by Andrew Grant
“Have they made any move for a warrant on Madatov’s brownstone?”
“No. They can’t be sure the murder weapons are there, and if something else comes up nobody wants to settle for a misdemeanor. And they won’t move without proper paper, regardless. They don’t want to risk Madatov getting a walk.”
“OK. So what’s next?”
“More of the same. They’ll keep watching him. Working their snitches. Hoping for a break via electronics or cyber surveillance. I’ll shield him the best I can, but he has an awful high profile with the brass. They’re throwing a lot of resources at catching him. I can’t promise to keep him free forever.”
“Understood. Just do your best. And remember, as long as the circumstances remain the same, the ATM stays open. You know what I mean?”
“Absolutely. And I appreciate that. Maintaining the status quo. That’s what I’m all about.”
Roberto let go of the game box. “There’s one more thing to talk about. You’re getting a little extra this week. Because you have an extra task. It’s nothing major. A piece of evidence that needs to get tainted. It’s connected to a perp named Davies. The case number and all the other details are inside. Make sure to let me know when it’s taken care of.”
XI
TWO WEEKS AGO
George Carrick tuned out the sound of the voices for a moment. The whining. The worrying. The soul searching. It was driving him crazy.
He knew it would make sense to only work with professionals. Especially at his age. Amateur investors are a source of aggravation, and that was something he didn’t want. But they’re also a source of money, and money wasn’t just something he wanted. It was the thing he needed. As much of it as possible. As quickly as possible. Because without it, he’d never earn the respect he was due. He’d never get even with the pompous assholes like Rigel Walcott, who thought they were better than him.
The couple had quieted down now. They were in their fifties, and had recently come to the city from Florida. They’d sold some company and wanted a way to make the money work for their retirement. Or maybe it was to help out their kids. He couldn’t remember, and he didn’t care.
“The way I look at it is this.” Carrick managed to conjure up a brief smile. “The models, in the cases. They’re impressive, right?”
The woman nodded tentatively.
“And the best thing about them?” Carrick paused. “Is something you can no longer see.”
“What is it?” The woman glanced down at the set of miniature high-rises nestling in the cavity in the coffee table.
“The gross mess they were designed to replace.” Carrick nodded sincerely. “You see, when you invest with me, you’re also investing in the future. Your own. The city’s. And America’s. It’s not just the smart financial thing to do. It’s the patriotic thing to do.”
“You’re saying that other buildings had to be demolished to make room for all these developments?”
“Every project is different. Sometimes old decrepit tenement-type buildings have to be cleared away. Sometimes commercial premises have to be. And look, I understand. Change can be hard, in the moment. It’s human nature to cling to what we’ve got. Bird in the hand syndrome, I like to call it. Plus some people aren’t blessed with much imagination. They don’t have the vision to see a better version of the future. Take this very building. It’s pretty much the definition of iconic, right? It’s famous around the world. An enduring symbol of American excellence. But you know what was here before it? Not an empty lot. No, ma’am. It was the original Waldorf Astoria. It was only thirty-six years old when they tore it down. Did people protest? You bet they did. But were they right?”
“Mr. Carrick, knocking down a hotel is one thing. Even a beautiful one. But people’s houses? Their homes? Isn’t that what we’re talking about, to make our project happen?”
“You raise a good point. Homes are different. There’s no denying it. And that’s why you have to choose your partner very carefully. I hate to say it, but not all developers are the same. I shouldn’t say it. We’re supposed to stick together. To have one another’s backs.” Carrick pictured himself lobbing a grenade through the door at The Aviary, or whichever other fancy joint Walcott and his cronies would be hanging out at. “But the truth? With some groups, things happen that shouldn’t. Profit gets put ahead of everything else. Some of the things I’ve heard about would shock you. They certainly disgust me. That’s why I developed my own special approach to this type of situation. I can honestly say—and I’ve been doing this a long time—I have never personally forced anyone out of a building they didn’t want to leave.”
“But doesn’t rent control come into play here?” The woman pulled a notebook from her purse. “Doesn’t that give special protection? I’ve heard it can be more trouble than it’s worth. Some people say it’s better to walk away.”
Carrick forced a smile. God, how he hated rent control. “Some developers do shy away from putting money into rent-controlled buildings, sure. Do you know what kind? Ones who want to screw their tenants. You see, rent control isn’t some kind of magic. It’s not the holy grail. It’s just a type of contract that gives advantageous rent and other protections for certain types of tenants. There’s no law that says it can’t be matched, or even bettered. Which is why I’ve developed what I call my enhanced relocation packages. I have a team of specialists who work exclusively with me to implement them when circumstances call for particular attention. And I’ve never known a tenant to refuse once they’ve understood exactly what we’re offering.”
“So if we go ahead, no one will be taken advantage of?”
“Absolutely not.” Carrick stood up and bounced on the balls of his feet. “You have my personal guarantee. So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?”
The couple looked at each other, but neither of them spoke.
Carrick looked at his watch. “Guys, I don’t want to pressure you, but opportunities like this don’t come along every day. I’m in touch with two groups of Russian investors who are desperate to get on board. Now, I’m old-school. I’d prefer to be dealing in dollars than with roubles, if you know what I mean. But I also have bills to pay and contractors to keep busy, so I’m going to need an answer by the end of the day.”
* * *
—
Carrick waited until his assistant buzzed through to confirm that the couple had left the office, then he took a prepaid cellphone from a box of them in his desk drawer.
“Donny, I’m giving the green light on another job. Have you replaced Davies yet? We need someone quick, but not someone who’ll tread on his own johnson this time.”
XII
A WEEK AGO
Rigel Walcott had flown on hundreds of private planes in his life, but he’d never been to an airport to meet one before. He’d always had people to do that for him. He was half wishing he’d sent someone else that morning, too, because aside from the travelers preparing to depart—he recognized the types, clustered around the lounge chairs and couches with their pre-flight cocktails, some watching the stock prices scroll silently across the large-screen TVs, others contemplating the flames in the oversized fireplace as they fought a losing battle with the air-conditioning—the only guys waiting there were chauffeurs. There were five of them standing in a tight group near the land-side exit for easy access to the smoking area.
Another inconvenience was that unlike at regular airports, there was no display screen to provide information about the planes that were due to arrive. Walcott could hear the occasional crackle from the radios behind the reception counter, but he couldn’t make out any intelligible words. Sometimes the bursts of sound prompted no action. Other times a receptionist would glide across to the lounge and direct a group of passengers to the air-side door where a porter would be waiting to wheel their luggage out to one of the planes on the apron near the horseshoe of han
gars.
Walcott kept watch out of the window, but still the plane he was so desperate to see did not appear. His fate was literally up in the air, and he had no way of checking on its status. Unable to stand still, and not wanting to draw attention to himself, he moved across to the far side of a trio of tall hotel-style baggage trolleys. The first held a couple of golf bags. The second, suitcases—Rimowas and Halliburtons in various rainbow shades of corrugated aluminum like some weird art installation. And the third, a single narrow wooden crate. The kind used to transport paintings. Valuable ones, usually. Walcott wondered what was inside. A Renoir? A Leonardo? Even a minor Richter or a Lichtenstein would be enough to get him off the hook. If he could somehow get the trolley outside, to his rented Escalade…
Movement on the runway caught Walcott’s eye. It started as a smear of white and yellow dancing in the heat haze that was rising from the exposed asphalt. Then it solidified into the shape of a plane as it taxied along the shaded sections nearer the buildings. He checked its silhouette. There were three engines perched on the fuselage near the tail. That was good. It could be the type he’d chartered. A Dassault Falcon. It was more expensive, but he’d been told it was better than a Gulfstream and he couldn’t afford to take chances. He waited anxiously as it crept closer. It turned slightly and its tail number came into view. Walcott read it. Twice. It was correct. Salvation was here at last.
The plane came to a stop ten yards from the terminal, with its left-hand side facing the entrance for convenience. Ten seconds crawled past and its hatch didn’t open. Another ten ticked away. And then the reason dawned on Walcott—it was an international flight so INS clearance was needed. Two minutes later a navy blue Crown Victoria with gold lettering rolled up slowly from somewhere between the hangars. Two officers stepped out. The plane’s door swung down, its steps were lowered, and the officers climbed inside.
Walcott was glazed with sweat despite the chilly processed air of the terminal building. Why was INS taking so long? There should only be one passenger on board. How hard can it be to check one passport?
Five minutes later the officers were back in their car, driving away. Walcott hurried outside, his knees feeling like they’d been replaced with rubber. The noise of the jet’s idling engines assaulted his ears and the smell of burnt fuel stung his nose. Then a man appeared at the top of the steps and Walcott’s discomfort evaporated. The man waved and flashed a tired smile. He was the same kind of height as Walcott. The same kind of age. They’d been buddies in their campaign consultancy days. It had been tough for Walcott to track the guy down, but he didn’t trust anyone else for a job like this.
The guy was halfway down the steps and Walcott was halfway between the terminal and the plane when a black Suburban raced into view. Its sound had been masked by the whine of the plane’s engines. Another one followed, looping past the first and stopping near the plane’s nose. A third vehicle trailed behind the SUVs—a red box van with FBI EVIDENCE RECOVERY TEAM in gold letters along its side—and it took up station near the tail.
Walcott stood as if he was frozen despite the sun beating down and the heat rising from the asphalt. An agent took Walcott’s buddy by the elbow and led him to the first Suburban. Two more agents bustled up the plane’s steps. The engines spooled down after a couple of minutes and the agents emerged escorting the pilots and the flight attendant. Once they were squared away in the second Suburban, an agent from the evidence van took a set of steps and climbed up to the cargo hatch. He opened it and then struggled to pass down two large beige nylon suitcases. His partner took one and hoisted it with both hands as if assessing its weight.
“Phew! This is heavy.” The agent turned to Walcott. “There’s more than beachwear in here, huh? Your buddy must be a world-class shopper. What kind of souvenirs was he bringing back?”
Walcott didn’t answer.
“I didn’t realize Baku was a destination for retail therapy.” The agent lowered the case to the ground. “What do you know that we don’t?”
Walcott remained silent.
“Or how about this. Maybe your buddy was bringing something else back for you? Like, say, maybe two and a half million dollars, cash? In each case?”
Walcott finally found his voice. “You think there’s cash in the cases? Are you crazy?”
“I guess one of us is.” The agent winked. “Let’s open them up. Find out who’s the goofball.”
Walcott shrugged. “Go ahead. Be my guest.”
The agent laid the case down, then paused. “Tell you what. You open it.”
Walcott unzipped the case, then stood up without looking inside. The agent pulled back the flap. The case was crammed full of bundles that were held together with US Treasury bill wrappers. They were the exact size of banknotes. The agent took one of them out. He fanned through it. Then he threw it on the ground and walked quickly away, figuring that would cause less damage to his career than his preferred response, which was to punch Walcott in the face.
The bundle contained nothing but pieces of cut-up newspaper. Every other one in each of the cases was the same.
Walcott kept a smile fixed on his face until all the agents had left, but he knew he’d scored a hollow victory. The exercise was supposed to prove a concept. To provide a lifeline. Instead, the concept was shattered. The lifeline was in tatters. He’d burned through the last of his real cash. He was no closer to getting Madatov his money. And the pain in his left arm was back with a vengeance.
XIII
PRESENT DAY
Over the years the ride became a little wilder, but it also became even more rewarding. It had gone through a really crazy patch this last year. Roberto di Matteo had thought about walking away. But then he’d more or less settled back into his old pattern. He liked the money he was making. And if anything, the work was a little easier. Which was OK…
That morning Roberto was playing golf on his computer, thinking vaguely about retirement, when his secretary buzzed through.
“Sir, I have a gentleman here who’s asking to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says Mr. Carrick sent him. Should I tell him to come back another day?”
Carrick. The guy was a weasel. That was for sure. But he did have a lot of useful contacts. “I have ten minutes, Gloria. Send him in if he thinks he can be quick.”
The man who appeared in Roberto’s office a minute later was wearing a gray suit. He had neat hair. But later that day, when Roberto thought back on their meeting, he struggled to recall any other details of the guy’s appearance.
“Hi. I’m Paul McDougall.” The guy held out his hand. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. Mr. Carrick sent me over. He has a problem, and he thought it was better not to discuss it on the phone. I hope you can help.”
“That depends. What kind of problem does Mr. Carrick have?”
“It’s a little embarrassing, actually. One of his guys has been arrested. Another one. Jonny Evans this time. It’s a similar situation to the Norman Davies case. A similar problem. And we’re looking for a similar solution.”
“Is it another assault?”
“It is. On another tenant, in the same building. A stabbing this time. Not fatal, fortunately. Evans was just supposed to scare some old guy. You know, wave his switchblade around, do a bit of yelling and screaming. But something went wrong. Evans got carried away, I guess. He did get out of there before the police and the paramedics arrived, but he panicked when he heard the sirens. He ditched the knife in a drain on the same block as the building, which wasn’t the smartest thing to do. Mr. Carrick sent someone to get it back, but it was too late. The police had already found it. And that’s a problem, because it’s covered with the victim’s blood and Evans’s prints.”
“It sounds like quite a mess. What are you looking for, exactly?”
“All we need is for the knife to disappear. There are no witnes
ses except the victim, and he’s old, senile, and scared.”
Roberto thought for a moment. He had the opportunity to charge a hefty premium here, he realized. He could argue that the risk was much greater, tampering with evidence so hard on the heels of the previous time. “OK, McDougall. I’ll handle it. I’ll just need the booking number from you. And you can tell Mr. Carrick, this has to be the last time.”
“I understand. And don’t worry. You can rest assured. You definitely won’t be hearing from Mr. Carrick again.”
XIV
PRESENT DAY
George Carrick settled back in his chair, slipped off his shoes, and swung his feet up onto his desk. He was done for the day. Finally! Although he knew he shouldn’t complain. Things were bearable. They were certainly better than they had been a week ago. The Davies problem had been solved. Permanently. The idiot McNaught had been sent packing, with his sanctimonious tail between his legs. The hassle and expense of rehousing those loser tenants in Hell’s Kitchen had been avoided. So had the medical costs for that old Mason woman. Progress was definitely being made.
Carrick opened his top drawer and took out a cigar. It had been a gift from a grateful client. It was a good one. An expensive one. He held the tip in his teeth and reached for his lighter. Then put the lighter back. He couldn’t smoke that cigar. Not yet. He still wasn’t out of the woods. Jonny Evans wasn’t returning his calls, for example. Which was a problem, because he needed those stragglers out of his building. Like, yesterday. It still rankled that he had to demolish it at all. It hadn’t been bringing in a vast profit, but it had been steady. Carrick believed in maintaining a balanced portfolio, and if you want balance, you need a certain amount of steady. Now he wouldn’t have enough. And the building was in a great area. Amazing things were happening there. His instinct told him there was a killing to be made, and he hated to miss out. Although, talking of killing, deep down he knew that getting away from Madatov with all his body parts still attached put him well ahead of the game. Losing the building still stung, though…