Threat Level Black

“I was afraid of that,” said Fisher. “This is my assistant,” he added, gesturing to Macklin. “He’s an expert in leaks.”

“Where’s your tools?” asked Mrs. DeGarmo.

“We investigate, then we get the proper tools,” said Fisher. “Is that coffee I smell?”

She eyed Macklin suspiciously.

“I brought more doughnuts,” said Fisher, holding up the bag.

“All right, you come in,” she told Fisher. Then she turned back to Macklin. “You, I don’t know about.”

“Mrs. DeGarmo, we’ve met before,” said Macklin. “I’m with Homeland Security. Remember?”

She squinted at the ID card he produced.

“Oh, okay, come in,” she said, waving her hand. “If Andy says.”

“He’s good with a flashlight,” said Fisher, who was already in the hallway.

Fisher went into the bathroom, taking off the top to the toilet tank.

“It’s already been searched, Andy,” said Macklin, coming in. “I keep telling you. Faud Daraghmeh’s probably back in Egypt.”

“He’s from Yemen.”

“Whatever.”

Fisher searched the bathroom carefully, discovering that Mrs. DeGarmo had changed her denture cream. He asked her for the key to Faud Daraghmeh’s apartment, which had not yet been rented out.

“Why search again?” asked Macklin when he came back downstairs. By now Mrs. DeGarmo’s “stories” were on and she was in the front room, watching them.

“Best place to hide something now,” explained Fisher, helping himself to some coffee. “Come back after it’s been searched.”

“No way,” said Macklin.

Fisher sipped the coffee, which was ever more bitter than he remembered. He wondered if maybe he should go into the plumbing business so he’d have a legitimate excuse to visit Mrs. DeGarmo when the case ended.

“You’re grasping at straws, Andy,” added Macklin. “You know this case is closed.”

Fisher said nothing, examining the list of items seized during the earlier search. Faud’s computer had checked out clean; besides his schoolbooks, the only papers he had in his apartment had been junk mail. He had two pairs of “battered dress shoes,” three red button-down shirts, assorted T-shirts, one pair of polyester pants, two pairs of dress pants, and one pair of jeans.

No suitcase? No backpack?

No underwear or socks.

Fisher took a long sip of coffee. The grains from the bottom of the cup settled on his tongue.

Heaven. But he had no time to linger.

“All right,” he told Macklin. “Let’s get going.”

“Where?”

“Library.”

According to the want ads, there had been more than a dozen vacant apartments in the immediate area the week before. Ruling out ones still advertised this week, Fisher found eight possibilities. He also got a list of apartment brokers.

“You have your people go to each one with the description of Faud Daraghmeh,” Fisher told Macklin, giving him the list. “It’s probable that he’d take an apartment within ten or so blocks of the train, something easy to walk.”

“Why don’t you think they already had a place set up somewhere else?” said Macklin.

“I do. But we haven’t found it, and this is the grasping-at-straws phase of the case,” said Fisher. “So we have some serious grasping to do.”

“Andy, the case is closed,” said Macklin. “It’s done. Don’t you think?”

“No,” said Fisher. “And I’ll tell you something else: The fact that we can’t find this guy makes me worry. A lot.”

“You’re worrying? Really?”

“That’s my point,” said Fisher.

Fisher made his way into Manhattan and up to Washington Heights, where he went not to the apartment that had been raided but to the shoe repair shop across the street. The proprietor stood at his workbench behind the front counter, looking exactly as he had when Fisher had last been there. The only sign that he had moved in the interim was the fact that there were no cobwebs or dust on him.

“You’ve come for the other heel,” said the man when Fisher walked in.

“I’m always looking for other heels,” said Fisher. “You remember me?”

“I fixed your right heel the other day.” The man pointed to a book of tickets. “You’re number 657A92. You take a D width. Wide foot.”

“Wide foot, big brain,” said Fisher. He slipped off his left shoe. “How much?”

“Ehh. Ten dollars. Two minutes.”

Fisher reached for his wallet.

“No, you pay when it’s finished.” The cobbler reached over to the side of his bench and pulled over a thick book of customer tickets. “Here. Fill this out.”

“What? Another one?”

“Every job gets a new receipt,” said the man. “Everyone comes into the shop-new ticket.”

“Everyone?”

“Sí. I have this shop for fifty years. Every customer gets a receipt. You know how many shoes I lose? None. Because they have a receipt. That is the secret to a fine business. Receipts.”

“Even for ten minutes?”

“Every customer has to have a ticket,” the man assured Fisher. “Every one. Address and phone number. Those are the rules. You think I stay in business for fifty years without a system? You make one exception, you know what you get?”

“Tennis shoes,” said Fisher.

The proprietor nodded grimly.

“Your helpers do that too? Fill out receipts.”

“My helpers? Of course.” The cobbler frowned. “Someone comes in, they make out a ticket.”

“Just to talk?”