“That sounds like a fair price for your son. But if you want to protect your reputation”—Cain paused—“and your freedom, I’m going to need another ninety-five mil. I have an account in the Caymans, so the logistics are simple.”
“On your end, maybe, but not on mine. Do you know what it takes to pull together that kind of money?”
“No, I don’t, but I’m sure you do.”
“The first step is to know what I’m paying for. How do I know my son is still alive? Let me speak to him.”
“That’s not going to happen. You people have codes, secret words. I’ll get you proof that he’s alive, but I don’t trust you to talk to him on the phone.”
“As for this fantasy of me netting a billion dollars from this so-called Project Gutenberg, how do I know you have any evidence whatsoever to back up that ridiculous claim?”
“You don’t know,” Cain said. “You’re a risk taker, Hunter. You look at the upside, and you look at the downside. So here are your options. If, after all I’ve revealed already, you think I can’t hurt you, then don’t pay me. But I think you sense the truth. I know enough to bury you. And once the details of Project Gutenberg get out, you’ll make Bernie Madoff look like a choirboy. Sleep on it, Leviticus. I wouldn’t want you to make any rash decisions.”
Cain hung up.
“Oh, I’ve already made my decision, Mr. Cain,” Hunter said. He put the burner phone back in his pocket and headed for the secure landline in his office.
By now Blackstone should have gotten a price from Wheeler.
Part Two
The Sins of the Son
Chapter 27
When he was twelve years old, Silas Blackstone’s father taught him the secret to success.
“Most people are only good at a couple of things, and they suck at everything else,” Kurt Blackstone said one night as he nursed his third beer. “If you want to get ahead in life, focus on the stuff you’re good at and get even better.”
Young Silas smirked.
Kurt caught it and knew what it meant. “Yeah, I know I’m just a lousy trackwalker for the MTA, but that’s because when I was a kid nobody ever taught me nothing. But if you want to make a nice living, get really good at one thing, and you’ve got the world by the balls.”
Silas knew what he was not good at: playing sports, making friends, and talking to girls. It’s why he spent so much time holed up in his room hunched over a computer.
Thirty years later he was still hunched over a computer, only this time he was looking for digital bread crumbs on Tripp Alden’s MacBook Air. He was rummaging through Tripp’s search history when the phone rang.
Hunter didn’t bother saying hello. Just “Did you talk to Wheeler?”
“Yeah, boss. I offered him double, like you said, but he didn’t jump at it. He said all the previous jobs have been regular citizens. But now you’re asking him to go up against a professional—someone who will fight back.”
“Why the hell does he think I’m willing to pay him twice as much?”
“I know,” Silas said, “but as soon as I told him you’d pay double, he knew it was dangerous. He’s on the fence. He says he needs time to think about it.”
“I don’t have time. Tell him I’ll pay him triple to get off the fence.”
Hunter hung up, and Silas sat back in his chair. Working for Alden, he had learned the value of secrets, and he’d successfully kept one secret from his boss.
The truth about Wheeler.
Eight years ago, a seventy-five-year-old councilwoman in Vermont stood between Alden Investments and a nine-figure land deal. When Hunter couldn’t get her vote, he called Silas into his office and explained the problem.
“How can I help?” Silas asked.
“Find a pro and pay him to kill the stubborn old bitch.”
Silas knew Hunter was serious. Hunter was always serious when it came to money. “Kill the bitch” meant exactly that.
“I know a guy,” Silas said. “Wheeler.”
Hunter held up a hand. “Stop. I can’t be connected to this. I don’t want details. All I want is results.”
Two weeks later, the councilwoman’s car skidded off an icy mountain road. The coroner ruled her death an accident. The following day, Hunter transferred a quarter of a million dollars to Wheeler’s offshore account.
Since then, Wheeler had been called in six more times. Hunter never met the man, but he considered him a valuable asset to his business. What he didn’t know was that there was no Wheeler.
If Silas had offered to kill the old lady himself, Hunter would have laughed. So Silas invented Wheeler, and the more money Hunter made, the more indispensable Wheeler’s services became.
“So Mr. Wheeler,” Silas said out loud. “He’s offering triple. What do you think?”
“I think we can do better, Mr. Blackstone,” Silas said, his voice more menacing this time.
“Quadruple?”
“That has a nice ring to it. If Alden agrees, consider me off the fence.”
Silas went to the fridge, popped the top on a beer, and called Hunter back. “I spoke to Wheeler,” he said. “He’ll do it for an even million.”
Hunter didn’t hesitate. “I’ll pay, but it’s got to be done by Monday. I spoke to the asshole who took Tripp. He calls himself Cain, and he’s smart. He wants a shitload of money. I can stall him, but not for long. How close are you to finding him?”
“I’ve been digging into Tripp’s computer all night. The bad news is it’s all password-protected. The good news is I taught him everything he knows about computer security. He’s using my methods, which means I can hack his files.”
“Call me as soon as you find something, and tell Wheeler to stand by.”
Hunter hung up, and Silas sipped his beer. “Looks like you’ve got the job, Mr. Wheeler,” he said. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
“I’d say your father was right, Mr. Blackstone,” the imaginary Mr. Wheeler replied. “If you want to make a nice living, get really good at one thing, and you’ve got the world by the balls.”
Silas raised his beer. “I’ll drink to that.”
Chapter 28
Cain smiled, pleased with the way he’d gone one-on-one with Hunter Alden. Not bad for an amateur.
The alarm on his phone beeped. He looked at the message on the screen.
FEEDING TIME AT THE ZOO.
Even though he’d written it himself, it tickled him. Kidnapping was a serious business, but a little whimsy never hurt.
He went to the kitchen and opened a jar of peanut butter. The boys hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. By now Tripp would be miserable, but the little Puerto Rican would tough it out. Snatching the two kids hadn’t been easy, Cain thought, rubbing his arm where Lonnie had slashed him with the box cutter, but the toughest part had been finding a place to hide them once he had them.
The answer had come to him the day before Christmas. He was watching Eyewitness News on channel 7 when Art McFarland, the education reporter, came on with a story about high levels of PCBs found in lighting fixtures in eight hundred of the city’s schools.
“It will take three years to replace those fixtures,” McFarland stated.
Cain had just about tuned out the story when McFarland dropped the bombshell. “The EPA says almost all the schools are safe enough for classes to continue, but some of them are so contaminated that they had to be shut down immediately.”
He turned up the volume as McFarland wrapped up. “All city schools are currently closed for the holidays, but twenty-two of them will not reopen in January. A list of the affected schools is posted on the station’s website.”
Cain had racked his brain trying to come up with a safe place to stash Tripp, and suddenly, on Christmas Eve, the city of New York had presented him with twenty-two possibilities.
He booted up the TV station’s website. The schools about to be closed were scattered throughout the city, and he carefully mapped out a game plan
in his head. He’d visit each one, and then rate them on location, access to public transportation, and how likely they were to attract eyeballs.
And then one school jumped out at him: PS 114—his alma mater. It had been a wretched place to go through middle school, and the day he graduated, he vowed that he’d never go back.
He was about to cross it off the list when it hit him. Everything that had made 114 unbearable back then might make it perfect for locking up Tripp. Plus it was the school closest to where he lived. He had to at least give it a look.
He waited till midnight before he walked the seven blocks from his apartment on Avenue D in Alphabet City to the rambling old building on Delancey Street, sitting in the shadows of the Williamsburg Bridge. The neighborhood was deserted—no restaurants, no bars, and, except for the school, there was almost no reason for anyone to go there.
It was as desolate a spot as you could find in this thriving city. Even the people who lived in the low-income high-rise on Grand Street knew better than to venture out onto this near-dark stretch of Manhattan, where there was nothing but a fleet of sanitation trucks parked under the bridge. They were sure there would be a mugger behind every truck.
But there was no one. Cain swept the area, one hand on the Glock pistol in his jacket pocket. There were no guards, no surveillance cameras. The smartest way in was through the basement. He went down the stairs and took a look at the basement door. The flimsy padlock that held it shut would have to be replaced with a heavier-duty lock if he expected to keep people out. But the place was perfect.
After all these years, this shithole is good for something, he thought.
He went home and poured himself a drink.
“Thank you, Santa,” he said. “It’s just what I wanted for Christmas. A toxic middle school on the Lower East Side.”
Chapter 29
The janitorial services room in the basement of PS 114 was a burial ground for broken furniture, moldy books, and a fetid lost-and-found pile that had been accumulating since the Truman administration. Nobody went there, especially the janitor.
Then, in 1983, Augie Hoffman took over as head custodian and transformed a vast hellhole into a perfectly organized maintenance command center: maple workbench, neat rows of tools, precisely labeled storage bins, an immaculate kitchenette, and a sleeper sofa for those winter nights when the school’s temperamental heating system required round-the-clock attention.
On the south wall were three floor-to-ceiling ten-by-eight-foot wire cages for gym equipment, school supplies, and anything else that might walk out the door if it wasn’t locked up.
Tripp and Lonnie were in the center cage along with a case of bottled water, an empty spackle can, and a roll of toilet paper. They were asleep when they heard an upstairs door slam shut.
Cain came down the stairs and entered the makeshift prison. He was in black from his watch cap to his boots, his eyes barely visible beneath a ski mask. He went directly to the janitors’ workbench, opened the top drawer, and retrieved the stun gun.
He pointed the fifteen-million-volt Vipertek at his captives, and they backed up to the rear of the wire impound.
“Did you talk to my father?” Tripp asked.
“He wants to make sure you’re still alive,” Cain said, his voice filtered through a voice changer.
“Doesn’t sound like my father. You sure you dialed the right number?”
Lonnie laughed. Cain didn’t.
“He wants a proof-of-life call,” Cain said, dropping to one knee and shoving a dozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches under the sweep space.
“You want me to call him now?”
“Not him. For all I know you people have code words.”
“Can I call my grandfather?”
“No. I want someone outside the family. Make it casual. Tell them to call your father and say you’re fine.”
“And to pay the ransom,” Tripp added.
“Are you dicking with me, or are you stupid? You say ‘Pay the ransom,’ and they’re not going to call your father. They’re going to call the cops.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s real simple, kid. Call a friend. Someone you trust. Tell them to tell your old man you’re happy and healthy. That’s it. Short and sweet.”
“Okay. Give me a phone.”
“You give orders just like your father, don’t you? I’ll do it in the morning. He can stew till then.”
Cain took a long look around the room. Nothing out of place. He shook the cage door. Locked tight. “Don’t eat it all at once,” he said, backing away from the cage. “Room service is closed for the night.”
He put the stun gun back in the top drawer of the workbench and slammed the storeroom door on his way out. The boys listened as he walked down the corridor and trudged up the stairs. The outer door opened and closed, and he disappeared back into the world.
Lonnie grabbed two sandwiches and tossed one to Tripp. “Who you gonna call?”
“He said a friend. Someone I trust.”
“That would be me,” Lonnie said, “but I’ve asked the front desk to hold all my calls.”
“There’s only one other person besides you that I trust,” Tripp said. “I’ll call Peter.”
Chapter 30
Hangovers are like snowflakes: no two are alike. Of course, that’s just my theory. Truth be told, I haven’t had nearly enough hangovers in my life to qualify as an authority on the subject, but even in my limited experience, I find that they each come with their own special brand of physical and mental misery.
Waking up at 5:00 a.m. on the third day of the new year, I found myself with a throbbing head, a rumbling belly, and an overwhelming veil of guilt. Actually, it was more like a guilt, shame, and remorse cocktail. I’d been cheating on my girlfriend, and I felt like shit. Okay, maybe I hadn’t cheated on her, but I still felt like shit.
I turned to one of the world’s oldest hangover cures: yoga. I pulled out the mat and spent the next half hour stretching my body, cleansing my spirit, and hopefully exorcising the devil’s horny ass from my soul.
That, plus a hot shower and two cups of fresh-brewed French roast, left me feeling better. Technically, I hadn’t done anything wrong. Kylie was my friend, my partner, and she had needed a strong shoulder to lean on. I was there for her. If I crossed a line, it was only in my fantasies. I’m a man, and men don’t always think with their shoulders.
I had just about given myself complete absolution when the phone rang. As soon as I saw Cheryl’s picture fill the screen, I froze. The universe was not ready to cut me some slack. There was no time to recite the sinner’s prayer.
“Hey…how’d it go last night?” I said, my voice appropriately somber, like I’d been holding my own deathwatch for Mildred out of solidarity.
“She’s hanging on. I’ve decided to run into the city, grab some clothes, stop at the precinct to pick up some work, then go back to Westchester and wait for the end.”
“Anything I can do?”
“No, I just wanted to connect.”
There was an uncomfortable pause, and I knew she wasn’t groping for the words to apologize for her behavior on the precinct steps yesterday. She was waiting for me.
“I’m sorry about yesterday. I guess I was a little insensitive,” I said.
“No you weren’t,” she said sweetly.
I couldn’t believe she was letting me off the hook. “Really?”
“No, Zach. I was a little insensitive. You—and I say this not as your girlfriend, but as a board-certified behavior analyst—you were completely emotionally oblivious.”
She was not letting me off the hook. In fact, she impaled me with it. But at least she said it with a smile.
“Thank you, Dr. Robinson. I guess I’m lucky to be dating a shrink so I don’t underestimate my shortcomings.”
“That’s me: full-service girlfriend.”
“Just don’t put it on my departmental evaluation.”
&
nbsp; “Don’t worry—I have a separate file of all your flaws just for home consumption.”
“Well, whichever one of them flared up yesterday, I’m sorry, and I’m ready to move on.”
“Me too. So, what did you do after I left you high and dry last night?”
“Me?” I said.
“Yes, you. What did you do last night?”
My half-baked brain scrambled for a plausible half-truth. “Well, Kylie and I worked pretty late. Then we grabbed a bite to eat.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Some cop bar with halfway decent food,” I said. Nameless sounded harmless. If it had been memorable, I’d have remembered the name.
“Sounds like fun.”
“Not as much fun as two nights in the La-Di-Da Suite at the Steele Towers with you. But you know me—I make the most of what’s available. Speaking of available, as soon as you are, there’s a new Greek place opening up near my—” My phone beeped. It was Captain Cates. “Sorry, the boss is on the other line. I’ve got to run.”
“I’ll see you later,” she said.
I took Cates’s call.
“Jordan, how fast can you get here?” Cates said.
“Very. I’m just getting ready to leave.”
“Make it quick. I’m expecting a visitor in fifteen minutes, and I want you and MacDonald here to help me deal with the politics.”
“We’ll be there. Kylie and I are starting to build a good relationship with the mayor.”
“It’s not the mayor,” Cates said. “Her I can handle on my own.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s the man who can get things done around this city faster than the mayor or any one of us. Hutch Alden.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. My head was throbbing again.
Chapter 31
If I had any doubt who owned the Cadillac limo parked outside the precinct, the license plate spelled it out in orange and black: ALDEN 1.
Kylie was waiting for me on the front steps.
NYPD Red 3 Page 9
