“Actually, I was just plotting how to steal that painting,” Duncan replied, nodding to the late-period Picasso on the wall behind the bar.
“It’s wired,” Leah said. “To an alarm, I mean. You’d better cut the power or wait until the next blackout.”
Duncan, who had mainly been looking at the painting because he didn’t know what else to do with himself, turned back to it. It was a portrait of a couple, their complexions baby blue in color, the man holding a sword. Duncan guessed it was a riff on one of the old masters, perhaps Rembrandt, a musketeer channeled through abstraction. “Do you think someone would stop me if I just grabbed it off the wall and made a sprint for the door?”
“Well, there’re at least three people in the room carrying concealed weapons.”
Duncan laughed; Leah’s expression didn’t change. “You’re serious?” he asked.
“I’m not sure they’d actually shoot you if you tried to make off with the painting—as you probably know, New York’s got pretty stringent laws on the justified use of deadly force—but I can’t promise they wouldn’t.”
Duncan had understood that this was a different sort of party from those he was used to; he hadn’t expected that to include armed guards. “Any particular reason for the show of force?”
“It’s not a party without firearms.”
A black man in his late forties came over and greeted Leah. He was tall—easily six-three—in a perfectly tailored suit, with a shaved head and a trimmed goatee. Duncan had noticed the man earlier—he was one of the few nonwhite people at the party.
“We were just discussing whether Duncan here would get shot if he made a dash for the exits with our Picasso. Darryl, would you shoot?”
The man turned to Duncan. “You actually want that, or you’re just thinking about what it’s worth translated into money?”
“I like it,” Duncan said. “Though I can see why not everybody would.”
“Actually, Darryl,” Leah said, “this is the lawyer I mentioned to you the other day.”
Duncan didn’t understand what was going on, but he saw the man stiffen, giving him an abrupt once-over. He looked at Leah questioningly. She looked back at him with a slight smile that he couldn’t read. Not sure what else to do, Duncan extended his hand to the man, introducing himself.
Darryl looked at Duncan’s hand, holding the pause just long enough for it to be awkward before shaking it.
“So are you finding your pro bono work livelier these days?” Leah asked.
Duncan put it together: this was Darryl Loomis, the man who ran the security firm that Fowler had worked for. He felt blindsided. “I take it Blake talked to you?” he said to Leah.
“And I in turn ran it by Darryl.”
Duncan looked back at the grim-faced Darryl, doing his best to appear contrite. “I’m sorry about Mr. Fowler,” he said. “And sorry we’re on opposite sides of the case, as it were.”
“You got a job to do,” Darryl said.
“I appreciate that.”
Darryl smiled, viciously. “Course, Sean was just doing his job too. In fact, doing his job was the last thing he ever did.”
SIMON ROTH was in the midst of quietly scolding his son when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Simon turned, found himself looking down into the raised red face of Sam Friedman. “You’re too short for that gesture, Sam,” Simon said.
“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve,” Friedman said.
“Thank you,” Simon said. “You do too. But what’re you talking about?”
“Inviting me to your birthday party while you’re suing me for a hundred and fifty million.”
After making his fortune in real estate, Samuel Friedman had bought the New York Journal fifteen years ago, back when a newspaper was still considered a trophy worth owning. Friedman was Roth’s age, the two men encountering each other at board meetings, benefits, and cocktail parties a few times a year. They were too alike to ever be anything more than brusquely cordial to each other.
“The lawyers came up with the numbers; you know that,” Simon said. “And it’s not like I’m suing you.”
“Sure it is,” Friedman said. “Whose pocket do you think the money comes out of?”
“Your insurance company’s,” Simon said with a laugh. “In any event, I’m pleased to see it didn’t keep you from coming tonight.”
“I came to tell you you’ve got a lot of fucking nerve.”
“That’s what everyone comes for,” Simon said. “But they stay for the crab cakes.”
“Seriously, thirty years we’ve known each other, and you don’t even call before unleashing the dogs?”
“What were you going to do? The article had already run. And besides, I thought you didn’t interfere with the content of the paper.”
“Interfere, no, but my guidance is certainly listened to. You know what’s happening to the newspaper business? The Journal lost twelve million dollars last quarter. Last fucking quarter! You put our ad revenue on a chart, it looks like a guy jumping off a cliff. That paper needs legal bills like it needed that asshole Craig to come up with free Internet listings.”
“You didn’t buy a newspaper to get rich, Sam.”
“I didn’t buy it to piss money away either. We can’t resolve this thing like gentlemen?”
Simon smiled, his attention caught as Steven Blake approached them. Blake saw who Simon was talking to, and immediately turned on his heel. “Perhaps we can,” Simon said. “But not here. My wife strictly forbid me from doing business at a party we were hosting.”
“Your wife’s dead, Simon,” Friedman said, not unkindly.
“But I still follow her rules,” Simon replied.
OBEYING HIS father’s hissed order, Jeremy Roth sought out Mattar Al-Falasi. To his surprise, he found Mattar smoking a cigarette in the garden, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“I didn’t know you drank,” Jeremy blurted, before wondering whether pointing out that a Muslim was drinking alcohol was some kind of faux pas.
“I don’t in front of my father,” Mattar said. His English was very fluent, crisp, his accent a slight variation on an upper-class Englishman’s. Mattar was tall and thin, with a beard he kept trimmed to stubble. He combed his dark hair forward, giving him a boyish look, though he was just a couple of years younger than Jeremy. “He knows I drink occasionally.”
“Me either,” Jeremy said. “In front of your father, I mean, not mine.”
Mattar smiled before taking a drag of his cigarette. “The other night at the restaurant, yes. My father appreciated the gesture, I am sure. He can seem old-fashioned, especially when in a city like this. But then I suppose fathers always seem old-fashioned to their sons.”
“He couldn’t make it tonight?” Jeremy said, struggling to keep his wandering mind on the topic at hand.
“He and my brother had to go to Washington.”
“Business?”
“We like to think we have friends in your country as well, not just people interested in our business.”
“Of course,” Jeremy said, offering up a smile, worried again that he’d just offended Mattar.
“Many of our friends live in your capital, of course.”
“Makes sense,” Jeremy said, wondering how many American politicians this Middle Eastern family had in its pocket.
“But my father wanted me to stay in New York so that I could come here tonight.”
“Just for our party? You certainly didn’t have to stay for this.”
Mattar took a sip of his whiskey. “Birthdays are important. Seventy years—a milestone, yes? My father thought it important that someone from our family be here.”
“We certainly would have understood, especially if you were all out of town,” Jeremy said, finding the whole thing somewhat ridiculous. There were a couple hundred people at the party; one less wouldn’t have been missed. Then again, his father was precisely the sort of person who would stew over who hadn’t come, ignoring all of those who had,
so maybe Mattar had a point.
“Just as you did not drink wine at dinner the other night, so it was important for one of us to be here tonight. There can be no business without respect.”
“Sounds like something my father would say.”
Mattar nodded solemnly, as if he and Jeremy had just agreed on a matter of grave concern. “The traditions are important, of course, but men like you and I know the world has changed. When I am in Dubai, I act according to what is expected of me there. But when in New York, I like to enjoy those things that New York offers.”
Mattar looked at him meaningfully as he spoke. Jeremy’s present state of mind was working against him; he was too fucked up to get a clear read on Mattar. The guy was clearly not one to come out and say anything in a straightforward way. But Jeremy was pretty sure he understood what Mattar was getting at. “New York can certainly be a lively place,” he said. “Especially after dark. I can show you around sometime—a night on the town.”
“If it would not be an imposition,” Mattar said immediately, smiling, letting Jeremy know he’d understood correctly.
Jeremy grinned back. Let’s see his father or, God forbid, his sister fill this role. But then again, presumably neither of them had any interest in being the company pimp.
“A LOVELY party, Simon,” Steven Blake said.
“Is it?” Simon replied. “I haven’t really noticed.”
“And what a wonderful assortment of people you’ve gathered.”
“How many business cards have you handed out?”
“I assure you I’m well past the point where I come to parties to drum up business.”
“The truth is, I haven’t enjoyed a party since Rachel died,” Simon said. “She was the social one. Not like that’s a secret.”
“Michele complains that she never sees you,” Blake said.
“Why isn’t she here tonight?”
“I can’t seem to drag her out to the city anymore. She’s out in Amagansett pretty much year-round,” Blake said. His third marriage was to a woman fifteen years his junior. Although still in her forties, Michele had seemingly tired of city life, spending even the winter months in the Hamptons. It was a white lie that Michele complained about not seeing Simon; as soon as they’d married Michele had lost all pretense of interest in Blake’s business friends.
“Leah tells me she invited a young lawyer from your firm here tonight,” Simon said. “The one you brought to the meeting the other week.”
“He mentioned it,” Blake said. “I was a tad surprised, I’ll admit, but he’s one of our real up-and-comers. Who knows, he might even be the next Steven Blake.”
“I certainly didn’t raise Leah to fraternize with the help.”
Blake wasn’t entirely sure of the extent to which this was a joke. “Like it or not, the next generation is knocking at the door for both of us. I hope my firm will continue to represent Roth Properties for decades to come.”
Leah came over, the two men falling silent at her approach. “You two better not be plotting business,” she said. “Have you talked to anyone you don’t already know tonight?” Leah asked her father.
“If I don’t know them, the fuck are they doing at my party?”
Leah rolled her eyes before turning to Blake. “Was he always like this, and I was just too young to remember?”
“Simon used to respond to prodding better,” Blake replied. “But I don’t think his fundamental nature’s changed.”
“I saw that Jeremy was off making friends with Mattar,” Leah said to her father. “Surely if he can mingle you can.”
“But he won’t even remember doing so when he wakes up tomorrow.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Leah said.
“Don’t cover for him,” Simon replied.
Duncan had approached the three just in time to overhear Simon’s last remark. “Excuse me,” he said apologetically. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to say good night.”
“Going back to the office, I hope,” Blake said in a flat attempt at banter, while Simon Roth looked at Duncan like he’d never seen him before.
“Leaving so soon?” Leah said, just as the pause was growing uncomfortable. “But we’ve hardly had a chance to talk. Come, we’ll go for a quick stroll before you go.”
“A stroll?” Duncan asked.
“In our garden.”
Duncan followed Leah out the back. The garden space was about eight hundred square feet, slightly larger than Duncan’s entire apartment. Other than a couple of stray smokers near the doorway, it was unoccupied. A slatted wooden fence enclosed the yard, only the top windows of the neighboring apartment building visible. Leah led the way to the outer edge, which Duncan realized was likely the only place at the party where they could actually be alone.
“So I’m sorry you didn’t have a good time tonight,” she said.
Duncan forced a smile, looking over at Leah, whose own gaze was fastened up at the night sky. “Who said I didn’t have a good time?”
“People who are having a good time at a party don’t generally leave in less than an hour.”
“I don’t know anyone here other than you and my boss,” Duncan said. “And you have hostessing duties, and my boss is my boss.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve put you out. I realize you probably felt like you couldn’t say no when I invited you.”
“I wanted to come,” Duncan said quickly.
“Really? And why was that?”
Duncan didn’t have an answer handy, as Leah had obviously suspected. But he was quick on his feet, which was what she was presumably testing. “I figured this was part of the process by which we become allies.”
Leah smiled at this; Duncan thought it the most genuine smile he’d seen from her. “That was exactly my intention,” she said. “But I’m afraid I fell short on the execution. You have my apologies for that.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“Blindsiding you with Darryl like that. It was incredibly rude of me.”
Duncan wondered if Darryl was at this party as a guest or if he was working, or some combination of the two, but it wasn’t a question he was going to ask. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to blindside me,” he said.
“Oh, but I did,” Leah exclaimed, smiling and touching Duncan’s arm. “It was absolutely premeditated.”
Duncan was unsure whether Leah was actually trying to start a fight, or if this was more in the way of a display of power. He guessed the latter: she must know he wouldn’t fight back. Perhaps she was just again putting him in his place. “If there was a moral to the story, I may have missed it.”
“It seemed important somehow for the two of you to meet. You do similar work for us, though I don’t know if you see it that way, and I think it’s helpful if everybody has a human face. Sometimes it’s easier to do your job when you forget there are people on the other end; I get that. But we want both you and Darryl on our side at the end of the day, not opposed to each other.”
Duncan didn’t like where this was going. “Listen,” he said. “If you guys aren’t comfortable with our handling the Nazario case, just let me know and I’ll bring it to Blake’s attention.”
“Don’t be silly, Duncan,” Leah said. “I’ve spoken to Blake about it myself. And Darryl understands too.”
“He didn’t seem all that understanding.”
“Understanding and liking are two different things,” Leah said. “So you’re not going to tell me why you didn’t have a good time tonight?”
“It’s not that I didn’t,” Duncan said. “But this isn’t my part of town, if you know what I mean.”
“Are you sure? Harvard Law, Blake and Wolcott—aren’t those just means to an end?”
“To what end?”
“To be here,” Leah said. “This is inside. This is behind the magic curtain.”
Duncan looked up at the brightly lit house, the shadowy figures moving around inside, as if expecting to see Leah’s metaphor somehow bro
ught to life. “Maybe I’m not inside yet.”
“Of course you’re not. I don’t blame you for feeling aware of that, but I’m surprised it registers as flight rather than fight with you.”
“Sorry to disappoint. Though I’m not exactly sure what fighting would look like in this context.”
Leah studied him, looking vaguely disappointed. It was clear that he’d let her down somehow, but Duncan didn’t understand what it was she’d been expecting. “Is this all just work to you?” she asked.
Duncan was still trying to read her and not having any luck. “I’m not sure I know what you’re asking,” he finally said.
“Right now. Standing here with me in my garden, is this just you being a good soldier for your firm?”
Duncan looked away, smiling, then back at Leah, whose own expression hadn’t changed. “If you’re asking whether I enjoy talking to you, yes, I do. Do I think you’re maybe having some fun keeping me on my toes? Yes again.”
“Point taken,” Leah said. “If I promise to be on best behavior, would you like to get dinner sometime? And don’t say yes just because I’m a client. Although of course I am.”
“I’d like that,” Duncan said.
“Good. Well, then, I guess you’re free to go,” Leah said.
15
HAVING GROWN up in a housing project, Rafael found many aspects of Rikers Island familiar. He was used to harsh institutional surroundings. Jail was worse, of course: the brutal, numbing fact of confinement, the claustrophobia that came with knowing you were stuck, barely seeing the light of day, the constant hum of menace from both fellow prisoners and the guards. At least you could leave the project when things got to be too much, just head out the door and keep walking.
Rafael was doing his best to keep to himself, head down, not draw any attention. The place was too crowded and intrusive to allow someone to go unnoticed, but Rafael could carry himself hard enough that nobody was looking to punk him.
The one good thing coming out of facing a murder charge was that it got Rafael his own cell. For his first week at the jail, he had been housed in what was known as the projects, large open bullpens with fifty or so bunk beds. But then he’d been moved to maximum security, where every inmate got his own cell.
Justin Peacock Page 13
