Hard Hit

by J. B. Turner

  The old man cleared his throat and beckoned Brutka closer. “I rely on you so much,” he said as Brutka sat.

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  The old man let out a wheezy sigh and his watery eyes scrutinized Brutka’s face. “Tell me, I know you’re a very busy man, but how have you been? Are you enjoying your life? A man needs to relax. Take time to enjoy the good things.”

  Brutka smiled ruefully; high living was not something he skimped on. “I have a full social life,” he said.

  “And a girlfriend? You need to think about settling down.”

  “Absolutely correct. But I need to find the right girl.”

  “I was lucky . . . Your grandmother, a fine woman. An upstanding, good woman, who loved her husband, her children. She would have been so proud to see how well you have done.”

  The old man furrowed his brow slightly as though something was troubling him. “America is a great country, but I feel . . . I don’t know what I feel.”

  “Tell me, Grandfather. Speak honestly to me. What is it? Is there something bothering you?”

  “I feel . . . even after all these years, as if they might find me.”

  Brutka leaned in closer. “Grandfather, listen to me very carefully. Do you trust me?”

  “I trust you with my life.”

  “That’s good. As long as I draw breath, I will ensure no one finds you. I know many people. And rest assured, you are safe here. No one will find you here. I promise.”

  The old man remained quiet for a few moments before speaking. “I asked to speak to you face-to-face. And you came within hours.”

  “As soon as the plane’s crew was ready, I headed up here. I said I would always be here for you, Grandfather. And I mean what I say.”

  The old man nodded, eyes downcast.

  “Is there something wrong, Grandfather? You seem lost in thought.”

  “A friend of mine, he’s retired, a veteran, and he helps his wife run a coffee shop on Main Street. He mentioned in passing a man who visited a few months back, very pleasant, working on his laptop.”

  Brutka shrugged. “I do it myself. You can write articles, memos, emails while enjoying a coffee.”

  “Yes. This man, he came in every day for a week or so, said he was on a road trip. But only a few days ago, the same man returns to the coffee shop. And he has his laptop.”

  Brutka nodded. “The same guy?”

  “Yes. And you know what he asked?”

  “What?”

  “He asked if my friend knew a guy called Bud Smith.”

  Brutka stared at his grandfather. His blood ran like ice in his veins. “What did your friend say?”

  “My friend asked who the guy was and why he wanted to know.”

  “Your friend didn’t know the guy, right?”

  “Complete stranger. The guy just shrugged, finished his coffee, and left.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “There was one thing my friend found out about the guy.”

  “What was that?”

  “Said he saw his driver’s license when he paid the bill. Tom Callaghan. New York.”

  Brutka made a mental note.

  “Aleksander, I don’t want anything to happen to me.”

  “Trust me, leave this to me. I will find out who this Callaghan is. And I’ll deal with it.” The old man nodded, a tremor in his hand. “You still have the gun I gave you?”

  “Yes, I have it.”

  “Make sure it’s close at all times. Just in case you need to use it.”

  The following morning, a tangerine dawn spread across the sky, its light catching the glass on the huge residential towers overlooking Manhattan’s East River.

  Aleksander Brutka was already racking up the laps in his rooftop pool. The sun warmed his back. It felt good. But his thoughts were still preoccupied after his trip to Vermont. The presence of the stranger asking about Bud Smith was troubling. He felt sick thinking his beloved grandfather was being disturbed and unsettled at his age. His grandfather had fled Eastern Europe with his young son, Brutka’s father, along with countless other refugees, after the Second World War. And he had built up a successful hotel business, growing to love everything America had to offer. Brutka had already put in some calls to find out what was going on. But his instincts told him that Tom Callaghan, if that was indeed his real name, was not good news.

  Brutka pushed those thoughts to one side while he swam and began to focus on the new day ahead. He had his own issues he needed to sort out. He was due to meet with his lawyer today to discuss the jogger he’d hit on the Upper East Side. And he wanted to feel as if he was on top of everything that seemed like it was piling up at the same time.

  He swam on. Lap after lap. Slowly, he began to feel sharper as the endorphins kicked in, his mood becoming elevated. Today he was ready to face the world anew.

  He loved swimming outdoors. The twenty-five-yard rooftop pool was where he went to gather his thoughts. Clear his mind. But also to keep fit. It was the reason he’d splashed out $70 million on the penthouse for his thirtieth birthday. The swimming was part of his morning ritual. He had started swimming when he was a student at Deerfield Academy, a boarding school in Massachusetts. He’d had excellent swimming coaches and had become a state champion when he was sixteen.

  He took pride in his morning ritual.

  When he’d started his job in New York five years earlier, he’d often stayed in a suite at the Four Seasons. And he’d often had to share his early-morning swim with other guests.

  Having one’s own rooftop pool, and being able to swim during a blistering heat wave, wasn’t far from heaven in his mind.

  His bodyguards stayed in the rooms below. An elevator from his floor gave him private access to the parking garage. It was discreet. If he was returning with a girl—or, as was more often the case, girls—no one knew.

  Then in the morning they would be given the usual two thousand dollars for their time and escorted off the premises by his bodyguards. Brutka liked his life. His father liked it less. Aleksander knew he’d been indulged, not least with a world-class education. First at Deerfield. Then at a top liberal arts college, Williams, where he had studied economics. Then Harvard Law School.

  Three years as a tax lawyer was all he had been able to endure. When an opening in New York became available, it was a perfect opportunity to enjoy the privileges, access, networking, and power brokering that accompanied the diplomatic position at the UN.

  He jetted across the world but always returned to his perfect home, high in the sky. He loved New York.

  Just over an hour later, after a healthy breakfast of oatmeal, freshly squeezed orange juice, and green tea, Brutka was sitting in the back of a limo, snared in Midtown traffic.

  “How are we for time?” he said to his chauffeur.

  “We’re fine, sir.”

  Brutka’s cell phone rang. He saw the caller ID and his heart sank. His father.

  Shit.

  “Father, how are you today?”

  A long sigh. “Aleksander, I was just informed of the accident. Please explain yourself.”

  “It’s all in hand.”

  “Do not lie to me, son. I don’t abide liars. So what’s the latest?”

  “We believe that the car, the Bentley, may have been involved in the accident, and it was being used, unauthorized.”

  “So who was it?”

  “We don’t know, Father. I have my security people investigating to find out what the hell went on. It’s crazy. I’m frankly appalled.”

  “Son, are you saying you weren’t driving or in the vehicle?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I’ve also just spoken to the State Department. They want this cleared up.”

  “I can assure you that whoever is responsible will be held to account.”

  His father sighed deeply. “What did your lawyer say?”

  “I’m meeting him in fifteen minutes.”

  “Listen to what he say
s. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father. There’s something else, unrelated to this ghastly accident.”

  His father cleared his throat. “What?”

  “I visited Grandfather. And he mentioned that a man by the name of Tom Callaghan was in Hanover a few months ago, asking about Bud Smith. Recently, this guy was back, sniffing around.”

  “Do we know who Callaghan is?”

  “Not yet, but I will.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that. Keep me informed. But for now, see your lawyer, and take his advice.”

  The offices of Morton and Charles were on the eighty-second floor of a building in Midtown. Brutka was greeted by Lionel Morton, a rotund, bespectacled man wearing a navy suit, crisp white shirt, and navy silk tie. Understated. Not flashy.

  They followed Morton’s secretary into the boardroom, where Brutka was shown to a comfortable leather chair. Sepia pictures of old New York lined the mahogany-paneled walls.

  Morton pulled up a chair and sat down. He waited until his secretary had left the room before he started to scribble on a notepad. “So . . . we got a problem, right?” he said.

  Brutka sighed. “A most unfortunate situation.”

  “As you know, our firm is on a retainer, so my services are available around the clock, and I’ll be doing my utmost to maintain your diplomatic position here in New York. So, what exactly were you doing when this incident occurred?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “So who was driving?”

  “We don’t know. But we’ll find out.”

  Morton scribbled more notes. “Have the police been in touch?”

  “Yes, they have.”

  “And?”

  “They came by my apartment, but my aide said I wasn’t in.”

  Morton pinched the bridge of his nose, as if slightly exasperated. “There must be surveillance footage from the embassy showing who took the vehicle.”

  “We’re looking into that.”

  “So you’re saying that an employee at the embassy took this vehicle, was involved in a hit-and-run accident, and no one knows who the hell it was?”

  “It doesn’t look good, I know. But we’ll find the culprit.”

  Morton sighed. “I have to say, this is problematic.”

  “I agree. But we’ll find who did this.”

  “Aleksander, it’s important you do. And quick.”

  Five

  The light was fading outside the diner. Reznick was finishing up a dinner of steak and fries when his cell phone rang. The caller ID showed Weill Cornell Medical Center.

  “Mr. Reznick?”

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “Raj Patel, Surgical Intensive Care Unit. You need to return to the hospital, sir, right away.”

  “Intensive care? I don’t understand. I was just speaking to my daughter a couple of hours ago.”

  “Your daughter is now in the ICU.”

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Her condition has deteriorated. Badly.”

  “What exactly do you mean, Doctor?”

  “You need to come now, sir.”

  Reznick’s mind was racing as he ended the call. He left two twenty-dollar bills with the check and ran out onto First Avenue. Then he sprinted to the hospital.

  He was breathing hard when he stepped out of the elevator and into the ICU. Lauren’s eyes were closed, tubes coming out of her nose, the machine she was hooked up to beeping. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair.

  The doctor introduced himself. “Your daughter had a major episode in the last hour. We needed to induce a coma.”

  Reznick heard the words but couldn’t seem to process them. “Why?”

  “Her condition changed suddenly. She began to complain of terrible pressure in her head. We did some more scans. And we could see that there was swelling. Intense pressure on her brain was rising fast. We had to do a procedure to relieve it.”

  “I thought she was going to get better.”

  “So did we. We brought her into the ICU. She’s receiving the finest medical treatment. But I’m not disguising the fact that this is a severe setback.”

  Reznick felt a stabbing pain in his chest. “You need to be very honest with me. What are her chances?”

  The doctor nodded. “Lauren is fighting for her life. I’m very sorry I don’t have better news.”

  “What are her chances?”

  “Honestly? We don’t know yet.”

  “Take a guess, Doc.”

  “It’s an uphill battle, that’s all I can say.”

  With a sympathetic look, the doctor left, and Reznick leaned in close to his daughter’s face. “Hey, honey, it’s Dad.” He felt his throat tighten. His flesh and blood was lying in a coma. “I want you to know that you’re in a fantastic hospital, and the doctors are going to make you better. But you need to do me a favor, honey. I know you can hear me. You look like you’re just sleeping. But I want you to listen to what I have to say: you’re going to fight this. You’re going to be strong. And you’re going to dig deep. Your mother was a fighter. She never gave up. Ever. She was tough. And I’m going to ask you to be tough like you’ve never been before. When you’re ready, you wake up.”

  Reznick felt tears in his eyes.

  “Remember what I said to you when you were a little girl? You remember? I said, I will never leave you. I will always be here for you. Whatever it takes. That was my promise. And I keep my promises. I’m going to be here for you when you need me. But now you just have a nice long sleep, and when you’re ready to wake up, Daddy will be here.”

  Reznick stroked Lauren’s silky hair and hummed a lullaby as the respirator beeped, the machine keeping her alive. He stayed by her bedside for an hour before he left to speak to the doctor again. “Can she pull through? I need to know.”

  The doctor sighed, his gaze wandering around the ICU.

  “It’s a simple question, Doc.”

  “It’s not a simple question. We just don’t know. But yes, she can pull through. She’s young. She seems healthy and fit. But it’s going to take all her strength and good luck to come out the other side of this. It’s important you understand that.”

  The rest of the night, Reznick sat by his daughter’s bedside. Listening to the machine breathing for her. The beeping. The drip. Time meant nothing. He was terrified of losing her. Since his wife, Elisabeth, died on 9/11, Lauren was all he had. She was just like her mother. With the same stubbornness. The same fierce intelligence. The way she talked about music. The way she argued her point. Even her posture when she read a book. The similarities were uncanny. But mostly, Reznick was reminded of his late wife in his daughter’s smile and the way it lingered in his mind long after she’d gone.

  He held Lauren’s warm, clammy hand and prayed. Eventually, he felt himself drifting away into a sea of darkness and said a final silent prayer for God to watch over his daughter.

  Six

  When Reznick awoke at his daughter’s bedside, his cell phone was vibrating in his pocket. He sat up in the easy chair.

  A nurse checking his daughter’s vital signs smiled down at him. “Good morning,” she said.

  Reznick cleared his throat. “Yeah, good morning. How is she?”

  “No change yet.”

  Reznick took out his cell phone. “Excuse me, I’ve got to take this call.” He got up and walked out into the corridor.

  “Jon, it’s Detective Acosta,” she said when he answered.

  “Morning.”

  “Mr. Reznick, I just heard about Lauren’s condition. I’m so sorry.”

  “Appreciate that.”

  “I wanted to meet you to give you a brief update at the station on where we are with our investigation. Are you available in an hour?”

  “Not a problem.”

  “We’re a fifteen-minute walk away.”

  “See you then.”

  Reznick ended the call and spent a few more minutes with his daughter. He gazed down at her, in shock t
hat he might very well lose her. And there was nothing he could do about it. The more he thought about it, the darker his mood grew. He went to a restroom and freshened up before heading out. He needed to do something.

  Anything.

  It was eight blocks to the Nineteenth Precinct on East Sixty-Seventh Street.

  Reznick spoke to the guy at the desk, and he was told to take a seat. Twenty minutes later, Detective Acosta appeared.

  “Sorry for keeping you waiting,” she said when she came to collect him from the reception area. “Had to take a couple of urgent calls.”

  Reznick shook her hand and they headed up to the second floor. He followed her into a cramped office area, past a handcuffed young thug being brought in, down a corridor and past some officers drinking coffee, and into her windowless office. She shut the door behind her.

  “Pull up a seat,” she said.

  Reznick sat down. The computer on her desk had a small soft toy on the top of the monitor. The screen showed what looked like incident logs. Pinned to the bulletin board above her desk were the telephone numbers of other Nineteenth Precinct detectives, a calendar, newspaper clippings of cases, a small American flag, and a couple photos of Acosta smiling proudly, her arms around a boy, presumably her son.

  Acosta pulled up a seat and sat down. “You want coffee?”

  Reznick shook his head. “What do you know?”

  Acosta sighed.

  Reznick leaned back in his seat. He sensed she was leading up to an important point but didn’t quite want to say it.

  “I can only imagine what you’re going through. We’re very sorry. But what I have to say is going to be, I’m afraid, of little consolation to you.”

  “Do you want to get to the point, Detective? Are we going to see an arrest? What exactly happened?”

  “We believe—though the investigation is in its early stages—that the driver was under the influence. The car was being driven erratically. We don’t know under the influence of what, that’s still to be established.”

  “I don’t understand. Why is he not in here right now, under arrest?”

  “Ordinarily, that would be the case, Mr. Reznick. Believe me, the NYPD would love to put the driver of this vehicle away. But this is no ordinary case. Sadly.”