Live to Air

by Jeffrey L Diamond

  “Ethan, it’s me, Lloyd. I got a heads-up for you. There are three guys guarding Stanislov’s building—two in front and one out back. I’m sure they’ve made me.”

  “What should I do?” Ethan said, looking over his shoulder for anybody suspicious.

  “Don’t come down to my van. They’ll see you for sure. Where are you now?”

  “I’m on the subway platform.”

  “Good,” Howard said, sounding relieved. “Go down to Brighton Fourth Street. It’s on the far side of the platform opposite me. There’s a bar on the corner called Dacha’s Lounge. You can see the front of Stanislov’s law office from the window. Buy yourself a drink and call me when you’re settled in.”

  Ethan clicked off the phone, looked for the sign to Brighton Fourth, and headed for the exit. As he walked down the stairs and under the El, he carefully stared into the faces of everyone he passed—convinced he was about to be spotted—until he reached the entrance to the bar where he took a deep breath, adjusted his baseball cap, and eased through the door. An old man was slumped over a table nursing a cheap shot of whiskey, and a young couple was making out in the back, their hands hungrily exploring, caressing each other’s bodies. Nobody paid him any attention as he crossed the room and walked up to the bartender.

  “Give me a shot of Johnny Walker Black,” he said nonchalantly. He paid for the drink and sat down in a booth next to the window. Reaching for his iPhone, he called Lloyd Howard. “I’m in the bar.”

  “Were you spotted?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Can you see my van? It’s a white Ford Econoline.”

  “I can see you plain as day. Which building is Stanislov’s law office?”

  “It’s the two-story red-brick building between you and me on the far side of the street. Number 717. Can you see the three thugs? They’re watching me very carefully.”

  “I can see them,” Ethan said.

  “Do you recognize any of them?”

  Ethan took a long, hard look. “No. The guy who’s been tailing me is much taller and more muscular than those guys. The fat guy in the back could’ve been sitting shotgun in the Lincoln the other morning, but I can’t tell for sure. They’re too far away.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Howard said calmly. “We’ll figure out who’s been harassing you. Maybe I’ve already got him on tape. Hold on, Ethan. There’s another Navigator coming toward us on Brighton Beach Avenue. Do you see it?”

  “I see it,” Ethan said. The Lincoln was crawling in heavy traffic as it passed Howard’s van and pulled into the alley next to Stanislov’s building. A well-dressed man in an expensive blue pinstripe suit, white shirt, and yellow tie hopped out of the passenger seat and was immediately surrounded by the three men as he disappeared around the back of the building.

  “Who was that, Lloyd? Did you recognize him?”

  “No. I didn’t have a clean shot. Do you want me to stop and check the tape? I’ve got a playback machine in my van.”

  “I’ll screen it later,” Ethan said. “Think he’s a big player?”

  “Could’ve been a captain. Somebody I don’t know. But most of the heavy hitters are already inside—Kolkov, Stanislov, and their most trusted advisers.”

  “So the guy could be anybody,” Ethan said, baffled. But he looked so familiar. Had he seen him before? “Keep rolling, Lloyd. Let’s see what happens.”

  • • • • •

  Stanislov was waiting at the top of the stairs when Frankie O’Malley pushed through the back door and trudged up the steps to the second floor. Nikolai said hello and ushered him down the short hallway to his office. The Pakhan was smoking his Cohiba, the tip flaring red each time he inhaled, as they made their way over to the desk and sat down. Nikolai cleared his throat. “Alexey, Frankie here has some good news. He’s pulled some strings at the courthouse and has been appointed the mole’s public defender. Now he’ll be able to keep an eye on Jimmy as well as Pavel.”

  “How much is that going to cost me?” Kolkov said.

  “Not too much,” Stanislov said. “We agreed on another twenty thousand.”

  Kolkov pulled out a wad of cash, licked his fingers, and dropped twenty one-thousand-dollar bills on the desk. He pushed the money across to O’Malley, who quickly scooped it up and stuffed it into his suit jacket.

  “How do you want us to handle Benito?” Nikolai said, trying to diffuse the anger in the room.

  The Pakhan poured another Stolichnaya. “I don’t want him making bail,” he said, sipping the vodka. “And I want you to get rid of him, Nikolai. Make it look like an accident. That shouldn’t be too hard, should it? I’m sure there are lots of inmates in that fucking place who hate his guts enough to kill him.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Nikolai said. “And what do you want us to do about Pavel?”

  “It’s a dilemma, isn’t it,” the Pakhan said, irritated. “The mole can’t kill him anymore, can he? What do you propose we do?”

  “I’ve been talking to Frankie,” Nikolai said, trying to sound positive but failing miserably. “He’s going to visit Pavel tomorrow and tell him we ordered the hit, see if he understands what that means.”

  “And how’s that gonna help us?” Kolkov said, his eyes flashing like two daggers of light.

  “Tell him, Frankie,” Nikolai said, turning to O’Malley.

  “Pavel called me this afternoon and told me what happened,” O’Malley said. “He didn’t really want to talk on the phone. Thought somebody might be listening. But he said he doesn’t feel safe on H Block anymore and wants to be transferred to another cellblock. Of course, I told him I couldn’t do that.”

  “What else?” Kolkov said expectantly as he tapped his fingers on the desk.

  “I think if I tell him you’re planning another hit with somebody else, I can get him to back off and keep his mouth shut.”

  “Can you get him to cancel the interview entirely?” Kolkov said. “That would be better, Frankie.”

  “I’m not sure about that, Mr. Kolkov, but I think I can scare him enough to keep your name out of whatever he tells The Weekly Reporter.”

  “How can I be sure of that?” Kolkov said, shooting a quick glance at Stanislov. “I don’t want to hear, when all is said and done, that he compromised my business empire in any way. If you can get him to keep his mouth shut, there’s another fifty thousand dollars in it for you.”

  O’Malley smiled. “I’ll tell him he’s as good as dead if he says anything about you or Nikolai or the syndicate. I’ll make sure he doesn’t connect any of you to the heroin deal or the murder.”

  “And how am I gonna know what he says to Sampson?”

  “Because I’m gonna be sitting right next to him during the interview,” O’Malley said triumphantly. “And I’ll tell him I’m gonna report everything he says back to you. That should scare the living shit out of him, don’t you think? There’s no way he’s gonna talk.”

  “You better hope not. I’m paying you a hell of a lot of money to control your client, and if you don’t, well, things won’t go too good for you, either, Mr. O’Malley.”

  Nikolai leaned forward in his chair, sensing the public defender’s unease. “Come on, Alexey. Cut Frankie some slack. He’s gonna take care of Pavel for us.”

  “Words are comforting, Nikolai, but I’ve heard all this before.”

  “Alexey, listen to me,” Stanislov said, still trying to placate the Pakhan. “Pavel’s gonna be too scared to talk.”

  “No, Nikolai, you listen to me. I don’t care how you do it, just make sure Pavel keeps his mouth shut. Am I making myself clear?”

  Stanislov swallowed and nodded his head yes.

  “Good. I’ve heard enough bad news today.”

  Nikolai loosened his tie, sweat pouring down his face, as he watched the Pakhan finish his Stolichnaya and motion that the meeting was over.

  • • • • •

  Ethan peered out the window, the minutes ticking away, th
en waved at the bartender and ordered another Black Label, hoping it would settle his nerves. Suddenly, his iPhone beeped—nearly scaring him out of his chair.

  It was Lloyd.

  “Ethan, they’re leaving the building, some through the front and some through the back. Are you watching?”

  “I see them.”

  “The big man dressed in black surrounded by all those bodyguards is the Pakhan, Alexey Kolkov,” Howard said, whispering into the phone.

  Ethan strained forward to get a better look. “So that’s him,” he said, surprised. “He’s not flashy like an Italian Mob boss.”

  “No, but he’s just as sadistic. Maybe more. All those guys with him are butchers in their own right and are absolutely terrified of him.”

  Ethan shuddered as he thought about the man who’d been tailing him, then watched as Kolkov walked under the El, suddenly stopped, and shot Howard the finger before making his way down the street to Sasha’s Café.

  “Did you see that, Lloyd? He definitely knows you’re watching him.”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t know you’re watching too,” Howard said. “He never once looked over in your direction.”

  “Well, that’s comforting,” Ethan said, feeling cold on the inside. “Who’s the guy dressed in the fancy gray linen suit that just walked out the front door?”

  “That, my friend, is Nikolai Stanislov in the flesh.”

  “So that’s him. He’s short. Not very imposing.”

  “But he’s just as sadistic as the Pakhan. Nobody messes with him. Nobody. And don’t you forget that, Ethan.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I know,” Ethan said, trying to burn a picture of Stanislov’s face in his memory. “You still rolling, Lloyd?”

  “Capturing everything in living color.”

  “And where’s the mystery man who got to the meeting late? Do you see him?”

  “He’s standing in the back of the alley. But he’s turned away from the camera, and I still can’t see his face.”

  “I can’t make him out either,” Ethan said, craning his neck, hoping to catch the man turning around. “Are you sure it’s the same guy?”

  “Positive.”

  “Who the fuck is he?” Ethan muttered to himself. I know I’ve seen him before. I just know it. But where? When?

  “Ethan, you still there?” Lloyd said, breaking the silence.

  “I’m here, Lloyd.”

  “Let’s wait until they’re all gone, and then let’s get the hell outta here.”

  “Where do you want to pick me up?” Ethan said, beginning to feel uneasy. “Can’t come down here. Somebody may still be watching in Stanislov’s building.”

  “There’s a 7-Eleven about five blocks down Brighton Beach Avenue on Tenth Street,” Lloyd said. “It’s always busy. Lots of people going in and out. You should be safe waiting for me there.”

  “Meet you in a half hour,” Ethan said, clicking off the phone.

  He ordered another scotch, knowing he’d already had way too much, but at that moment, he didn’t care. Somehow he’d just captured the brain trust of the Kolkov crime syndicate on tape. All he had to do now was find out if their meeting was related to his story. If he could answer that question, then maybe he could figure out what happened to Cynthia Jameson and get to the truth. He downed his scotch, slipped on his sunglasses, and left for the 7-Eleven.

  CHAPTER 24

  ETHAN SHUFFLED OUT OF THE kitchen with a pot of coffee and a half-eaten bagel, his eyes watering from a curl of smoke trickling off the end of a cigarette perched in the corner of his mouth. He walked into his study and opened the blinds, flooding the room with a stream of sunshine. After pouring a cup of black coffee, the aroma thick and pungent, he sat down and waited for his Final Cut Pro editing program to boot up in his computer. Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out the DVD Lloyd Howard had copied the night before and inserted it into his laptop.

  An image of a busy street with traffic in the foreground and people milling around in the background filled the screen. The roar of a train blotted out the sound as the camera panned back and forth under the elevated tracks and finally settled on a medium shot of Nikolai Stanislov’s law office. Three beefy men were standing guard, all smoking cigarettes and eyeballing everyone who passed by.

  Fast-forwarding, Ethan scanned the video, pausing to take notes on his iPad, then slowing down the image to real time when the camera swish-panned up Brighton Beach Avenue and settled on the Lincoln Navigator as it crept by Stanislov’s building and turned up the alley.

  The mystery man.

  Ethan backed up the shot and ran it again—watching as the man got out of the car and hurried to the back of the building. He could almost make out his face. Almost. But not quite. So he played the image in slow motion, freezing the shot right before the mystery man was about to walk out of frame. Excited, he typed another command into his editing program and stared at the picture as it advanced frame by frame in the monitor.

  Then he froze the image again.

  This time a clean shot of the man’s face filled the screen.

  It was Frankie O’Malley.

  What in God’s name was he doing there?

  He lit another cigarette, more confused than ever, then checked the time. It was almost eight thirty. Was it too early to call? He didn’t think so. Grabbing his iPhone, he speed dialed O’Malley’s number. “Frankie, it’s me, Ethan Benson. I thought I’d give you a ring and see how Pavel’s doing.”

  “He’s just jim-dandy,” O’Malley said cynically. “Just had another typical day at the office—stuck in his cell, bored out of his mind, whiling away his time.”

  “Doesn’t sound like fun,” Ethan said, deciding to wait a moment before asking about the Russians, not wanting to spook him. “Is he all set for our interview on Friday?”

  There was strained silence.

  “Well, he still wants to do it,” O’Malley said tentatively, “but I’m sure you’ve heard about what happened yesterday. Pavel got pretty banged up during a scuffle with a corrections officer.”

  “All I know is what the warden released in his press release. It didn’t say he was injured. Is he okay?”

  “The guard cracked him pretty good with his nightstick. Didn’t get his face. Just whacked his leg, so he’s walking with a limp. But we’ve got a couple of days before the interview, so I don’t think there’ll be a problem.”

  “What brought on the altercation, Frankie?” Ethan said, trying to pump him for information. “Sounds like it was more than just a simple misunderstanding between an inmate and a prison guard.”

  “Pavel claims he wasn’t doing anything wrong,” O’Malley said bluntly. “That the guard jumped him for no reason.”

  “Do you know who the guard is?”

  “He didn’t tell me and neither did the warden. All I know is the guy was drunk and snapped when he walked into Pavel’s cell to do a security check.”

  Ethan paused, suspecting O’Malley knew much more than he was saying. “So, Frankie, Pavel’s still planning to tell us what really happened the night of the murder, isn’t he?”

  “Well, he’s pretty scared after yesterday,” O’Malley said disingenuously. “He says he’s still eager to talk to Peter Sampson, but I just don’t know how forthright he’s gonna be.”

  Ethan rocked back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “Any chance he’s gonna cancel on me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” O’Malley said. “I’m headed out to Rikers Island to see him this morning. If things change, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Ethan hesitated. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to bring up the meeting in Brighton Beach. No reason to give O’Malley, or Pavel for that matter, another reason to back out. Maybe he’d spring Kolkov on them during the interview. “Frankie, you still planning to be there on Friday?”

  “That’s my plan,” O’Malley said. “I wanna sit next to him in case he needs help answering any of Sampson’s questions.”

  “Fair enoug
h,” Ethan said, more suspicious of O’Malley than ever. “Anything else we need to talk about?”

  “Just one more thing. Can you send me a copy of the questions? Pavel wants to make sure he’s fully prepared for the interview.”

  “I can’t send you the questions, Frankie,” Ethan said, positive O’Malley would shoot any document straight off to the Russians. “That’s against company policy, but let me tell you what I can do. I’ll email you an outline of the subjects we hope to cover in the interview. How does that sound?”

  “That’ll do.”

  “Anything else we need to talk about, Frankie?”

  “No, I don’t think so. We’re good.”

  “So we’ll see you Friday?” Ethan said guardedly.

  “Let’s hope so, Mr. Benson.”

  Ethan hung up the phone and stared at the image of Frankie O’Malley on his computer. Smiling, he pointed at the screen and muttered, “The plot thickens, but I’m gettin’ closer to the truth. Thank you very much, Mr. O’Malley.”

  Then he headed down to his bedroom, and as he climbed into the shower, his cell phone rang. Must be Sarah, he thought, draping a towel around his waist and answering cheerfully, “Good morning, babe. I was gonna call before I left for the office.”

  But it wasn’t Sarah.

  It was Ms. Templeton.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, embarrassed. “I thought you were my wife.” There was an awkward silence. “So why are you calling me, Ms. Templeton? You told me you didn’t want to communicate on the telephone.”

  “I told you not to call me, but I didn’t say I couldn’t call you,” she said in a hushed tone. “I’ve got more evidence that my boss, Nancy McGregor, has refused to send you, Mr. Benson.”