Steal, page 11
But over that amount? Something over a hundred grand?
That’s why Carter also knew he couldn’t simply forge his mother’s signature again after he continued to pile up losses. When the first check cleared, his bookie had been all too willing to accept larger wagers.
“How much larger?” I asked.
“Carter owed about three hundred thousand,” said von Oehson. “He tried to work out a payment plan, but this wasn’t exactly Walmart.”
Clearly not. “So who was it?”
“Were it only that easy. There was a go-between.”
“One guess,” I said. His regular Tuesday date. “A girl named Betty.”
“Carter says he originally asked her if she knew someone who could take his action. Big surprise—a hooker who knew a bookie.”
“So Carter never met him?”
“Not once. This Betty girl handled the money, presumably taking a cut. Until, of course, Carter said he couldn’t pay up—at least not the three hundred thousand all at once. That’s when they came up with their own payment plan.”
“By they you don’t mean Betty, right? Maybe she was the go-between with Carter’s bets, but she was pretty convincing with me about not being involved in his disappearance. I don’t think she was in on it.”
“You’re right. She wasn’t,” he said. “As for the other girl who showed up in her place, Carter thinks she was just a pawn. Her role was to gain access to the house, deliver her lines, and let the two guys in.”
That tracked with everything Jade had confessed to on the drive to my father’s cabin. She did her job setting up Carter and was allowed to leave. She’d been told they were going to have the kid fake his suicide, but nothing bad was actually going to happen to him. Even the gun they gave her wasn’t real. It was a stage prop. That made it even easier, she explained, for her to go along with everything. She didn’t ask questions. She was being paid not to.
“So what happened next?” I asked.
“Nothing short of irony,” said von Oehson. “Carter was kidnapped, as I thought, but it had nothing to do with the Hungarians and the painting. It all stemmed from his gambling debt.”
“I get that Carter owed a lot. But whoever was behind this, was it worth the risk? All that planning?”
“That was my first thought, as well,” he said. “But I should’ve known. They were after far more cash than the three hundred grand.” He pointed at the copy of the check in my hands, specifically the name in the upper-left corner.
Now it made sense. “So they learned exactly who Carter was,” I said. Who his mother was. Even better, who his father was.
“The girl, Betty, had vouched for Carter with the bookie,” said von Oehson. “She never revealed who he was up front, just that he was a rich kid.”
“Then they found out how rich.”
“They were smart about it, too. By having Carter die by suicide, as it were, there was no one for the police to look for except Carter.”
“It bought them cover,” I said. “But eventually they—”
“Yes, they had to show their hand. So long as they didn’t ask for a ridiculous ransom, though, they knew I wouldn’t be going to the police.”
“How would they know that?”
“Because the only call I was ever going to receive was from Carter. That was their plan. Wait for the dust to settle and have my son get on the phone to explain everything. And once he did, the last thing I’d want to do is go public with it. Hookers and a gambling problem? The press would have a field day. People would say the kid deserved to get kidnapped. This would dog Carter forever.”
“Okay. So you wouldn’t go to the police,” I said. “But your son just came back from the dead. In a very public fashion, no less. The police are going to want to know how. Hell, you still haven’t even told me how.”
“That’s the problem,” he said, slowly pinching his brow. “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER 42
It was only fitting that we stopped at a red light as soon as von Oehson uttered those words. I don’t know. “What does that mean?” I asked.
“Two guys in masks kidnapped my son for a ransom they never got around to asking for,” he said. “They roughed him up, blindfolded him, and kept him stashed away somewhere. Then, without any explanation, they let him go. Just like that. Dropped him off in front of the church and sped off.” He folded his arms. “Why would they do that?”
In the intelligence community, this moment is called parallel convergence. It’s why intelligence agencies from different countries, even non-allies, are willing to share so much information. You simply never know when two seemingly disparate operations will intersect.
“I’ll tell you why they let Carter go,” I said. “They got spooked.”
“How?”
“One of their own went missing.”
I told von Oehson about Vincent Franchella. One minute I was talking to him in a hotel room, the next minute he was gone. Kidnapped, as well. I also told him about Vladimir Grigoryev, although I actually never said his name. All that mattered was what he was, not who. A pakhan.
“A what?” asked von Oehson.
“Think Russian crime boss,” I said, explaining how both Betty and Jade worked for him.
“So this mobster’s pissed that someone took advantage of a couple of his girls, and he lets it be known. A crazy Russian and his crew staring down some Italian wise guys.”
“The wise guys blinked,” I said.
“Is this where you tell me they fear the Russians because the Russians don’t have rules? I’ve seen that movie.”
“The Russians have rules.” Vladimir Grigoryev sure does. Two commandments, in particular. “No, if I had to guess, what your kidnappers feared was retribution from within.”
“I’m not following,” said von Oehson.
“Their boss. Whoever he might be,” I said. “Everything about Carter’s disappearance smacks of a job that was never blessed by, let alone shared with, upper management. As soon as Vincent Franchella went missing, they panicked. They were afraid it was all going to lead back to them.”
Von Oehson shook his head slowly. It wasn’t disagreement. It was disbelief.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s all going to lead back to them anyway,” he said.
“What do you mean? The painting? You said it yourself, this had nothing to do with the Hungarians.”
“You’re right, it didn’t.”
“Now I’m the one not following,” I said.
“A nineteen-year-old rich kid owes three hundred grand that he doesn’t have. The two guys in masks show up to take him for ransom, and he tries to talk his way out of it. When that doesn’t work, he tries to barter. He thinks to himself, what can I offer these guys in kind that my parents won’t know is missing? That’s when he remembers an old painting he once saw tucked away in a closet. He has no idea what it’s worth, especially since it’s unsigned, but if his parents own the damn thing, it has to be worth something. What did he have to lose?”
“This is what Carter told you?”
“Not at first. He never mentioned it when my wife and I got home from the church and sat him down. He’d already admitted to so much, he figured why make it even worse if he didn’t have to? It’s not as if we’d asked him about the painting. He assumed we hadn’t noticed it was gone,” he said. “Only I had.”
“Did you tell him why? How you knew it was gone? The whole history behind it?”
“Absolutely not. Later, when I was alone with Carter, I explained that after he had posted his apparent suicide note, I had turned the house upside down looking for him or, at least, some clue as to what had really happened. I simply couldn’t believe that he’d killed himself. That’s when I noticed the painting was missing.” Von Oehson sighed. “When Carter heard that, that’s when he confessed.”
I had to let that all sink in for a few seconds. “In other words, Carter tried to settle a three-hundred-thousand gambling debt with a hundred-million-dollar painting. Did you tell him it was a Monet?”
“And make him feel even worse? No. He’d be suicidal for real.”
“What about what happened to it? Once his kidnappers got their hands on the painting, did Carter see it again?”
“He didn’t see anything. He was blindfolded,” said von Oehson. “He never even heard one of their names. But unless they’re as dumb as rocks they’re right now in the process of trying to get the painting appraised. When that happens the Hungarians are going to find out that their missing Monet has suddenly turned up in New York City. The art world is simply too small for that not to happen.”
“But it probably hasn’t happened yet,” I said. “Which means we still have some more time—and hopefully a few more moves to make.”
“Do you have any in mind yet?”
“I will.”
Von Oehson smiled. “I would expect nothing less,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
“What’s this?” I asked. Only I could plainly see what it was. An actual check as opposed to a copy of one. He was giving me the back-end payment of our deal—another million dollars made out to Harlem Legal House.
“My son is home safely. That’s what I hired you for. Nothing more,” he said. “Your work is done, and I thank you.”
“It wasn’t entirely my work that got him back.”
“All the same, he’s home safely.”
“What about the Hungarians? The painting?”
“That’s my problem now, not yours.”
“You’re only half right,” I said.
“How is it your problem?”
“I was referring more to Carter. He may be home, but with that painting still out there I’m not sure about the safety part.”
“You think he’s still in danger?”
“I’m not sure what to think, to be honest. This is more about a feeling.”
“Clearly not a good one.”
“Here,” I said, handing him back the check. “When that feeling is gone, you can give this to me again.”
CHAPTER 43
Von Oehson lowered the divider to the front seat as soon as we pulled up to his lawyer’s brownstone off Central Park West. I listened to the mechanical hum of the retracting glass as the back of the driver’s head slowly appeared.
“Jimmy, please take Dr. Reinhart home from here,” von Oehson said. Jimmy nodded and then waited until his boss was safely inside. We both waited.
There’s a time and a place for linear thinking. Sitting by myself in the back of a billionaire’s Rolls-Royce at midnight struck me as neither. I’d given back von Oehson’s check but held on to the copy of the one that Carter had forged to his bookie, although bookie seemed too quaint for the guy. Whoever he was, his signature on the back of the check wasn’t going to get me any closer to identifying him. In crayon, Annabelle could write her name more legibly. Of course, that was probably intentional on his part.
Now what? The next logical move was using the bank ID code to identify the branch.
Then gain access to the bank’s security footage based on the time and date.
Then rely on facial recognition software.
Then hope the guy’s last known address was also his current address.
Then go have a nice chat with him. A to B to C and so on.
But by D or E it could be too late.
“Slight change of plans,” I told von Oehson’s driver. “Do you know O’Leary’s bar in Midtown?”
Jimmy angled his rearview mirror slightly to make eye contact with me. “Does an Irishman piss Guinness?”
I took that as a yes.
Five minutes later, I was probably the only person on the planet who ever stepped out of a four-hundred-thousand-dollar Rolls-Royce to walk into O’Leary’s. Not that it was a dive. It’s just that the place wore its “nothing fancy” appeal like a badge of honor. This is where you went to drink pints and whiskey and nothing else. Lest you be tempted otherwise, only two wines were listed on the menu: red and white.
“Holy crap, look what the wind blew in,” said Allen Grimes, spotting me from the corner of his eye while holding court at the end of the bar. He shifted an unlit cigarette to his left hand, pointing at me with his right. “Gentleman, may I present Dr. Dylan Reinhart, one of the greatest living minds in the field of human psychology. And if you don’t believe me, just ask him. He’ll tell you so himself.”
That got a hearty laugh from the circle of red-nosed men listening in. I laughed, too. It was funny. Allen Grimes may have had his detractors in some corners of the city, but no one ever questioned his sense of humor.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked. That I wanted to do so privately was easily assumed.
“That depends,” he said.
“On what?”
“How much am I going to regret it?”
CHAPTER 44
Allen Grimes was the man behind “Grimes on Crimes,” the long-standing and exceedingly popular column in the New York Gazette that chronicled everything in the city that helped keep Mace purchases, gun-permit applications, and criminal defense attorney fees at all-time highs.
We’d first met through Elizabeth. Fittingly, her initial description of Grimes remains the best I’ve heard. “His driver’s license says he’s fifty, his libido thinks he’s twenty, and his liver is convinced he’s Keith Richards.”
Way to nail it, Lizzie.
I followed Grimes to the back of the bar and an empty table out of earshot that wobbled despite a collection of sugar packets and a matchbook wedged under one leg.
“So how have you been?” I asked.
“You can skip the foreplay,” he said. “What do you need?”
Fair enough. “An introduction.”
“To who?”
“Frank Brunetti,” I said.
Grimes laughed from his gut. “You’re joking, right? You give me way too much credit.”
“Do I?”
“I’ve interviewed the guy a couple of times,” he said. “We’re hardly friends.”
“He trusts you, though.”
“Brunetti doesn’t trust anyone.”
“You know what I mean,” I said. “You’re the only press he’s ever spoken to. The word for that is respect.”
Grimes finished what was left of his whiskey. He pushed the glass aside, folding his arms on the table. “Now you want me to risk that respect on your behalf?”
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said. “I’m sure it’s very, very important.”
He stared at me. I stared back. This was the part where I was supposed to explain why I needed a sit-down, as it were, with the head of the five families, the pope of New York. Only I wasn’t saying anything.
“I can’t tell you why. Not yet,” I said finally. “Except this. You’d also be doing Brunetti a favor.”
“How’s that?”
“Again, I can’t tell you.”
“You’re not exactly winning me over, Reinhart.”
“I know. But you’ll understand why soon. And one way or another you’re going to have the jump on one hell of a story.”
That perked him up a bit. “Why did you bury the lede?”
“I didn’t want you to think I was playing you.”
“You’re still playing me,” he said.
“What can I say? I’m not good at subtle.”
Grimes looked down at his empty glass, smiling. “You know, three more whiskeys from now you would’ve had much better odds.”
He wasn’t saying yes, but he hadn’t told me no. “In that case, the next rounds are on me,” I said.
CHAPTER 45
“Are you crazy?” asked Elizabeth.
Normally that’s just a figure of speech—what people usually say in response to being told something that strikes them as a bad idea, if not downright terrible.
This sounded different. Even over the phone. Elizabeth seemed pretty convinced the following morning that I’d officially lost my mind. Bonkers. Nutsville. Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
“Okay, so it might not be the safest idea,” I said.
“Gee, you think?”
“It’s the boat part, isn’t it?”
“It’s every part,” she said. “Is Grimes at least going with you?”
“No. That would require telling him way too much.”
“So you’re really going alone?”
“You make it sound like a suicide mission,” I said. “Frank Brunetti is not about to kill me.”
“Of course not,” she said. “Where would I ever get that idea? You’re heading out on his yacht in international waters to basically meddle in his affairs. There’s no way you could possibly fall overboard by accident.”
“See? It is the boat part. I knew it. Do mobsters still do concrete shoes?”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. I’ll be fine. I went to meet Grigoryev alone, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, and how’d that turn out?” she asked, hitting a whole new level of sarcasm. “I’m still kicking myself for helping to arrange that meeting.”
“I asked you for that favor. That’s on me, not you.”
“Sure. At your funeral that’s exactly what I would’ve been telling myself.”
“I told you, I’ll be fine.”
“Yes, you will be,” she said, “because I’m coming with you.”
“What? No, you’re not. You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a federal agent, for starters,” I said.
“Does that prevent me from going on a boat?”
“I don’t know, let’s ask your boss. I’m sure Pritchard might have an opinion about this. It wouldn’t matter what special unknown assignment you might be doing for the mayor.”
