Everything to Lose: A Novel

by Andrew Gross

  He nodded. “You realize, when they see you’re suddenly no longer at your house, if these people weren’t sure they had the right person before, this will remove all doubt.”

  I hadn’t. A troubled feeling wormed its way through my stomach. “Thanks.”

  He took out some cash and set it on the table. “Don’t thank me yet. You may well end up in handcuffs by tomorrow.”

  “I meant for hearing me out. And for the drink.”

  “You ready to tell me now where you’ve got the money?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. Once we see if I’m in handcuffs or not.”

  “I’m gonna give you my number. Put it in your phone. Anything happens, anything even slightly suspicious, dial it and keep it on. I’ll be able to track your whereabouts.”

  I looked at him appreciatively.

  “I do have a vested interest in keeping you alive.”

  I smiled, took my bag, and made a move to stand up.

  He wrapped his hand around my wrist. “Now it’s your turn . . . And not like you did with Rollie. You’re sitting on a half-million dollars.”

  “Four hundred thirty-seven five . . .” I smiled, sending him my number.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Charles Mirho watched from his car a short way down the block and saw the two of them come out of the café.

  “Well, blow me like a horny sailor . . . ,” he muttered out loud.

  They stopped in front of the man’s red F-150 and shared a last word. Then the woman walked down the block to her car.

  I guess we could put the doubts to rest, Mirho chuckled with satisfaction, over whether he’d found the right Hilary.

  So what are you doing with my half a million dollars, doll?

  He knew the guy she was talking to was none other than Joe Kelty’s son. What would she be doing here with him? Could the two of them somehow possibly be in this together? Was that accident possibly not as random as everyone might have thought? No, he figured, scratching the mark on his cheek, that was crazy. The police report said a deer had darted in front of Kelty’s car. More likely, ol’ Hilary here was struck by what might be called a fit of conscience or regret. She hadn’t gone in with anything and Mirho hadn’t seen an exchange of money. Though it could be in that trunk. He tapped his finger against the steering wheel. So why oh why had she made contact with Kelty’s son?

  Anyway, this gave him a couple more angles to work on to get back what he wanted.

  Not just the money. What he was really after. The money was only part of it.

  The money alone wasn’t worth what he would have to do.

  Kelty waited in his truck until Hilary drove by, giving her a quick wave as she passed.

  Mirho pulled out after. He glanced in his rearview mirror as Kelty executed a U-turn and headed back toward his house. He settled in a couple of lengths behind the Acura as it seemed to head back to the Verrazano Bridge.

  This was where things were about to get interesting. Where the best of his talents could be put to use. He didn’t relish what was going to happen. He had a kid somewhere out there himself, and no one liked leaving one to make his way in this world alone. That had happened to him. His mother had been killed in a fire with a man other than his dad. He’d been on his own since he was fifteen. The only benefit that ever came from it, he attested, was that since he’d known pain from early on, he also knew how to inflict it as well.

  He watched the silver Acura SUV wind around onto the entrance to the bridge.

  Mirho knew what had to be done. That was just how it was in this game. How it was with ol’ Rollie up there pleading to get down, with a terrified “No!” and those bulging, disbelieving eyes as he kicked the table away. He couldn’t have let him down. The trail couldn’t be left for anyone to find. It had to be swept over with his boot. And that meant getting his boots dirty.

  Every time.

  He followed the Acura, knowing the end was getting close. He’d stick to her now like bad credit. The rest . . . The rest would just play out.

  Always did.

  This ended the rescue part of the operation. Mirho chuckled.

  Now the recovery part set in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  State Senator Frank Landry parked his car in the lot of the posh country club just outside Hartford and stepped inside the clubhouse. He admired the view of the eighteenth green through the large windows in the lobby, the well-known eighteenth hole covered in a layer of fresh white frost. It was a strange place to meet in January. Come April, the place would be alive in manicured, sweet-smelling green. Landry asked a red-vested club employee where the restaurant was and she directed him to the right. A pretty hostess was at a podium.

  “Mr. Franzino, please,” Landry said.

  “He just arrived.” The hostess grabbed a menu and led him in. “He’s over here.”

  Landry didn’t exactly need her to direct him. There were only two tables with anyone at them in the room, and Landry had been acquainted with the head of the state’s Democratic Party for over ten years. Since Landry first contemplated running for office. Steve stood up as he arrived at the table. “Frank, thanks for coming out.” He grasped Landry’s hand warmly. “I’m sure it seems like a strange place to meet this time of year.”

  “I was wondering,” he said. “Beautiful though, come April.”

  “They used to have a PGA tourney here every July. All the pros. Anyway, one of the beauties of this time of year is that we can have the place pretty much to ourselves. Which comes in handy, I’ve found, when you want to escape everyone poking around into your business up in the capital. Sit, please.”

  Landry took a seat and the hostess left the menu.

  Steve said, “Thank you, Jill.”

  Franzino was a muscular, barrel-chested guy, with bushy gray temples and thick hands, and he looked every bit the part he had played earlier in his career, that of the most intimidating union lobbyist in the state. He was tied into everything. A kingmaker or a career wrecker, depending on where his loyalties fell. A nod from him could do either. Landry asked for coffee. He ordered a fruit plate and a muffin. Franzino ordered a western omelet. They chatted for a while, mostly small talk related to the capital. At a pause Franzino looked at him earnestly. “So how’s it going, Frank?”

  The question seemed to come with a lot of weight to it.

  “Without Kathi,” the party chairman clarified. “Such a horrible, horrible thing, what happened down there. To lose her like that, with the family there. You spoke so beautifully at the service.”

  “It’s tough, Steve. I won’t say otherwise. The house is empty without her. The kids miss her. I miss her, Steve.”

  “Of course. Everyone does, Frank. She was a wonderful gal.”

  Landry smiled. “Thanks.” He took a sip of his coffee. “But I know the head of the state Democratic Party didn’t ask me all the way down here to hear me talk about that.”

  “No. No, I didn’t, Frank, you’re right. And of course, this is the kind of little powwow our colleagues up in Hartford or the local press there didn’t have to see. Which was why I asked you here.” He pushed back and crossed his legs. “As you know, Governor Taylor is up for reelection next year. And no doubt you’ve read some things in the press or heard things bantered about the dome . . . But the truth is, one of our state’s prestigious Ivy League schools has been interested for some time in his possibly becoming president . . . And Mark’s been at this game a long time. I think he’s finally ready for a change.” Franzino looked at him. “I’m pretty sure he’s not going to run again.”

  “That is news.” Landry put down his coffee, genuinely surprised.

  “Which is gonna leave a big, wide hole in the center of the party, Frank. For someone to fill. Obviously he’d like to ensure that the office stays with the party, so we don’t have what happened back in ’98.”

  “I assume Carol and Fazio are at the top of the list,” Landry said, referring to the lieutenant governor and the head of t
he state senate.

  “Yes. They are. But as you know, Frank, Carol makes no bones about her sexuality and over the years Tony’s put his hands in more shit than a drunk plumber. There’s also that hedge fund guy from Greenwich who’s always been talking about how he’d like to run . . .”

  “Talbot?”

  “Yes, that’s the one,” the state party head said.

  “Well, he’s certainly got the money.”

  “He does have the money.” Franzino nodded. “But so do we, Frank. If we get the whole apparatus behind someone favorable.”

  Landry looked him in the eyes. “And who might that person be, Steve, you’d like to get the apparatus fully behind?”

  “I was hoping you’d figured that one out by now, Frank. The reason I asked you down here was to explore whether that person might be you.”

  Landry blinked. A smile of feigned surprise. He put down his coffee. “You took me by surprise with that one, Steve. I’m just a blue-collar guy from Staten Island who’s made the most of the opportunities life’s presented.”

  “Oh, come on, let’s not pretend to be completely naive on how this process works, Frank. You know how this state runs well as anyone. You’ve managed the legislature’s purse strings for what, six years now? The deficit’s down. Jobs are coming back. You’re young. You have the right record to run on. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve certainly got the sympathy vote pretty much locked up if you want it. Every woman in the state would feel their heartstrings bend for you.”

  “No offense taken. It’s just too early, Steve.”

  “It’s actually still eighteen months out. And all we want is a signal, Frank. If you’d like to take on more of a role. Or if you simply wanted to spend more time with the kids. Either way, of course, anyone would understand.”

  Landry felt his blood rush. He pushed around a slice of grapefruit, barely able to hide the thumping of his heart.

  How long could he even pretend this had never been on his mind?

  “I’ll have to think about it, of course. Run it by the kids. They’d have to be partners.”

  “Of course.”

  “But I think I could assure you, Steve,” Landry said, piercing the grapefruit with his fork “if you really thought I was a person you could rally around, I’d be happy to take on whatever role you saw fit.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  After meeting with Patrick, I didn’t know where to go or where to spend the night.

  The last place I wanted to go was home. I had Brandon with Elena, which I could do for a day or two; her daughter Sarah was fifteen and happy to help out. And they always liked having Remi around. I didn’t want to create a sense of alarm.

  It dawned on me that the safest place for me to go was to my father’s boatyard on Long Beach Island.

  The island was a tiny five-block-wide strip of land that separated the borough of Queens from the Atlantic Ocean. The yard was kind of a mom-and-pop type of operation; my dad had bought it ten years ago after he retired from teaching biology for thirty years, and when my mother, a math teacher, retired two years later, she worked there too. It was situated on the northern shore of the islet that looked out at Island Park, Queens, which explained why they suffered only minimal damage from the storm, while much of the rest of the narrow island was underwater. There was a room in the back of the office where my dad had spent many a night. Riding out storms. Catching naps in the spring and summer when the business was 24/7. He’d been trying to sell the place for two years. The boat business had fallen apart and the yard had eaten up most of their pensions, the part that I hadn’t eaten up already.

  I drove there after dark. My folks were in Sarasota, where they had a condo and spent the winter, even though this year they had remained up north into January, after Sandy, getting the place back together. They did have a yard manager, Artie, who even in winter still came in most days. But the place was usually deserted after dark.

  No one knew about it. No one would connect me to here. I figured this had to be the safest place for me to be.

  I took Atlantic Avenue from the Belt and crossed over on Long Beach Avenue. Just to be sure, I made sure no one was following me. After Sandy, I’d pitched in as much as time would allow, bringing Brandon down on weekends, helping to clear away the fallen trees and a thousand branches, sifting through scattered tools and supplies, and raising machines that were under a foot of water. The houses along the beach were still a mangled mess. Four months later, the building department still hadn’t determined by how much more they needed to be raised, so construction was at a standstill. There were only a few lights on anywhere near the yard.

  The yard was blocked off by a wire gate that opened with a security code, 6-15-75, my parents’ wedding day. My aunt and uncle actually. There was no one around; only the sallow light from a single streetlamp barely illuminated the old sign, PARADISE MARINA AND SALES. I drove my car through and the gates automatically closed behind me. I felt I’d left all bad things outside when I heard the wire gate close.

  The place was dark. The pavement was a little rutted and in need of repair. Everything here was. What little light there was came from a couple of time-set spots that went on at dark, one of which blinked intermittently. I drove up to the office, a shingled cabin with a front porch that abutted a large maintenance shed that housed our supplies, spare engine parts, forklifts, with a couple of bays where they could put boats they were working on up on blocks. Eight or ten of the larger boats had been shrink-wrapped against the elements and were up on blocks outside.

  I parked on the side of the office and went up the steps. I knew where we always kept a spare key, in a jar underneath a loose floorboard at the end of the porch. It was there. Thank God, because it was freezing. I took it out of the jar and shivered as I shoved it in the lock. The front door opened.

  Brrrr . . . It was cold as shit inside too. I flicked on the light. There was a bunch of files and boat catalogues piled on my father’s desk. A computer on my mom’s desk, where she handled the books. They’d always sold a few boats each spring. Not large ones—this was Queens, not the Hamptons. But the business had changed, like every other, to lower-cost online sales and Dad had gotten stuck with a couple of thirty-five-foot Hatterases whose finance charges were larger than his house payments. And if the economy’s falling apart and the shifting state of the boat business hadn’t made him question his decision to get into this line of work, their declining finances did. It made me feel good, looking at the hardscrabble way they lived and conducted business, to know I’d made them current on their notes.

  I put on some heat and opened the door to the maintenance shed and flicked on the overhead halogen lights. There was one boat up on blocks—a wood-hulled trawler that it looked like Artie was in the midst of painting. I breathed in the familiar marine smell, which is somewhere between gasoline, the bay, and paint. It was cold as shit in here as well. I shut off the lights and went into the room in back of the main office, where there was a cot and a small kitchen, and a bathroom off it. I found an electric space heater and plugged it in. I immediately felt some warmth. I put on some coffee and turned on the radio to 1010 WINS.

  I sat on the squeaky single spring bed. Welcome to Paradise, I thought.

  I took out my phone and called Brandon at Elena’s. “How’s he doing?” I asked when she picked up.

  “Heez doing fine, missus. Heez playing with Sarah. Heez almost ready for bed. You want to talk to heem now?”

  “Yes. Thanks, Elena. Thanks so much for doing this. And listen, you know where Dr. Goodwin is?” Brandon’s neurologist. “In White Plains . . .”

  “Yes, Miz B. I know.”

  “He has an appointment tomorrow at four. After school.”

  “No problem, missus. I will take him there.”

  “I really appreciate this, Elena.” I hadn’t told her why, or where I was, of course. Only that I had to stay in the city for a night. Maybe two. And for her not to go back to the
house. I didn’t want to alarm her, so I told her there was some work being done there. I gave her the next two days off.

  Brandon came on. He didn’t exactly sound enthused to hear from me.

  “Hullo.”

  “Hey, tiger!” I tried to sound upbeat. “How you doing there?”

  “Fine, Mommy. Where are you?”

  “I’m just away for a night. Maybe two. On business. You like staying with Elena, don’t you? And Sarah.”

  “I thought you weren’t in business anymore.”

  “Well, I’m trying to get back in. You know that. Someone needs to pay the bills. Unless you want to. So how was school today?’

  “I can’t play FLOW,” he said. “I left my iPad at the house. Elena wouldn’t go back and get it.”

  “I think we should leave it for a while, Brandon. You’ll be fine. It’s almost time for bed anyway. How’s Remi doing?”

  “Are we going to go back home tomorrow, Mommy?”

  “I don’t know, Brandon. Soon. Go to bed, okay? I love you, sport. And listen to Elena . . .”

  “I want my iPad, Mommy . . .”

  “Play on Sarah’s computer. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, honey. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  He hung up and I sat there on the cot with the phone to my ear, feeling like there was something I needed to say to him, about how much I loved him, and what I was doing for him, wondering how someone whose trajectory in life had always gone upward, me, was sitting alone in the cold, sparse room, believing against all that I knew to be true that I was safe.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mirho left his car on the shoulder off the dark street. There was no traffic this time of night. Going on midnight. No one anywhere. He smelled the ocean nearby. Most of the lights from the apartment high-rises along the water had been dimmed. He screwed in the sound suppressor on his HK 9 millimeter and stuffed the gun under his leather jacket into his belt. He took out the wire cutters.

  He turned off the electronic tracker that had led him here.