Hell's Kitchen

TWENTY-FIVE

“It’s a construction site.”

Bailey asked, “What is?”

“The St. Augustus Foundation. I remembered the number – Five hundred West Thirty-ninth Street. It’s across the street from the church. But it’s just a hole in the ground.”

They were in Bailey’s bedroom – his temporary office – because of the fire in the main room. It didn’t seem much different from his office; the most noticeable difference was that the cooler for his wine rested beside the bed, not the desk. This room also sported a better used air conditioner than the office; if not cold, at least the air was less stifling. The burnt smell was overwhelming but Bailey didn’t seem to mind.

“Maybe the Foundation moved,” Bailey said.

“Gets better,” Pellam said. “I asked at the church office. No one there’s ever even heard of a St. Augustus Foundation.” He walked to the dusty window, which was momentarily darkened by the shadow of a crane that was lifting a large piece of sculpture into the open plaza in front of McKe

The statue was wrapped in thick kraft paper and it appeared to be in the shape of a fish. The derrick moved very slowly and he guessed the piece of stone or bronze weighed many tons. Around it workmen cleaned the grounds and tacked up ba

“But there is a St. Augustus Foundation,” Bailey said and shuffled through documents on the bed and found a stack of scorched photocopies bearing the seal of the Attorney General of the state. “It’s been incorporated under the not-for-profit corporation law. It exists. It’s got eight members on the board.”

Pellam looked over the list. The men and women on the board all lived nearby. He touched one name – at an ddress on Thirty-seventh Street, block away. James Kemper.

“Let’s see what he has to say.” Bailey picked up the phone. But Pellam touched his arm.

“Let’s pay a surprise visit.”

But there was no surprise, not to Pellam. Construction was scheduled to begin in two months on the vacant lot where the Mr. Kemper supposedly lived.

“It’s all fake,” Bailey muttered as they returned to his office.

“When you called the director – that minister – who did you get?”

“Answering service.”

“How do we find out who’s behind it?” Pellam asked. “Without tipping our hand?”

From the movie business he knew the complexity of incestuous corporate entanglements.

“It’s a not-for-profit foundation, which’ll make tracing things a lot harder than with Business Corporation Law companies.”

In Bailey’s bedroom again Pellam happened to glance down at a paper, also scorched, sitting next to the corporate filings. It was the expert’s report on the handwriting on the insurance application, comparing Ettie’s to the sample.

He’d asked Ettie about letters she might have written lately, thinking someone might’ve stolen a sample of her handwriting. But he and Ettie both had forgotten about the waiver she’d signed for McKe

“It’s McKe

“But…” Bailey lifted his hands, dismayed. “Why are you bothering? Even if McKe

“That’s not,” Pellam said, “going to be a problem.”

“But-”

“I’ll deal with that. The big question is how do we prove a co

The lawyer’s face grew troubled. “Developers’re geniuses at this sort of thing. And McKe

“How long?”

“A couple of weeks.”

“When’s Ettie being sentenced?”

A pause. “Day after tomorrow.”

“Then I guess we don’t have a couple of weeks, do we?” Pellam’s eyes were on the construction site across the street. The wrapped sculpture was seated as unceremoniously as a girder. Several passersby gazed at it intently, wondering what it might be. But the workers walked away without tearing off the paper.

Wearing the Armani again and crowned with a stolen hard hat cocked over his brow, John Pellam walked matter-of-factly through the lobby of McKe

Pellam’s saunter told everybody in the office that he belonged here and that no one better delay what was obviously an urgent mission.

And no one did.

Clipboard in hand, he passed a row of secretaries and walked boldly through a large oak door into an office that was so opulent it had to be that of Roger McKe

He strode to his desk, on which were two framed pictures – one of McKe

Pellam started on the file cabinets. After fifteen minutes he’d worked his way through hundreds of letters, financial statements and legal documents but none of them mentioned the St. Augustus Foundation or the buildings on Thirty-sixth Street.

The credenza behind the desk was locked. Pellam chose the direct approach – he looked for a letter opener to break the lock with. He’d just found one in the top right-hand drawer when a booming voice filled the room. “Nice suit.” There seemed to be a bit of a brogue in it. Pellam froze. “But it’s not exactly you. You ask me, you’re more of a denim kind of guy.”

Pellam stood slowly.

Roger McKe

His eyes flicked from one man to the other.

“We’ve been looking for you,” McKe

McKe

The assistant picked up the camera and gestured with his head toward the door.

Pellam started to speak but McKe