Agents of the Glass (2 page)

“Two hundred grand?” bellowed Howard Llewellyn, spilling coffee down the front of his custom-made shirt in the process. “And you're going to do
what
? Whoa! Slow down. Let's talk about this. A bag full of money lands in your lap, and you want to give it
back—
even though you nearly got blown to smithereens?”

“Easy, Dad. That's a coffee cup, not a microphone. It wasn't
that
bad.” Andy touched his bandaged forehead. “Just a cut.”

“Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little, but face it, you were damned lucky. Are you sure that's what you want to do? I mean, that's your college education right there.” He paused, grinning. “Or a nice car for your old man.”

“I'm sure. It's not my money.”

“Does your mom know about this?”

“No.”

“Really? Huh. I would have bet…Well, you do what you think is right. But do me a favor, okay? This is for real. I have a reputation in this town. People have certain, um, expectations of…well…of Howard
Twopenny
, anyway, and I don't want them to think I've gone soft or something. So if there's a way to keep
my
name out of it, I know my boss would appreciate it.”

“I'll try,” said Andy as he threw the backpack over one shoulder and started for the door.

“Whoa! Hold on. I'm coming with you. I don't care how safe people say this city is; you can't go walking around New York with two hundred grand in your backpack.”

Andy returned the money.

His dad patted him on the back outside the door to the Nineteenth Precinct. “You're a good kid. A little crazy, maybe, but…Call me if you need me.”

“Thanks, Dad. I've got it.”

A minute later, he set the backpack on the desk of Detective Greg Cunningham. He had been the first policeman to talk to Andy in the hospital and had given him his card.

“What's this?” Cunningham asked.

“It's…um, well, you'll see. Yesterday…some of it…is a little fuzzy. Somebody handed this to me as they were putting me in the ambulance. I thought it was mine….I mean, it looks exactly like mine, but then when I got home, I realized something was wrong.”

The detective sprang out of his chair, looking very concerned. Backing away from the pack, he yanked Andy out of the office. “That came from the bank? On the ground—now! It could be a bomb. Everybody, down!”

All around the squad room, cops threw themselves to the floor.

“No! Wait!” cried Andy. “It's not a bomb. It's money. That's all. I already checked.”

“What do you mean, money?”

“The money from the robbery. The explosion must have…I don't know, sent it flying, because it ended up next to me under that truck. Look inside. Really.”

The other cops slowly got to their feet, eyeing Andy suspiciously. “Everything okay, Cunningham?” one asked.

Cunningham grinned, shaking his head. “Yeah. Sorry, everybody. My bad.”

Andy followed him back into the cluttered office, where the detective used his handkerchief to pull on the backpack's side zipper. His mouth fell open when he saw the contents.

“Two hundred and ten thousand, seven hundred and forty dollars,” said Andy. “It's all there. I didn't take anything, I swear.”

Cunningham had him tell the complete story and then called in another detective and had Andy repeat it. When Andy finished, they were speechless for a few moments, shaking their heads in disbelief.

Finally, Detective Cunningham spoke: “And you brought it straight to us. I've been a cop for fifteen years, and this is the craziest story I've ever heard. Who
are
you?” He laughed so loudly that a framed picture of the mayor fell off the wall.

“You…don't believe me?” Andy was crushed. Here he was, doing what he thought was the right thing to do, and nobody believed him.

“No, no, you've got it all wrong, Andy!” said Cunningham. “I believe your story—I'm just having a hard time believing that there's still someone like you left in New York City. You're going to be
famous.
Wait till the newspeople get ahold of this. You're going to be on the front page of every paper in the city tomorrow.”

Andy shook his head vigorously. “No. No. You can't tell
anybody.
Promise? I don't want my picture in the paper or on the news. I just want to give back the money and not make a big deal out of it. It's not like I tackled the robber or something. I was just in the right place at the right time. Well, except for the almost-getting-killed part.”

Detective Cunningham had a dazed look on his face. “Wait,
what
? Nobody? Are you sure? People love stories like this. People
need
stories like this. This would go viral in minutes.”

“I don't want to be famous,” said Andy, holding his ground. “Promise you won't tell anyone?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, if that's what you want—”

“It is. Promise?”

“You have my word. No reporters.”

“One more thing. You know the guy who was killed? The homeless man? Have you found out who he was yet?”

“Afraid not,” said Cunningham. “We're still looking for some ID, something he might have been carrying.”

“What will happen to him?”

The detective shrugged. “Hard to say. If no one claims the body, it'll be buried out on Hart Island.”

“Where's that?”

“The Bronx. There's a cemetery there—it's called a potter's field—for people…like him. People who don't have anybody to…or can't afford anything else.”

“Then we have to find out who he is. There must be somebody out there who knows. He has to have a family somewhere. I'll help you. Just promise that you won't give up looking.”

“I'll do some checking around, but I wouldn't get my hopes up, if I were you. A lot of these people…Well, these things can get complicated.”

“But you're going to look, right?”

Another burst of laughter exploded from Detective Cunningham, sending a coffee mug to the floor. “I like your style, Andy Llewellyn. I promise. I'll look into it.”

After walking Andy out of the precinct, he returned to his desk, closing his office door behind him. Checking once more that no one was watching, he pulled the lower right-hand drawer out and reached underneath it. Taped to the bottom was an index card with
Silas
and a phone number printed on it.

Cunningham dialed the number.

“Hello, Detective,” a man's voice answered. “It's been a while.”

“I think I might have what you're looking for,” said Cunningham.

The name on that card and the voice on the other end of that line? Both mine. I'm Silas. It's not my real name, of course—I borrowed it from my favorite book. For now I'll tell you what I told Andy: If there comes a time when you
need
to know my real name, I'll tell you. And if it makes you feel better, Andy wasn't expecting me to drop into his life any more than you were when you picked up this book.

Within minutes of his departure from the police station, Andover Llewellyn was on Silas's radar, and a few moments after that, Silas had his very best and most trusted people hard at work, digging up everything they could find about young Mr. Llewellyn.

Andy had dropped the money off on Saturday morning, and by noon Silas knew enough to make him eager to know more. He was intrigued by Andy, whose mother seemed perfectly lovely and normal. Howard Llewellyn, however, was harder to figure out. If the real Howard was anything like his radio personality, the apple hadn't merely fallen far from the tree. In Andy's case, that apple had hit the ground, rolled down a long, steep hill, and then dropped into a river that carried it out to sea, where the wind and currents carried it to lands far, far away.

As details about Andy trickled in—photographs, report cards, essays he'd written, interviews with friends and neighbors—Silas became more and more convinced that he was a perfect fit for a position that his employers had been desperately trying to fill all summer. The assignment was in a school, and they were hoping to have their man—or boy, in this case—in place when classes started on the Wednesday after Labor Day. That meant that they had just four days to make a decision about him. And then there was always the chance that he would say no. It was up to Silas to persuade Andy to take the job, but first he had to be absolutely convinced that he was the
right
boy. If Silas was wrong—if Andy's decision to return the money was a fluke—he would almost certainly fail, and he could not afford failure. What he really needed was another test to make sure Andy was the “real thing.” He knew that he only had one chance, so it needed to be a fair, true test of his character. If it was too obvious, if he thought even for a second that he was being watched, he might act differently.
^*1
One of Silas's contacts had overheard Andy on the phone with his grandparents (on his mother's side) making plans to visit them on Sunday afternoon. They lived on the Upper West Side, near Riverside Park, so he would spend the night and return home on Monday, which was Labor Day. Andy liked going there for two reasons. One, his grandparents were fun to be around, and they always took him to a great pizza place, and two, his favorite store in the world, ModelWorld, was not far away, on Amsterdam Avenue. Although ModelWorld sounds like a hangout for fashion models, it's actually a hobby shop that specializes in model airplanes and ships—the perfect spot for the test, because the shop's owner, Melvin Oresko,
^*2
just happens to be a retired (and entirely trustworthy) colleague of Silas, one who would be happy to play a part in his little scheme.

Everett Newell, Andy's grandfather, was a retired navy man and had introduced him to C. S. Forester's Horatio Hornblower novels the previous summer. Andy sailed through all eleven books in the series in less than three months, thrilled especially by the adventures of the young midshipman Horatio aboard HMS
Indefatigable,
a 64-gun ship built for the British navy in 1784. For more than a year, Andy had been saving his money—nearly a hundred dollars, Silas learned—to buy a wooden model kit of that particular ship. He was finally going to get his wish, because tucked inside the newspaper (
not
the
Daily Torch,
by the way) that was delivered to his grandparents' house on Monday morning was an advertisement for a “huge one-day-only Labor Day blowout sale!” at ModelWorld, featuring wooden ship model kits at twenty-five percent off. At the bottom of the page was a coupon, which Andy neatly tore off and stuck in his pocket.

Silas was certain that the offer was too good to resist, and as predicted, Andy was outside the hobby shop at ten minutes to noon, pacing up and down the sidewalk, waiting for the doors to open. From his vantage point in the back room of the store, Silas couldn't help smiling as Andy checked the time on his phone over and over. Finally, at three minutes past, with the door still locked and the store dark, his patience began to wear out and he pressed his face against the glass to peer inside. Silas gave Melvin the okay to hit the light switch and open the front door.

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” said Melvin, taking his time crossing the store. “Where's the fire?”

Like a true New Yorker, Andy ignored Melvin's less-than-positive attitude and slipped past him, heading directly for the back aisle where the model of the
Indefatigable
awaited him. He lifted the box from the shelf, admiring the photograph of the finished product on the front, and took a deep breath. “Finally,” he whispered.

He set the box on the counter and reached into his pocket for the coupon. He unfolded it and handed it to Melvin.

Melvin made a big show of removing his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, wiping them clean with a handkerchief, and finally putting them on.

“What's this?” he sneered, holding the coupon inches from his nose. “Wooden ship models. Twenty-five percent off. Labor Day. Well, it all seems to be on the up-and-up.” He leaned over to examine the box. “This for you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Melvin raised an eyebrow. “Pretty complicated model for a boy. Lot of parts.
Lot
of parts. This kind of model takes
patience,
and I'm not sure that's your strong suit. Young people today just don't have the…Look, are you sure you don't want to start with something a little easier? I've got some nice plastic models that might be—”

“I'm sure,” said Andy, a momentary look of impatience clouding his face. “I've built
lots
of models. Nothing as hard as this, but my grandpa can help me if I get stuck. He made a model of the
Bonhomme Richard
that's in a museum in Connecticut.”

Melvin shrugged. “It's your money.” He then took a calculator from the drawer and started pushing buttons. “Let's see. That's $119.95, less twenty-five percent, so $119.95 times $0.25…and then add the tax…and that gives us a grand total of $32.64. Cash or credit?”

“Cash, but—”

Melvin snatched two twenties from Andy's hand and started to make change from the cash register drawer. “That makes thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, and forty. There you go, sonny boy. Good luck. You're going to need it.” He shoved the box into a large plastic bag and practically threw it across the counter at Andy.

“Um, mister…”

“Yeah, what is it, sonny? Spit it out. I don't have all day.”

“I think you made a mistake. About the price, I mean.”

In the back room, Silas smiled. His instincts about Andy had been right on the money, so to speak.

“What are you talking about?” Melvin snarled. “You got your discount.”

“That's just it. You gave me too much of a discount. Instead of giving me twenty-five percent off, you gave me seventy-five percent. Before I left my grandpa's, I did the math, and it should have been about ninety-eight dollars—I wasn't sure exactly how much the tax was, so I might be off by a few cents, but…What's so funny?”

Indeed, Melvin had a huge grin on his face as he clapped Andy on the shoulder. “Well done, young man!” Then he shouted back to Silas, “Come on out. I think it's safe to say that he passed the test.”

Poor Andy. He stood there, utterly baffled and scratching his head, as Silas approached. “What is going on? What test? Who—who
are
you?”

“If you can spare me a little of your time,” said Silas, “I'll do my best to make it all clear for you. Mr. Oresko—Melvin—just played a part today in this little piece of theater. And played it perfectly, I'd say.”

“Sorry I gave you such a hard time, son,” said Melvin. “And I want you to keep the
Indefatigable
kit. At the original price of $32.64. After the way I treated you, the extra discount is the least I can do. And by the way, you've got great taste. That's one of my favorites.”

“I asked Melvin to be rude to you because I wanted you
not
to like him,” Silas said. “If he'd have been nice, it would have been easy for you to do the right thing when he charged you the wrong amount. But if you
didn't
like him, well, it would've been a lot harder—at least for most people. But you're not most people, are you, Andover?”

“How do you know my name?” Andy asked, eyeing him suspiciously and taking a single step toward the door.

“I promise to explain everything. Just give me one hour. Your life will never be the same.”

Andy looked doubtful and checked the time. “I don't know. I'm supposed to go home. My dad is expecting me….”

“But not until three, right?”

Andy edged even closer to the door. “I…How do you…”

“It's good that you're suspicious of me,” Silas said. “You should be; you don't know me from the man in the moon. But please…hear me out. We can talk right here, and you can stay close to the door. Melvin, are you expecting a big crowd anytime soon?”

Melvin looked around at the empty store. “Not very likely, I'm afraid.”

“Perfect. We can chat right here, in the middle of the model trains. I love them. Never had any of my own….Look, there's a clear path to the door from where you are, so anytime you want to leave, you're free to go. And I promise that if you leave, you'll never see me again.”

Now that you've seen what kind of kid Andy is, you're probably wondering why I'm still interested in you. Here's how I would answer that: Everybody's different. The qualities we see in you are not the same as those we saw in Andy, but they might turn out to be just as important to us one day. It's still not too late to turn back, though. I'll make you the same promise I made to Andy: Just set the book down and walk away, no questions asked.

You won't hear from me again.