by Adam Gittlin
Aside from his hand high on your thigh under the dinner table?
“At dinner tonight, you wiped butter from the corner of his mouth.”
“So?”
“Neither of you even flinched or changed course as it happened. Even for a second. It seemed second nature between the two of you—routine even. Almost—intimate. Like what goes on between people involved. Not just as business partners.”
“Sorry, dear, but Ryan and I have always kept things professional. Not just because he’s married, but because I don’t play that way.”
She turns the full-court press sexiness back on.
“Are you disappointed? Would fucking me again be more interesting if you thought I was with him—but craving you?”
Time to show this little girl she’s involved in a dangerous game.
Whether she knows if she’s playing or not.
“What about Brand and Alessi?”
Now Julia’s simply annoyed and unable to keep it in.
“What about them? Why are you so goddamned interested in Ryan? Here—”
She grabs her cell from the nightstand and flips it to me.
“His number’s in there. Give him a call, since it seems like he’s the one you want to fuck…”
Oh, he’s going to get stuck all right.
I catch her cell and gently toss it on the bed.
“I’m sorry. Really. The last thing I want to do is upset you. So, maybe it’s just best if I leave.”
I walk over as if I’m going to place my champagne flute on the nightstand.
“Look, Ivan. Just—let’s—”
Keep it up.
“No, really. I’m sorry. I really should just go. We’re hopefully going to close this deal tomorrow and then I’m off, so—”
Hopefully.
One simple word.
Something’s up. Now she knows it.
Question is: what’s she willing to do with that?
Where’s her loyalty, really?
She’s losing me.
I place the flute down. I turn back toward the door without giving her so much as a glance.
“Wait.”
She grabs my wrist.
“Don’t go.”
I turn back around, bend down, and kiss her deeply.
“Why don’t I freshen these up,” I say.
I take both flutes—mine from the nightstand, hers from her hand. Just before crossing the threshold out of the room, I stop.
“I thought you said you didn’t know Scott Green very well.”
“What?”
I turn around.
“You said you didn’t really know him. But there’s a picture of him with you and Ryan right here in your own living room.”
“I—” Julia starts.
She drops her chin to her chest. She regroups, lifts her head, and starts again.
“Scott was a friend. I should have told you that when you asked, but I didn’t really think it mattered as I had just met you. And talking about it would have been hard. After all—they’re saying he took his own life. And he was one of us. One of GlassWell.”
“Talking about it would have been hard,” I respond, “because it would have been emotional, you mean?”
“That’s right.”
Julia’s voice is thick with emotion.
“Funny. Not one person I’ve met from your team in trying to close this deal seems to be the least bit emotional at all about Mr. Green’s supposed suicide. In fact, it’s as if not only no one feels anything, but he’s long been forgotten. Like he’s just some casualty of war or something.”
“You have no idea what we all went through in the few days after it happened,” she says, referring to the four days between Green’s blast and our arrival in the States. “Let’s just say that kind of pain, that kind of grieving, is something you look to let go of the first moment you can.”
I take the flutes back to the kitchen. Once there, I place them on the island then take the flash drive with Brand and Alessi’s conversations out. I look around. I hide it in the silverware drawer, under the tray that holds the separated utensils. Once it’s tucked away, I head straight for the door. I get in the elevator, ride it down, and disappear into the Manhattan night.
CHAPTER 35
NEW YORK CITY
2013
At 2:45 a.m., my iPhone’s alarm wakes me up. My head is throbbing. Only a few hours of sleep. At this rate, it will be impossible to catch up. I’m thinking, better than nothing. But I have no idea at this point.
At 3:10 a.m., dressed to the nines for my day in a navy Zegna suit with a mint-green button-down open at the collar, I hit the elevator. On the way down, I finally will myself into looking at the waiting texts from Julia. WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GO? A few minutes later: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? There are three more in a similar vein spread out over another twenty-six minutes before she, too, must have fallen asleep.
I stop at the cash machine in the lobby then head outside. I’m surprised to see it is snowing; Halloween hasn’t even come yet. The big flakes feel refreshing on my hands, face, and neck. I can’t help the urge to—for one second—feel like a kid and catch one on my tongue—just like I used to do in this very city. So I do.
The city is calm. I can hear her breathing. Long breaths in—wind gently howling between buildings, a distant siren, long breaths out—the subway below, the beeping of a delivery truck backing up. I hail a cab. Which at this time of night in Columbus Circle isn’t very hard.
“How much do you make in a typical shift, Mr.—”
I look at the driver ID card in the window. The Asian face certainly matches the driver.
But you have to be kidding me about the name.
“Mr. Chew Kok?”
Melting pot. No kidding.
“I make couple hundred bucks, sir. Being driver sooo ’spensive afta gas, fees to cab company, ’cetera. Sooo ’spensive. Mr. Kok make couple hundred bucks per shift.”
I reach forward with a wad of cash.
“Well, Mr. Kok, this thousand in cash should more than cover you for the rest of the morning.”
Kok marvels at the cash for a second, but instead of dillydallying jumps into gear.
“Very good, sir. Where to?”
“Midtown Tunnel. We’re headed to the Hamptons. But don’t worry—we’re not staying very long. You’ll be back for breakfast.”
I crack the windows just enough to feel some fresh air. We slice through the city effortlessly as we head west to east. Kok clearly knows what he’s doing. He catches pretty much every light and barely once seems to speed up or slow down. As I watch Manhattan skate by on each side I think of my past—my childhood, my parents, and I think of my present. The deal I need to get right for Cobus, the scumbags who need to be held responsible for Green’s death. Which, in truth, I still don’t think I fully understand. Because I still don’t know why he’d rather have blown his head off than go to the cops. All I know is he did.
The eggs.
Perry.
So much to do.
So little sleep.
“Kok, stop!” I blurt out.
He does, on a dime.
“Yes, sir!”
I jump out at a bodega on the corner of Third Ave and Thirty-Sixth Street just before we get to the tunnel. I buy three bottles of Life Fuel—cherry flavor again. I throw one back, ask the bodega owner to chuck the bottle, place the other two in my now overcrowded left inside suit jacket pocket, and get back in the cab.
The Long Island Expressway is empty. Some scattered headlights coming from the other side, a few distant red taillights in front of us. I’m buried in my iPhone, poring over the files and documents related to Feuerbach Turm—the building in Berlin. We had basically been a shade away from buying the property recently, therefore I already know everything about the building as if it is one of our own. But I can’t take any chances. I know the numbers and all information pertinent to the deal essentially by heart at this point, but I need
to be extra sure and careful if I’m going to pull this off. I double-check the projected capital improvement schedule Ernst sent me. I revisit everything from the predominant escalation clauses incorporated into the leases to the energy use projections for the next five years to the still unpaid commissions due brokers for recent deals. I revisit anything and everything related to this building in the center of Berlin’s most vital corporate center.
I Google the article I had recalled having to do with the new formula for calculating not only the availability, but the pricing, for air rights over the buildings in the area. Because of zoning laws, buildings are not allowed to just keep building and building upwards.
But …
Each district has a certain amount of developable air rights in a given area, and these rights are divided by a certain formula that distributes them on a pro-rata share to certain buildings. Most owners will never want to spend the capital on building an existing property higher. That’s where these air rights become interesting. They can be acquired from one property and added to another. In a situation like this, many wouldn’t pay very close attention. But the way I see it—because of the new zoning and calculations—the Berlin building will be the owner of most of the air rights in the immediate area. Which means whether the owner decides to use those rights to develop upward or decides to sell those parcels of air off piecemeal—the value of the property is greater than anyone realizes.
Just as I’m about to place a call to Ernst Brecht, I lift my head and see through the falling snow that we’re turning onto Mako. Richard Plotkin’s beach mansion is just minutes away. The call will have to wait.
At 5:15 a.m., the cab rolls slowly up to a gate at the end of the street, a dead end.
“You sho’ this right place?” asks Kok.
“This is the right place,” I say back. “The gate is there to scare people off who think they’ve come to a dead end and won’t drive into his driveway. But if memory serves me right, there’s no code; it’s more about making the point than safety. All you need to do is slowly get close enough and the gate will swing open.”
Kok does as I say.
The gate slowly swings open.
Kok rolls up the driveway, which stops at the four-car garage at the west end of the property.
“Wow. Now this fucking house,” Kok says.
He’s not kidding. The place is magnificent—about thirty thousand feet of magnificent. A shingle-style home with numerous porches and balconies, the façade is predominantly comprised of dark wood, and it is beautifully contrasted with huge white columns along the front of the exterior as well as bright white molding—the only portion of the house discernible at this time without squinting. Though on the beach the home is modeled after the more typical, huge Hamptons “farmhouses” found a bit more inland. All three floors are lined with huge picture windows, some with triangular accent windows on top of them that complement the same angles of the gambrel-style roof. The place is a flat-out beach palace.
“What’s your cell number?” I ask.
He gives it to me. I punch it in to the disposable.
“Head back down the road and park out of sight, lights off,” I go on. “I’ll call you when I’m ready to get out of here. Won’t be long.”
“Here, take this,” Kok says, handing me an umbrella. “That nice suit.”
I jump out. Kok gets lost. I open the umbrella, thankful for it as the snow is still coming down. Not worried about anyone being around, I head toward the back of the property. The moment is eerie. Way outside of the season, there isn’t a single light on in the house, on the exterior of the house—anywhere. The moonlight is muted as well because of the gray sky and falling snow. I have to use the flashlight app from my iPhone to see a few feet in front of me.
With each step the sound of the ocean gets louder, the waves more and more clearly lapping at the shore. The world is still only assorted shades of black and gray, though not for long. As I turn the corner around the back of the house, I make out three separate docks spaced evenly along the back of the property, leading from the huge pool and backyard areas over the dunes down to the ocean. I take the one closest to me.
I walk down the long, narrow dock. I step onto the snow-covered beach, something I realize I’ve never seen before, and walk toward the water. The waves, though really in front of me, look like rolling shadows. In the distance there is no water or sky—just darkness. The ocean is loud now, the rhythmic sound of the salty water reaching for the beach then letting go, reaching for the beach then letting go. I take in a huge breath, feeling, concentrating on the cool, crisp air filling my lungs. I slowly push the same breath back out. For sixty seconds I do nothing but stare wide-eyed into the black, existing solely in the moment, listening to the ocean, feeling her power and beauty flow through me.
I light my iPhone screen.
5:25 a.m.
I head down the beach about fifty yards then make my way up into the dunes, find a good hiding spot out of sight.
And I wait.
At exactly 5:30 a.m. I see a shadow moving back toward the house, coming around the same side of the home I had walked. The figure stops, no doubt same as I did to survey exactly where he is, what his options are.
My heart is racing.
Life Fuel?
The fact I’m about to be face-to-face with a man who thinks I’m a murderer and wants me in jail?
No doubt a combination of the two.
He starts toward the beach again and takes the same dock I took. I watch each step carefully. Once he’s on the beach, near the water, he stops. It appears he’s alone, but it’s impossible to be sure. After a few minutes, right on cue, he seems to be putting something, most likely his cell phone, up to his ear.
The shadowy figure by the ocean becomes animated, perhaps irritated. He turns this way and that, his free arm gesturing in vain to the person on the other end of the call. All I can hear is the crash of the waves.
The shadow takes his hand from his ear. When he does, I feel the disposable vibrate in my inside suit jacket pocket.
“He swears he’s alone,” my old partner Jake says. “I told him you were there, watching. He didn’t buy it and started to get crazy. He said he didn’t come all this way in the middle of the night to play games. Sounds like he’s telling the truth.”
“Thanks, bro,” I tell him. “I owe you one. And, hopefully, I’ll see you again soon.”
“In this life,” Jake adds. “It better be in this life.”
“In this life.”
That’s the plan.
We hang up. I slowly walk out of the dunes. I go at a right angle and head straight down toward the water. When I’m at the surf line, I make a hard left toward him walking along the water’s edge. His back is to me. When I’m about fifteen feet away, perhaps sensing me coming up behind him, he turns around. The feeling of being face-to-face again with Detective Tim Morante is overwhelming.
This man thinks I’m a cold-blooded cop killer.
I’m not.
This man thinks I know who murdered my father.
I do.
This man thinks I’m either still running from him, or dead.
I’m back.
“Who are you?” asks Morante.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Then how—”
“It doesn’t matter, so don’t waste your time,” I cut him off. “But I do appreciate your coming.”
Even through the darkness, we’re close enough that I can see he hasn’t aged a bit. His dark eyes, skin, and hair, his trim build, nice yet casual clothes, the shield dangling around his neck on a thin chain—it was like the guy had been kept in a bottle of formaldehyde since I’d last seen him.
“Why here?”
“Because I needed to know we are truly alone due to the sensitive nature of what we’ll be discussing.”
“Which is?”
“Exactly what you were told. Jonah Gray. A man I believe you have some questions for. A ma
n I can perhaps lead you to.”
“And why would you want to do that?”
“That’s between myself and Mr. Gray. But in order to do so, there’s something I need from you as well.”
“Of course there is.”
He pauses.
“What makes you think I’m so concerned with Jonah Gray after all these years?”
“Jonah himself. He told me everything. How you believe he killed one of your own. How you think he knows who murdered his father. Which he does.”
Morante remains silent. He turns his attention to the rolling ocean.
“I know where he’s been since the moment he fled the States,” I continue.
“What is it you want?”
An up-close look at Danish Jubilee Egg.
“Simple. You, an esteemed New York City detective, are going to call in a favor at the U.S. Capitol. Maybe you’ll call there on your own, perhaps the better route is to call a favor in with your fellow officers in D.C. I’m sure someone there must be able to pull some strings on Capitol Hill. How you do it, I leave up to you.”
“What am I asking for?”
“Something very small that should be easy to obtain. You have a relative from the Midwest—me, an insurance salesman named James Reynolds—who’s in town this afternoon on last-minute business. Mr. Reynolds has always wanted to take a tour of the Capitol, but these tours are filled far in advance so he wasn’t able to get a spot on the last one of the day at three twenty p.m., the only one he can work into his schedule as he’s only in D.C. for one night.”
“This afternoon? Today? What if it’s out of the question?”
“Then it’s out of the question. I deny you and I ever had this conversation. We both go on in our lives exactly as we were yesterday.”
“We’re talking about the U.S. Capitol. How do I know you’re not some crazy terrorist just looking for a way in? Why would I attach my name to you—when I have no idea who you are, or why you need access to one of the most important buildings in this country?”
Good point.
One I was waiting for.
“I’m not a terrorist, Detective Morante. There’s a Fabergé Imperial Easter Egg that’s on display and part of the tour. It’s called Danish Jubilee Egg. It was a gift from Czar Alexander of Russia to his wife the Czarina Princess Maria Feodorovna in 1903. I simply want to have a look at it.”
