Her watch reminded her she was late for her meeting with her dad, and that got her anxious about what the next few hours would be like. Hopefully he’d lay off on anything adversarial or critical of her lifestyle; she didn’t need her father throwing her choices in her face, demanding accountability.
She swallowed the last of the bottle and threw it away, pulled on her helmet and prepared to enter the stream of traffic. The roads were hellish, in terrible condition, and treacherous for bicycles. Manhole covers, potholes the size of televisions, poorly spaced metal plates covering construction ruts, pools of oil and grease from collisions and spills—you name it, New York had it, usually all within a few blocks. It was like doing an obstacle course every day, where the hazards were real and usually moving at unsafe speeds in unexpected ways.
It was exhilarating. This was her town, her turf, and she was confident and strong, ready for anything.
It was time to see Daddy.
* * *
Gordon Samuels gazed out his window and considered the shimmering heat rising off the building adjacent to him. Hot day; he should be in the Hamptons, not his office slaving away at a terminal.
He smiled to himself, recalling last night’s adventure with his latest paramour, a very kinky Victoria’s Secret model from Ecuador, who he’d been seeing on and off for a month. She was twenty-three, half his age. That just made it better. Their unspoken arrangement was straightforward: she let him violate her in every way he could think of, and he paid for everything. If only all his life was that simple.
He returned his attention to the screen. He was acquiring the last round of options in the first three companies, and was jockeying the stock a bit to see if he could move the option price down. He’d shorted a million dollars worth of stock on an otherwise slow morning, instantly causing his target to drop a few points. There was a latency to the options pricing, so he probably wouldn’t get his lowball bids hit immediately, but he had all day. The overall market was in the toilet and heading lower, and the irony was that he’d likely not only get his options, but would make fifty thousand or so when he covered his short. Dumb luck. He could use more of it just now.
He was still worried about Myanmar and their faux pas, but hopefully the situation would resolve itself this week. His early warning system was in place at Treasury, so he’d immediately hear if the shit hit the fan. That meant the Asians would have a head start, giving them maneuvering room.
He put his feet up on his desk and stretched his arms over his head, cracked his neck. It was going to be another dog day in the city. He was glad he was inside.
Chapter 10
Inder assisted Robert out of the car and into his wheelchair. He helped him raise the metal grid protecting the storefront and then watched as Robert opened the shop door. Once Robert had wheeled himself safely inside, Inder got back in the car and drove off.
Robert flipped the master switch for the lights and illumination flooded the long narrow space, twinkling off the faces of the less expensive watches he kept in the cases. He busied himself with wiping down the glass tops till he heard the bell sound from the front. He spun his chair to face the entrance.
“Why, good morning, Jerome. Is it hot enough for you?”
“It sure is, Mr. G. I can’t recall a summer this warm.” Jerome was dabbing at beads of sweat sprouting on his forehead from the exertion of walking from the subway.
“Thank God the AC’s working. How was the weekend?” Robert inquired.
“All good, Mr. G, all good. The boy is really getting excited about college this year. I’m awfully proud of him,” Jerome said.
“You should be, Jerome, you should be.” Robert returned his attention to the cases. He was interrupted by the phone.
“Gideon Watch Gallery.”
“Robert, it’s Stan. How hangs it, my friend?”
“Good, Stan, can’t complain. And you?”
“Ach… wouldn’t do any good to kvetch. Who’d listen?” Stan observed.
“Too true, Stan. What’s up?”
“I talked to Saul, and he agreed to look at the bills for you. You can never be too careful, that’s what he thought. Are we still on for noon?” Stan asked.
Damn. He’d forgotten all about it. He’d have to get down to the bank. “Absolutely, Stan. Noon’s perfect.”
“I’ll see you then.” Stan hung up.
Inder had already left, and the bank was about four blocks away—and of course Nick wasn’t in yet. Then again, he wouldn’t send Nick anyway, not with that kind of money in the box. He trusted him completely, but not that completely. He supposed he’d have to wait for Nick, and then schlep himself the four blocks. What a pain in the ass.
As he mulled over the logistics, the bell sounded again. He turned his chair and smiled. He’d completely forgotten.
“Hi, Daddy,” Tess said, beaming at him as she removed her helmet and her glasses. “Hi, Jerome. Have you lost weight?” Jerome blushed and returned the smile.
“Hello, honey. I forgot it was our day. Has it already been a week?” Robert rolled towards her with his arms out. She looked so grown up, it surprised him every time he saw her.
“I don’t know if you want to hug me; I’m kind of icky from the heat,” she warned.
“Nonsense. Gimme some sugar,” Robert said.
Tess was always conflicted when she saw her father. She remembered him before the accident, in her teens, when they’d gone for runs through Central Park, and to the beach at Fire Island—done all the things people with working legs took for granted.
“You’re looking great, sweetie. You get more beautiful every time I see you.” Robert meant it. He got a lump in his throat whenever she came by; she looked so much like her mother it was eerie, but with a wilder, untamed attitude. Stubborn as a mule, too, just like Mom.
“Stop already. So what do you have planned for today, what’s the entertainment agenda for your poor deprived child?” she teased.
The door buzzer went off again. Nick made his entrance.
“Good morning, Mr. G. Hi, honey. Peace, Jerome.”
“Morning, Nick.” Robert turned back to Tess. “I have a favor to ask you, Tess. Could you run to the bank for me and pull something out of the safety deposit box? I have a friend coming by at noon to pick it up.”
“No sweat, Dad. It’s 10:15, so I’ve got plenty of time. What is it?” She didn’t tell him about taking the rest of the day off; she’d surprise him and take him to lunch.
“I need you to go into a paper bag you’ll find in the box, and pull four or five bills out. There’s a lot of money in the bag, big transaction, and I need to verify the cash is real.” She looked at him oddly. “It is, it is, but my friend’s driving me crazy to authenticate it, so I’m humoring him. You remember Stan?” Robert asked.
“Of course. Uncle Stan. I haven’t seen him in a year or two. How is he?” She asked. They weren’t related by blood, but he’d been like an uncle since she was little.
“Same as ever. Here, take the key. It’s box 3970, remember? You’re on the hand scanner.” He removed the key from around his neck where he kept it on a chain.
“I remember. How could I forget that whole deal? Very secure, Daddy, like Fort Knox.”
They chatted for a few minutes, staying away from any loaded topics. She congratulated Jerome on his son, Robert wanted to know how her loft was coming along, she asked how long until she’d get a dinner invitation from him. She glanced at the clock on the wall.
“I gotta get to the bank, Dad,” she announced.
“You want company?” Nick asked from behind the counter. They both looked at Robert.
“Go on, get out of here. Hurry up. Maybe bring me back a cup of coffee?” Robert requested.
“Vente, two sweeteners, nonfat milk. Got it, Mr. G.” Nick called out as they walked through the door.
“Bye, Daddy,” Tess waved over her shoulder.
“Bye, sweetheart,” he called out behind her.
; Too late; the door had closed.
* * *
Detective Stanford was sick of bike messengers. He’d seen every possible piercing and tattoo and self-mutilation, and had been sneered at and glared at by most, if not all, of the fine Red Cap crew. Half probably had sheets as long as their arms.
The big one, Duff, looked ganged up; the last one, Turbo, was jittery and high on something, probably meth.
None of the men seemed to want to spend time getting to know Ron on a personal basis, which bothered him not one iota. The women were, to a person, upset when he told them the news. One of their own had been claimed by the city’s dark side, and suddenly the “we’re the invincible samurais of the streets” shtick didn’t wear as well. The girls looked shocked and scared, but not much information was forthcoming. Apparently Loca kept to herself.
The men fell into three broad categories: dope-fiend losers who were quite possibly crazy and violent, poorly-educated survivors with no other options, and starving artists doing the messenger thing because of the flexible hours. The latter two groups made up forty percent, leaving sixty percent possible bad guys. He got weird vibes from a few of them and took notes for follow-up: his pad had six names with stars next to them, signifying background checks were in order. Potentially promising, presuming they didn’t bolt in the interim.
He thought about Tess again. What the hell was she doing hanging out with this bunch? Obviously had some authority issues she was working through, and the “go fuck yourself” attitude of the crew resonated with her, but she was one of the few who didn’t need the job. She was here because she liked it.
He didn’t get it.
She was stunningly good-looking and obviously intelligent—a potent blend for Ron. Truth was, he didn’t feel like a homicide detective when he thought about her. More like a lion tamer.
Back to business.
He still had a few more of the merry band to visit with, so he rubbed his eyes, poured more vile coffee, banished thoughts of Tess from his fragile psyche and called into the hallway to the next candidate for killer of the year.
“Stinger? Is there a Stinger out here?” Fuck. Where did they get these names?
Chapter 11
The two Asian men had been watching the street for an hour, window shopping, stopping in at the café in the middle of the block and getting some tea. The shorter one finished his sixth cigarette of the day, stamped it out on the pavement and nodded to his partner. They strolled across the street towards Robert’s shop, glancing in both directions to avoid traffic as well as to make a final sweep before going in.
Robert looked up as the door buzzer sounded and greeted the two men entering the shop.
“Welcome to Gideon Watch Gallery. Feel free to look around, or is there something specific I can help you find?”
The taller man bowed a little, from the waist, and replied in heavily accented English.
“Sank you. You Mistuh Gideon?” The man smiled as he asked.
“Yes, the one and only. What can I do for you?”
“Ehhh, you expert on watch, Patek Philippe, yes?”
“Yes, I am, depending on the vintage. I specialize in the more complicated and rare Pateks. What can I help you with?” Robert asked. This was good. Asians and their Pateks. Something in the water over there?
“You help me, look this?” The man approached, taking off his watch. From a distance it looked like an older moon phase Patek, conceivably worth well over a hundred grand, depending upon the model and complications. The man placed it carefully on the glass display case.
“That’s a beauty. A 3448. From the early sixties by the look of it. It’s an extremely rare and valuable piece—I just sold one for a quarter million dollars,” Robert explained.
The smaller man stood at the case by Jerome looking at the Rolexes. He stared at one and then pulled a business card and pen out of his pocket. A Mont Blanc pen, by the look of it. He held it up and shook it, apparently attempting to tell whether it was out of ink, then turned to Jerome and twisted the end cap. It made a phhht sound, like a small CO2 canister in a BB gun.
A tiny dart lodged squarely in Jerome’s meaty neck.
Developed for clandestine wet work, it was coated with a deadly toxin that induced immediate neuro-muscular paralysis and reliably shut down respiratory function within seconds.
Jerome dropped his book, but other than that appeared fine, even as he suffocated in silence. Completely aware, but dying nonetheless.
Robert was examining the watch with considerable concentration; he glanced over at Jerome at the sound of the paperback hitting the floor, but returned to the watch when he registered that Jerome had just dropped his book.
The little man was still studying the Rolexes with interest.
“A most unusual piece indeed; almost exactly like the one I sold. What an extraordinary coincidence. It’s in beautiful shape. You’re very brave to wear it on the street, it’s worth a fortune…” Robert noticed a small imperfection, a faint scratch near where the leather band joined the watch. He looked up at the man.
“This…this is the same watch.”
“Where is it?” The man asked softly.
“Where’s what? I don’t understand the question.” Robert was puzzled by the man’s interrogative. Where is it? What’s “it?”
The taller man nodded at his partner, who walked to the front door and turned the deadbolt.
“Where money?”
“What money? What are you talking about?” Robert was alarmed. Was this a robbery? He looked over at Jerome, who was sitting motionless, allowing these thugs to rob the shop.
“Money Kiu give you. For watches. Need money back.” The man walked around the counter and grabbed Robert’s wheelchair handles. Robert was too far away from the panic button that would bring the police; he couldn’t understand Jerome’s inaction. What was happening here?
“The money? It’s already at the bank. You think I keep it in the shop?” Robert was terrified but also furious at his helplessness. The man was pushing him towards the back room.
“We look in safe, we talk, you tell truth, yes?”
“No. Let me go at once. Stop this. The money’s at the bank.” They were now in his back room by the safe. The Asian grabbed a pair of pliers lying on the workbench, and casually leaned over and ripped Robert’s ear off, flipping it into his lap. Blood poured down his neck and he screamed with pain and outrage; the man swung the pliers and hit him in the face, opening a gash on his cheekbone.
“You quiet. Shut up! Open safe. Now.”
Robert was in agony, blood freely streaming down his face, his head on fire. He was shaking as he leaned over and turned the dial, fumbled with the lever, opened the safe. The Asian pushed him aside, causing him to fall out of the chair, and stared at the watches and cash in the safe. Twenties, hundreds, all well used.
He turned to Robert on the floor. Kicked him in the stomach. Kicked him in the head. Screamed at him.
“Where money?” Kicked him a third time.
“It’s…it’s…there’s a…safety deposit box…at my bank…”
“Where bank?”
“…Chase…fiftieth…” Robert was hurting.
“How you get in?” Another kick.
“They…my hand…they scan…” Robert held up his hand.
“Where key?”
Robert grimaced. “Not here.” The man retrieved the pliers from where he’d dropped them.
“Where key?” He waived them menacingly in Robert’s face.
“It’s not here. At my apartment,” Robert gasped. The Asian considered him; he was a professional, and knew when he was being lied to, even in a foreign language.
He stuck the pliers up Robert’s nose and ripped half his nostril off. A lance of white-hot pain shot through Robert’s skull, while a different throbbing pain began in his chest and shot down his arm and along his jaw. He threw up on the taller man’s shoes, fought for breath, couldn’t seem to catch it. Blood filled hi
s nasal cavity and sprayed with each expulsion of air, and then the pain receded as his vision blurred and dimmed.
The last thing Robert saw were his treasured Patek Philippes, lined up in his safe, gleaming, like little soldiers waiting for battle.
The smaller man entered and knelt next to Robert; he looked up at the taller man and said something terse in Burmese. The taller man swore. He scanned the room, grabbed the cash and watches out of the safe and handed them to the shorter man before systematically dismantling the back office looking for either a key or the cash. It took him five minutes to find neither.
They needed to get out of there. He considered cutting off one of Robert’s hands to get past the scanner, but without the key there was no point. The smaller man walked over to the ancient VCR that housed the security tape and hit the eject button; he’d seen the camera when they’d entered. He slipped the cassette into his I Love New York windbreaker, newly purchased in Times Square.
They cautiously approached the front door, and the smaller man pulled the tiny dart out of Jerome’s neck, dropped it into his wallet and then flipped the deadbolt open. The two men walked out onto the street and the taller man waved into the store, bowing slightly.
“Sank you. Sank you very much.” They walked down the remainder of the block, unhurriedly, and turned the corner.
* * *
Tess and Nick walked to the Exxon building on Seventh, the temperature already close to a hundred degrees, though it was early in the day. Once inside the bank vault they opened the safety deposit box and pulled the requested bills out of the bag, enjoying the air-conditioned respite from the street.
Tess was surprised by the amount of cash in the sack, but her dad had been doing this for a long time and knew what he was doing. She also noticed a few watch boxes, some insurance papers, a folder with some documentation in it, and a small black velvet box wedged in the far corner. She reached in and opened it.
Her mother’s engagement ring.
Fatal Exchange Page 8