eleven

“We should drive through town,” Katrina said. “I’m getting that nesting feeling. This might be my last outing.”

Frank honored Katrina’s request and hooked a left on Main Street. Traffic, a thin line of tourists enjoying Cold Spring Harbor’s Colonial setting, was minimal. The town’s shopping strip was short but packed with candle shops, gift shops, antique stores, and expensive women’s boutiques. Even off-season, store owners crammed their windows with useless dust collectors like angel statues and fairy chimes. I loved the overall feel but considered the retail fare worthless garbage.

I liked garbage that serves a purpose. The town’s gourmet food shop, for example, discarded day-old baguettes every day at four p.m. I typically dropped off a case of Kat’s Kans jellies once a week, right about that time. I looked instinctively at my watch as we drove by. It was only one.

We headed north on 25A past the Cold Spring Harbor Fish Hatcheries. Charlie nodded to me as if to say, Remember? When we were kids, we pinched some fish from the growing pools. The fire department caught us in the woods later that day trying to grill our catch on an out-of-control camp fire. I smiled. I had considered leaving Cold Spring Harbor after Teddy died, but there were just too many memories worth being close to, like getting nabbed by the police for a baby trout barbeque.

Frank pulled into the first of the two industrial parks. This one was located near the train station. One hundred yards to the left and we’d be in the next town—literally, the other side of the tracks. Cold Spring Harbor officials were masters of architectural obscurity, burying their working class necessities as close to the neighbors as possible.

We cruised a maze of interconnected streets lined with low slung, nondescript buildings with odd names like Semhauzer Industries or MediLaw Inc.

“I don’t get these places,” I said. “They’re always empty, like no one actually goes to work.”

“You don’t actually go to work,” Charlie said, commenting on our Freeganism. He was right—we rarely left Harbor House for traditional work. Katrina and I had estimated a windfall of $10,000 from our canning business this year, and I had a spotty income painting portraits. Charlie, on the other hand, got by just fine selling a myriad of tech apps he had designed. We pooled our money to run the farm and the house—an incredibly efficient and low-cost venture. I wasn’t sure how well our system would work when Katrina’s baby arrived. Jonathan, our absent housemate and Katrina’s baby daddy, would also be returning from medical school in a few weeks. And then there was Frank. I wondered if our relationship would ever mature to the point where he might consider moving into our friendly commune.

Frank steered the car into a choice spot right under a sign that read, HG Space Savers, $99 a month. The entire lot was empty save for one car.

We piled out, and I extended a helping hand to Katrina, who struggled to extricate herself from the back seat.

“The owner is meeting us here,” Frank said, as a sturdy man of about fifty in a well-tailored suit opened the office door.

“Harry Goldberg,” the man greeted us with a firm handshake.

Frank introduced Charlie as a computer consultant and me as a sketch artist. Harry raised an eyebrow when he got to Katrina. She handed him a jelly sandwich and mumbled something about catering.

Our covers seemed to suffice, and we were invited into the front office.

“About the threatening phone calls to the Groundsweep coordinator, Ms. Bates,” Harry Goldberg said, referring to the local organizer who initially identified the toxic seepage. “I believe the night manager at the other storage facility was afraid to lose his job.” He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t involved, but I’ve asked my lawyer to call Ms. Bates and smooth things over.”

“I’ll follow up with her,” Frank said, scrolling through his iPad notes. “When I spoke to the owner of the other facility, DG Self Storage—” Frank paused and looked at Harry. “Are you two related?”

“David Goldberg is my cousin.” Harry rolled his eyes as if we could relate. Nice try, Harry, but there was no way the Goldbergs could top the insanity of my family, I thought.

“My grandfather owned two storage facilities,” Harry explained. “I got the one in Queens and David got the other, the one he currently owns.” Harry pointed to a series of ribbon-cutting photos behind the front desk. “Unlike my cousin, I decided to make a real go of it.” He adjusted his tie as if he was about to pose for another publicity shot. “I now have five facilities on Long Island and the original place in Queens.” He paused before adding, “David wasn’t happy when I bought this place a few miles from his.”

“Are you direct competitors?” Frank asked.

“David likes to think so, but he’s not in my league. Neither of us has the cash to compete with the major storage chains, but my goal is to get big enough to get bought out by a chain.”

I threw Harry some rope. “Maybe you could buy out your cousin?”

Harry smirked, and I wondered who really made the threatening phone calls. It seemed a little too convenient that Harry had offered up his lawyer when it wasn’t his employee that threatened Ms. Bates. I studied Harry Goldberg’s features. I noticed when he responded to a question, he looked over your shoulder, as if a more believable answer might materialize out of thin air. I made a quick decision: I didn’t like Harry Goldberg. Frank must have had the same feeling, because he jotted down something on his iPad. I hoped it read, Don’t trust the guy in the suit.

“So, can we see the warehouse?” Charlie asked.

“Sure thing,” Harry Goldberg replied.

We convinced Katrina to stay in the car on the outside chance the computer waste was as toxic as GroundSweep’s meters had indicated. Then we headed through the office to the back door. A jumble of mismatched furniture, including a fully made bed, screamed storage unit leftovers. The handful of rooms I saw were unkempt and cramped, but nothing I hadn’t expected. Harry led us out the back. Rows of metal storage units, about half the size of a single car garage, covered about an acre of the property.

“We rent these units to individuals with too much junk.” Harry seemed amused. “It’s a crazy business. There’s probably nothing worth saving in any of these units, yet people fork over a hundred bucks a month for stuff they haven’t seen in years.” The man was probably multiplying the number of units by the monthly fee, by his six facilities, as we spoke.

I drew in a frustrated breath as Harry’s disdain for junk got under my skin. Frank glared at me. He knew what I was thinking. Useless junk? Sure, these units probably had their fair share of dust covered angels and hanging fairies, but the potential for reusable garbage titillated me. Harry swung a ring of keys by his side, and it took all my strength not to snag it. Who knows what treasures I’d find in these units?

“What’s the profile of the individual renter?” Frank asked.

Harry counted down on his fingers. “The sentimental types can’t part with grandma’s smoke-stained doilies. People in transition,
like divorce, think they’ll eventually need their old stuff in their new life. I’ve got a half mil in rentals says they’re wrong. Then you’ve got the obsessives, who collect everything from old magazines to …”

“Dolls?” I said, thinking of Bob.

“That too.” Harry had barely taken a breath. “And, finally you got your day trippers.”

Day trippers? Now there was a reference to junk I hadn’t heard before.

“Day trippers come a few times a week and actually use the space. I’ve got a lady here who plays the tuba in her unit.” We all laughed at the image of a woman playing a tuba in a storage unit.

At the end of the last row of storage units stood a large warehouse with enormous garage doors. Charlie walked up, peered through a crack, and then poked around the side of the warehouse.

“Any thoughts, Charlie?” Frank asked.

“It’s bigger than I expected. You could store truckloads of equipment in here.”

“Easily,” Frank said, and then added, “I don’t understand who would have that much equipment.”

“Maybe the question is, who was trying to get rid of that much equipment?” Charlie amended Frank’s statement. “I think we’ve got our first case of green washing in Cold Spring Harbor.”

Green washing, or the act of not being green but misleading others to think you are, was a common complaint among true conservationists. In the past few years, giant corporations had recognized the sales potential in “going green.” In most cases, this effort amounted to nothing more than green-colored packaging or labeling. I wasn’t an expert on the topic, but I assumed Charlie knew the ins and outs of green washing in the tech world.

“Explain,” Frank said.

Charlie shoved his hands into his pockets and rolled back on his checkered Van sneakers. “A few years back there was a strong market for recycled tube glass. That’s the glass in a television or computer monitor. It can easily be recycled and reused for the same purpose. The problem is the newer flat screens no longer use tube glass. The market for recycled tech glass fell apart about three years ago. From what I’ve read, recyclers have been telling officials they’ve disposed of the equipment properly but, in fact, they’ve just moved it to a new location.”

“A shell game,” Frank said.

“Yup, until the recycler finally gives up and abandons it,” Charlie said. “Worse, when the prices were high, municipalities ran ‘take-back programs’ to encourage residents to get rid of their old equipment. The market was flooded. Recyclers must have collected tons of this stuff in a short time frame, and now they can’t unload it.”

Frank took some notes. “So our local recycling center incentivized residents to bring in equipment?”

“Sure,” Charlie said. “We unloaded a bunch of crap from Harbor House about two years ago.”

I nodded. Charlie was right.

“When did the lease start on this warehouse?” Frank turned to Harry.

“A year ago,” Harry replied. “I think David cut his deal at the same time.” I could see beads of sweat surfacing along Harry’s hairline. “Man, I can’t get stuck with this e-waste,” he moaned. “The warehouse sat empty for years, and I was happy to sign this lease. The last rental I had turned out to be a front for those rave parties, about ten years ago. I didn’t find out until we had a couple of hundred kids crawling all over the place.”

Charlie did a double take. “Hey,” he started to say as he recognized the surroundings.

I quickly redirected the conversation and asked, “What information do we have about the recycling company who rented the unit?”

“Bogus,” Frank replied. “Cheski checked into it. There’s no record of incorporation for United Eco-Systems.”

I watched as Harry lost a few more ounces of fluid along his hair line. Clearly, he had not vetted his tenant.

Frank motioned to Harry’s keys.

The metal doors, coated in rust, had seen better days. When you lived a half mile from a body of seawater, you got used to salt decay. Unfortunately, the salt had probably accelerated the tech equipment’s rate of decomposition. Charlie and Harry each took a handle and forced the doors open. Sunshine flooded the floor.

The warehouse was completely empty.

Harry ran inside. “Fabulous,” he said, his voice booming across the vacant space. He took a victory lap around the warehouse and exclaimed, “The equipment, it’s all gone!”

Frank looked at Charlie. Charlie shrugged. Frank gave Harry Goldberg a few minutes to bask in the warehouse’s emptiness.

“Do me a favor, Harry,” Frank asked when Harry slowed to a walking pace. “Call your cousin and have him check on his warehouse. We’re going to look around.”

Charlie, Frank, and I entered HG Space Savers’s now empty warehouse. Despite Harry Goldberg’s burst of excitement, the setting was eerie. Except for the front doors, there was only a small shaft of light from an interior office at the far end of the unit. The warehouse was damp, with pieces of broken computers scattered across the floor. I tiptoed over oozing blobs of corrosive liquid and then skidded my feet along the cement floor just in case the goop ate through the soles of my shoes. An acidic aroma lingered, leaving a metallic taste in my mouth. Charlie picked up a stray piece of wire and chucked it across the room as we made our way to the back office.

The office was wedged into the farthest corner of the warehouse. It had no windows and covered about one hundred square feet.

I looked at Frank. “Any chance there’s a body in there?”

Before Frank considered the possibility, Charlie reached for the doorknob. “And behind curtain one …” The door opened with a rusty creak.

The room was stacked, floor to ceiling with old computers. A coiled cord sprung out aimlessly from the top of the pile. Apparently whoever emptied the warehouse had forgotten about the office.

Charlie turned to Frank. “Can we get this emptied?” He motioned to the open floor of the warehouse. “If we could place the items in rows by equipment type and model, I’ll go through it.”

“What do you think you’ll find?” I asked.

Charlie frowned. “Don’t know.”

“I’m game,” Frank said as he texted instructions to Cheski and Lamendola.

Harry Goldberg strolled back into his warehouse as we were leaving. He did a bit of a jig before he announced that David’s warehouse was also empty. How convenient, I thought.

“Case closed,” Harry said, wiping his hands of the e-waste mess.

“Not just yet, Mr. Goldberg,” Frank said. “We’ve got another issue that might be related to this missing equipment. Until I’ve ruled out a connection between your warehouse and another case I’m working on, you’re not going to be able to rent the warehouse.” He then proceeded to rattle off a to-do list that would prevent HG from re-renting its warehouse for the next thirty to sixty days. The list included access to the unit to study the remaining computers, interviews with HG employees, and a report on account activity for United Eco-Systems.

Harry Goldberg quickly lost the spring in his step as Frank’s directions sunk in. “I’m not comfortable with this,” he said.

Frank ignored Harry’s comment and continued, “Do your employees wear clip tags?”

“No.”

Frank’s smile dropped, and he added, “I’ll need a copy of your security footage. Last forty-eight hours.”

“We don’t have cameras,” Harry said.

Charlie pointed to a mounted camera on a pole facing the warehouse.

“Like I said, we’re not one of the big guys. No name tags, no uniforms and, as for the cameras, I can’t afford to turn them on.”

Not without cutting into your margin, I wanted to add.

So much for HG Space Savers’s glossy brochures promising twenty-four-hour security. No surprise that psychedelic rave parties went on undetected. I wondered what other shenanigans took place at the isolated storage facility. As I pondered the possibilities, I saw a pregnant woman running toward us, arms flailing.

Is that the universal sign for labor?

“Trina?” I yelled running toward her. “Stop running, we’ll get you to the hospital.”

Frank threw the keys to Charlie. “Get the car.” Charlie took off. Frank made it to Katrina steps ahead of me.

“I’m not in labor.” She bent over but was unable to stretch her palms to her knees. She leaned back, instead using her hands as support on her hips. Harry found a folding chair and dragged it out from the warehouse.

“Phew,” she exhaled and took a seat. “Wow. I didn’t know I could still run.”

Katrina’s hair was matted, and her cheeks were bright red. Her stomach was undulating in waves as if a baby’s foot might break through her belly button at any second.

“Why were you running?”

“I took a catnap,” Katrina wheezed. “When I woke up, I saw someone forcing the door on the main office, but I think I scared them off.”

“David,” Harry spat. We all looked at Harry. Why did he think his cousin would break into his office?

“A woman,” Katrina corrected. “I saw the back of a woman.”

My eyes were still on Harry. He turned his shoulder to me.

“Were her pants tight?” I asked.

Katrina was flummoxed. “Who are you? Charlie?” she asked.

I was about to explain the significance of tight pants when I saw Frank’s jaw start to move. He took a few steps forward and raised his finger at Harry Goldberg. “I want information on those tuba people you talked about.”

“Excuse me?” Harry snapped, as his true personality surfaced. “Do I work for you?” he asked Frank. “You’ve been demanding things from me, but you haven’t even explained how my empty warehouse is part of your problem. Why do I have to do anything for you?”

That was mighty defensive, I thought.

“You’re correct. You don’t work for me,” Frank said. He took a giant step into Harry’s personal space, pushing his finger into the storage king’s chest. “As a public servant I work for you, and if you want me to figure out who attempted to break into your office, you’ll get me what I need to ensure another crime does not take place on these premises.”

Harry hesitated. You didn’t need to be a shrewd business person to see where Frank was going, but just in case Harry overlooked the obvious, Frank elaborated.

“Let me put it another way,” Frank said, moving an uncomfortable half inch forward. “HG Space Savers’s liability will increase if it ignores crimes that impact the safety of its tenants and their belongings. You’ve already got a toxic complaint. I don’t think your insurance company would like to see additional infractions. And since you’ve asked, there’s been a death at the recycling center that might be connected to the e-waste in your warehouse. I’d say it’s going to be hard to drum up new tenants while a murder investigation remains open.” Frank pointed to the empty warehouse. “I’m assuming you want to rent this eventually?”

Harry scraped his polished wing-tipped shoe along the cement a few times while he evaluated Frank’s assessment. “Who died?” he asked.

Frank raised his eyebrows in my direction. He wanted me to look closely at Goldberg’s face when he revealed Bob’s name.

“Do you know Bob Rooney?” Frank asked Goldberg. The second before Frank mentioned Bob’s name, Harry Goldberg shoved his hands in his pockets and closed his eyes. It was an extraordinarily sly move on Harry’s part. In the time it took Frank to say Bob’s name, Goldberg had a chance to take a deep breath before opening his eyes. His face, as a result, appeared completely relaxed when he answered, “No. Do you want just the tuba player’s name?”

“I’ll need a list of your day trippers with contact information by tonight.”

Harry Goldberg’s shoulders rolled forward in defeat. “Fine,” he said as he headed back to his office. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It was a small victory for Frank. With no cameras, you need eyes, just like Katrina’s. If one of the day trippers was playing tuba or shooting pool or taking a dunk in a storage unit hot tub, they might have seen something. Something like ten trucks unloading a warehouse of toxic computer equipment or a woman in tight pants.

I waited until Harry was out of earshot.

“That was weird, the way he closed his eyes,” I said. “He also didn’t seem to care that someone tried to break in to his office.”

“I think he hoped Frank would let it all go,” Katrina added. “He’s just happy his warehouse is empty.”

Frank strolled around Katrina’s chair, one hand shoved deep in a pocket and the other clutching his iPad.

“Maybe,” he finally said as he came to a stop.