by J. B. Turner
Meyerstein said, “I think we’re done.”
Reznick headed out into the street, where there were cop cars, FBI guys, some folks wearing Justice Department jackets. He and Meyerstein headed past them all, his mind still flashing up images of Ilad Brutka’s head exploding. Blood-smeared walls. The smell of decay. An hour later, they caught the Cessna back down to New York with Fonseca and her team.
Not a word was spoken.
A Lincoln picked up Reznick and Meyerstein at LaGuardia before the short journey to the Upper East Side. He was dropped off at his hotel, where he showered and shaved, pleased to get the film of dirt and decay off his body. Waves of tiredness washed over him. But he needed to speak to his daughter first. He called her number.
“Dad,” she said, “I’ve been trying to contact you.”
“I’m back in town. Are you OK, honey?”
“I’m good, Dad. I’m working through some manuscripts. Like I’ve never been away.”
“That’s my girl. Lauren, I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
“But also . . . I got him.”
“The guy that ran me down?”
“Yeah. You won’t be seeing him again, trust me.”
“Did you kill him?”
Reznick closed his eyes. “No. But we got him. That’s all you need to know.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, honey.”
Reznick laid down and slept until dark. He was woken by a text message from Meyerstein. He joined her for a meal at the Quin.
“How’s your head, Jon?” she said.
“I’ll survive.”
“You need to rest up.”
“I intend to, trust me.”
Meyerstein was flicking through some papers in front of her. “I can’t believe what’s happened in such a short time span. Nothing’s easy with you, Jon. Why is that?”
“Stubborn, I guess.”
“And it all started not far from here, with your daughter getting hit early on a summer morning.”
“Seems like a lifetime ago.”
“First, and most importantly, I want to say how happy I am that Lauren has recovered. And I’m glad she’s back in the city. It’s important not to let what happened affect how she lives her life.”
“She loves New York. But yeah, sure, glad that she has no lasting physical problems. I spoke to her earlier. She seems to have made a helluva recovery.”
“What about psychologically? That might be more of a problem, I’d imagine.”
“Maybe. She’s tough. She’ll have flashbacks for a while. But it’s a small price to pay to be alive. In one piece.”
Meyerstein sighed. “What you have unearthed, through this whole thing . . . It’s crazy. With your doggedness and sheer pigheadedness.”
“It was just something I couldn’t let go of. I couldn’t walk away from it all.”
“You’re being very modest. Your help almost single-handedly brought down Brutka and his grandfather.”
Reznick said nothing. He felt empty inside.
“But in the future, Jon, you need to see the bigger picture. Do we have a deal?”
Reznick nodded as he knocked back his second glass of red. “I’m not a fan of the State Department, truth be told.”
“Well, I’m not going to get involved in a discussion about that.”
“What about Aleksander Brutka? What do you think’s going to happen to him?”
“He’s in the hospital, recovering from the bullet wound, blood loss, trauma—bone splintered, by all accounts.”
“He got off lightly.”
“But . . . we have undeniable proof that he was engaged in violent criminal activities.”
Reznick sensed where this was going. “Is he actually going to face charges?”
“The White House has gotten involved.”
Reznick’s heart sank. “What a surprise.”
Meyerstein sighed. “I’m hearing Brutka’s going to have a choice. Either a full jury trial or another avenue. But . . .”
Reznick groaned. “But? There’s a but?”
“I’m not so sure how it’s going to play out in the real world.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You might not like this.”
“Try me.”
“I’ve heard already there’s some behind-the-scenes stuff. High-level State Department and Justice Department.”
“Don’t tell me: he’ll be allowed to return to Ukraine.”
Meyerstein nodded. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
“After everything that’s happened? Unbelievable.”
“The way I look at it, Jon, he’ll be off our streets, out of our country for good. So that’s something.”
“What about the Ukrainian President? How’s that playing out? His father was a Nazi, and his son is being accused of murder, human trafficking, you name it.”
“This has all yet to come out to the public. I’m hearing the Post is publishing Callaghan’s investigation in full in the next twenty-four hours. The fallout from that should be interesting.”
“What about the poor girl Brutka killed in cold blood? Zuki. And you said there was another, Daniela. He should be standing trial.”
“Yes, he should be. But he’s not.”
“We could’ve insisted he stand trial.”
“But it won’t work out like that. Both of us know that.”
“And what about Tom Callaghan? What about his widow and kids?”
“That’s not my call, Jon. It is what it is.”
“That’s bullshit. That’s what it is.”
“Tell me about it. Look, I’m sorry for giving you a hard time on this. We were trying to get Brutka to leave the country. But . . . but he was . . .”
“Protected?”
“You were putting yourself at severe risk going it alone. You know that, right?”
Reznick cleared his throat. “I was well aware of that.”
“The lone wolf.”
“With stitches in his goddamn head, thanks very much.”
Meyerstein took a small sip of her Pinot Grigio. She leaned closer. “You saved me in that attic.”
“You would’ve killed him if I wasn’t there.”
“Maybe.”
“Trust me, you would’ve had him.”
“I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing.”
Meyerstein sighed and looked around the restaurant before focusing her gaze on Reznick. “I’d like to meet Lauren again. Would that be possible?”
Reznick smiled. “I need to warn you, she’s very stubborn and opinionated.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know about that.” Reznick was quiet for a few minutes.
“What are you thinking about, Jon?”
“Thinking about Lauren. About what she says.”
“What does she say?”
“It’s not easy, her growing up without a mom. But that being said, increasingly she’s not shy about sharing her thoughts.”
“Sharing her thoughts . . . What kind of thoughts?”
“Lauren doesn’t think I’ve moved on since 9/11.” Reznick’s mind flashed to an image of his late wife on their wedding day. “She thinks I’m stuck.”
Meyerstein shifted in her seat. “What do you mean?”
“She’s concerned that since her mother died . . .”
“You mean your late wife?”
Reznick nodded. “That’s right: Elisabeth. Lauren thinks I’m sort of trapped in limbo, so to speak. All these years.”
“And are you?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“It can’t be easy.”
Reznick said nothing.
“I’d imagine when you’re here in the city, there must be some very powerful memories for you.”
“It’s hard not to think about the past . . . what happened on that day . . . when I
’m in Manhattan. The memories are always there.”
“The FBI has some terrific psychologists. Talking it over might help.”
“I don’t know.”
“Sometime, when you’re ready, it might be time to move on . . . A new chapter, so to speak.”
Reznick’s mind flashed to the footage of the plane hitting the first tower.
Meyerstein sighed. “It’s been a little while since I visited the memorial. Usually do when I’m in New York. Might do that tomorrow.”
Reznick stared into his drink.
“Do you still visit the memorial?”
Reznick smiled. “I used to . . . Not so much now.”
“We’ll always remember them, Jon. We’ll always remember that day. I know I will. Everyone who was alive will remember that terrible day. But we can’t live in the past forever. Sometimes we need to move on.”
Reznick felt emotions rising to the surface. His head was swimming with pictures of Elisabeth.
“It’s been a long time,” Meyerstein said. “Maybe it’s time to lay some ghosts to rest.”
Reznick felt his throat tighten. “Amen to that.”
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my editor, Jack Butler, and everyone at Amazon Publishing for their enthusiasm, hard work, and belief in the Jon Reznick thriller series. I would also like to thank my loyal readers. Thanks also to Faith Black Ross for her terrific work on this book, and Caitlin Alexander in New York, who looked over an early draft. Special thanks and gratitude to Detective Arlene Gonzalez, NYPD Nineteenth Precinct, on the Upper East Side. And thanks also to Detective Roman Ilustre and Captain Kathleen Walsh.
Last but by no means least, my family and friends for their encouragement and support. None more so than my wife, Susan.
About the Author
Photo © 2013 John Need
J. B. Turner is a former journalist and the author of the Jon Reznick series of conspiracy action thrillers (Hard Road, Hard Kill, Hard Wired, Hard Way, and Hard Fall), as well as the Deborah Jones political thrillers (Miami Requiem and Dark Waters). He loves music, from Beethoven to the Beatles, and watching good films, from Manhattan to The Deer Hunter. He has a keen interest in geopolitics. He lives in Scotland with his wife and two children.
