by Trace Conger
The bet paid off, because the man in the camel overcoat escorted me to the elevator, removed a key card from his pocket, and scanned it on a black square sensor.
"Is he violent?" he asked.
The elevator door opened and I stepped on.
"No. He's standing trial for financial crimes. I wouldn't worry about it. I doubt he's even here, but I need to check his residence, just in case."
The doorman was still nodding his head when the door closed.
I didn't ask him for a master key because I already knew he didn't have one. The manager could probably get one, but that would take too long, and there was no guarantee he'd let me in anyway. Better to take my chances with a doorman who was less likely to ask many questions.
The elevator door opened on the seventh floor and I walked to apartment 7B. Placing my ear next to the door, I listened for a television, conversation, or any other sign someone might be behind the dark-gray door. Nothing, but that didn't mean Victor wasn't home.
I screwed the suppressor onto my .45 and opened the door with my own master key—a size twelve work boot strategically placed an inch above and to the left of the keyhole. The lock tore through the jamb, sending shards of pine across the apartment's foyer. I moved through the apartment with military precision, scanning the room down the sight of my weapon. Nothing. I completed my initial search and returned to the foyer, where I closed the door the best I could with a broken frame, before more thoroughly turning the place over.
Across from the foyer, in the living room, was a white sofa and a flagstone coffee table. I checked the pile of mail on the table. The postmarks on the unopened envelopes told me Victor hadn't touched his mail in a few days. The beds were still made and there were vacuum marks visible on the area rugs throughout the apartment. I moved to the kitchen, where I found a large white calendar attached to the side of the refrigerator with a gray, hooked magnet. There was a reminder written on every Tuesday this month. MANHATTAN MAIDS. It had been three days since they'd cleaned his apartment, and by the looks of the vacuum tracks and mail, Victor hadn't been back since.
I slipped into the bedroom. There was a small modern-looking desk in the corner. Above the desk, a window overlooked a yoga studio. I rummaged through the desk drawers in hopes of finding anything that might point me in Victor's direction, but there was nothing. I opened the bedroom closet door and found two coats, three suits, and a few other articles of clothing. I checked the coat pockets. One of them turned up nothing. The other contained a key card for The Plaza Hotel, likely for Gretchen's room.
Aside from the clothing and mail, there was no other evidence anyone was living here. Perhaps Victor preferred to take up residence with a sultry redhead in a luxury hotel. I was about to find out. I pocketed the key card.
Before leaving, I plucked a black permanent marker from the desk, walked into the living room and wrote in large letters on the white sofa.
I'M COMING FOR YOU, VICTOR.
I pocketed my weapon and rode the elevator back to the lobby, where the doorman ran up to me with an eager look on his face.
"What ya find?"
"No dice. He's gone and I don't suspect he'll be back anytime soon."
"Got any other leads?"
I almost laughed at the question, but assumed this was the most excitement a doorman in Greenwich Village had experienced in a long time.
"Just one." I thanked him for his help and returned to my car.
Grethen's hotel room was my next target, but first I had to make a withdrawal.
Zoe wasn't at Hoster Hall, or at least that's what her man told me when I arrived at the back of her club. I peered through the rear door as he loaded a duffle bag into the back of my Jeep. The inside of Hoster Hall was a charred jumble of exposed studs, dangling wires, torn insulation, and flaking paint. The place smelled more like a wet dog than a tinder box.
The man shut my lift gate. "Zoe asked me to remind you of the terms," he said.
"Pay her back or she's going to murder me."
"That's about right."
I thanked him and drove to The Plaza Hotel.
29
The Crimson Con
The Plaza Hotel maintenance crew was decorating the lobby for the holidays. They had constructed a large iron frame and were filling it with potted poinsettia plants to make a giant, red, leafy Christmas tree.
I had Victor's key card in my pocket, but without knowing which room Gretchen was in, it wasn't going to be much help. If this were a low-end hotel, it would be easy to convince the front desk jockey to drop me her room number. My go-to play was to tell the clerk I was there to give a massage to a guest, and while I had a name, I didn't have a room number. That's worked before, but it wouldn't work at The Plaza. No masseur heading to The Plaza Hotel would be dressed like me, and more importantly, the staff here would be trained to protect guest privacy. HR likely had produced a video course on it. Top shelf VIPs stay here, and they value their privacy. I wouldn't get past the front desk, so I wasn't going to try.
Instead, I simply asked the thin man with the fake tan to ring Gretchen Sontag's room. I counted the rings on the other end. He hung up after seven and asked if I wanted to leave her a message. I told him I didn't and then took a seat in the lobby, away from the front door, but still in view the entrance.
Gretchen walked into the lobby an hour and a half later carrying shopping bags from Bergdorf Goodman and Burberry. She walked passed the front desk to the elevator bank. I followed, and when the door opened, I stepped in behind her. She didn't notice me until she turned around and reached for the panel of numbers.
"What floor?" I asked.
"Connor, what are you—"
"I said what floor?"
"Ten."
I pressed the number and opened my coat to show her the .45.
"What are you doing?"
"You're going to open your hotel room door, and if Victor Tan is there, I'm going to put a bullet through his head."
"Why would Victor be in my room?"
"Cut the bullshit."
The elevator dinged and the door opened to the tenth floor. I moved to her side and wrapped my left arm around her, pulling Gretchen close to me—one happy, cozy couple. My right thumb rested on my belt buckle, inches away from my weapon. As we walked down the hall, the Burberry bag bounced off my left thigh. We didn't pass anyone.
She stopped at room 1012.
"You scream or warn him, and I'll kill you too, Gretchen. It won't be a thing for me, and I think you know that."
She nodded and set her bags down so she could get the key card from her purse. I stepped behind her, checked the hallway, and pulled the .45 out of my coat. When the door was open, I pushed her through the entrance, where she tumbled to the floor. I kicked the door closed behind us and stepped over her, my weapon raised. Her room was small. Only a bedroom and bathroom. A suit laid across the side of the bed. I moved to the bathroom and peered in, but it was empty. Victor wasn't here.
I pointed to the suit. "Where the fuck is he, Gretchen?"
"I don't know."
"Is he coming back here?"
"I said I don't know." She struggled to her feet, wobbling on her black stilettos. I grabbed her arm and flung her onto the bed.
"Damnit, Gretch—"
"I don't know!" She was crying. "I don't know where he is or where he's going."
I pointed my weapon at her. "You set me up."
She put her hands in front of her face. "I had nothing to do with it."
"Did you know they were coming to Boston?"
"I didn't know it was you."
"So you did know about it? What Victor was doing."
"I knew he was trying to edge Joseph and everyone else out. He said he was sending Eddie to Boston, but I didn't know it had anything to do with you. I didn't even know where you were."
She lowered her hands to reveal her running eyeliner.
"But you told him I was here. When I came to the city."
"Yes, I told him. He would've found out eventually."
The .45 grew heavier in my hand, but I kept it raised. I wasn't going to shoot Gretchen, because even with a suppressor on my weapon, it would still be loud enough for anyone in the adjacent rooms to hear it. Making it Hollywood-quiet meant lubing the suppressor with oil or water, something I didn't have time to do. Gretchen didn't know my intentions, and staring down the barrel of any weapon has a bowel-emptying effect.
"You told him I was here and he followed me. Followed me all the way to Nicky's place."
"I told him you were in the city because I knew if you found out who was behind the Boston thing, you'd kill Victor."
"I am going to kill him. Eddie Nash too."
"What about me?"
"What about you?"
"They'll kill me. I don't know who, but someone will. Porter, I don't know."
"Maybe you should just wait and see who rises to the top and then start sleeping with him. You're good at that. Maybe it'll save your ass for a while."
I picked up the Plaza-branded pen and notepad from the desk next to the door and tossed them on the bed.
"Make a list of all the places Victor could be."
"I don't—"
I stepped forward, placed the weapon against her forehead, and nudged her back into the ornate gray and bronze headboard. "Make the goddamn list."
She started to hyperventilate as if going into shock, so I eased off.
"Now," I said.
She struggled to click open the pen, her hands shaking. I lowered the .45 and placed it back inside my jacket. She wasn't going to be able to concentrate otherwise. Just as I slid it into its holster, the cell phone in my pocket buzzed. I answered and held it to my ear.
"You get my money?" said Zoe.
“Picked it up earlier.”
“I meant, did you pay it back yet?”
“You’ll get it.” I pressed the receiver tight to my ear so Gretchen couldn't hear the conversation. "I'm a bit busy right now, can you bust my balls about this later?"
"You can count on that. I want to keep it top of mind for you."
"It's tip-top."
"That's not the only reason I called. One of my associates just spotted Eddie Nash walking into Molly's Pub on twenty-second and third. Want to go kill him?"
"Too public."
"We have to get there before he leaves or we'll lose him."
I thought back to Nicky's assassination. "I'll call you in five minutes. Don't do anything."
I knew where Eddie was going, but I didn't want to say anything that might tip Gretchen off. A phone call would get to Victor and Eddie much faster than I could.
"Five minutes," I repeated and hung up the phone.
Gretchen handed me a list of three hotels. She was still shaking.
"He usually stays at these places. I don't know if he's there or not, but those are the only ones I can think of."
I folded the paper and slipped it into my pocket.
"Victor and Eddie are going to die and there's nothing you can do to save either of them." I took her cell phone from her purse and smashed it beneath my boot. "If I find out you tried to warn them, I'll add you to the list too."
She nodded.
“Things are going to get bad real quick, Gretch. You might want to think about disappearing for a while."
I left her crying on the bed.
I was back on the phone with Zoe before I left the lobby of the hotel.
"Eddie Nash is staying at the Gramercy Park Hotel," I said. "I can be there in twenty minutes. Meet me there."
"Make it quick. If I see him, I can't promise he'll be alive when you get here."
"Don't do anything without me. Nash might be the only way I can find Victor. Just hold tight."
I pulled onto Lexington Avenue and did everything I could not to hit a red light or yellow cab. I don't know why I hadn't made the connection earlier, but when Eddie and I exchanged shots at the Gramercy Park Hotel, there was a metal suitcase on the bed. It made sense someone was already staying in that room when they set up the meeting with Nicky. Gretchen's list of Victor's haunts didn't include the Gramercy, so it made more sense that the suitcase belonged to Eddie. It's wasn't a certainty, but Eddie being in that neighborhood, and the suitcase I saw yesterday, were strong enough leads to check it out. Had anyone else been staying in that room, the police would have cleared them out after a shootout, but Spiro and Napoli were both there at the time of the shootout, and they had enough juice with the NYPD to get them to look the other way.
Zoe was leaning against her car, a suitcase at her feet when I arrived. She grabbed her case and we were in the hotel lobby a minute later.
"Did you see him come back?" I said.
"No. And it took everything I had not to go into Molly's and blow the shit out of him right then and there. He burned my place down and he's going to pay for that."
"I won't fight you on that, but I need to know where Victor is first. Then you can do whatever the hell you want with him."
"What's the plan?" she asked.
"He's staying in room 722. Take the elevator up to seven and wait there. I'll have the front desk call his room. I'll tell them I've got a delivery for him and make sure he didn't switch rooms. If he answers the phone, we'll know he's in there and we'll storm it together. If he doesn't answer, then we figure out another way to get in, so we're there waiting when he comes back."
"I got nothing better," she said, wheeling her suitcase into the elevator.
I gave her a few minutes to reach the seventh floor, then I stepped to the front desk. My eye followed the desk clerk's hand as he dialed Eddie's room. He was still in 722. They rang him, but he didn't answer. I thanked the clerk, and after he turned away, I called Zoe to tell her Eddie was still out and that I'd meet her in a minute.
The elevator opened and I blew past a maid pushing a cleaning cart, turned the corner, and arrived at Eddie's room, but Zoe was nowhere in sight.
I waited for a moment, before Eddie's hotel room door opened and Zoe waved me in.
"How did you get in here?"
"The maid let me in. Told her I was here to surprise my husband who was on a business trip."
"And that worked?"
"We're inside aren't we?"
I went to the bedroom, the same room where I'd leaped from the balcony, to find the metal suitcase still there. It was on the floor now. Inside were two handguns, various articles of clothing and a notepad. I thumbed through the notepad, where I found my home address in Boston.
"He's still here," I yelled to Zoe, who was in the main room.
She wheeled her suitcase into the bedroom, unzipped it, and removed a machine gun that looked like something out of a video game. It was heavily modified, with a suppressor and an extra large magazine the size of my forearm.
She sat on the bed next to me, the machine gun in her lap.
"Thanks for the tip about Eddie," I said. "I thought you were done doing favors for me."
"I am. This one's for me. By the way, I'm adding two hundred bucks to the half-mil you already owe me."
"Why's that?"
"I had to tip the maid who let me in."
I looked down at the weapon.
"All right."
We sat on that bed for at least an hour before hearing the hotel room door open. I stood up and peered through the space by the door hinges.
"Is it him?" whispered Zoe.
I nodded.
"Is he alone?"
I nodded again.
Zoe pushed me out of the way and charged into the main suite with her weapon raised. As she peered down the sight, she pulled the trigger, strafing the room, hitting everything from the sofa to the wall, to the coffee table, to the two chairs where Spiro and Napoli sat earlier. She fired like she had ammunition to spare, not concerned about anyone else she might hit in an adjoining room or hallway.
Each shot was accompanied by a muffled pop. It sounded more like the clicking of a ca
r with a bad starter than a military assault rifle.
I don't think Eddie even saw her before she put a half dozen rounds into his legs, dropping him onto the plush area rug that adorned the center of the room. He looked up to see me, yelled, and grabbed his leaking shins. Zoe stuffed her hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.
"Where's Victor?" I said.
Zoe removed her hand, stepped back, and tossed her rifle onto the sofa.
Eddie drew in a deep breath and squirmed on the floor. He was sweating, and I swore I could hear his heart beating from a few feet away. He screamed again.
Zoe slipped a six-inch blade from inside her maroon leather jacket and placed it against Eddie's neck.
"Scream again, and I'll slice you open," she said.
"Where is Victor?" I repeated
It took him a few seconds to slow his breathing enough talk. "I don't know. I haven't heard from him. Since yesterday."
"Bullshit."
He started rocking back and forth on the carpet.
"I don't know where he is." He bit into his forearm to keep from yelling and was turning white in front of us. "He left after we did Nicky and I haven't seen him since."
Zoe removed the knife from his neck and cut into his right ear.
"You're not telling us what we want to know," she said.
He started to scream again but clenched his teeth to keep it in. "I don't know!" His breathing was deep and labored. He was fading. "He never came back to the hotel." His words were slow and drawn out.
"You call him?" I said.
"Voice mail. I don't know where he is."
Sontag still had some influence, even in custody, so it was possible he got to Victor after learning about the Nicky hit.
"What do you think, Connor?" asked Zoe. "He being straight?"
The blood from Eddie's legs was seeping into the cream shag carpet underneath him.
"I don't think he knows," I said.
"I don't know," repeated Eddie.
"Too bad." Zoe slashed his throat open and walked back into the bedroom.
I watched Eddie Nash bleed out on the carpet in one of the city's most luxurious hotels. Zoe returned a moment later pulling her suitcase, her semiautomatic rifle tucked away inside.
