Hard Hit

by J. B. Turner

  Her cell phone rang as she sat in the stall, snapping her out of her morbid thoughts.

  “Acosta,” she answered.

  A beat. “Ma’am, it’s Sergeant Lopez, front desk. I have someone looking for you.”

  Acosta sighed. “Gimme a break. I’m kinda busy.”

  “He’s not taking no for an answer.”

  “Fine, who is it?”

  “He says his name is Jon Reznick.”

  Forty-One

  Reznick followed a rookie cop up to the second floor of the Nineteenth Precinct. The young patrol officer led him through a maze of dingy corridors until they reached a windowless interview room. Inside was Acosta. She looked tired and drawn. He could see this business with Brutka was taking its toll on her. He knew the feeling.

  Acosta stared at him and shook her head. “Jesus, Jon,” she said, “what is it with you? I thought we’d seen the last of you.”

  “Just wanna talk.”

  The young cop said, “Anything else, ma’am?”

  Acosta shook her head and thanked the cop, who shut the door behind him. “How’s your daughter?”

  “Alive. Talking.”

  Acosta smiled. “Thank God.” She sighed. “Jon, everything has gone to shit. Callaghan is dead. I don’t know . . . The whole thing. It’s a mess.”

  Reznick nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “This is not your fight.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Jon, I don’t think we should meet like this. I know you’re trying to help. But this is just fucking crazy. I thought I’d just be introducing you to Callaghan. The next thing I know, Callaghan—a lovely guy, a very fine journalist—has blown his brains out.”

  “You know as well as I do who’s behind this.”

  Acosta sighed. “There are other aspects to this.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve been informed that the Feds had you under surveillance. And they spotted us drinking together.”

  Reznick took a few moments to process that. “So why are you telling me this?”

  “I was the one who put you in touch with Callaghan. And now Callaghan is dead. It doesn’t look too good from the FBI’s perspective.”

  “You’re in the shit because of this?”

  “Damn right I’m in the shit because of this.”

  “I’m sorry if this has landed you in trouble.”

  “It’s a complete mess. And because the Feds had you under surveillance, my little chat with you at the Bentley bar was no doubt observed as well.”

  Reznick wondered if the surveillance had been green-lighted by Meyerstein. He wondered if he was reading this right. He knew Meyerstein. Or at least he thought he did. And he couldn’t imagine her doing that. It would be a terrible intrusion into his privacy. Especially with his daughter in a coma at the time. But what if this had been green-lighted by the New York FBI? That was certainly possible.

  The more he thought about it, the more he began to realize that this had been instigated by the FBI. But the situation had been compounded by the State Department, who also wanted someone to keep a close eye on him after his run-ins with the diplomat.

  Nevertheless, Reznick felt more than a little betrayed. It was as if everything he had done for and with the Feds had been for nothing. The trust between them was broken. Their bond gone. But in fairness to Meyerstein and the FBI, it was his reckless disregard of their requests and his actions in going after the diplomat which had sparked the whole chain of events. His actions. He would have to take some responsibility for his actions. He needed to face up to that.

  Reznick began to pace the room. He didn’t want to reveal to Acosta what Callaghan had told him about Brutka’s grandfather. At least not now. “Tell me about Callaghan.”

  “Jon, I’ve been very forthcoming . . . I think I’ve said enough.”

  “You know something, don’t you?”

  “Jon, gimme a break. I’m glad your daughter is on the mend.”

  “Callaghan’s death is not a coincidence. You know it. I know it. This is linked to him investigating Brutka. Am I right?”

  Acosta showed her hands as if declining to get involved. “I’ve already said too much. Besides, I’ve got paperwork to do. A mountain of goddamn paperwork.”

  “I am asking you just this one thing.”

  “What is it with you? Your daughter is recovering now. Surely that’s all that matters.”

  Reznick shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. It’s not all that matters. What about Callaghan? What about his family? What about what Callaghan told me about the young women being terrorized by this low-life scumbag? With his prostitutes, expensive suits, and criminal millionaire lifestyle.”

  “Try billionaire lifestyle.”

  “Whatever. Brutka is free to carry on doing this. He’s wealthy. He’s connected. He’s powerful. And he needs to be stopped.”

  “Are you going to stop him?”

  “Well, someone has to. A journalist investigating Brutka has been murdered. The FBI wants Brutka gone. So do you. So does the NYPD. But he’s still out there, walking our streets.”

  “Jon, you can’t take matters into your own hands. We don’t want a war.”

  “My daughter isn’t out of the woods. The doctors are amazed at her recovery. But they say she may still suffer flashbacks, panic attacks, and all sorts of mental health issues for years to come. They haven’t manifested themselves so far. But they might. So, it’s not over. Not over for her. And sure as hell not over for me.”

  Acosta sighed. “The detective in charge of this case is a good guy. If Brutka ordered Callaghan’s murder or is linked in some way, trust me, he’ll nail him.”

  “Whatever the cops do, they won’t get anywhere near Brutka, you can rest assured of that. You need to get smart. You need to get down and dirty with fuckers like that. I need to know what you know. You know something. Tell me what it is. And I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Acosta shook her head. “Jon, you’re driving me crazy.”

  “One favor. It’s all I ask.”

  Acosta sighed, eyes closed.

  “What can you tell me? I’m begging you. Give me something. Where did it happen?”

  “Callaghan’s apartment was in Jersey City. Nice place on the waterfront.”

  “Tell me about the weapon.”

  “Glock, apparently.”

  “Was it his gun?”

  “No. He almost certainly never owned a gun. Very anti-gun, especially semiautomatics. There was no gun registered in his name. If you read any of his articles, you’d know.”

  “What evidence do you have? Give me something else.”

  “I think I’ve said enough, Jon. I wish the best for you and your daughter.”

  Reznick stared at Acosta. “Isabella, I know you want to help me. I also know you know more than you’re letting on. I know how it works.”

  “Jon, you’re killing me.”

  “This fucker has to be brought down.”

  “I’m not disputing that. But it needs to happen according to the law.”

  “Gimme a break. Isabella, are you saying there were no clues at the scene, no evidence whatsoever?”

  “I don’t know why I’m even speaking to you.”

  “Because you want that fucker off the streets. Isn’t that what your brother, Diego, would have wanted? If he was in Delta, I’ll guarantee if he was in my shoes he’d be asking the same questions.”

  “Jon, I know from my brother what you guys are capable of. I know the lengths you will go to. I understand that pushing boundaries and breaking laws isn’t your concern. But it is mine. I work within the law. I’m a police officer.”

  “Give me one final thing and I’m out of here. Tell me one thing. And I’m gone.”

  Acosta rolled her eyes. “There is one thing . . .”

  “What?”

  “There was a voice.”

  “A voice? What do you mean?”

  “A voice was heard
in the apartment. It was recorded. Believed to be the killer.”

  Reznick pondered that. “Callaghan’s apartment was under surveillance?”

  “I don’t know. Home security system picked it up. I do know they’re running voice analysis at Forensics.”

  Reznick smiled. “Isabella, I owe you one.”

  “Jon . . . one final thing.”

  “What?”

  Acosta stared at Reznick long and hard. “Just be careful.”

  Reznick left the station and headed out onto the sultry streets. He took out his cell phone and called his hacker friend. He felt the sweat on the back of his neck as he waited for a response. He noticed he was standing opposite the Permanent Mission of Russia to the UN on East Sixty-Seventh Street, diagonally across the street from the Nineteenth Precinct. Cameras watched the street from behind the black iron fence.

  The hacker answered five rings later. “Mr. R., how’s your daughter?”

  “It’s early yet, but she’s recovering.”

  “That is good news, man. God bless her.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

  The hacker sighed. “So . . . what’s Mr. R. onto now?”

  “Things are heating up here in New York, in more ways than one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A guy I was introduced to, a journalist, Tom Callaghan, is dead. Apparently blew his brains out in his apartment in Jersey City.”

  “Whoa! And this is linked to the diplomat?”

  Reznick shielded his eyes from the sun. “I don’t know for sure.”

  “Shit.”

  “What I know is that the New Jersey cops are investigating this death. And I believe that there was a voice recorded at the scene.”

  “A voice? How?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know.”

  “So is this the voice of the murderer?”

  “Possible. I want to know more about this voice.”

  “And you’re sure this is linked to that diplomat?”

  “It has to be. First, it’s one hell of a coincidence for him to take his life only a few days after meeting me face-to-face to discuss Brutka’s latest serious offense. Second, this guy has been working on a major investigation into Brutka and all his criminal activities.”

  “Motherfucker.”

  “So, my question is, my friend, can you help?”

  “Damn right I can.”

  Forty-Two

  Brutka sniffed the cocaine residue in his nostril as he rode in the back seat of his Bentley on his way to an Upper East Side restaurant. He felt good. His mind was whirring faster and faster. He felt giddy. And then he felt euphoric.

  He pulled out his cell and decided to make a call.

  “How are you this evening, Grandfather?”

  “I feel OK.” The old man’s voice was slightly strained.

  “I haven’t got much time,” Brutka said, “but I just wanted you to know that the man who was hanging around . . .”

  “Callaghan.”

  “Yes. You won’t be seeing Callaghan again. He’s been taken care of.”

  “Forever?”

  “Trust me, he won’t be back.”

  A silence stretched between them before the old man began to sob. “Aleksander, to have someone who cares so much for me, an old, old man, is something I cherish. I will not forget you.”

  “And I won’t forget you, Grandfather. Your sacrifices. Your courage.”

  “We are bonded by blood, Aleksander. Forever.”

  The private Madison dining room within the Mark hotel had been reserved for Aleksander Brutka and his political attaché, along with two bodyguards, sitting at a table in the corner. He tucked into his veal Milanese with mashed potatoes and sautéed spinach, while his colleague enjoyed North Atlantic black sea bass with hand-cut french fries. The two security guys ordered the Mark cheeseburger with black truffle dressing.

  Brutka’s mood was leveling out. He felt less crazy as the cocaine high washed over him. He smiled politely as the waiters observed impeccable grace while they served and poured the $3,500 bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Grand Cru 2012 for him. He tasted the wine, then indicated for the waiter to pour a glass for each of them.

  He sat quietly until the waiter was out of view before he took his next sip. He savored the taste. He loved the good things in life. Savile Row suits, fine wines, Bentleys, Rolex watches, prime Manhattan real estate.

  Brutka made small talk with his aide about the humidity in New York, but also talked about the views from his penthouse pool over the city. His aide listened attentively, occasionally giving a polite and respectful nod. But Brutka sensed that his aide, a close personal friend and political attaché at the Ukraine mission at the UN, wanted to talk to him about important matters. As if he was just waiting for the right time to broach the subject.

  Brutka smiled at his friend. “Do you like my new suit?”

  The aide dabbed his mouth with his napkin as he assessed the fine threads Brutka was wearing. “When did you get that, Aleksander?”

  “I was measured up about a month ago. I’ve put on some weight, so I needed to get a new cut.”

  “It’s impeccable.”

  “Thank you. Got a dozen suits, cashmere and silk, flown in from London.”

  “Navy suits you, sir.”

  “Every man must have a good navy suit.”

  After the main course, Brutka ordered the pecan tart with ice cream, as did his aide. The two security guys passed on dessert.

  Brutka ate in quiet contemplation. He sat quietly until the waiters refilled their glasses with more red wine and excused themselves. Then the conversation began in earnest.

  The aide took a large gulp of wine, then sighed quietly. “I hope you don’t mind me raising a couple of issues this evening.”

  Brutka shrugged. “Have you ever known me to object to you or anyone raising an issue with me personally?”

  “No, I have not. And I appreciate that.”

  Brutka wasn’t really in the mood for deep discussions. He would much rather enjoy his drink and the beautiful food and surroundings. “Is it important?”

  “I believe so. There are two things that I would like to draw your attention to. And when I speak, I speak with nothing but the utmost respect, as it is indeed an honor to serve you and our country.”

  “Thank you.”

  “As a trusted political adviser, but also as your friend, I believe that it might be worth reconsidering our current position . . .”

  Brutka lifted his glass of wine and inhaled the aromas of blackberry and dark fruits and the rich earth it came from. “What current position?”

  The aide sighed. “Aleksander, I have daily, sometimes twice-daily, contacts with diplomats from all countries, you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “But recently, in the last day or two, I have been approached by people I respect, people within the FBI, suggesting that it might be for the best if you excused yourself from diplomatic service for a little while, perhaps eighteen months or so.”

  Brutka was quiet for a few moments as he contemplated the request. He was irked by the suggestion. It was interesting that the request had come from back channels within the FBI. But he didn’t answer to them. Never had. His connections were embedded deep within the so-called shadow government, the coalition of politicians, wealthy industrialists, and the military-industrial complex that operated under the radar, pulling strings to shape foreign policy.

  “Why would I do that? I am working on behalf of the President of Ukraine and our people. I work very hard for them. And our interests on the world stage.”

  “Indeed you do, sir.”

  “Besides, the State Department has assured me that Reznick and his daughter are out of the way.”

  “The fact that the FBI spoke to me directly, as a back channel, is important. They clearly believe, and I absolutely agree with them, that this would be a smart move on your part. But not only that, I think th
e approach from the FBI shows a willingness on their part to understand your role, so there has been a slight change in their position.”

  “In what way?”

  “They suggested that having you return home for a couple of years, maybe eighteen months, could be classified as returning to Ukraine for medical treatment, perhaps.”

  Brutka picked up his glass and gazed at the blackcurrant-red liquid. “What, don’t they have hospitals in New York?”

  The aide smiled. “Of course they do, Aleksander. But I believe that this solution would allow you to continue your work back in Kiev, while avoiding a damaging spat with an American intelligence agency. They also said that if heading back to Ukraine is not possible for whatever reason, they would accept—and this is a red line for them—that you could stay in the United States, but outside New York City. They suggested that a sideways move to the Ukrainian embassy in Washington, DC would work for them.”

  Brutka sighed. “While it is of course prudent to take advice and guidance from intelligence, you must understand my work. My work at the United Nations and my presence in New York are vital to our interests. DC is fine. I liked Georgetown personally. But you know what? It’s not New York. I live here. I like it. It has everything I need.”

  “Aleksander, a move to DC would take the heat off. You have to admit there have been several rather unsettling incidents.”

  “Listen to me very carefully. The fact that the State Department says one thing and the FBI says another tells me all I need to know about their conflicting agendas. That is their problem. But they do not have the final say about whether or not I stay here. Let’s be quite clear on that.”

  The aide leaned in close. “Indeed, sir. I’m well aware of that. But the mood I’m detecting is that they want to help you defuse any potential fallout from this accident.”

  “That’s very big of them.”

  “Sir, please, the FBI are not to be trifled with. The Director himself has sided with Assistant Director Meyerstein. What’s so bad about DC?”

  Brutka took a long gulp of the wine and closed his eyes as he savored the grape while pondering his position. He felt anger begin to rise in him. He had only just dealt with the difficult situation regarding Tom Callaghan, which was now resolved. But he was still having to listen to advice from aides that conflicted with his worldview. He pointed at the man across from him. “Now listen to me. I have heard more than enough. Am I not a pragmatic man who listens?”