same things, you know. We’re not what you think we are. We just want to uphold justice. To help people. To see that the law isn’t impeded by red tape. We’re here to cut through the bullshit.”

Hartigan sighed again. “I know you mean well. I do. But you’re rookies. Kids with guns. Look at what happened down there, at the market. Look at the mess it’s made. Reece deserved to die, I don’t dispute that. He was a foul human being, and he was guilty as hell. Every cop in this city has wanted to put a bullet in a perp, more than once in their life. When you see the sorts of things we’ve seen…” He trailed off, running a hand over his mouth and chin. “But lady, it just isn’t that simple. I wish it was, I really do. But now this guy, Carrera, he’s out there somewhere, maybe alive, maybe dead, and we’ve got no way of knowing. Where’s the justice in that?”

O’Shea wanted to argue, wanted to tell him he was wrong, but the words wouldn’t come. She stood in silence, staring out at the city, until the moment passed. She turned to Ramos, still standing over the computer. Behind him, Pennhouser was pacing.

“Find anything?” she called.

Ramos looked up, shook his head. “Not really. His schedule was full. There’s no suggestion he was planning anything unusual.”

“Pennhouser—have the PA run out a copy of that schedule. Let’s see if we can trace his movements for the night he disappeared, fill in a few gaps. And see if she can give you the details for his car too. Let’s run a trace.” Hartigan didn’t turn away from the window as he’d spoken. His eyes seemed to be transfixed by the gathering storm clouds. “We’d better work quickly. That storm’s coming in hard.”

Pennhouser turned and walked from the room without acknowledging the other man. Ramos looked up, visibly exhausted. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s take a look at Carrera’s apartment.” He nodded, coming around from the other side of the desk. “Detective?”

Hartigan half turned, glancing over his shoulder. “See you back at the precinct,” he said.