by J. B. Turner
“How did it go?”
“I’ve got the guy’s cell phone in my backpack. I want to access it and get that information.”
“I can do that.” The sound of tapping of keys in the background. “I’m in. I’m downloading the information from his cell phone as we speak.”
Reznick clenched his fist. “Find any links between the Ukrainians and this guy. Is he connected? And in what way?”
“Might take some time.”
“Better get on it, then.”
Ten minutes later, Reznick got a call.
“Bernard . . . ,” the hacker said.
“Yeah, what about him?”
“I’ve got a message on his cell phone from a political aide to Brutka.”
“Bullshit.”
“You want me to send it to you, the conversation?”
“Sure. Can you tell me the gist of it?”
“Here’s the verbatim quote: ‘Mr. C needs a long sleep.’ Sent to Bernard the day before Callaghan was killed. The following day, Bernard replies, ‘Mr. C is having a long sleep. Night night. Sweet dreams.’”
“Motherfucker. It’s him.”
“GPS tracking of his movements also confirms he was right outside Callaghan’s home too.”
Forty-Seven
It was nearly midnight in Meyerstein’s hotel room. She was looking down onto Sixth Avenue when her cell phone rang. She recognized Reznick’s number, and her heart sank. She knew that he was not going to forget about Brutka. This wasn’t going to end well for anyone.
“Are you kidding, Jon, at this time of night?”
“I want to talk.”
“So talk.”
“Martha, I’d like to do it face-to-face. And have an assurance that it won’t be recorded.”
Meyerstein sighed. “Why all these precautions?”
“Doesn’t matter. Where are you?”
“I’m at my hotel.”
“Where’s that?”
“The Quin, near Central Park.”
“I’m not far from there. How about I meet you there in fifteen minutes?”
Meyerstein wondered if this was wise. She knew he was angling to try to bring down Brutka, no matter the consequences. “Jon, it’s really, really late.”
“Please. It’s important.”
“Very well.”
Meyerstein ended the call and reapplied her makeup. She put on a pastel-pink blouse and a navy suit. She picked up her handbag and headed down to the bar. The place was buzzing despite the late hour. She sat down at a leather banquette.
A few minutes later, Reznick strolled in with a young, quite beautiful woman.
He grinned as he walked up to where she was sitting.
“Martha,” he said, “I want you to meet someone.”
Meyerstein stared at the girl, who smiled beatifically.
“I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Lauren.”
Meyerstein felt her cheeks flush. She got up and hugged Lauren tightly. “So nice to meet you. And I’m delighted you’re making such a good recovery.”
Lauren smiled and sat down in between Meyerstein and her father.
Reznick said, “A nice bottle of red?”
Meyerstein and Lauren both nodded.
Reznick ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir, and the waiter returned with three glasses, pouring a modest amount into each.
Meyerstein looked at Reznick. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company at this time of night?” she asked.
Reznick took a sip of his wine. “First, my daughter knows what I know. I hope you’re fine with Lauren being here.”
Meyerstein looked at his daughter before saying in a low voice, “I’m delighted to meet you at last. But you have to understand that your father and I discuss matters that occasionally have security implications. I’m talking classified. And you don’t have any clearance.”
Lauren nodded. “I understand.”
Meyerstein took a large gulp of wine. “This better be good, Jon.”
Reznick leaned forward, glass in hand. “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”
Meyerstein gave him the once-over. “You been fighting? You’ve got dirt under your fingernails. Scrapes on your knuckles.”
“What I’m about to say didn’t come from me.”
Meyerstein shook her head. “Oh God, Jon, what are you up to?”
“This is no ordinary investigation.”
“I’m well aware of that. Look, I’m surprised you’re back in New York. The only reason I’m still here and not in DC is because you came back. But I can’t get back home as long as you’re here dragging this out.”
Reznick whispered, “I want to talk about the assassination of Tom Callaghan.”
Meyerstein closed her eyes for a moment. “Jon, that’s a matter for the police.”
“It most certainly is. But I’m not convinced the cops have the clout to deal with this.”
“What do you know? And how do you know it?”
Reznick looked around and sipped his wine. He leaned in close. “What if I said the person linked to Callaghan’s death has been in touch with one of Brutka’s political aides?”
The color drained from Meyerstein’s face. “I’ll tell you this now, Jon: if this information has been accessed illegally, we won’t be able to use it.”
“That’s your choice. I have it on good authority that the assassin was a French national, Henri Bernard.”
Meyerstein stared at him long and hard. “What?”
“His was the voice captured on Callaghan’s security system audio and saved to the cloud.”
Meyerstein sighed and turned to Lauren. “Is your dad always so obsessive?”
Lauren rolled her eyes. “You have no idea.”
Meyerstein looked at Reznick. “And you know that for sure? And he’s French?”
“I’d bet my house on it.”
“OK, let me deal with it. I’m not going to ask how you got that information. But I’ll deal with it. You want some advice?”
“Why not?”
“Let the NYPD know. I’ll let my people know. We all want the same thing.”
Reznick nodded. “I know you do. And I appreciate that. This guy needs to be stopped. Before someone else gets killed.”
Forty-Eight
Just after seven the following morning, after four hours sleep Reznick was standing across the street from the Nineteenth Precinct, drinking a cup of coffee, next to a police cruiser that was parked up on the sidewalk. He wore a Yankees cap pulled low to shield him from the sun. He stifled a yawn. He had gotten back to his hotel just after two in the morning after walking his daughter back to her apartment. He was still struggling to get his head around Lauren tracking him down to the diner and then shadowing him to Brooklyn. But part of him was immensely proud that she was learning Krav Maga and shooting.
Out of the corner of his eye, Reznick saw Detective Acosta headed toward the precinct.
Reznick threw his coffee cup in a trash can and walked across the road to greet her. “Morning,” he said.
“What the hell is this, Jon?”
“I’ve got something to help you get back in the game.”
Acosta shook her head and stopped. “Jon, you’re killing me. I’m trying to move on.”
“A few minutes of your time is all I’m asking.”
“What is it with you? You really are crazy.”
Reznick shrugged. “What can I say? Five minutes.”
Acosta shook her head. “I’ve got a life to lead, Jon. I’m trying not to lose my job.”
“You helped me . . . Now I want to pass on new information.”
Acosta cocked her head, and Reznick followed her into the precinct. Up to the second floor and into an interview room.
Reznick shut the door behind them.
“So what’s going on?”
“I know the identity of the man in Callaghan’s apartment.”
Acosta stared at him and shook her head. “Unbelievabl
e. This is way out of left field.”
“Henri Bernard. French. Security consultant, lives in Brooklyn.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“I’ve got a hacker friend.”
“What the hell?”
“He is phenomenal.”
“This all sounds very illegal, Jon.”
“Maybe it is. But I’m telling you, the information is sound. The voice was Bernard’s. It was detected by the microphone contained within a security camera.”
“OK. So why wasn’t the device recovered from the apartment?”
“It was stolen. But the voice was recorded to a cloud server. And my guy, my hacker friend, retrieved this information.” Reznick handed her a cell phone.
“What’s this?”
“This belongs to Bernard.”
“And how did you get your hands on this?”
“I don’t want to go there . . . However, my hacker analyzed it, and he said there’s at least one message from a political aide of Brutka’s on that cell phone.”
Acosta stared at the phone and shook her head. “We’ve got people working around the clock trying to figure this out,” she said. “How did your guy come up with that result?”
“You guys take too long. I’m willing to cross lines. I’m not interested in boundaries. And neither is the hacker.”
“It’s called the law.”
“Whatever. I do what has to be done. But that’s immaterial. I want to help. That’s why I’m passing that on.”
Acosta shook her head as she wrote down what he told her. “You’re a nightmare, do you know that, Jon? But I appreciate the heads-up. Unfortunately it doesn’t help put Brutka away, does it?”
“Get it to your forensics guys. I’m tired of all this bullshit. Figure it out.”
Acosta’s cell phone rang, interrupting the conversation. She rifled in her pocket. “I need to take this.”
Reznick shrugged. “Sure.”
Acosta went over to the corner of the room. “Calm down, Zuki. Have you been to the hospital? . . . You were warned? By who? You need to give me a name!” She scribbled down Brutka on a pad in front of her. “Are you sure?” Acosta shook her head. “Listen to me, I’m on my way. Don’t move.” She ended the call.
Reznick said, “Who was that?”
“That was another one of the hookers Brutka uses.”
“Another? Beaten up?”
“Middle of the night he turns up. Drinks some beer. He’s high. Cocaine. Beats her senseless. And he chokes her until she passes out. But she was lucky. She didn’t die, unlike another girl I found, Daniela.”
Reznick shook his head. “Callaghan said there were more. He was right.”
“Fuck.”
“When is this going to end? How can this be allowed to continue? It needs to stop.”
Acosta sighed and looked at her watch. “We need to speak another time, Jon.”
“Are you headed to see the hooker?”
Acosta nodded.
“I want to tag along.”
“Jon, that’s not going to happen.”
“I want to help. I’m bringing you information. Information you didn’t have. I’m not here to hinder your efforts.”
Acosta was quiet for a few moments. “It goes against all our protocols. You’re a civilian.”
“I’ve got high-level intelligence security clearance. I’ve worked for the Feds. You can trust me.”
“What is it with you?”
“Let me go with you. What do you say?”
When Reznick and Acosta arrived at the girl’s one-room apartment in East Harlem, a block from Daniela’s, the girl was sitting on the bare floorboards, shaking, her face swollen. Specks of dried blood dotted the wooden floorboards. The girl broke down when she saw the look on Acosta’s face.
Acosta wrapped the girl in a hug and wiped away her tears. “Zuki, this can’t go on,” she said. “It has to stop.”
“I want to help, but I’m scared. I don’t want to speak to you.”
Acosta held the girl’s swollen and bruised face. “Listen to me: he will kill you. You said so yourself. It’s just a matter of time.”
“You can’t protect me. No one can.”
“We can protect you. This needs to stop.”
The girl closed her eyes. “He says he will have me returned to Ukraine in a box. A coffin. I can’t go back.”
“As it stands, you have no rights. He holds all the cards. But you need to help me help you.”
The girl shook her head. She picked up a packet of Marlboros and shook out a cigarette. She lit up and dragged hard on her cigarette, watching the blue smoke.
“I will protect you.”
The girl closed her eyes. “He is free to do what he likes with me. And all the girls.”
Reznick said, “We can bring him down. But the police need your help.”
The girl pulled up her T-shirt to show cigarette burns all over her stomach. “He did that. Do you think someone like that will allow me to escape?”
“Listen to me,” Reznick said. “Detective Acosta will make sure you and your friends are protected. You’re in America. We will protect you.”
“I can’t go back to Ukraine! You don’t know what it’s like there.”
“I don’t know much about your country,” Reznick said, “that’s true. But I know that my daughter was nearly killed by that same bastard.”
The girl blinked away the tears for a few seconds as if struggling to comprehend how to escape her predicament. “How did he nearly kill her?”
“His car ran her down in a crosswalk. He didn’t stop. She just came out of a coma.”
The girl nodded sympathetically.
Reznick pulled up a picture on his phone of his daughter and showed it to her. “Aleksander Brutka left her to die on a New York street.”
“She’s very beautiful.”
“Trust me, she didn’t look beautiful when she was in a coma.”
The girl looked at him.
“You need to be brave now,” Reznick said. “Braver than you’ve ever been.”
The girl pointed at her face. “Look at me. He beats me. I’ve nowhere to turn. And I know he’ll find me. He killed my friend.”
Acosta took out her notebook. “Name?”
“Bondar. She used the name Carmel. She’s disappeared completely. I think he killed her. She was from a small village outside Kiev. Now I have no one.”
Acosta said, “Do you know Daniela?”
“I’ve heard of her.”
“She’s dead.”
The girl closed her eyes tight as if trying to block out the pain.
“What if he turns up tomorrow?” Reznick said. “Or the day after. Do you think this is just going to end because you want it to? It won’t. And it’s only a matter of time before he ends your life too.”
The girl began to cry. “I’m scared of him. I’m scared every day. I don’t want to live like this. He rapes me. He hurts me. He feeds me drugs and laughs at me. I want to die. I want to die!”
Acosta held her hand. “You never told me you’d been raped.”
“Well, I just did! He raped me. Several times. He’s a beast. I pretend to like him. But only because I’m scared.”
“Tell me about Brutka’s friends. You told me previously he lets his friends visit you and abuse you.”
“They’re filthy pigs too. I hate them. I hate him and all his disgusting friends.”
“Who are his friends?”
The girl dragged hard on her cigarette, crushing it in an overflowing ashtray on the floor. “Diplomat friends. Bodyguards. A Frenchman. He has friends in high places.”
Reznick and Acosta exchanged knowing glances when she mentioned a Frenchman. He sat down on the floor beside the girl. “I’ve got friends in high places too.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I do. People who will protect you and your family. The NYPD could help get you to safety and a better life. But you need to help us
too.”
The girl looked at Acosta. “What if he finds me?”
Acosta shook her head. “I want you to help us help you and stop this once and for all. But it means you will have to entrap him.”
“What do you mean?” the girl asked.
“What if I said we could bring down Brutka? We need your help. Think about it. The next time he turns up, he might not stop at raping and beating you. He might very well kill you. You’ve told us he choked you, right?”
The girl went quiet.
“When do you think you’ll see him next?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight? What’s happening tonight?”
The girl’s head hung low as if it was all too much to bear. “He wants me to meet the latest batch. Consignment.”
“Consignment of what? Girls?”
The girl nodded. “Fresh. Young. Innocent.”
“Where are they from?”
“Ukraine, mostly. Some girls from Belarus. Straight from a container ship. From Odessa.”
“Odessa?” Reznick said. “What, and this is happening tonight?”
Acosta fixed her gaze on the girl. “You seem to know a lot about this. He told you all this?”
“That’s why he came in the early hours. To let me know I was needed to accompany him. I said I didn’t want to be part of it. But . . .”
Reznick said, “Take your time.”
“I just wanted the beating to stop. So I agreed.”
Acosta said, “We can help you. But you need to help yourself.”
The girl closed her eyes and hugged herself tight as if for comfort. “He scares me. He is a terrible man. I hate him.”
Reznick said, “Let’s nail him. Once and for all. But like Detective Acosta said, we need your help. Can you do that?”
The girl didn’t react.
Acosta said, “You said he’s coming back tonight. What time?”
“He just said he would collect me. And I was to be with him. He wants me to check the girls.”
“Why?” Reznick asked.
The girl sighed. “Me being there is to reassure the girls. I remember when I was brought in last year it was the same scenario. A girl was with him, holding his hand, smiling at the new girls. We were all frightened.”
“So he wants you to do the same thing? Why?”