Gridiron - Philip Kerr

Levine had gone into the office early to get Richardson alone. He had planned what he was going to say, and had repeated the words to himself in the car that morning, like an actor in a movie. He would remind Richardson of the way he had motivated the team and set the whole tone of the project. Of the enormous amount of responsibility he had taken. He found Richardson in the far corner of the studio, his Turnbull and Asser shirt sleeves already rolled up, scribbling notes in one of the shiny silver-covered sketchbooks that accompanied him everywhere. He was facing the scale model of a $300 million police training facility in Tokyo.

'Morning, Ray. Have you got a minute?'

'What do you think of this, Tony?' Richardson asked sourly.

Levine sat down at the table and looked over the model, a competition-winning entry for a site in the unglamorous Shinkawa area of the city, close to Tokyo's financial centre. Even by Tokyo standards the building looked futuristic, with its concave glass roof, and, at the building's heart, a stainless steel clad volume that contained gymnasiums, a swimming pool, teaching facilities, a library, auditorium and an indoor firing range.

Levine hated it. It looked like a silver Easter egg in a perspex box, he thought. But what did Richardson think of it? He adopted what he thought was a thoughtful expression and tried to read Richardson's neatly boxed-in pencil notes upside down. When this proved unsuccessful he looked to find a neutral form of words that would cover him either way.

'It certainly takes a radically different aesthetic approach from anything else in the surrounding area,' he said.

'That's hardly surprising. The surrounding area is being completely redeveloped. Come on, Tony do you think it sucks or not?'

Levine was relieved that Richardson's videophone rang at this moment. He would have time to consider his reply: he looked over at Richardson's notes, but was disappointed to find that they were little more than doodles. He cursed silently. Even the man's doodles looked clean and efficient, as if they actually meant something.

It was Helen Hussey, and she looked anxious.

'We've got a problem, Ray,' she said.

'I don't want to hear about it,' Richardson said flatly. 'That's why I pay you people. So I don't have to waste time fixing every fuck-up myself. Talk to your project manager, Helen. He's sitting right beside me.'

Richardson twisted the screen so that the small fibre-optic camera was pointed at Levine and returned to boxing in his pencilled scribbles, as if somehow even these idle doodles needed the preservation offered by a protective border.

'What's up, babe?' Levine said, eager to have the opportunity to offer a cool and correct judgement of what was to be done and to solve her problem in front of the boss. 'How can I help?'

'It's not that kind of problem,' said Helen, trying to conceal her instinctive loathing of Levine. 'There's been another death. And this time it looks like someone's been murdered.'

'Murdered? Who? Who is it that's dead?'

'The overnight security guard. Sam Gleig.'

'The black guy? Well gee, that's really awful. What happened?'

'Someone beat his brains out last night. They found him in an elevator this morning. The police are here right now.'

'My God. How awful.' Levine was painfully aware of knowing that he had no idea what to say to her. 'Do they know who did it?'

'Not yet, no.'

'My God, Helen. Are you OK? I mean, someone should be with you. The trauma, y'know?'

'Are you crazy?' Richardson hissed, twisting the screen away from him. 'Don't give her ideas like that, you asshole, or I'll have another fuckin' lawsuit on my hands.'

'Sorry, Ray. I just…'

'We can't afford to have the LAPD prevent our construction workers from working, Helen,' barked Richardson. 'You know what they're like. Police lines out front. Close a stable door after the horse is bolted. We can't lose a day on this.'

'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.

'I often work late and we sometimes had a word or two, he and I. Mostly about sports: the Dodgers. And he went to the track once in a while, Santa Anita, I think. Gave me a tip once. But he wasn't a big gambler. Ten bucks here and there.' Mitch shook his head. 'It's too bad this had to happen.'

Curtis said nothing. Sometimes it was better that way. You just let someone fill the silence and hope that maybe they said something interesting or useful: something you wouldn't ever have thought of asking about.

'But you know, even if he was dealing, like you suggested, he couldn't have been using. I'm 100 per cent certain of that much, anyway.'

'Oh? What makes you so sure, Mr Bryan?'

'This building, that's what.' Mitch frowned. 'This is confidential, OK?'

Curtis nodded patiently.

'Well, when we planned this building we brought in washroom modules that were designed to our client's specifications.'

'I've been hearing something about those. Hot desking is one thing. But hot seating is quite another.' He chuckled. 'My colleague almost got his ass steam-cleaned.'

Mitch laughed. 'Some of the units have yet to be properly adjusted,' he said. 'They can give you quite a surprise. Even so, they're pretty well state of the art. And it goes much further than a warm-water douche, I can assure you. The toilet seats give you a readout on your blood pressure and your body temperature, and the actual toilet bowl contains a urinalysis facility. Effectively the computer checks you for… Here, I'll show you.' Mitch leaned towards his computer and clicked the mouse through a number of choices. 'Yes, here we are. Sugars, acetone bodies, creatine, nitrogenous compounds, haemoglobin, myoglobin, amino acids and metabolites, uric acid, urea, urobilinogen and coproporphyrins, bile pigments, minerals, fats, and of course a great variety of psychotropic drugs: certainly all of the ones proscribed by the US Federal Bureau of Narcotics.'

'This happens every time you go to the can?'

'Every time.'

'Jesus.'

'For instance, acetone bodies might be high in the urine of an individual who was developing diabetes, and that might have a bearing on his or her work performance, not to mention the company's medical insurance.'

'With drug use, what happens if the test proves positive?'

'First the computer closes down your work-station and denies you access to the elevators and to a telephone. That's just damage limitation, to protect the Corporation against potential negligence. Then it reports the violation to your senior. It's up to him what happens to you. But it's a very accurate test. Shows up anything you've used in the last seventy-two hours. The manufacturers insist that it's as good as the nalline test, maybe even better."

Curtis was still opening and closing his mouth like a surprised fish. The wonder of it was that none of those cops working in the basement had proved positive. Curtis knew that Coleman smoked a little dope now and again. Quite likely some of the others too. He could just see the look on the police commissioner's face if any of the newspapers found out that officers investigating a murder had been picked up for drug abuse by a smart building that had been the scene of a crime.

Mitch sipped his coffee, enjoying the policeman's surprise. 'So,' he said finally. 'You can see how it was impossible for Sam to have used dope.'