“Aren’t you going to finish your drink?” Justine asked.
“Another time, maybe,” I replied.
“Night,” Sci said.
“Night, Jack,” Justine added, and I could have sworn I felt her eyes on me as I left the bar.
CHAPTER 27
I COULD STILL taste the highball when a phone call woke me at six thirty. I saw Mo-bot’s name light up the screen, and answered: “Yeah.”
“And good morning to you too,” she responded cheerfully. “I found something. When can you get here?”
“You still at the office?” I asked.
“Sleep’s overrated,” she replied.
“I’m on my way,” I said, hanging up.
I got out of bed, dressed quickly, brushed the whisky from my mouth and left the room. I thought about waking Justine, but after the previous evening I wasn’t sure why I wanted her with me. For her professional insight? Or for something far more personal? It irritated me that she had been right.
I left Justine and Sci sleeping and took a cab from the Nomad to the Madison Building. They could follow me later in the Private staff car.
When I arrived, the office was almost deserted, save for a couple of investigators who were at their desks in their sweat-soaked jogging gear. It was a Sunday, but the Parker case meant we’d called people in. The two early-morning joggers stiffened when they saw me, and we exchanged greetings as I hurried through.
I found Mo-bot in one of the conference rooms. Her gear was spread across a large table along with discarded Chinese takeout boxes, files and handwritten notes. She sat in front of the laptop we’d recovered.
“Morning,” Mo-bot said. “I cracked the computer. I also found out who owns the building where we found it. Mahmood Hannan, a Lebanese national who’s been living in America for twenty years.”
“We need to speak to him,” I said.
“I already have. At three forty-seven this morning. He was eager to talk when I threatened to set the IRS on him. Said the warehouse was rented by a company in Belize. The same one that chartered the chopper the assassin used to escape, Antares Futures and Investments.”
I was stunned by the revelation. Karl Parker had led us to a building rented by the people who’d killed him.
“See if you can track down the owners of the Belize corporation,” I said.
Mo-bot nodded and turned the laptop to face me. “There’s some interesting stuff on here.” She opened a text document. “This was in a folder marked personal.”
I read the document, which amounted to a single sentence.
Sometimes the only way out is a dead end.
KP
It was a bleak message that could have been a suicide note or an admission he’d known he’d been targeted for death. But if he’d known he was a target, why hadn’t he done anything about it?
“I also found this,” Mo-bot said.
She opened another document from the same folder which contained a web link. She clicked the link and went to an MSNBC page that told the story of Robert Carlyle, a Washington, D.C., financier and fixer. Carlyle had died less than two weeks ago in a single-vehicle car accident. According to the article, his Mercedes S-Class had come off the road at speed and wrapped itself around a tree.
“Is Karl saying this incident is linked to his death?” I asked. “That was my guess too. I haven’t found anything to connect Carlyle to Mr. Parker, but I’ll keep looking,” Mo-bot said. “There’s something else.”
She switched back to the document and scrolled down the next page until she came to another link, which took us to the executive biography of Elizabeth Connor, the owner of the New York Tribune, one of the city’s most successful newspapers. Connor was a reclusive billionaire and a clear-cut member of the 1 percent.
“Any idea how she’s involved?” Mo-bot asked.
I studied Connor’s photograph and tried to get inside my friend’s head. “I think Karl Parker might have just identified the next target.”
“There was one other thing on the machine,” Mo-bot said, switching to the explorer window.
She opened a text file called “Morgan.txt.”
The message was short and simple.
You can’t trust the cops. You can’t trust the Bureau.
You can’t trust the Agency. Your life is in danger.
CHAPTER 28
I WAS ON my way out of the office when I ran into Sci and Justine.
“Early start?” Sci asked as they emerged from the elevator.
“Mo cracked Karl’s machine,” I replied. “We think he’s identified the next target.”
“Who?” Justine asked.
“Elizabeth Connor, the owner of the Tribune,” I said. “I’m on my way to see her now.”
“You want company?” Sci asked.
I shook my head. “Mo-bot is looking for links between Karl Parker and Elizabeth Connor, but there was another death Karl pointed us in the direction of: Robert Carlyle—”
“The financier?” Sci interrupted.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Car crash twelve days ago. Police say he lost control of the vehicle, but I want you to see whether there was any foul play.”
Sci nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”
He left Justine and me in the lobby, and headed into the main office. We endured a moment of uncomfortable silence.
“Why don’t you come with me?” I suggested. “I could use your read on what we know about the killer so far.”
Justine hesitated.
“Sure,” she said, and we took the elevator to the parking garage. “Where are we going?” she asked as we approached the staff car.
“Elizabeth Connor keeps an office at the Tribune. She’s there seven days a week. We had no luck reaching her by phone, so I’m going to try the personal touch.”
“Irresistible,” Justine said, sliding into the driver’s seat. She pressed the Nissan’s ignition as I got in beside her, but paused for a moment. “Sorry, Jack,” she said. “I didn’t mean anything …” She hesitated.
“It was a joke, Justine. I get that,” I reassured her. “Nothing’s changed between us.”
That wasn’t true. Revisiting the past last night had altered everything. The easy rapport we usually had was gone, replaced by a sense of awkwardness.
“What’s your read on the shooter?” I asked, changing the subject.
She put the car in gear and thought about the question as she drove out of the garage and joined the traffic on East 26th Street.
“The gloves, the disguise and the planning that went into the shooting all suggest someone extremely methodical. The chopper and the size of his support team point to a well-resourced organization,” Justine said as we crawled along the frozen street.
“And the Ninety-nine?” I asked.
“If Elizabeth Connor is the next target, that would fit their one percent motive, but terrorist organizations don’t spring out of nowhere. The FBI or NSA would have picked up some chatter. Heck, even local police intelligence would have some reference to the group, but there’s nothing.”
“Which suggests it’s a cover,” I remarked.
Justine nodded. “Criminal gang, or some other political group hiding their involvement.”
“Or a foreign power,” I suggested.
Justine nodded. “Motive is key,” she observed. “Find out why Karl Parker was killed and the truth of who was behind it will follow.”
I nodded and studied her face as she drove. She was as beautiful and smart as ever. She caught me watching her, and smiled. Maybe Karl’s death had knocked me off center, but watching her face light up made me want her more than ever.
CHAPTER 29
THE TRIBUNE’S OFFICES were located on 6th Avenue in a towering skyscraper that occupied the block between 48th and 49th Streets, a short distance from the New York Times. The two papers had a longstanding rivalry which had been exacerbated when Elizabeth Connor had purchased the Tribune ten years ago. Taking her cue from Fox News
, Connor had shifted the paper’s editorial stance, transforming it from broadly centrist into a partisan conservative publication that chased controversy at every opportunity. She’d famously said she’d never rest until every American had been saved from the disease of social liberalism. It had been a brave stance to take in a largely Democrat city, but it had worked and the Tribune’s circulation had jumped 25 percent since Connor had taken charge.
Justine and I managed to get past the main front desk located on the first floor and made it to the Tribune’s lobby on the thirty-fifth floor. The paper’s editorial position was reflected in the décor of its office. A huge Stars and Stripes hung behind the lobby desk, alongside photos of every Republican president since Eisenhower. A six-foot-high sculpture of a bald eagle stood guard beside the secure double doors that led to the main office. The Tribune was a 24/7 operation, and beyond the doors there was no sign of reduced activity because it was a Sunday.
“Good morning,” the desk clerk said. He was a smartly dressed guy with the fresh face of someone just out of college. “How can I help?”
“My name is Jack Morgan. This is my colleague Justine Smith. We’re from Private, the detective agency, and we’d like to see Elizabeth Connor.”
“Do you have an appointment?” he asked.
His smile didn’t waver, but his demeanor shifted. Very few people got in to see the reclusive Elizabeth Connor and those who did probably didn’t come through the front door.
“We’re investigating the death of Karl Parker,” I replied. “She’s going to want to hear what we have to say.”
“Take a seat,” the clerk said, pointing us toward a long leather corner couch beneath framed front pages that were stuck to the lobby’s bare brick walls.
Justine and I walked over, but we didn’t sit; instead we milled around while the clerk made a phone call.
I got partway through a front page from 26 October 1983, broadly supporting President Reagan’s intervention in Grenada. The paper’s take on events was gentle and measured and a far cry from the partisan editorial of today’s editions, but the photo and headline helped sell the narrative that the Tribune had always been a deeply conservative newspaper. My reading was interrupted by a silver-haired man in a dark tailored suit that was cut a little too short for him.
“Mr. Morgan,” he called out as he stepped through the double doors.
I walked over, and Justine followed, and we exchanged greetings.
“My name’s Clancy Fairbourne,” the man said. He had a thick Texan drawl. His smooth, angular face looked as though it had been chiseled into shape by skilled plastic surgeons. Like a snake who knows no better, he had a permanent smile fixed to his face.
I disliked the man immediately.
“I’m general counsel for the Tribune. Is there something I can help you with?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Karl Parker. We’d like to talk to Miss Connor about—”
“Let me stop you there, Mr. Morgan,” Clancy said. “Miss Elizabeth Connor denies all knowledge of Karl Parker and if you or any of your associates assert otherwise, she will have no alternative but to take action.”
I took a step closer, just to make it clear I wasn’t going to be intimidated. “What kind of action?”
“She would be forced to take legal action,” he replied.
I smiled. I’d been threatened before, but never had a situation escalated so quickly and without any provocation.
“We believe her life is in danger,” Justine said.
“Miss Connor’s life is always in danger, little lady,” Clancy responded.
“My name is Justine Smith. I’m a forensic profiler with enough experience to spot a front man working hard to neutralize a potential scandal. What’s your boss hiding, Mr. Fairbourne?”
“Well, Miss Smith,” Clancy said, drawing close to Justine. “I apologize for assuming you were Mr. Morgan’s assistant, but it was understandable. You’re just so young and pretty.”
I felt Justine bristle and stepped between the two of them. This guy was testing my patience and it was clear he was hoping to provoke a response. I just couldn’t figure out why. As far as I could tell, Elizabeth Connor wasn’t under suspicion of anything.
“A group calling themselves the Ninety-nine has claimed responsibility for the murder of Karl Parker, and we have reason to believe that Miss Connor is next on their list of targets,” I said.
“Then I hope you’ve shared that information with the proper authorities,” Clancy replied. “Miss Connor gets threats from the liberal establishment every day, and we take great care to protect her from those. So I hope you won’t consider me impolite when I say we have nothing more to talk about.” Clancy fixed me with a look that was all daggers beneath his big smile. “Even if there was something to discuss, Miss Connor isn’t here. Now you’ll have to excuse me. The news never stops, not even on the Lord’s day. You know your way out, Mr. Morgan, Miss Smith.”
Clancy headed for the office and Justine and I watched him leave. Puzzled, I called an elevator.
“What just happened?” Justine asked as we stepped inside.
“He just waved the biggest red flag I’ve ever seen,” I replied.
“When we got here, I wasn’t sure Connor and Karl were connected, but I am now.”
“So what next?” Justine asked.
“We’re going to talk to Elizabeth Connor and find out exactly what she knows about Karl Parker’s death,” I said as the elevator doors slid shut.
CHAPTER 30
THE RICH SMELL of solyanka soup announced Leonid’s arrival before he rounded the corner. Dinara was sitting at her desk in Private Moscow’s open-plan office on the second floor of the Schechtel Building on Lyalin Lane, a street of beautiful old residences that had been robbed of their majesty by the revolution. Grand old villas had been turned into industrial yards, and ornate apartment blocks had been converted into functional offices. The Schechtel Building was a Russian Revival villa, an imposing, traditional structure of columns and arches that looked more to Russia’s past than its future. The lease had been agreed by Lev Vesnin, the former Russian Army officer who used to run Private Moscow, and Dinara longed for the day she could leave the dilapidated offices and move to surroundings that were more in keeping with Private’s cutting-edge international brand.
The office was just one of many issues that had resulted in Lev falling out with Jack Morgan. The most significant source of contention was Private Moscow’s precipitous decline in fortunes. At its peak, the Moscow office had employed twenty-three people, but by the time Dinara joined, they were down to two investigators and Elena Kabova, the middle-aged administrator and office manager, who kept everything ticking over. The two investigators had objected to working for a woman and left, so Dinara had hired Leonid to replace them. Business hadn’t picked up enough to employ anyone else.
Dinara couldn’t help feeling as though the Yana Petrova case was her last roll of the dice. If they didn’t solve Petrova’s murder, the office would have to close. Jack Morgan couldn’t keep subsidizing them forever.
Leonid sauntered over with a plastic bag full of food containers.
“One solyanka,” he said, taking out a plastic bowl and wooden spoon.
Elena left her desk in the little corner space they’d turned into a lobby, and joined them.
“Solyanka with chilli sauce,” Leonid said, handing her another container and spoon.
“Thanks,” Elena said.
Dinara had a lot of time for the quiet office manager. She never complained, always smiled, and went out of her way to make their lives easier. Firing Elena would be much harder than letting Leonid go.
Dinara took the lid off her soup and checked the progress of the cracking program Maureen Roth had sent her. It was crunching its way through the laptop they’d discovered in Yana Petrova’s apartment, trying to force its way to her password.
Elena and Leonid each sat at an empty desk, and Dinara turned to fa
ce them. She’d instituted team lunches in an effort to keep up morale, but now they just seemed like sad little daily interludes, and the three of them often had to search for something they could all talk about. At least they had a case today.
“Any luck?” Leonid asked.
Dinara glanced back at the laptop, which was still refusing to yield to the cracking program. She shook her head.
“It’s good to have a case,” Elena said. “Even one that’s a secret.”
Elena’s pointed remark wasn’t lost on Dinara or Leonid. As their administrator, she’d always had the details of investigations so she could process paperwork and assist with low-level background, but this case was different. Maxim Yenen was connected and if Yana Petrova really was Otkrov, or had some link to the conspiracy blogger, they’d be on extremely dangerous ground. Elena’s ignorance might help keep her safe.
“We’ll give you the details when we can,” Dinara responded. “It’s nothing personal, Elena.”
A low tone signaled the cracking program had succeeded and Dinara turned to see the laptop come to life. The computer’s background image was a photograph of Yana Petrova holding a white card that read, “#IAmOtkrov.”
“Otkrov?” Elena asked, craning toward the machine.
“Lots of kids posted pictures of themselves with this hashtag,” Dinara noted. “Can you give us a minute?”
Elena picked up her soup and reluctantly returned to the reception area around the corner.
Dinara clicked the Explorer icon and found a list of folders. She opened one called “Completed Cases” and discovered a number of sub-folders. She recognized many of them as significant stories Otkrov had published: a Kremlin corruption scandal; the “truth” behind a nuclear-submarine accident; a military sex ring; and so on. There were other stories Dinara hadn’t heard of, but she wasn’t an avid follower of Otkrov’s blog.
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