“Yeah,” Kurtz said. “A steroid injection into the shoulder joint usually takes care of it. It’s done by an orthopedist. You’ll be back to work in a couple of months.”
Morelli’s eyes lit up. “Months?”
Kurtz solemnly nodded. “Sorry to deliver the bad news, but yeah, you’re looking at two months off the job.”
“Damn,” Morelli said. “That’s…”
Awesome? “A real shame, huh?”
Morelli gave him a wounded look. “Hey,” he said. “It’s not as if I did it deliberately.”
“Nope,” Kurtz said. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. If you have to be out of work, you might as well enjoy it. Right?”
A slow smile spread across Morelli’s face. “Right,” he said. Ten minutes later, Morelli left the office with an appointment to see an orthopedist.
The next patient wouldn’t talk. His name was Gene Bauer. He had been a cop for almost twenty years. His record was routine. He had reached the rank of Sergeant, working mostly vice. He had hobbled in on crutches and sat stolidly while Kurtz examined him.
“I fell,” Bauer said. “It was an accident.”
By itself, a simple stress fracture of the tibia might not have stimulated much suspicion, except that Gene Bauer also had swollen knuckles on his right hand and obvious bruising next to his left eye.
Kurtz grunted. Bauer looked at him from under lowered eyebrows, his mouth set in a stubborn line. Supposedly, he had tripped on a kid’s toy and fallen down the stairs, which could in theory have caused his constellations of injuries. He had gone to a local ER, where x-rays were taken and the leg put in a cast. This was a follow-up visit with a police surgeon, as required by regulations.
Bauer was a grown-up. Kurtz was not his nanny. If the guy wanted to keep his mouth shut, that was his business.
The orthopedist who had seen him in the ER had prescribed six weeks out of work. Kurtz shrugged and signed off on the paperwork.
“These things happen,” Kurtz said.
Bauer grunted.
“Come back when the cast is removed. I have to certify that you’re okay before you can return to the job.”
Bauer nodded. “Right,” he said. Then he frowned. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Chapter 13
“I ran into Donna Ryan the other day,” Lenore said.
Kurtz paused, the fork halfway to his lips. “Oh?”
“I don’t think she saw me.”
“Where was this?”
“Gramercy Tavern. I was eating lunch with some of my co-workers. I guess she was doing the same. She was with a group, guys mostly.”
Donna Ryan worked for a small investment banking firm, called Hotchkiss and Phelps.
Kurtz spooned some tea smoked beef onto his plate and added a scoop of pork fried rice. They were eating at a hole in the wall in Chinatown that served world class food. Luckily, they had arrived early. The line was already snaking out the door. “I’ve always wondered exactly what it is that an investment banker does.”
“A lot of it is schmoozing. Successful investment bankers have people skills. They’re good at buttering up the clients.”
“Yeah?” Kurtz gave her a doubtful look. “There’s got to be more to it than that.”
“One of my uncles is a stockbroker. He once said that a lot of the job is psychotherapy. When the market is going up, everybody is happy but when the market is going down, they have to do a lot of hand holding.”
“Are investment bankers stockbrokers?”
Lenore shrugged. “It’s the same general business. It’s putting money to work and hopefully, watching it grow. In this case, most of it is the bank’s money, but almost all the business owners have invested in the firm, as well. Most of the banks require it, actually. They want the business owners to be just as committed to the success of the new corporation or business venture as they are. So, the really successful ones are good with people. They also have to be good at math. A background in finance is a requirement. Some of them start out as accountants, math or economics majors, even physics. A lot of them wind up with MBA’s. Donna got her MBA from Columbia, and then she became a CFA.”
Kurtz blinked at her. “What’s that?”
“Chartered Financial Analyst. They analyze business plans and balance sheets, look at social and economic trends, review the track record of the firm’s officers and principals and try to decide if a proposed new idea or technology is going to make money or fall on its face.” Lenore shrugged. “Basically, they read tea leaves. Is this corporation that’s begging for money worth the investment?”
“You seem to know quite a bit about it.”
Lenore smiled. “Remember Harrison Thomas?”
Kurtz frowned. Ah, yes, the former fiancé… “He’s a banker, isn’t he?”
“Yup. He knew all about this stuff.”
Kurtz preferred not to think about Lenore’s former fiancé. He shrugged. “So, you ran into Donna Ryan. How did she look?”
Lenore frowned. “Manic. She was talking a mile a minute, laughing, chugging down the wine. I thought she was trying much too hard.”
“The job doesn’t stop just because your husband commits suicide.”
“No. No, of course not. There are still deals to be made. You show up and do the job or somebody else will.”
“How did she meet Steve Ryan, anyway?”
“They met in middle school. They were childhood sweethearts.”
Kurtz winced. “Tough,” he said.
“Yeah.” Lenore shook her head and they finished the rest of the meal in silence.
Mitchell Price was dead, murdered in a particularly gruesome way, as were Steve Hayward and his unfortunate wife. Jeffrey McDonald had OD’d twice. The common thread, obviously, was the narcotics. No evidence that Mitchell Price’s supplier had been Steve Hayward but it remained a possibility.
It was important to gather the data. It was okay to toy with theories but you had to be careful not to start believing them, not too soon at any rate. The theory has to fit the data, and if you don’t have enough data, it’s all too easy to start winnowing the facts until they fit the theory.
Get the data. Getting the data was key.
Two different narcotics: alpha-methyl fentanyl and carfentanil, both commonly imported from China, plus heroin. Three deaths. One was drugged prior to having his throat slit. The two others dealt drugs, at least the husband did, and were torn to pieces.
“You want something to drink?” Betty asked.
“Sure,” Barent said. “Thanks.”
He sat back in his chair and stared at the TV set without really seeing it. Betty had on one of those programs where people found a house on the beach, renovated it and sold it for a higher price. Barent was dimly aware of this. It was a nice looking beach, with golden sand, blue water, blue skies and a lot of palm trees. The house was a dump.
Okay, what theory will fit these facts?
Betty placed a snifter of Irish Mist next to Barent’s chair, then sat back down on the couch. Betty smiled at him but said nothing. She knew his habits well.
Nobody slits throats for no reason. The most obvious reason (since we’re making up a theory) was competition: rivals in the drug trade. It fit the facts at least.
“You want to buy a house on the beach?” Barent said.
Betty blinked. “You serious?”
Rivals in the drug trade. Barent shook his head. Rivals in the drug trade wasn’t getting him very far. He needed more data, but where to get it? “Probably not,” Barent said.
“Too bad,” Betty said. “Let’s think about it.”
“All clear,” Vasily Lukin said.
Alexei Rugov rarely exposed himself in this way. And why should he? His compound in Brighton Beach sat at the water’s edge, next to his yacht. It was a palace, the sort of palace that every Russian boy dreamed of having, and he, Alexei Rugov, was one of the very, very few who had achieved that dream. Alexei Rugov
was a wealthy man. He had earned that wealth by the strength of his arms and the sweat of his brow, rising through the ranks of the Federal Security Services and then rising again through the ranks of the Brotherhood. And now here he was, still young, despite the gray in his hair, still fit, still strong enough to take what he deserved and to enjoy it. To grasp life by the throat.
Life is good, Alexei Rugov thought. He wanted to keep it that way.
He sighed, and then cracked open the door of the limousine and stepped out onto the pavement. Alexei Rugov had done many unpleasant things in his life and he had never shirked from his duty. There is always a price to be paid and to achieve success, and to keep it, one must pay that price.
The day was hot and humid. He could feel the sweat prickling on his forehead. His men had already secured the parking lot and fanned out through the neighborhood. This venture was as safe as it could be, but how safe, really was that? Explosives could have been placed hours or even days before. Agents could be hiding among the pedestrians strolling down the streets, posing as shopkeepers, housewives or even children. Snipers could be hidden in balconies high above, focusing their sights even now on Alexei Rugov’s head. He smiled and scanned the apartment buildings surrounding the meeting place.
None of these things were likely, of course. It was only that a ruthless opponent, depending on how ruthless he wanted to be, had options that the more civilized would never consider.
Alexei Rugov had extensive experience with such things.
His men fell into step around him. They walked across the parking lot to the entrance of the restaurant. A jaguar made out of plaster and stucco, with the head of an Aztec god and surrounded by feathered serpents, crouched above the door. A sign said, Casa Lindo.
Inside, the restaurant was cool and dimly lit. It was a large room with tables and booths. Lunch was over; dinner had not yet begun. The restaurant was closed, the perfect time for a private meeting. A man, tall, bronzed and very good looking, dressed in a tuxedo, smiled at him. “Mr. Rugov,” he said in unaccented English. “Welcome. Please come this way.” He ignored the members of Alexei Rugov’s security team. A few hard-looking Hispanic men sat in the booths. They carefully looked at Rugov and his team as they walked past, but none spoke to them and none left their booths.
They walked down a corridor hung with brightly colored banners, their feet sliding against a polished, hardwood floor. The corridor opened out into another room, almost as large as the first. A man sat at a round table in the center of the room. Javier Garcia. He was alone. He smiled at Alexei Rugov. “Please,” Javier Garcia said, “sit down.”
Alexei Rugov’s men fanned out and took up stations across the room. Javier Garcia smiled at them benignly. “Can I offer you something? Something to drink?”
“Thank you, but no,” Alexei Rugov said.
“Very well, then.” Javier Garcia inclined his head toward Alexei Rugov. “You wished to see me.”
“I did.” Alexei Rugov drew a deep breath. “Our two organizations have had a long and profitable association, one that has enriched us both. Yet you have chosen to end this association. I would like to know why?”
Javier Garcia pursed his lips and frowned. “You could have asked me this question over the phone. There was no need to come to me in person.”
“It is a mark of how seriously I take this issue that I chose to do so.”
Javier Garcia gave a slow, regretful nod. “As you said, our relationship has been long and mutually beneficial. You offered me an excellent product at an excellent price. As it happens, however, one of your competitors has offered me a similar product at an even more excellent price.” Javier Garcia smiled sadly. “These things happen.”
Alexei Rugov stared at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his men blink. Another puffed up his cheeks and frowned. A third cast a worried, sidelong glance at a fourth. “Do they?” Alexei Rugov said. “Just like that? No notification? No attempt to negotiate?”
Javier Garcia looked briefly annoyed. He shrugged. “There is nothing personal in this,” he said. “It’s business.”
A slow smile spread across Alexei Rugov’s face. He had heard this statement before. Supposedly, it meant something. “Some of us take our business personally.”
Javier Garcia shrugged.
“And what if we offer you an even better price?”
“The contract that we have entered into precludes us from re-considering our decision at the present time. At the end of one year, you may enter a new bid.”
“One year…”
Javier Garcia nodded.
“And who is it who has underbid us so decisively?”
A quick grin flit across Javier Garcia’s face and quickly vanished. “Sergei Ostrovsky,” he said.
Chapter 14
Reginald Rinear was used to getting what he wanted. It was a common characteristic of the very wealthy. He was not used to being followed and he didn’t like it. When he left for work in the morning, a cop car was parked in the street. The car followed him at a sedate distance into Manhattan. When he left the office for lunch, a cop in a bright blue uniform picked him up on the street and walked casually along. Once, Reginald Rinear walked up to the cop and asked him what he thought he was doing.
“Just following orders, sir,” the cop said, and gave him a big, toothy smile.
“You’ve been ordered to harass me?”
“No, sir. I’ve been ordered to follow you.”
Reginald Rinear stared at him. “We’ll see about that,” he finally said.
The cop shrugged.
Reginald Rinear’s father had served a term on the City Council, many years ago. His family donated generously to the Metropolitan Opera, the Museum of Modern Art and numerous political campaigns. Reginald Rinear knew a lot of very important people.
“So, Barent,” Ted Weiss said. “What’s with this Rinear guy?”
Ted Weiss was an assistant district attorney for the City of New York.
“A dirt bag,” Barent said.
Ted Weiss stared at him. “What do you mean, a dirt bag? He’s rich.”
Barent shrugged. “A rich dirt bag.”
Weiss sighed and pulled up a chair. “Tell me about it.”
“Not much to tell. Three people are dead. Narcotics are involved. Reginald Rinear, we’ve been told by a confidential informant, uses narcotics.”
“So do fifty-thousand other people in this town. Minimum. Why are you following him?”
Frankly, because they had no leads, and because Reginald Rinear was annoying. “The drugs involved are alpha-methyl fentanyl and carfentanil: China White and Serial Killer, as they are known on the street. They’re both unusual, though not nearly as unusual as they should be. Our informant has stated that the drugs Reginald Rinear has been indulging in are supposedly ‘new’ and ‘unique.’ This is what we commonly refer to as a ‘clue.’ Admittedly, not much of a clue, but we don’t have anything else to go on. The guy is an uncooperative witness,” Barent said. “He could talk to us but he won’t.”
Ted Weiss continued to stare. “That’s it?” he said.
Barent shifted uncomfortably. “Also, he’s an annoying little shit. I admit that he probably can’t help us on this particular case, but maybe he can. He knows a lot more than he’s saying, that’s for sure.”
“Which, according to you, is probably nothing. And all of us know a lot more than nothing.”
Barent shrugged.
“Alright,” Ted Weiss finally said. “Let me know how it goes.”
“Believe me, you’ll be the first to know.”
After three more days, Reginald Rinear cracked.
Barent received a call from Everett Johns. “My client wishes to speak with you.”
“Excellent,” Barent said. “Where and when?”
“His apartment. Tonight, at 7:00 PM.”
Barent considered this. Obviously, the guy would prefer that the cops not be seen at his office. This would not inspir
e confidence in either clients or co-workers. Similarly, being seen entering the Precinct House might also raise questions that Reginald Rinear would prefer not to answer.
“We’ll be there,” Barent said.
The apartment took up an entire floor in a very old building on Central Park South, with its own elevator. Barent could only speculate how many rooms the guy had. Reginald Rinear was divorced, with two children who were boarding at Milton Academy. He didn’t live alone, however, as the apartment had a staff of hot and cold running butlers and maids, one of whom, a thin, balding old goat with a beady eye and disapproving expression, met them at the door and ushered them inside. “Master Rinear is in the den,” he said, “with Mr. Johns.”
“Master?” Barent said. “You really call him ‘Master?’”
The butler shrugged. “He insists on it.”
“Then lead the way, Jeeves,” Moran said. “We mustn’t keep the Master waiting.”
The butler’s lips twitched. “That will be James, sir.”
Moran gave a regal nod. Barent said nothing. They followed James into a large, brightly lit room. The floor was polished marble. Glass cases filled with fragile looking knick-knacks from all over the world covered the walls. A large, floor-to-ceiling window looked down on Central Park.
Reginald Rinear and Everett Johns sat together at a large, cherry wood table. “Gentlemen,” Everett Johns said. “Please sit.”
Barent and Moran sat. Everett Johns smiled and rubbed his hands together. “So,” he said, “first, thank you both for coming. My client, as always, wishes to cooperate with the police. He is prepared, within limits, to answer your questions.”
“What limits?” Barent asked.
“Nothing that is said here can be used against him. He will not be required to testify in any legal proceedings that ensue as a result of the information that he is about to give you.”
They had already discussed this with Ted Weiss, who had discussed it with the DA. “No,” Barent said. “We are prepared to offer you transactional immunity. You won’t be charged, but it is entirely possible—not likely, but possible—that your testimony may be required.”
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