Antenna Syndrome (19 page)

“Midtown.”

“You know Clinton Park?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll meet you there in an hour. Make sure you’re
not followed.”

“I could be there in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ve got things to do.”

“Okay, see you then.”

I paid for my groceries and left. Back in my
apartment, I threw out the spoiled food and restocked my fridge. I
ate some freshly-roasted chicken with home fries, and drank a glass
of red wine. I watched the news but saw nothing that implicated me.
Then I must have dozed off.

I awoke from a brief dream in which a giant hornet
had landed on my head, gripped my scalp with all six legs and
attempted liftoff. Fucking bugs were everywhere.

I grabbed my helmet and went down to my storage unit
to get my bike. The eight-by-eight unit held spare rims for the
Charger, some camping gear I hadn’t used in years, and my BMW
motorcycle, a red Concept 90 I’d bought a few years ago in an
estate sale.

I headed over to Clinton Park. It was close enough I
should have walked for the exercise, but I had a healthy paranoia
for the police. They’d made me their guest last night, and imposed
electro-cranial interrogation on Walker this afternoon. If they
were lurking in Clinton Park awaiting our rendezvous, I’d give them
a run for their money.

I circled the park until I spotted Walker sitting in
his Camaro on 52nd. I pulled up next to him and gestured for him to
climb aboard.

“I don’t have a helmet.”

“We’re not going far.”

He locked his car and climbed on. I drove slowly
through the park and crossed Joe DiMaggio to the Hudson River
Greenway. There was a riverside park between 54th and 57th where
only pedestrians and bicyclists were allowed, but I went anyway. I
parked adjacent some picnic tables at the river’s edge with a clear
view so nobody could sneak up on us.

Walker shook a couple of cigarettes out of his pack.
After we’d had a few puffs, I asked him, “What’d you tell the cops
about me?”

“Everything I know,” Walker said, “which is next to
nothing.”

“Refresh my memory.”

“I met you at the bookstore this morning where I’d
interviewed an individual in a case of mistaken identity....”

“Interviewed?
You’re a reporter now?”

“Well, I couldn’t say I’d assaulted the guy.”

“Sure. And then...?”

“You showed up, looking for the ex-owner of this
bookstore, who used to know a missing girl you were trying to
find.”

“And then...?”

“I hadn’t seen you since.”

“Right.”

“Were you out on Long Island today?” Walker
asked.

Instead of lying, I stalled. “Why do you ask?”

“The cops asked me if I’d been to Ronkonkoma
Lake.”

“What’s out there?”

“That’s what they wanted to know.”

“Weird.” It was weird, but not for the same reasons
Walker might think. It seems the Russian kidnappers knew Detectives
Boyle and Mundt. Apparently they’d noted my plates and told the
police, who’d speculated Walker had accompanied me to Ronkonkoma
Lake in my car.

“What kind of shit are you in?” Walker said.

“I’m not sure,” I said, and that was no lie.

Walker gave me a canny look. “You said maybe I could
help you. There’d be something in it for me.”

“I’ve been trying to manage on my own.”

“How’s that working for you?”

I shrugged. Truth was, I was getting nowhere fast
with this case. I didn’t know if I needed help so much as
commiseration. That payout for completion was starting to look
doubtful, never mind the bonus for speedy resolution.

“How do you know Jack?”

“We used to be bouncers at the Hustler Club.”

I recognized the name. A high-end strip joint
popular with nouveau riche gangstas. “Used to…?”

“I tossed a guy onto the sidewalk one night. He
didn’t bounce so well.”

“You killed him?”

“Nah. He just never woke up.”

Okay, whatever. “Do you know any of Jack’s
friends?”

“Some of them.”

“Any Russians?”

“There used to be a few regulars at the club. They’d
swill vodka and swing their dicks around. Lap dancers liked them
because they tipped like no tomorrow. Girls who went home with them
didn’t get off so easily. Lots of bruises, sometimes a doctor’s
visit, maybe a few days rest.”

“You think Jack has connections?”

“With the Russians? I don’t know. They weren’t my
kind of people. Or maybe it was the other way around. Why do you
ask?”

“This case I’m working has a Russian element, but I
don’t know the extent of it. The fact the cops ID’d you, and put
you through the wringer, isn’t a good leading indicator of your
long-term wellbeing. Less you know, the better.”

Walker shook his head. “I can’t work like that.”

“I understand.”

He stood up. “I can walk back to my car.”

“Wait. There’s something you could do. And it’s not
dangerous.”

He sat down again. “Tell me.”

“Jack’s starting to look a little bent to me. This
afternoon while I was riding shotgun on a ransom drop with his
wife, someone stole all of his kidnapped daughter’s paintings.”

“You think Russians were behind both things?”

“Just a hunch. But the daughter has an art agent in
the Village.” I used my goggles to retrieve the address Vivien had
given me for the Schiller Gallery on Greenwich Avenue.

“Want me to stake out the gallery? See if anyone
shows up with a truckload of paintings?”

“That’s a luxury I can’t afford. Not to mention, a
long shot.”

Speaking of long shots, I’d begun to wonder if Jack
wasn’t a bit of a dark horse in this race. There was something
about him that I didn’t trust. He was obviously cheating on Vivien
with this Tatiana babe. She had a Russian name and Jack used to
work at a club frequented by Russians. The kidnapper had a Russian
accent. And although Jack had been out of the house when Marielle’s
paintings were stolen, when he’d heard about it, there’d been
something forced about his outrage. Could he have masterminded this
whole sequence of events to steal the paintings?

To dispose of them, Jack might handle it himself.
But would he deal with Schiller or another agent? Schiller knew
Marielle’s market value, but no way he’d handle her stolen art.
Plus which, he’d be the first one to be visited by the police. So
Jack would have to deal with another agent or a private buyer. I
briefly explained this to Walker.

I gave him the gallery address anyway, but it was
Jack I wanted under surveillance. “Get out to East Massapequa as
soon as you can, and follow him if he leaves the house. If he’s
involved, he’ll want to unload those paintings as fast as he
can.”

I took a roll of bills from my pocket and gave him
half. “I’ll be busy for an hour or two this evening, but call me if
you see anything that looks like a deal going down.”

He thumbed through the bills. “This’ll only buy you
until midnight. After that, it’s time-and-a-half.”

“Deal.”

We shook on it and I dropped him off at his car.

Chapter 34

After leaving Walker, I stopped at an internet café
and made a cyber call to the number I’d found on both Jack’s and
LeVeen’s phones. A woman with a soft Russian accent answered.

“Tatiana Borodin?” I said.

“Who is this?”

“I’m a friend of Jack Randall.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“You also know Ron LeVeen. I know you spoke to both
of them by phone today. Given LeVeen’s death, the police will be
interested to know about your relationship.”

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name’s Keith Savage. I’m looking for a missing
girl named Marielle. She may have been kidnapped, or just run
away.”

“I don’t know any Marielle either.”

“Where do you live? I need to see you.”

“I’m busy.”

“Talk to me or talk to the police.”

She thought about it. “Can I call you back?”

I didn’t want to give her my number in case it came
back to bite my ass. “I’ll give you ten minutes.” I pulled out my
vaporizer and sucked on it while I killed some time. I was good at
that, practically a serial killer.

I used my goggles to catch up on the latest local
news. Apparently the incident at the Media Center yesterday hadn’t
blunted the Department of Sanitation’s enthusiasm for robotic
garbage operations. Three EDGARs were scheduled to start running
tonight in designated neighborhoods. Residents were reminded to
ensure their small pets were indoors between midnight and four AM.
Posters warned homeless people who camped out on the street.
Cavete metalli bestiam noctu
. Beware of the night robot.

I called Tatiana back and she picked up right away.
Her tone had changed. She sounded like someone who’d been chased
down an alley but, now cornered, had stopped to negotiate. She gave
me her address. It was a risk going there, but worth the gamble if
I could get a lead on Marielle.

I called Finder and asked if he could look up a
property ownership pronto. Time’s money, he reminded me, and I
agreed to pay the price.

Champlain Place was on Madison, Upper East Side, a
twenty-story in white granite spanning half a block. I descended
the ramp of the underground garage to a security booth with a
camera and a crossbar. The rent-a-cop emerged from his cell and we
negotiated a price to cover an hour or so. He raised the crossbar
and pointed to the visitors’ area.

The lobby desk was manned by a doorman who looked
like he’d retired from an unsuccessful career of extreme fighting.
I showed my ID and he called upstairs to check with Tatiana. I
passed through a metal detector and, when the scan revealed my
pistol, he relieved me of it, put it in a lock-box and gave me a
receipt.

Finder called back with the information I wanted.
The condo was owned by Harris Jordan.

I took the elevator to the 30th floor and rang the
bell at Tatiana’s apartment. I tapped my iFocals to start
recording. She took her time coming to the door but it was worth
the wait.

“Savage?” She regarded me coolly.

“Only when aroused. Usually I’m quite gentle.”

“Whatever,” she shrugged. I guess she’d heard it
all.

She was one of those platinum blondes whose hair
alone could have woven a man trap. She wore a pants-and-blouse
outfit of black diaphanous material that must have come from
Victoria’s Secret
. Her body was something of which dreams
are made, and the transparent outfit made it a lucid dream. The
pants were held up by a single drawstring, and it didn’t take a Boy
Scout to see the whole thing would unfurl with the gentlest of
tugs. There are beautiful women and there are sexy women, but this
one would have given the Pope a boner.

I passed through the pleasant fog of her perfume and
she closed the door behind me. She went behind a granite counter
that separated the kitchen from the living room.

“Drink?”

“Whenever I get the chance.”

“I make a mean martini.”

“Bring it on.”

She picked up a remote and pointed it into the
living room. Michael Bublé began crooning from everywhere. She got
some olives, ice and a chilled bottle of Grey Goose from the
fridge. Vermouth and two martini glasses stood waiting on the
counter.

I wandered into the living room, where a white
leather sectional faced a gas fireplace. A flat screen TV occupied
the wall above it. Windows spanned the west wall, covered only by a
gauze curtain. I parted it to see a balcony facing the lake and the
boathouse. Across the park, the lights of apartment towers on the
Upper West Side made Central Park seem like a dark pit across which
only a few ropes of light had been strung.

Tatiana came to me with a martini in each hand. I
accepted a glass and held it up in a salute. My glass held two
olives, neither much bigger than the nipples I saw through the
micron of black gauze she called a blouse.

“In vino veritas
,” I said

“What’s that mean?”

“Drink up and tell the truth.” I was about to take a
sip when I hesitated and sniffed my drink. “What’s in this?”

“Just the usual. Why?”

“It just occurred to me, this might be doped.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Why would I do a thing like
that?”

“Because you’d been told to?”

“Nobody tells me what to do.”

She said it with such a straight face I wanted to
believe her, but my healthy sense of paranoia was too strong to
ignore. Her martini might contain a secret ingredient that wouldn’t
agree with me. If I weren’t careful, I could wake up in the morning
with less than my usual complement of kidneys.

I dumped the martini down the sink and poured myself
straight vodka on the rocks.

I returned to the living room, where flames had
appeared in the gas fireplace. She was now sitting on the
sectional, an arm stretched along the back. She took a pack of
cigarettes from the coffee table and offered me one. I used her
lighter to get us both going.

“So what’s this about a missing girl?”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence by playing
dumb. You know Jack, so you know some of what’s going on.”

Tatiana shrugged. “Girls run away from home all the
time.”

“She’s a paraplegic.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” She kicked off her
heels and tucked her feet beneath her. A warm invigorating scent
wafted off her. Full credits to her
parfumier
, the scent
would have induced a lesser man to take her in his arms, but I kept
a grip on my zipper.

“I don’t know. What’s the deal between you and
Jack?”

“We’re just friends.”

“Friends with benefits, you mean?”

She shrugged.

“But you’re running some kind of scam on
Jordan...?”

“That’s ridiculous.” She shook her head too slowly
to be convincing.