Killer Instinct

by Patterson, James

  “Who better to run cover for them than an international art dealer,” I said.

  “We need to get acquainted with this guy,” said Foxx. “Quickly.”

  “He could be sitting in your lap right now, and it wouldn’t make a difference,” said Julian. “He’s not going to know anything.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Foxx. “How would he not know where the money emanates from?”

  Again, my father chimed in. “That’s the whole point of the intermediary,” he said. “He can never know.”

  Foxx was back to being pissed. “What the hell, Julian? So it is a dead end.”

  “I didn’t say that. All I meant was that Viktor Alexandrov wouldn’t be able to tell you the source even if you waterboarded him on a bed of nails,” said Julian. “But there is a way to find out.”

  “How?” asked Foxx.

  “I would need access to his computer.”

  “Easy,” said Foxx. “I can have a search warrant by this afternoon.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I asked. “On what evidence, a hacked digital currency transaction?”

  “You’re both missing the point,” said Julian. “Alexandrov can’t find out that I’ve accessed his computer. Even if he doesn’t know the origin of the transactions, he can still signal whoever it is.”

  “So we need to get you in front of his computer without his knowing,” said Foxx.

  “That’s one way,” said Julian.

  “What’s another?” I asked.

  “I only need access to the computer. That doesn’t mean I have to be the one in front of it,” said Julian. “I don’t need to be in the room.”

  “But someone does,” I said. “Right?”

  “That gives us some more options,” said Foxx. “Any ideas?”

  “Yeah, two,” said my father. “Breaking and entering.”

  “Or maybe just the latter,” I said.

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Foxx.

  I pointed at Julian’s phone and the picture of Alexandrov. He had slicked-back hair and looked like a rich playboy standing in front of what appeared to be an El Greco, given the elongated, almost drippy-looking figures in the painting.

  “What else do we know about this guy?” I asked. “His personal life.”

  “How much more do you need to know? He’s Russian,” said Julian. “He likes to drink and chase women.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “All we need to do is give him a chance to do both.”

  “I’ll ask you again,” said Foxx. “What do you have in mind?”

  I was already halfway out of the booth. “I’ll let you know in one hour,” I said. “Maybe even sooner if the mayor’s in a good mood.”

  CHAPTER 70

  EDSO DEACON stared at me in utter disbelief from behind his desk at City Hall. “You want me to do what?”

  “I want you to throw a cocktail party,” I said, handing him a folded piece of paper. “Here’s the guest list.”

  Deacon took the paper, clumsily unfolding it. He looked. He squinted. He stared back at me again. “There’s only one name on it,” he said.

  “That’s the only name I care about. The others you invite are entirely up to you,” I said.

  “Really? I get to choose the rest of the guests at my own party? That’s awfully kind of you,” said Deacon.

  As if his sarcasm weren’t enough to convey his annoyance, the mayor looked over at Beau Livingston and rolled his eyes. Livingston, sitting on the couch along the wall, let loose a sycophantic laugh.

  “Yeah,” said Livingston. “That’s real generous of you, Reinhart. Do you have another piece of paper with the hors d’oeuvres you wanted served?”

  “Caviar, for starters,” said Deacon. “The guy’s Russian. Viktor Alexandrov.”

  “Are we supposed to know who that is?” asked Livingston.

  “He’s an art dealer,” I said. “That’s why he’s getting the invite. The mayor is interested in diversifying his financial holdings by purchasing a major piece of art as an investment. He’s heard Alexandrov is the man to talk to.”

  “Is he actually?” asked Livingston. “The man to talk to?”

  “He will be once you tell him he is,” I said. “He’s hardly going to disagree with you, Beau. It’s called an ego. Not that you Harvard boys know anything about that.”

  Livingston had his snappy comeback all lined up, I could tell. Probably something about my alma mater, Yale, being his safety school. But Deacon cut him off. “Just for shits and giggles,” said the mayor, “if I did host this party, what’s the real reason you want this Alexandrov guy there?”

  “I can’t tell you,” I said.

  If looks could kill. “You’ve got a lot of balls, Reinhart,” he said.

  “No, just one big chit I’m cashing in.”

  I’d saved Deacon’s life, and he knew it. He also knew the reason I couldn’t tell him about Alexandrov, or at least he had a pretty good idea.

  “Does it involve your previous employer?” he asked.

  “It might,” I said.

  “Then at least tell me it’s a matter of life or death, or whatever they would say at Langley.”

  “I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t extremely important,” I said. “How’s that?”

  The mayor nodded. He was gradually buying in.

  Livingston, meanwhile, couldn’t believe it. “Are you seriously considering this?” he asked his boss.

  Livingston was only doing his job. He got paid to be the devil’s advocate. There were only two words ricocheting around in his mind: Russian collusion. The last thing the mayor needed was a subpoena from Bob Mueller.

  “If I do you this favor, Reinhart, are we square?” asked Deacon.

  Powerful men don’t like owing anything to anyone.

  “Square as a checkerboard,” I said.

  “Okay, then. When do you want to do it? A couple weeks?”

  “Actually, it needs to be a little sooner.”

  “How much sooner?”

  I put my hands over my ears and smiled. If you think I had balls before, Deacon …

  “It has to happen tonight,” I said.

  Ten minutes later, with the sound of the mayor’s screaming still ringing in my ears outside City Hall, I called Elizabeth.

  “Remember those brand-new Louboutins you thought you’d never wear? Get ready to strap ’em on,” I said.

  CHAPTER 71

  IT’S GOOD to be the king. It’s even better to be the king of New York. Everyone wants to have a drink with you, no matter how last-minute the invite. I was banking on it.

  Livingston called me within the hour to tell me that Alexandrov had said yes, no questions asked. Correction. One question asked. Alexandrov wanted to know if he could bring a date. It figured. He probably wanted to show off to her. Look at me, babe, I’m buddy-buddy with the billionaire mayor …

  Livingston made it clear to Alexandrov that there could be no plus-one. That was key. Little did the Russian know I already had his companion for the evening all lined up.

  “How do I look?” asked Elizabeth, performing a quick twirl in a little black dress outside the gates of Gracie Mansion. Deacon and his wife, Cassandra, only used the mayor’s “official residence” for entertaining.

  “You look positively stunning,” I said. She truly did. Elizabeth had become so adept at concealing her attractiveness for the sake of her career that I almost hadn’t recognized her when she arrived. “I wasn’t sure you actually owned makeup.”

  “Ha-ha,” she said. “The makeup is mine. The dress I borrowed from my neighbor. Remind me not to spill anything on it.”

  “There are too many other things I need to remind you about,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure,” she said. Elizabeth extended a leg through the thigh-high slit of her borrowed dress and smiled. “After all, I’m wearing my lucky new shoes.”

 
; Say no more.

  We staggered our entrances. I went first. Earlier, Landon Foxx had sent an agent to my apartment to grab one of my suits and a tie, along with a clean shirt and a pair of loafers. The only thing lucky about the shoes he picked was that they matched my suit. Thankfully, the agent knew his way around a wardrobe.

  Foxx was also providing temporary lodging for both me and my father, by way of the safe house in Brooklyn. At that very moment, my father was catching up on some much-needed sleep. His jury duty performance was Oscar worthy. One orchestrated ruse, however, was enough for him for one day.

  “Nice to see you, Mr. Mayor,” I said, after being led into a parlor off the foyer of Gracie Mansion by a member of the house staff. If there was one thing about this impromptu cocktail party that the mayor actually welcomed it was the cocktails. Comfortably ensconced in his second term, and with the press nowhere in sight, he was happy to throw back a few.

  Not as much as the man of the hour, though.

  Deacon shook my hand and immediately walked me over to Alexandrov, who seemingly had the mayor’s wife cornered by the bar. Or maybe it was the bar he had cornered.

  “Viktor, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Dr. Dylan Reinhart,” said Deacon.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Reinhart,” said Alexandrov, sloppily moving a martini glass from his right hand to his left so we could shake. He already reeked of vodka and was about to slurp some more when he stopped and cocked his head. “Wait, you’re that professor, aren’t you? The Dr. Death guy!”

  “Yes, he is,” said Deacon. “This is the man who tackled me on the first-base line of Citi Field and saved my life last year.”

  “A real American hero,” said Alexandrov. “In that case, it’s even more of a pleasure to meet you. An honor, actually.”

  The guy was a charmer. I could give him that. Now with one step to my left, I was about to give him a perfect view of the entrance to the parlor.

  Take it away, Elizabeth …

  CHAPTER 72

  ELIZABETH TAPPED the toe of her left Louboutin on the sidewalk outside Gracie Mansion as if keeping time. There was a window to staggered entrances, a sweet spot between too short and too long, and she’d know it when she felt it.

  Here we go, she told herself. She’d felt it.

  Beginning her walk up to the front door, she couldn’t ignore the irony. Her job tonight was the one thing she’d promised herself she’d never do in her career. Exploit her looks. But if there was ever a night to make an exception, this was it.

  Forget about all the research, the cramming she’d done only hours before as if she were back in college at Maryland during finals week. It simply didn’t matter how fluently she now could speak about the ins and outs of the art world. None of that jibber-jabber would matter to a guy like Alexandrov unless she herself was a work of art. She needed to be something he absolutely, positively had to have.

  Elizabeth stopped for a second and glanced down at the plunging neckline of her dress, checking her cleavage. Jeez, did I really just look to see if my boobs are straight?

  It would be a night of firsts, all right.

  Part one of the plan went straight out the window when she was shown into the parlor. Playing it coy at the start and keeping her distance from Alexandrov was replaced by Dylan immediately coming over to her.

  “Someone wants to meet you,” he said, cracking a smile. “And he wasn’t terribly subtle about it.”

  “Does he recognize me?” asked Elizabeth.

  “That’s the even better news,” said Dylan.

  There was a chance Alexandrov had seen the video of Elizabeth in Times Square on the news. Even if he had, the odds were slim that he’d make the connection. The Elizabeth in the video looked nothing like the dolled-up Elizabeth he’d seen walking into the parlor. Still, Dylan had made sure.

  “I told him you were an interior designer,” he said.

  “I thought we agreed on lawyer,” said Elizabeth.

  “We did, but I called an audible. That dress doesn’t say attorney. Besides, think of the money you saved on law school loans.”

  “Very funny,” she said. “Now shut up and take me over to him.”

  “Actually, I told him to wait a bit before coming to us.”

  Elizabeth glanced over Dylan’s shoulder. “So much for his waiting.”

  Seconds later, Alexandrov practically pushed Dylan aside. The only thing staggered about the Russian’s entrance was his walking. “Are you going to introduce me to this beautiful woman, Dr. Reinhart, or do I have to do the honors myself?” he asked.

  “Please, allow me,” said Dylan. “Viktor Alexandrov, I’d like you to meet Elizabeth Johnson.”

  The first rule of fake names when working a mark is to keep your first name the same. The second rule? In the age of Google, make your second name as common as possible.

  Not that Viktor was listening all that intently. He was too busy staring at Elizabeth’s cleavage. Subtle, he wasn’t. Even less so when he told Dylan to get lost.

  “The mayor said he wants to speak to you, Dr. Reinhart. Right away, I believe.”

  “Of course,” said Dylan. He gave Viktor a pat on the back and shot a wink to Elizabeth. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”

  CHAPTER 73

  “WHERE HAVE you been all my life?” asked Viktor.

  One cheesy line deserved another, thought Elizabeth. “I bet you say that to all the girls,” she replied.

  “Yes,” he said. “But this time I actually mean it.”

  He was tall and handsome, although his Russian accent was straight out of a James Bond movie. And if that was cologne he was wearing, it was eau de Stolichnaya. Is he already drunk?

  “So how do you know the mayor?” asked Elizabeth.

  “He’s looking to make a significant art purchase. That’s what he and I were talking about. I’m an art dealer.”

  “Really?” said Elizabeth, feigning amazement. Eyes fluttering, she tried to look as if she were meeting a rock star. “You’re an art dealer?”

  “Does that turn you on?”

  Did he really just ask me that? Yeah, he’s drunk, all right. Drunk and horny …

  “Well, art does excite me,” said Elizabeth, playing along. “Especially modern.”

  Viktor grinned. “Modern is my specialty.”

  What a coincidence. Elizabeth proceeded to showcase the rest of her research, discussing trips she’d taken to various museums around the world. The way she talked about the time she got lost in the Louvre, she was almost starting to believe it herself.

  “There’s one museum still on my bucket list, though,” she said. “I imagine you’ve been.”

  “I’ve been to them all.”

  “Given your accent, I mean.” There were a lot of museums in Russia, sort of like there were a lot of guys named LeBron who play basketball.

  “Ah, the Hermitage,” said Viktor. “I was actually raised in Saint Petersburg. I know the museum like …” His voice trailed off as he showed her the back of his hand. He then lightly stroked Elizabeth’s arm with it.

  “That’s awfully presumptuous of you,” she said playfully.

  “I’m only just getting started. What are you doing after this?”

  “That depends. What do you have in mind?”

  “Whatever you want. Dinner? Dancing?” He watched Elizabeth frown. “What? What did I say wrong?” he asked.

  “I already told you what excited me,” she said.

  “You want to see some art?”

  Elizabeth bit her lower lip and nodded as if the word art were code for the craziest, kinkiest sex act a man like Viktor could ever imagine.

  He glanced at the gold Rolex on his wrist. “I can think of only one place that’s still open at this hour,” he said.

  “A museum?”

  “Actually, it’s more of a gallery. At least it doubles as a gallery.”

  “What is it when it’s not a gallery?”

  “My apartmen
t.”

  “We just met and already you’re inviting me back to your place?”

  “Like I said, I’m only getting started.” Viktor leaned forward, whispering in her ear, “Do you want to see my Picasso?”

  CHAPTER 74

  ELIZABETH CRANED her neck as she stood outside the door of Viktor’s penthouse apartment in SoHo while he fumbled with his keys. There was no hallway. It was more like an oversized foyer, which made little sense given there was only one other apartment on the floor. The rich really know how to waste space.

  Quickly, she clocked the exits. The elevator bank, how she and Viktor arrived, along with the stairwell to the right of it. They were at six and nine.

  Back at midnight, Viktor was turning off his alarm, tapping a keypad on the wall just inside his door.

  “All clear,” he said. “Welcome.”

  Elizabeth had faked everything with him up until that point. Walking in, though, her reaction was as real as it gets. “Wow,” she said.

  It clearly paid to be an art dealer—and whatever else Viktor Alexandrov was involved in. Never mind the floor-to-ceiling windows and the designer furniture. It was all about the walls in the living room straight ahead. The only things missing were the velvet museum ropes in front of all the paintings. Viktor wasn’t kidding about his apartment doubling as a gallery.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

  “Yes. But not before the tour,” said Elizabeth.

  “Of course.” Viktor took a step toward the living room.

  “No. I want to see the whole apartment. Where you eat. Where you work.” She paused. “Where you sleep.”

  Viktor liked that. He liked that a lot. Maybe he didn’t need to get her drunk first, after all. “Follow me,” he said.

  He began showing her every room of his massive apartment. The kitchen, the dining room, the den that served as his office. Next came his bedroom.

  “What are you doing?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Changing into something more comfortable,” said Viktor, standing in front of his king-size bed and removing his suit jacket. “Would you like to do the same? You could borrow a robe.”