by David Duffy
“I’ll say. Can you tell…?”
“Patience.”
I sent the beast in search of the names the numbers belonged to. That took a few minutes longer. While we waited, I put my hand on Victoria’s knee and started up her thigh. She knocked it away.
“Stick to business,” she said with a smile. “You’ve got me curious now.”
“Curiosity wasn’t my goal.” I returned the hand to the knee. She let it stay there.
The calls came back up, with names this time, sorted by date, as the numbers had been, the most recent listed first. Most of the recipients of Coryell’s outgoing calls didn’t mean much to me. Incoming calls were another matter.
Victoria said, “Hey, that’s you!”
I was at the top of the list—my call from outside his office last night. Below it was an unlisted, disposable cell phone—Nosferatu’s, I was almost sure. I made a note of the number for future reference and told the Basilisk to group the calls by name. Thomas Leitz jumped off the screen. Eight calls over the last few years. I had a hunch about the timing. The Basilisk hissed—you know it, run with it. I went back to the keyboard.
“What are you doing?” Victoria asked.
“Maybe earning that million dollars.”
The detail on Thomas Leitz’s calls to his brother-in-law appeared. Sure enough, each call over the last four years coincided with the pay down a few days later of his credit card debt. The Basilisk had answered one question—where Thomas was getting the money—but it raised several others. Where was Coryell getting it? And why was he giving it to Thomas? And how much of this did Sebastian Leitz know?
Victoria said, “I’m still here, remember? What’d you find out?”
I told her.
“What is it with this family?” Victoria said.
“They’ve got more money than most. But once you start to dig into any family, you shouldn’t be too surprised by what you find. As I remember, your old man had you arrested for stealing his car. How normal is that?”
“My stepfather. And he was pissed that I wouldn’t put out.”
“See what I mean?”
She removed my hand, stood and walked around the office again.
“What are the chances,” she said from the window, “if I asked nicely and it was really important—stopping some truly evil bastards—your partner in crime would let me do a little research for a case I’m working on, with appropriate supervision, of course.”
“He’d rather swallow Pig Pen.”
“Yeah, I thought you’d say that.”
“You’ve got the entire United States Department of Justice at your disposal.”
“The goddamned Department of Justice is coming up short, if you want to know the truth. Your pal and that serpent of his produce more than a legion of FBI.”
“He’s aware of that. Hence limited access for Feds.”
“You are both socialists.”
“Guilty, but I can only speak for myself. What’s the case?”
She shook her head. “I’ve got institutional constraints, which is too bad, not least because I think you could offer some insight into the guys we’re going after.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“I meant it that way. But we might as well face it. We both have misspent youths. And you…”
“Haven’t rehabilitated myself?”
“You’re the one who said it.”
“If you’re afraid of wolves…”
“Don’t go into the forest. You told me that once before. One of your proverbs.”
She sat on my lap facing me, legs straddling mine, her face a few inches away. “I have to tell you, shug, I’m here in the middle of the forest and I’m happy about it—over the moon, to be honest—although the why of it is still a total mystery.”
“‘Love’s like the measles. The older you get it, the worse the attack.’”
“Another proverb?”
“Bohemian poet, early twentieth century. Rilke was his name.”
“His humor is on a par with yours.”
“Don’t be too quick to judge. He also said that for one person to love another is the most difficult task there is, the one for which all others are just preparation—or words to that effect.”
That got a thoughtful look from the green eyes. “According to Kris Kristofferson, love’s the easiest thing there is, if you pick the right woman—or man.”
“Dueling poets. Their job is helping us see ourselves. Doesn’t mean they always agree.”
“Tell me this, you and your Bohemian know-it-all—why is it the things I love about you are the same things that scare me to death?”
“Rilke knew all about that. He said, ‘Our fears are like dragons guarding our deepest treasures.’”
“You making this up?”
“Uh-uh. Think about it. You said this morning that you’re scared to death something will happen to me. I’m frightened that I won’t be able to fix things with Aleksei, and I’m terrified I’ll do something to drive you away again. Sound like dragons and treasures to me.”
She put her hands around the back of my head and kissed my lips. “I think I like that, but I need to think more about it. Since you just upgraded yourself to treasure, though, you can buy me lunch.”
“I’d love to, but I have to meet a screaming queen on Houston Street at noon.”
“Excuse me?”
“Leitz’s brother. His description, not mine. How about we reconvene at a place I know in Chinatown at two. Best dim sum in New York.”
“All right, but what am I supposed to do with my dragons between now and then?”
CHAPTER 18
Thomas Leitz didn’t exaggerate.
A scattered assortment of people mingled outside P.S. 146. One man stood out. He would have stood out in a circus. About five-ten with a platinum Mohawk that added three inches at its peak. Blue and white silk pants that hugged his skinny frame from hips to ankles. Purple leather ankle-high boots with pointed toes. A bright purple collar flopped over an equally bright orange cashmere sweater. He hadn’t bought any of it on a teacher’s salary. His face was pointed and could have been okay looking if God hadn’t forgotten his chin. His Adam’s apple bobbed below his lower lip. Even in New York City, I would have bet the dacha on his having tenure.
I’d left Victoria with a hug and a kiss outside my office building and walked north, mildly annoyed at Leitz and his family for intruding on our reunion. No getting around the fact, though, that Thomas Leitz had something on his brother-in-law and needed interrogating on that and other subjects. I walked at a leisurely pace, thinking about Victoria and dragons and treasures—and attraction. Beauty is only skin deep, or so they say. I’m not so sure, but I’ll cede the point. While there was no question her looks worked a kind of black magic on me, it was unlikely that my shaved head and stocky physique had the same enchanting effect on her. We did have several things in common. She was tough and strong minded, with every reason to be so. I can be tough minded too. She was self-made in every respect, as I was. Neither of us had a family life to speak of. We were in the same line of work (sort of, and sometimes on opposite sides), lived alone and didn’t mind it, until recently. We were both loners, without intending to be so.
Her childhood, like mine, taught self-reliance at an early age. Her father took off when she was a kid, and her stepfather almost killed her mother in a drunk-driving accident. Mom got hooked on painkillers. Stepdad chased Victoria with lecherous intent whenever he wasn’t too drunk. He caught her one night, but she laid him out cold with a cast-iron frying pan and took off, stealing his car to make her getaway, which is what landed her in the juvenile detention center. She was smart enough to realize where her life was headed if she didn’t take a different path. Reaching that kind of turning point, and recognizing where you are when you get there, was something else we shared.
She enrolled in junior college, then the University of Miami on ROTC and spent four years in the Air Force. Sh
e went to law school at Miami too, on Uncle Sam. She got a job at a Miami firm and thought she was on her way professionally until she found that every man she met, including bosses and clients, were more or less like her stepfather—only interested in one thing.
She got fired for refusing to put out, as she put it, got even, one more thing I admired, and got a new job with the Miami DA. They left her alone, and she built an impressive record jailing the same kind of SOBs who’d made her life miserable. Their lowlife intentions weren’t limited to trying to get laid—fraud, embezzlement, perjury, and theft were as common in the business world as the underworld. She wanted to make some money so she moved into private practice with an Atlanta firm, keeping the same scumbags she’d been prosecuting out of jail. She didn’t like it, but that didn’t cause her to be any less effective. The Atlanta firm got acquired by Hayes & Franklin, a big Wall Street legal outfit, and she put in to move to New York. Wasn’t long before she was a partner and running the combined firm’s white-collar crime practice—an $80 million business. The first time I asked one of her law partners about her, he called her a piranha. Of course, she’d moved on to the U.S. attorney’s office by then and just jailed his biggest client.
Success can be sexy, I suppose, but skin deep too. More often than not, the insecurities that lie beneath the urge to succeed form the foundation of character. I preyed on insecurities in the spy business, they’re what makes people tick. (Had I known that in my twenties, I probably would have passed on proposing to Polina and saved us both a world of heartache.)
One dragon guarding the attraction Victoria and I felt for each other was the fear of doing something to screw it up and drive the other away, as I’d told her. I was afraid I’d make another mistake, as I had with Polina and Aleksei—and with her almost six months before. It didn’t have to be my fault. Fate could—and probably would, since I was Russian—intervene. I just had to screw up one more time, and I knew how easy that was to do.
Her dragon took a different form. We’d traded life stories the first time we had dinner. Somewhere in the recounting, I recognized beneath the tough-gal veneer a brittleness as fine as my own. Takes one to know one, perhaps. She did her best to cover it, but self-doubt was part of her makeup—doubt about her judgment, doubt about her own attractiveness, doubt about whether she could make something like this work. And fear about how she would feel if she failed. I hadn’t had the chance to ask too much during our first round of romance, but I was pretty sure her stepfather and his successors had taken their toll. Despite her looks, smarts, and success, she doubted what she brought to the table of a relationship. As a result, I was willing to wager, she hadn’t had many that were serious. Faced with the prospect of one now, she was scared of fucking it up, just like I was. The reasons were different, but that made the fear no less real. And when I went off on my own, or declined to talk about what I was working on, as I had about Aleksei, I put those insecure dragons on high alert.
Rilke nailed fear. I’d have to look into what he had to say about doubt. Beria fell into step.
Excellent, Electrifikady Turbanevich. You’ve assessed the situation with astute Cheka prescience. And, as usual, totally sidestepped the question of whether you’re ready to do anything about it.
I was about to defend myself when my ruminations were stopped in their tracks, as was I, by the improbable sight of a large statue of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin in full stride, arm raised to show the way, atop a Houston Street apartment building. I’d heard about this, but never seen it. The brainchild of the developer who’d put up the otherwise mundane brick complex, which he, of course, named Red Square. The statue, a large clock with misplaced numbers around its face and the clever name were supposed to give the building some Lower East Side hipster chic. No doubt Lenin changed the world. Few would argue for the better, and even they would have a hard time applying concepts like hip or cool to the first Soviet dictator. I wondered idly whether the developer had considered what his neighbors a few blocks to the north—the heart of Ukrainian New York—thought of his vision.
Thomas Leitz saw me and peeled off a small group as I approached.
“Mr. Leitz? I’m Turbo.”
I held out a hand, which he ignored while looking me up and down.
“Tough guy. Boyfriend beat you up?”
One more interrogatory chore. The Leitz siblings were consistent in their absence of eagerness to help their big brother.
“He did land a few blows,” I said, leaving his question, if there was one, unanswered. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“We don’t have that much to talk about. I don’t know anything about my big brother’s business and what I do know I’m not sharing. Any more questions?”
Coercion worked with Jonathan Stern. Thomas Leitz looked an easier pushover. “About thirty-five thousand.”
A frown on the chinless face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Four credit cards. Thirty-five thousand dollars. You could be wearing some of it right now. Carried for months, paid off in November. You’re already another eight grand in the hole. Where’s the money come from?”
“Who are you?”
“A well-informed guy. I know a lot more. Question is, what am I going to do with it?”
“I don’t have to talk to you. I don’t care what Sebastian says.”
“Eight grand says you do. You going back to the same sugar daddy to take care of that? What’s he going to want this time?”
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”
“Tall guy with buckteeth and bad skin. Know him?”
“NO!”
“I don’t believe you. But I’ll tell your brother what you said.”
I didn’t think Thomas Leitz had ever met Nosferatu, but I needed to be sure, before we got on to other matters. I’d taken a step and a half west along Houston Street when he cried, “Wait!”
I took another couple of steps for emphasis before turning back. I don’t think he was shaking, but he could have been.
“Let’s go somewhere we can talk,” I said.
He nodded once and I followed him to a footbridge over the FDR Drive and into a park scattered with baseball fields between the roadway and the river. I’ve run through it on many mornings. He found a bench and sat at one end, head in hand, elbows on knees, eyes straight ahead, not looking at me. I sat at the other.
“Where’d you get the money?” I said.
He shook his head. “Not from anyone you know.”
“The tall guy?”
Another shake. “I don’t know any tall guy.”
“Some people came to see you. Tell me about them.”
He nodded, twice. “A man and a woman. Lawyers, they said.”
“Names?”
“Don’t remember. I told them I had nothing to say. We didn’t talk long.”
“What did they want?”
“Questions about Sebastian, his business, his family. Some kind of background check, they claimed.”
“Describe them.”
He was no more revealing than Marianna or Julia, but they had to be the same two people.
As he talked, a lone man crossed the footbridge and turned north away from where we sat. He was of medium height and build and wore a tan overcoat and a flat cap. He followed a path until he was fifty yards away and leaned on the railing, looking out over the river.
“They ask about anything else?” I asked Thomas.
“I don’t remember. The rest of the family, I guess. Marianna and her husband. Julia and Walter. I didn’t tell them anything, if that’s what you want to know.”
“They ask about your debts?”
“NO! I told you…”
“So where did you get the money?”
“STOP IT!”
“I’m not a nice guy, Thomas, and I need information. Where did you get the money?”
“I… I got a loan.”
“Who from?”
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
/> “Family?”
He nodded slowly.
“Who?”
“I have… friends.”
Lying, like waiting, is an acquired skill. It takes practice. Thomas Leitz wasn’t good at it. The Cheka’s approach to interrogation was to use the first lie like a club and beat the subject up and down until he offered up all the other mistruths, half-truths and made-up truths he was harboring. That would’ve been easy with Thomas—he handed me the club at the first opportunity, and I already knew the answer anyway. The Cheka, however, was always after a confession first, truth was rarely an objective. I was looking for honest answers—and help. Thomas Leitz could supply either or both, though not if I turned myself into a complete enemy. I changed the subject.
“I spent the morning with Marianna. She’s in pretty bad shape.”
“Her husband’s an asshole.”
“Maybe. I think she needs help. She’s hitting the bottle hard.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“You’re her brother.”
He shook his Mohawk and looked at the ground. “Poor Marianna. I do feel sorry for her. But she shouldn’t have married him if she didn’t love him.”
“That’s what happened?”
“What do you think, smart guy?”
He was stepping around something there.
“She told me she lent you money once. Fifteen grand. You hit her again for twenty-five and she turned you down. She said you weren’t very nice about it.”
He raised his head and laughed out loud—braying long and high. Tan Coat turned to check us out.
“HAH! That’s rich. Did she tell you she was smashed, so blitzed that she practically knocked over a waiter with a tray of food? Three brandies while we were there. While I was there, who knows what she drank after I left. She was still mixing them with ginger ale then. Ugh.”
He looked around in a conspiratorial fashion and lowered his voice. “Did she tell you what she called me? This was before we even talked about money. When she ordered the second drink, I suggested maybe coffee would be good. She told me to mind my own fucking business. Her words, not mine. Then, when I said maybe she should think about help, she said, ‘At least I’m not queer.’”
