30. Maddie
Chapter thirty
Maddie
This is already not going according to plan.
Ward changed the time to five p.m. and the meeting place to Doyers Street, a street known as the Bloody Angle in history because of the gang warfare centered around its blind angle.
But I’m determined to get this article published in tomorrow’s paper.
I can’t back down now. We’re meeting at a Chinese restaurant. It has to be safe.
The restaurant light is dim when I enter. Nick’s voice in my earpiece says, “I can barely see anything, but my eyes are adjusting. I’m here for you.” I’m wearing a little camera on my jacket so Nick can see what is going on, and the recorder pen is turned on.
A gold cat, Maneki Neko, is waving its paw at the checkout counter, which somehow makes me feel better. I’m hoping it brings me luck. Red curtains shroud the windows.
Ward is at a table already, and he gestures for me to join him. I order myself a green tea.
“Thanks so much for agreeing to this change of venue. I think I can be more honest outside the office,” Ward says. “You must admit that your call was quite short notice.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me,” I say. My voice sounds young and high-pitched. Great. Now I’m the one who sounds like a three-foot-tall cartoon character.
“I think we’ve been investigating the same thing, so it makes sense we pool our resources,” he says. “But let’s keep this discussion off the record.”
“I’m writing an article about corruption in the Infrastructure Department. It’s my understanding that certain property managers ask for a kickback in order to assign a repair contract.”
Ward nods. “Off the record, I discovered that as well. It apparently started innocently enough. One contractor offered a bribe to a property manager to get the job, and the property manager couldn’t resist the extra cash and thought it would just be this one time, but the money was too tempting.
We’ve been doing an internal investigation into that.
I have a sting operation running right now, so I’m going to have to ask you to hold off on writing any articles until we can catch the guilty mastermind behind this. ”
A sting operation? Could it be? No way. Not with the handwriting proof and my missing rat.
“Is that how you figured out this was happening?” I ask. “You were doing an internal investigation, and the property manager explained it in that way?”
“Yes, exactly. I can understand how hard it is to resist that extra money, of course,” he says.
“I’ve discussed this with Johnson, and we think Galliano and Pommer have teamed up to do this to get extra money.
Galliano needs money to support his daughter’s career.
He paid off an inspector who’s been threatening bars with fines unless they let his daughter play. You know that.”
“Do you have proof?”
“Demoraux came clean to us. You have the proof. You have a list of the bars where the tickets were issued…and then quickly resolved.” He chuckles. “Ophelia was offered spots at all of those places.”
Except that Ophelia never played at any of those bars. I confirmed that.
“Think about how little money Galliano makes as a deputy commissioner on a government salary and how much money he spent on her education. He’s also paid for publicity for her band. And it’s even worse for Pommer. Four children. What was he thinking?”
He drinks his tea.
“Pommer has huge debts,” he says. “He thought he was going to inherit money from his dad, but it turns out his dad was swindled out of his earnings by some fraudster. Pommer is in trouble, and he doesn’t want to tell his wife.
Those two might be in this together. They’re close.
I followed Pommer last Saturday, and he met with Demoraux. ”
“So this started with one property manager, but then once the deputy commissioner discovered this, instead of reporting it, he decided to take a cut?” I ask.
“That’s what we think happened, but our internal investigation is ongoing.”
“The property manager puts the deputy commissioner’s cut in a book in a library, and that book is picked up at the library by the deputy commissioner, right?”
He tilts his head. “You’ve got it. And Galliano was at the Harlem Library last Saturday, ready to pick up the money, right?”
Yes, except Galliano seemed to have no idea what to pick up. Ward must have seen Galliano at the Harlem Library last Saturday. Nick was right that Ward came in and left. Wait. This is proof that Ward knows we were at the library too.
It’s time to stop playing cat and mouse and see if he has a comment.
“And yet, you seem to be signaling via your Instagram posts which library and book,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “Purely coincidental. I like to do posts featuring different libraries. I don’t think I feature any particular book.”
“No. But Beatrice gave you a book with a Caper Crush bookmark, and we found one thousand dollars in cash in that book.”
He blanches but quickly recovers. “That’s the proof you have?”
“No, not all. I also have the handwritten letter you sent, asking for more. And proof that it is your handwriting.”
He leans in. “That was part of the sting operation.”
“Is that your on-the-record comment? Is Johnson going to confirm that you were doing a sting?”
Red-hot anger flares across his face. “No comment. You publish that article, and I’ll sue your paper. You’ll never work in this town as a reporter again.” He storms out.
“It’s totally him,” Nick says in my earpiece. “Should I join you?”
“No. Hang back by the blind corner. He was very angry.”
“Then I should join you.”
“Not yet. I need you as backup. Ward was angry enough to do something stupid.”
And I’m keen enough for this promotion to also do something stupid and let myself walk into his trap. But I have Nick as backup, and he will call the police if he thinks it’s unsafe. That was our compromise.
I text my boss what Ward said off the record and that Ward has no official, on-the-record comment. And that I think the other deputy commissioners are not involved.
I pay for both our teas (thanks, Ward) and exit. It’s dark already at five p.m. There has to be a reason he chose Doyers Street.
It turns out that knowing there’s a blind corner does give off a sense of danger. Red. Flag. My heart is beating so fast. I stop. Retreat. I have proof that it’s Ward. This is a stupid move. I’m not an action hero.
A rat scurries across the narrow pathway towards the dumpster, and I jump.
Take deep breaths.
I turn the corner. The streetlight is out.
And there Ward is, waiting for me.
He comes forward. I shift slightly so that the streetlight shines on his face. Eyes give away so much—and my jujitsu teacher often said to focus on the eyes, which can telegraph an opponent’s next move.
“This is your last chance. I won’t publish your dating contract if you kill the story,” he says.
I step back. “Did you do it because you need money for your miniature projects?”
“Projects? They’re works of art.” He puffs out his chest. “I’m an artist.”
“They are,” I say. Maybe that will help defuse the situation.
“Did Pommer tell you about the Caper Crush bookmark? Those two ganged up on me and have been trailing me nonstop. It’s like having Inspector Clouseau on my tail. Idiots. Galliano should have worn a proper disguise like your boyfriend did.”
Pommer and Galliano are not in on it.
“You recognized us?” I ask.
“I recognized your boyfriend. He didn’t hide the way he walks. Were you there too? What a crowd I had waiting for me at St. Agnes. Pommer and Galliano have no proof, or they would have told Commissioner Johnson, but you…”
“Did you pay Demoraux to offer bribes to the bar owners to make Galliano look guilty?”
“You have no proof linking me to Demoraux,” he says.
“Except that you just told me about the scheme. How did you know about it if you were not involved?”
He sputters.
“You won’t gain anything from publishing the contract.”
“But I will. I want you to hurt too. If you’re going to bring me down, you’re coming with me.
Make sure you put in your article how much Johnson values his corruption-free reputation.
” A raspy laugh emerges from Ward. “He should never have been promoted over me. I worked my way up. I know the Infrastructure Department. He was flitting from department to department, the commissioner position his for the asking because of his connections. I thought I didn’t have connections, but once I discovered that property managers were taking cuts of repair contracts, it turned out I could be the connection for construction jobs and with a lucrative payout.
Right under Johnson’s watch.” He laughs and takes a step closer.
I scoot back.
“Your colleague cornered me the other day. Seemed to be trying to figure out why you’d be interviewing us. Who was she again? The daughter of the editor of The Big Apple ? Very connected. You understand, right?”
“I do understand,” I say.
“And you’ll change the article?”
“No.”
He is in my face now. “Do you think I won’t hurt you because you’re a woman?”
“No.” I take a step back and grip the pepper spray tighter in my pocket.
“You were supposed to be scared off when I destroyed your apartment,” he says.
Ward is Hammer Man!
“Do we have a deal? I won’t release this fake-dating contract, and you don’t run the story.”
“That story is being printed as we speak,” I say.
“You witch!” He reaches to grab me.
I whip out the pepper spray.
“Aarrgh!” He screams and covers his eyes.
The pepper spray works.
I grab his arms, pull him off-balance, sweep his foot out from under him, and flip him. I sit on him. I have a moment while he’s still shocked, but then he struggles to push me off.
“Nick!” I yell. Can’t. Hold. Him. Down. Much. Longer.
But Nick is right there next to me, immobilizing Ward.
“I told you not to mess with her,” Nick says, tightening Ward’s arms behind his back.
A siren sounds, followed by running footsteps. The street is lit up with flashlights. It’s the officer who wanted my autograph.
“I called him as soon as I saw Ward stop here,” Nick huffs out.
The police take over, and it’s a blur as we go to the police station.
I call Felicity to tell her that Ward confirmed that the other deputy commissioners are not involved.
The article is focused on Ward, but I’m relieved to know that I don’t have to write a follow-up article adding the others.
We give our statements to the police, and then we’re released, although they may follow up with more questions.
But at least Ward is spending the night in jail.
Suddenly it’s Nick and me, alone at my apartment, sitting at my kitchen table. I sag against him. All the adrenaline has left me. He hugs me.
“You were brilliant with that flip.”
“You saw it?” I ask, leaning into him.
“I ran to you as soon as he cursed at you.” He pulls the Sherlock hat out of his coat pocket, puts it on my head, and then kisses my forehead. “My own Sherlock Holmes.”
“I wish I’d been able to convince him not to reveal our contract,” I say.
“He has to find a paper willing to publish it. And he won’t be able to reach out to anyone tonight since he’s in jail,” Nick says. “If he was honestly offering you a deal.”
We both look at each other. Integrity is clearly not Ward’s strong suit.
“I forgot to tell Felicity earlier, but I’m worried she is going to say we should break up—that this could distract from my big story.”
“I don’t want this to distract from your front-page news,” Nick says. “I’ll let my team know and ask them if there is any way that they can protect us, without our breaking up.”
We go to bed, but our lovemaking feels like we’re both trying to prolong it, to memorize each other’s bodies, as if this might be our last time. What we’re not admitting out loud is what we’re revealing as we cling to each other, desperate to hold on to what we have.