The Crasher

  “I’ll help you find him, Ginny,” he said slowly. He came over to her and took her in his arms. “No more depression. Put on your glad rags. We’re going to hit the town.”

  A flashbulb went off as they left the loft, she in the sleeveless copper-colored tunic, with sheer dark brown hose.

  The ice was broken. She threw back her head and smiled. So she’d get used to being photographed; she’d get backing for her designs; Johnny or his father would find Alex, who would prove his innocence in Svank’s death; and everyone would live happily ever after.

  They walked hand in hand toward a new bistro, Erica’s, where Johnny said the homemade pâté and fresh French bread would make a new woman of her. She tried to shake off the feeling they were being followed. She’d already showed Johnny too much of a sad-sack side and she didn’t want to spoil the evening. On the way back to the loft the feeling persisted. She told herself she was being paranoid.

  To her surprise, Johnny told her he couldn’t stay the night. “Something’s come up-I have to go back to Washington at the crack of dawn.” Even so, he didn’t leave until nearly two A.M., so she was still asleep when her mother woke her with a call around nine the next morning.

  “Ginny, have you heard from Alex since we last spoke? Do you know where he is?” Her mother’s voice wobbled the way it always did when she was worried.

  “No, I wish I did.” Ginny was about to tell her mother about Alex’s visit, supposedly on the way to the funeral, when there was a loud click on the line.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, Mother. What about Alex?” Another click, faint this time.

  “Someone from the FBI was here,” Virginia Walker whispered into the phone. “He wanted to know if we’d seen him. I told him about the last visit-”

  “Did you tell him about London, about the story in the-” There was the faint click again. Ginny stopped, frowning, fully awake now, tense. Prickly sweat dripped down her back. “Mums, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back.”

  “Oh, Ginny, do you have to? I really need to talk to you now.”

  “I’ll call you back, Mums, really I will,” she said softly. “In less than an hour, when I go out. Love you.”

  Ginny hung up and stared at the phone, which had suddenly become an enemy.

  She wasn’t being paranoid.

  The night before she had been followed and now her phone was being tapped.

  Like Alex, she was under somebody’s surveillance.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  7 WEST 43RD STREET, NEW YORK CITY

  “Vladamir Owzvankigori…” Quentin Peet enunciated each syllable precisely and with relish. “What an absolutely perfect specimen of evil in mankind.” He paused dramatically, waiting for Johnny to put down his glass.

  “D’you know, Johnny, I have a theory. It can never be proved, of course, but I believe Mr. Owzvankigori attributed the end of the Cold War more to Gorbachev’s weakness than to American strategy and tenacity. Around that time-in eighty-eight or eighty-nine-in order not to make a similar mistake and risk the collapse of his own considerable empire, he began to use the strong-armed methods of another Georgian bandit, Dzhugashvili, or Koba as he also was known between his many arrests and escapes. If Koba had nine lives, Owzvankigori surely had twenty…”

  Johnny knew better than to interrupt his father. He didn’t know what on earth he was talking about, but he did know that in his own good time, QP would come to his point, and it would be a good one.

  Meanwhile the evening, which he’d dreaded since receiving his father’s fax, was turning into something he never expected, a warm and wonderful occasion, without one cross word so far. His father was in a rare, expansive mood, encouraging him to talk about himself, seeming genuinely interested in everything he had to say.

  He’d summoned up his courage to tell him about the book on modern society he was halfway through; with the help of a young woman, who, he was surprised to find himself saying, “I’ve become very fond of…” So far, he hadn’t gone any further.

  He hadn’t seen his father since the momentous night at the library. Nothing unusual in that He only had to pick up the paper to know, more or less, where QP was or where he’d been, as usual risking his neck in the world’s biggest trouble spots, in and out of Bosnia and, igniting a quickly burned out flash of envy, in Bogotá, Colombia.

  Then the fax had arrived, giving him a choice of three dates for dinner, something unusual in itself; his father usually took for granted that he would be free to see him whenever he suggested-or rather commanded-it. The fax had added he had “something important to discuss.”

  Johnny had been on tenterhooks, waiting for the “something” to drop with the impact of a bomb all through the three courses. Now, mellow and increasingly relaxed with good wine and food, he was actually sorry the evening was drawing to a close.

  In the dimly lit, hushed library where they were having coffee and after-dinner drinks, Peet beckoned to the waiter to refill their glasses with the Cockburn reserve port, kept in a special bin for him and a few other connoisseurs, at this, his favorite club.

  He settled back against the comfortable old leather armchair, savoring the deep, ruby-red liquid. “Of course, you know who I’m referring to, son, one of the most brilliant minds of the decade, Vladamir Owzvankigori, otherwise known as Svank. He will go down in the annals of the twentieth century as one of the most Machiavellian, brilliant hoods in history.”

  Johnny nodded dutifully. “And Dzhug… whatisname… Koba the Greek, where does he come in?”

  Quentin Peet let out a great roar of a laugh, which Johnny attributed more to the amount of alcohol his father had consumed than to the wit of his question. “No vacillating Greek, son. Dzhugashvili was born in Georgia, where it’s believed Svank came from, Dzhugashvili, who changed his name to Koba and then to Stalin, man of steel. Svank liked that. I think Stalin, the old man of steel, became his role model during the last decade, when-it’s just beginning to be understood—Svank did away brutally with anyone he thought stood in his path, old friends, associates, wives, mistresses, you name it….”

  His father’s tone grew more serious. “My spies tell me you’ve been on the Svank trail, too. Have to admit, Johnny, I didn’t like it much when I first heard about it… made me realize”—he swallowed down more of the port—“made me realize I haven’t been much of a father, haven’t kept in touch as I should, but perhaps I’m not such a swine after all. I was worried, you know, thought you might get hurt.” He leaned over and clumsily patted Johnny’s knee. “Don’t get in too deep, Johnny. Svank’s gone, but the cesspool he created is still very much there”

  Johnny flushed. He couldn’t remember such a demonstration of affection from his father in years. In fact, he couldn’t ever remember his father showing so clearly how he felt. Was it a sign of old age? There was no physical sign of aging. Quentin Peet looked as lean, fit and elegantly handsome as ever, his hair thick and dark with only a trace of silver at the hairline. If only his own hair were as thick. He looked with open admiration at his father, all the old feelings of wanting his love and approbation surging back, stronger than ever before.

  “I don’t know what you heard, Dad, but yes, I have been following up a few leads. Is that what you wanted to discuss?”

  His father nodded somberly. “Yes, that and something else about my own future.” He leaned back and shut his eyes; it was an effective and simple way, Johnny remembered from years back, of getting a person’s total attention, particularly at home, whenever QP wanted something from his mother.

  He shook the thought away and after a minute or so, his father opened his eyes and stared intently at him. “You learn anything from the Art Loss Register?”

  Johnny laughed. How could he ever have thought he could tell his father anything! He never missed a trick. “I have to tell you, Dad, not that long ago I came back from Washington pretty pleased with myself, thinking I might actually be able to tell you something you
didn’t know about the Svank case. How on earth did you know I’ve been working with the Art Loss guys?”

  “I know everything, son. Leave it alone. Svank set up this worldwide network, first to locate and then to steal major works of art and precious stones to use as collateral for massive amounts of currency for drugs and to set up new areas of drug distribution. I’ve been working with the DEA and the FBI for a long, long time. I tell you it involves some of the most bestial members of the human race. I wouldn’t want to see you become the object of their attention. I don’t need to tell you what happened to Delchetto, do I?”

  Flushed with pride that his father was sharing stories with him and talking to him as an equal, Johnny said excitedly, “I couldn’t believe it, that before he got hit, Delchetto had gone over to the other side. It didn’t do him any good.”

  Peet shrugged. “Few lived trying to get the better of Svank.”

  “Somebody did-the guy who managed to give him the big push. I always knew it couldn’t be Stern.” Johnny thought about Ginny and made up his mind. “Dad, there’s someone I do want to tell you about, someone who could even turn out to be a prime suspect.”

  “Who?”

  Johnny leaned forward. “The girl I mentioned, the one I’m working with on the book, you might as well know now, it’s Ginny Walker, the girl described as the crasher, who came forward to back up Stern’s alibi and got him off the hook.”

  “Well, well, well:”

  Johnny couldn’t read his father’s expression, but he didn’t care. He plunged on.

  “I want you to meet her one day. She’s a talented dress designer-and that’s part of the story behind her crashing. I’m just finishing up a piece for the magazine which explains all that”

  “So it was your girlfriend with Stern, who witnessed the murder?”

  “Yes, just as it said in the papers. Stern was trying to make out… she ran away, left her cloak behind…”

  “What else did she see?”

  Johnny hesitated. “I don’t know. I think she’s covering up something. Or someone. You’re not going to believe this, but it turns out her cousin is Alex Rossiter.”

  His father raised his eyebrows. “Rossiter?”

  “Yep, I thought you might have heard his name. Well, listen to this…” Johnny related the whole story that Ginny had told him earlier, about the Villeneva jewels and the probability that Alex had stashed them away in Ginny’s loft until the heat was off. “Petersh, on Svank’s case from homicide, is looking for Rossiter… everyone’s looking for him, but he’s as slippery as an eel…” He paused, his old shyness creeping over him. “I promised Ginny I’d ask if you could help find him.” He never thought he’d ever hear himself asking his father for a favor, but he added, “Not surprisingly, she thinks you can do anything, including walk on water.”

  A heavy silence settled between the two men. Johnny hoped he hadn’t blown their newfound camaraderie, but no, to his flushed delight, his father finally said carefully, “I may be able to do just that for your lady friend, Johnny. What did you say her name was? Ginny Walker?”

  Johnny nodded proudly.

  “An old pal of mine, Patrick O’Neill, may know something he isn’t telling me.”

  “Isn’t he the new C.O. of the Major Case Squad?”

  “He is indeed, and very anxious to get this Svank case neatly tied up. What Pat doesn’t know is, I saved one of his boys’ hides a few years back. You know my old pal, Freddy Forrester.”

  It wasn’t a question, and Johnny nodded, embarrassed, sure his father was going to take him to task for contacting Forrester, but leaning forward in a confiding way, Quentin Peet said, “What you don’t know, because nobody knows, is Freddy was getting hooked on the fancy little white stuff he was supposed to be reporting to the DEA. When he was supposed to be recovering from a successful prostate cancer operation, I got him admitted into a first-class rehab place. He’s never forgotten and because of that I happen to know he’s been assigned to help on the Svank case and all its ugly tentacles. I’ll make a call to Freddy and we’ll go from there.”

  Should he tell his father now he’d once called on Freddy for help on the Long Island robberies? There was no need.

  “Next time you want to check on something, Johnny, call me before you call Freddy.” His father’s tone was still light, nonthreatening; and as if to show there were no hard feelings, he patted Johnny’s knee as he added, “It’s embarrassing for Freddy. Can’t say ‘no’ to my son, but it’s more ethical if he hears it from me first, okay?”

  “Sorry, Dad, you’re right. Thanks, Dad.” He looked at his father with new confidence. “Once Rossiter is found, I’m sure we’ll have a lot of the answers. Right now I’m trying to contact Poppy Gan. Ginny thinks, and so do I, that she may know where Rossiter is.”

  “I’ll pass that on to Freddy. I’ve no doubt it will soon all come together, including where the Villeneva jewels have ended up.” Peet looked Johnny directly in the eyes. “I meant what I said, Johnny. Lay off this case as soon as you can. Concentrate on your book, your column, your girl-and you’d better look after her, too. Somebody in Svank’s pay got rid of him, I’m sure of it, and Rossiter could be the one. Cousin or no cousin, Ms. Walker could be in danger. Why don’t you take her away somewhere, away from the cesspool.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad. I’m-”

  His father interrupted him. “Blood isn’t thicker than water in this game, Johnny.” He paused as if making up his mind about something. “I read your Delchetto piece; it was good as far as it went,” he said slowly. “You can read a sequel by me which, I think, will interest you, in this Sunday’s magazine. Delchetto got his hands dirty by accident; he wasn’t such a bad guy, just not as brilliant as he thought he was-”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Read the piece,” his father said in the acerbic tone Johnny was more used to, then his voice softened again. “Delchetto thought he was playing double agent, reporting on some of the bad guys that the drug lords really wanted to get rid of painlessly. There’s a lot of intermarriage down there and it was easier to get some deadwood relations put away by the authorities than execute them and have their wives and women give them a hard time over brothers, cousins, sons, whatever. Delchetto got a little payoff-little by Cali standards, not so little for him-and he thinks this is a nice way to earn prizes and start stashing something away for his old age. Then along comes a really bad guy-in the DEA-who regularly comes on shopping trips to Colombia-” Peet gave a short hard laugh, seeing Johnny’s startled expression.

  “Happens all the time, son, however hard the good guys try to stop it. Delchetto had learned a lot about marijuana; that it’s the THC chemical content that determines the potency, only present in the flower and resin of the female plant. He got suspicious when, soon after these shopping trips, the same agent carried out big drug raids, where shipments consisting of stems and male plants, both useless, were seized, while the good stuff arrived untouched later at prearranged destinations, scams involving thousands of tons of pot.”

  “Is that why he got taken out?”

  “Yep,” said his father. “It was too good a story for Delchetto to give up on. It’s only just coming together, because the bad guy’s wife, a heroine in the DEA, suspected her DEA husband was squirreling away millions in a Swiss bank account, but she died-”

  “Died in a fire?” Johnny asked woodenly.

  “Oh, so you know. Yes, and Mr. Abbott, as my piece on Sunday will relate, is presently in custody, accused of her murder.” His father leaned forward anxiously. “Hey, son, you all right? Did you know the wife?”

  “Not well.” Tears were behind his eyes, in his throat. There had been tears in Ben Abbott’s eyes that day after the memorial service. He’d thought they were tears of grief. Had they been tears of regret, or anxiety that his cover was on the way to being blown?

  “I’m only telling you all this, son, because with the kind of money involved, more than you could ever
dream of, nothing stands in the way of business for these people, cousin or no cousin, wife or no wife, so I repeat, stay away from the cesspool, for your sake, for the girl’s sake.”

  Johnny drank down his glass of port before he could trust himself to speak. When he did his voice was still shaky. “I’m just going to finish up this piece for Next! And that will be it, finito, ending with Svank’s death-”

  “Which could be the beginning, but not for you and”— again Peet summoned the waiter for more port—“not for me either. That brings me to the other thing I want to share with you.”

  Johnny sat on the edge of the chair, anxious, tense, hoping his sense of building a new relationship with his father wasn’t going to change.

  “I’m stepping down from the paper, son. I’m getting on, you know. I’ve been offered a lucrative partnership, not too much work, some travel, an apartment in Europe. Less stress, more freedom.” Peet seemed to be talking to himself, staring into space. “I’ve been thinking about getting away for some time now.”

  Johnny wasn’t that surprised, reminding himself he’d contemplated such a day happening on the plane coming back from Washington. If this was how his father was going to treat him, now that he’d made such a momentous decision, then he would be the happiest, most supportive son in the world.

  Johnny jumped up and did something that would have been unthinkable before this evening. He put his arm around his father and kissed him. “Go for it, Dad.”

  To his surprise he saw tears in the old man’s eyes. What an evening. He’d never forget it for as long as he lived.

  “Murder, the top homicide count, usually implies that the defendant intended to kill a victim or acted in such a wildly reckless manner that death was predictable.

  “Manslaughter, the second category, also has an intentional component, but the defendant is held less responsible, either because he killed in the heat of passion or intended to cause serious injury, but not death. The distinction between the less severe charge of second-degree manslaughter and criminally negligent homicide, the fourth and final homicide category, is so fine that sometimes prosecutors bring both charges for the same crime.