Hard Hit

by J. B. Turner

  Reznick sighed. “You wanna keep your voice down?”

  “How did you get the name?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t jerk me around, Jon! I thought we were operating on trust.”

  “So did I.”

  “I never gave you the name.”

  “I never said you did. You withheld that.”

  Acosta looked around the diner for a few moments, clearly exasperated. “What has gotten into you?”

  “Nothing’s happening, that’s what.”

  “This is a police matter, Jon. We have to deal with our suspect in a lawful manner. I’m sickened by what happened to your daughter. We all are. But you have to let us do our jobs.”

  “But you’re not. Nothing is happening. Hour by hour, day by day, nothing. He’s still free.”

  “You’re not the law, Jon.”

  Reznick shook his head. “The NYPD are beholden to some archaic Vienna Convention bullshit. This is America, not Austria. Who the hell calls the shots?”

  “It’s complicated. This is politics. And that’s when things get fucked up.”

  “Damn right it’s politics. Dirty politics. And that guy is not being held accountable.”

  Acosta rubbed her eyes. “Know how I first heard about your visit to his apartment?”

  Reznick shrugged.

  “Brutka’s lawyer.”

  “He called you? Why you?”

  “They think I leaked Brutka’s identity. And now he’s out for blood. He’s talking about suing me. Suing the NYPD. My boss is not happy. And he’s being pressured by both Brutka’s lawyers and the State Department. It was a dumb stunt you pulled, and now I’m getting the blame. They know I’ve been talking to you. So now you’ve got a problem with me and the NYPD.”

  “I have no problem with you. And I certainly have no problem with the NYPD. My problem is with Brutka.”

  “Says you. But things have spilled over a bit, don’t you think?”

  “It’s just the opening skirmishes. Things will get meaner.”

  She looked at him open-mouthed. “Are you trying to start a war with this guy? This is a respected diplomat.”

  “Did you know he sent my daughter flowers in the hospital? After nearly killing her and refusing to admit it.”

  “What?”

  “Flowers. And a note.” He pulled the card out of his back pocket and handed it to her. “Signed AB.”

  “Maybe he just wanted to say he was sorry.”

  “I’m not buying it.”

  Acosta shook her head. “I still can’t believe you did that. They said you had him at gunpoint. Set off a fire alarm and assaulted a security guard.”

  “Why don’t you arrest me?”

  “The State Department has already contacted my boss saying not to drag you into this.”

  “That’s right. They don’t want this going to trial. They know how it would look.”

  “Jon, you’re not thinking clearly.”

  “I’ve got his attention. And I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to protect my daughter. This guy is dangerous.”

  “I know your background. And I understand how you must feel. But this can’t go on. It was reckless. This diplomat is well respected. And under international law, if that had been cops storming into his private apartment, we would have been in deep shit. This guy has full diplomatic status, and you need to back the fuck up.”

  “Things have only gotten started.”

  “Brutka’s lawyers will come for you. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “And he’ll have the full weight of the law behind him too.”

  “Well, that’s fine with me.”

  “Jon, I think you want to provoke him. Is that what you’re doing?”

  “I’m letting the guy know that I want him the fuck away from my daughter. I want him out of New York.”

  “That’s not your call. We have no proof he was driving. So he’s innocent.”

  “I’m not buying that crock of shit.”

  “And also, my colleagues might very well come looking for you.”

  Reznick shrugged.

  “You want to bring him out into the open, get him to make a move, don’t you? Is that what this is?”

  “I’ve said enough. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Jon, you’re not listening. You could be hauled in and charged. Brutka himself could bring charges against you.”

  “Do you think he wants this incident to be splashed all over the papers?”

  “Is that what you’re banking on?”

  “I’m counting on him not wanting a scandal, but being forced to make a move, one way or the other.”

  “And what if he sends people out looking for you?”

  “Then I’ll be waiting for them.”

  Nineteen

  Acosta felt stressed and angry after the meeting with Reznick. She headed back to the precinct and was handed a cup of coffee by Detective Sergeant McGeough.

  “You look like shit,” he said.

  “Thanks for that confidence booster. What’re we going to do with Reznick?”

  “The boss is furious, as you can imagine. We should really bring him in.”

  “I just spoke to him.”

  “You did? Where?”

  “Diner a couple blocks away.”

  McGeough arched his eyebrows. “What’s he got to say for himself?”

  “He’s defiant. Almost like he wants a war.”

  “I think the boss is hoping that since the diplomat doesn’t want to get involved, and since Reznick’s daughter is still in a coma, it’s going to blow over.”

  Acosta sighed and sipped the lukewarm coffee. “I don’t think that’s what Reznick has in mind.”

  “He’s a whackjob. He held a diplomat at gunpoint. That’s nuts.”

  “We have no evidence that happened. Just Brutka’s word against Reznick’s.”

  McGeough shook his head. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Oh, fuck you!”

  “Isabella, we know Reznick was there. We’ve seen the footage.”

  Acosta nodded. “The guy is former Delta. So was my brother. I know what they’re like. And what they’re capable of.”

  “And you were chatting with him?”

  Acosta shrugged. “What can I tell you? He’s a straight shooter. I like him.”

  “You need to be careful, Isabella. I’m serious.”

  Acosta slumped in her seat and skimmed through a pile of Post-its.

  McGeough shrugged at her. “Catch you later,” he said as he turned to head out of the office.

  “Yeah, whatever.” She stared at the bits of papers. One of the phone numbers stuck out. A number she knew. She dialed quickly.

  “Detective Acosta?” The voice sounded frightened.

  “Yeah, what’s happening, Daniela?” A junkie girl she had tried to help when she worked in East Harlem.

  “I’m scared. I don’t know who to talk to. I don’t trust the other cops. I spoke to a guy at the Twenty-Eighth Precinct. He had an attitude when I called and then hung up.”

  “Slow down, Daniela. You know me. I’m listening. What’s bothering you?”

  “I think I’m being followed.”

  Acosta scribbled a note on a fresh pad. “Who’s following you?”

  “I’m scared. I think they’re watching me.”

  “Who?”

  “Friends of a guy who controls me. The guy who beats me up. They’re out there. Watching me.”

  “I need a name.”

  “I recognize the cars. I’m really scared.”

  “You got a license plate?”

  “My vision isn’t so good since he attacked me the last time. Migraines. I think I might have a detached retina.”

  “You need medical attention.”

  “You know how it works, Isabella. If I turn up at the hospital, he’ll know about it. I don’t have insurance. I don’t have papers.
I ain’t got nothing.”

  “And you don’t know who this guy is?”

  “No. But I took a picture of him when he passed out last night.”

  “That’s something. Let’s talk. Face-to-face. I’ll get you some medical attention.”

  “He’s crazy. He has friends. They scare me. They turn up any time day or night. Looking for favors.”

  Acosta closed her eyes for a moment. It was an all-too-familiar situation. A girl with a drug habit too scared to give a name. But the guy is still free to continue with his criminality. Brutality. Violence. Psychological torture. Intimidation. And far worse.

  “They treat me worse than an animal! I have no one to help me.”

  “We need to get you out of there, Daniela. Your silence only helps him. You need to speak out, about whoever is responsible. At the very least we can move you and protect you.”

  The girl began to sob. “I’m scared.”

  “I’ll send a car from the Twenty-Eighth to pick you up. I know a guy there. Get a bag packed. How does that sound?”

  “Don’t be too late.”

  Acosta put in a call to a colleague, Gabriel Montero, at the Twenty-Eighth Precinct in East Harlem. She explained the situation. “I really need this.”

  Montero listened in silence. “I’ve got some stuff to sort out. I can get there in two hours.”

  Acosta groaned. “Gabriel, I want her out of there now.”

  “If it’s critical, she needs to call 911. Otherwise, I’ll get to her when I can.”

  “And two hours is the best you can do? The absolute best?”

  “Take it or leave it, Isabella. I’ve got two shootings to deal with in the meantime.”

  Acosta sighed. “Fine. Just get her to safety. It’s a priority for me. Let me know when it’s done.”

  The rest of the afternoon saw Acosta tied up with interviews of suspects in robberies of Upper East Side liquor stores and an attempted homicide outside a bar.

  When she was finally finished, she called Gabriel to make sure he’d had Daniela picked up.

  Gabriel picked up on the sixth ring. “Yeah?”

  “Just checking in to make sure Daniela’s safe.”

  Gabriel let out a long sigh. “I sent a couple of my guys up to her apartment.”

  “And?”

  “No answer.”

  Acosta groaned. “Are you kidding me?”

  “They were there for ten minutes, banging on her door, ringing the bell. They went back half an hour later. Nothing. She’s not home.”

  “Or maybe she’s not answering.”

  “My guys identified themselves as NYPD. But nothing.”

  “What about the super in her building?”

  “He said she hung around with a bad crowd. But we knew that already.”

  “Shit.”

  Acosta ended the call, got in a squad car, and sped uptown to the apartment at the East River Houses. It was a public housing project that still had drug and gang problems despite the efforts of police from the Twenty-Eighth Precinct. She pressed the buzzer and identified herself, and the super let her in.

  Acosta followed him into the elevator, and they rode it to the ninth floor.

  “She’s a junkie, you know that?” he said.

  “Yes, I do. Does she get visitors?”

  The super shrugged. “I can’t keep an eye on everything. People come and go. They bring people in that don’t live here. It’s not good.”

  The elevator door opened, and she followed the super down the corridor. It smelled of piss, and stale smoke hung heavy in the air.

  The super said, “I try my best, but kids these days, you know what they’re like.”

  Acosta knocked hard on the door and repeatedly rang the bell for a couple of minutes. “She’s not answering. Fuck,” she said. “Open it up.”

  The super did as he was told, pushing open the door. Acosta went in first and looked around the unfurnished apartment. It was bare. Not even a mattress. No sofa. Nothing. “Where’s her stuff?”

  The super shrugged.

  Acosta saw a shelf full of drug pipes, a lump of hash, a small rock of crack. She went into the bathroom.

  Lying sprawled on the linoleum floor, eyes wide open, vomit and blood dried on her dirty T-shirt and jeans, was Daniela.

  Twenty

  The Uber’s air-conditioning was on full. It was a sweltering 100 degrees outside. Reznick drank a bottle of water while he caught a ride from the Upper East Side back to midtown Manhattan, a couple of blocks from the UN, a backpack at his feet. He wanted to know if Aleksander Brutka had left town or if he was still hanging around.

  He stepped out of the cool taxi and into the dirty steam-bath air, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. The smell of rotten trash from a nearby dumpster assaulted him in the breeze.

  Reznick donned his sunglasses and walked half a block to the corner of East Forty-Sixth Street and First Avenue. Thirty-five stories above him was the luxury tower where Brutka lived.

  Reznick turned around. The building was diagonally across from the UN headquarters, farther down the street. He took a pair of powerful binoculars out of his backpack and trained them on the highest floor of Brutka’s building. He scanned the glass tower exterior, the sun sparkling like a million reflective mirrors, until he spotted the penthouse’s wraparound terrace. He pulled it into focus.

  He was too close to get a good look, so he walked farther up the street until he saw a vehicle entrance, which led, no doubt, to underground parking.

  Twenty yards farther down the street, the Venezuelan flag flew over their UN mission.

  Reznick crossed over First Avenue and stood beside a UN gatehouse. Using the binoculars, he scanned the terrace again. Suddenly, he saw a man standing there. Smiling. Wearing a white polo shirt, cell phone pressed to his ear, laughing, as if he didn’t give a damn. He was positive it was Brutka.

  The bastard. Still there. Not a care in the world.

  But he needed to be sure.

  He put the binoculars in the backpack and pulled out a camera with a telephoto lens. He trained it on the terrace. Then he took several dozen photos, hooked up a high-speed USB cable to his cell phone, and downloaded the pictures. He emailed the photos to his hacker’s email address with a message: Identify this guy.

  Reznick deleted the email and “bleached” his Sent folder so no one could follow the trail. He knew the hacker would be using cutting-edge encryption so no one could track him. But he didn’t want to take any risks.

  He stowed the gear in his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and pulled out a bottle of water from a side pouch. He gulped down the water in a few swallows. He ditched the empty plastic bottle in a trash can. A minute later, his phone rang.

  “Mr. R., just checking that you sent me this.”

  “I did. I hope that’s OK. I don’t want to be too presumptuous.”

  “Hey, I like what you do.”

  “So, this pose you any problems?”

  “I’m assuming you think this might be your diplomat.”

  “Got it. I’d like to know for sure.”

  “I’ve checked online images of him. Sure looks like him.”

  “I need to be 100 percent.”

  “I’ll run some pretty cool face-recognition software.”

  “How long until we know for sure?”

  “Gimme an hour.”

  The flashing lights from some vehicles headed down First Avenue caught Reznick’s attention. He watched as they slowed to a stop across the street from where he stood. There was an NYPD vehicle in the lead, an SUV behind it, and a sedan behind that. All lights flashing. Out of the SUV emerged two officers wearing black clothing and sunglasses and sporting semiautomatic rifles. They crossed the street and walked right up to Reznick.

  The smaller of the two got in his face. “Good afternoon, sir. You mind explaining what you’re doing here?”

  “And who are you guys?”

  “We’re from the NYPD Hercules countert
errorism team. Show me some ID.”

  Reznick pulled out his wallet and handed over his driver’s license.

  “Rockland, Maine. Can I ask what you’re doing here, sir? We spotted you using binoculars and photographing one of the buildings at UN Plaza.”

  Reznick shielded his eyes from the sun. “Is that illegal, Officer?”

  “No, it’s not. But we need to know why you were photographing potentially sensitive areas of New York City. Thousands of diplomats live and work in this part of town. I’m assuming you know that.”

  “Is that right?”

  A man emerged from the rear car across the street, cell phone pressed to his ear. As he approached Reznick, he ended the call.

  The man stood in front of Reznick, the armed officers flanking him. “We need you to come downtown, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “We need to ask you some questions.”

  Thirty minutes later, Reznick was in an interview room at a downtown precinct with two counterterrorism officers from the NYPD, a burly middle-aged man wearing a tight short-sleeved shirt and a younger woman. After a few minutes of introductions and setting up the video and tape recording, the burly guy kicked off the interview.

  “What were you photographing so close to the United Nations, Mr. Reznick?” he asked.

  Reznick leaned back in his seat, arms folded. “I haven’t done anything illegal.”

  “You need to answer the question.”

  Reznick sighed. “Am I supposed to be helping you with your investigation or what?”

  “Just answer the question, if you don’t mind. Why were you watching that building, One East River, and taking photographs?”

  “What do you know about me?”

  The female detective said, “We know you work off the books for the FBI. Classified.”

  Reznick said nothing.

  “Are you working on a particular job for the FBI? It’s important we know this.”

  “No. I’m not working for the FBI on this matter.”

  The woman scribbled some notes. “I appreciate your candor. Is what you’re doing related to what happened to your daughter?”

  Reznick stayed quiet.

  The guy showed still images of Reznick arriving at the apartment complex with the Realtor, taken by a camera from the Venezuelan UN mission nearby. “You’ve also taken a look around inside this building, haven’t you? And a complaint has been lodged by a resident’s attorney.”