“Good evening, Yana Petrova,” he said, making no attempt to be subtle as he looked her up and down.
She didn’t mind. It was nice to feel desired after such a long dry spell. “Good evening, Mikhail Titarenko. It’s nice to finally meet you. Thanks for agreeing to eat at such an antisocial hour.”
“No problem,” he replied, and he seemed to genuinely mean it. “I’m surprised the place is so busy.”
It was a little after 11 p.m. and the restaurant was three-quarters full. Yana glanced at the young Muscovites who were full of easy confidence and flush with money. They ate, drank and filled the place with loud chatter and laughter and for a moment she longed not to be an outsider. Maybe Mickey was the one, and they’d get married and come here with friends every week like normal, happy people.
“You work for Moesk, the energy company, right?” Mickey asked.
Yana nodded. “If your electricity goes out, I’m the one you call.”
“It’s nice to have friends in powerful places,” Mickey joked. “Do you want a drink before we eat?”
Yana picked up a bar menu. “Sure. Let’s make a night of it. What have you got?”
Mickey raised his salt-rimmed glass. “Margarita.”
“Another one,” Yana told the barman. “And you? I still don’t know what you do,” she said to Mickey.
“I’m an oligarch,” he replied somberly, before breaking into a broad smile. “I can’t even lie well. I work in a hardware store, selling power tools. I’m no millionaire, not like some of them in here, but you know what they say, a tomtit in your hand is better than a crane in the sky.”
Yana laughed. “I don’t need an oligarch. I wouldn’t know what to do with all that ego.”
“I got you something,” Mickey said, reaching for a large paper bag beneath his stool. He placed it on the bar carefully, like a museum custodian handling an exhibit. “Go ahead.”
Yana stood, and when she peered inside, she gasped. “It’s beautiful.”
Moving very slowly and carefully, she reached into the bag and pulled out a crystal flower arrangement. Six life-size cut-glass lilies stood in a crystal vase, and each element of the fine sculpture was filled with a liquid that added realistic color. The petals of the flower contained a creamy white fluid, the stems were filled with green liquid and the vase held what looked like crimson water.
“It’s magnificent,” Yana said. “And far too expensive for someone as simple as me. I can’t accept it. Not on our first date.”
“After we’re married then?” Mickey scoffed. “Don’t worry. Please take it. Give it a good home. One of my customers didn’t have any money to pay his bill, so he offered me this instead. He bought a screwdriver, but this is worth more than a whole toolkit.”
Mickey beamed at her, proud of his prize, but Yana was suddenly on edge.
“Was this a regular?” she asked.
“I’d never seen him before,” Mickey replied, and her gut tightened in a knot.
Could they have found her through her dating profile? She looked at the flowers again, and was horrified to see tiny black valves on the stamen of each lily pop open. A sudden rush of air pressure forced the green fluid in each stem down into the vase, where it mixed with the red liquid.
They’ve found me, Yana thought, and I walked right into their trap.
Mickey must have sensed her dismay, because she saw his bright, optimistic smile fall the instant before the vase exploded and a huge fireball incinerated them both.
CHAPTER 9
I WONDERED HOW many miserable stories the room had heard. Lined with soundproofing tiles that had been scored with years of graffiti, the interview room had been my home for the past two hours. As a volunteering witness, I’d been allowed to keep my possessions, and I checked my watch. It was 11:43 a.m. I read some of the messages carved in the wall tiles, my gaze lingering on those that made a particular impression.
This is no place for innocence.
Brooklyn rocks!
He had it coming, so I served it up cold.
I pushed the plastic chair back from the table that was bolted to the floor and stretched my legs. They ached after the chase and the area around my solar plexus was still sore.
The Latino detective who’d driven me to the precinct was called Rick Tana, and he was in charge of the unfolding investigation. I’d told him everything I’d witnessed and had re-counted the chase and my fight with the assassin. Like any experienced cop, he’d listened with a degree of detached skepticism before probing my story for details that would either confirm or disprove the truth. After a while he’d excused himself and left the room. I knew he was checking me out, but I didn’t mind the wait. It gave me a chance to chew over the shooting.
Had Karl Parker known he was a target? Is that what he’d wanted to discuss? He was a former Marine flight instructor, an extremely successful business leader and a family man, but what could have put him in an assassin’s crosshairs? The guy I’d chased wasn’t some random nut. The motorcycle getaway made it clear the shooting had been planned. If the guards hadn’t thwarted that method of escape, we’d have never known about the helicopter, which had undoubtedly been the motorcycle’s intended destination. The shooting had all the hallmarks of a professional hit, but why would anyone want to target Karl?
I was mulling over the questions when the door opened and Rick Tana entered.
“Why didn’t you mention you’re the head of Private?” he asked, referring to my business, the largest and most successful investigation agency in the world.
“Didn’t seem relevant,” I replied. The truth was I didn’t want to invite scandal. Karl’s death was sure to be big news and I didn’t want the press drawing any conclusions from my presence at the listing. I’d been there as a friend, but the nature of my work meant there was a good chance an imaginative journalist would manufacture a scandalous reason for my attendance.
“Well, it is relevant,” Rick remarked. “Were you working a case?” he asked, proving I had good reason to worry about people questioning my motivation.
“Like I said, Karl Parker was an old friend.”
“I’m sorry. It can’t have been easy to see your friend be killed in that way,” the detective replied. “Thank you for cooperating. You’re free to go.”
“I thought I was here voluntarily,” I said.
Rick smirked. “Yeah. Of course you were.”
“You get a lead on the chopper?” I asked as I headed for the door.
“Not yet. But there’s a group claiming responsibility for the shooting. They call themselves the Ninety-nine. It’s all over the news.”
I took my phone from my pocket and checked CNN.com. Karl’s murder was the lead story, and despite all my years dealing with trauma and death, seeing his picture brought a lump to my throat.
“You OK?” Rick asked.
I ignored the question and clicked on one of the headlines: “Radical Group Claims Responsibility.” I scanned the story, which featured the still of a video. The image showed a masked spokesman who’d reportedly said, “Karl Parker was a legitimate target. As a member of the one percent, he had more than his fair share in life, and it’s time for others to enjoy his riches. We are the Ninety-nine and we shall eliminate the one percent to once again make America the land of free and equal opportunity.”
“I’m fine,” I told Rick as I studied the photograph of the masked man.
I’m going to find you, I thought. I’m going to find you and make you answer for what you’ve done.
CHAPTER 10
WE PASSED A number of purposeful cops as we walked through the building. I recognized the expressions on their faces from my time in the Marines. Some joked with a colleague, others talked seriously and some walked alone, but they all had the air of people who were caught up in things greater than themselves, that sense of mission that came with civic duty.
“What did you fly?” Rick asked as we passed an empty briefing room. One wall was covered
with NYPD intelligence bulletins.
“CH-46, Sea Knight,” I replied.
“My brother flew Thunderbolts in Iraq.”
“Tough gig,” I said. “Got to get in low.”
“Yeah. He had some close calls,” Rick replied. “You ever hear of the Ninety-nine before?”
I shook my head.
“Were you and Mr. Parker close?”
“He was one of my flight instructors,” I said. “We became friends after he left the Corps, but then we kind of lost touch.”
“Any idea why he contacted you after all this time?” Rick asked as we reached the security door that led to central booking.
“None,” I replied. “But my guess is he was going to tell me about whatever it was that got him killed.”
Rick swiped a card reader and opened the door. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Morgan. Here’s my number in case there’s anything else you can think of.” He handed me his card.
“Thanks,” I said, and I shook his hand before stepping into the busy hall that was packed with cops, suspects and lawyers. I immediately saw two people I recognized and they hurried toward me.
Jessie Fleming was the 34-year-old former FBI agent I’d hired to run Private New York. She wore jeans and a baggy hooded top, but even her loose-fitting casual clothes couldn’t hide her toned figure. Prior to joining the Bureau, she’d been a gymnast and brought the same dedication that saw her take a World Championship podium bronze in the uneven bars to everything she did. She’d been running Private’s New York office for three years, ever since I’d recruited her out of the Counterintelligence Division, where she’d been on her way to becoming section chief in the New York field office. Under Jessie’s deft leadership, Private New York had grown to become one of our largest operations, with a team of more than sixty investigators and support staff. Sometimes it was hard to believe I’d built this international empire, and I occasionally wondered how my life would have turned out if my dad hadn’t left me the money to give Private the kick-start it needed.
Jessie’s companion was Rafael Lucas, a Spaniard who worked for one of the world’s largest law firms. He’d come to the US on secondment and had married a wealthy Manhattan socialite, which had come as no surprise. He was an elegant, handsome man from an old aristocratic Calabrian family. There was a hint of the 1930s in the way Rafael dressed, and even now he was in a topcoat, tailored suit and waistcoat with shirt and tie. He and Jessie were at opposite ends of the sartorial spectrum, but both wore the same expression of concern.
“You OK?” Jessie asked.
I nodded. “Thanks for coming down.”
“I’m sorry about Karl Parker,” Rafael said.
Rafael was Private New York’s go-to lawyer and he and Jessie both knew why I was in town. We had been supposed to sit down tomorrow to run through open investigations and talk about other issues that needed to be addressed for the New York business.
“It was a professional hit,” I said. “I’m not sure I buy the political motivation.”
“Me neither,” Jessie remarked. “Political groups usually announce themselves with something small, not a prime-time killing. It just doesn’t feel like their first outing.”
I nodded. Jessie’s instincts were usually on the money. “I chased the shooter to the Manhattan Heliport. He had a chopper waiting. Too slick for a radical group. At least that’s what my gut says. Jessie, I want you to call Justine, Sci and Mo-bot and ask them to catch the early-morning flight.”
“No need,” Jessie said. “They’re booked on the red-eye. They called me the moment the story broke.”
I was touched that their immediate instinct had been to help. I hadn’t spoken much about Karl, but they all knew I wouldn’t have been half the pilot I was without his help and insight. Justine was the only one who was aware of just how close Karl and I had been for a while. She knew how personally I’d take his death. I’d watched him get shot and hadn’t been able to do a damned thing to stop it. All my training and years of experience and I’d been of no more use than a child. Justine and I had a complicated history, and we were going through an off patch, but there was nothing more I wanted right now than to hold her. I needed to be close to someone who mattered.
‘“They’ll be here first thing in the morning,’” Jessie told me.
“That’s good,” I replied. “We should get in contact with Victoria Parker when she’s released from interview. I want to find out what Karl was into. See if you can make an appointment for us to visit the house tomorrow.”
“Her attorney called me fifteen minutes ago,” Rafael said. “She’s already been released. She’s on her way to Forty-one Madison right now.”
CHAPTER 11
I SHOULD HAVE been toasting Karl’s magnificent achievement on his beachfront terrace in Long Island. Instead, I was in the passenger seat of Jessie’s car, watching the frozen city roll by. Even with winter at its worst, a few unfortunate souls were doomed to face the brutal chill of New York huddled in sleeping bags in the doorways of stores and churches. The city’s bleak indifference to their suffering was one of many things I’d experienced over the years that had taught me justice wasn’t given, it had to be fought for. And I was going to do whatever it took to ensure I got justice for my old friend.
Jessie drove us north, and after ten minutes in the midday traffic, we pulled into the parking lot beneath Forty One Madison, a thirty-six-story black glass and steel skyscraper that stood on the corner of Madison Avenue and East 26th Street, overlooking Madison Park. Private New York was headquartered on the thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth floors. I’d chosen a midtown location to put Private New York at the heart of the action. Federal Plaza, Wall Street and NYPD Headquarters were a short drive away, and Grand Central and the city’s key residential neighborhoods were a brief cab ride uptown.
We took the stairs to the lobby and found a security guard and a janitor chatting by the front desk. Six elevators were all open and docked on the first floor and we went through the security barriers and took one up to Private’s New York HQ. When we stepped into the lobby, I saw signs of activity all over the place.
“I tasked some of the team to get a head start on the investigation,” Jessie said.
I followed her through a set of glass security doors into an open-plan office where a dozen investigators, administrators and analysts traded information on the Exchange shooting. Some of them stiffened when they saw me. It was a reaction I was used to. Even today, when I was probably at my most vulnerable, they wouldn’t see a grieving human being, they’d see a boss, capable of making or breaking careers. Or so they thought. In truth, life at Private was entirely in their hands. If they cleared their cases, their rise up the ranks would be almost inevitable.
Jessie and Rafael took me up a spiral staircase that stood at the edge of the building and, as we climbed, I looked out of the huge windows at the snow-covered city. Somehow the sunshine reflecting off the surrounding skyscrapers seemed brighter than ever. Maybe it was an effect of the freezing air, or perhaps I just wanted to see warmth wherever I looked.
We made our way through the executive floor and came to Jessie’s office, which was located in the northwest corner of the building. Jessie went in first and I followed.
Victoria Parker was sitting on one of two tan leather couches that faced each other. Sitting next to her was a woman in a black dress.
“Jack,” Victoria said as she got to her feet.
Her eyes were raw, but there was no sign of any fresh tears. She looked furious.
“I’m so sorry,” I told her as we embraced.
“Thanks,” she replied. “This is Letitia Jones.” She indicated the woman in the black dress. “She’s our … my attorney.”
Letitia shook my hand. She was mid-forties and had a cold, suspicious demeanor.
“How’s Kevin?” I asked.
“He’s at home with my mother,” Victoria said. “The doctor’s given him some sedatives.”
“I’m so
rry,” I repeated with a deep sigh. “I just don’t know what to say.”
“There isn’t anything anyone can say at a time like this,” Victoria replied. “You know that as well as anyone.”
I nodded. She was right. My personal interest in the case was clouding my professionalism.
“Would you like a drink, Mrs. Parker?” Jessie asked.
Victoria shook her head. “No, thank you. I want us to get down to business. I’d like to hire Private. I want you to find my husband’s killer.”
CHAPTER 12
“WOULD YOU MIND giving us a minute alone?” I asked Jessie and Rafael.
Letitia looked at Victoria for guidance, and her client nodded. The three of them left the office, and Victoria and I were soon on our own.
I went over to the west-facing window and looked down at the footsteps in the snow-covered park. Pursuing a personal investigation was a very different matter from taking Victoria on as a client, and I wanted her to understand the risks involved. I looked up and searched the city for inspiration, but my attention was caught by my own translucent reflection, which looked like a ghost floating in the January sky. A tired, troubled ghost, I thought as I studied my face.
“What do you want to say, Jack?” Victoria asked. “Karl always spoke very highly of you. He never mentioned you were the type to beat around the bush.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, turning to face her. “I was trying to find a delicate way to say what needs to be said.”
“Do I look like someone who gives a damn about delicacy? If it needs to be said, just let it out. Today of all days.”
“If you hire Private, we’re obliged to share the results of our investigation. Even if they’re ugly.”
“I know my husband, Jack. I’m not worried about what you might find.”
It was the same confidence exhibited by so many clients, but I’d seen too many people break down when shown detailed evidence of treachery at the hands of a spouse, friend, family or business partner. Sometimes ignorance really was bliss.
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