Buzz Killer

by Tom Straw

  Monheit rotated the other side of his rolling whiteboard to face them. It contained the bullet points he had just made and his coming profile of Trifonov. Beside it was a photograph he had pulled off a Russian website. Macie got an odd feeling of déjà vu when she saw it, but then dismissed it. 60 Minutes or CNN had done an exposé on Putin’s supposed plunderers. Maybe she had seen him there. “Mr. Trifonov had a number of marginal fiscal enterprises as his part in this—alleged—laundering scheme,” said Monheit. He pointed to the bullet on the board corresponding with each scam he enumerated. “Trifonov worked closely with an organization called Baltik-Eskort, a security entity from Putin’s old stomping ground of Saint Petersburg, bodyguards now rumored to provide safe routing of all that corrupt cash.”

  “And I’ll bet,” said Gunnar, “to eliminate anything or anyone getting in the way.”

  Monheit resumed. “Pyotr Trifonov helped set up various ‘crony banks.’ Those are banks with only a handful of clients, let’s assume Putin’s cronies, and their sole mission is to process all that dark Russian money and funnel it throughout the globe. As you can see from the list, most of them are in Moldova, right next door to Russia. From there, Mr. Trifonov set up a few of his own companies with his share of stolen capital. An import-export company in tax-friendly Ireland, even a mining operation in Africa, where he had apparently lived as an intelligence officer for a number of years in the nineties. And not without some scandals.”

  “Now you have my ear,” said Tiger. “Please tell me there’s sex or drugs.”

  “The former,” replied Monheit. “There was a paternity mess in the 1990s when Trifonov’s African mistress, a local architect, got pregnant. The story got hushed, and the baby mama in question suddenly became one of the wealthiest women in Luanda.”

  “How did our burglary victim from Dubai put it?” said Wild. “‘Any problem you can solve with money isn’t a problem?’”

  “There are more scandals, albeit less juicy. Just recently, one of Trifonov’s crony banks in Moldova got hit by an audit, and Mr. Trifonov made a fast move to get out of Dodge. A number of nations, including Canada, refused to let him in because of the corruption baggage. So he ended up here in the US under a conditional visa, living somewhere in New York City.”

  “I think we know where,” said Cody.

  “Actually he has no address of record,” said Monheit. “He has a leased office down near the Flatiron, but I got no answer on the calls I made to it. And the building management referred me to his attorney.” He turned a page of his legal pad and read it. As he said the name, Macie immediately recalled why the picture resonated with her. She and Gunnar had both seen Trifonov before. And it was recently.

  C H A P T E R • 31

  * * *

  As Wild pushed her way through the revolving door to enter the ground-floor lobby of Orem Diner’s law firm, she relived the morning she had done the same thing almost a week before when the turnstile had abruptly halted and she saw the sick man on the opposite side of the door wing fall ill. “It was him,” Macie announced to Gunnar when he whooshed through behind her. “No doubt now. It was Trifonov.”

  Even though the reception area at Diner and Partners was expansive, giving them ample separation from the other cluster of visitors, voices carried on the polished parquet flooring so the two of them sat in silence. They already had done their speculation about what Stamitz and his crew might have stolen from The Ajax that night. If Trifonov dealt in that much cash, the HVAC van they saw pull up on the security cam could have handled quite a haul. Macie shivered as her mind drifted back to another vivid memory: Pipe Wrench repeating, “The take, the take, the—”

  “Macie Wild, why did they plant you out here instead of in my office?” said Diner as he came up the internal winding staircase from the floor below. He was in shirtsleeves and a hand-done bow tie in a summer color. The young attorney at his side took some files from him and peeled off the opposite way from the senior partner who was hugging Wild. Cody got a firm grip and a quick release. They declined beverages and settled into their former spots in his corner suite. Diner took off his glasses and, while he cleaned them with a microfiber cloth, asked, “What can I help you with this time?” The question was for her but he took in Cody as he spoke, as if to gain some clue.

  “I wanted to make a delicate request, so I’m here in person. I would like to arrange a meeting with one of your clients.”

  Once more he gave Cody a once-over and went back to the subject of their prior meeting. “Jerónimo Teixeira? I can save you some trouble there. First of all, he has left the country for an undetermined amount of time. But I did finally get an answer on this Borodin character you asked me about. Nimo acknowledged Luka Borodin was his bodyguard. He also said that the man flaked out and disappeared on him. So this all seems to be a lot of concern about nothing.”

  “Actually it’s not Mr. Teixeira I want to talk to. It’s someone else. This is awkward—quite the delicate part—but I think one of my clients may have robbed him.” He waited, searching her, so she said the name. “Pyotr Trifonov.”

  Orem Diner turned to the window and stared a long five-count at the dome of Saint Bart’s before his gaze swept slowly back to her. “What makes you think this Mr. Trifonov is a client of mine?”

  “We passed him in your lobby last time we were here. He was leaving as we were coming in.”

  “And you inferred, circumstantially, that he was a client of mine.”

  “Mr. Diner, I didn’t come here to lock horns with you. If for reasons of privilege you don’t want to acknowledge whether Pyotr Trifonov is a client, that’s your right.”

  That softened the other lawyer, and he said, “As fellow attorneys, I might consider an off-the-record conversation with you.”

  “I appreciate that.” Reading his concern about the third party in the room, she said, “And let me assure you that confidence would extend to Mr. Cody as well.” Gunnar didn’t respond; he just nodded. It seemed assent enough.

  “I will stipulate that Mr. Trifonov is a client on certain matters. But I don’t know anything about him being robbed. You mean he was mugged by one of your . . . um, clients?”

  “No, burglarized. At his condominium.”

  “At The Ajax,” said Gunnar, speaking for the first time, and for effect. When Diner didn’t react, Macie slid in.

  “He owns the penthouse. Or, as you must know, he does through his LLC, Exurb Partners.”

  The lawyer didn’t blink. Wild’s father had told her that Orem Diner was where secrets went to die, and his passive courtroom face offered no information. He took his time, and quietly said, “Whatever reasons people who may or may not be my clients come here to see me, they do so under privilege, knowing that I won’t divulge confidences. Not just in the content of our dealings but by the very fact of them. This is the foundation upon which I’ve built my firm. It’s also the legal right and expectation of the client.” He folded the microfiber cloth in a rectangle and closed it in his eyeglass case with a snap. “Having said that, I’ll make an effort to get in touch with Mr. Trifonov.” Diner licked a finger and reached for a blank note card on the coffee table. He wrote a letter T, for Trifonov, on it then said, “Satisfactory?”

  “And appreciated,” said Wild, not feeling like she had really gained anything.

  She let Gunnar go out the door before her and lagged to have Orem Diner to herself. “You have been very kind to me, and I wanted to return the courtesy.”

  “All right . . .”

  “It’s become clear that this Mr. Trifonov runs in some dangerous circles. As a family friend and colleague, I just hope you are careful.”

  He draped a paternal arm around her. “From someone who’s been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, Macie Wild, I learned early on that people who run in dangerous circles can always use a good lawyer. You ought to know that.” He removed his arm and gave her a sly wink. “The difference between us is that mine pay a bit more for the t
rouble.”

  Back downstairs a light mist had begun falling from a weak front rolling across the Hudson from Jersey. Nothing menacing, just enough to make the daytime headlights of taxis and town cars shimmer on Park Avenue in the afternoon murk. Wild made a phone check and found two missed calls and two texts. One from Tiger, the other sent at the same time from Soledad. Both her team paralegal and social worker had flagged the messages urgent. Both read, “Call immediately.”

  “Stand by, I’m going to tie-in Soledad,” said Tiger when she phoned back. He didn’t just sound urgent, but pressed. “I’ve got Ms. Wild. You there?”

  “I’m here,” replied Soledad, speaking in hushed tones. “Macie.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Ready for this? I’ve got a line on Jackson Hall.”

  C H A P T E R • 32

  * * *

  The mist had thickened into a light drizzle but Macie was oblivious to it. She had just gotten the biggest glimmer of positive news since taking on this case. “Line on him how?” Wild pressed the phone to her ear and plugged the other so she could catch every word, every nuance amid the horn honks on Park Avenue.

  “Through Jackson Hall’s girlfriend. She’s in the loo, but I’m here with her now.”

  “Pilar? Where?” When Macie spoke the girlfriend’s name, Gunnar took a step closer, studying her intently.

  “At a Panera. That coworker of hers I’ve been schmoozing finally caved, and she set up a meet. I’ve spent the last hour and a half trying to convince Pilar to trust me and to put us in touch with him.”

  “Then he’s alive? She knows where he is?”

  “Yes to both. She’s teetering, but still needs a nudge. I just wanted to let you—” Soledad’s exhale rustled on the mouthpiece, and when she next spoke, it was hurried. “Listen, I’ve got to go. She’s coming back. Hang close. With any luck, next time we speak, it’ll be to put you together with Jackson Hall.”

  Wild decided to wait for Soledad’s update call at her MCPD office where she could get some work done, but was unable to focus on anything else. Gunnar asked to hang out with her, and in his van on the way downtown she mused at how half the media and all the NYPD were about to be bested by a social worker who exercised basic people sense and a finely honed art of human connection. “Yeah,” he replied with a sigh. “But isn’t it always kind of a letdown when there’s not a little burning rubber and flying lead?”

  Under the gaze of the twin lions at the New York Public Library, he made an illegal left onto Fifth Avenue and pulled a phone from the door pocket to dial the CyberGauchito on speaker. He put his porteño black hat on the digital trail of Pyotr Trifonov, dictating a menu of where to sniff and what to look for. Macie bristled when Gunnar said he also wanted a full anal done on Orem Diner’s office server to hunt for anything related to the Russian, particularly contact info, dates of contact, payment methods, FBI summonses, the works. Yes, she chafed, but Macie didn’t object this time. She wondered: Is this how it begins? A blind eye to expedient ethical breeches, until you eventually become inured, and see this as standard procedure instead of the dishonorable practices you once deplored? By the time they took the left fork onto Broadway at the Flatiron, Macie began reflecting on how she might be living the parable about how to boil a frog—in the starring role.

  While Macie answered a subpoena request on another case, Gunnar announced it was past dinnertime and phoned in a pizza order for delivery. He had just hung up when Chip appeared in Wild’s doorway. The intern was drenched. He was the only one who didn’t seem to notice. “Haven’t they heard of umbrellas in Louisiana?” asked Gunnar.

  “This happened on the way to the subway. It’s pouring over in Bed-Stuy.”

  Tiger slid in the office beside him. “This is what L-Ones are for, right? When there’s footwork to be done in bad weather, send the intern.”

  “You asked us to do the X-ray on Jackson Hall’s crew chief, right?” A drip hung on the tip of Chip’s nose. He wiped it with his sleeve and continued. “Well, Stamitz’s recent records, for some reason, are not available. Not anywhere. But we did find a prior burglary arrest he had from about eight years ago. So Tiger and I used the method that worked for you when you checked out Rúben Pinto by finding his old cellmate. We found Stamitz’s burglary accomplice.”

  Tiger picked up the narrative. “The bust came after a very ballsy predawn visit to the luxury hotel suite of a Chinese industrialist who was in Manhattan and just had bought a pair of antique dueling pistols at auction.” Citing from notes, he continued, “Made in 1797 by a famous London gunsmith, valued at over a hundred thousand. Stamitz and his partner went totally Mission: Impossible, very Ethan Hunt. Defeating sound monitors, skirting a laser beam . . . They snagged the pistols, including the wooden case, showed up to sell them to the fence, only the fence was undercover.”

  “Busted,” said Macie.

  “Except Stamitz skated,” said Chip. “But his accomplice did not. He’s the guy I just interviewed.”

  “Fuck me . . . Stamitz is a CI,” muttered Gunnar.

  Both Chip and Tiger deflated. Gunnar had stolen their punch line. But the intern soldiered on. “That’s, um, right. His old partner, now living in Bedford-Stuyvesant, always suspected Stamitz cut a deal with the feds. The accomplice did a five-year stretch, and he believes Stamitz walked because he agreed to become a confidential informant for the FBI.”

  “Otherwise known as a CI,” added Tiger with a thanks-pal glance at Gunnar.

  “Sorry to get ahead of your story,” he said, “but you’re kind of in my area. In law enforcement you develop snitches lots of ways. The best ones either have axes to grind or their balls in a vise. What doesn’t line up for me, though, is getting turned by the FBI. A burglary like the one you described isn’t a federal crime.”

  “Exactly what I told his accomplice,” said the law student. “But he said the FBI got jurisdiction because they drove from New York City to Hoboken to meet the fence and crossed a state line with firearms involved in commerce, which bumped it to federal level.”

  Gunnar nodded and added for Macie’s benefit, “The FBI set him up. Stamitz would have been prime pickings because he faced hard time and had major upscale B-and-E skills. A player like him would be tapped in to high-level fences, mob operations, burglaries-to-order, name it. They probably even let him keep stealing as long as he threw them useful intel or set up busts whenever they needed them.”

  Before Gunnar could continue, Wild’s cell phone rang. “It’s Soledad.”

  Ever discreet, Tiger took Chip by the elbow and whisked him out into the hallway, closing her door as they left. Macie swiped to answer and tapped the speaker option. “Sol?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’ve got Gunnar Cody with me. You’re on the speaker phone, is that all right?”

  “Sure, if it’s just you two.”

  “Just us. Door’s closed. Whatcha got?” Wild felt a phantom TENS burn tingle, even though the mark was fading.

  “It took some doing, but Pilar finally let me in.”

  “Sol, that’s wonderful. Where is he?”

  “She’d been couch flopping with her coworker in Flushing since Pinto got murdered, but when Mr. Hall got out of Bellevue, they met up and cribbed into a place up in Harlem. It’s all off the books. I’m sworn to secrecy but it’s in a building owned by the guy who runs that bar near the 125th Street station.”

  “The Stealer’s Wheel?” asked Macie. She and Gunnar traded knowing nods. They had both been there, both talked to the owner. Jumbo Crouch. The man who claimed to know little about Jackson Hall’s movements, but was willing to perjure himself to alibi for whatever Macie needed.

  “That’s the one. She called it their safe house. Pilar just phoned him from here in Forest Hills. He gave permission for you to visit him.” Soledad paused. “She didn’t say anything about bringing Mr. Cody though.”

  Wild answered without hesitation. “I need him to come with me. Especiall
y at this hour. My client will simply have to adjust.”

  “Your call, honey. Ready to write this down?” Soledad recited the address and apartment number on East 121st and then had Macie repeat it back. “I’ll be at my phone all night, if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” she said. Gunnar stood and tapped his watch. “We’re leaving now. Have Pilar stay scarce. And, Soledad. Good work.”

  “Yeah, great work,” called Gunnar as he strode out the door ahead of Macie, who was fast on his heels. They breezed through the lobby together, passing their pizza as it was being delivered.

  C H A P T E R • 33

  * * *

  Gunnar parked around the corner on Adam Clayton Powell Jr., walked with Macie half a block north, then they abruptly U-turned, retracing their steps, so they could notice if they were being followed. As a further precaution, Gunnar bypassed the address Soledad gave them and led Macie into a bodega. He made a career of pretending to examine the chewing gum while he scanned the security video monitor behind the counter for any sudden loiterers on the sidewalk. She kept an eye out for vehicles slowing as they passed. They made another street check before they mounted the stoop to the apartment building.

  The sign out front said it was under renovation and gave a property management number for future rentals. Inside everything smelled like the welcome of Harlem’s bright promise: new paint, brass polish, and freshly sawn timber. When they gained the second-story landing, the full length of the hallway floor was protected by unrolled kraft paper side tacked by blue painters’ tape. Gunnar held up a forefinger to signal, and they stood and just listened to the silence. The quiet was absolute except for the air brakes of a bus on Powell Boulevard. When they proceeded, the crinkling of their footsteps on the brown construction paper announced them, which may have been the idea. Gunnar had briefed her on how to approach the door, and when they got to it, they took their places on opposite sides of the frame. He gave her the nod, and she knocked. No movement inside, no “Who is it?” Macie knocked again and said, “Hello? It’s me, Macie Wild.” Still no sound. No death scent either; they both sniffed for it. Gunnar tried the knob. Locked. And solidly with brand new hardware. After one more, sharper, unanswered knock, she mimed going outside to use her phone and they left.