Last to Fold

by David Duffy

  CHAPTER 17

  The heat sucked the energy off the street. Traffic—vehicular and pedestrian—moved a beat slow, and the mood was morose. BEARS RULE—DOW DROPS 610, the Post cried from a newsstand. I’d lost track of the market gyrations. Maybe I could train Pig Pen to broaden his horizons and provide updates on the Dow Jones.

  No cabs in sight. I walked slowly back downtown, replaying the conversation with Victoria as I went. Coyle seeing me at Mulholland’s was a coincidence—or bad luck, depending on your point of view—but she had people watching Barsukov’s palace and Ratko’s building. She didn’t know about Greene Street, at least not yet. Lucky for me, or I wouldn’t be walking around. Why did she bring me in to show her hand? Maybe Bernie’s word was good enough for her. More likely, she didn’t have much, so she was reaching for something.

  I stopped at the deli and ordered black coffee and a toasted bagel, one half with butter and jam. I chewed that on the way to the office.

  “Hello, Russky,” Pig Pen said, his eyes fixed on the brown paper bag. “Pizza?” A mix of eternal hope and here-and-now resignation in his voice.

  “Good morning, Pig Pen. Bagel,” I said, removing his half.

  “Cream cheese?”

  “No cream cheese for parrots.”

  “Cream cheese?” he tried again, but he saw the fix was in.

  “Cream cheese means cholesterol, and cholesterol makes Pig Pen an ex-parrot.” I have no idea how a parrot’s cardiovascular system works, but it seemed a reasonable assumption. Besides, Pig Pen thinks he’s human like the rest of us.

  “Python,” he said, his head bobbing up and down. He’s a fan of the dead parrot skit, along with everyone else, even if his ancestry is the butt of the joke. I handed over the bagel. He pulled off a piece.

  “Onion!” Things were looking up.

  “Happy now?”

  “Muchas gracias…”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “… cheapskate.”

  The neck feathers ruffled. Maybe I’m mistaken, and twelve is still adolescence in parrot years.

  “Where’s the boss?”

  “Pancakes.” Breakfast.

  “Pig Pen, what do you know about Wall Street?”

  “BQE?”

  “No, not traffic. Stock market. Dow Jones. NASDAQ.”

  “Cross Bronx. Accident cleared.”

  “Is your life’s ambition to be a cab driver?”

  “Triborough—two lanes closed.”

  He went back to the bagel. Morning rush hour was the wrong time for this conversation.

  “Tell Foos I said thanks for the hard drive.”

  “Drive-by.”

  “Not drive-by, hard drive. Computer.”

  He nodded as he chewed, but I think he was just pacifying me.

  * * *

  Bernie’s secretary confirmed he was in the office. I got the hundred grand from the safe and walked down to Hayes & Franklin. Shirt wrinkled and tie loosened, he was bent over a thick stack of papers. He barely looked up when I dropped the bag on his desk.

  “You want to count it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Do I need a receipt?”

  Another shake.

  “Who should I talk to about my fee, you or Mulholland?”

  He held up the papers he was reading. Bloodshot eyes, exhaustion written all over his face.

  “Bankruptcy petition, Turbo. Mulholland’s busted.”

  “Come on, Bernie, this is America. People like Mulholland don’t go broke.”

  “Remember how you told me he was buying FTB? You didn’t know the half of it. He was buying on margin—as the stock fell. Best we can figure, he paid north of nine hundred million for shares now worth three.” He looked at his computer screen. “Less. Market opened down again.”

  “Surely he’s got other assets.”

  “Yeah, but looks like he’s pledged those, too. We’re trying to get a full picture. It’s a mess.”

  “I’m sorry,”

  He took off his glasses and wiped them on his tie. “He’s not such a bad guy when you get to know him. Rory and I … We met at college, Yale, two scholarship kids in a pool of privilege. He was a poor mick from the wrong Boston ’burbs, me a Jew from Brooklyn. We formed a bond of sorts, us against the rest. Went our separate ways afterward but stayed in touch—holiday cards, reunions, that sort of thing. When I started here, he called me up, said he needed a lawyer he could trust. FTB was already a pretty big bank then, and he sealed the deal here for me. I owe him. He’s human like the rest of us, he’s got his flaws, but…”

  “I won’t argue with you, not today.”

  “Don’t worry about your fee. We’ll get it, one way or another.”

  “I’m not worried,” I said, mainly to be polite. “How’s the girl?”

  He shook his head. “Touch and go. Docs say she was on Rohypnol. Borderline overdose. Still in the ICU.”

  “The date rape drug?”

  “Yeah, but some kids take it recreationally. Roofie, they call it. Amnesiac—she probably won’t remember a thing.” He shook his head again. “She’s been through rehab a couple times already. Didn’t take. This stuff with Rory won’t help.”

  “Maybe. Everybody needs a wake-up call. Something that makes you realize it’s not all about you—unless you want to piss your life away. In which case, that is all it’s about.”

  “Once more, Turbo, you’ve found just the right way to cheer me up.”

  “I met your former partner this morning.”

  “The piranha?”

  “She hauled me in for a talk. Kind of intimated you sold me out.”

  “No way. You must be getting rusty. She knew who you were, where you’d been, who you’d been with. All she asked for was a character reference, which I’m guessing is why you’re not in jail. How’d you make out?”

  “All right, under the circumstances. She tried to push me over, I pushed back. No blood spilled.”

  “Sounds like Victoria. She likes to intimidate first thing out of the box. Thinks she needs even footing with the boys. I’ve always thought she’d do better using her feminine assets, but who am I to argue? She’s done more than all right her way.”

  “How well do you know her?”

  “Like I said, she came here about eight years ago, with that Atlanta firm. She’s got brains to match her looks, and she’s tenacious as hell. Every guy in the office hit on her with the same result. No soap. Used to be lots of rumors—lesbian, S&M, frigid, you name it. If her time sheets were any indication, not much social life of any kind. She was at the top of billable hours every year she was here.

  “We were all surprised by the U.S. attorney appointment, but she networks a lot, she’s active in the Bar Association, she’s got a great rep in white-collar crime. After all the Wall Street scandals, that’s probably what the Justice Department thought they needed. She may be a little out of her depth—organized crime, drugs, and terrorism haven’t been her thing—but I bet she figures it out.”

  “She’s trying. Not sure she’s there yet.”

  “Only been a couple of months.”

  “Okay. I’ll get out of your hair.”

  Bernie went around his desk and closed the door. “How bad was it, when you found Eva last night?”

  “Bad as could be. You really want specifics?”

  He shook his head. “Why’d you cover? Why not call the cops?”

  “Multiple reasons. Eva’d be in jail now, looking at lots worse than a possible drug rap. There was a dead guy in that loft who’s tied up with the Russian mob. He ran the kidnap scheme, I’m pretty sure, but no question Eva was in on it. She was walking around the streets of SoHo yesterday afternoon.”

  “So?”

  “This whole thing’s screwy, has been since the beginning. Like your former partner pointed out an hour ago, Tuesday, I meet Mulholland, who thinks his daughter’s been kidnapped. Then he gets arrested. He’s worried about his wife, but he doesn’t know who
she really is. I go looking for the supposed kidnapper—Rad Rislyakov, a.k.a. Ratko Risly, big-time identity thief, screwing around with a small-time shakedown. Next thing I know, Lachko Barsukov—that’s right, that Lachko Barsukov—whom I haven’t seen in twenty-plus years, tells me to stay away from Ratko and applies some heavy pressure. But he doesn’t know about his ex-wife, now married to Mulholland, or his daughter, who’s screwing around with Rislyakov. Then I find Eva in Ratko’s hideaway, blotto, along with a corpse that’s probably Ratko. I also find Lachko’s father—right again, Iakov Barsukov—who has no reason to be there, except he says it’s Cheka business. I also find a computer that may tell me what Lachko is worried about and Victoria is looking for. Haven’t had a chance to check yet. So maybe I’m in a position to solve the mystery, help Eva, make a deal with Lachko, and possibly help Victoria, although I don’t know at the time I want to do that—but not if I call the cops. Make sense now?”

  Bernie shook his head and opened the door. “About as much sense as a Russian novel. Sorry I asked.”

  “Life’s not as simple as crossing a field.”

  “One of your proverbs?”

  “One of the more cheerful ones.”

  * * *

  Foos was chewing another bacon-egg-cheese-grease-on-a-roll when I got back to the office.

  “I’m guessing Pig Pen’s jealous.”

  “He offered to trade his bagel and got all out of sorts when I declined. You could at least get him cream cheese.”

  “I’m trying to prolong his life, although I’m not sure why.”

  “Pig Pen said something about a drive-by.”

  “Pig Pen’s a bird brain. I said hard drive.”

  “You may have grabbed more than you bargained for when you took that computer.”

  “Lachko and his father are keen to get their hands on it—that tells me something.”

  “The something is what it’s running. I left it asleep last night, but online in case someone wanted to e-mail the late Mr. Risly. This morning, it woke itself up at six, activated e-mail, and received a bunch of messages. Three hundred twelve to be exact. Came in from all over, including overseas. Couple of apps went to work, downloaded the data in the e-mails, sorted them, sent out a bunch of new messages. Those went through zombies, so I can’t tell where they ended up.”

  “All automatically?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s in the e-mails?”

  “You’ll see. Lists of figures. Code, most likely.”

  “Lists? You mean like spreadsheets?”

  “Yeah, but these aren’t calculations, just lists.”

  “Hold on.”

  I retrieved both BlackBerrys from the safe. Long list of new messages on Ratko’s. Shorter one on Marko’s. None of the senders meant anything to me, but I showed them to Foos.

  “This one’s getting copied on all the e-mails. The other’s only receiving a few.”

  “First one belonged to Ratko. The other to one of his associates.”

  “Ratko sent himself copies. There’s more. You told me Mulholland got phished. Risly was the phisher. They’ve got three computers on a wireless network. Risly hacked all of them.”

  “Ratko’s got—had—a talent for that kind of thing.”

  “Yeah, but phishers, as we know, play a percentage game. They phish lots of people, hoping to sucker a few, and they’re looking for stuff they can steal—bank accounts, brokerage accounts, hard assets.”

  “So?”

  “The only person Risly phished was Mulholland, and it looks like all he stole was information. Then someone took that information from him.”

  “How’s that work?”

  “Ratko removed a big file from one of Mulholland’s computers. Removed as in removed—stolen, then erased, permanently. No way to retrieve it. He clearly wanted the only copy. Then someone moved that same file, along with another one, to an external drive and erased them from Ratko’s hard drive. Again permanently.”

  “No way to tell what they were?”

  “Uh-uh. Just two big-ass files, two hundred ninety gig and three hundred fifty gig.”

  “That someone was likely Ratko himself.”

  “True enough, but where’s the hard drive?”

  “Good question. He didn’t have it with him. It wasn’t at the loft or in Chelsea.”

  “Anyone know you have his computer?”

  “The aforementioned Barsukovs.”

  “I’d watch my step, then—a little more carefully than the late Mr. Risly did.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “There’s more. E-mail, from Risly’s computer through a zombie to felixmulholland@aol.com. Listen to this. ‘Greetings, Polina Barsukova. We know who you are, who you were, what you did, what you’re trying to do. We know it all. We’re thinking a partnership could be attractive for both of us. You get to keep your income stream—or 50% of it. You get to stay alive. We’ll be the only ones who know who you are, who you’ve become. You can’t find us. But don’t doubt for a second we know exactly where to find you. We’ll be in touch soon. In the meantime, if you don’t believe us, check your computer. You’ll find something missing. We have it now—another reason we think you’ll welcome a partnership.’ No signature, no return address.”

  “When did she get that?”

  “April eighth.”

  “Right after the phishing expedition.”

  “That’s right. A week later, she gets another message. Contains a list of bank accounts and instructions for her to transfer money into them. Doesn’t make any mention of amounts, just percentages. Take a look.”

  He spun the laptop around. The message read,

  Greetings again, Polina Barsukova.

  By now, you’ve had a chance to consider our offer of partnership and we’re certain you find it attractive. Here’s what you will do.

  Each month, you will receive a list of bank account numbers. On the 10th of the month, you will transfer from the accounts in which you have received payment 50% of those amounts in equal installments to the account numbers we provide.

  If you miss a transfer, we will make a call to Brighton Beach. That will cause great pain. If you miss one more, we will make another—to Moscow. You know the price you will pay then.

  No margin for error, Polina Barsukova. We trust we understand each other.

  Here are the accounts for May:

  197663874305-57

  170190980928-98

  316587686784-96

  976223958279-83

  737893690837-32

  762137263728-53

  712635558821-72

  863876879297-24

  267659876869-66

  128763809890-52

  I turned the computer back. “Basilisk didn’t show any of this activity.”

  He nodded. “I know. I double-checked. But the e-mail refers to ‘the accounts in which you have received payment.’ They could be, probably are, under some other name or names.”

  “Ratko seems to know all about whatever arrangement she has in place for whatever she’s up to. When the money’s coming in, where it’s coming in to, and the fact that he doesn’t mention an amount suggests he knows how much. He’s working both sides of this deal. But why?”

  He spun the computer back. “Hold the phone. She gets another e-mail, couple weeks ago. Thanks her for the May payments. Gives her the account numbers for June. Then it says, ‘We’re afraid we must make a one-time assessment to cover the partnership start-up costs. Shipping and handling charges. $100,000. This will be a cash payment, small, used bills, please, tens and twenties. You have a week to collect the money. We’ll be in touch with delivery instructions.’”

  “Hundred grand? That can’t be coincidental.”

  “It’s not. That picture you showed me, the kidnap photo? Photoshopped. Four separate images, the girl, the gun, the Times, and the background.”

  “How’d Ratko…”

  “He didn’t. It was Photoshopped on Mulholland�
�s computer. The same computer used to type the kidnap note. Look.”

  He banged on the keyboard and turned the laptop around. Four images, as he said—Eva, the newspaper, the hand with the gun, and a chair against a brown wall. Foos reached around to the keyboard.

  “Voilà.”

  The four images merged into the picture Mulholland had handed me Tuesday morning.

  “And here’s your kidnap note.”

  He hit a few more keys, and the note appeared on the screen.

  “I’m not into judgment,” he said, “but it looks to me like you’ve been taken for a ride.”

  I couldn’t argue. “You install the keyboarding bug?”

  “Anyone does anything with that computer, you’ve got a front row seat.”

  “And no one—especially Lachko Barsukov—is going to know we were in there?”

  He raised a bushy black eyebrow, his usual reaction to a question that’s beneath response.

  “Sorry,” I said. “We need to erase all this. I have to hand the computer back to the Barsukovs.”

  “Already done. You’re looking at the copy I put on this hard drive. Figured you’d want to keep your inadequacies to yourself.” He clicked some keys, pulled out a cable, closed the laptop, and pushed it across the desk.

  “One more thing. I got waylaid this morning by a pissed-off U.S. attorney.”

  “Uh-oh. He know about your extralegal activities?”

  “Fortunately not. But she knows more about me than I like. She also turned down my dinner invitation.”

  “Cause and effect?”

  “See what the Basilisk can find on her, starting with a home phone. Victoria de Millenuits is her name.”

  “Millenuits? Midnight?”

  “Close. Mille—thousand, nuits—nights.”

  He shrugged. “My dinner invitations are usually accepted. I’ll look into it after lunch. Pig Pen and I have a date at Lombardi’s.”

  * * *

  I took Ratko’s laptop and Foos’s external drive to my office and woke up my own computer. I plugged in a cable, and an icon for Ratko’s hard drive appeared on my desktop waiting to be invaded. Almost like the good old days.

  Not. Still, given that the computer now belonged to the Barsukovs, I enjoyed the irony.

  I clicked on the icon, and the hard drive opened up. The home page for something called the Slavic Center for Personal Development appeared. I ignored that and began to work through the contents, starting with the spreadsheets. Two hours later, I was less than a quarter done, and my eyes hurt. I felt like a beer but settled for a glass of water and went back to my desk.