About Face (13 page)

I needed to be able to hear the first note of a siren.

Perry swallowed. Then nodded yes.

I pulled out on the Boulevard Jean Moulin portion of the Bord de Mer and headed back toward Nice.

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

At eight forty-five a.m. the following morning we settle into a conference room in GlassWell's headquarters. Their executive offices take up floors forty-six through fifty of 1112 Avenue of the Americas, one of their most impressive holdings. The property, a one-point-five-million-square-foot white travertine façade covered beast, stands almost six hundred fifty feet in the air. We're hovering at around the six-hundred-thirty-foot mark on floor fifty, overlooking Bryant Park.

The conference room is one of the longest I have ever been in. It's contemporary, sleek. The conference table is unusual, imposing—a mahogany-framed rectangular slab of chocolate-and-white swirled Italian marble that could probably seat fifty. The kind of table my father once taught me firms use to gain subconscious advantage. A couple-ton piece of rock that needs to be craned into a building so people can have somewhere to write and a place their coffee lets you know you're dealing with people who like to win. The carpet underfoot is a matching chocolate, the walls are beige, the ceiling is white with perfectly placed white Luxo Silvy hanging light fixtures. As everyone says their last “good mornings” and grabs
coffee, fresh fruit, and bagels from the platters on top of the beige Vox credenzas, I take my seat with just ice water. Our team had already huddled over breakfast at the hotel.

If the table is a football field, we're seated at around the twenty-five yard line facing the windows—me on one side of Cobus, Arnon on the other. Next to us, going toward the closer end, is the beginning of GlassWell's team—in-house counsel, some operations people, some property management people.

In-house counsel.

I could have been sitting next to Scott Green at this very moment.

An image of his brain splattered on the wall flashes in my mind.

The string of GlassWell corporate starts opposite us with leasing, then stretches around and heads back our way with acquisitions. Leasing and acquisitions. I catch Julia's eye across from me just as she's about to sit down.

“Good morning, Cobus, Ivan,” she says.

“Good morning,” I say back.

Cobus waves cordially as he's finishing a call with Europe.

“Sleep well?” she went on to me directly through the surrounding conversations.

You mean with one eye open? As I do every night of my life?

“Like a rock,” I answer.

I can't help noticing how great Julia looks even when dressed for the boardroom. Gray Armani silk/linen fitted ruffled jacket with matching straight-leg pants over a white stretch jersey tee. Julia's two for two. There's something just incredibly sexy about a woman so stylish she can light it up no matter the situation.

The only thing sexier?

A woman who knows it.

“Let's get to it,” Brand says as he takes his seat.

We jump in. The conversation begins with some legal issues regarding international transfer of title. Arnon essentially gives GlassWell's in-house counsel a lesson in the matter. Soon we move
on to some housekeeping. When it comes to the closing of a property deal, the last issues often center around—big surprise—money. Who's going to pay for what unforeseen items following the closing, last-minute price adjustments because of further repairs or improvements that need to be done, whose responsibility undetected building code violations buried within the Department of Buildings database are, things like that. I'm entrenched in reviewing some language with Arnon and Cobus regarding preexisting environmental issues arising post closing when a discussion in the room turns to the property's HVAC system.

“That's right. The building is serviced by two five-hundred-ton chillers, three Worthington Centrifugal pumps and two five-hundred-ton cooling towers on the roof,” one of the GlassWell property management cronies says. “But I believe the chillers were installed in 2003. And they have been—”

“The chillers were installed in 2001,” I chime in, my eyes still on the legal language we're reviewing. “And I believe some of the other specifications you were just discussing were off a bit as well. The electricity in the property is not two-hundred-twenty volts, but in fact two-hundred-
forty
volts to go along with seventy-five-hundred amps and six watts per usable square foot. And it isn't just the fourteenth floor with increased height—”

My eyes still on the document, my right hand, pen extended, motions from the ceiling to the floor back to the ceiling.

“The seventeenth floor is fourteen feet slab to slab as well.”

My brain switches gears.

“Arnon, why is this sentence worded like this?” I ask, pointing to the page.

No response.

I look up at Arnon.

That's when I notice he, as well as Cobus, the property management team, Julia, Brand, and others, are just staring at me.

Shit. Jonah Gray knows this building better than GlassWell does.

But Ivan Janse shouldn't.

“Anything else about the specifications of our property you'd like to correct me on?” asks the property management crony.

Yeah, I'm thinking, you forgot to mention the façade of the building is landmarked also—not just the lobby.

“Just looking to be thorough—um—”

“Roger.”

“Roger. In fact I've been known to overdo it a bit when it comes to things like research, fact-checking, reviewing—no need to take it personally.”

I stand up.

“Excuse me. Which way to the restroom?” I ask no one in particular.

I start down the hallway. It, like the offices and interior bullpens I pass, is of the same contemporary furnishings, style, and colors as the conference room. I reach my right hand into my left inside suit jacket pocket. I remove the disposable phone.

I dial information, and within seconds—after receiving a text containing the number I just requested—I'm being connected to the office of gynecologist Dr. Brian York. Perry's asshole, low-life husband.

“Doctor's office,” a pert female voice answers.

“Hi,” I jump right in. “This is Richard Everton from the Department of Education. I'm calling with regard to Max York, as this is the phone number on record. We're in the process of compiling statewide results based on this year's student performance, but unfortunately an administrative error on our end has caused some confusion with where Max is currently enrolled. Now we're showing he's at—”

“I believe Max is enrolled at Columbia Grammar,” the voice cuts me off. “Hold on and I'll double-check.”

Thirty seconds later she's back.

“Yep—Columbia Grammar. Upper West Side.”

Without breaking stride, I thank her and hang up. I place the phone back in my left inside pocket. A cute, African American girl with short hair dressed in a smart black pantssuit is coming toward me.

“Excuse me, I think I'm a bit lost,” I say to her, “can you possibly point me in the direction of Ryan Brand's office?”

Brand's assistant has her own office next to her boss. I peek in. She's on the phone. She'd been in the conference room earlier. We recognize each other.

“I think I may have left my phone in—” I start, doing a half-whisper talking thing as I point toward Brand's office so as to not disturb her.

She waves me on while continuing her conversation as an “of course” expression crosses her face. I step next door. The corner office is bold, just like the man. As I walk in, in front of me, is a sleek set of four timeless brown Knoll Barcelona chairs surrounding a small glass-top coffee table. Diagonally from where I'm standing, in the corner, where the two back walls that are essentially all windows meet, is Brand's desk—a leather-finished minimalist piece by BassamFellows. Nice. Humanscale Freedom Headrest chair behind it. Also nice. Dude knows his furniture.

To my right, wrapping around beyond where one can see when entering the room, the windows run into another perpendicular wall holding a huge flat-screen on CNBC. Under the TV, like the wall to my immediate left upon entering, are framed articles about and pictures of different GlassWell properties.

I step in and, like someone's watching, pretend for a second to look for my phone. I reach my left hand into my suit jacket's inside right pocket and touch the pen. After a quick look by the chairs and coffee table, I head straight for the desk. Files neatly stacked, iPad charging, desktop PC, family photos—one thing is for sure. Brand is an organized guy.

But there's no sign of a desktop pen set of any kind.

Damn.

A pen from Scott Green.

I remember his words.

“That pen has everything to do with this deal,” he said. “That pen, my young friend, is everything.”

Why?

Whose pen is it?

My mind searching, calculating, organizing, shuffling, I walk out of the office. I poke my head back into Brand's assistant's office.

“No luck,” I say doing that half-talk, half-whisper thing again. “Where would I find legal?”

I walk down the internal staircase to the forty-ninth floor, and hook an immediate left. Realizing I'm close to the point people will be wondering what's taking me so long my gait picks up, stopping just short of becoming suspicious. Thirty yards down the hall I see a name on the wall outside an office with the lights off.

Scott Green.

I quickly look around. No eyes in my direction. I step inside. I close the door and turn the lights on. The feeling is eerie. It's like the office is just sitting and waiting for Green's return, like he'll just walk back in here and pick right up with whatever is open on his desk waiting for his attention. It's quiet. Unlike Brand's office, this one is a mess. All the same fixtures, colors, and carpet, but that's it aside from a few family photos on the walls. There are stacks of files everywhere—the desk, the couch, the floor, everywhere.

I walk over to the desk. It's a disaster, like someone just walked over with arms full of files, pens, pencils, staplers, an older model desktop PC, calendar, cans of Diet Coke, Tums, Post-its, rubber bands, bills, magazines, newspapers—and just dropped it all. In the chaos I do see a desktop pen set.

Both pens are in their spots.

And they're brass.

Damn.

What am I missing?

As my mind starts flying again, my eyes search the top of the desk for anything. And they stop on an envelope. It's a cable bill. It's addressed to Scott Green: 166 East 30th Street. I take out my iPhone, type in the address, and place the cell back in my suit jacket's right inside pocket. Just as I do, and I'm heading back toward the door, I hear the doorknob turning.

The door opens just as I'm upon it. Two men, dressed casually but nicely in pants, button-down shirts, and sport jackets, are in front of me.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” the one who opened the door says. He's white, athletically built with a shaved dome, has sharp, green eyes, and chiseled facial features. “We were looking for…”

He cranes his neck backwards and looks again at Scott Green's name on the wall outside the office.

“No. It's me who's in the wrong place,” I jump in. “I was looking for my phone and I wandered into this office. I got lost.”

“Detective Lovell,” he introduces himself. “Do you work here?”

I notice the shield on his belt.

“I don't,” I respond. “My firm's doing a deal with GlassWell. We're in the office today for meetings.”

“Got it. Do you know Mr. Green?”

Interesting. They're referring to him as if he's still alive. Must be in their DNA. After all, I am in the guy's office. And he did die under what one might call suspicious circumstances, to put it mildly.

“Who?”

“Mr. Green. The man who's office you're in.”

“Ah, right. Sorry, no. Can't say that I do. Like I said, I was wandering around and, well, this seemed like an office I had previously been in, but—”

I start to move forward.

“Anyway, I'm going to get back, so—”

“Of course.”

The detective steps aside. I walk between him and his
Asian-American counterpart, a man who looks like he's either the most serious man on the planet or is actually in the process of shitting his pants.

I'm three steps past when Cue Ball speaks to me again.

“Oh, Mr.—”

I turn around.

“Janse.”

“Mr. Janse. Good luck finding that phone.”

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

At two p.m., following five hours of working toward a close on the Freedom Bank Building, we exit 1112 Avenue of the Americas. The plan is for me, Cobus, and Arnon to head to the target property for a walk-through. I need to lose them.

“Nice work, boys,” Cobus says. “We're almost there.”

He looks at his watch.

“Let's get moving. Where's the car?”

Just as he asks, an Escalade comes rolling to a stop in front of us.

“
Doorgaan
,” I blurt out, which is “go on” in Dutch. “You two go ahead.”

“What's up?” asks Cobus.

“Roof documents,” I respond.

All of which are in the briefcase I'm holding

“Specs, past as well as the most recent inspection reports, my notes—I left all my roof-related materials in my room. I'm not sold the north portion doesn't need to be replaced from taking the brunt of winter's weather. I want everything with me when we walk it.”

The hotel is out of the way. It's back west and we're standing only fifteen blocks from the target. I put my arm up for a cab.