Gridiron

'No, I already spoke to them about that. They're going to let workers in.'

'Good girl. Well done. Any damage to the building?'

'Not as far as I know. But it looks as if Gleig might have let the guy who killed him walk through the front door.'

'Well, that's just fucking great. We're just a few days off completing and this sonofabitch has to get himself killed. What kind of smart building is it that lets some shit-for-brains fucker just ignore the security systems and let someone through the front door? Are the media there yet?'

'Not yet.'

'What about Mitch?'

'Any minute, I guess.' Richardson sighed bitterly.

They're going to piss all over us on this. Especially the Times. OK, here's what to do. Dealing with City Hall is Mitch's thing. He knows who to sweet talk in order to limit damage. You know what I'm saying? As soon as he shows up tell him to make sure that the cops give the right story to the media. Got that?'

'Yes, Ray,' Helen said wearily.

'You did right calling me, Helen. I'm sorry I snapped at you.'

That's — '

Richardson's finger stabbed a button to end their conversation.

'Mitch'll sort it out,' he told Levine, almost as if he was trying to reassure himself. 'He's a good man in a crisis. The kind of guy you can depend on, who makes things happen. As you get more experienced you'll learn that that's what this job is all about, Tony.'

'Yes,' said Levine, feeling that the moment had now passed when he could have mentioned his own promotion, 'I'm sure I will.'

'So. Where were we? On yes, you were telling me what you thought about our design for the Shinkawa Police Academy.'

-###-

There were only three cars in the Gridiron's parking lot. Curtis guessed that the new Saab convertible belonged to Helen Hussey. That left him an old blue Buick and an even older grey Plymouth to choose from in deciding which one belonged to Sam Gleig, and for a moment it was like being a real detective. Just checking which car fitted the set of keys he was carrying would have been cheating. The Buick sported a bumper long sticker — 'I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate'. Curtis frowned. What the hell did that mean? The Plymouth looked an easier shot with the KLON 88.1 FM window sticker. The tiny piastic saxophone on Gleig's key-chain made Curtis figure Gleig for a jazz fan. He was pleased to find that he was right, and that the key turned in the Plymouth's lock. It was not exactly Sherlock Holmes, but it would do.

Sam Gleig's car may have been old but it was clean and well looked after. A small sachet of air-freshener hung off the rear-view mirror and the ashtrays were empty. Curtis opened the glove compartment and found only a Thomas guide and a pair of Ray-ban aviators. Then he went around the back and unlocked the trunk. The extra-large cordura nylon pro-shooter's bag seemed to indicate a man who took his work very seriously. It contained a set of ear protectors, a barrel brush, some fiveinch cardboard targets, a couple of boxes of Black Hills.40 S&W, a spare magazine, a speed loader and an empty padded pistol pouch. But there was nothing that gave Curtis the remotest clue as to why he had been killed.

Hearing the elevator bell Curtis turned to see Nathan Coleman coming towards him.

'Where the hell have you been?'

'Fuckin' toilet,' growled Coleman. 'You know what happens? I mean, there's, like, a command module on the side of the seat, with buttons on it. Tells you everything from how long you've been in there to, I dunno, what you had for fuckin' breakfast. So finally I figure out that the reason there's no paper is because you get your ass washed for you while you're sitting there.'

'Did you get it waxed as well?' laughed Curtis.

'Fuckin' toothbrush thing comes out from under the seat and hits you in the rear with this jet of hot water. And I mean hot, Frank. Fuckin' thing was like a laser beam. Then there's a jet of hot air to dry you off. Jesus, Frank, my ass feels like I spent the night with Rock Hudson.'

Curtis wiped the tears from his eyes. 'What kind of a fuckin' place is this?'

'The future, Nat. It's a scalded asshole and a pair of wet pants. Have you run that background check yet?'

'The vic has a rap sheet. I just got the fax out of the car.'

'Let's hear it.'

'Two convictions for narcotics and one for possession of an illegal weapon, for which he served two years in the Met.'

'Here, let me see that.' Curtis glanced over the fax. 'The Met, huh?

Must be where he got his love of modern architecture. Place is like a goddamned hotel. You know, it wouldn't surprise me if they helped him fill out his application to become a security guard.' He shook his head wearily. 'Jesus, the licensing laws in this city. Sometimes I think Charlie fucking Manson could start up a security company in LA.'

'It's a growth industry Frank, that's for sure.' Curtis folded the fax and put it in his coat pocket. 'I'll keep this, Nat, just in case I have to go to the John myself.'

'Looks like Gleig's been straight since he was in the joint,' offered Nat.

'Maybe his past just caught up with him.' Curtis handed Coleman Sam Gleig's driver's licence, 'gand and Vermont. That's Crip country, isn't it?'

Coleman nodded. 'Reckon he was dealin' a little on the side.'

'Maybe. There's nothing in the car.'

'What's in the bag?'

'Man's all packed for a picnic at his local gun club. But no shit.'

'What about those kids outside? The Chinese like their narcotics.'

'I haven't ruled them out.'

'Or it could be one of them decided to bring the protest into the building, y'know? And Sam got in the way. Want me to speak to them?'

'No, not yet. I want you and an SID team to haul your asses down south to the vic's place and see what you can find. You can break the news to anyone who's interested. Maybe get a lead on his friends. Like, are they the kind of friends who supplied his need for enemies?'

The motor controlling the door that gated the garage started to buzz loudly. As Coleman walked back to the elevator, Curtis closed the Plymouth's trunk and then waited to see who would get out of the red Lexus that came down the ramp and drew up beside him.

'What's going on?' said Mitch through the open window.

Curtis could not recall a name but he remembered the face, not to mention the silk tie and the gold Rolex. The man who got out of the car was tall, with dark, curly hair, tanned and vaguely boyish looking. The blue eyes were quick and intelligent. The kind of guy who lived next door — if you happened to live in Beverly Hills.

'It's Mr —?'

'Bryan, Mitchell Bryan.'

'I remember now. There's a problem, Mr Bryan.'

Curtis waited a beat and then told him what the problem was.

-###-

Curtis stared out of the twenty-fifth-floor window and waited for Mitchell Bryan to return with coffee. He was still thinking about what Helen Hussey had said about those pods. How had she described the whole idea of it? Hot something or other. Hot desking? At least he had a desk. At least he had some idea of where he belonged. He tried to imagine the chaos at New Parker Center if all the cops had to fight for their preferred spots. It sounded like just another lousy idea thought up by the big corporations. For once he was glad he didn't have to work in an office and take the shit that got thrown at you. Being a cop you got to throw some back.

'I don't know,' said Mitch, returning to Mr Yu's private suite with the coffee. 'Sam Gleig seemed like a pretty straight sort of guy.'

They sat down around the Ming-dynasty Huali wooden dining table that Mitch had been using as his desk, and sipped at their coffee.