Invisible

by Andrew Grant

  “No!” Jonny screamed and spun around sideways on the stool. “Norm, don’t! Please!”

  “Jonny, you’re an idiot.” Davies lowered the gun. “You always were an idiot. I hated working with you. I only brought you in to do the simple stuff I was bored with, but you couldn’t even do that right.” He raised the gun again, this time to Jonny’s head level. “I’ve wanted to do this so many times. Carrick kept saying no. But now you’ve been shooting your mouth off about me and that old bitch in the hospital? That was your final mistake.”

  “No!” Jonny swiveled back the opposite way.

  Davies tracked his movement and pulled the trigger, hitting Jonny in the shoulder. The noise was deafening in the enclosed space. Davies reached down to retrieve his shell case, then stepped closer to Jonny’s fallen body. He lined up on Jonny’s head. Then he lowered the gun.

  “What the?” Davies nudged the body with his foot. The hood slipped down, and waves of long blond hair spilled out across the floor.

  “Who’s the idiot now, Norman?” Jonny appeared from inside the stack of cardboard boxes with his walkie-talkie still in his hand. “I thought you’d notice you were talking to another dummy—specially given it was a woman—but that was all we could get on such short notice.”

  Davies stepped toward him, the gun raised again in a two-handed grip. “Get on the floor, asshole.”

  “Don’t do anything hasty, Norman.” I flicked on the lights, stepped forward, and pointed to four tripods set up around the room. “See the cameras? They’re very special. They have awesome low-light performance. And wireless networking. Which means they picked up everything you did here and sent the footage to a secure server. The only person who has access to it, aside from me, is my lawyer. If anything happens to Jonny or me, the film goes to the police. And if that happens, you go to jail. For twenty-five to life. There’ll be no snafus at the courthouse this time. You can trust me on that.”

  Davies lowered the gun. “But Jonny moved.” He looked puzzled. “Or the dummy did.”

  “We used fishing line.” I smiled at him. “It’s too thin to see in the dim light. But don’t worry. It’s an old trick. It always works. A little bit of movement makes the deception seem so much more convincing. So don’t go beating yourself up for being a total moron, or anything like that.”

  Davies suddenly perked up, and his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. You said you’d send the tape to the police if anything happened. But you’re both OK. So…”

  “So you have a decision to make.” I looked him in the eye. “You have two ways to go. You can tell us about George Carrick. Specifically, what he ordered you to do at the apartment building where the old lady was hurt. Then you can walk away. Or I’ll edit the end of the tape. Jonny will lie low. And you’ll go to jail.”

  “Bullshit.” The hint of a mocking smile started to play around the sides of his mouth. “The tape’s bogus, and there’s no other evidence.”

  “Actually, there’s plenty of other evidence.” I smiled at him. “Or there will be, if you choose that path. For example, there’ll be you, unconscious after crashing your van on the way back from dumping Jonny’s body. His blood will be found in the back. You have GSR on your hands. Jonny’s blood will also be found here, on the floor, exactly where the tape shows you shooting him. Your prints are all over the gun. And the police have a hard-on for you like you wouldn’t believe after you got that undeserved walk.”

  Davies’s mouth sagged open, but he didn’t speak.

  “That’s an interesting gun.” I pointed to it, still in Davies’s hand. “It looks old. Well used. When the crime lab runs ballistics, will they find links to any other crimes, do you think?”

  “Hold on, stop.” Davies took a step back. “Your plan’s no good. If I roll on Carrick for the apartment building thing, I’d be incriminating myself, too.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “You wouldn’t be. That’s the beauty of the US criminal justice system. If you tell us specifically about Carrick’s instructions regarding the Masons, you’re safe. Because you’ve already been into court for that. You walked. And you can’t be tried for the same crime twice. As long as you keep to that one area, you’re bulletproof.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m certain. Google it, if you don’t believe me. Search for the definition of double jeopardy.”

  Davies tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and took out his phone. He typed a few words and scrolled down the screen a little way. His mouth moved silently as he read, then he nodded. “OK. I’ll tell you. But only about the Masons.”

  “Good decision. Let’s get that on tape, then we can all go home.”

  * * *

  —

  “Norman? Just one last thing.” I zipped the final camera into its case after we finished recording. “I need you to stick around for a while, in case any more questions crop up.”

  “No way.” Davies shook his head. “When Carrick realizes I didn’t obey him, and Jonny’s still alive…”

  “That’s no problem. I’ve arranged a hotel. You can stay there a couple of days.”

  “Forget it.” Davies crossed his arms. “I’m leaving town. You can call me if you need me.”

  “That doesn’t work. There’s another problem.” I pointed to the corner of the room. “See that camera?”

  Davies turned to look and I slipped my thumb behind his right ear, squeezing his lobe hard against my finger for five seconds. He squealed and wriggled, and jumped back as soon as I let go.

  “Hey!” He felt behind his ear. “What did you stick to me?”

  “It’s a tracker chip.” I kept my voice matter-of-fact. “It’s the kind the FBI usually uses on cars and trucks, but I didn’t have time to get a personal one. It means they can find you anywhere in the world, via GPS. You can’t get it off. You need a special solvent that’s not available to civilians. My friend at the New York field office promised to remove it when Carrick’s in jail. We won’t need you then. The only way for you to do it yourself is to cut your ear off. So if you run, we either track the chip or look for an idiot doing a bad impression of Vincent van Gogh.”

  “Who?”

  “Just go to the hotel, Norman. Order room service. And stay there.”

  * * *

  —

  It could be that I’m getting softhearted, but I gave Norman a ride to the hotel. Or it could be because I decided to keep his truck. I left him on the sidewalk, anxiously touching his ear, then continued toward the bus station.

  “Take this.” I handed Jonny a bunch of twenties as we were getting close. “Go wherever you want. And don’t come back. Not unless you want George Carrick to send someone else to finish Norman’s job.”

  “Is it true?” Jonny took the money. “What you told Norman? About not going to jail for the thing with Mrs. Mason?”

  “It’s absolutely true.”

  “I don’t believe you. I think you tricked him.”

  “What if I did? He’s an asshole. He was going to kill you.”

  “But he didn’t. And now he’ll end up in jail because of your lies.”

  “If he ends up in jail it’ll be because of his crimes. Jail’s the best place for him. He deserves it. And what do you want from me, anyway? I’m a janitor, not a saint.”

  Chapter Twenty

  George Carrick stood up and smiled when I walked into his office the next morning.

  He emerged from behind his desk, bounced on the balls of his feet, then gestured to the couches. We took the same places as before. Today, he was wearing a gray suit with a tie, and his laptop was open on the coffee table.

  “It’s good to see you again, Mr. McNaught.” Carrick smiled. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. I have plenty of buildings, like I told you. I’m sure I can find one you like, and that makes sense to your wallet as well.” H
e leaned forward and hit a key on his laptop, and then took a moment to check that a webpage was loading properly. “Here’s what I currently have on the market. This is a private site. I can give you the link, but please don’t share it with anyone else, OK? Good. Now, do you want to start with a particular budget, or shall we just dive in and see what grabs you?”

  “Let’s dive in.” I picked up the computer and scrolled through the first couple of listings. “These are nice, George. Much better than the place the Masons are living in. Well, where Mr. Mason’s living. Mrs. Mason’s still in the hospital, I believe.”

  “Of course they’re better. The Masons’ building is due to be torn down. All of these, they’re good for years to come.”

  “How about from the tenants’ point of view? Do you think they’d be safe in these kind of places?”

  “They’d absolutely be safe.” Carrick shrugged. “Well, as safe as you can be in New York City.”

  “That’s good.” I nodded. “That means a lot, coming from you. Because let’s face it, you should know.”

  Carrick’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you sent Norman Davies to attack Mrs. Mason. You did that. Not the Russians.”

  “That’s crazy.” Carrick stood up. “You can’t come into my office and make bullshit accusations about me. You need to leave. Now.”

  Carrick reached for the laptop, but I pulled it away, out of his reach, and slid a thumb drive into a slot on its side. I held him at bay until the right menu popped up, then hit Play and put the computer back down on the table, where we could both see the screen. Norman Davies’s ratlike face appeared. He looked flushed and nervous, but his squeaky voice was clearly audible as he stated his name and the date of the recording. He went on to confirm that Carrick sent him to his building in Hell’s Kitchen to intimidate Mrs. Mason. Davies held up a key to the building and swore that Carrick had given it to him. He also talked about the wrench. He said it was Carrick’s idea to use it, because he knew from experience that they’re scarier-looking than bats or clubs. The problem was, Davies claimed, the wrench was heavier than he’d expected, never having used one before, and that was why his “warning” blows had hurt the woman much more than he’d intended them to.

  Carrick was still on his feet. Veins were bulging in his temples. His fists were clenched and he was leaning in toward me like he was suspended by an invisible rope. He reminded me of a pit bull straining to break its leash. “This is total bullshit! It’s made up. From beginning to end. Davies was paid to say all that stuff. He was just saving his own skin. Where is he? The little asshole. I’ll kill him.”

  “His statement’s not made up.” I stayed on the couch. “And I’m going to the cops with the video unless we can reach an understanding. Right here. Right now.”

  “Forget it.” Carrick stomped across to the window and gazed out down Fifth Avenue. “The building’s still not for sale. I’m still knocking it down.”

  “You’d go to jail, rather than sell it?”

  Carrick shrugged. “I’ve been to jail before. It’s no biggie. And I have better lawyers now. I’d never get convicted. Not with what you’ve got.”

  “Maybe we can find a way to avoid testing that theory. Let’s talk about the demolition. You’re really going through with that?”

  Carrick nodded.

  “I don’t understand. Why do you want to? How do you benefit?”

  “I don’t want to!” Carrick raised his voice. “The whole thing’s ridiculous. It’s not my idea!”

  “So why do it?”

  “Because I’ve been told to. Ordered to.”

  “By whom?”

  “It was Walcott’s fault, the idiot. It was his mistake. But it’s Madatov’s order.”

  “Walcott? Madatov? Who are these guys?”

  “Walcott’s a finance guy. We do business sometimes. I help him out with development deals. He has cash—or he knows people who have it—but nothing else. I provide the expertise. Madatov—he’s a whole different story.”

  “How so?”

  “I’d never have gotten dragged in if I’d known Madatov was involved. The guy’s a psycho. And not a Hollywood-style one, who does weird things to a few people because his dad was mean or a talking dog told him to. Madatov’s from Azerbaijan. It’s an old Soviet republic, but he’s been here for years. They’re trying to rival the Russians and the Ukrainians. No one had heard of their country when they arrived, so they built a reputation all on their own. Madatov’s the worst of them. He’ll do anything—and I mean anything—to get what he wants, and to keep his people in line.”

  “How did the money guy get involved with him?”

  “Walcott worked in Azerbaijan for years. He was tight with the rulers after the USSR collapsed. There were heaps of money, from a ton of oil and gas. The politicians basically stole it all. They needed help to clean it. Hide it. Move it around. And also to spin their ‘elections’ to avoid there being a revolution. The regime finally collapsed last year. Walcott came back to the States and started introducing himself to the Azerbaijanis who were already here. He’s basically trying to carry on like it’s business as usual. Which is asking for trouble.”

  “So he screwed something up?”

  “Right. Walcott came to me saying he had funding for a development. A major project, up on Central Park South. They’re breaking ground next year. Anyway, as usual, he had the money but needed help making things work. Which I gave. But which I wouldn’t have given if I’d known one cent was coming from Madatov.”

  “How did Walcott screw up, if the project’s proceeding? Is it over budget? Massively late?”

  “No.” Carrick threw up his hands. “The project’s in perfect shape. The problem was that Walcott got his wires crossed. Madatov apparently just wanted to give some cash a quick rinse. Major developments like the one we’re talking about make huge profits, but that takes years to happen. So that got Madatov mad, and he started dealing out punishments.”

  “Your punishment is to demolish your building?”

  “Right.”

  “Why? Isn’t that a little random?”

  “No, actually. It’s all about the view. Madatov has a place nearby. Mine blocks his view of the river.”

  “So this Madatov guy wants you to demolish a perfectly good building and throw a bunch of tenants out on the street to improve his view?”

  Carrick shrugged. “Look, it’s a pain in everyone’s ass. But from my point of view, really, I got off light. Listen. A year or so ago, Madatov got in a beef with some guy about a painting he bought. It turned out to be a fake. No one was suggesting the guy deliberately ripped him off. It was just one of those misunderstandings. Swiss bankers were involved, Nazis, whatever. Anyway, Madatov did this thing to the guy that’s some kind of ritual from his home country. They take starving rats, a fire…let’s just say it’s not pretty.”

  “What about Walcott? What was his penalty?”

  “His is easy. He just has to pay a fine. That shouldn’t be hard. The guy’s made a gazillion dollars over the years, or so he claims. Although I guess he can’t actually be that great with money, because he came to me, asking for a loan. Can you believe that? After what he did? I told him, the second word’s off. Pick the first for yourself.”

  “Where could I find this Madatov guy? Does he hang out at this place near yours?”

  “He does. But you should stay away. First of all, you don’t want to find him. Word has it he caught a guy snooping around a house he owns in Connecticut one time, so he stripped him naked and tied him to a tree near a wasps’ nest and watched while he got stung to death. And second, Madatov’s become super paranoid. No one’s seen him for months.”

  “How does he communicate, then?”

  “Through his lawyer. A guy named Roberto di Matteo. He’s the only one who�
��s allowed access anymore. Apart from his security guards—trusted guys from home—and his mistresses. He has two of them. He must come out sometimes, though, even if it’s just to kill people. He’s still racking up the bodies as fast as ever.”

  “And where’s Walcott?”

  “In hiding somewhere. While he raises the money, I guess. He has an office on Wall Street. His assistant keeps it open and takes messages. I don’t know if he gets them. He and I aren’t exactly speaking.”

  “OK. Just one more question before we talk about a solution to your video problem. After Davies got arrested for hurting Mrs. Mason, you fixed the evidence so he’d be released. How did you do that?”

  “That wasn’t me.” Carrick sat back on the couch opposite me. He seemed smaller somehow, like some air had been let out of his chest. “I wasn’t expecting the idiot to get arrested. When he did, I panicked. I reached out to Madatov, through his lawyer. The message I got back just said, ‘It’s handled.’ I didn’t know what they were planning.” Carrick paused for a moment. “Honestly, after I reached out, I was worried. I was expecting them to have him killed in the jail.”

  “All right, George, so here’s where we are. I see two problems. One’s moral. One’s practical. Morally, you broke the law. You got a woman hurt. And you sent Davies to kill Jonny Evans. You should go to jail. Good lawyers or not.”

  Carrick leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “What’s it called? Extenuating circumstances? Think about Madatov. I wouldn’t have done any of those things if it wasn’t for him. And Walcott’s stupid mistake.”

  “Maybe. And Davies didn’t kill Evans, so we can let that go. No harm, no foul. And if you went to jail, that would make our practical problem worse. Your tenants. They need a place to live. A decent place.”

  “I already promised to rehouse them.”

  “I know you did. But you also lied about sending Davies to hurt Mrs. Mason, and then you tried to set up a murder. So call me cynical, but I don’t believe you.”