Threat Level Black

“Last natural forest in New York,” said one of the detectives Macklin had sent to watch the Inwood address. He jerked his hand behind him, gesturing toward the expanse of trees rising to the northwest. “You know, Peter Minuit bought Manhattan on a spot over there.”

“I’ll take the tour later,” said Fisher. “We have a suspect or what?”

“Basement apartment, halfway down Nagle,” said the detective. “Separate entrance. Looks vacant.”

Nagle mixed small food markets with check cashing shops with travel agencies; some of the signs were in Spanish but the graffiti betrayed a much wider mix of ethnic slurs. The man playing tour guide was named Witt. He was a state trooper whose enthusiasm made it clear he was not a native. Fisher and Witt sat in the front seat of a Jimmy SUV;Witt’s partner was in the back, nursing a 7-Up. They had a clear view of the apartment’s entrance, which sat between two travel stores. The entrance to the upper portion of the building was near the end of the block. Fisher noted that there were plenty of pay phones along the street.

“You interview the subject?” Fisher asked.

“Our orders were to watch the place,” said Witt. “Nobody’s come in or out.”

“You mean nobody’s used that entrance.”

“It’s the only way into the apartment.”

“Where were you born?”

“ Long Island. Why?”

There was almost surely another entrance to the building from the apartment itself; the unit would have been set up originally either for a superintendent or else was a utility area for a furnace. In any event, there was no sense making a federal case out of it.

“Drive around the block a bit. I want to see what it looks like.”

“If we leave, we’re not going to know if anybody comes in or out.”

“Yeah,” said Fisher.

The trooper put the truck in gear. They drove past the 207th Street train yard, then back around toward Baker Field and Inwood Hill Park. It was a very mixed neighborhood, a little lower in the pecking order than Astoria, maybe, but probably a notch or two above the place in Washington Heights.

Witt pointed out some rocks he said had been disturbed by the “glaciers.”

“Very historical area,” said the trooper as they swung past the Dyckman House, which had been built just after the Revolutionary War and, by some colossal municipal oversight, had actually been preserved by the City.

“I’m thinking our guys don’t care too much for history-or glaciers,” said Fisher. “Park the car and let’s go talk to Mr. Brown.”

Fisher had the others go around from upstairs, covering the back entrance.

“You sure you want both of us there?” asked Witt. “What if he shoots you or something?”

“I doubt we’ll be that lucky,” said Fisher.

He gave the others a minute to get into position, then went down the stairs and rapped loudly on the door. He had to try twice before he heard shuffling inside.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Brown?”

“Yes?”

“FBI. I’d like to talk to you for a second.”

“FBI?”

“You probably hear that all the time, right?” said Fisher. He had his wallet out and held it up against the window near the door. “Here, take a look. I want to ask you a couple of questions.”

“FBI?”

“Yeah.”

“J. Edgar Hoover?”

“His illegitimate son.”

Locks began turning. Fisher held his creds out as the door opened.

There was no need to. Brown was blind.

“You’re with the FBI?” asked the man, who was about sixty-five. He had an ebony face with short but full gray hair, and walked with a slight stoop.

Fisher glanced at his feet. He was wearing sneakers.

“I wanted to ask you about some shoes,” Fisher told Brown. “You have some dress shoes fixed a while ago?”

“Dress shoes? Me?”

“Mind if I come in?” said Fisher.

“Come along.”

The apartment had a mildew odor and the white walls had weathered gray. There wasn’t much furniture: a sofa and easy chair in the living room, a bed and wardrobe in the bedroom, table and chairs in the kitchen.

“What does the FBI want with shoes?”

“We’re very into heels,” said Fisher. “Mind if I look at yours?”

“Look away,” said Mr. Brown.

Fisher followed him to the closet. Mr. Brown’s dress shoes were worn at the heels and hadn’t been repaired since they’d been bought, let alone within the past six months. Fisher looked around the closet and under the bed without finding any other shoes-or sarin gas, or E-bombs, or anything except a little dust. He went with the man into the kitchen, telling him about the shoemaker but being purposely vague about what sort of case he was working on. Mr. Brown had lived in the Inwood area for more than thirty years, though he’d only had this apartment for about five. He had not been to Washington Heights in more than three decades, not since his friend Jimmy Fleming had died; they used to talk baseball and drink beer in Jimmy’s kitchen on St. Nicholas Avenue.

“Used to cheat,” said Brown. “I know he did. But he was a good sort otherwise, so I let him. And he was free with the beer.”

St. Nicholas was a block away from the apartment the three suspects had been in, but it was obviously just a coincidence.