The Newsmakers (25 page)

CHAPTER 58

THE NEXT DAY ERICA HIRES
a car service to take her out to Brighton Beach. They drive along the Hudson to Lower Manhattan, through the Battery Tunnel to Brooklyn, onto the BQE and under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. They pass Coney Island, honky-tonk and romantic with its boardwalk and amusement rides, crowned by the Cyclone, the iconic wooden roller coaster. The change in scenery is good for Erica, even though she knows she will never get the image of that dying rat crawling across her desk out of her mind.

They reach Brighton Beach Boulevard, which runs under the elevated subway. Bursting with vitality, the streets are filled with Russians of all ages—some are well-dressed, others look working class and even poor—and lined with Russian shops, bakeries, restaurants, and over-the-top nightclubs. Erica scans the shops looking for A Taste of St. Petersburg, and when she sees it, she asks the driver to stop and wait for her.

The store is immaculate and filled with a dazzling array of gourmet delicacies—its centerpiece is an enormous refrigerated case filled with a lavish display of loose and tinned caviar set on mounds of ice. A solidly built young man stands proudly behind the case. Unfortunately
there are no customers for him to wait on, which doesn't seem to bother him in the least. Clearly, selling caviar isn't the store's real purpose; it was set up to wash illicit cash—and it's a great-looking laundry.

A pretty, very Slavic-looking young saleswoman approaches Erica with a polished smile. “Welcome to A Taste of St. Petersburg.”

Erica has dressed down in jeans, a blouse, flats, and no makeup, but the woman looks as if she's trying to place her.

“Can I help you find anything?”

“I'm looking for Leonid Gorev.”

“I do not know if he is available. May I tell him who is here to see him?”

“Erica Sparks.”

The woman disappears into the back of the store. “How's business?” Erica asks the young man behind the caviar counter.

“Oh, very good!” he says, smiling and gesturing around the deserted store as if it was filled with shoppers.

“Have you worked here long?”

“Two months!”

“How long have you been in this country?”

“Two months!”

“So you came over here to work in the store?”

“To work for Mr. Gorev.”

“Oh. Do you know Anton Volodin?”

A dark cloud sweeps across the young man's face, and he opens the back of the caviar case and starts to rearrange jars and tins.

“Erica Sparks, what a pleasure and an honor!” booms a bulky middle-aged man in an expensive suit—sporting a Rolex and a gold ring a rapper would envy—as he crosses to her. “I am Leonid Gorev. And you are far more beautiful in person than on the television set. You are here for some caviar! How wonderful! Maybe you will do a TV show story on our caviar! Come, come with me! Gregor, bring us back the finest selection.”

He takes Erica's arm and leads her through the store, down a hall,
and into a large, opulent office. The place looks like it was put together by a decorator with an unlimited budget and multiple personality disorder—it's a dizzying mishmash of plush fabrics, leather sofas, sleek midcentury pieces, and gold-plated rococo—on second glance, maybe it's not plated. In spite of a desk Louis Quatorze would think was ostentatious, it feels like a party room, and Erica can imagine all-night revels filled with drinking contests, raucous Russian laughter, and sentimental tears, a blizzard of cocaine and passels of expensive hookers.

“Please sit, Erica Sparks. Make yourself at home. We will start with vodka. You can't have caviar without vodka! I have the finest vodka in the world! Vodka of the czars!”

“I'm allergic.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, would you like . . .
something else
?” he asks with a mischievous twinkle before pouring himself a shot of vodka and knocking it back.

“I'm fine, thanks.”

Gregor appears with a large silver tray, which he sets down on the coffee table. It holds iced mounds of shimmering black and red caviar, little triangles of toast, and a silver bowl of butter. Then he bows and leaves.

“Do you know how to eat caviar the Russian way?”

“I don't.”

“We don't use any nonsense like hard-boiled eggs or chopped onions! Take a piece of toast, spread with butter, top with caviar—and eat! Enjoy! Live!” Each exclamation is punctuated with a shot of vodka.

Erica follows his directions with the black caviar. The deeply salty, fishy taste is a little off-putting at first bite—and more so at second. She politely tries the red and then says, “Delicious.”

“Perhaps you will put our caviar on the television set, Erica Sparks!”

“I'm here for a reason.”

“Everyone is everywhere for a reason.”

“I'm looking for Anton Volodin.”

Gorev's head jerks slightly, then he walks over and helps himself
to a heaping serving of caviar. “Very nice young man. I miss him. He worked for one of my other businesses.”

“What business would that be?”

“Automobile repair and salvage. There are so many automobiles in America. They are all over the streets.”

“You say you miss him. Where did he go?”

“Anton went back to Russia.”

“He's wanted for questioning in a brutal assault on a colleague of mine, Mark Benton.”

Something flashes in Gorev's eyes—something that makes Vladimir Putin look like Johnny Appleseed. “Anton? Assault? No. Never. He's a sweet Russian boy.”

“The police have video footage of him leaving the scene of the assault with Benton's computer case.” Slight exaggeration—the footage shows him at the subway station just after the assault—but they're not playing footsie here. “Are you sure he's back in Russia?”

“Of course I am sure.”

“When did he leave the country?”

“Oh, I don't know. I am a busy man. Maybe two weeks ago. I have many employees. I don't keep track. You ask a lot of questions, Erica Sparks.”

“I'm a journalist.”

“What is it you say in America? . . . Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Satisfaction brought her back.”

Gorev breaks into a satisfied smile, and Erica has the feeling she's just stepped into a cat-trap. He goes to his desk and presses an intercom. “Peter!”

Within moments a sweaty, obsequious middle-aged man in a too-tight suit appears. He looks vaguely terrified.

“I want to speak to Anton Volodin.”

“Of course, Leonid, of course.”

Peter sits down at the ornate desk, presses a button, and a large TV screen rises out of a console. Then he takes a laptop out of a desk
drawer, does some typing, and Skype appears on the screen. Ringing. The ringing is answered—a sexy, heavily made-up woman with some serious mileage on her, wearing a negligee and sitting on a sofa, appears on-screen. She and Peter exchange words in Russian. She turns her head and calls out. Anton Volodin appears, disheveled and shirtless, and plops down beside the woman, putting an arm around her shoulders. He's twenty years younger than she is, and his smile at the camera is louche and lascivious.

Gorev walks behind Peter, puts his hands down on the desk, and leans into the frame. “Hello, Anton.”

“Leonid! Hello.”

“There is a beautiful woman here who I want you to meet. Her name is Erica Sparks.”

“Hello, Erica Sparks, beautiful woman,” Anton says, laughing, all sleazy male ego.

The pervasive decadence of the whole scene is starting to turn Erica's stomach. This man almost killed Mark Benton, Leonid Gorev was almost certainly an accomplice, and yet here they are smug and laughing, surrounded by mounds of caviar, opulence, and indulgence.

“Erica Sparks has a crazy idea that you beat up a man,” Gorev says.

They laugh again. “That is silly, Erica Sparks. I am a pussycat.” He licks the woman's neck, and she arches her back and moans.

Erica stands up, says, “I've seen enough,” and walks out of the room, trailed by their laughter.

As the car makes its way back to Manhattan, Erica calls Rusk Rehab.

“Mark Benton's room. This is Chuck Benton.”

“Hi, Chuck, it's Erica. How's my friend doing today?”

“Obsessed. I can't get him off of his computer.”

“That's a good thing, no?”

“That's a very good thing. Marie and I feel like we're getting our son back.”

“Can I talk to him a minute?”

“Sure thing.”

“Hi, E-
ri-
ca.”

“I was wondering if you could hack into someone's Skype account.”

“N-not easy . . . but d-d-doable.”

“His name is Leonid Gorev. G-o-r-e-v. I need the last number he called, about ten minutes ago. It should be a number in Moscow and it should belong to one Anton Volodin. Also, any information you could find on Volodin would be helpful.”

“I'm o-on it.”

Erica hangs up. As her car makes its way up West Street, she looks out at the mighty Hudson and hears echoes of the Russians' taunting laughter. It reminds her of something, something she can't quite place. She feels like she just came face-to-face with venality, mendacity—the human spirit at its ugliest and most depraved. And that's when she realizes what the mocking laughter reminds her of—the sounds she heard on the other side of the flimsy plasterboard for the first seventeen years of her life.

CHAPTER 59

ERICA CALLED THE REAL ESTATE
agent Greg recommended and now she's walking through a bright, spacious bedroom in the West Eighty-First Street apartment she admired online. She imagines where Jenny's bed would go—and her bookcase and dresser and desk with a bulletin board above it filled with pictures of boy bands and animals and ideas. Then she inspects the walk-in closet and imagines it filled with Jenny's dresses and shoes and sweaters. She walks to the window and looks down at the Museum of Natural History, surrounded by its gracious park in the full blush of spring. Jenny has always loved science, and she'd be able to walk across the street and be immersed and inspired.

Erica walks down the wide hallway to the living room—the place is even lovelier in person than it was in the pictures, filled with south light, large and welcoming rooms, high ceilings, floors of honey-colored oak, French doors into the dining room, and a beautiful carved mantel over the fireplace. Erica walks through the kitchen—it's done in black and white and looks more than adequate for someone who believes that takeout food is one of mankind's great evolutionary leaps. There's a doorman downstairs. The building is impeccably maintained and exudes a sense of security and stability, which is so important
for Jenny—and for her mother. Erica imagines them at home here together, sharing a wonderful life—a secure and stable life. Life
can
be secure and stable. Can't it? Even in a world where someone puts a dying rat on your desk.

Erica feels a growing sense of doubt about her position at GNN—clearly Nylan is trying to stop her investigations, to frighten her, undermine her confidence, play sick head games on her. She wants to buy an apartment fast; once it's in her name, he'll have a tough time getting it back. Her housing allowance will pay for it, and no matter what happens she'll walk away with a juicy piece of Manhattan real estate. Two can play this game of wits, Mr. Hastings, no matter how high the stakes.

Madge Miller, in her sixties, glasses around her neck, simple blue dress, looking more like a librarian than a real estate agent, gestures Erica to the back of the kitchen, where there's a service entrance and a set of folding doors. “Ta-da!” she says, opening the doors to reveal a washer and dryer.

“Sold!” Erica says, and Madge smiles indulgently. “No, seriously, sold. I'd like to make a full-price, all-cash offer.”

Madge is nonplussed. “Don't go anywhere,” she says, taking out her cell phone and walking into the living room.

Erica opens the service entrance, the apartment's back door. There's a small landing with an elevator, two large trash barrels, and doors leading to two other apartments. The landing is painted battleship gray, dark and claustrophobic. It looks grimy and smells faintly of trash. Erica gets a creepy feeling at the back of her neck. Someone could sneak onto that service elevator, ride up here, break into the apartment. Kidnap Jenny. Harm Jenny. Harm Erica. She quickly shuts and bolts the door. She'll add another lock.

“The apartment is yours,” Madge says, coming into the kitchen. “Let's head over to the office and get started on the paperwork.”

As they walk through the foyer toward the front door, Erica turns and takes a look back at the empty apartment. Instead of the safe,
secure place she saw just fifteen minutes earlier, the quiet, echoing rooms and slanting afternoon sun seem to hold menace and danger—the pristine setting for some terrible crime.

Erica leaves Madge's Upper East Side office after formalizing her offer with a check for $175,000, 10 percent of the purchase price. She feels a combination of trepidation and triumph. As she walks downtown toward GNN, her prepaid rings—it's Detective Takahashi.

“Listen, Erica, there've been some developments with Miguel Fuentes. The DA has offered him a deal if he'll talk. We won't charge him with first-degree murder, meaning there'll be no chance he'd get the death penalty or life in prison.”

“Has his lawyer responded?”

“We're waiting. But we're optimistic he'll take it. The case against him is strong. DNA doesn't lie. Either way, we've scheduled an interrogation. It's a tool to force an answer. If he accepts the deal, he'll talk freely. If he doesn't, he'll sit there with his lawyer and we'll try and scare the hell out of both of them with our evidence.”