The October List

by Jeffery Deaver

  His eyes still averted, Karpankov continued speaking. "I didn't know where else to turn for help--because of the complications, you understand. And because I would have a clear motive for this man's death. I'd be a suspect. That's why I need you. You can make sure that the motives aren't what they seem to be. You're good at that. No, not good. You're the best."

  He finally turned and his eyes met those of the woman across the desk. Gabriela McNamara looked back easily, taking all this in. "Go on, Peter."

  "Oh, and for this job, I'll double your fee. Plus all expenses, of course."

  Karpankov didn't need to mention the latter. He always paid for her expenses when she did a job for him. A murder or anything else.

  Gabriela's green eyes focused on his, which were, curiously, two shades of gray.

  The mob boss continued with a raw anger in his voice, "I wish I could kill him myself. Oh, I do wish that. But..."

  Gabriela knew Karpankov had not killed anyone in a long time. Still, the lean-faced man with the two-tone eyes, and matching gray stubble on his scalp, looked fully capable of murder at the moment.

  She felt warm breath on her hand. She looked down; Karpankov's huge dog, Gunther, had ambled from his bed in the corner to lick her palm. She scratched the spiky gray-and-black fur between his ears. Gabriela knew animals; she'd hunted with bird dogs from when she was a teenager. She and the Russian's dog had bonded when he was a puppy. He was huge now. A month ago Gunther had killed a hired assassin who'd lunged at Karpankov on a walk in Brooklyn. Lightning-fast, the dog had snatched the assailant by the throat and shaken the life from the screaming attacker. Murdering the man who'd hired him--a Jamaican drug lord--had been Gabriela's most recent job for Karpankov.

  The dog licked her fingers again, nuzzled and returned to his bed.

  "What's his name, the man you want dead?"

  "Daniel Reardon."

  "I don't know him."

  Now it was Gabriela who looked at the Hudson River through the window, which was free of curtains. The putty in the frame was curling and needed replacing. She felt an urge to strip out the old wads and replace them and paint. She did a lot of the repair work herself, in her apartment in the city and at her hunting lodge upstate, in the Adirondacks, where she frequently hunted--both with her Nikon camera and with her Winchester .270.

  Karpankov now touched his cheek, then the fingers settled on the chin. Rubbed it as if searching for stray bristles he'd neglected to smooth off that morning, though the skin seemed perfectly planed to Gabriela. He muttered words in Russian. "Hui blyad cyka."

  Gabriela was adept at languages. Since she worked frequently in Brooklyngrad and the other Eastern European immigrant areas of New York, she'd learned Russian. She understood "cocksucker."

  She asked, "What's Reardon's story?"

  "You know Carole?"

  "Carole? The daughter of your assistant, Henry?"

  "That's right."

  "Pretty girl. Teenager?"

  "Twenty."

  "Henry's been with you a long time." Gabriela had noted, upon arriving, that Henry had not been at his desk in the anteoffice, and he was not here at the moment. Usually he was a constant shadow.

  "Eighteen years. He's like a brother to me."

  Karpankov's tone--more than his earlier words--explained that this would be a hard story to tell.

  He turned and poured some Stolichnaya into a glass. He offered it to her. She shook her head. He tossed down the whole glass then began the story. "Reardon picked Carole up in a bar. Took her back to an apartment his company keeps for clients. The Norwalk Fund. Somewhere on the East Side, in the Fifties. He seduced her, though it was really rape. He drugged her. He took pictures of her. Disgusting pictures. He tied her down on an iron coffee table. He used these tight knots he knows because he sails boats. It was like a game with him. She couldn't move. Then he beat her with a riding crop." His voice choked. "The pain was terrible... the pain."

  After another shot of vodka and a dozen slow breaths: "Then he and another man, they took turns... well, you understand. That was filmed too. Her face was visible, not theirs. Reardon threatened to put the videos out on the Internet. My God, Carole was in college, she taught at Sunday school! That would destroy her life."

  Gabriela took this information in with a faint nod. Her heart-shaped face revealed no reaction. To her these were just facts. Though she knew and liked Henry, she felt no personal interest in the matter whatsoever.

  The ease of making this separation was part of her gift.

  If gift it was.

  Karpankov continued, "Reardon used the pictures to force Henry to divulge information about my operation. Computer files, passwords. Reardon and his associates broke into our system and stole nearly four hundred thousand dollars before we shut down the servers. Henry tried to kill himself. He took pills. I went to the hospital and he confessed what had happened." After a pause. "I forgave him."

  "Carole?"

  "What can I say? She'll never be the same."

  Gabriela nodded.

  On his large desk were papers and files and printouts and a large collection of model cars. Expensive ones. Metal. You could open the doors and hoods and look inside. They were really quite some works of art. Aside from the phonograph records the Professor had given her, Gabriela didn't collect anything. There were no trophies in the upstate house; she hunted for the meat. And weapons? They were simply tools of the trade, to be discarded or swapped if a more efficient one came along.

  "So. Reardon? He's after your company?"

  Karpankov Transportation didn't transport much except laundered money, weapons and prostitutes--though, despite such limited specialties, it made a great deal of money.

  "I think what happened with Carole was opportunistic. Reardon struck up a conversation with her, learned her father worked for a profitable company and he took advantage of that."

  "He and this other man? It's just the two of them?"

  "No, there are three who work together. One is Andrew. There's an enforcer too, first name Sam." Karpankov added solemnly, "I think Sam was the second man with Carole."

  "That's their modus operandi? Finding innocents and exploiting them?"

  Karpankov laughed. " 'Modus operandi.' You studied Latin, I remember. Your father told me that. He was very proud of his schoolgirl."

  Her father had gone to the police academy right out of high school, but he appreciated education and had indeed been proud that his only child had graduated with honors from Fordham. He himself had taken continuing education courses, specializing in history, and would spend hours talking about New York's past with Gabriela and her mother. They'd good-naturedly dubbed him "the Professor," and the nickname had stuck.

  "It's one of his MOs," Karpankov now said. His voice trembled; the sentiment of a moment ago was gone. "They come up with a lot of different schemes--extortion, blackmail, kidnapping, outright murder. Sometimes they masquerade as business consultants or insurance experts. They get close to executives, find inside information, learn their weaknesses."

  "Businessmen, insurance?" Gabriela mused. She found this an interesting strategy. She filed the fact away for her plans, which were already forming. "So you want Reardon dead, you want me to find out who Andrew and Sam are. And them dead too. And your money back?"

  "That's right." Karpankov pulled a model car closer to him. She thought it was a Jaguar. She didn't know much about autos. In the Adirondacks she kept a 1,000-cc Honda motorcycle.

  The mob boss continued, "I don't care about the money but--"

  "Respect."

  "Exactly. Respect and revenge. You see what I mean by complicated?"

  It was, yes.

  But Gabriela lived for complications. She straightened her jacket, small white and black checks, houndstooth. And smoothed her skirt, which was gray as the Hudson's unsettled water this morning. From her orange leather Coach bag Gabriela took a roll of knitting, blue and green yarn, and began absently working the needles.
>
  Click click click competed with the sound of trucks from outside Karpankov's window. He said nothing.

  "Tell me what you know about Reardon," she asked, matter-of-factly, which was her way of saying, Yes, I'll take on the job. Of course I will.

  "He's in his late thirties. Good looking. Here." He displayed a picture of a dark-haired businessman.

  Good looking enough, yes, she decided. Broad shoulders. Gabriela felt a stirring, though only partly because of his physique and curious resemblance to the George Clooney of ten years ago. The attraction was primarily due to his narrow eyes. Cruel, they seemed. Savvy. Predatory.

  "Ink?"

  "Apparently no tattoos," Karpankov said. "But he has a scar--on his chest and shoulder. He set a bomb in an arson scam and it went off prematurely. Apparently he claims he got it saving two children from a car crash, or when somebody saved him from a crash. He changes the story to suit the scenario.

  "He has a degree in business from an Ivy League university. And he has a legitimate investment company he runs as a cover. The Norwalk Fund I mentioned. Makes a lot of money and spends it. Cars and boats. But he's also a sociopath. Last spring Andrew and he killed a man who threatened to be a witness against him. Reardon could have shot the man when he was alone. But he killed the family too. I have to believe part of him killed them because he enjoyed it. The wife was tortured and raped. Sadist, I was saying--like with Carole."

  Gabriela, knitting.

  She closed her eyes, letting thoughts churn. Karpankov remained silent; she'd worked for him for years and he knew how her mind spun, when to speak, when to demur. For several minutes she was in a very different place. Making order out of tangle. And he said not a word.

  When she surfaced she was for a split second actually surprised that she wasn't alone. She re-centered herself. "I have some ideas. I'll need somebody else to help. Muscle. Not afraid of dirty hands. Better if he didn't have too much of a connection to you."

  Karpankov thought for a moment. "There's somebody I use on a freelance basis. He's good. Very smart."

  "And he has no problem with?"

  The sentence didn't need to be finished.

  "None at all. He's done a dozen jobs for me. He's here now, as a matter of fact. Downstairs," Karpankov said.

  "Let's talk to him." Her eyes settled on Gunther again. He looked back. His tail thumped with pleasure.

  Karpankov made a call, politely asking the man to join them. Then disconnected. "What are you making?" A nod toward the yarn, green and blue.

  A song she liked. James Taylor.

  She said, "It's going to be a shawl." She gazed at the tips of the needles. Ideas were coming quickly.

  Five minutes later there was a knock on the door and Karpankov called, "Come in."

  A large man with blond hair, thick and curly, and a square-jawed face stepped into the room and shook Karpankov's hand. "Peter." His eyes were confident and he glanced at Gabriela without curiosity or lust or condescension.

  "This is Gabriela McNamara."

  "Joseph Astor." The man's face was a mask as he regarded her. He apparently didn't know who she was, or care. That was good. Reputations were useless. Like praise and insults and high school sports trophies.

  Hands were shaken. His skin was rough. She detected a faint scent she identified as shave cream, not aftershave. He sat in the other office chair. It groaned. Joseph wasn't fat but he was solid, built like a supporting column.

  "You go by 'Gabriela'?"

  "Yes, I hate nicknames." To her, "Gabby" was a particular gnat. The only nickname she'd ever liked was her father's. To him she was Mac. As he was the Professor to her.

  "And," Karpankov said, "I hate it when people call me 'Pete.' "

  The other of the triumvirate here said nothing but she sensed "Joe" was not a felicitous option.

  The dark red needles tapped their dull tips. Karpankov explained the situation about Reardon to Joseph, much as he'd explained it to her. Then he added, "Gabriela is taking on the job of finding these men and eliminating them. She's asked for an associate to help."

  Joseph said, "Sure. Whatever I can do."

  Silence, save for the clicking of the needles. Finally she said to Joseph, "What I'll be doing is putting together a set. You know the word 'set'?"

  "Police talk for undercover operation. Like a play, sort of."

  "I still have to think out the details--I'll do that over the next few hours. But in essence I'll get some people at my regular job to put together an operation, a sting, to catch Reardon and his associates. It'll seem like some police officers're after me, so that Reardon'll believe I've got access to a lot of money and some secrets or something like that. With the cops after me, he'll be inclined to believe it's legitimate. I can talk my captain into it, I'm sure."

  "Police?" Joseph said, confusion hazing his face. "Your captain?"

  Gabriela said, "I'm a police officer."

  "You're..."

  "I'll call and set up a meeting with them, my captain and a couple of other detectives in a few hours."

  "The police?" Joseph repeated, though with less uncertainty than before.

  Karpankov filled in, "Gabriela's a decorated NYPD detective. That job has been... helpful to us. As you can imagine."

  Joseph gave no reaction other than a time-delayed nod. He then lifted an eyebrow. "How did you happen to end up there?"

  "My father was NYPD too," she said calmly. "I followed in his footsteps. I was interested in photography--"

  "She's good," Karpankov broke in. "Real good." He gestured to a black-and-white landscape on his wall. "That's one of hers."

  Joseph reviewed the image without reaction and looked back.

  Gabriela continued. "I took a job with the Crime Scene unit as a photographer. One day we got a call in Queens. A shoot-out. Nobody checked my last name, and it turned out that my father was the victim."

  "Well." Joseph's brows dipped.

  "There wasn't any mystery; he was killed by friendly fire. Two junior detectives just emptied their guns at a kid they thought was an armed rapist--he wasn't either of those, by the way. The investigators screwed up and had the wrong man. The supposed suspect was wounded superficially. My father--he was backing them up--was hit six times and died instantly.

  "When the lead detective realized who I was they took me off the case--conflict of interest, of course--but I shot plenty of pictures anyway. I wanted to record who the killers were, his fellow cops."

  "They went to jail?" Joseph inquired.

  "No. My father's death was deemed accidental. They were suspended for two weeks--with pay. Then returned to duty. Like nothing had happened."

  "They're still on the force?"

  "They're no longer with us," she said quietly. Then she looked at Joseph. "But aren't you really asking how I ended up here, working with Peter?"

  "Yeah, I guess I am."

  "After Dad's death, my mother fell apart. She was sick, emotionally sick, even before it happened. His death destroyed her. The department and the city didn't do anything for her. It was like they couldn't admit they'd screwed up. But Peter showed up on our doorstep. He saved her life, got her into a hospital. His wife took care of her too. It turned out that Dad had worked for Peter all along. I decided I was going to do the same."

  "I didn't want her to at first," Karpankov said. "But she was persistent. I'm glad she was. Ralph McNamara was helpful getting my organization inside information about investigations and the like. Gabriela's been helpful with that... and with other skills."

  Gabriela didn't tell Joseph that her father's nature was ingrained within her. She could recall dozens of incidents at school where she'd ended up in the principal's office, often along with security or even the police, after she'd lost it--madly attacking a girl or boy who'd bullied her or another student. The Professor's status as a respected detective protected her from the juvenile system, and he helped her learn to control her urges toward violence.

  But control
only, never eliminate.

  Now Gabriela disposed of family history with a click of knitting needles. "So, with Reardon, we'll have the NYPD help us." Ideas were continuing to come fast. This was how it always worked. The mind is an inventive and fertile creature. Some thoughts she discarded, some she wrestled into shape, some she let stand as perfectly formed components of her scheme. Her palms were damp with sweat and her heart beat a fast, visceral rhythm.

  Joseph asked, "What can I do?"

  "I'll explain to my captain and the police that you're a confidential informant working for me. That'll let me keep you anonymous. We'll use only your first name. I'll be Gabriela... McKenzie." Her eyes had taken in the brand name on the label of a bottle of whisky sitting on the credenza behind Karpankov. "Gabriela McKenzie, a businesswoman of some sort, and you'll be extorting me for a lot of money." A faint thud as an idea emerged. It was gold. "We'll pretend you've kidnapped my daughter."

  "You have a daughter?"

  "No. I don't have any children. But you come up to me when I'm with Reardon and tell me that you've kidnapped her and you'll kill Sarah if I don't get you what you want."

  "Your daughter's going to be Sarah?"

  "That's right. It's the name of my horse. A filly I stable upstate and ride on weekends. But we'll download some pictures of a six-year-old. Videos, too."

  Joseph nodded. "People're idiots, how much they post online."

  "Isn't that the truth."

  "What am I going to want from you that's worth kidnapping a little girl?"

  Another idea occurred. Sometimes they fell like snow. "A document. A secret list. Very valuable. A list that everybody wants--which means Reardon'll want it too."

  "A MacGuffin," Joseph said.

  "What's that?" Peter Karpankov asked.

  Gabriela said, "Hitchcock." She was surprised Joseph knew the term. Not because he seemed ignorant--just the opposite--but he was only in his forties and the film director had coined the term more than a half century ago. She explained to Peter Karpankov, "A MacGuffin's a thing, an object that everybody's chasing after in a suspense movie. The treasure of Sierra Madre, the lost ark, the NOC list of secret agents. Doesn't matter that it doesn't even exist. It's what drives the story forward. I'll come up with some bomb plot or something equally ridiculous. Blow up a bank or a stock market. The people on the list will stand to make a fortune from it."