The Extraditionist (A Benn Bluestone Thriller Book 1)

by Todd Merer

  “Yes . . . I mean, no, it’s . . .”

  “Your codefendant’s signature?”

  “Yes.”

  “No more questions.”

  A nice little catch, but disposable after one use, because surely Kandi would warn the other cooperators not to fall into it. I’d come up with variations. I always do.

  Okay. That left today open. Probably the only Thursday I’ve been home alone in years. A day during which I’d think of nothing as a prelude to waking with a clean slate on Friday. Today, maybe I’d work out a little. Definitely write Billy a cheer-up letter. But first, I was hungry, so I dialed up a Greek diner on Lexington and ordered a big breakfast.

  Half an hour later, Viktor buzzed. My food had arrived. I told him to send the delivery guy up. When the elevator door opened, the guy held out a bag. I smelled a ham-and-cheese omelet and toasted bagel. I went to pay the delivery guy—

  He was Agent Nelson Cano.

  “I come in peace,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Take your freaking food, will you?”

  I took the bag.

  “This, too,” he said, handing me a large envelope I figured was another subpoena.

  “Listen, papi,” Cano said. “I was never here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cano smiled. “I dunno. I guess sometimes a guy has to do the right thing. Be well, Counselor.”

  The door closed. I opened the envelope. It held a sheaf of papers. Photocopies. Each sheet bordered by black around an image from a lined notepad covered with writing whose top edge was frilled with some kind of spiral. It took a moment, then I realized what it was.

  Copies of the pages of the late Officer Pimms’s notepad.

  For all his lies, Traum had told a truth. Kandi had held back 3500 material. But why had Cano delivered it to me?

  Sometimes a guy has to do the right thing?

  What the hell was going on?

  Pimms’s handwriting was old school, as easy to read as print. Like most old-fashioned cops, he organized his notes to form a timeline of sorts.

  On the night of July 4, he had been summoned from home when the billionaire who owned the Southampton beach mansion lodged a complaint about his lady friend going out to a sailboat on a Zodiac with a pot dealer. Couldn’t blame the man, losing a looker like Jilly. After paddling out to the sailboat and realizing the situation wasn’t just a minor misdemeanor but beyond his capacity, Pimms had called for assistance.

  I flipped to the next page. It was blank. All of Pimms’s stuff I already knew. So fucking what? I turned another page, and the notes continued.

  So fucking what turned out to be the arrival of two federal agents who’d been in the area: Chaz Scally and his late partner, Vince Mongello.

  When Pimms and the agents went to the sailboat, the crew was observed escaping in a Zodiac, except for one man who swam ashore. The only person left on the boat was the woman, who seemed dazed. Or high. Oh, Jilly. She was taken into custody. Pimms had personally driven her to the agents’ Hampton Bays motel room, ostensibly to be questioned, and had left her there with the two federals. The narrative ended there, mid-page.

  It resumed on the next day, July 5, with a cryptic note:

  Agt. Mongello dead in motel. Suicide. Girl?

  That was all he wrote. But it was enough.

  Suicide. Girl? The puzzle was finally coming together, like filings inexorably drawn to a magnet, revealing previously invisible force fields.

  Jilly had been in the motel room when Mongello was shot.

  Suicide? Maybe. Murder? Maybe.

  Either, but not surprising. Put two bad cops and a case of beer in a room with a beautiful, stoned woman, and something had to give.

  I tried to reconstruct what really had happened. My guess, Scally realized he was in a ton of trouble and rearranged the scenario. I closed my eyes and conjured up a hypothetical:

  Jilly had been raped. Afterward, she’d flipped out, grabbed Mongello’s sidearm, and shot him. Scally had wrestled the gun from her. Put the weapon in Mongello’s hand and then driven Jilly back to Southampton, warning her that if she told anyone what happened, she’d be looking at a murder rap. Twenty-five to life.

  Now, six years later, Scally was willing to ruin his own career, using Traum as a cat’s paw to get at my fee and Jilly’s gold. Could even be that Scally never had any intention of tanking the case; perhaps that was just a ruse to keep me close, so as to find the gold.

  But now that Traum was dead, what was Scally’s next move?

  And what role did Cano have in whatever played out?

  I thought about this. Then I went into the kitchen and shouldered the refrigerator a few inches aside. Just enough for me to reach beneath the adjoining cabinet and remove an object taped there.

  It was a small, dull-gray .380 handgun. A Colt Mustang XSP designed as a concealed-carry weapon. I didn’t have a carry permit. Years ago, feeling threatened by a disgruntled client, I’d applied for one, but instead was only granted a license for a weapon that could not leave the confines of my home. Basically useless, but the disgruntled client was shot to death by an equally disgruntled coconspirator, and I hadn’t bothered to renew the license. Still, for no particular reason, I’d kept the gun.

  I had good reason now.

  Blunt and ugly, it sat on my kitchen table as I ate the breakfast Nelson Cano had hijacked from the delivery guy, at the same time reading my favorite news.

  Nothing unusual on my regular sites, but Radio Free Bogotá was blogging again:

  Citizens, the hour draws close. Will Sombra put an end to our long suffering, the decades of narco-domination? Or will he continue his greedy ways, thereby continuing our national pain, and guaranteeing his own eventual, violent death? Pray for Sombra to do the right thing. Viva Colombia!

  I stared at the screen for a very long moment.

  This time I knew Laura was talking to me.

  Telling me to do the right thing.

  Or be bound for violent death.

  Again I looked at the street.

  They were hidden.

  They.

  CHAPTER 87

  On Friday I reviewed the nuts and bolts of my trial strategy. Its cornerstone was the similarity of Scally’s DEA-6s. My argument? Chaz Scally had threatened and cajoled Rocky, Fuji, JD, and Teddy to testify according to his version of events.

  Undoubtedly, when Scally testified, Kandi would roll out his long, successful DEA career, underlining his integrity and truthfulness. Knowing Kandi, she’d go a bridge too far, but I wouldn’t object. When it came time for me to cross-examine, I’d decline.

  I had more in mind for Scally.

  After the government rested its case, I’d call him as my witness. Bring out that he was nearing retirement and wanted to close the door on an old unsolved case. Then, just as I had done with the crew, I’d bring out the near-duplication of the four DEA-6s he had written, suggesting that the words were his, not theirs.

  He’d deny it. Skillfully, considering his experience.

  I’d replay the voice tapes in which each newly arrested crew member had phoned another crew member, offering to repay an old debt related to the monies they’d been promised for the Swan’s voyage, a repetitious daisy chain bringing dead conspiracies back to life. These conversations were also nearly identical, and I’d underscore that by establishing Scally’s presence when the calls were made and his instructions to the callers as to what they needed to say, and so on.

  Then I’d get Scally to admit that none of the calls had mentioned Bolivar by name. He’d reply that drug conversations always omit names.

  “Are you telling us that these criminals omit names for their own security?”

  That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Counselor, he’d say.

  “Based on your experience, no other reason, Agent?”

  He’d say none, and I’d say, “Based on your common sense and experience, did it occur to you that another rea
son could be that they didn’t know one another’s names, because none of the conspirators believed Bolivar was involved until you so informed them—”

  Here, Kandi would object: “That’s two questions, Judge.”

  “Withdraw both, Your Honor. One last question. It was light out when you and Agent Mongello reached the Swan?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s when Mr. Bolivar jumped boat and swam ashore?”

  “Yes.”

  “In all your notes and all your sixes, did you make a single reference to Mr. Bolivar’s physical description?”

  “At that moment I didn’t.”

  “Did there come a moment when you did have the time?”

  “I don’t believe that information was included.”

  “Correct. Thank you. No more questions.”

  That left one issue unaccounted for. Explaining why Bolivar had agreed to accept an old debt. In my closing argument, I’d point out that fact last, almost as if an afterthought:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the government contends the phone calls were about collecting a drug debt, which is the basis for the conspiracy to have been deemed as continuing. But it occurred to me—I checked it last night, and you’re free to do so during your deliberations—that there was no mention of the debt being for a drug deal, but rather a vague reference to an old loan.”

  Then I’d turn and point at Kandi.

  “Fair or not, in our system, the prosecutor gets to speak last. Therefore, since I, like you, won’t have the opportunity to do so, on all our behalf, I’m going to ask Ms. Kauffman to explain why such a basic fact as confirming a drug deal was omitted.”

  Okay. I was ready. A good night’s sleep away.

  But that night I had bad dreams again.

  The volcano erupted. But instead of lava, torrents of ice rushed from the crater. I ran but soon found myself waist deep in a vista of white ice. As I struggled to free myself, I saw structures nearby: weathered plank buildings surrounded by wire whose barbs were star-shaped, enclosing miniature hammers and sickles. I heard Traum’s hollow laugh, but it was lost beneath a screaming wind, and the ice became a boiling sea in which a fishing boat bobbed, and then the boat became the Swan—

  I bolted awake and saw daylight.

  Saturday, the Fourth of July.

  A bell tolled—for me?

  CHAPTER 88

  It took a moment before I realized the bell was an incoming message on my device. The CORRLINKS icon was blinking. A message from Bolivar:

  URGENT YOU VISIT TONIGHT AFTER THE COUNT. REPEAT: AFTER!

  If Bolivar wanted to see me on the eve of trial, that was his client-given right, although I didn’t appreciate his rudeness. I was about to send an affirmative response when Bolivar sent another message, a single word:

  CONFIRM!

  It annoyed me that Bolivar felt a need to remind me . . . then again, he was on the inside facing the trial of his life. So I replied that I’d be there. Three times. But his insistence was worrisome:

  Was I about to discover whatever was necessary?

  I felt tense. Physically so. Stiff and achy. Fuck it. I was as sharp as I’d ever be. I needed to loosen up, get outside. I put on sweats and sneakers and hit the street.

  Brassy sun, cloudless sky. No suspicious vehicles in sight. The natives away, the tourists still asleep. I trotted along a leaf-shaded path, meandering the hills and dales of Central Park. For a mile or so, I hurt, but then got oxygenated and zoned out until I exited the park, slowed to a walk, turned up my street. Fifty feet from my building, the bulldog pulled to the curb, Kyril behind the wheel. The rear door opened, and Evgeny Kursk got out, smiling.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bluestone.”

  I looked around. All I needed now was feds observing me with Kursk during a period when I’d said I was weighing an offer to my client to cooperate. The street was empty.

  “When you visit Bolivar?”

  I wondered how Kursk knew I was visiting Bolivar. By CORRLINKS? “I’ll be going soon.”

  “We drive you.”

  “I have a driver.”

  “I insist. On the way, there are things to discuss.”

  “Why don’t you tell me these things now?”

  “You will drive with us.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  His mouth twisted, and color patched his pale cheeks. “I don’t like lawyers. I especially don’t like lawyers who interfere with my business. Those that do so come to bad ends. Like Raphael Borg. Do not follow his example. We will be waiting for you when it is time to go.”

  He sat back and closed the door, but the big car remained where it was. I walked to my building. Viktor flicked his butt into the gutter and opened the front door for me.

  “That’s some weird car,” he said.

  “You have no idea,” I said.

  Back inside my apartment, I looked at the street. Kursk’s bulldog was still there, like a Star Wars beast lazily taking sun.

  I stood in the shower with my eyes closed and water drumming on my head while trying to get a handle on why Kursk wanted to drive me to jail. Possible he had another destination in mind? Was I the next Raphael Borg?

  No. That would delay Bolivar’s case.

  Perhaps Kursk’s insistence originated with Bolivar, so intent had he been about my visiting after the late count. Had Kursk come to make sure I did so?

  Whichever, I’d go. But not with Kursk.

  It was one o’clock. The late count ended around 5:00 or 5:30 p.m. I doubted there’d be traffic on the way. Then again, people would be coming home from the beaches, so the Belt Parkway and all of south Brooklyn might be jammed. A safer bet if I left my place by four; I’d be ready to go into the MCC when the count ended.

  I fixed myself a tuna sandwich and washed it down with iced black coffee. Caffeinated, I lay on my bed, looking up at the ceiling while I devised a plan.

  At 2:00 p.m., I looked outside.

  The bulldog was still there. Where were Scally and Cano? The SOD agents? The CIA people? Had everyone given up on me? Or were they watching Kursk watching me?

  I made two phone calls, putting things in motion.

  I took another shower, shaved, donned fresh civvies. I regarded the .380 Mustang for a long moment, then jacked a round into the chamber. I made sure the safety was on, then jammed it into my waistband, and put on a blazer.

  I went down to the lobby. Behind the front desk, Viktor was reading the Post. I stood at the street door. The bulldog squatted fifty feet away. It was 2:55 p.m.

  At 2:59:30, Val’s Flex pulled to the curb. I left the building, walked ten feet, and slid into the back seat. As soon as my door closed, the Flex burned rubber.

  The Madison Avenue light was going red as we blew past it and turned uptown. Val jumped the next light and quickly caught up with the changing pattern. I looked back but didn’t see the bulldog. Then it appeared from behind a bus and ran a red light, four, five blocks behind.

  “Turn east,” I said.

  Val tapped the brakes, turned, heavy-footed the gas. “Where to?”

  “Bloomingdale’s.”

  But we hit traffic, and the bulldog closed fast. Too fast. Even as Val pulled over in front of Bloomie’s Lexington Avenue entrance, the bulldog cut in front of us, its passenger door opening, two men getting out. One was ferretlike Kyril, approaching the Flex. The second was a bullet-headed lug who blocked the store entrance.

  I was about to tell Val to back up and go around the bulldog, but then a yellow cab pulled over behind us.

  Trapped!

  “Listen up, Val,” I said. “When I get out, stay here. Keep your hands out of sight, and stare at the two guys at the entrance.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Just stare until they leave.”

  I moved my gun around to the front of my waistband. I unbuttoned my jacket so the gun was visible as I got out of the Flex.

  Kyril started toward me. I gripped my gun.

  “I’ll
kill you first,” I said. “I’m going shopping. You and your pal wait outside, or my driver will drop you.”

  Kyril glanced at the Flex. Val looked ready to bite Kyril and his partner. As I’d instructed, his hand hovered just below the door, as if concealing a gun. Kyril stepped aside.

  I pushed through the revolving door. Once inside the big store, I raced across the first floor like a mad track star and burst through the Third Avenue doors. I got in a cab and gave the driver directions to where I keep the Mini garaged.

  As per my earlier call, it was waiting for me.

  CHAPTER 89

  Traffic was light. I emerged from the Battery Tunnel at 3:25 p.m. Just a five-minute drive to the jail. Where Kursk likely would be waiting for me. If I went there now, I’d be stuck outside—exposed—until the count cleared. No. Better I start doing drive-bys at five—not a problem, they’d be looking for the Flex—and, soon as the count was clear, fast park by the entrance and hustle inside. Leaving the bastards no way of using me to get to Bolivar . . . Not unless they broke in to jail to catch me.

  Funny that I was feeling funny. Not in a nervous way, either. Or to keep my mind off the dark side. Just straight-up funny, maybe with a dash of irony. Olives, not onions. That left a half hour to kill, preferably in a fun place.

  I came up with a beaut.

  Instead of continuing beneath the Gowanus Parkway span, a few blocks before the Gowanus Canal Bridge, I turned into Red Hook and rumbled through its potholed streets and finally stopped on a cobblestone lane that separated New York Harbor and a nineteenth-century warehouse that had been converted to subsidized housing for artists. I got out of the Mini and leaned on the hood, looking at the warehouse, thinking . . .

  There but for the grace of God I might have wound up.

  An artist. Poor but creative. Compared to the path I chose, I’d have certainly been poorer, definitely quite a bit wiser, very possibly happier. On the flip side, I’d have also missed out on some wild times and remarkable women. Another which-would-it-be, I’d never know. Now there was only one thing worth knowing:

  I had to get through the weekend, and the long week of the Bolivar trial, and whatever ordeals followed it.