The Night Falconer by Andy Straka

developer to keep a suite of offices somewhere in Midtown, but as Darla explained, Watisi’s operation was a little different. His headquarters occupied the first floor of a brownstone he had under renovation. The neighborhood was what the development trade liked to call “transitional.” Which meant that most of the pimps and dope dealers had moved on to greener pastures while children and grandmothers did their best to reclaim the streets from the homeless and assorted vagrants.
    Someone had opened up a fire hydrant around 130 th Street. Three or four dozen smiling, laughing kids were running in and out of the stream, some in swimsuits, some in their underwear, trying to beat the heat.
    “What’s Watisi’s deal?” Nicole asked. “I mean, with all his money, he could afford a ritzier address.”
    “Man’s probably no fool. He goes where the development action is.”
    “And Harlem is happening right now.”
    “You bet.”
    “He doesn’t know we’re coming though.”
    I shook my head. “I prefer the element of surprise.”
    “Me too,” she said.
    Half a block down from the address, we actually found a legal parking space. The stoop in front of Watisi’s brownstone was festooned with paint-speckled drop cloths and makeshift sawhorses. An elegant-looking brass and glass sign did, however, proclaim it the home of Watisi Enterprises, Watisi Partners, and Watisi Capital Development Corporation.
    Two workmen wrestled with a heavy metal grate in the foyer. We simply ignored them and marched into the place as if we already had an appointment or belonged there.
    A center hallway with a marble floor opened to a carpeted reception area where a tiny Middle-Eastern woman with dark eyes and beautiful olive skin worked away at a computer. She was wearing a telephone headset under a white head scarf.
    “Yes,” the woman said. “May I help you?” She gazed at us with more than a hint of suspicion.
    “My name’s Frank Pavlicek,” I said, producing a card and handing it over. “And this is my associate, Nicole.”
    She read the card, but said nothing.
    “I was hoping we might have a chance to speak with Mr. Watisi. Is he in?”
    The woman’s expression remained unchanged.
    “He’s in a meeting at the moment. He said he’s not to be disturbed.”
    “I understand. But something very important has come up in regards to his dispute with some of the apartment owners at Grayland Tower.”
    The woman crossed her arms and regarded us for a moment. “Why are you here from Virginia?” she asked.
    “That’s one of the things we were hoping to talk to him about.”
    She punched a button on a console to her left, waited, then turned and spoke softly in Arabic into her headset.
    After listening to the reply, she said something else unintelligible and pushed the button on the console again.
    “I’m sorry. Mr. Watisi is very busy now. He cannot talk to you.”
    “He cannot, huh?”
    She blinked at me and nodded. If I didn’t figure out how to get past her stonewalling—tomorrow being the Fourth of July—we’d be spending at least another thirty six hours without even having a chance to talk to our primary suspect.
    “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” I said in my best apologetic tone. “He’s involved in a dispute with some apartment owners and there have been allegations in the press, and—”
    “There’s no misunderstanding. I’m telling you the same thing I told the black woman yesterday. Mr. Watisi has nothing to say to you. If you’d like to speak with his lawyer … .” She began reaching for the rolodex next to her phone.
    “I don’t want to speak with his lawyer, thank you. I want to talk to the man himself.”
    From somewhere back of the woman, a door softly thudded in a darkened corner of the room. A bald, twenty something year old man with flat green eyes to go with about two hundred and eighty pounds of muscle appeared out of the shadows.
    “Is there a problem, Mrs. Watisi?”
    So it was