by Brad Meltzer
“And I don’t?”
“No. You don’t,” Guff said. “You’re an ADA now. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
“Guff, have you forgotten what happened yesterday? That guy threatened Jared and put my Pop in the hospital.”
“You don’t know—”
“I do know,” Sara insisted. “I saw him with my own eyes and heard him with my own ears. It doesn’t take a genius to put the rest together. We’re talking about the two most important people in my life. If I lost either of them, and it was my fault, I…” She paused. “That’s when it’s over for me. So when the consequence is my family’s safety, calling my husband’s firm is hardly the sin of the century.”
“All it takes is one snowflake to start the avalanche.”
“Guff, please—I’m having a hard enough time with this as it is.”
“I know you are, and I know how much they mean to you. I’m just trying to watch your back.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Sara said.
“Meanwhile, as long as we’re on the topic of lying, why didn’t you tell Conrad about the doorknob guy?”
“Because I knew what his reaction would be. If he found out this guy threatened me, he’d be all over the case, lecturing me on how ADAs can’t be intimidated. And you and I both know that the fewer people I tell, the more I protect Jared. Besides, I’m not so sure I want him knowing. He’s been a bit big in the mouth lately.”
“Hold on. Are you saying you don’t trust Conrad?”
“I trust him, but he has been yakking too much to Victor.”
“C’mon, he’s not revealing anything that’s private.”
“My personal life isn’t private? My success on this case isn’t private?”
“Sara, he’s just shooting the shit and you know it. Office gossip rules our world.”
“But don’t you think Victor is—”
“You know I think Victor’s being uncomfortably nosy. But that has nothing to do with Conrad.”
“Fine, I get your point,” Sara said. “But I still don’t want to tell him. Now did you get the information from Crime Scene?”
“At your service,” Guff said, handing Sara the manila folder he was holding. “One fingerprint test coming up.”
“What’d it say?” Sara asked, opening the folder.
“The doorknob had a clear print, but it didn’t make any sense,” Guff said. “They matched it perfectly, and it led to a guy named Sol Broder.”
“Who’s Sol Broder?”
“That’s the thing. His picture didn’t look like your sketch, but when they ran his name through BCI, Sol came up with a rap sheet that reads like a Scorsese script.”
“That’s great. So what’s the problem?”
“Well, I don’t know how else to say this, but…Sol Broder died three years ago.”
Sara dropped the folder on her desk. “You’re telling me the guy I spoke to, the guy who pushed Pop down the stairs, is a dead man?”
“Either that, or a really good magician.”
Sitting in the back of his town car, Rafferty was annoyed. Born and raised in Hoboken, New Jersey, only three houses away from where Frank Sinatra was born, Rafferty had spent most of his young-adult life trying to avoid not only the multiple Italian boyfriends of his Irish mother, but also the lower-middle-class legacy of his hometown. The first in his family to go to college, he had escaped early and never looked back. He won a local scholarship to Brooklyn College, but after one year transferred to Princeton. Always bigger, always better.
At Princeton, Rafferty’s roommate was a loudmouthed little screamer who also happened to be the heir to a well-established magazine publishing company. From him, Rafferty learned how to speak, how to eat, and how to dress. All of it meant to impress. During winter break of that same year, Rafferty was invited to his roommate’s getaway house in Greens Farms, Connecticut. There he met his roommate’s father, who offered Rafferty his first job in the publishing industry: a summer internship in the subscriptions department. For Rafferty, the old-boy network was no longer just a rumor; it was within reach.
The only negative aspect of the job was that the low pay forced Rafferty to live at home with his mother. After a winter in Greens Farms, a spring trip to Martha’s Vineyard, and a year at Princeton, the return to Hoboken was crushing. In Rafferty’s mind, it wasn’t where he belonged. After that summer, he never spent another night in his hometown. Always bigger, always better. So as his car wove its way through Hoboken’s narrow streets, Rafferty had a hard time concealing his anger.
From Manhattan, Hoboken was only a ten-minute drive through the Lincoln Tunnel, and Rafferty stared out the window the entire time. When the car reached its destination, he realized much had changed. From the newspapers, he knew that Hoboken was now populated by two polar-opposite communities: the deep-rooted Italians who claimed favorite son Sinatra as their hero, and the up-and-coming urban professionals who believed living in Hoboken was the best way to avoid paying New York City taxes. Riding through the streets he grew up on, Rafferty could see the results of gentrification—the main streets were now filled with yuppie cafés, the side streets still had the mom-and-pop bakeries, and the back streets, as always, had the local neighborhood kids, talking about the ways they were going to break free.
As the car approached 527 Willow Avenue, Rafferty said, “This is it. Double-park near the funeral home.” The driver followed Rafferty’s instructions and pulled up in front of the funeral home on the end of the block.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Kozlow asked as the car came to a stop.
Rafferty didn’t answer. He opened the door and stepped outside.
Following Rafferty toward the four-story brick brownstone, Kozlow asked, “Did you tell him we’re coming?”
Rafferty pushed the buzzer for apartment eight. “I’d rather catch him unprepared.”
Through the intercom, a grainy voice asked, “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” Rafferty said. “Buzz us in.”
“Who’s ‘me’?”
“It’s Oscar,” Rafferty barked.
“Oscar who?” the voice said.
Pounding the intercom with his fist, Rafferty shouted, “Open the damn door or I’ll break your f—”
A rasping buzzer sounded, granting them access to the building. Rafferty pulled down on his lapels and straightened his jacket. There was no reason to be upset, he told himself. By the time they had climbed the four flights of stairs, both Rafferty and Kozlow were out of breath. As they approached apartment eight, the door flew open. It was the man with the sunken cheeks. “Hello, boys.”
Walking into the spartan one-bedroom apartment, Rafferty wanted to shove him in the chest. Just enough to scare him. Old instincts were returning, but he restrained himself. There was no reason to regress. “Elliott, I thought you were going to clean this place up.” Rafferty flicked a chip of paint from the wall.
“Give me some money and I’ll be happy to oblige,” Elliott said. “What’s up, Tony?”
“Same old same old,” Kozlow said.
“I’ve already given you money,” Rafferty interrupted, following Elliott into the beat-up living room.
“I mean real money. The big bucks.”
“You know where we are with that,” Rafferty said as he approached a metal folding chair in the corner of the room. He brushed off the seat with his hand before sitting down on it.
“So you didn’t come by to give me good news?” Elliott asked.
“Actually, I came by to ask you a question,” Rafferty said. “Monday afternoon, Sara Tate’s grandfather fell down a flight of stairs in the subway. Fractured his pelvis in a nasty spill. I want to make sure you didn’t know anything about that.”
“And Sara Tate’s the DA who has Kozlow’s case?” Elliott asked.
“That’s correct,” Rafferty said, looking for a hint of deceit on Elliott’s lean features.
“Sorry, I don’t know anything about th
at.”
“So you’ve never approached Sara? Never spoken with her?”
“Hey, I don’t even know what she looks like,” Elliott said with a twisted grin. His tone was taunting, like a man without a care. Or someone who was enjoying a rare moment of control. “The woman’s a complete stranger to me.”
“Elliott, can I steal some soda?” Kozlow called from the kitchen.
“It’s what you do best,” Elliott called back, not taking his eyes off Rafferty.
“Don’t fuck with me,” Rafferty warned.
“Would I be stupid enough to dick you around? You’re like a father to me.”
“Sure I am,” Rafferty said.
“You are. Besides, what’re you so worried about? I thought you had it all taken care of.”
“I do,” Rafferty said. “Unless someone starts changing the plans.”
“Well, you can stop suspecting me,” Elliott teased. “I already got what I wanted. Besides, I want you to succeed. If I didn’t, I never would’ve let you meet Tony.”
“And that worked out so well, didn’t it?” Rafferty replied.
“Hey…” Kozlow said from the kitchen.
“So is there anything else I should know?” Elliott asked.
“Not yet,” Rafferty said as he headed to the door. “But don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.”
Rafferty and Kozlow were both silent until they had left the building. Stepping into the crisp September air, Kozlow finally asked, “Do you believe him?”
“You know him better than I do. What do you think?”
“I trust him. He may be vindictive, but I don’t think he’d do that to us. Sara’s grandfather took a fall on his own.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Rafferty said as he got into the car. “For all our sakes.”
“All right, then. That’s fine,” Jared said coldly into his phone. “If you want to see him, put your request in writing.”
“Are you kidding me?” Sara asked. “All I want to do is interview Kozlow. Why make me put it in writing when you can agree to it right now on the phone?”
“Sara, don’t take it personally, but that’s what I do with every client. If you want him, you have to go through the proper channels.”
“Fine, I’ll send it over,” Sara said, sounding angry. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Don’t forget we have the prom tonight,” Jared added.
“Do I really have to—”
“Yes, you have to be there. It’s important to me, and it’d look terrible if you weren’t, so I’ll see you there at nine.”
As Jared hung up the phone, Kathleen walked in the room. “She wants to see Kozlow?”
“Of course. But she’s crazy if she thinks I’m going to make it easy for her.”
Before Kathleen could respond, there was a heavy knock on the door. “Anyone here?” Barrow asked as he entered the room. He was carrying a small brown bag that clearly contained a bottle of wine.
“Where’ve you been? Drinking?” Jared asked the moment he saw his favorite private detective.
“On the job? You know me better than that,” Barrow said, his salt-and-pepper beard looking more salt than pepper. “This bottle is purely about fingerprints. Snotty client of mine has me spying on her rich husband.” Jared and Barrow had known each other since Jared first started at the firm. In the past six and a half years, they had become close friends and enjoyed more than their fair share of laughs and good times, including the night Barrow spied on Sara so that Jared would know exactly what time she would be home for her surprise thirtieth birthday party.
On a professional level, Barrow had unearthed information that had single-handedly won at least four of Jared’s cases. But from the look on Barrow’s face, Jared knew this wasn’t going to be one of them. “So what’s the bad news?” Jared asked. “Who’re we dealing with?”
Sitting in one of the chairs in front of Jared’s desk, Barrow said, “To be honest, I’m not sure myself. I ran Rafferty’s name through every information network I have access to, but I came up with almost nothing. He was born in Hoboken, which means he’s probably not from money. By some miracle, and a textile-workers-union scholarship, he clawed his way to Princeton—big surprise. He lives in some fancy building on the Upper East Side—again, big surprise. He owns a partnership interest in a fifty-million-dollar theatrical property company called Echo Enterprises, and the only thing I can conclude is this: If I were you, I’d stay away from this guy.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I can tell he’s bad news, J. People don’t hide themselves unless they have something to hide. And the more I dig, the less I find. Oscar Rafferty is in control of his life, and he’s structured it to keep us out.”
“What about Kozlow? What’s his story?”
“Tony Kozlow is a handful if ever there was one. When I asked around about him, the two most common descriptions were ‘violent’ and ‘unstable.’ Apparently, he doesn’t follow orders well—he was kicked out of the army for insubordination. The thing is, he’s never the one in the driver’s seat. Both times he was arrested, he was following someone else’s lead: knifing someone for a loan shark in Brooklyn, then making a payback call for some small-time drug dealer. On that alone, I’d say he and Rafferty have an employer-employee relationship.”
Jared was silent as he mentally tested Barrow’s hypothesis. Eventually, he said, “Could they be Mafia?”
“Not a chance,” Barrow said. “Mob connections leave obvious tracks. Trust me, though, these guys are just as dangerous.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because they already approached me,” Barrow said definitively.
“What?”
“Believe it. Somehow, they knew you hired me to check them out. So on my way over here, they approached me with a better offer. Rafferty said he’d pay me double if I fed you some bullshit info.”
“What’d you say?”
“I told them I’d do it. Cash is cash.”
“But all that stuff—”
“You think I’d ever feed you bullshit?” Barrow asked. “It’ll take a lot more than a few grand to buy my integrity and make me turn on a friend. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take their money with a smile.”
“So they think you’re telling me—”
“They think I’m telling you that I couldn’t find a thing on either of them. That I never heard of Tony Kozlow, or his loan shark, or Echo Enterprises, or Rafferty’s slick Upper East Side address, or his dying-to-be-upper-crust background. Fuck them if they want to be stupid.”
“You really think that’s going to fool them?”
“You got any better ideas?” Barrow asked, his voice growing serious. When Jared didn’t answer, he added, “These guys aren’t playing around. The fact that they knew you’d turn to me means they’re looking into your background and sniffing in all the right places. And after spending a total of five minutes with them, it’s clear they’re serious about this staying quiet. Whatever it is, they have some big secrets to hide.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“What else?” Barrow asked slyly. “Let me keep digging in their direction. They can’t screw with you and not expect repercussions.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s smart to pick a fight.”
“Come on!” Barrow said, standing from his seat. “You’re not picking a fight. You’re just trying to find information. If Rafferty ever confronts you, just say that I couldn’t find anything. He’ll never know the difference.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best—”
“Good. It’s decided,” Barrow said. “Now we’re back in business.” Before he left the office, Barrow reached into the brown paper bag he was carrying, pulled out an empty champagne bottle, and slapped it on Jared’s desk.
“What’s that?”
“That, my friend, is an actual champagne bottle from the New Year’s Eve scene in Godfather, Part Two. And that is al
so how I spent the first couple hundred dollars of their money. I figured it would really piss ’em off. Happy early birthday.”
Jared was unusually quiet. He didn’t even reach for the bottle. “You shouldn’t have done that, Lenny.”
“Listen, there’s no reason to get concerned. You’ll be thanking me later.”
“I’m sure I will,” Jared said dispassionately. “I just want you to be careful.”
“Worry about yourself,” Barrow said as he walked to the door. “You’re the one they’re watching.”
At a quarter past seven that evening, Sara sat on one of the many park benches that lined the esplanade of Battery Park City, overlooking the Hudson River. Located at the southernmost tip of Manhattan, Battery Park City was, for Sara, a spot where she could truly escape New York. Unlike Central Park, which was packed with tourists and locals vying for jogging, Rollerblading, and relaxing space, the riverside jogging path of Battery Park City was used primarily by local residents and a few commuters who worked in the nearby financial district. And its tree-lined, twisting walkway made it the perfect place for a quiet, secluded meeting.
Checking her watch and wondering what was taking so long, Sara heard a voice behind her shout, “Don’t worry, I’m not standing you up.” As Sara turned, she saw Barrow walking toward her, a wide smile across his face. She didn’t return the smile. “Why the long face?” he asked as he sat next to her on the park bench.
“I was just worried you weren’t coming.”
“So I see,” Barrow replied, looking down at her chewed-apart cuticles. “Now how about telling me the real story? What’s the big to-do that you had to bring me all the way out here?”
“I need to ask you a favor. And it’s not an easy one, so I thought it’d be better to ask you in person.”
“Sara, if you’re hunting information about Jared, the answer is no.”
