“Okay.” Genaro checked his e-mail and found the photos. “Harry? That’s Billy Burnett.”
“Great! What do you want me to do?”
“Absolutely nothing. Come back to Vegas, and don’t mention a single word of this to anybody.”
“As you wish, Pete. I’ll be home tonight and at work tomorrow.” Both men hung up.
Genaro sighed. He realized that, with all that had happened, this situation was not what he wanted. He liked Billy Burnett, and he especially liked Charmaine, and he did not like Yuri Majorov, especially since he had started shooting people in his hotel and at the airport. He had a board meeting in an hour, and he wanted to be ready for it. He called his banker.
“Good afternoon, Pete.”
“Afternoon, Abner. Are we all set?”
“I’ve been to my people with your proposal, and we’ll back you, Pete. Go ahead and put it to your board. A cashier’s check for the funds will be on your desk momentarily.”
“Thank you, Ab. I’ll get back to you after the meeting.”
“Goodbye, Pete, and good luck with your board.”
Genaro hung up. He left his office and decided to take the long way to the boardroom. He walked through the public rooms of the hotel and then through the casino, stopping to chat now and then with a customer or an employee or to suggest some small change in the decor or other arrangements. He loved this place; it was what he had always wanted.
Shortly before the board meeting he entered the boardroom to find the CEO and chairman, William Stein, chatting with his vice chairman, Albert Hegelman. The corporate counsel, Abby Greenbaum, sat at the conference table, going over some documents.
“Hello, Pete,” Stein said.
“Hello, Bill, Al,” Genaro replied.
“I see you’ve got something on the agenda today. Want to tell us about it?”
“I’m sorry, Bill, but there isn’t time. This came up on short notice, and I’d rather put it to the full board. I will tell you that I very much want your support for what I propose. I think it’s important to the future of this business.”
“We’ll hear you out, Pete,” Stein said, “and I’ll support you if I can.”
The others were entering now and taking their seats as per their place cards. Only Majorov was late, and when he came in, he didn’t bother to apologize or respond to any of the greetings he heard. He took his chair at the end of the table and glared malevolently at his fellow directors, as if to intimidate them.
“Gentlemen,” Stein said, “the board will come to order. The first order of business on the agenda is a proposal from our chief financial officer, Pete Genaro. Pete?”
Genaro stood up and smiled at the group. “Gentlemen, I know that you have all become aware of the events of the past few days, during which two FBI agents were murdered on our property by bodyguards of Mr. Majorov, and a few minutes later, when those two bodyguards were murdered by Mr. Majorov himself.”
“They were not murdered,” Majorov shouted, slamming his hand on the conference table. “It was self-defense!”
“The police may have bought that,” Genaro said. “I don’t.”
Majorov sprang to his feet. “Have you forgotten the importance of my investment in this property?”
The chairman gaveled him into silence and told him to sit down and be quiet. “Please continue, Pete.”
“I am also aware that Mr. Majorov has twice attempted to murder a valued customer of our casino. Gentlemen,” Pete said, “these actions hark back to a day when a different element held sway in this town, when a casino was not looked upon as a legitimate business. That day is past, and we must act to preserve our reputation as honest businessmen.”
There was a murmur of assent around the table.
“As you know, gentlemen, our bylaws provide for the buyout and removal of any investor whose conduct brings our corporation into disrepute. Today, I wish to make a personal offer, backed by the Las Vegas Investment and Trust Company, to purchase the shares owned by Mr. Majorov, valuing them by the formula stated in the bylaws, and simultaneously, I wish to move for Mr. Majorov’s removal from further ownership participation and immediate expulsion from these premises.” Genaro sat down.
“Second the motion,” Albert Hegelman said.
“Move the question,” Abby Greenbaum echoed.
“With no further discussion,” Stein said, “the board will vote.” Greenbaum called the roll, and the vote was unanimous in favor, except for the vote of Majorov. “The motion having carried, Mr. Genaro will be treated henceforth as owner of the shares formerly owned by Mr. Majorov, and the paperwork is ready for signature in the adjoining room. Mr. Majorov, you are excused from this meeting.”
Majorov stood and glowered at the gathering. “There will be blood,” he said.
“If so, sir,” Stein said, “it will be yours.”
“Hear! Hear!” everyone shouted.
Genaro walked around the table, took Majorov by the elbow, and escorted him from the conference room. The two security men assigned to him awaited.
On a table in the room were two documents and a cashier’s check. Genaro handed Majorov his pen. “Sign both documents,” he said.
Majorov hesitated for a moment, then sagged. He signed both documents and received the check.
“Gentlemen,” Genaro said, “please escort this gentleman from the premises. Housekeeping has already packed his bags and they are waiting for him, as is a car to drive him to the airport. Put him aboard his airplane, and watch it take off before you leave the airport.”
Majorov leaned close. “I will kill you for this,” he hissed.
Genaro leaned in, too. “If you want to get to the airport alive, you’d better shut your mouth and get out of here, you miserable son of a bitch.”
He returned to the boardroom and got a round of applause from his fellow directors.
“Pete,” Stein said, “in your brief absence the board has accepted my resignation as CEO and appointed you as my replacement. I will remain as chairman, of course.”
“Thank you all, gentlemen,” Genaro said.
• • •
At the airport, Majorov got out of the car and boarded his airplane, while the pilots loaded his luggage.
The pilots got back aboard. “We’re ready to start engines, Mr. Majorov,” the captain said, “and we’ve filed for Moscow with a fuel stop in Iceland.”
“Scrub that,” Majorov said. “Refile for Teterboro, New Jersey.”
Teddy was done with his work in the armory by noon the following day. After lunch in the commissary, he dropped his car at his apartment building and took a taxi to Hawthorne Airport. He inspected the new paint on his airplane and, finding it excellent, paid the shop, then flew to Santa Monica.
He taxied to Atlantic Aviation and spoke with the chief lineman about any hangar that might be available for purchase.
“I heard a rumor that Craig Livingston, the rock star, might be selling his hangar,” the chief said. “I know for a fact he’s already sold two of his three airplanes. His chief pilot has an office in the hangar. You might speak to him.” He pointed out the hangar, which was not far from Atlantic.
Teddy walked over there and found the pilot at his desk, updating a maintenance manual.
“I’m Billy Barnett,” Teddy said, offering his hand.
“I’m Tim Peters,” the man said. “What can I do for you?”
“I heard a rumor that Mr. Livingston might want to sell his hangar.”
“Well,” Peters said, “he’s already sold the Pitt Special and the Caravan. Only the Citationjet Four is left, and he wants to move it to Burbank and rent hangar space there.”
“What do you think he would take for the hangar?” Teddy asked.
The man named a very high figure.
“Are you his only pilot?”
“Yes, it’s a single-pilot airplane. I’m an airframe and powerplant mechanic, and I’m type-rated in all the smaller Citations, and I’m a certi
fied instrument flight instructor.”
“Will you go to Burbank with the airplane?”
Peters looked uncomfortable. “I haven’t had any assurances about that. Livingston is type-rated as single-pilot in the airplane, so he doesn’t necessarily need me.”
“And what do you think Livingston would take for the hangar, if the deal included keeping you on here?”
“Come to think of it,” the man said, “I think he might take a percentage less, probably a lot less.”
“That sounds interesting,” Teddy said.
“There’s an apartment upstairs, too, but I don’t use it—I’ve got a place nearby. Let me show it to you.”
Teddy liked what he saw. “I’ll get back to you in a day or two,” he said.
The man handed him two cards. “That’s my card, and the other is for Livingston’s lawyer. Make your offer to him, and a word of advice: bargain hard. Livingston has had some cash flow problems, and he wants out bad.”
Teddy shook his hand and left.
• • •
Pete Genaro moved into the CEO’s office immediately, and after he was completely settled in he went to FlightAware.com and entered the tail number of Majorov’s Gulfstream. The airplane was over New York State and headed southeast, originally filed for Reykjavik, but diverted to Teterboro.
There was a knock on his door, and he waved in Harry Katz.
“Nice new digs, Pete,” Harry said, taking the offered chair.
“Thanks, Harry, and thanks for your good work the past few days. I’m sorry it was for naught.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get my bill.” Harry handed him a slip of paper. “That’s their address in Santa Monica, should you need it.”
Pete slipped the address into a desk drawer. “Majorov is out of my hair,” he said. “I’ve bought him out, and the board has elected me CEO.”
“Congratulations, Pete. Anything else I can do for you?”
Pete leaned back in his chair. “Harry, we’ve never talked about this, but are you available for wet work?”
“How wet are we talking, Pete?”
“Soaking wet.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I would like for Majorov not to return to Vegas—in fact, I’d like him not to return to anywhere.”
“I’m not opposed to that degree of wetness in general,” Harry said, “but you’re talking about a Russian Mafia guy with personal security.”
“I understand that such an undertaking would be expensive. I was thinking twenty-five grand.”
“Do you know the whereabouts of said fellow?”
“His jet is about to land at Teterboro.”
“Do you know where he stays when he’s in New York?”
“At one of his company’s properties, the Excelsior—in the penthouse.”
“If I recall, there’s a taller building directly across the street.”
“I believe that is so.”
“If a person could gain access to the roof, then the deed could be done, but I’d need fifty grand.”
“Forty grand, and you pay your own expenses.”
“I’ll need to make a couple of phone calls,” Harry said. “Can I get back to you?”
“Use my old office,” Pete said, “but not my telephone. Use your own.”
“Give me an hour,” Harry said.
“I don’t know how long he’ll be in New York,” Pete said.
“I understand. Do you have a photograph of the gentleman?”
Pete turned to his computer. “I believe we took one when he joined the board several months ago.” He scanned for the shot. “Here we go.” He printed out the photo and handed it to Harry.
“That will do nicely,” Harry said. He got up and went down the hall to Pete’s old office. He photographed the photograph of Majorov with his cell phone, then he used a throwaway cell phone to call a number in New York’s Little Italy.
“Who are you calling?” a man’s voice answered.
“I’m calling the person I’m speaking to. You know who this is?”
“Right.”
“I’m in need of some extermination work,” Harry said.
“What kind of pest are we talking about?”
“A large rat—you don’t need a name.”
“Tell me what I need.”
“The infestation is in the penthouse of the Excelsior Hotel. You know it?”
“How about access?”
“From the roof of the taller building across the street. It’s well within spraying distance of standard equipment.”
“What sort of markings does the rat have?”
“Give me an e-mail address, and I’ll send you a photo.”
The man gave him an address, and Harry e-mailed the picture.
“Nice one,” the man said.
“You’ll know him when you see him.”
“When is that?”
“He should be there in a couple of hours.”
“Write down this number and wire twenty large.”
“No success, I’ll need a full refund.”
“You got it.”
“Give me an hour, then check and call me back.” He gave the man the number. He hung up and went back to Genaro’s office.
“It can be done tonight,” he said. “I’ll need twenty grand wired to this offshore account number right away and the other twenty in cash.”
Genaro took the account number. “You’ll be responsible?”
“I’ll return the money if it doesn’t happen.”
Genaro nodded. “Go.”
Jolly Tonio got the call and agreed to ten thousand for the job.
“It’s gotta be tonight,” his client said. “There’ll be a photo in your mailbox in five minutes.” He recited the address and details of the building. “The custodian will spend the evening in a bar down the street. A key to the building will be taped to the photo.”
Jolly noted everything, then opened the case that held the custom-made sniper’s rifle that he relied on for such work. He checked the weapon’s action and the number of rounds in the magazine, then closed the case and went to a closet, where he selected his wardrobe: a gray business suit, white shirt, dark tie, and a black fedora, then a reversible raincoat—tan on the outside, black on the inside. He tucked a folding stool into an inside pocket of the raincoat, then folded the soft fedora and stuck it in the inside pocket. Finally, he went into his bathroom and selected a dark, bushy mustache from an assortment, tucked it into a little box with some adhesive, and selected a pair of black eyeglasses with nonprescription lenses.
He put on the raincoat, black side out, locked his apartment, then opened the mailbox and removed a blank envelope. On the cab ride to a corner a block short of his destination, he checked the photo and slipped the building key into a pocket, then, using his reflection in a window, he glued the mustache in place and put on the fedora and the black glasses.
As he walked to the building he presented a dark figure—dark everything—and older. He stopped in front of the building. The lobby was lit only by a single fixture, and his key worked. He checked a back exit and found that it opened into a walkway to the street behind the building. Ideal. He unfolded his stool, stood on it, and unscrewed the bulb in the fixture; he wore driving gloves so there would be no prints.
Jolly took the elevator to the top floor, then blocked the door open with a trash can from the hallway; he walked up a flight and, using his key, let himself onto the roof. He walked to the parapet and looked down one floor and across the street at the Excelsior Hotel. The penthouse was, literally, a house set down on top of the building, surrounded by a planted deck. The living room lights were on, and a bedroom was lit by a single bedside lamp. Two people were standing at a bar in the living room having a drink. The man was the man in the photograph; the woman was wearing a tight black dress, low-cut.
Jolly unfolded his stool and sat down on it, the case in his lap. He opened it and assembled the weapon, bolted on the
scope, then laid it carefully on the parapet. He used a pocket range-finder to get the correct distance, then sighted in the weapon and adjusted the sight for the range. Finally, he shoved in a magazine of six rounds and laid the rifle on the parapet again.
Jolly took an iPhone from his pocket, switched it on, and plugged an earpiece into his ear, then selected an album of Chopin waltzes and settled in for the duration. He was a calm person who could sit for hours, unmoving, as long as he had music to listen to.
Most of an hour passed while the two people chatted and drank, then they moved into the bedroom and began to undress. The process was businesslike; the woman was a hooker. That meant she wouldn’t stay long after her work was done; the man would then be alone, and there would be no one to call the police until the following morning, when the maid found him.
The two people had sex by the light from the living room and the single lamp by the bed. They were done in twenty minutes.
Jolly rechecked everything as the woman got dressed, collected her money from the dresser top, and left. The man went, naked, into the bathroom, and the light came on. Jolly decided to take him as he came out of the bathroom. He would be a better target standing than in the bed. The rifle was semiautomatic; he would fire three times rapidly: the first to shatter the glass of the sliding door, the second at the man’s chest, the third to the head. Jolly liked head shots; they were final. He took careful aim through the scope at the empty space outside the bathroom.
The man stepped out of the bathroom, and Jolly fired the first round through the thick glass. It shattered. A second later, as he was squeezing off the second round, the man dived back into the bathroom. Shit!
The bathroom light went off. Jolly waited for a moment, but it was clear the man wasn’t coming out, not until he had summoned the police or hotel security from the bathroom phone.
Jolly quickly picked up the ejected shells, dismantled the rifle, and packed it into the case. As he stood to leave he heard a police car in the distance, then saw it come around the corner and head for the hotel. He walked quickly to the door, let himself into the building with his key, and removed the trash can blocking the elevator door. As the car moved down he used a corner of the rifle case to break the light fixture over his head, so that when the door opened, light would not pour into the dark hallway downstairs.
Doing Hard Time (Stone Barrington) Page 16
