by Tom Straw
“Nimo . . .” whined the injured woman.
“Hold, skank.” The prince wasn’t just rude. He was distracted, struggling the way drunks do when they’re trying to summon a loose thought. “Now I got a question for you. If you’re checking out a robbery at my crib, what are you doing here?” He made another paranoid glance along the railing of the parking lot above. “How’d you find me?”
Macie felt herself tighten. But Cody took a confident step toward him. “We’re Reliant. We’re everywhere.”
The prince gave him an unsettled look. “Listen to me, dickhole. You got anything more to ask you ask my lawyer, understand?”
“No problem, sir. Who’d that be?”
“Name’s Orem Diner. You talk to him, and be the fuck out of my sight.”
“Be certain we will,” said Macie. Then she led Cody up the ramp, telling him all she knew about Orem Diner, attorney at law.
♢ ♢ ♢
They met the next morning for a stand-up breakfast at the Café Europa on Lex then walked to Park Avenue for their appointment with the Angolan stud’s attorney. Macie found herself taken with Gunnar Cody in a skinny suit and tie. She couldn’t help it, and snuck glances at the crosswalk reds. He joked that it was all in keeping with surveillance; that he had dressed to fit in. The wide sidewalk was typically immaculate and ablaze with the end of the season’s red tulips and a border of blue Dutch hyacinths. As they passed the Waldorf-Astoria, recently bought by a Chinese conglomerate for almost $2 billion, Cody mentioned that, in the years before it shut down for renovations, United States presidents quit staying there due to concerns that its new owners included spying along with room service and Wi-Fi. That set her to reflect once more about sacred spaces. She was already paranoid that Amazon knew whether or not she’d finished her e-books; now even a former leader of the free world had to wonder if that crunchy thing in his Waldorf salad was a walnut or a microphone. Then Wild got jarred out of her conspiracy daydream. The revolving door to the law building jerked to a sudden stop with her trapped inside.
She twisted toward Cody, who was still outside, squinting through the glass to see what the trouble was. Macie then peered into the outbound side of the rotary where a well-dressed man had stumbled and was hauling himself back up to his feet. He made eye contact with her and mouthed an apology through quivering lips. The guy looked ashen and his forehead gleamed with sweat. He removed a pocket square from his suit jacket to hold to his mouth. It almost got there before the man vomited against the glass. Wild looked away, in revulsion as much as to give him privacy. The door started to rotate again and she baby-stepped through to the lobby followed by Cody. “Should we help him?” she asked.
“We’ve got it, folks.” A pair of security guards stepped out to aid the sick man.
Ten minutes later they sat alone on a sofa in the conversation area of Orem Diner’s corner suite, sipping coffee and looking down at the dome of Saint Bart’s while he finished a meeting. “Check out who he’s with,” said Cody. She turned from the skyline to the glass wall that gave onto the partners’ offices. A cluster of attorneys filed out of the conference room with a future Hall of Fame quarterback who was taking the NFL to court over a suspension resulting from some controversial body part Tweets. The athlete towered over a slender patrician in crisp shirtsleeves and his trademark bow tie. But the QB’s body language was classically deferential to the attorney, who sawed a handshake with both hands, and laughed at something the athlete called out to him as he glided off toward Wild and Cody.
Orem Diner shed years the closer he got. Up the hallway, he could have been seventy but when he extended a hand and shared his relaxed smile he became sixty. With his hard-parted graying hair, rimless glasses, and lanky frame, he resembled a genial Norman Rockwell subject instead of the formidable attorney who brought so many opponents to settle with the mere mention of his name.
“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” she said as they settled back onto the sofa. He took the love seat across the coffee table.
“Nonsense. You caught me at a good time, and I’m curious about your interest in my client.” An assistant delivered him a hot tea and left. He dunked the stainless infuser but kept his attention on Wild. “Plus I confess I was curious to see how the daughter of my old classmate grew up. Last time we saw each other, you were coloring unicorns in your dad’s office. By the way, you’re much better looking than he.”
“Smarter too.” She laughed and he joined her. Macie’s father not only had gone to law school with Orem Diner, they also had clerked for the same US District Court judge before building lucrative careers at separate practices. Wild still heard his name from time to time from her dad when the Yalies would work together, or sometimes against each other, on legal actions. Although Diner was resolutely low profile (you’d never see him as a talking head on CNN or Fox News), his big cases thrust him into the spotlight enough that Jansen Wild would reminisce about his fellow Bulldog whenever he reluctantly appeared on the evening news.
Age lines formed parentheses around the attorney’s mouth. “Condolences about your brother. I can’t imagine.” She thanked him simply. What else was there to say without pitching herself down the dark hole of that conversation? Attuned to that, Diner shifted the topic to Cody. “I thought Len Asher gave the boot to all the ex-cops in his investigative team. You must be very good at what you do.”
“You’ve got a sharp eye,” said Cody.
“About you being an ex-cop or good at what you do?”
“Why quibble?” Cody shrugged, staying pleasant enough, but reserved.
“Mr. Cody isn’t with the Manhattan Center. He’s assisting me on a case.”
“Which, I am betting, will bring us to the reason for your visit.” The attorney blew across his tea and a pleasant scent of bergamot drifted Macie’s way. He took a sip, set the china cup in its saucer. “What has Jerónimo Teixeira done this time?”
At their breakfast premeeting, Wild and Cody had agreed not to give up what they had observed, so Macie phrased a response that kept their cards close and might help them learn a few things they otherwise wouldn’t have. “I take it from your question that he keeps you pretty busy.”
Looking every bit the long-suffering parent, Diner spread his arms as if beseeching the heavens. “You know the saying ‘not worth the money?’ Well, there’s a lot of money, so I won’t lie. He’s worth it. But barely. I ask myself every single day his name comes up, ‘What now?’ So. What now?”
“It’s not anything he has done,” she said. “I’m looking into some burglaries of luxury apartments and condos related to one of my cases. We approached him to ask if his place had been hit, too, and he said we should talk to you. Here we are.”
The attorney lounged back and laced the fingers of both hands around one knee as he considered. The pause was long enough to make her wonder what he was weighing, his answer or her question. “Did he say he’d been burglarized?”
“No. He just seemed to want to get rid of us.”
“He had female company,” added Cody, shading it with meaning. “And we didn’t have his full attention.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve had those conversations with him. But I can attest to his answer. If Nimo had been robbed, he certainly would have called me. Probably at three thirty a.m.” He leaned forward again, and turned one click of the knob from hospitality toward business. “You went to a lot of logistics for something you could have handled by phone. What else were you hoping to ask me?” His unwavering scrutiny of her reminded Wild of her father’s observation that, beneath that Rockwell persona, lived Rocky.
Here again Wild and Cody had figured out what to (and what not to) say. She tag-teamed to her companion. “We were wondering if you’ve ever heard the name Borodin. Luka Fyodor Borodin.”
“No, doesn’t mean anything. But hearing a detective say all three names like that makes him sound bad. Is he?”
Instead of answering, Cody took out a two-by-three still f
rame of Borodin and placed it next to the tea service. “Have you ever seen him?”
Diner gave it a look and shook no. “You’re asking a lot of boxy questions here. I know the technique, I’ve used it. Mind just laying it all out so I can be helpful—assuming I can be? Who is this fellow, and what does he have to do with Jerónimo Teixeira?” He winked. “See, that’s how you cut through it.”
“He is one of Mr. Teixeira’s associates,” said Macie.
“Associates?” He scoffed. “You make Nimo sound respectable.”
Cody said, “Trust me, this guy is anything but. We were just wondering if you knew of him so we could get a handle on locating him.”
“And this is for a case of yours, Ms. Wild? The Buzz Killer perhaps? I’m embarrassed to admit my shoeshine reading is the Daily News.”
“So you don’t know him?” Cody wedged into the conversation ahead of Macie.
“Asked and answered.” The attorney gave him an irritated look then turned a softer side to her. “If you’ll pardon the understatement, my client runs a bit out of control. There’s a lot I don’t know unless he goes afoul of the law or causes damage.” He tapped the photo. “How do you know this Borodin is connected to my prince?”
Cody jumped in ahead of her again. “We know,” was all he said. And would say.
At that, Diner rose to signal the end of the interview and picked up the photo. “Mind if I keep this? I promise to be discreet, but I do want to look into it for you.”
“Please.”
“And if I learn anything, I can reach you at the MCPD?” He took her card and examined it. “You know, Ms. Wild, given your lineage and experience, we should have a further conversation about your career.”
“That’s very kind. Maybe sometime. Later. Thank you for the meeting.”
“Something’s not right,” said Cody as they waited for the express elevator. “I wear the new suit, and you get the job offer.”
♢ ♢ ♢
They set out for Queens to visit the pawn shop where Rúben Pinto had been a customer. Cody drove Macie’s Corolla so she could use the travel time for a hands-free office check-in. When she finished, they were midspan on the Queensboro Bridge. “Jonathan Monheit just gave me some interesting news.”
“That, in itself, is a headline. Jonny Midnight has news?”
“Be nice. He pulled an all-nighter digging into Hall and Pinto’s burglary victim from The Barksdale.”
“That would be the pharma CEO.”
“Right. Gregory Eichenthal. According to Monheit’s research, his company, EichenAll, has troubles with the FDA. There have been allegations about rigged testing for one of their BP meds that has had a higher-than-acceptable incidence of fatalities.”
“You know, you hear the announcer rattle off all that stuff at the end of those commercials. ‘Side effects may include bleeding from the eyes, ulcerated rashes, or sudden loss of life. Discontinue use if you feel like you are dying.’”
“Funny to you, not so much to the victims. Or the CEO. He’s getting throttled by a massive devaluation of company stock. Monheit says that would make him desperate for liquidity. He’s already got his Amelia Island estate up for sale.”
“Poor baby.” Cody drummed his fingers on the wheel when they stopped for the usual gridlock at Northern Boulevard. “Gee, is it possible Mr. Eichenthal staged the robbery to collect insurance?”
“That’s exactly what Monheit said.”
He cocked his head to one side as if listening to unheard voices. “I sense a disturbance in The Force. Jonny Midnight’s starting to think like an investigator.”
♢ ♢ ♢
Flamingo Pawn was hard to miss. The flashing neon bird in the window was electric pink and extremely bright, even with the morning sun angled against the storefront. While Cody squeezed into a no-parking spot on Steinway and fished out an NYPD courtesy card for the dash, Wild observed that this shop would be a logical go-to for Pinto—walking distance from where he had flopped with his ex-girlfriend. Bracketed by a hipster alternative to Starbucks on one side and a dress shop with clothes that looked like they could catch on fire on the other, the broad strokes of yellow and orange paint on the pawn window promised easy cash: “New York’s Fairest Appraisals of Gold and Jewelry!”—in four languages.
Inside the store was clean but had the sad yet welcoming odor of an attic. Nothing was in reach of the customer, but behind the counters the walls brimmed with musical instruments, fitness equipment, china and crystal, samurai swords, even a saddle with a Stetson racked on the horn. The glass cases held finer items, grouped by category. Jewelry and watches in one, another with electronics like dated laptops and iPods, circa 2009. The center case displayed collectibles: autographed baseballs, soccer balls, pennants, and jerseys on the right; on the left, signed Broadway playbills, glossy photos of Sinatra, Yanni, the Ramones, plus hardbacks from Bukowski, Jacqueline Susann, and Doris Day, “personally inscribed by the author,” according to the handwritten index card. An engraved sign above the firearms read, “No Loans for Guns, per NY Law.”
They waited while a bored girl who couldn’t have been a year out of high school counted out greenbacks to the only customer, an old man who licked his fingers for his recount, then caned out past them. “Help you today?” she asked, not sounding like it was a mission.
“We’re here to redeem an item,” said Macie. She placed the pawn ticket on the glass. Beside it Cody set the $300 he told Wild that he’d put on his VICE budget.
The girl read the printout, gave them a once-over, then disappeared into the back, saying, “Daaad?” as she rounded the corner.
A moment later a middle-aged man came out to deal with them. He was her spitting image but with a thick head of hair fastidiously sprayed back like a doo-wop singer on a PBS reunion concert. He scanned the chit, gave them the same look his daughter had, and folded his arms, leaving the cash where it was. “You have some ID?”
Wild didn’t expect that and turned to Cody, hoping he’d know how to handle this. He did. “You have paper that says you ran a check this wasn’t stolen?”
The man took a half-step back, uncrossing then recrossing his arms. “Not looking to get shitty here, friend.”
“Too late.” Cody gestured to the counter. “Simple transaction.” The pawnbroker hesitated, so Cody added, “Nice gun collection. When was the last time somebody dropped by to run an ATF check? I can make that happen. I assume you’re FFL 02-compliant.”
After one full second the man picked up the pawn ticket and said, “I think we’re square here.”
“Good. While we’re talking.” He took out pictures of Jackson Hall, Rúben Pinto, and Luka Borodin. “Know any of these?”
“Middle one. This is his ticket.”
“Not the other two?” Another look for show, and the man shook his head.
Macie asked, “Do you have anything else Mr. Pinto pawned here?”
“You can just answer,” said Cody. “Warrants are such a pain, am I right?”
“No, just the statue. Hang on.” He went to the back room with the pawn ticket. Cody slid by the keep-out sign and moved behind the counter so he could keep an eye on him. “Private area,” said the man on his way back. Cody complied and joined Macie. The pawnbroker opened a brown grocery bag and placed the item on the counter. It wasn’t just a statue.
It was a Grammy Award.
Macie bent over to read the inscription. Cody asked. “And the winner is . . . ?”
C H A P T E R • 18
* * *
Woody Nash became a teen music sensation in the mid-1960s with his own rowdy take on the California surf scene. If the Beach Boys were the Beatles, his band, the Woodies, were the Rolling Stones. The Beach Boys got haircuts; the Woodies got laid. Unlike Brian Wilson and his hodad crew, Woody’s band actually surfed. And they were the ruffians who didn’t leave the beach at sundown. Their first big hit told the tale with its title. “Get a Woody” sold a million, launched a platinum LP, an
d silenced critics who said they were only riding in the more famous band’s wake.
Except, that is, for the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences, which never voted a Grammy to the Woodies in their breakout era. Not even with their legions of swooning fans, dominance of Boss Radio airplay, sold-out concerts, and a gazillion in record sales. That oversight got corrected three years ago when a music blogger revived interest in the genius songwriter and performer behind the so-called Vandals in Sandals, leading to a Lifetime Achievement Grammy for Woody Nash.
With the paper bag holding that gramophone statuette tucked football-style in the crook of her arm, Wild and Cody entered the polished marble lobby of the Crystal Court Luxury Residences on the Upper East Side. Earlier in the week, Jackson Hall had refused to give up a list of the upscale apartments his crew had burglarized, and now, thanks to a dead man’s pawn ticket, Macie might have found one. The uniformed concierge greeted them from behind an opaque frosted glass counter. “Good morning, may I help you?”
“Thank you, Martin, yes,” said Wild after a glance at the embroidery on his tunic. “We have something for one of your residents. Woody Nash?” A limo driver Macie had recently cleared of a bogus hit-and-run charge had driven just about every VIP in Manhattan. He had returned her voice mail within ten minutes with the address of the musician.
“Is Mr. Nash expecting you?” Martin’s Irish brogue sounded friendly enough, but there was skepticism in his appraisal of them. Nash was famously reclusive, at least outdoing Brian Wilson on that score.
“No, sir,” said Cody. “But you can announce us. We have something for him.” He gave both their names, which Martin wrote down, making Gunnar Cody spell his.
The concierge set down his pen and opened his hands. “Why don’t you give it to me. I’ll see he gets it and be sure to tell him you came by.”
