by J. B. Turner
Reznick picked up the card again and read the words. He had to respond. This was a direct provocation. The actions of a manipulative and dangerous man.
The more he thought about it, the more enraged he felt.
Reznick thought back to his meeting with Meyerstein. She had warned him not to get involved. He assumed she had been instructed by the Director of the FBI to head to New York to keep him in check.
Reznick felt conflicted. He didn’t want to go against Meyerstein or jeopardize his relationship with her and the FBI. But he wasn’t the sort of guy who could just walk away from this. It wasn’t in his nature. Besides, this asshole needed to know who he was dealing with.
The guy had crossed the line. Doing nothing was not an option.
Reznick had the guy’s name. And he had an address. He just needed a plan.
Was he going to turn up at the guy’s apartment, get in, and somehow try to lay him out cold? As a form of retaliation?
It was an appealing thought. But he knew the chances of getting into an upscale apartment building were pretty low. Sure, there were ways. Maintenance guy fixing some air-conditioning ducts. Delivery guy. Mailman.
Reznick figured that a guy like Brutka would have a layer or two of security in-house. Close protection. Outer layer. And electronic surveillance cameras.
The longer Reznick considered it, the more convinced he became that it was a futile thing to attempt. What was he going to do? Kill the guy in cold blood? It might avenge his daughter, teach the guy a lesson. But what would come of it?
He would go to jail for years. His daughter, meanwhile, would be without the only family she had.
Lauren needed her father.
Reznick tried to push his raw anger aside as he weighed the consequences. He quickly rationalized that it was intolerable not to confront this guy, no matter the price he might have to pay later.
He began to refocus on where Brutka lived. He needed to get an idea of what the building looked like. Access areas. Entry point. Any luxurious apartment building like that would be heavily guarded. And have a 24/7 front desk.
It was then that the germ of an idea began to form.
Reznick felt his senses switch on. He headed out onto the broiling New York streets and across to Barneys on Madison, where he bought a nice suit, shirt, tie, and new shoes. Then he went back to his hotel room, showered, shaved, and got changed.
Reznick put his 9mm Beretta in his waistband and called up the hacker.
“Hey, Mr. R. Any update on your daughter’s condition?”
“No change.”
“I’m sorry, man. That’s terrible.”
“She’s in the best hands. So that’s something.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Got a slightly unusual request.”
“On this, whatever you want, I’ll get it.”
Reznick smiled. “We need to meet up for a drink sometime.”
“I’ll think about it. You worry me, Reznick.”
“I need another favor.”
“Name it.”
“I want you to call the real estate brokers who are in charge of selling and renting out apartments at the residential tower where Aleksander Brutka lives.”
“Shit. You really are going to kill him, aren’t you?”
“Highly unlikely.”
“So what’s the purpose of you going there?”
“I don’t know . . . I want to send him a message.”
“You want to shake the tree?”
“That’s exactly what I want to do.”
“When do you want to do this?”
“Soon. Get me an appointment as soon as you can, ideally within the next few hours. Say your client, a high-net-worth individual, wants to be shown the best apartments they have available.”
The hacker started to laugh. “You really are a crazy motherfucker.”
Sixteen
The thirtysomething female Realtor was standing outside the apartment building to greet Reznick when he arrived. “Mr. Reznick?”
“The very one.”
“So nice to meet you, sir.” The young woman was shielding her eyes from the blazing sun. “Welcome to One East River. Are you in town on business?”
“I’m bored with staying at The Carlyle. Need something permanent. I also do a lot of business with the United Nations, so I’d like to be a helluva lot closer to see my clients.”
“Which company do you work for?”
“Offshore banking, mostly . . . Tax advice, that kind of thing. Can’t say too much more at this stage.”
“Not a problem. Let’s head inside.”
The young Realtor got a security badge for Reznick, and she whisked him to the thirty-second floor and swiped her card to access a stupendous apartment. Light flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which gave sprawling views over the East River. She showed him around the spacious rooms. Then out onto the wraparound terrace. “Isn’t this something?”
“How much?”
“It’s listed at twenty-five million dollars. But if you deal directly with me, we could be talking twenty-two. Sound good?”
Reznick stared out over the water and looked up at the penthouse terrace at the top. “Great place.”
“It’s very discreet.”
“Friend of mine lives in the penthouse,” he lied. “He recommended I check it out.”
The woman smiled. “You know Mr. Brutka?”
“Aleksander? Sure, very well indeed. We’ve done business together for years. Very smart man.”
The woman laughed. “I actually brokered the sale of Mr. Brutka’s penthouse.”
“Is that right? That’s terrific. That makes perfect sense. Well, I’ve got to say I can see why he’s so enamored of this place.”
“So . . . do you have a date when you’d like to move in?”
“I was hoping within the next six weeks.”
“That’s perfect. By the time we get the paperwork taken care of, it’ll all be ready for you. We can provide the services of a top New York interior designer if that’s required too.”
“Absolutely.” Reznick went back into the apartment. “Any suggestions for what would work in this space?”
“For me personally? Minimalism. White. A less-is-more kind of thing.”
Reznick checked his watch. “I’ve got an appointment uptown in an hour.”
The Realtor tucked some hair behind her ear. “So is this apartment to your liking?”
“It’s more than to my liking. I’ll be in touch very soon.”
The Realtor blushed. “That’s wonderful. Our firm is based in the building, seven days a week.”
Reznick said, “You got a restroom I can use before I head to my meeting?”
“Of course. Follow me.”
The Realtor headed out into the hallway and pointed to a double door and sign at the end of the corridor. “The restroom is right there, Mr. Reznick.” She handed him a card. “My office is two floors down—can’t miss it—if you want to pick up a brochure on your way out.”
“You got it. See you in five minutes.”
Reznick waited until she pressed her thumb against the elevator and the doors had closed. He went into the restroom. Saw a smoke detector. He pulled out paper towels and stuffed them into a trash can. He pulled out a lighter and lit the paper. The flames took hold. Black smoke drifted up toward the ceiling.
The piercing sound of the smoke alarm ripped through the air.
Reznick headed out to the corridor, smashed a glass fire alarm, and pressed the button. The sound of the wailing alarm was deafening, echoing through the corridors. He headed into the stairwell and bounded up three flights of stairs two steps at a time.
He came to a secure door with a video intercom.
Fuck.
He buzzed repeatedly.
A few seconds later, a huge thickset white guy, vaguely Slavic, stared through the video panel.
“This is a private area, sir,” the guy said.
<
br /> “Emergency. Fire. You need to open up.”
“Sir, I cannot leave my post.”
“Listen to me. Open up. This is an evacuation. I need to speak to your boss.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the executive manager of the building.”
The guy buzzed opened the door, and Reznick pressed the Beretta to his forehead. “On your knees.”
The guy tried to grab the gun, but Reznick smashed him in the side of the neck first. The man went down in a heap. Reznick hauled the guy out onto the carpeted landing, his foot keeping the door open. He rifled through the guy’s pockets and pulled out a cell phone and a swipe card.
Reznick left the guy immobilized and headed down a marble corridor to where a desk and chair sat outside the penthouse apartment. He wondered if that was where the security guy he had taken out was usually positioned. It made sense. He swiped the card and pushed open the door.
He took a few moments to look around the extraordinary duplex penthouse. Whitewashed walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, huge photographs of iconic New York architecture on the wall.
Reznick spotted the surveillance cameras discreetly positioned. He padded across the huge space and pounded up the stairs to the next level. Through more floor-to-ceiling glass he saw the turquoise waters of the penthouse pool with the killer views.
He looked around at the walls. These were adorned with black-and-white portraits of Aleksander Brutka in and around New York. Photos of him in fast luxury cars. With models. At parties. The Met Gala. Black-tie events.
In the corner of his eye, a huge man, as big as a mountain, appeared with a knife.
The guy was grinning like a madman, ready for a confrontation. He lunged forward. Reznick feinted and grabbed the guy’s arm, pulling his fingers back until he dropped the knife. But the guy immediately wrapped his arms around Reznick in a bear hug. He felt the life being crushed out of him. Slowly. He leaned forward and then smashed his head back into the guy’s face. And again. And again. The crunch of the man’s nose breaking was accompanied by a groan.
Reznick elbowed the guy in the throat, bringing him to his knees. Then he stepped forward and kicked the guy square in the head, breaking his jaw and leaving the guy out cold.
He checked the rest of the penthouse. Through the windows at the far end of the outdoor deck, adjacent to the pool, a man in his early thirties, wearing shades, was drying himself beside the pool.
Reznick slid back the glass doors, walked up to the man, and pointed the gun at his head. “Aleksander Brutka?”
The guy nodded slowly. “What is going on?”
Reznick pressed the gun tight to his head. “On your knees.”
Brutka sighed as he bent down. “Sir, what in God’s name is going on here?”
Reznick shook his head. “Do you know who I am?”
Brutka shook his head. “I’ve no idea who you are. You’ve just barged into my apartment with a gun! I’ve never met you in my life.”
“My name is Jon Reznick. You ran down my daughter. And left her in a coma. You understand now?”
Brutka’s eyes were hooded. “What—?”
“Shut the fuck up. I’m doing the talking. Where I come from, if you commit a crime, you pay a price.”
Brutka shook his head. “I understand now. You think I was driving the car. I can assure you that’s not the case. I’ve spoken to the police.”
“Then you send my daughter flowers with a little note. Who does that?”
“I just wanted to express my heartfelt sorrow. I own the vehicle, and it was taken without permission. I didn’t realize that would offend you, sir. I hope you can accept my sincere apologies.”
“No, I fucking don’t! I think you’re lying! Here’s what’s going to happen. Do not ever, ever contact my daughter, myself, or the hospital ever again, do you understand?”
Brutka nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“You only get one warning. You will leave this city. You stay away from my daughter. Am I making myself clear?”
“I understand how you must feel. And for what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry.”
“Trust me, don’t make me come looking for you.”
Reznick knew he had to get out of there. He turned on his heel and strode out of the apartment. He took a different stairwell and went down three floors to where he’d been shown the apartment. Then he took the elevator to the lobby.
He sensed the cameras on him, scanning his every move.
Then Reznick headed out the front door onto the boiling New York streets.
Seventeen
A few minutes later, Aleksander Brutka was drinking a double scotch in his penthouse to settle his nerves. He sat and seethed as his head of security, Maurice Blantone, began reviewing the surveillance footage. He had been tempted to fire his whole security detail. But he had put that on the back burner until this matter was resolved.
Blantone pressed the remote and the video began to play on the huge screen. A sharply dressed white guy wearing sunglasses strolled through the lobby with the real estate agent. The man in the footage turned and looked up at the cameras. Then Blantone froze the image. “This is our guy?”
Brutka stared at the man who had breached his security. “That’s him. Jon Reznick. So this is the girl’s father?”
“That’s the name he gave. He obviously wants us to know that. But this is no ordinary, run-of-the-mill tough guy. And he’s not an opportunist.”
Brutka shook his head. He felt his heart beginning to race.
“We need to be careful how we react. That may be what he’s counting on—you reacting.”
“So many questions. How did he know I was the one who ran into his daughter? Was my name leaked by the cops?”
“Aleksander, don’t go there. Don’t start making assumptions. I also don’t think it was a good idea to send the flowers. It doesn’t look good.”
“Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. I get enough of that talk from my father. So I want to know how this happened. The guy just strolls into my apartment complex with the Realtor. Then somehow gets past two of my security detail? How is that possible?”
“We need to really work out some options. We don’t want to overreact. Or make the wrong call. I’ve got a bad feeling about this guy. About this whole incident.”
“Let me make one thing clear: I call the shots. I will decide.”
Blantone sat down beside Brutka. “How long have I known you, Aleksander?”
“A long time.”
“Since you were a boy. I worked for your father. And he has entrusted your security and well-being to me.”
“My father can’t know about this. He’ll ask me to hire that French security firm who were protecting my cousin in Kiev.”
“We have this covered.”
“Do you? He just strolled in here! What the hell am I supposed to think?”
“I don’t know much about this guy yet, but I do know that it takes a certain type of man to do what this Reznick guy just did.”
“He told me to leave town. He told me! Aleksander Brutka! The son of the Ukrainian President!”
“I want to offer a suggestion. First, we need to learn exactly what this guy is all about.”
Brutka looked at the screen. “I want to know everything about him. What does he do? Where does he live? What makes him tick? I want to know if he drinks. Does he do drugs? Does he chase women? I want to know everything there is to know about this bastard.”
Blantone nodded. “I’ve already got things underway.”
Brutka finished his scotch and threw the glass against a wall; the shards smashed to the floor. “You fucking better. No one fucks with me. Sort this out. And then I’m going to kill Jon Reznick.”
Eighteen
Reznick caught a cab five blocks from Brutka’s luxury apartment and headed uptown. He knew he had crossed a line and the cops would have every right to haul him in and charge him. But at that moment he didn’t really care.
The cab dropped him off outside the hospital, and he headed inside. He met with the doctors. But there were still no signs that Lauren was ready to be weaned off the drugs, the first step in slowly waking her from the induced coma.
He was starting to fear the worst. Was she slipping away? Or was she healing and just needed more time?
Reznick spent a couple of hours at his daughter’s bedside. Talking to her softly. Telling her how much he loved her. He felt drained and closed his eyes while he held her hand.
He could have killed that fucker Brutka in cold blood. That was what he’d wanted to do. But then he would have lost. His daughter would have lost. But still there was the lingering feeling that he wanted Brutka dead.
Reznick went out into the hallway and made another call to the hacker.
“I need one final favor,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“I want you to remotely activate Brutka’s lawyer’s cell.”
“You want to listen in?”
“Set it up so that whenever he calls or receives a call from Brutka, I get a message.”
“An audio link?”
“Exactly. It might provide some useful intel.”
“That’s way out on a limb, Jon.”
“Don’t do it if it compromises you.”
A beat. “You’re nuts, you know that.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Leave it to me, man.”
Reznick went back to his daughter’s bedside, dozing off to the sound of bleeping from the machine.
The following morning, Acosta turned up at the door to the room. He knew why she was there.
Acosta cocked her head, signaling she wanted to talk somewhere else. They headed to a nearby diner. He ordered coffee and brunch for them. After they’d finished, the straight talk began.
Acosta leaned across the table. “Dumb move, Jon,” she said. “You don’t strike me as a stupid man. What were you thinking?”
Reznick shrugged.
“The diplomat’s lawyers have been in touch. And they are not happy.”
“Are you referring to Aleksander Brutka, member of the Permanent Mission of Ukraine to the United Nations?”
“How the hell did you get that name? I certainly never gave it to you.”
