We found a phone booth and called back to HQ to give a bit of an update and also to ask for access to the local FBI building, if anyone would hold the information of someone like David it would be them. Someone with a good reputation for cracking safes would also undoubtedly be on the FBI's watchlist.
Joseph was not too happy about the current state and the gunfight we got ourselves in but eventually agreed to make sure the FBI would help us get what we needed which led us to now, the FBI's Field Office, a quaint hazard between the heavy shoulders of Grand Central Terminal and the gleaming spear of the Chrysler Building. A perfect grid of steel smeared in the pollution of the populous polished off with black glass windows to gaze upon the city.
We parked up, having dodged the taxi blaring his horn as he sped past us, weaving through briefcase-carrying businessmen clutching their babies as tightly as mothers, and the hotdog vendor with salivating worthy hotdogs that burned the nose with flavour if you could smelt it over the stink of the city. Finally cutting past the people and clatter of heels and screeching cars, we got to the entrance.
Passing under its low black canopy shrouding the sidewalk, highlighted its sharp metal edges. Passing through smooth revolving doors opening up to the grand work, a brass plaque: FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION, its letters rubbed smooth until you could see a face, it was so invitingly deceptive for the threshold of criminal investigation.
We crossed the polished tile, beneath the fluorescent hum of lights, passing three security guards, their hands engaging in their riveting conversation about one of their female coworkers, yet despite their infatuation, their eyes never left us following us across the floor. Making it to the light-scuffed reception desk with its sign-in book open on the counter, the metal chain clinking as we signed ourselves in. The clerk thinning and greying, not caring much instead returning to her work, though looked grumpy as she did so, before we went and sat down waiting for our contact, who did not arrive.
"Excuse you." The secretary waved us over. "Can I help you? You have just been sitting here for some time?" she said condescendingly.
James grinned. "Yes, I believe that we are expected, we are from the DIA."
She scrunched her eyebrows "Who?"
"The DIA, the Defence Intelligence Agency!"
She shook her head. "Haha, yeah nice try buddy, but there is no agency that goes by that name. I'm going to have to ask you to leave or I will have to ask security to do it for you."
I looked between Robert and James who were keeping their anger in check but from the beating in their chest they were fuming.
"We are a new agency founded in October 1961 under Lieutenant General Joseph Carroll; ask your superior, they are expecting us."
The receptionist held her ill-amused face. "If you say so. I'm going to call security now."
"I understand that we sound suspicious, but you just need to give a call to your boss, he is expecting us."
Robert just shook his head as the receptionist called over security whilst James continued to try and convince her we were an agency working for the government. It didn't work and soon security walked towards us.
"What seems to be the problem here." The leader said.
The secretary turned away from James, paying even less attention to him than she was before. "These men claim to be from a made-up agency, some Defence agents or something, I have never heard of them, but they say that we are expecting them."
The leader gave us a look over before settling on me. "You guys sure make a convincing group." He narrowed his eyes at me. "You're not a bunch of Reds are you, this sounds like something they might be stupid enough to come up with."
Even other people who were just walking past us stopped and boar their eyes into us, like we just slapped Uncle Sam, well actually we probably did now that they think we are Reds. I see Robert and James tensing their shoulders.
"No, we are not some commy scum. We are a recently form Government agency, the Defence Intelligence ag-."
The agent waved us off. "Alright, I've heard enough, I'm going to ask you to leave, this joke has gone on long enough. Leave."
"Wait, wait." A man shouted from the elevators, before storming towards us. "Did you say that you are from the DIA?"
We all turned to the new man before James nodded. "Yes, Joseph called ahead of us to say that we were coming, we need help tracking down a man."
He flared his arms. "Well, it took you guys long enough to get here, you had to balls to ask us for help and then turned up late. Let's get this over with."
The lead security looked shocked. "Wait, these guys are actually part of the government. Haha, the Government will hire anyone to help deal with these communists. Haha." The trio left, never apologising, with 'please' James and Robert if the burning in their eyes was anything to go off, finally the agent started to lead us to the elevator.
"Names James, this is Robert and Cooper, we appreciate you helping us with this." James stuck out his hand to shake.
The agent stared at it for a moment before he reluctantly took it. "Frank." The elevator then festered into silence.
Finally, the elevator opened up into a hallway lined with beige walls and closed office doors. It was remarkably quiet and not what I was expecting, with barely anyone around. Only passing a single man with a massive file box tucked under his arms, barely sparing a glance to us as he stepped into the elevator.
"Don't get distracted, you have your work cut out for you."
He led down a side corridor and into a plain room. Inside were stacks and stacks of boxes filled with files and cases. "The guys you are looking for will be somewhere on those boxes on the left, that's every record we have of people in the criminal world with specific high-level skills. Your best bet is he will be in there, if not we have nothing else. After you're done you can see yourselves out."
He slammed the door shut. "Well, he was a happy guy. Haha." James smiled as he shook his head. "Come on, let's get to work." Robert just tilted his head back and signed, giving me a brief look he sat down and then got to work.
/
James rubbed his eyes. "What do you guys think of this guy, Bobby Brown, aged 28 first went in for robbing a convenience store but when got out went pro in robbing banks, says here that he is the go for in cracking open safes."
Robert shook his head. "Nope, just read that he is working with a team in Philadelphia."
James sighed as he put the paper to the side and the room fell quiet.
"Hey, I think I found him," I said, drawing the tired looks of James and Robert. "David McArther, age 39 says here that he specialises in safecracking, and did a couple of stints in prison for bank robbery in his younger days but there is nothing after that. He seems to be the only safe cracker available on the market." I passed the document to them.
They scanned it before Robert and James looked at each other, and shrugged his shoulder. "Well, this looks like it's the best we've got, we got an address for this guy so I say we look into him and come back if we don't have what we need."
James yawned. "Sounds like a plan."
Finally, with something better to do, we left the FBI, hopped in the car, and headed for David's last known address.
/
His house sat quietly at the end of a bland generic street, a modest two-story structure with white clapboard siding and dark green shutters. A pitched roof of weathered gray shingles sloped down toward a neatly trimmed front lawn, where a narrow concrete walkway led from the sidewalk to the front steps. A small porch stretched across the front of the house, supported by thin white columns, with a pair of wicker chairs resting beneath the overhang. The paint on the steps was starting to chip at the edges, it looked pretty comfortable to my eyes.
A large bay window faced the street, framed by heavy lace curtains that shifted faintly in the breeze from an open window. The front door was painted a deep red, the brass knocker slightly tarnished but polished enough to catch the afternoon light. A metal mailbox stood at the edge of the driveway, painted with the house number in curling white script, everything about this house looked good, I mean nothing stood out to me, which just seemed to make it stand out to me for some reason, I mean surely a criminals place matches their profession.
To the left of the house, a one-car garage sat beneath the shadow of a tall elm tree. The white garage door had a single row of windows at the top, frosted and slightly warped from age. The driveway was cracked in places, thin green weeds pushing through the concrete seams. A Schwinn bicycle leaned against the side of the garage, its tires slightly deflated.
Out back, a narrow strip of lawn stretched to a chain-link fence, separating the yard from the neighboring property. A small garden bed ran along the fence line, crowded with tomato plants and the stray bloom of marigolds. A metal swing set stood at the far end, its frame rusted at the joints, the seat swaying slightly in the breeze. It all felt odd to me.
We hopped out of the car just as a muffled gunshot rang out from the house.