The Eighth Day

Chapter 15

Ahead, a red holographic stop signal stretched across the road, and Sam Harrington sped through the intersection without tapping the brake. Mooney fastened his seat belt. Sam didn't slow until he squealed around the corner on Nassau Street, squinting at the numbers on the buildings that loomed over him, and found the one where Jaffe worked, the address chiseled into a granite brick on one corner. He pulled to a stop at the curb and killed the engine.

"Let's go," he said to Mooney.

They fought their way through the early-morning crowd of pedestrians that surged along the sidewalk with heads down and smartphones out. The glass exterior of the building that contained the offices of Lark Morton gleamed beneath the soft fiery glow of the sky, reflecting the cityscape and its inhabitants.

Sam slipped inside and made his way to the rear of the lobby, and Mooney fell into step behind him. They flashed their badges at security and climbed the short flight of stairs leading to the elevators, where a half-dozen desk jockeys lingered. When the doors slid open, they shuffled forward and packed themselves into the cab.

The detectives got off on the thirty-fifth floor. The receptionist's desk was empty. The hallway was empty. They were alone.

Sam cocked his head, listening, but only the whir of the HVAC climate control broke the silence. He slipped down the hall to the first door on the left and reached for the doorknob.

"Wait," Mooney said, pointing. "What's that?"

A rectangular-shaped discoloration at eye-level marred the door's wooden surface. Sam touched it and rubbed his fingertips together. "Some kind of adhesive."

"Must've had a nameplate or something on it," Mooney said.

Sam frowned at the door, reached for the knob again, and pushed. It yawned open with a soft squeal.

The room beyond was empty.

Still frowning, Sam spun on his heels and stepped toward the door on the opposite side of the hall. It had the same discoloration as its neighbor, and when Sam eased it open, he surveyed another empty room.

They continued down the hallway. Someone had removed the nameplates from every door, and behind each, Sam and Mooney found another empty room. A few opened to reveal an outer office with a second door set into the far wall that led to a larger executive suite. But these rooms proved as barren as the rest.

"Are you sure we're on the right floor?" Mooney asked.

"I'm sure."

"So where is everyone?"

If Lark Morton had cleared out shop the day of Jaffe's disappearance, it would be as damning to the company as a bloody thumbprint. But the other option—that he'd invented a fictional investment firm as a cover story—felt wrong. Between the missing nameplates and Jaffe's heroic actions the day before, Sam's gut told him that if they'd shown up twenty-four hours prior, the suits of Lark Morton would have been in full business mode.

Yet he also remembered what Jaffe had told him about the man who'd warned him yesterday morning. "He said my name wasn't Shawn Jaffe, I wasn't from Ohio, and I wasn't an investment broker."

"Let's check a couple more," Sam said.

Three rooms later, he had his answer.

As he pushed the door open, the sharp aroma of fresh paint slapped him across the face. He wrinkled his nose and stepped into the room and onto a freshly shampooed carpet. An inner door opened upon an executive office with tall windows that revealed the city's skyline. Like the outer office, someone had painted its walls and shampooed the carpet.

"The hell?" Mooney said, pivoting in a slow circle.

"Someone went through a lot of trouble to wipe this place clean," Sam said.

"You think this is where your guy worked?"

"Look at the indentions in the carpet. There was a desk in here."

Mooney poked his head back into the other room. "Hey, out here, too. A secretary or something?"

Sam shrugged. "The only furnished rooms on the floor. Except for the nameplates, the others were empty." He stared out the windows at the city that stretched out before him. Without turning, he said, "Like the apartment."

"Huh?"

"This was supposed to be an investment firm, but Jaffe had the entire floor to himself. It's all for show, like the apartment."

"But why?"

For that, Sam had no answer.