Hard Hit

by J. B. Turner

  “Right.”

  The hacker sighed.

  Reznick squinted, despite his sunglasses, as the blazing sun flickered between the leaves on the trees.

  “That’s bad what he did, man. But I don’t want you finding this guy and killing him. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

  Reznick said nothing.

  “I take it from that silence that you’re not ruling it out.”

  “Can you help me? Yes or no.”

  The hacker hesitated.

  “You’ve helped me before,” Reznick said. “And I’m very grateful. I hope we can trust each other.”

  Another sigh. “So the cops have a name?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Ordinarily I might, depending on how long it took, charge ten thousand.”

  “That’s not a problem. I’ll wire it, like before.”

  Another sigh.

  “Look, if it’s too much trouble, forget it. No hard feelings.”

  “Wait!”

  Reznick held the cell phone tight to his face. “What?”

  “Know what I like about you, Jon?”

  “What?”

  “You put yourself on the line time after time. The last time it was an ex-Delta buddy up in that hospital in upstate New York, right?”

  “I couldn’t leave him there.”

  “Well, you know what? I admire that. A lot. Tell you what I’m going to do, Jon. This one’s on me.”

  “What?”

  “No charge. I’m not making any promises. But I’m going to try and find this guy.”

  “Just get me a name, that’s all I want.”

  “Leave it to me.”

  Reznick headed back to the hospital and bought a bottle of cold water from a hot dog cart. He finished it before he reached the hospital. When he returned to the ICU, an ashen-faced doctor gave him an update. The news wasn’t good. They might have to operate to relieve the pressure on Lauren’s brain.

  Reznick listened as if in a daze, struggling to take it in. He waited until the doctors had left before he sat down next to Lauren, holding her hand. He leaned in close, kissing the back of her hand. “I know you won’t be able to hear me, darling, but I just wanted you to know, on the off chance that you can, I want you to know that Daddy’s here. I want to help you. So do the doctors, darling. But you’ve got to fight this. You’re a smart girl with great prospects, and we’re not going to allow any accident to dictate how your life will turn out. Your mom was a fighter. You think she got to her position at such a young age without being tough and smart? You’re damn right she had to be all those things, and more. Know what we’re going to do? When you open your eyes again, we’re going to spend some serious time together. Just me and you. I know you like New York. So we’ll walk across this whole city.”

  The beeping of the machine keeping her alive was all the response he heard.

  Reznick leaned forward and stroked his daughter’s hair. “That’s a promise. We’ll spend time in Central Park. We’ll eat hot dogs. We’ll walk in the rain. And I swear, I promise, that we’re going to get through this.”

  A nurse came in to check the machine that was beeping, marking down the readings. Then she quietly moved away.

  Reznick waited for a few moments before he spoke again. “I was over in the park earlier. Saw The Plaza. Where your mom and I got married. Long time ago. I don’t talk too much about her, I know, but you remind me of her. Very determined. Very focused. And if she were here, she’d be saying the same thing. She loves you. And she is not going to allow you to go down without a fight. So I want you to hear my words. I pray that you can. And know that I’m here with you, for you, and so is your mom, always.”

  He leaned in closer.

  “This man might’ve hurt you. He might’ve hurt me. But I can take it. And so can you. You’re going to heal. And you’re going to get strong again. I know you can hear me. My voice might be echoing around your head. Maybe very faintly, I don’t know. But I know you can hear me. Lauren . . . I love you, honey.”

  Reznick sat by Lauren’s bedside for an hour, holding her hand. The sound of his cell phone ringing in his pocket finally snapped him out of his thoughts. He checked the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number. He got up, kissed his daughter on the cheek, and went outside to the corridor to take the call. “Yeah?”

  “Mr. R., OK to talk?” The hacker.

  “Sure, go right ahead.”

  “Aleksander Brutka. Ukrainian national living in New York.”

  Relief to finally get an answer mixed with a strong temptation to hit something. “Are you sure it’s him? I mean, are you really sure?”

  “Just looking at the police report now. He was the one the police were interviewing. But there is no definite visual proof.”

  Reznick mulled over what other information he wanted. “Do we know where he lives?”

  “I just pulled up his financial records. This dude lives in a brand-new residential tower, penthouse apartment. Rooftop pool overlooking the East River.”

  “His own rooftop pool?”

  “Belongs to the penthouse.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “Three forty-six East Forty-Sixth Street.”

  Reznick made a mental note of the address as he contemplated his options. “I owe you one. Thank you.”

  “You owe me nothing, man. Just be careful.”

  Eleven

  It was a run-down part of East Harlem. The barrio. Brutka was sitting in the back seat of the Bentley as the car cruised past dilapidated houses. He stared through the tinted windows as he watched a poor Hispanic man limp down the sidewalk, cell phone pressed to his ear.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Mr. Brutka?” The private investigator.

  “Any progress on finding out who this Tom Callaghan is who was up in Vermont?”

  “It’s his real name, and I know who he is. He lives here in New York. Do you want the details?”

  Brutka watched a teenage mother chewing gum, pushing a stroller along the sidewalk and past the graffitied steel shop shutters. “No. But this guy . . . he’s based in New York?”

  “We’re building up a profile on him. We believe he lives in the Flatiron District.”

  “Stay on it. I want a dossier in forty-eight hours. I want to know everything about who he is, why he was up there, what he knows.”

  Brutka ended the call. His coke-addled mind was racing. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He was trying to keep track of everything in his head. What he knew. What he needed to do. Who he had to see. The girl he’d knocked down. Meetings. Calls. Appointments. Lawyers. He was thinking of his grandfather. His father. And his personal responsibilities. He was thinking of girls. And he was wondering if he was being followed. Was he being followed right now? Did Tom Callaghan know about him too?

  The thoughts increased his anxiety.

  A few minutes later, Brutka’s mind managed to focus back on the present as the car pulled up at a run-down apartment block, part of a notorious housing project.

  The chauffeur turned around. “Do you want me to come in, boss? It’s pretty sketchy around here.”

  Brutka shook his head. “Seen worse. Just wait for me. Keep your eyes peeled. I shouldn’t be too long.”

  He got out of the car and was greeted by a super with a limp who had been given a five-thousand-dollar bribe, then shown to the elevator.

  Brutka rode it alone to the nineteenth floor. The doors opened. The smell of piss and marijuana hung heavy in the air. He stepped out of the elevator and turned right, walking down the corridor to the last apartment, 1903. He knocked hard.

  The door opened. Carmel, a glassy-eyed young white girl with peroxide blond hair, stood there smiling at him. “Hi,” she said, pecking him on the cheek.

  Brutka brushed past Carmel, and she shut the door behind him as he slumped down on the sofa. She put on some chill music, then fixed him a single malt scotch on the rocks. He inhaled the peaty, smoky aroma and smi
led before knocking it back. His stomach burned with the liquor.

  “Another one, baby?”

  Brutka nodded and she handed him another. He nursed this one, watching the amber liquor mix with the ice.

  Carmel leaned in close. “You got any blow?”

  Brutka looked at the girl and smiled, stroking her hair. “What do you think?”

  “You never let me down.”

  “We’ve got an arrangement. And I always keep my side of an arrangement. But it’s not a one-way street.”

  Carmel nodded, eyes wide, eagerly waiting for her hit.

  Brutka took a bag of cocaine and a bag of crack rocks out of the inside pocket of his jacket and handed them to her. Within a few seconds, she was eagerly chopping the coke into several thick white lines on a vanity mirror lying on the stained wooden coffee table.

  He handed her a fifty-dollar bill, and she rolled it up. Then she hoovered up three lines of the best coke in New York.

  Carmel’s eyes rolled around in her head for a few moments as the euphoria washed over her. She fixed her glassy gaze on his as a smile crossed her face. Then she began to laugh uproariously. “Man, you look funny.”

  Brutka smiled.

  “You’re real serious today. You don’t want to do a line, baby?”

  Brutka grabbed her by the hair and pressed his face close to hers. “Listen, you fucking uneducated piece of shit, you’d be back in that freezing shithole apartment block in Kiev with your mother, four brothers, and two sisters if it wasn’t for me, am I right?”

  “Yes, baby.”

  “You fucking show me respect. Obedience.”

  “Yes, baby.”

  “Who got the visa for you and your sister?”

  “You did, baby.”

  “I will look after you. But you need to know that you work for me. I control you. I fucking own you.”

  A look of fear flashed on the girl’s face. “What’s wrong, baby? You don’t seem your usual self. Can I do something to make you feel better?”

  “You must never cross me. If you do, you will end up back in Ukraine. Do you want to go back to that?”

  Carmel shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I understand, baby.”

  “Fix me another scotch.”

  The girl did as she was told.

  Brutka swallowed the tumbler of scotch in two gulps. It burned his insides again. Warming. He felt content. He took out a fresh fifty-dollar bill from his pocket. He rolled it up and leaned forward over the lines of cocaine. Then he snorted five lines in quick succession.

  The drugs hit his system full-on. He felt wild. Crazy. He began to laugh. Carmel laughed with him.

  Brutka got up and looked out the window at the grimy buildings frying in the summer heat. “Do you like it here?”

  “It’s OK.”

  “Better than fucking Kiev, right?”

  Carmel pulled out a pipe, loaded it up with a lump of crack, fired up the lighter, and sucked up the vapors. Her eyes went bloodshot. “Boom!”

  Brutka sat back down and took the pipe, and she popped a huge chunk of crack into the mesh base and lit a match as he inhaled deeply. He felt the drug hit his brain like a hurricane. Wiping him out. Revealing his true self. He began to scream and laugh.

  He stood up and took off his belt. He wrapped the thick leather around his fingers and touched the silver buckle. He stared down at Carmel, who was looking up at him as if in a dream.

  “You wanna start now, baby?”

  Brutka smiled. “You bet.”

  Then he began to thrash the belt buckle down hard onto the girl’s face, drawing blood. She tried to scream. Her eyes were wild, terrified. Then he grabbed her neck with his huge hands and began to choke her.

  “How does that feel?” he snarled through gritted teeth.

  Carmel’s eyes were huge as her fear engulfed her.

  Brutka crushed her windpipe until she stopped moving, unconscious. But he didn’t stop. He exerted more pressure, choking and choking, liking the feel of power, of control. “I fucking own you!” he screamed.

  Time passed in a blur until, eventually, he let go of her, and she collapsed onto the carpet.

  Breathing hard, he leaned down and checked her pulse. Nothing.

  He had choked the life out of her. Fuck. He’d gone too far. Way too far. And after he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this again.

  Brutka stared down at the junkie girl’s lifeless body, her dead eyes open and staring. He’d miss her. But at least he still had her sister. Leaving the drugs and the money behind, he left the apartment and got back in the SUV. He felt a little crazed, was still breathing rapidly.

  “Everything alright, sir?”

  “Everything’s just fine.”

  Brutka pulled out his cell phone and made a call to a French guy who sorted out any “situations” for him. He rattled off the address.

  “What’s required, sir?” the Frenchman said.

  “I think the apartment needs to be professionally cleaned. It’s very untidy.”

  “I know just the people.”

  The line went dead.

  Twelve

  Reznick felt like he needed his own space instead of sleeping by his daughter’s bedside every night. He checked into a room at the low-key Bentley Hotel on East Sixty-Second Street. He was going to be around for a few days at the very least, maybe weeks. He showered, shaved, and lay down on the bed and caught a few hours’ sleep.

  When he woke, he felt more refreshed than he had for a while. He put on some fresh clothes—a navy polo shirt, jeans, and a pair of sneakers—and headed down to the bar. He took a seat on the outdoor patio, shrouded in plants and topiary that shielded guests from prying passersby.

  Reznick ordered a bottle of red wine and knocked back two glasses in double-quick time. He began to feel more relaxed. His thoughts turned to the man who had caused the accident. Slowly he began to strategize.

  He had a name. And he also had an address, a penthouse apartment on the top of a luxury residential tower in midtown Manhattan.

  Reznick wondered, not for the first time, what he was going to do with that information. He was tempted to head straight there and confront the guy. But what use would that be? The NYPD were on it, after all.

  However, he knew deep down that he wanted more. He wanted Brutka to suffer as his daughter had. He believed this was the central motivating factor. He wanted revenge. An eye for an eye.

  He wondered how he could leverage what he knew. The bottom line was that his daughter would still be in a coma no matter what he did. Whatever happened to Brutka, or whatever Reznick did, wouldn’t change that. Not one iota.

  So that was it, then? Revenge? Did he just want to teach the fucker a lesson?

  His cell phone, sitting on the table, began to vibrate.

  Reznick picked up. “Yeah.”

  “It’s Acosta.”

  Reznick wondered what she wanted at this time of night. “Hey . . . Any news?”

  “I’d like to talk to you, Jon.”

  “What now?”

  “If possible.”

  “I’m not far. Just around the corner having a drink at the Bentley Hotel.”

  “See you in a little while.”

  Reznick asked for a second glass.

  Fifteen minutes later, Acosta walked in looking harassed and stressed. She pulled up a chair beside him and glanced around. “Sorry, I just had to have a quick chat with my boss,” she said.

  “Tough day?”

  “Every day is tough. Some tougher than others. But they all kinda merge into one another over time.”

  Reznick poured a glass of red and handed it to her. “This might take the edge off.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.” Acosta took a large gulp of wine. “That’s nice.” She looked around and into the bar. “They’ve redecorated. Nice place.”

  “Close to the hospital.”

  “Not far from the station house either. Anyway, just wanted to see how you were doing. I ca
n only imagine what you’re going through. It isn’t easy. The days must seem like years.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Acosta gazed into her wine for a few moments, as if deep in contemplation. “I’ve been doing some checking up on you, Jon, discreetly.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s what cops do.”

  “Find anything interesting?”

  She sighed as she shifted in her seat. “I reached out to a few people I know in the FBI, but also in Homeland Security.”

  “What did you find?”

  Acosta lowered her voice. “I didn’t realize you had been a Delta operator.”

  Reznick sipped some wine. “Yeah, I was in Delta. A few years ago. Actually, quite a few years ago. I don’t talk about it much.”

  “My brother, he was in Afghanistan. Delta too.”

  “Might’ve known him. What was his name?”

  “Diego Acosta.”

  Reznick shook his head. “Sorry, name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He died two days after arriving in Afghanistan. Shot by a member of the Afghan police who were with him.”

  “Jesus Christ, I’m sorry. That’s brutal.”

  Acosta sighed as she looked around the patio. “I so wanted my brother back. It’s family. We were really close. I wanted him to be safe. I prayed he would be safe. Each and every night he was away. But . . . it wasn’t meant to be. My prayers weren’t answered.”

  Reznick nodded.

  “I wish . . . I wish he would walk in right now and I’d see his face again.” She shrugged. “But that’s just never going to happen.”

  “You want to hold on to things that are dear to you. Family. Loved ones.”

  Acosta sighed. “Maybe I’ve overstepped by coming here.”

  “We’re just having a drink.”

  “I just wanted to do everything I could to help, even if it’s just trying to reassure you that we’re doing everything we can.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Acosta sipped her wine. “That’s good.”

  “Should be at that price.”

  She smiled. “You must’ve known some Delta operators who didn’t come home.”

  “Oh yeah. Too many. Never leaves you. Little fragments of conversation can put me right back there. Flashbacks. That kind of thing.”