Tower of Babel

by Michael Sears

  Was he really prepared to go up against an armed man? A killer? In the hospital he had attacked the Russian without the benefit of reflection. He had seen danger to Kenzie and he had moved. It had been simple—and he could have died.

  The elevator opened. Jill’s door was splintered, hanging open as though the Lexington Avenue subway had been rerouted through her apartment. His decision became a whole lot easier.

  He called Jill’s name. No response. He listened for any other sounds. None. The giant had no need for stealth; he was big enough to create his own weather system. Ted called again. “Jill? It’s Ted. Are you okay?”

  This time he thought he heard her voice from the rear of the apartment. He eased around the shattered door into the foyer. “Jill? I’m coming in.”

  Behind him the elevator clicked loudly and he nearly jumped. Then it began to hum. It was on its way back to the lobby. The marshals would be here in a few minutes. The thought gave him a boost of false courage.

  The living room furniture had all been overturned, but it looked like it had been done for show—to demonstrate anger and power, to engender fear and compliance. The only thing broken was the hideous glass sculpture in the corner. Shards crunched under his feet as he moved through the room.

  “Jill. Are you all right? Is he still here?”

  A low moan sounded quite clearly.

  Ted turned and looked down the hall. The doors were all closed—the two bedrooms, the guest bathroom, the den, the entertainment room. The giant could have been hiding behind any one of those doors, waiting for some reckless St. George coming to save the maiden.

  Ted put his back to the wall and crept down the hallway. His pounding heart was making a racket loud enough to be heard across town. He tried to control his breathing.

  He came to the den. Translucent-curtained French doors covered the entry. He peered through. No lurking shadows hovered on the other side. He gripped the brass lever handle and eased the door open. No one was in the room. He continued down the hall feeling stronger and less afraid.

  The guest bedroom was next. He could now see that the door was slightly ajar. Ted kicked it and jumped forward, half expecting to be met with a fist—or a bullet. The door rebounded off a dresser and came back at him. He put up both hands to stop it but managed to get a glimpse inside. No sign of the giant and no sign of Jill.

  He took a moment to get his breath—and his blood pressure—under control before he moved on to the next door. The bathroom. He reached out to turn the knob, and the door swung open. Ted almost tripped over his own feet as he retreated, anticipating a murderous charge, only to realize a moment later that it was Jill who stood facing him.

  She was holding a white hand towel to her face. It was blotched with pale pink and bright red. Blood.

  “I think he broke my nose,” she said. She moved the towel away so Ted could see the damage.

  “Thank God, you’re all right,” Ted said. “He’s gone?”

  “You didn’t see him? He broke in here, tore up the living room, and punched me.”

  “He’s looking for Jackie,” Ted said.

  Concern for Jacqueline overcame Jill’s own pain. “She’s not at the office?” It was more a plea than a question.

  “Your grandfather has people looking for her. The guy who punched you: Big? Bald? Squeaky voice?”

  She nodded.

  “When did he leave?”

  “Just before I heard you calling me.”

  The elevator had come up from the basement. Nicky Greco had taken the same exit Ted had used the day before.

  A trickle of fresh blood ran from Jill’s nose. She seemed unaware of it. Ted took the towel and gently held it to her face.

  “Keep this on,” he said. “That’s it. Help is on the way up right now. They’ll get a doctor to check you out. When you hear them come off the elevator, yell real loud.”

  She grabbed his arm. “Don’t let him get her. Promise me.” She looked fierce. This was no simple request; she was demanding a sacred pact.

  “I promise.” He looked into her eyes. The nose wasn’t broken, but she’d be wearing oversized sunglasses for the next week or so.

  “Listen to me,” she ordered. “I want you to promise me you will do everything in your power to keep Jacqueline safe.”

  “I did. I do. I promise.”

  As he ran to the foyer, Ted heard the elevator click. He ducked into the dining room and watched from behind a towering brushed-steel-and-ebony display cabinet as the two marshals came through the broken front door. They were followed by a uniformed NYPD cop. All three had their guns drawn. With an index finger and a glance, the woman silently ordered the other two to check the archways. Ted was about to be discovered and most probably shot on sight. The chase was over. He raised his hands and took a last breath before facing three guns.

  “We are police,” she called out. “We are coming in.”

  Jill started yelling. The three thundered down the hall.

  Ted went out of the dining room, slunk out the door, and slipped into the waiting elevator.

  -73-

  Ted ran out the basement door, knowing that he was far too late. He looked up the alley. The bottom half of the metal gate had been folded up like a piece of cardboard. It would have been a tight fit, but the giant had made his escape. Ted had held no illusions of catching the killer, but he had hoped to keep him in sight.

  Ted walked up the concrete steps, ducked under the folded gate, and came out onto the quiet side street. No pedestrians waved frantically, pointing out Nicky Greco’s escape route. No cars tore off, tires smoking. There was simply no sign of the big man.

  Ted walked east toward Lexington. He didn’t have a plan—yet. He took out his phone and called the Judge. After answering a series of maddening robot-generated questions, Ted was connected to the dining room phone.

  “He’d been there and gone,” Ted said. “The police are with Jill now. She took a punch, but she’s going to be fine. She’s safe.”

  The Judge blew a sigh of relief before reporting his news—or lack of it. “Jacqueline is not in the building. Security has her logging out two hours ago.”

  “You called her?” Ted’s promise to Jill, so quickly given, was already in doubt.

  “Her phone goes straight to voice mail. Could she be hiding?”

  Ted thought for a moment. “No. She wouldn’t have known he was looking for her. Or about Reisner getting shot. It’s something else.” He was exhausted. He couldn’t think. He needed food, rest, and most of all he needed the world to stop moving. “Keep me posted.”

  He turned up Lexington. When he had lived in the neighborhood with Jill, there had been a decent deli on the block. It was now a Taco Bell. The menu board was too confusing to read. Combos? Only aficionados would be able to make sense of the various permutations available.

  “I need something filling. Calories. What do I want?”

  The middle-aged woman at the cash register looked at him in wonder. “You never eat at Taco Bell before?”

  “Guilty,” he said.

  “Best value is the chicken Quesarito. Six hundred fifty calories for under four bucks with tax. You want guac on it? It costs.”

  “Sure. Can I get extra cheese? Load it up.”

  “Three cheese blend, jalapenos, refried beans, fritos, dressing, salsa, and low-fat sour cream.”

  “Low-fat? Really? Bring it on.”

  “You can get lettuce, too.”

  “No need to overdo,” Ted said.

  Half a quesarito later, Ted began to wake up. His brain was functioning again, and he knew where Jackie had gone. And where the giant was headed. He called Lester.

  “Are you all right?” Lester asked. “Where are you?”

  “Better than ever.” Ted spoke around a mouthful of restorative grilled quesadilla. Four Con Ed w
orkers in neon-green vests were eating at the next table, their blue helmets taking up half the surface. As one, they suddenly exploded in laughter. A single woman diner looked up in alarm. It all felt so real compared to the last forty-eight hours of his life. “Upper East Side. How soon can Mohammed get here?”

  “It’s Friday,” Lester said.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s the Muslim Sabbath. You didn’t know that?”

  “No. I didn’t know.” How did Lester? He and Mohammed seemed to speak to each other only in asides through Ted. “Did Duran get hold of you? I told him to call.”

  “I’m sitting in the back of their car answering questions.” Ted could hear an angry voice in the background. “His partner’s a dick,” Lester whispered, and then continued at a normal volume, “Duran’s got a different take on things. About who killed Richie, at any rate.”

  “He knows something he’s not telling you. Can you convince him to meet me somewhere?”

  “What’s up?”

  “Tell him I know where we’re going to find Nicky Greco.”

  -74-

  Archer Avenue and Sutphin Boulevard. The redevelopment of downtown Jamaica had finally reached this crossroads. Shopping malls and new apartment buildings, many with a view of all eight Long Island Rail Road tracks, sprouted in every vacant lot. But tucked in between there were two- and three-story survivors where you could still get a pair of shoes resoled, have your hair braided, or eat a three-star lunch while standing at a linoleum counter.

  Ted hugged the building side of the pavement as he walked north, letting the afternoon shadows and the crowds of pedestrians keep him hidden. In the middle of the block, he ducked into a Chinese restaurant. Lester was sitting with the detectives, Duran and Kasabian, at a four-top near the door. The cops were drinking coffee facing each other by the window. Lester had a glass of clear liquid that Ted hoped was water. As the window was half-covered in menus and photos of the delights within, the men were hidden from the street but had a clear view of the courthouse steps.

  “Finally,” Lester said. He was healing. His bruises, now a greenish yellow rather than dark blue and purple, looked less angry. His eyes were clear and had lost their watery dullness. And he was dressed in a bright plaid jacket only a size or so too big for him. He must have found another thrift shop. “It feels like I’ve been stuck with these two for half my life. They can’t help themselves. Even a conversation about baseball feels like an interrogation.”

  “Sit down,” Duran said, indicating the empty seat next to him. “And then you can tell me about Nicky Greco.”

  “In a minute,” Ted said. His stomach felt full from the burrito, but his nose told him he was still hungry. He went to the counter and ordered two kinds of panfried dumplings and a plate of noodles with scallion-and-fiery-beef sauce. Even with a bottle of water, the tab came to less than twenty bucks. The woman behind the counter was a perpetually smiling plump Asian woman—Chinese, he guessed—so short she had to stand on a milk crate to see over the counter. He took out the last of Cheryl’s money. A single hundred dollar bill. “Keep the change,” he said.

  Kasabian didn’t wait for Ted to sit. The moment he got to the table, the cop started talking. “Why are we here? Mr. Nikitopoulos is in Manhattan. They’ve got half the cops in the city looking for him.”

  “He was in Manhattan,” Ted said. “That was over an hour ago.”

  “Did you see him?” Duran asked.

  “No,” Ted said. “I missed him by minutes. But he’s on his way here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he’s in love with Cheryl Rubiano,” Ted said. “And she’s taking the fall for a slew of people. I think she is getting paid a boatload of cash and promised of a short sentence, but the big guy doesn’t care. He just wants his Velma back.”

  “Give me that in small bites, so I don’t choke on it,” Duran said.

  Ted focused on Duran, the more reasonable of the two. He filled him in quickly on the conversation at the aborted lunch with the Judge. “She’s the patsy and I would think they’re paying her well not to tattle.”

  “Who the hell is Velma?” Kasabian asked.

  “Cheryl,” Ted said. “Try to keep up, Detective.” He looked back to Duran. “He wants Cheryl, and if he can’t have her, he’s going to take it out on everyone she’s covering for. He shot the Reisners. Where’s Councilman Pak? He’s got to be on the hit list.”

  Duran answered. “He’s with the feds explaining why he didn’t know anything about his assistant squeezing developers for bribes. That’s not an easy sell. He’ll be there for a while.”

  “Who’s left?” Ted said. “The fat Russian who bankrolled the whole operation? I would think right now he’s in Brighton Beach surrounded by a wall of bodyguards.”

  “That would be my guess,” Duran said. “Either there or the VIP lounge at JFK waiting for his flight out of the country.”

  “And then there’s the lawyer. Reisner’s lawyer. The one who made the cash payments, handing them to Cheryl in the ladies’ room at that overpriced steak place. Jacqueline Clavette. That’s the name you wanted, Detective,” Ted said with a nod to Kasabian. “But you’ll find, if you go after her, that she’s untouchable. Any assistant DA who tries to make a case against her will find him- or herself reassigned to traffic court.”

  “Where does she get that kind of juice?” Kasabian asked.

  Ted thought about telling him but decided against it. There was no point. “It’s all about favors.”

  Lester had been quiet and patient throughout. But he’d been following closely. “This is the guy you asked me about? The guy who tossed your apartment.”

  “Right,” Ted answered.

  “Nick Whatever. What was that all about?” Lester asked. “Why screw around with you? Was he working for the Russians or what?”

  “No. The Russians have their own muscle. I’ve been wrong about him all along. I think he was looking for those missing files. He wanted the money for Cheryl. He followed me for a while and leaned on me. When that didn’t work, he upped the stakes. By the way, did these two get you the files from Richie’s backpack?”

  “Yes,” Lester replied. “They’re legit.”

  Ted turned to Duran. “And have you been able to locate Barbara Miller?”

  “The NYPD has been a little busy today. This serial murderer has everybody’s attention.”

  “So what if he comes for you?” Lester asked.

  Ted had had a long time to think this through on the subway. “I’d rather not run into him—he’ll kill me if it’s easy—but he’s on a mission. I’m only the sideshow.”

  The little woman behind the counter yelled something in their direction. It could have been his name. “I think my food’s up.” He brought the two trays to the table and dug in. “Help yourselves,” he offered.

  “Supposing you’re right, why would he come here?” Kasabian asked.

  Ted swallowed a pork and chive dumpling and washed it down with the water. “Because the lawyer is here. Nicky must have tried her at work, but he got the automatic out-of-office response. So after he shot the Reisners, he went into Manhattan to try her at home. She wasn’t there either. Where else might a lawyer be found? Here. At the courthouse. Or next door at civil court. Supreme court for real estate, next door for her estate practice. This block is where Jackie does half or more of her business. He’s probably seen her here. Cheryl could have pointed her out.”

  They all turned their heads and stared out the window. Neither Jackie nor Stavros strode by.

  “Suppose he’s wrong,” Duran said, his eyes turning back to Ted. “Or you’re wrong.”

  “Jackie’s here,” he said. “Bank on it.” He reached for the noodles with his chopsticks, but Duran gripped his wrist.

  “Talk first,” the detective said.

  Ted snagged
a single noodle, put one end in his mouth, and sucked it in. He stared at the cop while he put his thoughts and suppositions in order. He knew he was right, but he needed them to believe. “Clavette doesn’t know she’s untouchable. It’s all about family and she’s an outsider. In her shoes, I’d feel the same. And she is looking at the whole conspiracy blowing up. The feds may have Cheryl, but there’s no way that Jackie is going to come out of this looking good. She not only passed along the bribes; she stole from a client. Conned the old lady out of millions. But she doesn’t panic. Our heroine is tough. She figures the only thing to do is to put the milk back in the bottle.”

  “Meaning?” Kasabian shot back.

  Lester got it. “Meaning she’s over at the courthouse replacing the missing files. Correcting the record. Breaking up the paper trail.”

  Ted stabbed another dumpling. “Covering her ass.”

  “And Nicky knows this how?” Duran asked.

  “He doesn’t have to, Detective,” Ted said. “He’s a predator. A cat doesn’t know why the mouse runs along the base of the wall, but he knows it will. Stavros isn’t smart—he’s cunning. He’s here because he knows one thing: Jackie was here before, and she will be again. And then he’ll pounce.”

  -75-

  Sutphin Boulevard was lined with storefronts providing legal services, meeting rooms, and food that could be prepared and consumed in the time allotted by an impatient judge. There had to be a dozen or more spots where a would-be assassin could watch for his victim.

  “So he’s getting a slice or a cup of coffee and watching the street. Just like us,” Kasabian said, his eyes sweeping the street again.

  Duran alone was a skeptic. He was staring fixedly at Ted, arms crossed over his chest. “This is all conjecture. The guy has to know he’s made himself famous. He’s running. And this lawyer lady could be anywhere. Maybe she’s in the wind, too.”

  “Molloy knows these people,” Kasabian said, with a nod in Ted’s direction.

  Ted appreciated the surprising support and so did not disagree, but there was always a hidden price to be paid for that cop’s assistance.