by J. B. Turner
“My mother still doesn’t sleep too well, all these years later. Sometimes when I stay over at her place, up in the Bronx, if I can’t sleep I see her in the middle of the night standing at the window, looking out into the darkness, as if she’s expecting Diego to come home any minute.”
Reznick nodded.
“Anyway, I don’t know why I told you all that. Just thought it was important.”
“I understand.”
Acosta put the glass to her mouth. “The people I’ve spoken to about your more recent work say you’re a badass. Their words.”
Reznick shrugged. “People exaggerate. Say things.”
“They say you took down an Iranian crew almost single-handedly. I also hear you foiled a bioterror plot in DC.”
Reznick pinched the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t at liberty to share such sensitive pieces of intelligence as that, even if he was in the mood to brag, which he never was.
Acosta smiled. “Real buttoned up. My brother was the same. Wouldn’t tell me a thing. Not a goddamn thing. Even when I pressed him, when he was home on leave, he told me nothing.”
Reznick knocked back his glass of red and poured another, topping up Acosta’s glass. “I’m guessing you didn’t come over here to talk to me about your brother.”
Acosta leaned forward, holding her glass. “Jon, I think it’s important that I keep you abreast of where the investigation is. I’m under no obligation to do so. But I think, especially in this particular case, and with your background and clearance, you have a right to know.”
“I’d welcome any insights.”
Acosta sighed. “Yesterday you wanted to know when I would be interviewing the driver.”
Reznick nodded. “And how did it go?”
“He said he wasn’t driving. We have surveillance footage that shows his Bentley. But we can’t be sure who was behind the wheel. So we’re at sort of a dead end.”
“You kidding me?”
Acosta shook her head. “The guy has impeccable credentials and no criminal record.” She averted her gaze for a few moments. “Jon, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. This is going to be tough to swallow, I know. First, even if we can prove he did this, we can’t arrest this man.”
Reznick took a few moments to process the information. “I’m sorry, what?”
Acosta sighed. “He’s a diplomat posted here in New York. Which means he has diplomatic immunity.”
Reznick sat straight up. “Are you saying there’s nothing we can do? What about my daughter? What about the law?”
“He’s protected by the law. International law. Vienna Convention. I’m so sorry.”
“Son of a bitch! So why did he agree to an interview?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps to show he’s being helpful to the police.”
“Fuck!”
“We have learned one thing. On the morning your daughter was struck, he would have been en route to an early-morning diplomatic breakfast. We checked. And double-checked. So, even if he was driving, he was carrying out his duties when the accident happened, which means—”
“Full diplomatic immunity. I know.” Reznick swore under his breath. “Is the State Department aware of this? And if so, why haven’t they made him persona non grata? That’s what usually happens.”
Acosta didn’t reply.
“His home country, wherever the hell that is, could waive diplomatic immunity.”
“From what I know, that isn’t going to happen in this case.”
Reznick took a few moments to process the information. “Why not?”
Acosta looked at him sadly. “The guy has friends in high places.”
Thirteen
The following morning, as a pale-orange sun filtered through the blinds, Meyerstein was sitting in the twenty-third-floor office assigned to the FBI’s fresh-faced Assistant Director Nick Peters, the man in charge of the New York office.
“So, Nick, I heard your guys had an unusual assignment last night?”
Peters smiled from behind his desk. Meyerstein had known him for the better part of a decade. A hardworking, dedicated Nebraska native who had risen to be one of the FBI’s best men in the field. Whether it was terrorism, mob activities, or joint terrorism task forces, Peters had an exemplary record and was much admired by those who knew him. He also wasn’t fazed by New York—its myriad challenges, the size of the city, or the unique problems a world city could throw at him. “You could say that, Martha.”
“So what happened?”
“The Director wanted us to keep a close eye on Reznick.”
Meyerstein nodded. “So what’ve you got?”
“I know Reznick reports directly to you. And I know what he brings to the table. But you can forget any thoughts you had of keeping Reznick from getting involved in this police investigation.” Peters handed her several black-and-white photos. They showed Reznick meeting with an attractive woman in a bar, drinks in hand. “Detective Isabella Acosta seems to be going out on a limb for Jon Reznick. I think we’ve got a problem.”
Meyerstein stared at the pictures. She saw the way the detective smiled at Reznick. And the way he seemed at ease in her presence. “Interesting. And who contacted who?”
“She called him.”
Meyerstein scrutinized the photos again, flipping through them. “She’s pretty.”
Peters nodded.
“Did we get audio?”
“Not this time,” Peters said.
“It’s important that Reznick doesn’t get involved in any way with this diplomat who hit his daughter. This concerns me.”
“Me too. We’re getting a warrant signed this afternoon so we can get what Reznick and Acosta are both saying on their cells.”
Meyerstein looked at the photos for a few moments. It made her feel awkward eavesdropping on Reznick, knowing him as well as she did. But the last thing they needed was for Jon to go after a protected diplomat. That was an international incident waiting to happen.
“She might’ve just been lending a sympathetic ear. Keeping him up to date with any developments,” Peters said.
“Very personal service for a New York City detective. I’m not buying it. I imagine she has other cases to worry about.”
Peters nodded. “You think she’s feeding him information? Identity?”
“Maybe. It does concerns me that she might be divulging information, sensitive information.”
Peters rubbed his face, frustrated. “As if we don’t have enough on our fucking plate.”
“Well, Reznick is technically still our responsibility. And we need to ensure that the United States does not break international law. We all know how well diplomats are protected.”
“You really think Reznick is capable of getting that information and would be willing to act on it?”
Meyerstein sighed. “He’s capable alright. Will he act on it? I don’t know.”
“You’ve worked with him for years, right?”
“One thing I’ve learned is that Jon Reznick is not afraid to take risks when the stakes are high. To put himself on the line. I’m concerned that with his daughter in the hospital, he might do something risky.”
Peters flicked through a manila file on his desk and scanned a couple of pages. “So, he lost his wife on 9/11. So losing his daughter, or even potentially losing her, could spark something in him.”
“We can’t rule that out. He can be highly disciplined. But there is an unpredictable and, frankly, combustible side to his nature.”
Peters leaned back in his seat, biting on the end of a pen. “I’ve spoken to Commissioner Jacobsen, and he says that he’s already spoken with Acosta’s boss. The precinct is dealing with it, but I agree: there needs to be sensitivity around this. The State Department has called me three times in the last forty-eight hours.”
“Interesting. And Detective Acosta is based on the Upper East Side?”
“Nineteenth Precinct.”
Meyerstein gazed at the photos again. “I’m
concerned.”
Peters steepled his fingers and shrugged. “It’s not illegal what she’s doing.”
“I’ve heard about going above and beyond the call of duty, but this looks like she’s blurring boundaries.”
“By all reports she’s a very good cop. Fine detective. Grew up in the Bronx with a big family. Mother worked three jobs to help them survive.”
“That’s tough.”
“What’re you thinking, Martha?”
Meyerstein got up from her seat and walked over to the windows overlooking the lower Manhattan skyline. “You ever met him?”
“Reznick? No. What’s he like?”
“Doesn’t take crap. From anyone. Tough. Uncompromising. And he doesn’t do boundaries. Rules. Laws.”
Peters leaned back in his seat and sighed. “Fuck. So he’s not going to like the fact that the man responsible for his daughter’s hit-and-run is going to walk free.”
“Jon will know that already. If Acosta hasn’t told him, I’m sure he’s found out.”
“What then?”
“That’s what worries me.”
Meyerstein wanted to speak to Reznick face-to-face, but also to see how Lauren was. She was escorted to the ICU by a nurse and met the doctor in charge of Lauren’s case. She showed her FBI ID and he escorted her to Lauren’s room. She stopped outside the door and looked through the glass.
Reznick was sitting at his daughter’s bedside, holding her hand. He seemed to be speaking quietly. Meyerstein’s instincts were to leave them alone, not disturb the moment. But she had a job to do, regardless of her personal feelings.
She gently pushed open the door and approached the bed. Reznick turned to face her.
“I hope you don’t mind me being here,” Meyerstein said.
He didn’t say anything, just turned back toward his daughter.
“If you want, I’ll leave. Just say the word.”
Reznick leaned forward and kissed Lauren on the forehead, then got to his feet. “Nice to see you. Let’s grab a cup of coffee.”
Fourteen
Reznick felt good to be with Martha. He admired her work ethic, intelligence, and tenacity. He had known and worked with her for years. But there was still an underlying tension between them. It seemed to linger. He always attributed it to the serious work she did and the sensitive nature of the jobs he got involved in.
They took the elevator to the ground floor of the hospital and made small talk as they walked to a nearby coffee shop on East Sixty-Sixth Street, covering everything from the heat to the President’s latest outburst.
It wasn’t often that they encountered each other anywhere other than across a desk. He couldn’t help noticing her light, citrusy perfume. It smelled nice.
Reznick went up to the counter and ordered an espresso for himself and a frothy latte for Meyerstein. She chose a quiet corner table and sat down. He picked up the two coffees and joined her.
“I hope you don’t think I’m intruding,” she said.
“You’re doing your job. I get it.”
Meyerstein smiled. She looked tired, worn down by the job. “I just want to help. I want you to know we’re here for you.”
Reznick sipped the strong espresso, feeling the caffeine buzz hit his system almost immediately. “I understand what you’re doing. And it’s not a problem. Seriously.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know why you’re here. Why you’re really here.”
“You do?”
Reznick leaned in close. “You’ve got a diplomat who’s out of control, unaccountable to anyone, who nearly killed my daughter. And you have me, an FBI . . . adviser, and the Feds think I need close watching. Am I right?”
“I can’t confirm what you’ve just said.”
“You don’t have to.”
“How did you find out so much?”
“It doesn’t matter. We all have our ways, right?”
Meyerstein sighed and seemed to force a smile. “This is killing me, Jon. I’ve never met Lauren until today. I’m sorry it’s under such circumstances. But I have a job to do.”
“You’re going to lay down some rules?”
“I would call it advice. Guidance.”
Reznick shrugged. “Go on.”
“And I make no apology for that.”
“Fair enough. Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“I say this as a friend and colleague who admires you very much: you need to back off. I know how you’ll be working this. You’ll be figuring out what happened, who did it, and what you can do about it. It’s natural. Now I don’t want to get into a big argument about this. But you need to accept that some events are outside our control.”
Reznick stared long and hard at her.
“Now, I want to help, but you have responsibilities when you work for the FBI. We have rules. And protocols.”
“I get that.”
“So I want you to think really carefully about what I know you’ll be considering.”
“And what’s that?”
“Don’t think you can go around New York trying to hunt down the person who did this in order to avenge your daughter. That’s not going to happen. You need to accept that.”
“Someone important did it. Someone with diplomatic immunity who is going to get off scot-free. Someone important enough to get you to fly up from DC to warn me to back off.”
Meyerstein’s gaze wandered around the rest of the coffee shop, fixing on a younger woman with a laptop and some papers on the table.
“I already know the guy’s a diplomat.”
“This won’t end well, Jon.”
Reznick shrugged.
“Who told you?”
“You know I can’t say.”
Meyerstein stared at him. “Do you know how much I care about you, Jon?”
Reznick was taken aback. He shifted in his seat and averted his gaze for a few moments. He felt uncomfortable with this line of conversation. But something about her gentle tone of voice caught him short. He looked at her and shrugged. “No, I guess I didn’t. But thanks for telling me.”
“I mean . . . I don’t want you getting into trouble. There have been some close scrapes. But . . . you need to just back off on this.”
Reznick smiled. “I hear what you’re saying.”
“This won’t end well for anyone, Jon, if you head down that path.”
“I know who he is. Just so you know.”
Meyerstein shook her head. “Not good, Jon. Not good at all.”
“Martha, when people get involved with my family, they get involved with me. This guy almost killed my daughter. She’s still fighting for her life.”
“You need to let the law takes its course.”
“Are you telling me I should turn the other cheek?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you to do.”
“My daughter can’t turn the other cheek. She’s in a goddamn coma. My beautiful daughter. Unable to move. Unable to breathe without a machine.”
Meyerstein looked around the coffee shop again. “There are rules, Jon. There are laws. You do believe in the rule of law, don’t you?”
“I believe in right and wrong. This guy is in the wrong. He also broke the law.”
“But international law deems that diplomats are protected. America’s diplomats are protected too, because in many countries the laws differ from the ones we’re used to. It has to be that way for everyone for international relationships to work. Don’t you understand? As hard as it is to hear, the protocols at work here are bigger and more important than Lauren. Than you.”
“I understand that. But that doesn’t concern me. This guy is walking around, and no one seems to be able to get him the hell out of this country. That’s what I don’t understand.”
Meyerstein met his gaze. “Let me make one thing clear. Take my advice and head back to the hospital and be with your daughter. But if you go down the path I believe you’re about to go down, the Feds will come down
on you hard.”
When Reznick returned to Lauren’s hospital room, a bouquet of white lilies was sitting in a vase of water at her bedside, accompanied by a small envelope.
Reznick looked at the nurse. “Who’s that from?”
The nurse smiled. “Aren’t they lovely? They just arrived.” She handed him the embossed envelope from a New York flower shop. “Probably her college friends. A couple have called asking how she is.”
Reznick looked at the envelope. “Do you mind if I open it?”
“Not at all.”
Reznick opened the envelope. Inside was a note. It read: Dearest Lauren, So sorry to hear about your accident. Praying you have a full recovery. Thinking of you and your family, AB.
“Who’s it from?” the nurse asked.
Reznick stared at the note, rereading it. He felt as if his skin were burning. He’d considered acceding to Meyerstein’s request, staying out of the investigation no matter how likely he was to disagree with its outcome. Focusing on Lauren and her health. But he recognized the initials on the note. Aleksander Brutka. The bastard wasn’t content to just get away with his crimes. He was playing a sick little game at Reznick’s expense. Enough was enough.
Fifteen
Reznick threw the flowers in the trash as questions began to rage inside his head. He paced Lauren’s hospital room like a caged animal. How had the guy gotten her name? He didn’t think the cops would have released that. So that left only the possibility that the diplomat had managed to acquire that information illegally. Perhaps through similar channels to the ones Reznick had used to secure the name of the diplomat.
He wondered what sort of person would mow down an innocent girl in a crosswalk, not stop at the scene of the accident, and then send flowers with his initials on the card. He assumed that the guy was playing mind games. Fucking with them. The diplomat didn’t know that Reznick had his name and could match the initials. But the tone of the note was as if it had come from a friend. A person who cared.
Then again, perhaps it was something more sinister.
Was this an attempt by a degenerate diplomat to worm his way into her life? Was he a drunk? Did he use drugs? Perhaps the diplomat wanted to ensure his victim’s silence.