“When we were in Tortola,” Jessica said, “Brian told me it was an offshore banking country. That could be why he went there.”
Lauren searched her memory to recall a class she’d taken in law school that touched on money laundering. “The real estate transactions could have disguised the movement of money. They could have been Arena’s or Jordan Connors’ buildings that one of them was selling back and forth to himself. Brian must have come back with clean financial instruments, deposits slips or bonds maybe. If these are the safe-deposit boxes where he put them, we can cut a deal now.”
“You can’t cut a deal unless you have something to give them,” Jessica whispered. “If we can find whatever Brian brought back from Tortola, we can get out of this mess a lot more safely by giving them back. We need to call the Florida police to see if they have any of Brian’s property from the hotel. Would a key have burned?”
“What are you talking about, Jessica? Please.” Lauren folded the paper, all the night’s fatigue and fear weighing on her.
Jessica grabbed Lauren’s arm through the bars and hissed, “You don’t get it, do you, Lauren? No one is going to let us go on with business as usual—not the police and not Arena. We can’t walk out of here and get our lives back. Our old lives are over. We’ve only got one shot.”
“You don’t even know what you’re talking about, what you’re getting us into,” Lauren growled. “You don’t know what it is to deal with these people.”
Lauren didn’t say more, not in front of Emily. From the snarl on Jessica’s face, Lauren guessed Jessica wanted to remind her that she’d watched Jordan Connors get killed yesterday. Lauren put the paper in her coat pocket and passed the McDonald’s bag through the bars.
Emily grabbed it enthusiastically, “You don’t know how disgusting the food is here and there’s nothing to drink. When we first came, they brought stale bologna sandwiches and milk containers like in school—only warm. There’s not even any water in the sink.”
Lauren noticed the remains of several milk containers and sandwiches scattered under the benches. Emily retreated to a bench and pulled out the Styrofoam containers. She passed a coffee to a scantily clad prostitute who had shoved over to make room for her. The woman’s bare legs were covered with oozing abscesses from shooting up. Emily rose and handed Jessica an orange juice then sat back down to eat companionably with the woman.
Jessica balanced the juice with one hand on a horizontal crossbar and pulled a square sticky note from her pocket. “Listen, Lauren, you’ve got to call Arena. Here’s his number. If they don’t hear from me, they’ll assume I don’t want to talk to them. They could decide to kill us before I even get out of here.”
“Goddammit, Jessica. We don’t have any way to protect ourselves.”
“Jordan was one of them—a gambler, a hustler. They kill their own all the time. Not people like us, not if we cooperate.” Jessica looked around and stopped talking as a woman paced nearby. She looked back at Lauren and whispered, “Please, Lauren, tell Arena I’m in the hospital with depression or something. We don’t want him to know where I am. He might have people here.”
“Okay, okay,” Lauren said, even though she doubted Arena looked at them as civilians who he wouldn’t mess with. People like us didn’t have contracts out on them. But that was yet another thing Lauren wouldn’t say now. “I’ll call and tell them we don’t know anything, make them understand we’re not a threat—but that’s it. I haven’t made a decision about what to do.”
“Just get us time.”
“Okay.” Lauren put the phone number in her pocket with the sheet Emily had given her. “Look, it may be too early, but I’ve got to get back upstairs and see what I can find out about the DA’s plans for your case.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You have no criminal records, and we’ll claim you were collecting items that belonged to Brian under the logical assumption that you were welcome at the office. I don’t think they know about you being on Brian’s computer. So the worst scenario is that the judge lets you go on bail while the DA brings the case to a grand jury or comes up with plea bargains. But release with charges still pending is not what I’m looking for. With all the problems we have, I want this case to disappear—completely and immediately. Steve will get the DA to drop these charges tonight or, come hell or high water, I’m gonna drag him over the coals like he’ll never forget.”
Lauren’s anger closed her throat, feeling as if it could strangle her. She watched Emily sharing food with a prostitute who could easily have TB. “He’s screwed with my kid for the last time, Jessica.”
CHAPTER 30
In his bedroom, Carl reached sleepily for the phone that pinged next to his head on the nightstand. Gooseflesh rose on his bare chest as he swung his feet out of bed. Clearing his head, he looked out the window at sun-sparkled river water, a white ferry zipping across it. He clicked on the phone. “CB, what’s up?”
“After you left, I found out what’s going on. Pedro Arena was hanging around with a couple of the guys. He’s one of Jorge’s cousins, you met him. I opened a bottle of Dom for them, figured you could expense it. Daisy did some lap dances. A little cocaine and you know. Call me Father CB.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Everyone likes a freebie,” CB answered.
“What did he confess?”
“Weapons. It’s all about a weapons deal.”
“You’re shitting me?”
“A war is close to breaking out between Arena’s crew and a Chinatown Tong. The Tong is working for hire. The money that’s missing? The Chinese poker player, Xi Wen, shipped out a whole boatload of weapons, literally. Missile launchers, grenades, long guns, that kind of thing. The Chinese guy is pissed because the weapons are out of his hands, millions of dollars in merchandise. He and the Tong think Arena is setting them up for a rip-off because he’s late with his payment. The weapons are coming by boat from China to Europe and then they’re supposed to go to Africa but they’re sitting out in the ocean somewhere waiting for the signal about payment.
“And that’s not all. Arena was the middleman and took half payment from the buyers. Jorge Arena told me the Africans who are buying the weapons don’t know they’re out their money yet, but they’re worried because their delivery schedule’s been pushed back. They’re holding Jorge Arena’s nephew for collateral. When they find out the money’s missing, you can add a bunch of crazy pirates after Arena’s ass … if Arena’s sister-in-law doesn’t kill him first for getting her son beheaded.”
“So, they used Jordan’s site—a rigged poker game—to do a weapons deal.”
“It looks that way. For a smart dude, Jordan was unbelievably stupid. I don’t think he had it in him to be part of this on purpose.”
Carl agreed.
“Bottom line, Arena’s under a lot of pressure. You better be careful. Anyone who gets in the middle of this crossfire is going to be in deep shit.”
Carl started composing a to-do list in his head. “Good job, CB. I’ll be coming up later when you open.”
Carl hung up and called Rick to let him know what was going on, then emailed the ASAC, who would want a face-to-face. The City’s medical examiner and forensics team were still working on the Chinatown murder and the Westchester medical examiner had Jordan’s body. But any decisions on how they would deal with a weapons sale to probable terrorists or a terrorist state, two people dead already, was way above Carl’s and the ASAC’s pay grade.
Carl checked his Gossamer to make sure it was fully charged. It was a handheld device he could fit in a jacket pocket. Carl hadn’t carried it with him yet because it was risky in case anyone wanted to check him for wires or weapons. But the Gossamer could identify all the cell phones in a room and allow him to key in on the telephones that belonged to Jorge Arena and whoever else in his crew came to the club. Then he’d be able to i
dentify their phones and track their whereabouts. It could be valuable if a gang war were about to go down. They’d be able to see if a wave of Arena’s guys were headed in the same direction. Carl would need to carry the Gossamer with him today. He could anticipate that directive from the ASAC.
Carl’s phone rang again, the ASAC calling.
***
The courtroom was bustling when Lauren returned from the pens, following behind a line of male prisoners who climbed the stairs and filed inside. The cuffed prisoners took seats on a pew against the wall next to the door they had entered through. Lauren waited just inside the door until the current case finished. A baby-faced teenager stood at the defense table with hands clasped in front of him. His lawyer and the ADA talked with the judge at the bench.
“Okay,” the judge said when the lawyers broke from their huddle. “Bail will be set at fifteen thousand dollars.”
A middle-aged woman wailed in the gallery (the bail might as well have been a million), while the defense lawyer whispered something in the kid’s ear. The kid nodded and put his hands behind his back. The court officer recuffed him. His face pained, the kid turned and chucked his chin goodbye to his mother before the court officer escorted him past Lauren and back to the bullpens.
Lauren took the opportunity between cases and looped around the defense and prosecution table. She approached a dark-mustached court officer who sat at a paper-covered desk next to the judge’s bench. “Good morning. Do you have the charging papers on Jessica and Emily Silverman yet?”
He scanned a computer screen. “Not calendared yet. The rap sheet, bail investigation, and the DA’s complaint have to come in before it gets to us. Are you gonna appear for both of them?”
“Yes.”
He shoved two forms at her. “Notice of Appearance” was printed across the top of each form. Lauren filled them out and gave them back, now officially the attorney on the case.
“The clerk will post their names and docket numbers on the wall outside when all the papers are done. Then it’ll be a couple more hours before the case is called.” He chewed on a paper clip. “Won’t be before tonight.”
She thanked him and left. No matter how frustrating, there was nothing more she could do at court. Another shift of ADAs would be on duty by nighttime. Until then, she couldn’t even chat with the ADA on the case to get more information, begin negotiations, and make sure he or she understood the ridiculousness of the charges. She had to get out of there or become one more pacing mother.
At the courthouse lobby’s revolving doors, Lauren looked out before leaving the building. The cement landscape had brightened and filled with people heading to the area’s courts and government offices. She walked two blocks to a Swedish lunch and coffee shop on Reade Street, across from the Federal Building. She ordered a latte and deliberated about the risks and benefits of where to sit. She decided on a quiet table near large windows with a view of the Federal Building that took up the entire block across the street. The window would allow her to assess whether anyone was watching her, with minimal risk. She didn’t think she’d be gunned down through the windows in the heavily guarded area where cars were blocked from entering and explosive-sniffing dogs patrolled. It wasn’t as if a person cashing in on a contract would be a suicide bomber who’d make a move here.
She dialed the offices of Cohen & Cohen. Especially during trials, litigators had to do their office work before and after the nine-to-five court day. With Brian no longer there to do all the actual work of the firm, she hoped Steve would be working and answering his own phone before his linebacker secretary arrived.
***
At the offices of Cohen & Cohen, Steve and Nicole pushed through double glass doors. Steve carried a brown paper bag containing coffee and bagels they would share before Nicole took a cab downtown to her own office.
Anger twisted his loyal secretary’s face when she answered an apparently unwelcome call. “He’s not here,” the secretary said, looking up, watching Steve and Nicole approach down the hall. Bright sun shone through the floor-to-ceiling window where the hallway ended next to Steve’s office. The sun silhouetted her face. Steve squinted against the glare as she mouthed, Lauren.
Steve dropped his attaché on a chair in front of his secretary’s desk and handed Nicole the paper bag. Nicole frowned, her keen blue eyes following him.
Steve snapped his fingers and pointed toward a phone on a table that separated two waiting-area chairs outside his office. The secretary nodded.
“Please hold,” the secretary pushed a button without waiting for a reply, and Steve walked to the phone.
Steve nodded, and they simultaneously returned to the line with Lauren, avoiding a double click.
“I take it you are aware of what happened last night,” Lauren said to Steve’s secretary.
“Yes, we are,” the secretary responded, coolly.
“I need to speak to Steve.”
“He has a trial starting in Wisconsin today. He’s en route.”
“Listen to me,” Lauren snarled, “I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing. He needs to call the district attorney and make it fucking clear that this was all a mistake and that the charges need to be dropped.”
“Excuse me?!” the secretary asked, as Steve’s insides gnarled with rage, too.
“I said he better make it fucking clear.” Lauren’s voice raised, “Take this down. He makes this thing disappear, or I’ll take out a full-page ad in the New York Law Journal. It will outline in detail the entire sordid story about how he treats the widow and orphan of his tragically killed law partner. Then I’ll call every lawyer who refers him cases and make sure he never gets another fucking case in his life. Do you have that down?”
“Yes.” The secretary’s eyes met Steve’s. He turned his back, not letting his secretary see just how truly fucking pissed he was by the nerve of that bitch.
“Good,” Lauren said, curtly.
The phone cut off in Steve’s ear without a goodbye. The secretary looked at the receiver before she, then Steve, hung up.
Nicole strode to Steve’s side, her face red with her own anger for reasons he couldn’t fathom. She spoke intently in his ear, “What the hell is going on?”
Steve grabbed her upper arm and pulled her into his office, away from his secretary’s inquisitive eyes. “It’s nothing.”
“What did you do, Steve?” she asked as the door closed behind him. “What the fuck did you do?”
CHAPTER 31
Lauren caught her breath and looked out at the empty tables in the restaurant, a little shocked at herself. She had no idea whether her call would work—but it had felt great. Just a few days ago, she would have thought that cursing was unbecoming, unprofessional, but she had a feeling it was just right. She didn’t have time to put on airs with that lowlife scum bucket and his minion secretary. While she still had the courage, Lauren pulled out the paper Jessica had given her. The phone number was in Emily’s handwriting, and the catharsis Lauren had just felt vanished. These people had seen Emily. Emily had been completely at their mercy when they came to the house. The thought of Emily face-to-face with a killer sent a rush of terror through her. It would happen again if she didn’t do something.
Lauren’s mind kept replaying what Jessica had said—that their old lives were gone and they’d never get them back. Her chest hollowed out with anxiety as she called Arena’s phone number, doing it now before she lost her nerve. She consciously moderated her breathing, hiding her fear.
“Quién es?” asked a man who answered the phone.
“My name is Lauren. I’m Brian Silverman’s ex-wife. His wife is sick.”
“What is wrong with her?” the man with a Spanish accent asked, suspicious, perhaps unsure whether Jessica had called the police, and Lauren was a cop. Jessica’s excuse of depression was too weak. “She’s sick. She can call you tomorrow
.”
“No,” he said quickly. “Can you take care of her business?”
Lauren paused. The whole thing was insane. She wanted no part of this. But between Jessica and her, really, who was better equipped to handle it? “Yes,” she said despite herself. “I can.” She reasoned it out: convincing people—persuasive argument—was her strong suit. She suddenly felt more confident. If there was any chance of salvaging their lives, this might be it. “I can take care of her business, but she doesn’t know anything, and you and I have our own business. I don’t appreciate being threatened.”
He paused. “No more talk on the telephone. You meet me. There is a bar. You go there at one o’clock and we will discuss it.” He told Lauren the address.
“Are you Mr. Arena?”
“When you get there, you tell my cousin you are meeting Lucho. I am Lucho.” The phone clicked.
***
At one o’clock, Lauren’s Uber arrived at a long block perpendicular to the Intrepid Air and Space Museum. Lauren got out at the corner next to a car wash, allowing the Uber to continue up Twelfth Avenue. She noted her surroundings warily: an industrial street with a shuttered bagel factory, dirty warehouse buildings, and an empty outdoor parking lot. She came to a gray-and-purple awning without a name on it. It was as if the difficulty in finding the place morphed those who entered it into VIPs, in on a secret. She looked around. A half block away, groups of tourists waited at the light to cross the highway to the Intrepid. What could really happen to her in midtown Manhattan with so many pedestrians passing back and forth outside?
She opened the smoked-glass door. The place was John Wick sleek inside, peppered with tall glass tables and bar-height chairs, all vacant. A small, blond man, wearing a sky-blue muscle T-shirt, pulled on a black suit jacket as he came from behind the empty bar. Red backlights highlighted liquor bottles on the wall behind the bar and gave him a red tinge for a moment. He was the only one there.
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