by J. B. Turner
“We seem to be going around in circles, Detective. Why is this no ordinary case?” Reznick leaned closer. “You mind explaining?”
Acosta sighed. “You need to trust me on this, Mr. Reznick. I want to help. And I hope I can. But I can’t tell you any more right now.”
Seven
Martha Meyerstein was at her desk on the seventh floor of the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, DC, looking over briefing notes on an ongoing investigation when the phone rang. She sighed and picked up.
“Meyerstein.”
“Martha, you got five minutes?” The voice belonged to FBI Director Bill O’Donoghue.
“Right now?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Meyerstein cleared her throat. “Not a problem.”
She headed down the corridor and knocked on the Director’s door.
“Come in!” he shouted.
Meyerstein opened the door and saw O’Donoghue behind his desk, looking over a file. “Sir?”
“Pull up a seat, Martha,” he said without looking up.
Meyerstein shut the door behind her and sat down. O’Donoghue appeared more drawn and tired than she’d ever seen him. The fallout from recent events during which Jon Reznick had freed a former Delta buddy from a psychiatric hospital that, unbeknownst to the FBI, was part of a shadowy top-secret Langley black-ops program had strained relations between the FBI and the CIA to the breaking point in recent months. The antagonism between the agencies had spurred off-the-record quotes in the Washington Post, believed to have originated from within the CIA, suggesting that O’Donoghue was considering retirement. He had shrugged off the gossip, as he usually did, focusing on the job. He still worked grueling sixteen-hour days. And he was as demanding of his staff as ever. But Meyerstein knew from private conversations with him that he was increasingly concerned that the fractious relationship between the two agencies was a threat to national security.
O’Donoghue began, “Martha, I was looking over your memo about Reznick’s daughter. I appreciate the heads-up. I had no idea.”
“The New York field office is being kept abreast of any developments. They’re liaising with the NYPD. I believe they’re meeting later today.”
“And they’re keeping a lid on Reznick’s connection to us? I mean, this is not something we want becoming common knowledge, that we have an interest in this man.”
Meyerstein shifted in her seat. “Absolutely. I’ve been assured by Jacob Hartmann in the field office that he has personally taken charge of this, and only he is speaking with the precinct commander.”
O’Donoghue nodded. “I know what Jon can bring to the table. He’s helped us with some of our most challenging investigations. He’s brilliant. He’s brave. He’s a warrior. I don’t deny any of those things. But he’s mercurial. And I’ve got to be honest, he worries me. He worries me immensely. We’re under scrutiny right now like never before—in part because of his actions. We can’t underestimate how one wrong move or comment could bring all manner of hell down upon us.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
O’Donoghue sighed. “These are dangerous times not only for America but also for the Bureau. The last thing we need is for this thing to blow up in the media and expose Reznick and his daughter to public attention. His role with us is somewhat . . . How can I put it?”
“Covert?”
“Vague might be better,” O’Donoghue said wryly. “Some of the actions he’s taken on American soil . . .” He shook his head. “The FBI is not above the law. And that includes Jon Reznick.”
Meyerstein nodded. “I don’t disagree with any of that, sir.”
“Just so we’re clear.”
“I’m guessing that’s not why you called me into your office.”
“No.” He flicked over some papers on his desk before he fixed his gaze on her. “I’m concerned that Reznick might try and interfere with the police investigation. Ruffle feathers, so to speak.”
“His goddamn daughter is fighting for her life, sir, as we speak.”
O’Donoghue stared at her, eyes heavy. “That’s beside the point. Reznick is our responsibility. I need to know that he’s not going to do something crazy.”
“I understand that perfectly,” Meyerstein said, tamping down her impatience, “but it doesn’t sit well with me that our primary worry is whether he’ll embarrass us when we should be concerned about who put his daughter in a goddamn coma.”
O’Donoghue raised a brow at her tone. “It is what it is, Martha,” he said mildly. “So . . . are you on board?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“We always have a choice.”
Meyerstein sighed. “What are you proposing, sir?”
“Jon Reznick is our guy. He’s worked for us for years. Sensitive operations. National security. Highly classified, as you know. It’s important that we make sure things don’t get out of control.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get to New York. And be my eyes and ears.”
“You want me to keep Reznick under surveillance?”
“I want you to do what it takes to ensure that Reznick doesn’t go rogue.”
Eight
Reznick looked through a window next to his daughter’s bed to the broiling New York streets below. Cop cars speeding past the baking sidewalks. Shadows encroaching from the high-rise residential buildings all around. He was filled with a sense of foreboding for Lauren’s future. No one down there cared about his daughter’s predicament. Why should they? They had their own concerns. Worries. Fears. The day-to-day grind of living in this crowded, crazy city.
He wanted Lauren back to being the beautiful, smart young woman she was. The daughter who was doing great stuff at Bennington College in Vermont. The daughter who should have been living the New York dream while working a coveted summer internship. He was hurting. Deep down, he felt a chasm within him. An emptiness. And it was growing.
She was everything he had ever wanted in a daughter. His late wife had only known Lauren as a baby. Elisabeth never got to see the confident, outgoing young woman who was planning to work toward a PhD in English literature. Lauren should have had the world at her feet. And she would. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But he had to believe that she’d recover.
Reznick turned around and saw a nurse monitoring her vital signs.
The nurse looked up at him and smiled. “Hi, Mr. Reznick.”
“Still the same?”
“She’s stable.”
Reznick nodded. “That’s something.”
The nurse smiled but didn’t say anything.
Reznick needed to clear his head. He went out into the hallway and called Detective Acosta. Her cell phone rang five times before she answered.
“Acosta.” The tough, no-nonsense voice of a cop.
“Detective, it’s Jon Reznick.”
“Hey, Jon, how’s Lauren?”
“No change. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you. I was calling to ask about the perp.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, are you any further along with interviewing the driver?”
“I was just about to talk to him.”
“Who is he? What can you tell me about him?”
“Jon . . . gimme a break. You know I can’t divulge that.” She hesitated, and Reznick thought she was about to take pity on him and tell him what he wanted to know. Instead, she said, “There’s more to this case than meets the eye. I can’t promise the outcome of our investigation is going to be satisfactory to you, but I can promise that I want to nail this guy just as much as you do.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
Acosta sighed. “I’ve already said more than I should have. Let me do my job, Jon, and you go be Lauren’s father. I’ll call you when I can share more.”
Nine
The interview room at the Nineteenth Precinct was stifling as they waited for their suspect. Acosta was drumming her fingernails on the woode
n desk as her colleague, Detective Sergeant Kevin McGeough, flicked through his notes. She felt sweat sticking her shirt to her skin and dabbed her brow with a handkerchief. An electric fan in the corner was moving the warm, dead air around the room without any discernible effect. She was reminded of her cramped childhood apartment in an un-air-conditioned walk-up in the Bronx. Sweltering summer nights, the sound of police sirens cutting through the night air. Neighbors screaming at each other. But also the sound of her mother’s crying because of their hand-to-mouth existence. The arguments. The struggle to make ends meet. The struggle to put food on the table. The grinding poverty. She felt a perpetual mixture of gratitude and astonishment that her current life was so comfortable. “When’s the goddamn air-conditioning going to get fixed?”
McGeough shrugged. “Later today, I heard.”
“This heat is killing me.”
“Sure it’s not the menopause?” McGeough said with a smirk.
“Fuck you.” She looked at the clock. They had been waiting for twenty-five minutes, and still no sign of the diplomat or his lawyer. “The guy’s running late.”
“He’s a busy guy,” McGeough said, leaning back in his chair and stretching.
She sighed as she began to look again at the papers in front of her. The medical reports on Reznick’s daughter. The useless, grainy images captured by dashcams in several vehicles in the vicinity of the accident, observers unable to identify who was driving the vehicle that had hit Lauren Reznick.
Eventually, half an hour later, just as she was getting ready to postpone the interview, Brutka and his lawyer, Lionel Morton, strolled in.
Acosta looked up and nodded. “Please take a seat, gentlemen. Appreciate your time.”
The pair sat down opposite Acosta and her colleague. Morton opened up his briefcase and pulled out a pad and a pen and began scribbling notes. Brutka’s gaze wandered around the interview room as if his mind was elsewhere.
Acosta switched on the digital recorder. She stated the time and place and who was present in the interview room.
Morton cleared his throat. “I’d like to apologize for our tardiness. Aleksander was dealing with an urgent church matter. His friend and pastor at the Ukrainian Orthodox Cathedral at West Eighty-Second Street was looking for advice. An elderly widow who is facing eviction. The situation has, thankfully, been resolved. I’m sure you understand.”
Acosta nodded. “Not a problem.”
“We intend to fully cooperate.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morton.” Acosta looked long and hard at Brutka. “Sir, can you talk me through what happened with regard to your car, a black Bentley SUV, colliding with a young woman on East Sixty-Eighth Street three days ago?”
Brutka looked thoughtful. “Thanks for allowing me the opportunity to clarify this terrible situation. I was as distressed as everyone else when I heard the news.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I’m sure you’ll appreciate that I have to ask difficult questions.”
“Indeed. Of course.”
Acosta sighed. “Were you driving the vehicle when this incident happened, sir?”
“Most certainly not.”
“So you were not behind the wheel when this accident happened?”
“Categorically not.”
Acosta’s instincts screamed that he wasn’t telling her the whole truth. “Were you in the vehicle at the time, sir?”
“No, I was not. I’m shocked at what’s happened. And I hope the young woman who was injured makes a full recovery.”
Acosta cleared her throat. “Would you care to share with us who was driving your car?”
“We’re investigating to figure that out.”
“We have footage of someone driving your vehicle at the time in question. Do you mind if I play this, sir?”
Brutka shrugged. “Please do if you think it will help.”
Acosta picked up the remote and played the clip on the big-screen TV hanging on the wall. She hit pause, freezing the video just before the accident. “We can see quite clearly that it’s your vehicle, registered to your address in the city, at the intersection where the jogger was hit. A very expensive car, I’ve been told. So my question is, this is clearly a car that you use, correct? Would you accept that?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Good. And the man behind the wheel?”
Brutka took a pair of glasses out of his jacket and peered at the screen. “It’s a very fuzzy image. That’s unfortunate. But I can assure you it was not me.”
“Is it possible, sir, that someone else, who was unauthorized to use your vehicle at the time, was driving this vehicle?”
“It’s possible, of course.”
Acosta was mildly irritated by the man’s unhelpful answers. “Perhaps a member of your staff?”
“Quite possible.”
Morton leaned forward and smiled. “My client is quite willing to provide you with a written statement. He denies being the driver.”
Acosta sensed there was something not quite right about Brutka. Something was off. “There would be one way we could determine if you were in the vehicle. If we had access to your cell phone, then we could determine your location.”
Morton intervened. “Detective Acosta, Article 27 of the Vienna Convention, if my memory serves me well, says that the host country must permit and protect free communication between diplomats and their home country. So Mr. Brutka would be falling foul of that if he handed over his cell phone, wouldn’t he?”
McGeough stared long and hard at Brutka. “Mr. Brutka, I understand and appreciate that you are a diplomat of some standing. The question remains, though: If it wasn’t you, who was it? Did someone steal your car from the embassy grounds? If so, why wasn’t it reported? Why was it returned? There must be footage showing the person who took it.”
Brutka nodded. “That’s a good point, and we are looking into that as we speak.”
Acosta looked long and hard at Brutka before she smiled. “A young woman is now lying in a coma. She is fighting for her life.”
Morton immediately sat straight up and pointed at Acosta. “I think my client has been up-front about this incident. Now . . . unless you have any further questions, this meeting is over.”
Ten
The hours dragged as Reznick sat at Lauren’s bedside, feeling helpless. His head was swimming. The person who’d nearly killed his daughter was still out there. He felt a simmering anger ready to boil over.
He needed to clear his head, get some air. He kissed Lauren on the check. “Won’t be long, honey,” he said. “I love you.”
He headed out onto the stifling streets. After walking along East Sixty-Eighth Street for half a dozen blocks, he crossed Fifth Avenue and reached Central Park. Sweat caused his T-shirt to stick to his back. He put on his sunglasses and pulled on his baseball cap as the sun beat down on him.
He walked through the park and headed across to Gapstow Bridge. It was a place with poignant memories. He remembered standing there with Elisabeth all those years ago. Just a young man in his early twenties. Not a care in the world. Before his whole world collapsed.
He turned and faced The Plaza hotel, where they had gotten married. His wife’s folks had wanted a big wedding. And all his Delta buddies had turned up. Rowdy, unruly, some crazed, all drunk off their asses by the end of the night. Former Delta operator Harry Leggett mimicking Michael Jackson’s moonwalk before collapsing in a heap, provoking raucous laughter. It was August 14, 1999. It seemed like yesterday. But that was two decades ago. Elisabeth’s family had been horrified by Reznick’s friends’ behavior. But that only seemed to make the contrast between his friends and the rest of the guests even funnier in Reznick’s eyes.
The thing he remembered more than anything else about that day was just how beautiful Elisabeth had looked. Their first dance. He couldn’t even remember the song. Why was that?
He turned and saw couples walking hand in hand. He saw a pair of cops speaking to a young kid holding a skateboard
. And he saw families taking selfies, laughing, joking. Tourists. Maybe from the Midwest. Maybe from Europe.
Reznick walked slowly across the bridge, taking one long, lingering look back at The Plaza, before he headed on through the park. The smell of cut grass and cigarette smoke hung in the air. He walked on, deeper into the park. Past young folks lying on the grass, headphones on, soaking up the rays. Tourists lounging on benches, watching the world go by. Sweating joggers. And those just ambling around.
What was he doing here?
Should he be by Lauren’s bedside, hoping for the best? Something within him was calling for him to do something. Anything. The question was, what?
He knew he should stay out of it. That was the smart thing to do.
But Reznick wanted to know who the driver was. He needed to know. It was bugging him. He pulled out his cell phone. He pulled up the number of a guy in Miami. A reclusive hacker who had helped him in the past. A hacker who had previously worked for the NSA. Now the guy was off the grid, working for wealthy individuals and corporations who could pay him to access information.
The hacker answered immediately. “Yo, Mr. R., how goes it? Long time no hear. You OK, man?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Every time we talk you have some problem.”
Reznick shielded his eyes from the sun. “This is different.”
“How?”
“First, I want to know if you can help me.”
“In what way?”
“I need to get some information. Sensitive information.”
A beat. “So we’re talking illegal shit, right?”
“Technically, that’s correct. But this is personal.”
The hacker was silent for a few moments, as if wondering what this was all about. “What do you mean, personal?”
Reznick sighed and explained.
“Shit, man, I’m sorry. So, let me get this straight, your daughter’s in a coma? Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I was. It’s a big ask, I know. But I need some help.”
“Sure I can help, Jon. And you’re wondering why this guy hasn’t been arrested?”