by J. B. Turner
Lauren sighed. “Well, I’m glad that we at least had a chance to have coffee, right?”
Reznick smiled. His cell phone began to vibrate in his jacket pocket.
“I think that’s yours, Dad.”
Reznick nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”
“So are you going to answer it?”
Reznick checked the caller ID. The number was jumping around. He knew it was the hacker making sure his location couldn’t be pinpointed. The practice was known as caller ID spoofing. Perhaps the hacker had invented his own advanced software to conceal not only his whereabouts but also his name and number. A technique commonly used by collection agencies and private investigators. “Yeah?”
“Mr. R., I got a preliminary assessment for you.”
“Already?”
“Man, you make my life more interesting.”
“You need to get out more,” Reznick said.
The hacker laughed. “It’s sad and depressing, my existence. What can I say?”
“What have you got?”
“The voice the cops heard?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been working on this. Distinct French accent.”
“Interesting. How was it picked up?”
“A sophisticated home security camera system had been installed. The cops found that the cameras had audio functionality. It could hear what was being filmed.”
“Interesting.”
“Here’s the interesting bit. The cameras had been ripped out and taken. Nothing left.”
“Shit. So how do they know about this French guy if they don’t have the security system to examine?”
“The voice was saved to a huge server facility. East Coast. New Jersey cops have come up against a wall. But they figure, from what I’ve trawled of their messages, that the guy was waiting for Callaghan when he arrived home. The guy spoke English when he made a call from a cell phone inside the apartment. His voice was inadvertently picked up by this security camera microphone. The security device itself was taken by this French guy when he left. But the voice recording was saved to a server. And they’re analyzing the voice at the Forensic Investigation Division laboratories out in Queens.”
“Are they any further along?”
“Not so far.”
Reznick looked at his daughter, who had raised her eyebrows as if intrigued by the conversation. “So, we’ve got the voice of a French guy on a server, and the cops are trying to determine who it is?”
“You got it.”
“My next question is simple: Would you be able to identify it with your technology?”
“I’m on it already. I’ve accessed the voice from the NYPD police software, and I’m running three separate recognition programs, linked to a backdoor into the NSA database via a contractor.”
Reznick signaled for another black coffee from the waitress.
“Hang on,” the hacker said. “Something’s coming through.”
“What?”
“Stay on the line.”
“Sure thing.”
“I got a match.”
“You kidding me?”
“Nope.”
“Who?”
A beat. “A guy named Henri Bernard.”
Reznick took the waitress’s pen and scribbled the name on a napkin. “Who is he?”
Lauren turned her head to get a look at the note. Reznick put it in his pocket, away from his daughter’s prying eyes.
“French citizen living in New York. Director of a private security company.”
Reznick thought that would match the profile of a contractor who could and would do a wet job. Links with a security company, based in New York, a foreign national. Perfect plausible deniability as far as the Ukrainians were concerned. “What else do we know about him?”
“I’m pulling up an FBI file on this guy.”
Reznick said, “Go on.”
“The thing is, if the FBI isn’t sharing the data with the NYPD or Homeland Security, if they’re not collaborating and are restricting wider access to the intelligence, this happens, right? You know, everyone working in silos. Protecting their turf.”
“Where does he live?”
“Brooklyn.”
“Where?”
“Near Prospect Park. What do you plan to do?”
“I’m worried you’re starting to live vicariously through me.”
“I think you’re right, man. I’ll text you his address. Be safe.”
The hacker ended the call, and Reznick put his cell phone back in his jacket pocket.
Lauren leaned in close. “You know something, don’t you?”
Reznick shifted in his seat, feeling very uncomfortable that his daughter was taking such an interest in his work.
“You know a lot, don’t you?” she asked. “I’m guessing the name of that French guy is somehow connected to what happened to me. Was the guy that ran me down French?”
“No, he wasn’t. I’ve said enough.”
“Dad, don’t push me away. I want to help.”
“This is totally unrelated to what happened to you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Reznick looked at his watch and sighed. “I want you to relax, enjoy the rest of your coffee, and get some sleep back at your apartment.”
“I’m fine. Look, Dad, I can help you.”
“Discussion over.” Reznick stood up to leave and left a fifty-dollar bill on the table. “That should cover it. Listen, I’ve got to see someone. How about we hook up later tonight or tomorrow?”
Lauren looked up at him. “You got it.”
Forty-Four
Reznick kissed his daughter goodbye. He felt like a cold bastard just leaving her there. But he had a lead.
A few moments later, the hacker sent Reznick photos of Bernard, his address, and a GPS position obtained via his cell phone.
Reznick hailed a cab and directed it to the nearest hardware store, on East Fifty-Eighth Street. He jumped out, leaving the taxi waiting as he bought some duct tape and nylon rope. He put them in his backpack. Then he got back in the cab.
“Prospect Park, Brooklyn.”
The driver nodded and began to speed down FDR Drive as they headed downtown.
Reznick switched off the location on his phone so his daughter, and anyone else who might be looking for him, couldn’t track where he was going. A plan was forming in his head. He checked his cell phone. The GPS showed Bernard was at a playground just off Prospect Park West.
The cabdriver dropped him off about a half hour later. He gave the guy a hundred-dollar bill, which seemed to make his day. Then he headed toward the park.
A short while later, Reznick saw a guy doing stretching exercises, headphones on, oblivious to everything around him.
Suddenly the guy took off jogging around the park.
Reznick wasn’t dressed for jogging. He was wearing soft-soled Rockports, jeans, and a shirt, with his backpack on. But that wasn’t going to stop him. He jogged off after the guy. He got a few awkward looks. But he just ran on after the guy, who headed down a dirt path.
Reznick was closing in fast.
Through a heavily wooded area he ran.
Reznick thought the time was right. He sprinted after Bernard and rushed him from behind. He knocked the guy to the ground and pressed a gun to his head, knocking off his headphones. He grabbed him by the neck. “Name?”
The guy just stared at him as if in shock. “What?” he said, giving a shrug. “I don’t know what you mean.” The guy was clearly French. But he needed proof.
“Hands on your head!”
Bernard complied.
“Face in the dirt.”
Reznick stood over him, foot pressing Bernard’s head into the dirt. He bent down and unzipped the guy’s fanny pack. Inside was an ID showing it was Bernard, along with house keys and a cell phone. He popped them all inside his backpack.
“I don’t have any money,” the guy said.
Reznick took out the duc
t tape and rope from the backpack and tied the guy’s hands up tight. Then he wrapped duct tape around the guy’s mouth, thighs, and ankles. He wouldn’t escape that easily.
Bernard’s voice was muffled under the duct tape. “Who are you?”
“One final time. What is your name? I have your ID. But you need to tell me.”
Reznick pulled back the duct tape for a moment so the guy could speak.
“My driver’s license has those details. I’m French. Bernard is my name.”
“Who told you to kill Callaghan?”
Bernard closed his eyes tight and shook his head.
Reznick pressed the gun to his head. “Refuse to answer and you die. Answer and you live.”
Bernard said, “I don’t know who sent me.”
“Did you kill Callaghan?”
“It was a contract. I don’t know who sent me.”
Reznick had the right guy. He re-covered the guy’s mouth with the duct tape. “You lying piece of shit.” He kicked the guy in the head, knocking him out cold.
He jogged out of the park. He looked down the street, hoping to find a cab. He wondered if he should catch a train at Seventh Avenue instead. He heard the sound of a motorcycle revving behind him. He turned and saw a biker approach him. He wondered if it was another goon. But the bike stopped right beside him, and the rider signaled him over.
What the hell?
The biker flipped up his visor. Only it wasn’t a he. It was his daughter, Lauren, grinning back at him.
Forty-Five
Reznick walked up to Lauren, wondering if she had lost her mind. He looked around to see if anyone was watching.
“What the hell is this?”
“Jump on,” she said, handing him a helmet.
“Not until you answer me. What the hell is this? How did you find me?”
“I followed you.”
“You followed me? Are you out of your mind, Lauren? I’m working.”
“Whatever. Hop on.”
Reznick shook his head and pulled on the helmet. He tightened the strap. “We need to lay out some ground rules,” he said.
“Fine.”
“You ride in back. I’ll take this.”
Lauren slid back on the leather seat.
Reznick climbed on in front of her. “Hang on,” he said as he pulled away into the Brooklyn traffic. He negotiated the streets of Park Slope and then drove through Red Hook as he neared the waterfront. Then through the tunnel into lower Manhattan.
Cars sped past as he tried to figure out what the hell his daughter was doing. Reznick gunned the motorbike north on FDR Drive and all the way up the east side of Manhattan.
Eventually, they were back in the affluent streets of Lenox Hill.
Reznick saw the lights for a parking garage on Third Avenue just off East Sixty-Fourth Street. He headed into the garage and parked. He switched the engine off, took off his helmet as Lauren did the same. He grabbed her by the arm. “You’re following me? That’s not acceptable. That’s definitely not acceptable.”
“I want to help, Dad.”
“Help? Help me do what? I have some business to take care of here in New York.”
“Is that a euphemism, Dad?”
Reznick shook his head as she pulled away from him. He let go of her. “I’m seeing some people.”
“In a Brooklyn park? Was that the French guy? Is he connected to what happened to me?”
Reznick pointed at her. “Shut up.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up.”
“I’m your father. Christ, you just got out of the hospital. You were in a coma.”
“Don’t treat me like a child. I’m not. I’m an adult. And I want to help you!”
Reznick turned away for a few moments before he faced her. “I don’t like being angry with you, Lauren. But this is not a game you’re playing.”
“I never said it was. Listen, I know you just want the best for me. I get that. And I love you, Dad. But don’t think I can’t look after myself.”
Reznick sighed. “You don’t have the faintest idea how to look after yourself.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You taught me to look after myself. To learn to fend for myself. And I do.”
“Lauren, honey, I love that you’re such a bright, smart young woman. I don’t want you to be someone you’re not.”
“Over the past year, you know what I’ve been doing apart from studying?”
Reznick shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I’ve learned Krav Maga. Self-defense. I’m doing martial arts. I’m learning. Fast.”
“Why haven’t you told me this until now?”
“You haven’t asked. One of my professors, she’s a member at a shooting club. And she’s mentored me. She used to be in the Israeli army. She teaches Krav Maga. And she taught me how to shoot.”
Reznick shook his head. “Are you kidding me?”
“I’ve got a nine millimeter. And I’m ready. I know what I’m doing. I don’t know what you know, obviously. But I can look after myself. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
Reznick sighed. “You’ve got a gun?”
“Yup. And I can use it.”
Reznick took a few moments to figure out what to do. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, That’s cool, honey, let’s go for a beer.”
Reznick smiled. “You’re too young.”
Lauren shrugged as if unfazed.
“You’re crazy, you know that?”
“Yeah, and guess who I take after?”
Reznick cocked his head. “Let’s get out of here. Then we can talk.”
Forty-Six
The Bedford Falls bar was a low-key establishment on East Sixty-Seventh Street.
Reznick ordered a couple of Heinekens and headed with his daughter to the beer garden at the back. He sat down in a quiet corner and took a sip of the cold beer. He looked around at the other drinkers sitting in little groups before he turned to look at Lauren. “So . . . what are we going to do? I can’t have you following me around. Nothing personal. Just work.”
“That’s not a problem. And I’m glad we’re sitting down talking like two adults.”
“I’m your father. And there are rules in my world.”
“I know that.”
“Rule number one: I protect you at all costs. That’s my main concern. And if I have you hanging around, I can’t guarantee anything.”
“I understand. But you have to know one thing: I love you, and I want to help you do what you’re doing. I want you to open up about what you know. And why this is important to you.”
Reznick said nothing as he enjoyed his beer, still trying to wrap his head around what was happening. He felt sweat trickling down his back.
“Don’t shut me out. And don’t think you can. I don’t want to be thought of as a victim.”
“That’s good.”
“But I also just want to be with you right now. And let’s see where it takes us. If you think that I might be in danger, Dad, I was in danger on the crosswalk that day. Life is messy. You should know that better than anyone.”
Reznick sighed. “It’s just that I don’t want any further harm to come to you.”
“I get it. You’re protective. And thank God you are. But just let me help. At least for now.”
“To do what?”
“Be with you. I won’t get in your way. I promise.”
“Things are complicated, Lauren.”
Lauren took a sip of her beer.
Reznick looked at his beautiful, defiant daughter and smiled.
“What? Is a woman not allowed to have a beer in your world?”
“Not at all. You want a beer, you have a beer. But remember one thing: nothing annoys me more than people who moan or whine. I can’t abide that.”
Lauren nodded slowly.
Reznick leaned closer and whispered, “I’ve got things to do.”
“Let me come with you.”
Reznic
k sighed. “Tell me . . . You say you can shoot.”
“Yes, I can.”
“What gun you got?”
“Glock nineteen.”
Reznick nodded, impressed. “Why the nineteen?”
“Slightly smaller than the Glock seventeen. It’s a compact.”
“Not allowed in New York City, unless you’re a cop, Fed, or other authorized individual. Very strict laws. But there are exceptions, I grant you.”
“I’m a part-time resident of New York City, and a few months ago I joined a pistol club. Flatiron District, if you must know. And before you ask if that’s lawful, in 2013 the New York Court of Appeals affirmed this stance.”
“You kidding me?”
“Dad, I’m legit. I have an NYC handgun license for the city. And in Vermont it is lawful to carry a firearm openly or concealed.”
Reznick smiled and began to shake his head. “I had no idea. And Krav Maga?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Dad. That’s all I’m saying.”
Reznick burst out laughing before giving Lauren a big hug.
“So am I in?”
“You need to be discreet. You need to listen more than you talk. And you need to be aware all the time. Can you do that?”
Lauren nodded and sipped her beer. “Oh yeah.”
Reznick began to outline the information he had about the diplomat, the hacker who was helping him, the attacks on other girls, how he had been warned to leave town by the State Department but then had returned after hearing about the murder of Callaghan. “So, my question to you is one final time: Do you still want in?”
“Damn straight I want in.”
Reznick hugged her tight. “This is a fast-moving situation. But I’m going to let you come with me. At least for today. Maybe I’m crazy, I don’t know. But I know you’re smart. And you say you can shoot and fight. Hopefully we won’t need that. But . . . that’s where we are.”
“Great.”
“Listen, the hacker I told you about?”
Lauren nodded.
“I need to give him a call.”
“Go right ahead.”
Reznick looked at his daughter and smiled. “You are as stubborn as your mother, let me tell you.”
“That’s a compliment, right?”
“Damn right it is.” Reznick took out his cell phone and called the hacker. “Hey, man, superquick favor, just back from a little trip to Brooklyn.”