by A. C. Fuller
Under normal circumstances, Cole could get building ownership records in five minutes through a simple web search. The owner of the townhouse, it turned out, was shielded by layer after layer of anonymity.
A public records search told her that the home had been purchased seventeen years earlier by a company called Key One Research. It took her an hour to learn that Key One Research was an LLC formed in Tortola in the British Virgin Islands. As far as she could tell, the company had no American business operations. It’s only asset was the townhouse.
It was a shell company, and three years earlier, her search would have ended there.
But in 2016, 11.5 million pages of documents had been leaked from Mossack Fonseca, a law firm based in the British Virgin Islands. The documents, which became known to the public as The Panama Papers, provided the most comprehensive evidence of tax evasion and corruption among the ultra-wealthy that the world had ever seen. The database was online, and there Cole found her answer.
Key One Research had been created by Manhattan billionaire Chandler Price. A call to a colleague at the business section convinced her that Price had purchased the townhouse through the shell company for one of two reasons: to hide wealth from the city and state to avoid taxes, or to separate the asset from his personal wealth, half of which he’d lose in the event of a divorce from his wife, Margaret Price.
From there, the connections had been easy to make. Margaret Price was sixty years old and well known on the Upper East Side for her extravagant parties and her taste for old champagne and young men. She and Mr. Price had been separated for years, but had never formally divorced. For now, she still called the lavish limestone townhouse home. If her Instagram feed was to be believed, she’d been out of town during the shooting. A two-day shopping trip to Paris.
Now all Cole needed was her personal cell phone number. And she knew where she’d get it. “We gotta go to Shooter’s.”
19
“Tell me again why we’re here.” Warren unfolded his body to exit the cramped Prius.
The evening was cold and windless, like the air had frozen in place, stinging Cole’s cheeks as she followed Warren out of the car. Reaching the sidewalk, they walked toward a windowless storefront. A red awning over a black door read: Shooter’s Tavern.
Cole tapped her phone to pay the driver as she spoke. “Because this is where cops hang out.”
Warren scoffed. “White cops, maybe.”
“You’ve never been here?”
“When I drank, I didn’t drink here. No one I know drinks here.”
“Like I said, my cell phone guy is usually here. Dude from the 30th who helps me from time to time.”
Cole lead the way in and found them a booth near the front door, the last empty table in the bustling bar filled with cops.
“See him?” he asked.
“Be patient.” She scanned the room. “He’s not here yet.”
“I’m not thrilled about being seen with you.”
Cole had noticed Warren tightening up as they entered the bar, and he’d moved to the corner of the booth, where he was least likely to be noticed. “I texted him.”
“How long do you want to give him?”
“Until he gets here.”
Warren drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. “And if he gives you the number, what, you’re just gonna call her?”
“That’s my job. You don’t get far in this business if you’re not comfortable getting hung up on.”
Warren chuckled. “I guess cops don’t get hung up on as much.”
“I guess not. But seriously, the questions are: does she know anyone who fits the description? Was it a coincidence she was out of town that day? Does she have a security system? Does that system include cameras? Does—”
“I get it, you have questions.”
“Don’t you?”
“Of course, I just don’t see why she’d speak with you.”
“I have ways of getting people to talk.” Cole slid out of the booth. “We might be here a while. I’m gonna get us drinks.”
“Mineral water,” Warren said.
Cole ambled up to the bar, ordered a double tequila for herself and a mineral water for Warren. Waiting for the drinks, she glanced left down the bar, toward the pool tables in the back. When she saw Danny Aravilla, her heart froze in her chest.
From the booth, Warren followed her gaze. After ordering, Cole had looked left casually, her gaze stopping on a man in the back. He had a pool cue in one hand and his other on the hip of a pretty redhead in tight black jeans.
Warren watched Cole stare at the couple for a full minute. Despite the fact that he was hardwired to dislike her, he had to admit he found her attractive. She had a quick mind and it showed on her face, like a chess player in the middle of a game. Always thinking, always calculating. Despite her sugar intake, she was lean, and her straight black hair and bright blue eyes were a striking, unusual combination.
She dropped a twenty on the counter and, eyes still on the couple, shot her tequila. She returned to the booth without his drink.
“What gives?” Warren asked.
Cole said nothing.
“Is that your cell phone guy, with the redhead?”
“That’s my boyfriend.” She looked up. “Can we get out of here?”
“What about your cell phone guy?”
Cole sighed. “You know anyone?”
“Possibly.”
“Outside you said this was where the white cops hang out. Where do the black cops hang out? Where did you hang out before you got sober?”
Warren’s shoulders relaxed at the thought of Lady Johnson’s. He’d learned in AA that just the thought of alcohol could bring on the physiological state of relaxation associated with drinking. He’d also learned that the best way to stay sober was to eliminate temptation. Don’t go to your old haunts, avoid parties with alcohol and, of course, never keep alcohol in the home. He’d done the opposite. If he could withstand the temptation of a bottle of his favorite Cognac on the fridge, he could withstand anything. But he hadn’t been to Lady Johnson’s in four years.
“I used to know a guy. Across town. West 30th.”
Cole stood. “Then let’s go.”
The taxi stopped abruptly and Cole slid forward, then faced him. “That guy in the bar...I’m sorry I got like that. He and I aren’t serious. I just didn’t expect to see him there with another woman.”
“Aren’t serious, meaning?”
“We haven’t put a label on it.”
“But you didn’t know he was out with a hot redhead?” As it came out of his mouth, Warren realized that calling her ‘hot’ was probably the wrong thing to do. “Sorry.”
“Don’t mention it. And she was hot.” Cole sighed. “It’s not his fault. He invited me out tonight and I didn’t even respond. I’ve been terrible to him, stringing him along, not willing to get serious. He’s not a bad guy, but—”
She stopped mid-sentence and looked out the window. Their taxi had stopped in traffic, the blue and yellow lights of Time Square flickering off the window.
Warren put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, and he pulled away.
“And you’re telling yourself you’re not jealous,” he said, “but inside you’re fit to be tied?” She didn’t respond, and he knew he had it right. “Lemme guess, you’ve been single all your life, no kids, career before family, too busy to fall in love, all that BS women tell themselves?” She closed her eyes again, and he was sure he had her pegged.
“That’s not it,” she said softly.
A minute passed in silence. The taxi jerked forward, then turned onto an empty street and cruised.
Cole turned to him. “My husband was killed in Afghanistan.”
“You were married?”
“Seventeen years.”
“Your husband served?”
“Marines.”
Warren swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. Really. I lost friends there. I know what it’s like.�
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“Died three years ago.” Cole wiped tears on the sleeve of her jacket. “Details were sketchy.”
“ISIS?”
“Probably. You were a Marine, too.”
“In Afghanistan same time as your husband. Lost my leg below the knee. Honorably discharged.”
“I know. That’s why you limp.”
Warren pulled up a pant leg and flicked the metal prosthetic with his fingernail. “Still scored in the top one percent on the police physical. First amputee accepted for full duty.”
“I read about that. Didn’t you have to—”
“Raise hell? Sure did. They denied me until I threatened to take them to court.” He raised his pant leg more, displaying the spot where his muscular thigh connected to a carbon fibre socket around the knee. “Damn thing gets loose three or four times a day now. Thigh got bigger and the VA won’t give me a new one. Got eighty grand I can borrow for a replacement?”
Cole smiled, then sat up straight, as though suddenly realizing something. “Wait, you were in Afghanistan the same time as Matt?”
He’d consoled the widows of friends before, and knew they always wanted more information. “I didn’t know him.”
The driver leaned on the horn, then swerved around a truck that was blocking traffic.
The flashing lights danced on Cole’s pale skin. He’d been wondering about something she’d said earlier. “Your husband dying, that why you seem so, I don’t know, depressed?”
“I’m not depressed.”
“Morbid, then? That stuff you said about sacks of meat and a literal ball of fire? Why do you talk like that?”
“That’s how things are.”
“If you ask me, that’s pretty damn dark.” Warren flexed his biceps inside his shirt, a trick he used to connect with his body, his physicality, before he said something he was afraid to say. “I’ve been going to church lately, and—I don’t know why I’m telling you this—but, well, here we are. Wife tried to make me go every Sunday and I…let’s just say if the Raiders happened to be kicking off anytime during the service, I didn’t join her.”
“That why you two broke up?”
“No. It was because I was a drunk and a coke addict.” He’d promised himself to say it out loud whenever possible. Admitting the problem somehow eased the shame. “But what I want to say is, I’ve been going the last three weekends. Still don’t believe anything the preacher says. Still don’t know how anyone can take the words in some old book as seriously as they do. I’ll tell you this, though: the feeling I get there lifts me when I’m down, calms me when I’m angry. I’m down a lot lately. Angry a lot lately. Community. Emotion. It’s like a balm for all the shit in this world, in my life. Ask me, you could use some of that.”
The taxi stopped in front of Lady Johnson’s, a red brick two-story wedged between much taller buildings. A crowd out front shouted, and a group of smokers blocked the sidewalk. The driver called back to them. “Sixteen-fifty.”
“My husband went to church,” Cole said. “Lutheran. Loved me even though I never went with him. Somehow he was good enough for both of us.”
Cole’s hard facade had disappeared, leaving only vulnerability and pain. It was as if it had always been there beneath the cold exterior, but Warren hadn’t seen it. He blinked quickly before his own tears could form in response to her pain. He shook his head—like he could shake the feeling out of himself—and reached for his wallet.
Before he could get it, Cole handed the driver a twenty. “My story, I can bill it to the paper.”
The professional look returned to Cole’s face as she spoke, but now that he’d seen it, Warren could no longer pretend that the pain hadn’t always been there.
20
“There.” Warren pointed to a table at the back of the bar as they entered.
Cole barely heard him over the opening chords of Prince’s Little Red Corvette, but through an opening in the crowd of mostly black cops, she spotted a man with long dreadlocks sitting alone in the corner. Apparently he’d been drinking a while because three empty shot glasses were strewn carelessly on the wooden table, along with two more full ones and half a pitcher of golden beer.
Warren placed his hand on the small of her back, gently leading her through the bar. “Put your arm around me.”
“Why?”
“And don’t introduce yourself to anyone.”
“What?”
He stopped between two groups of boisterous drinkers, elbows jostling from all sides. “We need to pretend we’re a couple. Don’t want anyone to know I’m here with a reporter.”
Cole slid her arm through the crook in his elbow. “Got it, War Dog.”
When they neared the table, Warren glanced down at the man, who sat hunched over a glass of beer. “Davey?”
He said it as though surprised, and Cole went right along with the act. “Who’s this, honey?”
The man stood, tossing back his dreadlocks. Short and slight, he looked sickly, with sallow skin and sunken cheeks. Seeing him up close made Cole feel better about her drinking. Though she overdid it on the tequila from time to time, this guy looked downright pickled.
“War Dog?” His slurred words carried a hint of a British accent.
Warren leaned in and one-armed bro-hugged him. The size differential made Cole worry, however irrationally, that Warren might break the drunk man in half. Davey flopped back into his chair. The momentum nearly toppled him over before he righted himself.
They sat across from him, and Warren draped his arm around her. “Brenda, this is my old buddy Davey. Davey, meet Brenda.”
Davey reached out to shake her hand, knocking an empty shot glass onto her lap in the process. “Charmed.”
“So what’s a tiny Brit doing in a cop bar?” Cole asked, setting the glass next to the other empties.
Under the table, Warren flicked her leg, a signal she took to mean, Knock it off.
Davey shot one of the glasses of brown liquor. “Drinking, obviously.” He turned to Warren. “Thought you’d quit booze and—” he glanced at Cole—“the other stuff.”
“I did, but I need something for the lady.”
“What’s your pleasure, madam?”
Now Cole was confused. “What?”
He patted her hand. “Don’t worry, honey.” Then, to Davey, “Got any molly?”
“Thought you were a skier.”
“Have it or not?”
Davey pulled his dreadlocks into a ponytail and secured them with a rubber band he’d rescued from a small puddle of beer on the table. “You haven’t come here in years, you show up with a white chick asking for molly?” He eyed him skeptically. “This have anything to do with your incident?”
Warren said nothing.
“Like maybe you think busting me will get you back in someone’s good graces?”
Cole considered chiming in, but this was Warren’s turf, Warren’s guy.
Warren rested both hands flat on the table. “In thirty minutes, Brenda and me are gonna be back at her place listening to Al Green, if you know what I mean.” He shot looks around the bar. “There are at least two other guys in here who can give me what I need. You got molly or not?”
“Sure do, but from what I hear you may not be protecting and serving the good people of New York City much longer, so I gotta charge full price.”
Warren’s eyes flashed. Cole squeezed his thigh, trying to calm him down.
“Fine,” Warren said flatly.
Davey nodded toward an exit door between the restrooms, then slid the beer pitcher toward Cole. “Tell you what, sweetie, you refill my beer. War Dog and I are gonna step out back. Tonight, you’ll be rolling all the way to heaven.”
He stood and staggered past the bathrooms and through a door marked “Emergency Exit Only.” Cole braced for the alarm.
“Disabled,” Warren said. “Always has been.”
“Should I refill the beer?”
“Nah, just meet me out front in three minutes. An
d order us an Uber back to my place.”
As they left, Cole read the scroll at the bottom of a TV screen over the bar.
NYPD spokesman Todd Framer announced today that there are still no suspects in the Raj Ambani murder.
Leaders from the Indian American Business Association condemned the killing as “possibly racially motivated.”
The President called the killing “shocking,” “tragic,” and “a great loss for American business.”
Mazzalano had said that Cole was the first reporter to see the video. The fact that CNN hadn’t yet mentioned it confirmed this. If anyone had reported it, images of the old guy would be plastered on every TV screen in the world. For now, it was safe to assume she was the only one with the information. But that couldn’t last long.
Behind the bar, Warren found Davey leaning on a dumpster. “Well done, mate. Back home we call it Riding the Train to Cranham—it’s the whitest suburb in London. What do you call it here? Jungle Fever? Swap the white powder for a white chick. I guess it’s cool, but if you ask me the powder is a more reliable way to feel—”
Warren lunged forward, grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him a foot off the ground. When their eyes met, he slammed him into the dumpster. A dull, metallic thud filled the alley.
Davey’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean.”
Warren let go and Davey collapsed onto the ground by the base of the dumpster.
“Get up.”
“You gotta relax, man. You sure going clean was good for you? I was just saying, Brenda’s cute. Something different—”
“Get up!”
Davey braced himself on the dumpster, standing slowly. “I’m sorry. I got nothing against…I’ve got the pills right here, man.” He fumbled in his pocket.
“Shut up.” Warren leaned in, his face a few inches from Davey’s. “Right now, you’re going to call whoever you call to get phone numbers. You’re going to get me the unlisted cell number for Margaret Price.”
“What the—”
“Don’t bother objecting. Just do it.”