by Adam Gittlin
Thinks for a second.
“Richard Plotkin,” Jake continues. “Rivco’s CEO who lives in West Palm Beach and never uses his houses up here?”
He was right. Rivco was a hedge fund we used to represent back in the day. And Richard Plotkin, though from Manhattan, hated the Northeast; he held this Hamptons monstrosity along with two others as investments. And told me many times way back when he’d never give any of the three up because one day each would go to each of his three children.
“Exactly. We still represent them?”
“We do. You haven’t given me much time, Jonah. What if I can’t find him?”
“You need to. If it’s difficult, tell whomever you get they need to get the message to Morante immediately because it relates to an old unsolved case of his. And that it’s urgent. Once you have the man himself on the other end, tell him five thirty a.m. tomorrow on the beach. Alone. Because someone with information about Jonah Gray will be there to meet him. If Morante asks how you know, tell him exactly what happened. Someone you’ve never seen before showed up in your office and told you to make this call. And that you felt you should, because you want to know the truth about Jonah as much as anyone.”
“What if he asks why he should believe me?”
“Tell him you can’t answer that. To believe it or not is for him to decide.”
We both pause. Jake stands up, puts his hands on his head, and starts pacing.
“Fuck, Jonah, I don’t know. The authorities were up our asses when all of this shit went down and you disappeared.”
“I don’t doubt it. And I’m truly sorry to ask you to do this. But I wouldn’t unless I really need you to. As you can imagine, there are only a couple people I could possibly trust to help me, and time is running out. Besides, you’ve done nothing wrong. You didn’t then, you haven’t now.”
Jake paces for another second then stops and stares at me. He let’s out a long, dejected breath and sits back down.
“Trust me,” I go on, “He’ll believe it. He’ll be there tomorrow morning. Once you relay the message, tell him you need his cell phone number. He’ll ask why. Tell him the guy he’ll be meeting said he’ll need it to contact Morante should he feel Morante has been untruthful about coming alone. Because the man with the information about Jonah will be watching. But, you see, I won’t be the one calling him. Because he can never have a direct number from me.”
Jake thinks for a second.
“Then who will be?”
“You.”
I walk out of the building. Just as I’m about to hail a cab, my iPhone vibrates. It’s a text from Julia.
WE NEED TO SPEAK. HOW ABOUT WE MEET AT THE RESTAURANT A HALF HOUR EARLY FOR A COCKTAIL?
CHAPTER 33
NEW YORK CITY
2013
At seven fifteen p.m.—fifteen minutes before I’m supposed to meet Julia and forty-five minutes before the two of us are to meet everyone else for dinner—I walk into Il Mulino, the legendary Greenwich Village Italian eatery. I notice Claudio, the silver-haired Maitre d’ who runs the show and used to give me a table from a simple text when most can’t even get through on the phone, let alone land a reservation. He asks if I have a reservation. I want to joke with him about how an Italian fella can know so much about American football or make fun of the fact I’ve never seen a human wear their glasses so low on the tip of their nose. Instead, I tell him I’m with the GlassWell party at eight and that I’m early. He cordially offers me a seat at the tiny bar, which hasn’t yet filled up, but within minutes will be standing room only as the evening rush is fast approaching.
The bartender asks if I’d like anything. I take a seltzer with lime. Alcohol will undoubtedly be a part of the evening’s festivities. Upon this notion, I take the remaining bottle of Life Fuel and knock it back. I chase it with the seltzer.
On my iPhone I start rifling through my file on the Berlin deal. Before this bullshit, did the Freedom Bank Building look like a good deal, a prime expansion acquisition? Yes. Better than the Berlin property? Hell, no. I need to get that building for Cobus. I owe him that.
As I look through the file, an aerial shot of the business district where the Berlin building—Feuerbach Turm—stands catches my eye. Then I think of an article I just read regarding the new zoning laws that just took effect in that particular portion of the city. I go back to one of the forecasts we were given as part of the building package. It becomes clear to me everyone involved in selling or buying the building may have missed something.
I dial a number. A voice picks up on the other end.
“Hallo?”
It’s after midnight in Germany. I’m surprised to hear a live voice.
“Ernst, Ivan. I apologize for calling so late. I was expecting your voice mail.”
Ernst Brecht is handling the Berlin property sale. I am well aware at this point either Gruden & Wayfield or Vienna Shanks is locked in on acquiring the building.
“Ivan Janse,” Ernst responds. “Don’t worry about it. Really. I’ve been working this late every night for a week as we’re working toward a close. I’m actually happy to lift my nose up for a moment.”
His English is strong; his heavy German accent even stronger.
Fuck. Is the close he’s been working on for my new target?
“I must say, I’m surprised to hear from you,” he adds.
“Why is that?”
“Last we spoke, I felt it was pretty clear de Bont had moved on. How have you been?”
“I’ve been well, Ernst, thanks. Are you telling me the property is off the market?”
Real estate is always about the dance …
“The property has not yet been sold, if that is what you are asking.”
And I’ve had my share of jaunts around the ballroom.
“In that case, there’s some information I could use. I was going to leave you a message to e-mail it first thing tomorrow, but the sooner I receive it the better.”
“What is it you want?”
“A most likely scenario capital-improvement schedule for the next five years of major building equipment. I had requested one following a review of the offering materials, but in reviewing the file I see it was never received.”
“Is that right? Hmm—I remember your request and thought I sent it on.”
He had. And it had been received. But I couldn’t let him think the next little piece of information I’d be handing him was the reason for the call.
“In any event, not a problem. I’ll send it off as soon as we hang up.”
“Thank you, Ernst, that’s appreciated. And again, I’m sorry for calling so late.”
“Not a problem. Business is business.”
“Yes it is. Speaking of which, from what I understand there were two firms seriously interested in your property so let’s just say while I’m interested in the fact it hasn’t turned over yet, I’m happy you were, at least, according to the rumors in the marketplace, leaning toward the private player.”
True, there were two major firms interested in the property at last notice—one private, one public. But the public firm, Gruden & Wayfield, is the one with whom they are about to make the deal.
“Because word on the street is the public player was going to look to bring in another partner at the last minute to diminish the risk. A partner that while on the surface has a solid enough reputation as to not hold up a close unfortunately has an almost equally indisputable history of failing to close as often as they actually get a deal to the finish line.”
A pause.
“Yes, well, as you said yourself the property hasn’t yet turned over.”
I had zero indication Gruden was looking to partner with anyone, and even less of an idea what firm it was I was referring to as their potential partner. I had just described a ton of pretenders out there. But my work was done. I had planted a seed in his brain that something was up with his deal. Enough that he was at least going to give me twenty-four or forty-eight hour
s to see if I had any intention on coming to the table to steal the building.
“Indeed. Look forward to receiving that schedule,” I finished up. “Thanks again.”
Julia walks in at seven thirty p.m. on the dot, the exact second I can feel my heart racing a bit from the straight caffeine I just ingested. She’s still wearing what she had been earlier in the day. Before saying a word to me, she addresses the bartender who, like every other person with a pulse in the place, is checking her out.
“Hi, glass of Chianti, please.”
“Uh, we don’t tonight by zee glass have a Chianti, but I have a beautiful Montepulciano zat—”
“That’s fine,” she cuts him off.
She looks at my glass.
“Soda with your vodka tonight? Going easy?”
“Why the request to meet early?” I change directions. “I think we’re all set in terms of open items to discuss.”
The bartender places her glass of wine in front of her. She takes a healthy sip and places the glass back down.
“Why were you going after Enzo today? What was that all about?”
“I’m sorry,” I shrug her off. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Ivan.”
I just stare at her, say nothing. Because I can see in her eyes, I don’t need to.
Come with it.
“What you did this afternoon, that wasn’t exactly how a new landlord treats their building’s flagship tenant.”
“We’re not their landlord yet, Julia. GlassWell still is.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
I smirk at her and slowly reach for my seltzer.
“You were holding the close up on purpose today. I fucking knew it.” She goes on.
I take a sip.
“Relax, Julia, take a step back. The closing was held up strictly out of business necessity. That’s all. Your imagination is getting the best of you right now.”
Keep her where I need her.
“Really? I’m imagining things? Like you and Alessi this afternoon?”
“This again? I told you—”
“Bullshit! It wasn’t just what you were saying, Ivan, it was your eyes.”
“My eyes?”
“I watched them the whole time. And they were definitely going after something.”
“Again, I really wish I had something interesting to tell you, but I don’t. I’m a man loyal to my boss, my firm. And in that loyalty comes an undeniable pursuit of knowledge in terms of my due diligence. At all times, at every opportunity. I make no apologies for this.”
“Due diligence. Right.”
She takes her glass from the bar. She’s about to say something, but stops herself. She takes another healthy sip. After replacing the glass, she puts her right hand on top of my left hand, which is on the bar.
“Does any of this have to do with Scott Green? Or what happened to him?”
“Mr. Green. The attorney,” I say, pretending to be catching up to her.
“Do you really think he killed himself?”
A video of his head exploding onto the wall plays in my brain.
“I have no idea,” I say. “Why?”
Julia pulls her hand from mine. She looks at her watch.
“They’ll be here any minute. Let me check and see if our table is all set.”
Minutes later the group has arrived, and we’re on our way into the tightly packed dining room. Spencer is like a deity; he can’t get past one table without someone standing up and greeting him with a warm handshake or kiss. The place is in usual full-throttle form. For those willing to throw down a Range Rover lease payment for dinner, white-gloved servers are already hard at work floating through the low-lit, windowless digs, doling out perfectly prepared garlic-laden staples. The understated décor, two walls solid brick and the others off-white wallpaper with scattered, falling leaves, help keep patrons’ attention solely on the Abruzzi-region inspired cuisine. We are seated at a round table in the far back left corner of the dining room. As we are, gratuitous premeal antipasti items such as spicy, sautéed zucchini and hunks of Parmesan cheese are placed down, filling the surface of the table.
As we get ready to sit, Cobus is on my left, Arnon, as usual, is to his left. A guy named Julian from the GlassWell team is about to sit to my right, but Julia shoos him away, saying we need to speak. To her right is Brand, followed by this Julian fella then Spencer.
Just as our asses hit our seats, Spencer surprises everyone.
“So, Ivan, is it?” he addresses me. “I hear you’re a fiery one. A real soldier. With a passion for detail, for insight.”
“I never thought of myself as a soldier before, sir.”
At least not the kind you are referring to.
“But if being as thorough as I can be, sometimes to a fault, for my employer makes me a soldier, then I guess that’s what I am.”
“He’s as fine at taking the evaluation of a property to a forensic level as I’ve ever seen,” Cobus backs me up, realizing we’re subtly discussing what happened earlier with Alessi. “I believe he always has the best interest of de Bont Beleggings at heart. Something, obviously, that is important, I believe.”
The last comment, though, I can’t help feeling is more for me than Spencer.
“I admire that kind of loyalty,” Spencer responds.
He looks around at his crew. Then he spreads his arms as if presenting them to us all over again.
“My team—we’re like family,” he goes on. “We win as a family, we lose as a family. I appreciate thorough, Ivan. I do.”
After ordering, dinner takes a more casual tone. Side conversations break out all around. Some are about family, others are about past professional experiences and career paths. Some are about art, others are about traveling. While speaking to Julian across the table about a trip he took to Budapest—a much more cosmopolitan city than he would have imagined—something out of the corner of my eye grabs me. Julia and Brand are in conversation, but in noticing a button of butter in the corner of Brand’s mouth from a piece of bread he’d been eating, she wipes it away. Only not the way colleagues wipe butter from each other’s face. The way people involved do, people close. It was as if second nature to both of them. Neither broke the conversation for a second; neither felt a need to explain why she was lifting a napkin to his face. Then, I’m guessing subconsciously, after wiping the butter away, she gently touched his face before returning her napkin to her lap.
Taking this in, my iPhone slides out of my hand onto the floor. I reach down to pick it up. When I do, I notice Brand’s hand on Julia’s thigh.
The thigh I’d made as red as she asked me to just this morning.
Whoa.
What the fuck?
Is she involved? Does she know everything?
Nothing?
Doesn’t matter. Either way, she’s tipped her hand.
It’s clear which side she’s on.
Isn’t it?
I lift myself back up to the table. As I do, bottles of Dom Pérignon Rosé and flutes are being delivered to the table. Once the sweet, pink bubbly is poured, Spencer asks us all to raise our glasses.
“To closing this deal tomorrow,” he says. “And to each of our firms continuing on their respective paths.”
I look at Julia.
You know what they say about where to keep potential enemies.
SHOULD WE KEEP THE CHAMPAGNE GOING IN YOUR APARTMENT LATER? I text her.
I see her notice my message and look at her phone. She types in a message of her own, then looks at me sure to catch my eye before hitting send. Once she’s done both, she looks away just as the message arrives.
YOU KNOW IT.
CHAPTER 34
NEW YORK CITY
2013
At eleven ten p.m., after my usual return to the hotel with Cobus and Arnon before leaving again five minutes later, I walk into Julia’s apartment. The door’s been left open for me. The apartment is qui
et, dark.
Fuck, I’m tired.
My head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
As I begin to move through the space, I reach into my cluttered pockets looking for a Life Fuel, only to remember I’d only bought two bottles, both of which I’ve already consumed.
“Hello?” I say as I start in the direction of the kitchen.
“Bedroom, Ivan,” she responds, her voice coming from behind me, the opposite end of the apartment.
I enter the bedroom, stopping just inside the doorway. The lights are off but there’s still light. It’s coming from the Manhattan night through the huge window looking out, over the city as the blackout shades in effect this morning have been completely peeled back.
Julia, wearing nothing but a white lace thong, is on the bed. She’s sitting up against a propped pillow, her hair falling over her shoulders, her long, gorgeous legs stretched out in front of her crossed at the ankles. She’s holding a glass of champagne.
“Nice view,” I say, staring at her.
“The beauty of a high floor.”
I look toward the window.
“Yeah—that’s nice too.”
Then back to her.
“Won’t you join me?” she asks. “After all, this may very well be our last private time together. At least for the foreseeable future.”
On the nightstand next to her I notice another full flute. The thought of another sip of alcohol at this moment sounds about as good as a screwdriver being jammed into my thigh. Nonetheless, to keep things moving along, I walk over and pick up the glass. I extend it toward hers and we clink glasses. I take a small sip and begin to walk around slowly, aimlessly.
“May I ask you something?” I say, stopping in the center of the room.
“What do you want to know, Mr. Janse?”
I turn around and face her again.
“How long have you and Ryan been involved?”
All it takes is one twinge in her eye, one millionth of a second that her expression changes before retaking the previous one. She’s doing her best to remain completely immersed in sexy mode, as if the question hasn’t fazed her.
Isn’t working.
“What do you mean?”
