Personal Effects: Dark Art

11

Malcolm stood beneath the mighty tree Primoris Maximus as I pedaled up on my Cannondale. He eyed me, a smoke in one hand, a lawn rake in the other. I’d buzzed him less than ten minutes ago.

If he’s already here, then it’s a no-go. Crap.

I braked near the trunk, stealing a lungful of the aroma around me. In a few weeks, the trees would be aflame. This was my favorite time of the year. If the world is a tiger, then autumn is that brief but awe-inspiring moment when the big cat yawns and stretches—all claws and shifting colors and glorious, trembling muscle—before settling in for a long nap.

Malcolm looked mournful.

“Bad news, huh?” I asked Malcolm. “Couldn’t get ’em?”

“Oh, I got ’em,” the old man said. He patted the breast of his beat-up brown corduroy jacket. “But we need to talk first, Zach T.”

I dismounted and leaned the bike against the tree.

“Look, I know I told you to dance during the earthquake, but this isn’t really what I had in mind,” he said.

He pulled a large manila envelope from his coat. The words INTER-DEPARTMENT DELIVERY were stenciled on its flap. There were dozens of names on the envelope, all marked through with bold Sharpie strokes, save for the one at the bottom: Martin Grace.

“They’ll fire you for having this stuff,” he said. “That ain’t even what I’m really worried about. I can get fired for taking it. You need to request these things, Zach.”

“That’ll take too damned long for what I need it for,” I replied. “I need Grace’s personal effects. Look, I’m getting it from all sides right now. Grace is creaming me, not giving an inch. Xavier’s sniffing around, looking for a way to boot me off the case. My own dad’s out to get me. If I don’t start making connections now and helping him now, it’s over.”

I glanced at my watch. I needed to catch the train to Grace’s house before dad’s man de Luca cleaned it out.

“It’s a leap of faith, Malcolm,” I said, urgency in my voice. “I wouldn’t ask for help if I didn’t need it.”

Malcolm shook his head deliberately.

“You didn’t ask for help,” he said. “You know how I roll, Zach. I don’t help anybody. Them’s the Malcolm Rules. I owe you, but it ain’t enough.”

My heart sank a little.

“Sorry I troubled you,” I said.

Malcolm passed me the envelope, turned, and walked back toward the building.

“Toss in a fifth of Grey Goose and we’re even,” he said over his shoulder. “Now, go on. Git.”

I got.

“Get out, getoutoftheway!!” I screamed as I piloted my Cannondale down the steps of the LIRR train station, tires skidding on the cobblestones, arms trembling as I successfully kept the bike under control. I was a sight worthy of a Hollywood action picture—a Bourne chase scene… if an international spy ran with the eighteen-speed crowd.

I braked at the foot of the stairs, hefted the Cannondale onto my shoulder and made a mad dash to the shimmering, ball-busting turnstile. MTA tokens spilled out of my hands as I madly shoved a copper coin into the slot… now ratcheting through, grunting, heaving the bike… now dashing to the train doors as their ding-dong warnings blared… and then, inside the car, panting, smiling sheepishly at my fellow straphangers.

What can I say? Lucas isn’t the only Taylor who’s got mad skills.

It would take around ninety minutes to get to Brooklyn from here. If Lucas met me on time—and if the 5 P.M. deadline Dad had mentioned was accurate—we’d have twenty minutes to investigate Grace’s apartment unobserved.

The real question was, would Lucas show up on time? My brother wasn’t the most punctual—

Cheerful skeleton song, xylophone music, interrupted my thoughts. Text message from Lucas.

HERE. LOUNGIN’. CHICA LIVED NEARBY.:P

I texted back: OK. BE THERE IN >90.

I looked at my reflection in the train window. You’re really going to do this?

I patted my satchel. “Not technically breaking and entering if I’ve got his house keys,” I said. A nearby passenger, thinking I was speaking to her, inched away from me.

And if you find anything worth taking? Are you going to steal it?

“Ain’t stealin’ if you intend on bringing it back,” I whispered. My voice was low, a little hoarse—and Dixie-fried enough to give me a troubled pause.

Anti-Zach. I began to shiver. I squeezed my eyes shut, gripped the handrail tight.

“I’m not going down that road with you,” I hissed. “Not again. Never again.”

It—he—wasn’t your fault, I could almost hear A-Z say. Wrong place, wrong time…

Hush.

I opened my eyes and stared at my reflection again. I was about to invade an alleged serial killer’s home, disrupt an investigation by the Manhattan District Attorney’s office, and most likely tamper with, and remove, evidence.

My cell phone chimed again, this time a ringtone of “Birdhouse In Your Soul” by They Might Be Giants. Rachael.

Not to put too fine a point on it, say I’m the only bee in your bonnet.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”

“—ach?” Rachael said. “—alling to check in. Haven’t heard fr—all day. You okay?”

“Ah, sorta,” I said, straining to hear. She must’ve been at the Journal-Ledger’s offices. Those thick-stoned Midtown buildings wreaked havoc with cell reception. My thumb tapped the side of the phone, boosting its volume. “Things are a little hectic over here right now.”

“—at The Brrrrrrk?” her voice said. “—oesn’t sound like it. Noisy. Rattllll… Are you onnnnnnnn—”

The phone whined in my hand. I winced.

“—train?” she finished.

“Yeah,” I said. “Had to split early, Rache. Nothing I can’t handle though, don’t worry.”

“Didn’t catch that last part,” Rachael said. “You’re—ouble?”

I frowned. This was exasperating.

“Listen, I’m heading over to Martin Grace’s apartment in Brooklyn. That’s it, just looking for something to help him. Like I said, nothing to worry about. But Rache, sorry to get all high school on you, but don’t tell my dad, okay?”

The line whined again, garbling whatever Rachael was saying now. I hung up.

The phone vibrated in my hand. I hit the “talk” button without looking at the screen.

“Hey Rache,” I said.

But it wasn’t Rachael. For a heart-pounding moment, I heard Martin Grace speaking to me… and beneath his voice was the husky breathing of his Dark Man, tktksssssstttt—

“—ust got off the phone with your employer,” my dad was saying. “Young man, you’re in…”

“Oh, fuck you,” I snapped, and hung up. Disgusted, I switched off the phone.

I spent the rest of the train ride in troubled silence.