Clean Hands E-Book

Patrick Hoffman

• Herausgeber: Grove Press UK
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Corporate lawyer Elizabeth Carlyle is under pressure. Her prestigious New York law firm is working on a high-stakes case, defending a prominent bank accused of fraud. When Elizabeth gets the news that one of her junior associates has lost his phone - and the secret documents that were on it - she needs help. Badly. Enter ex-CIA officer Valencia Walker, a high-priced fixer who gets called in when wealthy people, corporations and governments need their problems solved discreetly. But things get complicated when the missing phone is retrieved: somebody has already copied the documents and blackmail is underway. Mysterious leaks to the press and an unlikely suicide further complicate the situation. With billions of dollars on the line, Elizabeth and Valencia must outmanoeuvre their tormentors, all the while keeping their hands clean. From the corporate boardrooms of Manhattan to the city's gritty outer boroughs, a sharply drawn cast of characters - including dirty lawyers, black-market traders and Russian criminals - take part in this breakneck tour through New York. Authentic, tense and impossible to put down, Clean Hands shows a talented crime writer hitting his stride.

Leseprobe

Praise for Patrick Hoffman

‘Criminal fools populate the drug-selling networks from San Francisco to Bangkok to Miami in Patrick Hoffman’s astonishing, violent novel . . . filled with sharply drawn characters . . . A mind-bending, attention-demanding narrative as full of shocks and surprises as an LSD party.’

—Wall Street Journal, on Every Man a Menace

‘Every Man a Menace is everything you could want in a thriller—lightning pace, dead-on dialogue, and a twisting, high-torque plot. But, most of all, this novel is smart and authentic, a welcome jolt at a time when so much fiction reads like it rolled off an assembly line.’

—Carl Hiaasen, on Every Man a Menace

‘A highly entertaining high-octane and exceptionally violent Donald Westlake-like crime caper told with real verve and wit.’

—Irish Independent, on Every Man a Menace

‘This violent, twisting tale by a former private eye is gripping and feels 100 per cent authentic.’

—The Sun, on Every Man a Menace

‘Patrick Hoffman’s intricate, hallucinatory second novel is a thrill ride of noir pleasures.’

—Irish Times, on Every Man a Menace

‘Filled with epic twists and savage turns, the pace is relentless, and Hoffman’s drive sets fire to the pages as he crawls across the sinister black underbelly of the Californian dream . . . Exhilarating and powerful.’

—Daily Mail, on The White Van

‘Hoffman gives his story a stunner of a twist, where roles are reversed, lies become truths, and it all gives way to the most perfect hustle of all . . . Hoffman’s crime plot doesn’t just thicken, it boils with surprise after surprise and suspense as tight as a noose . . . He cinematically captures a seamy San Francisco . . . the hard-boiled prose glints like a broken mirror . . . wildly satisfying.’

—San Francisco Chronicle, on The White Van

Also by Patrick Hoffman

Every Man a Menace

The White Van

First published in the United States of America and Canada in 2020 by

Atlantic Monthly Press, an imprint of Grove Atlantic

This hardback edition first published in Great Britain in 2020 by

Grove Press UK, an imprint of Grove Atlantic

Copyright © Patrick Hoffman, 2020

The moral right of Patrick Hoffman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

The events, characters and incidents depicted in this novel are fictitious.

Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual incidents, is purely coincidental.

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

Hardback ISBN 978 1 61185 640 8

Trade paperback ISBN 978 1 61185 450 3

E-book ISBN 978 1 61185 899 0

Printed in Great Britain

Grove Press UK

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.groveatlantic.com

For Reyhan, Edgar, and Lois

1

LOOSE IN THE WILD

The footage appeared to show two men bumping into each other, exchanging a quick word, and then moving on. The pickpocket had been skilled enough to hide the theft; all you could see was the bump. The camera—mounted in a dome on the ceiling of the passageway in Grand Central Station—didn’t have an ideal angle, but the picture was clear. It had been early in the morning; rush-hour commuters passed in both directions across the screen.

Michael D’Angelo—in-house investigator for Carlyle, Driscoll, and Hathaway—had been tasked with examining the video. He sat at his desk and watched the footage again and again, backing it up and playing it over, step by step. D’Angelo had spent eighteen years in the FBI; he knew this kind of thing took time and patience.

The victim of the pickpocketing, Chris Cowley, was a junior associate attorney at the same law firm that employed D’Angelo. He reported that the cell phone had been stolen from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. Upon discovering the theft, Chris had rushed to work and waited for his boss, Elizabeth Carlyle—the head of the firm—to emerge from the elevator. When she did, he told her that his phone had been stolen, and—far more alarmingly—that he had hot documents from the Calcott case on the phone.

Walk. Step. Bump. D’Angelo tapped the space bar and paused the video. He backed it up, this time a little further, and watched again. After the bump, the video showed Chris continuing toward the turnstile, where a slight bottleneck of morning commuters had formed. This had slowed his progress. Once through the turnstile, the footage showed Chris patting his pants pockets for the first time. Two seconds later, the patting moved up to his jacket and became more urgent. Chris then turned and looked in the direction he’d just come from.

D’Angelo sighed, took a sip of coffee, and backed the video up again. He noted the time of the bump—08:12:41—and let it play right up until Cowley turned and ran after the thief. Sixteen seconds. He jotted the time down on a yellow legal pad along with his other notes. He watched the whole thing again. Something about it didn’t sit right with him. For one thing, the lawyer and the pickpocket appeared to exchange a glance a few steps before the bump.

But that wasn’t it—after the glance, they appeared to be drawn toward each other. Still, that wasn’t it, either; it was the bump itself that bothered him. D’Angelo paused the video, closed his eyes, and tried to put himself into the young attorney’s shoes. Would he, under similar circumstances, ever bump into someone like that? He didn’t think so. Could he imagine performing an awkward dance? Sure. Maybe touch a hand to an arm? Yes. But to actually bump into another man, to have your legs, torso, and shoulder make contact with another person in the midst of rush-hour traffic? It didn’t seem likely.

He paused the video; his mind drifted back a few hours and replayed the events of the morning. He’d just settled in at his desk when Elizabeth Carlyle stopped by and asked him to come to her office. She’d always been tough, but her voice sounded particularly flinty that morning. “I need you to come with me right away.”

It wasn’t every day that Elizabeth Carlyle came to summon you. In fact, D’Angelo couldn’t remember it ever happening before. She wasn’t the type to drop by in person; she’d usually send someone to get you.

She was in her late fifties. She dressed in tailored power suits, and always—except when she was in court—seemed to be in a hurry. She was cold, but it was hard not to be impressed by her. D’Angelo studied her for a second and saw that she was stressed. Without asking what she needed, he pushed himself up from his desk, touched the knot of his tie, and followed her.

When they entered her office, D’Angelo observed Chris Cowley sitting on a chair in front of Ms. Carlyle’s desk. D’Angelo didn’t know him well; they’d never worked on anything together. Now D’Angelo looked at him as though for the first time. He was in his late twenties but was still skinny, like a teenager. He had a full head of light brown hair, and his face appeared to only need occasional shaving. A petulant expression hung on his face, and for a moment it made D’Angelo think that he, himself, was about to be accused of some misdeed. Before he could even begin to imagine what that accusation could be, Elizabeth spoke: “Michael, Chris’s cell phone was stolen this morning.”

So what? thought D’Angelo.

She then told him that Cowley had been carrying the Calcott hot documents on the phone, that the phone had been unlocked, and that his password had—inconceivably—been turned off. The hot documents were the most toxic emails, memos, chats, text messages, and other evidence at the center of the Emerson v. Calcott case. That case, a federal civil suit between two banks, represented the largest portion of Carlyle, Driscoll, and Hathaway’s billable hours. It was, to put it plainly, their biggest case. Without the Calcott Corporation, the firm would not exist.

Anger rolled through D’Angelo. He found that kind of sloppiness personally offensive. It didn’t take long for the anger to transform into suspicion. What the hell was this kid doing carrying hot documents on his phone? And what in the name of God was he doing walking around with his phone unlocked?

He studied Chris. The lawyer sat there with his elbows on his knees, bent over like a man waiting for news. His ill humor was still apparent. D’Angelo was in the middle of wondering whether it was genuine or not, when Elizabeth asked if he could wipe the phone remotely.

He thought about it. “Sure,” he said. “If it’s turned on and has a signal.”

“It’s not on,” said Chris. “It’s off. Fuck.” He looked like he might cry. “I checked.”

Hoping for some kind of guidance, D’Angelo glanced toward Elizabeth Carlyle. He didn’t have a particularly warm relationship with her. She wasn’t the type of person who joked around—it was a quality he actually admired—but her vibe right then was downright hostile. It scared him, and for a moment he patted at his own pockets, making sure he hadn’t lost his phone. “I’ll see how we can do it,” he said.

“Good,” said Elizabeth. “I need to tell Scott. I’ll be right back.”

She left the room, and D’Angelo again turned his attention to Chris. The younger man shifted in his seat and stared out the window. He kept shaking his head—a gesture D’Angelo interpreted as an attempt to express disbelief.

“It’s a company phone?” D’Angelo asked.

“Yes.”

“Verizon?”

“Yes.”

“iPhone?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me the number,” said D’Angelo, taking a notepad off Elizabeth’s desk.

Chris told him the number. After that D’Angelo had him run through the basics of the incident. The thief had been Asian, maybe Chinese, midforties, wearing a black suit. Chris said that after he noticed his phone missing, he tried to chase the man to a downtown-bound 6 train, but he missed him. He said he was 90 percent sure the man had boarded the train.

D’Angelo took out his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts looking for someone who would know how to wipe a powered-off iPhone. He called Emily Nolan, an ex-colleague from the FBI. The call went straight to voicemail. He left a message. Next he called Jerry Lamb, another colleague from the Bureau. D’Angelo—outlining the general scenario for Lamb—moved toward the window and looked down at Madison Avenue. Eighteen floors below, he saw people shuffling to their jobs. A feeling of well-being settled on him; he felt focused.

The feeling was short lived. First, Jerry informed him that as long as the phone remained off it couldn’t be wiped—not without putting something on there first. Yes, he was sure of that.

Elizabeth, now trailed by Scott Driscoll, her closest ally in the firm, came back into the room. As D’Angelo tried to end the call, her face showed impatience.

He told her the bad news. He tried to soften it by saying the phone would probably end up getting shipped to China, where it would be wiped and sold on the black market. That didn’t comfort her.

When she asked again, he confirmed that it couldn’t be done. He watched her eyes close; she rubbed her temples. D’Angelo glanced at Scott Driscoll. He was skinny and normally walked around with his arms out like a weight lifter, but he now stood—arms crossed in front of himself—like he was going to throw up. He looked ashen. He was roughly the same age as D’Angelo, midfifties, but he looked older now.

Calm down, thought D’Angelo, forcing himself to take a steadying breath. In his mind, he began forming a sentence; the message was going to be that he should get over to Grand Central, contact the NYPD, and begin trying to track the thief. See if the cops knew this dude. Start working.

Before he could speak, Elizabeth had opened her eyes, turned to Scott Driscoll, and asked, “Valencia Walker?”

Driscoll nodded.

D’Angelo felt a pang of jealousy. He was standing right there—what the hell did they need to call her for? He knew better than to protest. Instead, he looked away, nodded like he agreed, and told himself they were calling her in because they were going to ask her to do things that they wouldn’t ask someone from their own firm to do. They needed a buffer. By the time his eyes went back to Elizabeth, she had already placed the call.

A moment later she spoke into the phone: “Valencia, we have a situation,” she said.

Valencia Walker was twenty-one blocks south of CDH’s office. She was glad to excuse herself from the meeting she was in. She’d been expecting a call from Elizabeth and acted amused that it would be about a lost phone. What would she think of next?

After hanging up, she sent a text to two of her colleagues and told them she had a job that needed immediate attention. Were they in the city?

Milton Frazier responded instantly: Affirmative.

Me too, replied Billy Sharrock a moment later.

On the elevator ride down, Valencia texted them that the billing name for the job would be Hopscotch. She told Billy to go to Grand Central and contact the NYPD sergeant on duty: Have him stand by. She asked Milton to pick her up in front of Credit Suisse as soon as he could. Then she texted her assistant Danny Tsui and told him to drop everything, sit at his desk, and wait for further instruction.

As soon as the elevator doors opened, she stepped out and called Wally Philpott, an NYPD detective she paid for jobs like this. “How busy are you?” she asked, when he answered.

“Never too busy for you,” said the cop.

“Can you meet me at Grand Central in half an hour?”

“Oh boy,” said Wally. “Here we go.”

Now it begins, thought Valencia as she made her way toward the building’s exit. All of the men in the lobby—the security guards, couriers, and men in suits—watched her. She could feel it. She knew she was good-looking, and she dressed the part. She wore tailored suits, chic and expensive. But it wasn’t her looks or clothes they were gaping at. They were staring at her because she carried herself like the most powerful person in the building, no matter what building she happened to be in.

That sense of power had been developed during her ten years as a case officer in the CIA. Her path to the Agency had been unusual. She had gone to college (University of Pennsylvania), bummed around New York for a bit after graduation, went to law school (NYU), and joined The Bronx Defenders. After five years, wanting to make more money and needing a change of scenery, she applied for a position on the legal team of a large consulting firm. They had offices in Istanbul. She’d spent her junior year of college studying abroad at Boğaziçi University and spoke some Turkish. The job seemed like a natural fit.

One of her first jobs in Turkey involved handling some negotiations with a large communications technology company. Her counterpart at the company was a man named Hugh Loftus, a loud, big-bellied Texan. He had a red face, and he drank constantly, even during business hours. They spent months working together.

One night, they were in Emirgan, a neighborhood on the Bosphorus, having drinks with some of their Turkish colleagues. They were seated outside, and the sun was setting. Valencia looked across the table at Hugh. His face had become serious, something that rarely happened. He asked her to join him for a cigarette. She didn’t smoke, but she stood up and followed him to the sidewalk.

When they were away from the group, he lit his cigarette, looked over his shoulder, and pulled Valencia by the arm so she was closer. They walked away from the outside tables. She worried that he was going to hit on her.

“You know, I used to work for the government,” he said. “Would you ever think of doing that?”

Valencia told him her last job had been with The Bronx Defenders.

He smiled, shook his head, and looked down the river. “I’m talking Government with a big G, you hear me, right?”

Valencia smiled and raised her eyebrows theatrically. “You mean spy?”

“I’m gonna recommend you.”

She asked why, and he told her he liked the way she carried herself. “You seem comfortable in your skin,” he said. “Your Turkish is decent. You don’t have any damn relatives here. And you brought me a Killen’s steak when you came to negotiate.”

She smiled.

“You flew it all the way in from Houston.”

She reminded him that she’d also brought a bottle of bourbon.

“And that,” he said, tapping her shoulder with his fat finger.

Still, she thought he was joking, and she paid him no mind.

Two weeks later, he called and said that a friend was in town. Maybe she’d like to meet him? She didn’t need to ask what the meeting was about. She understood now. Before then, she’d never thought of being a spy; she had never even considered it. But just like that, it all made sense. Her life clicked into place. She couldn’t sleep that night. She was too excited.

She met Hugh’s friend—a thoughtful man who introduced himself as Cunningham—took a walk with him, answered questions about her life, asked him about his. The CIA was never mentioned. It all seemed very informal. A month later, Hugh met back up with her. “It’s time to take a leave of absence,” he said. “It’ll be good for you.”

She returned to the United States and spent the next year taking tests, being polygraphed, psychologically profiled, and waiting for her background to clear. She did contract work to pay her bills. On February 21, 2000, she received a generic envelope in the mail.

When she opened it, she saw it was from “the Office of Personnel.” It didn’t say anything about the CIA, but it told her to report for duty in three weeks.

In March of 2000, she began her two-week orientation. From there she was assigned to a desk in the European Division, Turkey section, of the Clandestine Service. She spent her days reading intelligence reports, serving as an interagency liaison, and doing whatever her branch chief—a skinny, unassuming man, called Culpepper—asked.

After three months on the desk she was sent to The Farm for operational training. Her assessment had flagged her as a natural recruiter. Her charts showed that she was exceptional at winning people’s trust. She would be trained to spot, assess, develop, recruit, and run foreign agents. Her training, of course, would also include all things operational: countersurveillance, weapons, disguise, counterfeiting, and communications.

Beyond normal spycraft, her lessons also included more esoteric things: acting (taught by an ex-Broadway actor), somatic regulation, and interpersonal manipulation (both taught by a husband-and-wife team of Rice University psychologists).

The ten months at The Farm was the happiest time of her life. After The Farm she did a monthlong crash course in Turkish at CIA University in Chantilly, Virginia. From there she did four two-year postings abroad (and one in the United States). Her first was at the legal office in the American embassy in Turkey. Officially, she was working for the State Department. Unofficially, she was recruiting and running agents, Turkish and otherwise.

She arrived in May of 2001. Four months later, on September 11, America was attacked. The world changed quickly.

Milton Frazier, one of Valencia’s men, had also been an officer in the Agency. His path there had been more standard; he’d joined after being in the Special Forces. They had never met while they were overseas. He had heard of her, though, and he read her reports.

Milton joined Valencia’s firm four years ago. He’d been sleeping with her for the last six months. She had initiated it. It was a strange affair. She was almost ten years older than him. They barely talked about what they were doing—which was fine with Milton, since he was married and had two kids.

As he pulled up to Credit Suisse, he saw Valencia standing near the door. She had her phone to her ear and her lips were moving, but her eyes tracked his approach. Right when he stopped, she ended her call and hopped in the front seat.

“Some kid had his phone stolen,” said Valencia.

“What?”

“A lawyer at CDH.”

“What kinda shit was on this phone?”

“The kind they’d rather not have floating around the toilet,” said Valencia.

Milton watched her pull the visor down and check her lipstick. She cleaned her teeth with her tongue and then looked at him. The look told him to stop staring at her. His eyes went back to the road; he checked all his mirrors and noted the plate numbers behind him.

When they arrived at Elizabeth Carlyle’s office, a security guard accompanied them in the elevator to the eighteenth floor. Elizabeth’s assistant stood there waiting; after a quick greeting, he ushered them back toward a quiet conference room. Milton walked slightly behind the group so he could sanitize his hands without being observed.

When they entered the room, Milton saw Elizabeth Carlyle—who he’d met a dozen times—leaning on a table tapping at her phone. Elizabeth hired Valencia’s firm whenever she needed a sticky situation taken care of. These jobs, by their very nature, usually fell into ethically gray areas. Standing there, Milton thought about the last thing he’d done for them. He’d been tasked with explaining the downside of testifying to a witness in a securities fraud case.

Milton had laid out exactly what refusing to testify would look like. The witness would be held in contempt of court. He might end up sitting in jail for the duration of the trial. But that was extremely unlikely, and still, wouldn’t that be less bothersome than ending up on the wrong side of a lawsuit?

Milton delivered this message in a friendly way; he smiled and spoke like a buddy offering advice. It was, strictly speaking, witness tampering. And if any of it ever came back on them Milton knew he’d have to take the fall. Elizabeth Carlyle certainly never asked for him to do anything like that. Neither did Valencia Walker. He’d acted on his own. That’s why he got paid the big bucks.

Still, with all the jobs they’d done for the law firm, Milton had never exchanged more than vague pleasantries with Elizabeth. Valencia always dealt with her. The two women didn’t email. They’d meet for lunch, and Valencia would come back with the job.

Right then, when they stepped inside the conference room, Elizabeth looked up and shook her head as though trying to impart what a mess they were walking into. There seemed to be a shared bad mood in the room. It seemed worse than normal.

Seated at the table was an exhausted-looking young man Milton assumed was the lawyer who’d lost his phone. The third person was a white man in his fifties who stood up, walked over, and offered Valencia his hand.

Milton watched Valencia smile warmly and ask about his old boss in Newark, Donnegan. Always working the crowds, thought Milton. The woman was like a damn politician.

“Michael D’Angelo,” said Valencia, motioning toward Milton. “You’ve met Milton Frazier? He works for me.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Milton, shaking hands.

“Is this the kid?” asked Valencia.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and nodded. “Chris Cowley,” she said, barely able to hide her distaste.

Milton walked around the table and leaned against the far wall to watch. He knew that’s where Valencia would want him. It also allowed him to keep his eyes on the door, a remnant from his years abroad.

“Okay, sweetie, let’s sit face-to-face so we can talk,” said Valencia, smiling at the young man. “Pull your chair out.” Valencia then set a chair directly in front of his and sat on it. Their knees were a few inches apart. “That’s good.”

Milton watched her stare at the young man in silence for a long moment. It was a two-step process: first she wanted to raise his blood pressure and then she wanted to see how he’d react to direct attention. The performance wasn’t just for her interview subject, though; she was telling everyone in the room—particularly Elizabeth and her investigator—that she was in charge. This was her case now.

Milton’s gaze returned to the kid. He didn’t look particularly impressive. He was definitely young: a blonde lawyer, a little baby. A little white boy. Milton watched Valencia lean in and sniff the air between them.

“Have you been drinking?” she asked.

“Last night,” said the lawyer.

Valencia took hold of his wrists. While she did this, Milton stole a quick glance at Elizabeth and the investigator. They both watched with rapt attention. Elizabeth was blinking, as if she had allergies. D’Angelo crossed his arms, apparently aware that Milton was looking at him.

Holding the kid’s wrists in each of her hands, Valencia let an uncomfortable amount of time pass. She stayed still. Later she told Milton that the lawyer’s pulse was fast—somewhere around ninety-five beats per minute. But she didn’t say anything about it then.

Finally, she let his wrists go, and leaned back. The young man was nervous, Milton could see that from where he stood. But nervousness could be expected; at the very least, the kid was going to lose his job.

Valencia asked how he’d gotten to work that morning.

“I took the A train to Fulton, then the 4 to Grand Central.” The words had a rehearsed quality. Milton marked it in his mind and filed it away.

Valencia made Chris Cowley run through the whole trip: where he boarded, where in the car he rode, where he got off.

When Chris finished, D’Angelo handed Valencia a manila folder. “This is the subscriber information, if you want that,” he said. He then filled in a few more details: the location and the time of the incident. From the notes he’d taken, he read the description of the thief.

Valencia opened the file he’d given her, looked at it, and handed it to Milton. “I’m going to ask you all to stop doing anything more from here on out,” she said. She turned to D’Angelo. “Nothing. No Find My Phone app, no calls to the target phone. No police. No nothing.”

D’Angelo dropped his head.

Valencia turned back to Elizabeth. “Liz, sweetie, I want you to go on with your day. Go to the meetings you have to attend. If you have a lunch date, go to it. We’ll keep you posted. Hopefully we’ll have it all sorted out in a few hours.”

She turned back to Chris. “All right, you’re going to come with us,” she said. “Show us exactly what happened.” She stood, offered Elizabeth a small smile.

Milton nodded his goodbye to D’Angelo and shook Elizabeth’s hand. “We’ll get it back,” he told her.

“I was right here,” Chris Cowley said, pointing at the ground. He was showing Valencia Walker and Milton Frazier where the theft had occurred. They stood in one of the tiled hallways of Grand Central Station, where a seemingly endless crowd of pedestrians walked past without paying them any attention.

“I was walking this way, and the guy just bumped me. I said, ‘sorry,’ because I thought it was my fault, and kept moving.” He pointed in the direction they’d just come from.

“Don’t point,” said Valencia. “Just talk.”

“Right here, then.”

“And after that?”

“Then I exited—sorry—I exited, noticed what happened, hopped that turnstile, and ran back over this way. First I went over there”—he pointed toward the 7 train platform—“’cause I thought I saw him down that way. But he wasn’t there, so I ran over that way to the 4-5-6, and missed a 6 train.” He pantomimed banging on the door.

“Downtown?” asked Milton.

“Downtown.”

“Did you see the man?”

“I think I saw him on the train when it passed, but I can’t say for sure.”

Chris then led them to where he’d missed the train.

“It was right around here.” He turned and surveyed the area for a moment. A few commuters watched them with a kind of grumpy midmorning nonchalance.

Chris wondered if anyone else was watching them. He pointed toward a movie poster. “After I missed him I looked at that poster, and then I walked toward that exit.”

Feeling suddenly hungover, Cowley stared that way before he glanced back at Valencia. He couldn’t place her exact age; she appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties. She watched him with a slightly amused expression on her face. She wore eyeliner and lipstick, but no other makeup. She seemed extremely capable, and Chris couldn’t help being impressed.

He then looked at her associate, Milton, who was listening with his hands behind his back. The dude dressed well, Chris gave him that—expensive suit, perfect shoes. He was black and had a shaved head. His face, to Chris, looked skeptical—a kind of professional skepticism. Even under the circumstances, Chris couldn’t help noticing how attractive he was. The man clearly worked out.

Their eyes met for a moment, and Chris tried to psychically convey his romantic feelings without being obvious. I’m here, he said to Milton in his mind, if you’re interested.

“Call Danny Boy,” said Valencia to Milton. “Tell him to contact Arty Jacobson at Metro Authority. Tell him to pull the tape from—where are we? Downtown 4-5-6, approximately sixty-something yards north of the south wall. Tell him this gentleman here”—she pointed at Chris—“ran for the train, missed it, and you said you hit the door?”

“Yeah,” said Chris.

“Hit the door. And were you in that suit?”

“No, I was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans,” said Chris, feeling slightly embarrassed as he said it.

“Black leather jacket. Track it all the way back to when he gets off the train here in Grand Central. Tell him we need the video right this moment,” said Valencia, dropping her chin to emphasize the point. “Money is not an object. I don’t care if he’s in a meeting with the governor, we need it now.”

“Got it,” said Milton.

Right then another man in a suit approached the group. Valencia introduced him: “Chris, this is Billy Sharrock, one of our other associates.”

They shook hands. Billy Sharrock, like Milton Frazier, appeared to be in his early forties: a white version, thought Chris. He looked more dangerous; he had rough skin and his brown hair was gelled straight back. His suit, like Milton’s, was well cut, but he seemed somehow uncomfortable in it.

“We’ll find your phone,” said Valencia. She punctuated this by smiling at the group. Chris wasn’t sure if anyone knew what that smile was supposed to mean. “Billy can find anything,” she added, looking at her watch like she was pointing out his tardiness.

Suddenly bashful, Billy stood there gazing at his feet.

* * *

A Chinese man named Ren Xiong stole the phone. Forty-four years old, he’d been in America for less than eighteen months. Just as Chris Cowley reported, he had jumped on a downtown-bound 6 train and ridden six stops from Grand Central to Bleecker Street. From there he exited on foot and headed west toward Washington Square Park. He’d already practiced this route, and was familiar with it, but today, after the theft, everything seemed to stand out with more clarity. He felt intoxicated, as if he were on amphetamines.

There was a camera on the corner of Broadway and Bleecker above the doorway of a shop. Xiong turned his head as he passed, but he didn’t fully avoid it. Up to a point, he was supposed to be seen; then he would vanish.

As he walked, the incident played through his mind. It had gone well. Nobody had seen him. He could still feel the inside of the pocket against the back of his hand. He could feel where their shoulders had touched, a kind of physical memory of the event.

He carried the stolen phone, powered off, in his front pants pocket, tapping it every few steps to make sure it was there. A white woman walked by, and he couldn’t help glancing at her. It was a beautiful day, the weather was still cool, but there was a hint of warmth in the air. Spring was coming. It would be his second American spring.

At that early hour, the park wasn’t crowded. Students walked to class with their eyes on their phones. A few homeless people slumped on benches. A maintenance man fussed with a trash can. Pigeons looked for scraps of food.

Xiong made his way to the west side of the park, where the first few games of chess had already started. He approached a table and watched a Nigerian man he knew—Malik Abdul Onweno—make quick work of an older Russian. Xiong watched Malik’s rook chase the Russian’s king. The Russian retreated hastily. After each move, the men slapped at a timer. Malik’s queen jumped to the back rank, and Xiong—unlike the Russian—could see the match would be finished in two moves.

“That’s it. Lights out. Checkmate,” said the Nigerian, standing up triumphantly. He noticed Xiong for the first time.

“Wassup with it, man?” he said, stepping toward him and laying a hand on his back. Xiong had told him to be here at this hour, and he was. He studied the man’s face and read a hint of nervousness.

The Nigerian turned to a friend of his, raised his hand to his mouth like he was whispering, and called out, “God Save, take my spot.” The younger man, God Save, jumped up and took his spot at the table.

“Wassup with you?” asked Malik. He escorted Xiong away from the chess players, one hand on his arm like a jail guard.

“I have the phone I spoke about.”

Malik guided him to a park bench where they sat. Xiong handed him the phone. The Nigerian made a show of rubbing his thumb across some scratches on the back and then made another show of picking at a scratch on the screen with his thumbnail. “It works?”

“Yes,” said Xiong.

Malik, as though he was breaking bad news, said, “I can give you sixty for this.”

Xiong frowned and nodded. He didn’t care about the money. His eyes shifted to the park in front of him, and he looked for cameras. Now was the time to start avoiding them. How long did he have until someone came looking for him?

The thought caused a small wave of apprehension to pass over him. He ignored it by staring at the ground. His mind drifted to a memory of being in the Hai River Park in Tianjin. The image of his father passing out ear-hole fried cake came to him for a moment. It vanished when Malik tapped his arm and held out three twenty-dollar bills between his index and middle finger. Xiong took the money, folded it, and put it in his coat pocket. For Malik’s benefit, he formed his mouth into a smile, and then leaned close to his ear so he could whisper: “You don’t want to hold this one. Tell your guy the same.”

Malik leaned forward and whistled to another young man. When the young man rode up on a bike, he held the phone out like a ticket. “Take this to the Jew,” he said. He then pulled a roll of Scotch Tape from his pocket, ripped off an inch, and put it on the back of the phone. He held it up so the young man could see the tape. “This one, don’t hold on to it,” he said. “Don’t sit with it, man. I’m not playing. Don’t eat your lunch—you got to move this one. Tell him the same.”

Youssouf Wolde, the young man who took the phone, was an eighteen-year-old Somali. After Malik handed him the phone and gave him his instructions, he put it in his backpack with the others. He glanced at the man sitting with Malik and wondered how his friend knew so many people. Then he put his earphones back on, fussed with his own phone, and pressed play. He was listening to Bobby Shmurda.

The man they called the Jew kept his office in the Diamond District.

Youssouf rode his bike up Sixth Avenue all the way to West Forty-Seventh Street. When he got there, he turned against traffic and pedaled to the middle of the block. Before he’d finished locking his bike to a light pole, two large Israeli men approached him. One wore a tracksuit and looked like a Tel Aviv gangster; the other wore jeans and a sweater and a Bluetooth earpiece. Youssouf recognized their faces but didn’t know their names.

“Brother, you looking to sell?” said the man in the tracksuit.

“Nah, I’m good,” said Youssouf.

“Where’s Omar?” asked the other man.

Youssouf wasn’t sure which Omar he was referring to, so he just shrugged his shoulders and told him he didn’t know.

Centered between all the jewelry shops was an electronics store called Asia Model, filled with tall stacks of merchandise. Discordant beeps and bells rang out from the toy section. Youssouf made his way toward the back of the shop, stepping around an old man, who was squatting to see something at the bottom of a shelf.

A clerk at the counter, a man Youssouf was friendly with, saw him and called out, “Opa, where’s my lunch?” Youssouf didn’t know what he was talking about, either, so he just laughed him off and kept moving.

Before reaching the back of the store, Youssouf went through a doorway on his right that led to a quiet hallway. He passed through another doorway and then skipped up the stairs, two at a time, until he reached the third floor. As he walked, in his mind he repeated the rap lyrics he’d just been listening to: Making all this loot ’til it stacks. Boy call me real ’cause I’m racks.

At the end of the hall, he came to a door with a piece of paper taped to it that read American iPhone Repair. He walked in. True to the name, inside he found four men seated at their desks repairing iPhones. Three of the men glanced up at him, and one, Ohad, an Israeli, rose to his feet.

“Wassup, player?” said the Israeli.

“Is Avram here?”

Ohad sat back down. “Yeah, yeah, go,” he said, seeming sad that Youssouf wasn’t there for him.

Youssouf proceeded forward and the next door was buzzed open. He entered a second room, brightly lit, where six additional men sat repairing phones. A few of them glanced up and nodded. Techno music played from a small speaker in the middle of the room. Youssouf continued to the back, where another door buzzed open.

This room had a window and was nicer than the other two. Seated behind a desk cluttered with paper was Avram Lessing. He wore a blue oversized New York Giants hoodie. The top of his bald head was partially covered by a yarmulke. His face, despite the baldness and his age, was chubby and youthful. He wore glasses.

He was talking on the phone. “Mommy, I have to go now,” he said, gesturing to Youssouf to sit. “No, no, tell Aba I’ll call him back.” He ended the call, and with a cocky expression looked over. “So?”

“I got six,” said Youssouf.

Avram picked up a bag of toffee candies and offered them to his guest; Youssouf took a small handful, opened a toffee, put it in his mouth, and put the others in his pants pocket.

“Six 7s, any 8s?” asked Avram.

“Man, they iPhones, that’s all I know.”

“So, break ’em out, fam.”

Youssouf smiled; he liked Avram.

He was about to get up when he remembered the instructions Malik had given him. He opened the bag, dug around in the phones, and pulled out the one with the inch of Scotch Tape on the back. After holding it up and showing Avram, he spoke in a whisper: “This one—you don’t want to hold on to this one.”

Elizabeth Carlyle sat at her desk and considered the calls she could make. For starters, she could try Edwin Kerins, the most reasonable of Calcott Corporation’s in-house counsel. She’d explain to him that one of her junior associates had taken a copy of the documents out of the office. He had them on his phone, she’d say. Yes, the phone was stolen.

Then she’d have to call Charles Bloom, Calcott’s CEO. She pictured him for a second, saw his saggy-skinned face, and felt sick. She’d call all the partners of her firm, of course, even the ones who were out of town. She’d tell them all what had happened. The calls would be miserable. There would be yelling, confusion, and long, predictable silences as people tried to understand exactly what she was saying. Recriminations, finger pointing.

Worst of all, though, someone would try to soothe her, someone would try to minimize the damage, tell her it wasn’t her fault. Fucking idiots. A Rolodex of idiots played through her mind. All of them. Every single one.

The fact of the matter was that after thirty-one years of practicing law, Elizabeth Carlyle was burnt out. Her twelve-hour days should have become shorter long ago. She was a named partner; she didn’t have to work the hours she did. But that wasn’t how she operated. She needed to touch every facet.

Elizabeth had known she was going to be a lawyer since the sixth grade. Her father had been an attorney, but he wasn’t her inspiration. It was another classmate’s father, a man called Mr. Holland, who made a presentation on constitutional law to Elizabeth’s sixth grade class.

“If you know the rules,” he said, standing in front of the class, and looking right at little Lizzie Ording, “and you prepare, and you come to court, you will win the case.”