by Lis Wiehl
“I don’t.”
“We don’t use any nonsense like hard-boiled eggs or chopped onions! Take a piece of toast, spread with butter, top with caviar—and eat! Enjoy! Live!” Each exclamation is punctuated with a shot of vodka.
Erica follows his directions with the black caviar. The deeply salty, fishy taste is a little off-putting at first bite—and more so at second. She politely tries the red and then says, “Delicious.”
“Perhaps you will put our caviar on the television set, Erica Sparks!”
“I’m here for a reason.”
“Everyone is everywhere for a reason.”
“I’m looking for Anton Volodin.”
Gorev’s head jerks slightly, then he walks over and helps himself to a heaping serving of caviar. “Very nice young man. I miss him. He worked for one of my other businesses.”
“What business would that be?”
“Automobile repair and salvage. There are so many automobiles in America. They are all over the streets.”
“You say you miss him. Where did he go?”
“Anton went back to Russia.”
“He’s wanted for questioning in a brutal assault on a colleague of mine, Mark Benton.”
Something flashes in Gorev’s eyes—something that makes Vladimir Putin look like Johnny Appleseed. “Anton? Assault? No. Never. He’s a sweet Russian boy.”
“The police have video footage of him leaving the scene of the assault with Benton’s computer case.” Slight exaggeration—the footage shows him at the subway station just after the assault—but they’re not playing footsie here. “Are you sure he’s back in Russia?”
“Of course I am sure.”
“When did he leave the country?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I am a busy man. Maybe two weeks ago. I have many employees. I don’t keep track. You ask a lot of questions, Erica Sparks.”
“I’m a journalist.”
“What is it you say in America? . . . Curiosity killed the cat.”
“Satisfaction brought her back.”
Gorev breaks into a satisfied smile, and Erica has the feeling she’s just stepped into a cat-trap. He goes to his desk and presses an intercom. “Peter!”
Within moments a sweaty, obsequious middle-aged man in a too-tight suit appears. He looks vaguely terrified.
“I want to speak to Anton Volodin.”
“Of course, Leonid, of course.”
Peter sits down at the ornate desk, presses a button, and a large TV screen rises out of a console. Then he takes a laptop out of a desk drawer, does some typing, and Skype appears on the screen. Ringing. The ringing is answered—a sexy, heavily made-up woman with some serious mileage on her, wearing a negligee and sitting on a sofa, appears on-screen. She and Peter exchange words in Russian. She turns her head and calls out. Anton Volodin appears, disheveled and shirtless, and plops down beside the woman, putting an arm around her shoulders. He’s twenty years younger than she is, and his smile at the camera is louche and lascivious.
Gorev walks behind Peter, puts his hands down on the desk, and leans into the frame. “Hello, Anton.”
“Leonid! Hello.”
“There is a beautiful woman here who I want you to meet. Her name is Erica Sparks.”
“Hello, Erica Sparks, beautiful woman,” Anton says, laughing, all sleazy male ego.
The pervasive decadence of the whole scene is starting to turn Erica’s stomach. This man almost killed Mark Benton, Leonid Gorev was almost certainly an accomplice, and yet here they are smug and laughing, surrounded by mounds of caviar, opulence, and indulgence.
“Erica Sparks has a crazy idea that you beat up a man,” Gorev says.
They laugh again. “That is silly, Erica Sparks. I am a pussycat.” He licks the woman’s neck, and she arches her back and moans.
Erica stands up, says, “I’ve seen enough,” and walks out of the room, trailed by their laughter.
As the car makes its way back to Manhattan, Erica calls Rusk Rehab.
“Mark Benton’s room. This is Chuck Benton.”
“Hi, Chuck, it’s Erica. How’s my friend doing today?”
“Obsessed. I can’t get him off of his computer.”
“That’s a good thing, no?”
“That’s a very good thing. Marie and I feel like we’re getting our son back.”
“Can I talk to him a minute?”
“Sure thing.”
“Hi, E-ri-ca.”
“I was wondering if you could hack into someone’s Skype account.”
“N-not easy . . . but d-d-doable.”
“His name is Leonid Gorev. G-o-r-e-v. I need the last number he called, about ten minutes ago. It should be a number in Moscow and it should belong to one Anton Volodin. Also, any information you could find on Volodin would be helpful.”
“I’m o-on it.”
Erica hangs up. As her car makes its way up West Street, she looks out at the mighty Hudson and hears echoes of the Russians’ taunting laughter. It reminds her of something, something she can’t quite place. She feels like she just came face-to-face with venality, mendacity—the human spirit at its ugliest and most depraved. And that’s when she realizes what the mocking laughter reminds her of—the sounds she heard on the other side of the flimsy plasterboard for the first seventeen years of her life.
CHAPTER 59
ERICA CALLED THE REAL ESTATE agent Greg recommended and now she’s walking through a bright, spacious bedroom in the West Eighty-First Street apartment she admired online. She imagines where Jenny’s bed would go—and her bookcase and dresser and desk with a bulletin board above it filled with pictures of boy bands and animals and ideas. Then she inspects the walk-in closet and imagines it filled with Jenny’s dresses and shoes and sweaters. She walks to the window and looks down at the Museum of Natural History, surrounded by its gracious park in the full blush of spring. Jenny has always loved science, and she’d be able to walk across the street and be immersed and inspired.
Erica walks down the wide hallway to the living room—the place is even lovelier in person than it was in the pictures, filled with south light, large and welcoming rooms, high ceilings, floors of honey-colored oak, French doors into the dining room, and a beautiful carved mantel over the fireplace. Erica walks through the kitchen—it’s done in black and white and looks more than adequate for someone who believes that takeout food is one of mankind’s great evolutionary leaps. There’s a doorman downstairs. The building is impeccably maintained and exudes a sense of security and stability, which is so important for Jenny—and for her mother. Erica imagines them at home here together, sharing a wonderful life—a secure and stable life. Life can be secure and stable. Can’t it? Even in a world where someone puts a dying rat on your desk.
Erica feels a growing sense of doubt about her position at GNN—clearly Nylan is trying to stop her investigations, to frighten her, undermine her confidence, play sick head games on her. She wants to buy an apartment fast; once it’s in her name, he’ll have a tough time getting it back. Her housing allowance will pay for it, and no matter what happens she’ll walk away with a juicy piece of Manhattan real estate. Two can play this game of wits, Mr. Hastings, no matter how high the stakes.
Madge Miller, in her sixties, glasses around her neck, simple blue dress, looking more like a librarian than a real estate agent, gestures Erica to the back of the kitchen, where there’s a service entrance and a set of folding doors. “Ta-da!” she says, opening the doors to reveal a washer and dryer.
“Sold!” Erica says, and Madge smiles indu
lgently. “No, seriously, sold. I’d like to make a full-price, all-cash offer.”
Madge is nonplussed. “Don’t go anywhere,” she says, taking out her cell phone and walking into the living room.
Erica opens the service entrance, the apartment’s back door. There’s a small landing with an elevator, two large trash barrels, and doors leading to two other apartments. The landing is painted battleship gray, dark and claustrophobic. It looks grimy and smells faintly of trash. Erica gets a creepy feeling at the back of her neck. Someone could sneak onto that service elevator, ride up here, break into the apartment. Kidnap Jenny. Harm Jenny. Harm Erica. She quickly shuts and bolts the door. She’ll add another lock.
“The apartment is yours,” Madge says, coming into the kitchen. “Let’s head over to the office and get started on the paperwork.”
As they walk through the foyer toward the front door, Erica turns and takes a look back at the empty apartment. Instead of the safe, secure place she saw just fifteen minutes earlier, the quiet, echoing rooms and slanting afternoon sun seem to hold menace and danger—the pristine setting for some terrible crime.
Erica leaves Madge’s Upper East Side office after formalizing her offer with a check for $175,000, 10 percent of the purchase price. She feels a combination of trepidation and triumph. As she walks downtown toward GNN, her prepaid rings—it’s Detective Takahashi.
“Listen, Erica, there’ve been some developments with Miguel Fuentes. The DA has offered him a deal if he’ll talk. We won’t charge him with first-degree murder, meaning there’ll be no chance he’d get the death penalty or life in prison.”
“Has his lawyer responded?”
“We’re waiting. But we’re optimistic he’ll take it. The case against him is strong. DNA doesn’t lie. Either way, we’ve scheduled an interrogation. It’s a tool to force an answer. If he accepts the deal, he’ll talk freely. If he doesn’t, he’ll sit there with his lawyer and we’ll try and scare the hell out of both of them with our evidence.”
“When’s the interrogation?”
“It’s at one p.m. our time today.”
“Is there any chance you can patch me in so I can watch?”
There’s a pause and then, “I guess you didn’t get where you are by being a shrinking violet.”
“Barrish died in my arms, Detective.”
“Yeah. I’ll do it.”
“Much appreciated.”
“But it’s just for you. None of it can be broadcast without the DA’s and the LAPD’s consent.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll call you fifteen minutes before to confirm.”
Back in her office Erica sits making notes for her meeting with Morris Ernst, the lawyer who will be handling her petition for custody of Jenny. She’s told him she wants to play softball—her great concern is that the negotiations may traumatize Jenny, and that’s not acceptable. She also leaves a message for Detective George Samuels, asking him to call her.
Greg appears in her doorway. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
His face darkens, and for a moment he looks like he wants to say something but then decides not to. He switches gears. “Do you have a minute? I want to go over a list of possible guests for your first show.”
“No time like the present.”
He comes in and sits across from her. “I lied,” he confesses with a disarming smile.
“Shame on you.”
“Well, I do have a list. At the top of it is ‘Spend more time with Erica.’ ”
“Funny—there are days when I wish I could spend less time with Erica.”
“She’s a busy gal,” Greg says.
“All work and no play—”
“—makes Erica a lonely girl?”
She looks into his eyes and sees a touching insecurity. Men, for all their bluster in the public square, are filled with private doubts and vulnerability. If only more of them could admit it. Erica nods.
“How about we be lonely together?” Greg says.
“I want that, Greg. But I’m up to here with show prep, I’m buying an apartment, seeing a lawyer about reworking my custody arrangement with my ex, and dealing with rats—dead and alive.”
“You have to breathe. We could go on a nice, innocent date—see a Broadway show, go down to Chinatown for dinner, explore Williamsburg.” He leans forward, elbows on knees, looks so sincere and hopeful and adorable.
“I’m afraid a nice, innocent date is the last thing I have time for.”
Greg frowns in frustration.
Erica gets up, walks to the office door, and closes it. “A nice, romantic date, on the other hand, could maybe be arranged.”
CHAPTER 60
THE CAMERA FEED FROM THE LAPD interrogation room is a little grainy. A glum and handcuffed Miguel Fuentes and his lawyer sit on one side of a conference table, Betsy Takahashi and an assistant DA sit across from them. Erica is in her office with the door shut, riveted to her computer screen.
“Miguel, we’re glad that you’ve decided to accept our plea deal,” the DA says. “What we would like you to do is walk us through everything that you know about the murders of Kay Barrish and Arturo Yanez.”
“I don’t know anything about the murder of Kay Barrish.”
“You know that Arturo Yanez was paid to murder her?”
Fuentes nods.
“So you do know something about Barrish’s murder. The more open and honest you can be with us, the easier this will be for all of us. Did you make the original contact with Yanez?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
Fuentes hesitates before saying glumly, “Ricky Martinez.” Sweat breaks out on his brow. He may have just signed his death warrant.
“Is Martinez a member of Nortenos?”
“Yes. He is above me.”
“Have you done jobs with him before?”
“Yes.”
The DA turns to Takahashi. “Get a warrant and an APB out on Martinez.”
Takahashi leaves the room, and everyone waits silently until she returns about ninety seconds later.
The DA continues. “Was Martinez in the car with you when you picked up Yanez at the bus stop on Santa Monica Boulevard?”
“Yes. I was driving.”
“How did Martinez find Yanez?”
“They are both from Juarez. From the same street. Ricky knew that Arturo’s mother was sick and that he needed money bad.”
“After you picked Yanez up, did you drive straight out to the desert?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you kill him?”
“I did not kill him!”
“So Martinez fired the shot?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the desert.”
“And what did he do with the gun?”
“He buried it in the desert.”
“At the spot where you dumped his body?”
Fuentes slumps forward, a look of self-pitying regret on his face. “Yes.”
“So you drove into the desert, Martinez opened the trunk, shot Yanez, and buried the gun?”
Fuentes puts his head in his hands, looks like he might throw up.
“Answer the question.”
“Yes.”
“And then you drove back to Covina and abandoned the car?”
“Yes.”
“Wh
o stole the car from the beach parking lot?”
“I did.”
“All right, Miguel. Thank you for your cooperation. Now I want to ask you a very important question. And I want you to think before you answer. Will you do that?” the DA asks.
Miguel nods.
“Do you know who contacted Ricky Martinez to find Yanez in the first place?”
Erica leans forward, studies Fuentes’s face.
“I don’t know . . .” Fuentes says, and it’s obvious he’s lying.
“Think hard, Miguel.”
“I don’t know,” he says in exasperation, looking like he might start to cry.
His lawyer leans in and whispers in his ear. Fuentes takes a deep breath. “All I know is a man came from the East, from New York, he met with Ricky, he knows Ricky. That is all I know.”
The DA waits. Lets him sweat. The seconds tick by.
Finally: “They will kill me, even in prison they will kill me. They are the hardest of all.” Now Fuentes looks afraid, very afraid.
“Who are?” the DA asks. Again no answer. The DA waits. And waits. Finally he says, “We can arrange for protection for you in prison. Put you in a segregated unit. But you have to tell us everything you know.”
More waiting. More sweating. More seconds ticking by. “He has money. Lots of money. He gives everyone money. He gets what he wants.”
“Who is he?!” the DA barks.
“I never met him! His name is Leonard Gorf or something! I don’t know! All I know is—he is fat and rich and Russian and he lives in New York!”
For a moment Erica feels like the world has stopped. Then she feels a jolt of pure adrenaline rock her body. One more layer of the onion has been peeled back—and there is Leonid Gorev. The Devil’s Brotherhood.
On-screen, the Los Angeles interrogation ends. Erica immediately calls Detective George Samuels. “Can we find out if a Leonid Gorev flew out to Los Angeles anytime in the month before May second, the day Barrish was killed?”
“We can try.”
“Can you meet me tomorrow? I want to go over an idea I have.”