by Gayle Lynds
He said nothing. He watched her.
She said, "I'm talking about a quick hundred. . ."
He gave a derisive snort
" . . . and ten thousand later. You know I have it, and you know I do what I say."
His reaction wasn't what she'd expected. Or maybe it was. He stopped walking, and for a moment he looked like the musical genius and older friend she'd known at Juilliard. Serious. Sober. Intelligent. They were the same height, and he leaned closer and gazed directly at her as if he'd just awakened from a long sleep.
He nodded. "I remember now. In the newspapers. You're in trouble, Julia. They say you're crazy. How bad is it?"
"Pretty bad."
"Yeah, ten thou says it's plenty bad." His eyes were red-rimmed from whatever drug he was doing. They seemed to soften. "Who do you want me to find?"
"Chief Superintendent Geoffrey Staffeld. He—"
"Yeah, the Scotland Yard tout. They must love the bastard at home." He finally grinned again. "When d'you need it?"
"Yesterday."
"I dunno." He pursed his lips. "This is going to be tough. Got a picture?"
"I don't want to hear you can't do this." She showed him the morning's New York Times with the photo of the chief superintendent. "He was at the Plaza yesterday afternoon. Then he left. I want to know where he went. An address. If it's a hotel, I'll need the room number because he'll be checked in under a fake name."
Graffy took the newspaper. "No guarantees. It'll help if he ordered up some nose candy or H, but I can get hotel clerks checked if I have to."
"Here's the down payment." She pulled out the one hundred dollars Sam had given her. As she pressed the bills into his hand, she said earnestly, "Graffy, I'm counting on you. You won't let me down, will you?"
He took the five twenties and shoved them into his pocket uncounted. "That's for expenses. I'll have to spread the nicker around some." Then he looked up and saw her worried face. "Hey, love, I've been around the block more times than a hundred cops or hookers. If the bloke can be found, I'll find 'im. The real question is, when do you give me the big bread?"
She nodded, still worried. "As soon as this whole disaster is resolved. Look at it as an incentive."
He cocked his head and grinned. "Good point. You got a number?"
"Not one I want to use. I can call you."
Graffy thought. "There's a Starbucks over on Seventh with a public phone outside. I take calls there sometimes. I'll give you a jingle when I've got something."
"When will that be?"
But Graffy was already shuffling away, his saxophone case hugged to his chest, back in his own private world.
7:27 AM, MONDAY
Geoffrey Staffeld's small hotel room was off Tenth Avenue in the Fifties in what was once called Hell's Kitchen. Now it was often known as Clinton or the West Side, where the new Worldwide Plaza had brought a sense of optimism, and the vicious Westies who'd terrorized the area for two decades were on the wane. Staffeld had chosen this particular hotel because it wasn't far from the Plaza but in a neighborhood where burglaries, drug dealing, prostitution, and murders still took a large toll.
A good place for a hunted man to hide.
He paced the room, fighting the old urges that were trying to build. They were almost impossible to deny. But this time it was too dangerous to find and use a child. The ounce of cocaine he'd managed to score would have to suffice.
He sweated. His suit was clammy and tight. He ran a shaky finger around the inside of his waistband. Tantalizing images of nude little boys floated before his eyes.
But now the coke was wearing off and he was jittery. He stalked to his briefcase and pulled out a pack of Player's cigarettes. He lit one. The room stank of mold. He went out into the hall again to use the pay phone to call his bank in Colombia to see whether the second six million dollars had arrived from Vince Redmond. It hadn't . He didn't like that. What did the bastards have up their sleeves? Whatever it was, it didn't matter. He was counting on Felix Turkov, killer par excellence, to be here soon.
7:30 AM, MONDAY
Julia waited for Sam near the Pond in Central Park. The temperature had risen, and the sun shone brilliantly. Ice floated around the edges of the water, the remnants of the night's bitter cold. The small floes seemed to melt and disappear as she watched. In the sunny respite, people filled the park—bicyclists, skateboarders, business women and men with takeout cups of coffee, and older people out for a stroll. The area was alive as only Central Park could be, gathering citified New Yorkers to its rolling hills and woodland tranquility.
But then she saw a policeman on horseback who seemed to be staring toward her. Instantly afraid, she made her feet stroll to a bench. She heard the horse's hooves clip-clopping on the pathway behind. She reminded herself she looked far different from the photographs that had been in the newspapers. But if he was looking for her, that was no guarantee.
She forced herself to sit down calmly on the bench, facing the pond. All her senses were alert. It almost seemed as if her hair stood on end as she waited for him to stop . . . or to pass by behind her. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, and propped her hands on either side of her face, apparently watching the water. It glistened steel blue with reflected sunlight.
The seconds seemed an eternity. She began to sweat. Her pulse sped.
His horse didn't slow. He passed behind her, continuing his patrol.
She breathed again, composing herself, and resisted the urge to turn. As the sound of his horse faded, she looked up with relief. He was gone. But a young man with a small brown bag biding an open bottle of alcohol slid in beside her. He pulled out an already rolled joint and offered it to her. "There's a party this afternoon—" He must have sensed her furtiveness.
She stood and walked away just in time to see Sam come around the corner, his long stride as distinctive as his lanky body. She felt a flush of relief and pleasure. She might not need him in the way he wanted, but some other kind of need was definitely growing inside her. Exciting memories of last night and this morning flashed through her mind, and she wondered what it all meant. He wasn't interested in commitment, and she wasn't either. But as she watched him catch sight of her and grin, she felt an old loneliness inside her ease.
He was carrying two shopping bags. "Did you find Graffy?"
As she told him about Graffy, they walked briskly to a nearby restroom. He liked having her next to him. While they'd been separated, he'd found himself deep in worry. He used to be afraid she'd be killed, just like Irini, because he wasn't there to protect her. But now it seemed somehow different. He was, less concerned about his guilt. What was paramount was her life.
He told her what was in her shopping bag.
She smiled. "That should do it."
She carried the bag into the restroom, waited in line, and then went into a stall. She put on army-surplus khaki wool trousers, a sweatshirt, a khaki wool jacket that was loose and blousy, and a black beret. There was a bottle of dark makeup the color of café au lait, too, and she spread it across her face, down her neck, and over the tops of her hands. She put the pepper spray in her pocket. It was the only weapon she had. She folded her blouse, trousers with the bullet hole in the leg, and the coat into the bag. She left it in a corner of the restroom, hoping someone who needed clothes would find it.
Sam was waiting outside whistling "Yankee Doodle Dandy," a jaunty tune from an earlier, more innocent era. He was wearing a navy pea coat, jeans, and a Mets cap. His complexion matched hers.
She smiled and said, "You're irrepressible."
"I thought I was sexy."
"Irrepressible and sexy."
He chuckled and took her hand. "What a beautiful complexion. Does it look as good on me as it does on you?"
"Better. You're much prettier."
He laughed, and they walked back toward Central Park South, each silently praying their new disguises would help keep them from being discovered.
8:42 AM,
MONDAY
They found the Seventh Avenue Starbucks with the nearby public phone Graffy had described. Sam bought them steaming cups of coffee. Up and down the block, smokers stood outside buildings lighting up. Traffic was its usual heavy roar, and shoppers were out in numbers to take advantage of the good weather.
"Do you think Graffy will come up with anything?" Sam wondered.
"He's made a life on those streets. If anyone outside the police can do it, he can."
"You think he'll actually call back?"
"For ten thousand dollars he'll call from the Great Beyond."
"You promised him ten thousand dollars? Man, you throw around money."
"Why not? It's yours."
Stunned, he stared at her.
She smiled. "Just kidding. He'll have to wait until we get this mess solved. Then I'll pay him."
Sam nodded. "It's pleasant having a rich girlfriend."
She chuckled. "And smart, too. I'll feel real smart if I'm right about Graffy."
"Now I'm worried."
Her voice was grave. "Me, too."
They continued to drink coffee and stare at the telephone, but it didn't ring.
48
10:49 AM, MONDAY
Unable to drink any more coffee, Julia and Sam waited anxiously in the shadows near the telephone booth outside the Starbucks on Seventh Avenue, willing the phone to ring. The sun beat down cool and flinty. The air smelled of gasoline fumes. Car horns honked, and in the distance an ambulance siren wailed.
Julia was saying, ". . . so after Ione Schwartz told me how much Grandpa wanted to escape, we talked, and it turns out Grandpa Austrian and Grandpa Redmond were stationed together at the end of World War Two in southern Germany."
Sam raised his makeup-darkened brows. "That means they were likely on the Swiss border together, because I've confirmed that's where Daniel Austrian was. Which means they both had access to Zurich—"
Julia interrupted. "And I was wrong about the Austrians always being rich—" It pained her, because she'd wanted to believe Grandpa Austrian was the honest, upright man he'd always seemed. But her faith had evaporated as quickly as the ice on the Pond as she'd listened to Ione Schwartz's story about the young, penniless Dan Austrian who'd so desperately wanted what poverty had denied him. "The Austrians lost all their money. Daniel Austrian was poor before the war. So I don't see how he could've bankrolled his and Grandpa Redmond's development company afterwards."
"Unless—"
She nodded miserably. "Unless he stole Himmler's treasure. I've got to know the truth and what it has to do with everything that's happening now." For a moment her pulse accelerated. She thought she heard the phone ring, but it was only a passing bicycle. "I wish I could think where Grandpa Redmond would go. I don't know where else to check besides all the Franciscan churches." And yet an idea niggled at the back of her mind—someplace that was logical. "I suppose the question we should ask is: What does Grandpa hope to accomplish by escaping? Prove he's competent? Get revenge on my uncles? He's feisty enough to confront them and fight it out with his fists."
Sam suddenly had an unpleasant idea. "If he did escape. What if it was all an elaborate fake? They knew you'd show up and had an act prepared. There's no Father Michael, just someone in a Franciscan habit, and your grandfather's dead."
"Sam! Stop it."
"The curse of the Amber Room," Sam said grimly. "I never told you about that. One theory of what happened to the room was it was shipped to Danzig near the end of the war and loaded onto a ship—the Wilhelm Gustloff. A Soviet sub torpedoed the ship. If the amber panels were on board, they sank and were lost. Worse, nearly eight thousand passengers drowned, too. It was the world's greatest sea disaster—five times as many victims as on the Titanic."
"That's horrible."
"Remember Dr. Rohde?"
"The director of the Königsberg Castle art collection? The German in charge of keeping the Amber Room safe?"
Sam nodded. "Rohde committed suicide in a hospital in 1945."
"No!"
"I told you about Professor Brusov, too. The Kremlin sent him to Königsberg to find out what really happened to the room. When he couldn't find it, they recalled him to Moscow, and almost immediately he had a heart attack and died. And later Georg Stein, a German who was also looking for the room, committed suicide, too." His handsome face in the dark makeup was pensive. "The 'Curse of the Amber Room' they started calling the deaths. Then there was Selvester Maas, who was murdered, and maybe Daniel Austrian and now Lyle Redmond, too."
"Grandfather Redmond can't be dead! They wouldn't dare—"
The pay phone rang. It seemed as loud as the peal of Big Ben. Julia bolted for it and clenched the receiver to her ear. Sam took root beside her, intense, anxious, looking all around.
She said quickly into the phone, "You found him?"
Graffy's voice was angry and scared. "Bloody hell, Julia! What'd you get me into? You better have that ten grand and traveling money on top."
"Did you find Staffeld?"
"Did I sniff out the turd? That's all? It cost me your hundred and another hundred on top, which I don't have, and then they bloody damn tried to kill me!"
"Who tried to kill you?"
"How the fuck should I know? Two hard men, that's all I got. If I didn't know my way around that hotel, and if Reuben didn't think it was the fucking DEA raiding, I'd be dead. Now Reuben's looking for me, too. He thinks I brought them down on him and wants my head sliced neat on a plate."
Julia cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to Sam, "His pusher's after him, and two men tried to kill him. He must've traced Staffeld through his drug connection." She spoke again into the receiver. "Graffy, I'm sorry. I never thought there was any danger. I'll make it up to you, but . . . did you find him?"
Graffy's voice dripped with disgust. "When do I get the bloody nick?"
"I can't give it to you now. It'll take me a few days—"
There was a long silence. She could hear rapid breathing and almost smell Graffy's sweat. "Shit, maybe it's best. I can always find you, Julia, my girl. Besides I'll travel lighter and faster without having to protect so many Gs. I'll be in touch."
She pleaded, "Graffy?"
"Chieftain Hotel in Hell's Kitchen. Room three-C." He gave her the address. "Now I'm gone." A pause. "Watch your back, love. Whoever those two guys are, they're hard-noses. Real hard."
"Thanks, Graffy. You'll get every penny of the ten thousand dollars."
But the phone had gone dead. She hung up and told Sam the address.
10:50 AM, MONDAY
Geoffrey Staffeld had just finished calling his bank in Colombia again. The second half of his money still hadn't arrived. Filled with rage, he checked his watch, but he already knew the answer. Vince Redmond's twenty-four hours were more than up.
He stalked from the dimly lighted hotel corridor back into his room. He stood unseeing at the grimy window and snapped his lighter beneath his cigarette. He puffed deeply. As the irrational part of his fury eased, he decided he'd stay a half hour longer. No more. That's all he'd give Turkov. He should've had Turkov with him from the start. A half hour. No more.
But he knew he was whistling in a graveyard. He had a pain in his gut that told him Turkov wasn't coming. The bloody killer had taken his money but wasn't going to follow through with his services. Or the Redmonds had gotten to him. It added up to the same thing. So much for a faithful pit bull, he thought bitterly. Since the Cold War had ended, you couldn't trust anyone.
He thought about Calla back at home. In his mind, he always saw her in her apron and gardening gloves, pruning the roses, a haughty English matron. He could see their sitting room covered with photos of their four children. With hot pride he remembered how he'd kept his hands from them, never touched them. But he'd bought that peace in the gutters and alleys of the Continent with the shining faces and smooth, nubile bodies of other people's children. Especially little boys.
Even now he s
urged with need. His brain pounded with it. His skin crawled. The need would tear at his body until he found another child. He inhaled his Player's cigarette again. Pressure. . . stress. . . whatever the latest idiot guru wanted to call it . . . was his downfall. No one could deal with the disgusting crimes, the smarmy office politics, and his straitlaced lifestyle without an outlet. He knew intellectually it was wrong. But the rest of him screamed for release.
He took three quick drags on his cigarette and grabbed his briefcase. He had to get out of here. In any case, he had the Redmonds' four million dollars to play with. It would have to be enough. He and Calla could lose themselves in the South Pacific. He only had to escape New York.
He headed for the door.
The knock was light, more like a signal.
Turkov. It had to be Felix Turkov. Eagerly he yanked the door open. "Felix. . ."
Like well-trained killer dogs, four dark-clothed, well-armed intruders burst in, hurled him down on the bed, and ripped away his Beretta.
"Who are you?" he demanded, shaken. "What do you want!"
They were silent. Each seemed to know exactly what to do. The lone woman carried another briefcase. She set it on the table. The briefcase was identical to the one he carried. The one from Heathrow and Vince Redmond. One man went into the bathroom and returned. The two largest men pinned down Staffeld's shoulders and arms. They wore padded gloves so he'd show no bruises.
Terror exploded through him. "Stop!" He struggled, tried to raise a hammy fist, but he'd gone too soft. "Do you know who I am? Hurt me, and Scotland Yard will hound you into the ground!"
They ignored him. The woman laughed and began to strip off Staffeld's clothes. All his demanding pent-up needs vanished. As the faces of long-forgotten victims paraded through his brain, Staffeld broke out in an intense sweat that reeked of fear.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "It's not too late. Isn't it enough that I'm sorry?"
11:20 AM, MONDAY
Julia hadn't been in Hell's Kitchen in years. Sandwiched between the glitter of Broadway and the wide Hudson River, the area had improved from when she last had her eyesight and crime had ruled the streets with a magnitude that overwhelmed most police efforts. But now some century-old tenement buildings had been renovated, and there were nice shops and restaurants among the locksmiths and delis. Julia and Sam passed Bruno, the King of Ravioli on Ninth, where the aroma of hot bread perfumed the air.