Strangled - Brian McGrory [154]
Silence, and then, “Sunscreen. What’s that have to do with breaking into the post office on my watch?”
“Nothing.” And everything, but I didn’t have time to explain. That same car idled about half a block down. I hit Hank on the arm and pointed, and Hank pulled a pair of what looked like opera glasses out of his coat pocket and peered down the street.
“The garage door is rolled up about three feet in the middle loading bay in the back alley. Use that as your entry point. I’m watching the building from a distance. When you’re done, flash the lights of your car once before you illuminate them for good. The overnight managers start coming in around eleven-thirty, so you have to be out in the next ten minutes. When you’re inside the building, keep all lights off at all times.”
And he hung up. I turned to Hank and asked if he brought flashlights.
“Does the pope carry a rosary?” he replied, then handed small lights to Mongillo and me. As I led them around back, Hank said, “What are we doing here? Are you missing your Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes form this year, or is there something larger at stake?”
Mongillo laughed. I didn’t. I told them both, “We’re looking for any envelope addressed to me. We’re probably going to find it in an incoming mail bin that’s yet to be sorted, but who really knows? It was dropped off in one of the front boxes earlier today. I’m just hoping it hasn’t been brought down to the main headquarters for sorting already.”
Neither of them said anything, though I suspect I knew what they were thinking: this was like looking for a hunk of manure from a specific horse on a sprawling farm field. Or something like that. The face of my cell phone read 11:15. I said, “And we’ve got ten minutes to get in and out of the building, no lights allowed.”
Mongillo asked, “Would it be any easier if we were all bound and gagged as well?”
I ignored that, but Hank laughed. Apparently this was anything-goes night on the humor front.
As advertised, the garage door on the middle bay was rolled up about three feet from the bottom, leaving a gap that I slid under easily enough, and Sweeney did with just a little more effort. Mongillo, that’s another story, one that involves some pushing and pulling and a rather uncomfortable moment when I thought we might have to abandon him directly under the door. Once inside, Hank rapped softly on a regular exit next to the garage and said, “Mong, use this on the way out.”
So we were in, the three of us. My cell phone said it was 11:17 p.m., giving us about eight minutes of search time before we had to get out, and another five minutes to alert Peter Martin as to what we’d found.
“Look anywhere and everywhere,” I said, “for anything addressed to me.”
The place was as dark as the Black Forest on a moonless night, though I confess the closest I’ve been to Germany is a slice of German chocolate cake that I had at an absurdly overpriced New American restaurant about six months before.
Suffice it to say, the place was dark — extremely dark, can’t - see - your - hand - in - front - of - your - face dark. It was also moldy and more than a little musty, and it made me understand for the first time why UPS drivers are always so cheerful: because they don’t have to work for the post office.
The three of us fanned out across the first floor of the building — at least I think we did, but I couldn’t see them very well. A moment later, I did see a couple of slices of penetrating light from their flashlights, and I illuminated mine as well.
The place was lined with various canvas pushcarts. Little warrens were separated from one another by mesh netting. There were stacks of envelopes and piles of boxes stuffed in every possible crevice. It made it seem all the more extraordinary that a letter could be delivered to the most remote outposts in America in just a few days.
I quite literally stumbled across a row of those aforementioned pushcarts, each of them identified by zip code. I shone my light on the various labels