At the bottom of the stairs, he turned down the alley and walked out to Roosevelt Avenue. The sidewalks were busy, which gave him a comfortable feeling. There was anonymity in crowds. He felt the tension in his shoulders. He must have been carrying it for days.
Across the street the chain-link fence around the proposed construction site was a grinning, arrogant barrier forcing pedestrians to skirt the obstruction by stepping out into the roadway midblock. It was easy to see why Kenzie hated it.
He strode across, looking for signs of progress within the stockade. No one was there. All the windows of the buildings inside the fence that faced the street had been covered with sheets of plywood, and the graffiti taggers had been busy marking them. shorty lives ran along the windowless top floor of one building, making Ted stop for a moment to contemplate how anyone could have reached that point armed with a half-dozen different cans of spray paint. It was an homage to Shorty 140, one of Queens’ most prolific street artists, who had been arrested eventually, but not before hitting every overpass on the LIE, as well as hundreds, if not thousands, of other sites throughout the borough.
“That boy made himself famous. For some of these young guns, a little street cred is all they’re ever going to get.”
The Preacher was standing over Ted’s left shoulder. He could have sworn the man hadn’t been there a second earlier.
“He’s no boy, Preacher. He’s as old as I am. And,” Ted said, nodding at the building, “he’s still famous.”
“Foolishness. Vandals.”
“Maybe. Or a protest? Sad, futile, powerless, but noble.”
“And your dilemma? When we spoke the other day, you had a decision to make.”
Ted took his time composing a reply. “I admit I’m confused . . .” A subway train passed overhead, and for a long minute, the two men waited patiently for the noise to abate. Ted began again, “I admit I’m confused, but the decision is made. I don’t know whether I made it or had it handed to me, but I seem to keep forging along.”
“The battle against evil takes the righteous through many a dark path. Keep the faith and the light will find you.”
“That’s a comfort.”
“You’re not a religious man.”
“Some days I think my life would be a lot less complicated if I were.”
“To be afraid is to be human. To do what’s right despite your fear is divine.” The Preacher left Ted staring at the fence.
-54-
Lester was up when Ted returned, lounging on the low, broken sofas in the community room watching golf with two young men. To Ted’s eye, they could have been brothers. Both were dark-eyed, handsome men with black hair and near-identical mustaches. They were dressed in pressed khaki trousers and matching pistachio-colored polo shirts. They greeted him with brief nods.
“Glad you’re back. Say hello to our roommates, Khalil and Khalil. Gentlemen, this is Ted.” Lester waggled a finger at his own shirt. “They’re fans.”
Fans? Ted didn’t see the connection.
The two young Afghans flashed brilliant white smiles that disappeared in an instant. Ted nodded in reply.
“Khalil told me something interesting,” Lester said. “He’s halfway through a nursing degree in the city. Ask him about medically induced comas. And you might want to sit down first.”
Ted sat.
“I am sorry about your friend,” the young man said. He looked at Ted as he spoke, but his eyes immediately flashed back to the television screen, where a man wearing the same outfit of khakis and pistachio-colored polo shirt was setting up for a putt. “One moment.” They all watched in rapt silence as the golfer took aim and swung gently. The ball rolled into the hole. The adoring crowd clapped politely. The two fans on the couch shared a high five. Khalil’s eyes came back to Ted. “Is she responsive?”
“No,” Ted said. “Not that I could see. The nurse said she could hear, though.”
Khalil blinked once, swallowing this bit of information. “What I have explained to Mr. Lester is that the swelling could be quite serious. It restricts blood flow to the brain. There is a risk of permanent damage if the brain is starved of oxygen for too long. When did they induce her?”
“Induce” sounded like a way of making an invitation with an “or else” at the end. “Sometime last night. Early this morning? I’m not sure.”
“They will be monitoring her brain waves. Is she breathing on her own?”
“She’s wearing a mask. It sounds like it’s pumping air.”
Khalil blinked again. “If in three days there is no improvement, they will remove the breathing apparatus.”
Three days. Ted refused to accept it. “The swelling may already be coming down,” he said with more hope than conviction.
“There is often some measurable immediate relief. By itself, it is meaningless.”
“Jesus!” The matter-of-fact presentation of this news made it all the more shocking. Why hadn’t the nurse mentioned this? Need to know. He wasn’t family. He thought of Kenzie’s mother, counting the hours until her daughter woke or never woke again.
“There’s more,” Lester said.
“What?” Ted asked, though he felt that he had heard too much already.
“If she comes out of the coma—” Khalil began.
“When,” Ted said. “Can we stick with the idea of ‘when’ she comes out of the coma?”
Khalil continued as if Ted hadn’t interrupted. “Her mental and physical functions could be affected.”
Memory? Speech? Cognitive? Would she be able to walk? To take care of herself? A wave of despair washed over Ted.
“This is possible,” Khalil went on. “I cannot say how likely. I do not have enough information.” Another golfer was on the green and readying his putt. This one wore a lavender polo. Khalil’s eyes were straining toward the screen. “I am sorry about your friend.”
Ted wanted to break something. Or someone. He wanted someone else to hurt as badly as he did. It almost didn’t matter whom. But he would find the people responsible for this. He reined in his rage. “Yes. Thank you, Khalil. I needed to know.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Lester asked.
No. He was not going to be okay. Not until Kenzie came out of the coma, walking, talking, and 100 percent herself in every way. Then he might start on the road to being okay. But for the moment, he was able to function.
“Let’s go sit out on the stairs and let these gentlemen get back to watching their game,” Ted said. “There’re things we need to talk about.”
Lester pulled himself out of the deep couch and followed him outside.
-55-
“I’m sorry. I thought you had to know.”
There was a produce truck parked in the alley below. The driver and his assistant were off-loading into the back of Manny’s store, carrying on a loud conversation in a language that could have been Chinese or Vietnamese. Or Hmong, for all Ted knew. They didn’t appear to be arguing, but the voices were strident. Ted tried tuning them out. It wasn’t easy.
“I should have realized it myself,” Ted said. “I’m not thinking. I’m hoping.” He was also angry—and guilty. He was reacting and not in control.
“Besides people trying to kill you—and me—and that pretty lady ending up in the hospital, and your apartment turned upside down, I can’t imagine why you’re feeling low.”
An explosion of yelling came from below. The truckers were done unloading.
“Let me see how many of those vodka bottles you have left,” Ted said.
Lester opened the bag. It was almost full. “One of us has to be able to think straight,” he said.
Ted related all that had transpired over the past few hours, interrupted once by the produce truck starting up, emitting deafening diesel farts of blue smoke. The frustrating talk with Detective Duran’s partner elicited a s
nort of disgust from Lester.
“You’re going to want to show that video to someone. Aside from a few real estate filings, which may or may not be fraudulent, that’s the only hard evidence you’ve got of any kind of conspiracy.”
Ted nodded absently. “First thing I’ve got to do is figure out how to get some armed guards for Kenzie—without upsetting her parents.”
“Khalil got me to thinking about that,” Lester said. “Follow me for a bit. As long as the lady is in a coma, they don’t have to worry about her. It’s only when she comes out of it that she can start talking about what she remembers. Until then, they’ve got a free pass.”
“On the other hand, she’s unable to defend herself or escape. They could easily find her.”
“They don’t let just anybody into ICU, am I right? Someone on staff would notice a stranger strolling around even if he wasn’t a Russian hit man. She’s safe.”
“Maybe.” Lester made a good point, but Ted wasn’t convinced. Access to the ICU was restricted, but he had sailed in with ease. On the other hand, she was definitely not capable of giving information or identifying her attackers at the moment. Her condition protected her even more than the presence of armed guards would. “It’s good that one of us is thinking straight. I was ready to call in the cavalry. Air strikes. Drone attacks. Weapons of mass destruction.”
“Let’s save all that until we really need it.”
-56-
Ted left Lester watching golf with the two Afghans and went back outside to make his next call. He was ready.
“Detective Duran, please. And, no, I don’t want to speak to his partner.”
Duran picked up a minute later. Ted’s luck had changed.
“I’ve got nothing to add,” Duran said. “Detective Kasabian filled me in on your earlier call.”
“Your partner is an obstructionist.”
“Don’t throw four-syllable words at me, Molloy. I went to public school.”
“There’s a case here. A good case. Let me help you break it.”
“We’ve been warned off.” Duran sounded a touch less absolute about it than his partner. “What does Nassau County have to say?”
“You know, I haven’t talked to them.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
“They think this is a carjacking,” Ted said in exasperation.
“And maybe they’re right.”
“They’re not. If you give me five minutes, I’ll show you why.”
Duran paused before answering. Despite his reservations, he was intrigued. “What have you got?”
“Meet with me.”
“I’m a busy guy.” Now he sounded bored. Was he losing interest or playing hard to get?
Ted laid down his sole trump card. “I have a video. All the players are in it. You’ll see. Come to the place we first met. See what I’ve got, and you decide if it’s worth anything.”
“I’ve been instructed to focus my efforts elsewhere.”
Ted held back his frustration and forged ahead. Formality would have to pass for forbearance. “I have information relevant to your ongoing investigation into the death of Richard Rubiano.”
“We no longer believe the cases are related.”
Ted couldn’t get a read on Duran. Was this truth or was this more obstruction coming down the chain of command? “Give me five minutes, and I’ll prove you wrong.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“Can you afford to ignore me?”
“You are becoming a pain in the ass. My partner isn’t going to buy into this; I’ll tell you that.”
“Don’t bring him,” Ted shot back. “I can be there in twenty minutes. In half an hour, you’re rid of me, or you’re a hero. Come on, take a chance.”
Nurses and firemen were two deep at the bar at Gallagher’s, spilling into all the booths on that side of the room. Ted waggled two fingers at Lili, and she passed him a pair of Brooklyn IPAs while simultaneously pouring shots of Jameson for a cluster of off-duty firemen. Ted retreated to his usual booth, only to find it occupied by four nurses drinking martinis. They were engaged in a heated debate on the relative merits of Girls versus Broad City. Seeing Ted hovering near the table, one of the women tried, flirtatiously, to elicit his opinion but lost interest when he admitted that he had never seen either show. Ted moved on.
An apparently empty booth nearer the door beckoned. Ted plunked himself down, glad for the packed house and the noise. Despite the attack at the courthouse, he felt safer in a crowd. And the alcohol-induced hilarity would drown out his conversation with the detective.
But the moment he settled in, resident barfly Paulie McGirk sat up, rising like a drunken Lazarus from the bench on the other side of the booth. He grinned sleepily at Ted.
“’S that beer for me?”
“No,” Ted said. There wasn’t another free booth available, or he would have moved.
“I thought you’d say that,” Paulie whined.
“Tell you what,” Ted offered. “I’ll buy you a beer if you let me have this booth.”
Paulie did not have to weigh the decision for very long. “That’s a good deal,” he said.
Ted waved at Lili and, when he got her eye, pointed one finger at Paulie. “Lili’s got your beer.”
“You’re a good man, Johnny. I’ll remember your generosity.” The last word was squeezed into three syllables and ended with a small spray of spittle.
Ted seriously doubted he would.
He could see only part of the street from this vantage point, so he kept his attention split between the door and the view. He didn’t have to wait long. Detective Duran came through the door alone, as promised. Ted let him scan the room before raising one of the IPAs in welcome. Duran eased his way through the melee, squinting against the onslaught of a particularly loud peal of high-pitched female laughter.
“How’s your friend?” he said, once settled across from Ted.
“Still in the induced coma. They’re focusing on bringing the swelling down. Who pulled the guards?”
“Very high up. That’s all I was told.”
“Who could do that?”
“Nobody in the department made that call. This came from outside. Someone with connections.”
A councilman? A major real estate developer? Or a retired judge? Ted felt his anger rising up again.
“I seriously doubt I can help you,” Duran was saying. “But show me what you’ve got.”
Ted stuffed his anger beneath the surface. It could wait. He handed the phone to the detective. “Watch.”
Duran played the video through three times before raising his eyes to Ted. “You know all these people?”
“No. I know who they are, though. Some of them. There’s Cheryl, of course. Pak I’ve seen before. I’m told that’s Reisner’s kid. It would be easy enough to get verification.”
“Too bad you couldn’t get the father on tape,” the detective said. “The head of the biggest real estate development firm in the city would be a nice addition.”
“I’m told the son only speaks when his father okays it in advance.”
Duran was nodding impatiently. “Do you have facial recognition on this phone?”
“Why would I?” Ted asked.
“My daughter’s sixteen. I use it every time I meet one of her boyfriends.” He tapped the keys on Ted’s phone, forwarding the video to his own. When he heard the incoming chirp, he opened an app and let the phone search for matching faces. A minute or two he later he grinned and handed Ted the phone. “Is this your guy?”
It was a younger and thinner version of the fat man from the restaurant. He still had hair, but it was thinning. He had already developed the same pose of smug arrogance. The picture was followed by paragraphs of miniscule type.
“That’s him,” Ted said, straining and failin
g to read the copy.
“This is why I’m here, isn’t it?” Duran asked. He swiped the screen again and began to read.
“I don’t know who he is, but I’d bet an arm that he made the call that resulted in my friend lying in a coma.”
“It says here your man is a banker.”
“Says where?”
“Euromoney. From”—Duran scrolled down the story—“six years ago. It’s an article on sons of Russian oligarchs. His name is Sokol Orlov. Born in Moscow. Studied at Cambridge. London School of Economics.” He looked up. “I read someplace Mick Jagger went there.” He continued reading. “Three years at Blandon, whatever that is.”
“Private bank,” Ted said. “Olde with an e. The joke goes they lent the Dutch the beads to buy Manhattan. What else does Euromoney have to say?”
“Sokol eventually saw the light and went to work for his father. Diversification. Special projects. But he stayed in New York to oversee their ‘growing real estate portfolio.’”
“Where does the money come from?”
Duran quickly scanned the rest of the short article. “Says here the old man is the largest manufacturer of ‘edible chemicals in Russia.’ Preservatives, flavorings, colorings. He’s the flavor-crystal king.”
“Mesquite-flavored barbecue potato chips?” Ted asked.
“Stoli Razberi.”
“Anything else there?” Ted gestured toward the phone.
“That’s it. Sokol is younger than he looks, by the way. A lot. He’s forty-one.”
“Evil adds years.”
“That’s what I tell them after I’m done reading them their rights,” Duran said.
“So the reporter doesn’t mention that this guy is guilty of extortion, loan-sharking, money laundering, murder for hire, and general mayhem?”
“Puff piece.”
Tower of Babel Page 25
