Authors: Jeffrey B. Burton
“The mayor stopped by. We’re all placing bets on who the president is going to name to head the SEC.”
“Any frontrunners?”
“Everyone’s got an inkling, but nobody knows for sure.”
“Other news for me?”
“The only other news I can think of is that a colleague of mine—Mark Kolar, the Chief of Staff—mentioned some big-shot investor called him to set up a meeting first thing Monday morning. Wouldn’t tell him what it’s about, though.”
The Coordinator felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to prickle. “What’s the motherfucker’s name?”
“Heavy hitter by the name of Drake Hartzell. You know of him?”
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that earlier?!” The Coordinator felt his chest constrict.
A long pause hung over the conversation.
“I called at the scheduled time, but you were at the game.”
He hung up on Stouder, and then hit St. Nick’s phone number on speed dial. He dreaded the phone call he’d have to make after telling Nick to haul ass over to Hartzell’s penthouse condominium. But as much as Fiorella’s predator made him nervous, Fiorella would want him to be there as well. Tonight was going to get fuck ugly and his services would be called upon. Evidently, Hartzell thought it was all bullshit about their having eyes and ears in high places, and it was good that Hartzell had enjoyed the evening at the ballpark because his actions had just hastened his fate a full five days ahead of schedule.
The Coordinator glanced again at Loni sitting alone in the lounge, then turned and ran toward the lobby exit, where the cabs lined up.
Chapter 39
“I
t’s gone Chernobyl, Agent Cady.”
“Stop jerking me around, Westlow!” Cady barked back into the phone.
It was half past eleven, but Cady was wide awake. He’d been sitting there feeling guilty about saying zip, zero, and zilch to either Jund or Preston about the cell phone Westlow had passed him at the John Lennon Memorial. His silence on that transaction cut against both the grain and spirit of any chain of custody protocol the bureau had put to paper since 1908, when Attorney General Charles Bonaparte had created the agency out of his Department of Justice. But so far, following the proper protocol had gotten them zip, zero, and zilch.
So Cady had sat alone in his Midtown hotel room, in an upright chair, staring at Westlow’s cell on the table in front of him. He knew it was only a matter of time before the phone rang, and Cady had acclimated himself to sitting in the upright ordering cold room service until hell froze over or Westlow’s cell phone buzzed. If anything, Cady was surprised at how soon the Chessman’s call came in.
“A young woman will die badly if you’re not outside your hotel in one minute.”
“Why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on?”
“I’ll explain everything in the cab,” Westlow replied. “What hotel are you at?”
“You don’t know?”
“The clock is ticking.”
“Holiday Inn Express, Fifth Avenue.”
“See you in thirty or not at all. If you’re playing phone games with the posse, I’ll drive on past, Agent Cady, and you can play catchup by reading the
New York Times
headlines tomorrow.”
Cady was out the door a second later, heading toward the elevator bank. He felt a jolt of apprehension as he jogged past Agent Preston’s room.
Cady stood curbside, studying the night owl traffic in the city that never sleeps, making himself seen a half block up 45th Street—well away from the hotel’s main entrance. He’d already waved away two empty taxis and shook his head at a third. Cady glanced at his wristwatch, then back to 45th. It had rained lightly an hour earlier and the street shone in the warm moonlight. Cady’s crippled right hand was stuffed in his jacket pocket. The Glock 22 felt heavy in his grip.
In Cady’s other hand, Westlow’s cell phone began to vibrate.
“Who were you on the phone with?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. I need you to go right on Fifth and just keep walking.” Westlow clicked off.
Though it was far too late for shopping, Cady headed toward Fifth Avenue. It had taken several minutes for Westlow to call him back instead of the threatened thirty seconds. Now Westlow had tried to rattle him about being on the phone, trying to ascertain whether Cady was calling in the cavalry. He got the sense that Westlow was improvising on the fly.
Cady turned onto Fifth and hit the green button as soon as he felt the phone vibrate.
“Cut left on 44th,” Westlow commanded. “A little hustle, Agent Cady.”
Cady dodged cars as he jaywalked across Fifth. He crossed 44th and headed toward a single double-parked cab halfway down the street.
Westlow’s final call was the essence of brevity.
“Get in the cab.”
Cady scrutinized the taxi for a second and made eye contact with the driver—a thirty-something man of Middle-Eastern descent stared curiously back at him. Cady opened the back door and slid across the back seat.
“Is he with you?” the driver asked, looking at the still open door.
“Yes.” Jake Westlow appeared curbside, right hand on the cab door as he peered inside at the special agent, and then he slipped quietly into the back seat beside Cady and gave the driver a Manhattan address.
“That a real tattoo?”
Westlow wore pointy-toed cowboy boots, blue jeans, and a white wifebeater. He sported a red crew cut, a silver barbell piercing in his left eyebrow, and a serpent tattoo slithering up his right forearm, across his bicep, and swerving around his neck.
“No,” Westlow replied. “But thanks to you, Agent Cady, I look like a groupie for the Village People.”
Cady held the Glock on his lap, aimed dead center at Westlow’s chest.
“Let the record show I caught you.”
“I saw that bulge a mile away. Almost said screw it and left.”
The two men sat unbuckled in their seats, twisted toward each other, unblinking—boxers in their respective corners, awaiting the bell. Neither inclined to speak, the discomfort between them palpable, thick as putty and threatening to suck the oxygen from the cab. Cady felt like a stubborn child, but he’d burn in hell before he broke the silence.
“So,” Westlow said finally, “how ya been?”
“How’ve I been? It’s taking extraordinary willpower not to shoot out your kidneys. That’s how I’ve been.”
“They’ve got anger management for that.”
“Cut the shit, Westlow. Why are you and I playing patty-cake?”
The amusement dropped from Westlow’s features.
“Fair enough, I owe you an explanation. It’s a given that the best-laid plans tend to get tossed out the window upon implementation because of unknown factors that
inevitably
crop up. Three years ago I did you great bodily harm. The others deserved everything I meted out in spades, but—.”
“You killed the Schaeffer kid for throwing a party.”
“And the booze flowed. And the drugs passed hands. And the sociopaths were unleashed. One could make a case that Dane Schaeffer was the catalyst that set this all in motion. He didn’t die for throwing a party. He died for inviting Marly.”
“You’re insane.”
“I could live with a hundred Dane Schaeffers and not lose a wink. But then there’s you—the unknown factor that inevitably cropped up. I ruined your life, Agent Cady. As far as I’m concerned, you were my only victim.”
“That’s what this is all about?” Cady laughed out loud. “I’m your bullshit charity case? Something to be pitied?”
“Nothing I’ve done has been out of pity. When Gottlieb was killed and the press dropped hints about the Chessman returning, that kind of caught my eye. I started digging. I started thinking. And you know what I thought, Agent Cady?”
“What?”
“That you and I had been granted a mulligan.”
“A mulligan?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck you, Westlow.” Cady was at a loss for words, but that response seemed as good as any and better than most.
He slid his handgun into his shoulder holster, glanced at the back of the driver’s head, wondering what the cabbie made of anything he may have heard through the partition. Cady then turned and stared out his side window.
“Tell me about the girl who’s in danger.”
Chapter 40
T
he cab was speeding toward the high rise where the Hartzells lived. Westlow gave Cady a thumbnail sketch of what he knew.
“So Drake Hartzell’s a scam artist being run out of Chicago—by Duilio Fiorella—and New York—meaning Fedele Moretti—has his people all over Hartzell’s Chicago keeper?”
“Moretti’s man, Palma, told me they’ve got a security cracker with access to the train and airport databases. Moretti feeds this guy a list of names. If any of these
people of interest
arrive in New York City, Moretti’s to be notified immediately. That’s how he knew that Rudy Ciolino was in town. Ciolino is Fiorella’s right hand—his protégé. Palma was assigned to trail Ciolino—remember, that’s how I tripped over him. Moretti’s been trying to noodle out what Fiorella’s been up to in
his
city. The plan was, if they couldn’t piece it together beforehand, they were going to break Ciolino next week and find out what Chicago is up to. Of course, with Palma going dark, Moretti is likely to move that date up.”
“They kill Gottlieb and throw it on…
you
…in order to buy Hartzell time to liquidate a billion in assets. But why kill Elaine Kellervick?”
“Kellervick’s most recent work files included some kind of financial analysis of Hartzell’s firm. She had three separate analyses created in the week before her death, each analysis completed on a different day. This raises flags because Hartzell’s firm is neither a client nor partnered with Koye & Plagans. And Kellervick’s Outlook calendar indicated an upcoming meeting scheduled with Hartzell himself.”
“They checked with Hartzell about that appointment,” Cady filled in, almost without thinking. “He downplayed it as a touch-base job interview, which, without context, appears benign.” Cady had spent time with Agent Preston reviewing the Kellervick investigation. “You get anything else from the Kellervick files?”
“I doubt Albert Banning was terribly upfront with you regarding Kellervick’s recent work. Might be considered bad PR or bring about allegations of corporate espionage, maybe even a lawsuit. Anyway, what was odd about Kellervick’s spreadsheets is that they all appeared to track the same numbers; that is, the versions were pretty much identical as far as I could tell. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of the Excel numbers, and Kellervick had no summary page to lay out her findings. It was Swahili. Remember, Gottlieb was set to take the reins at the SEC when he was murdered. From everything I read, the man was going to hit the ground running, taking names and kicking ass. I suspect Gottlieb put the fear of God into Drake Hartzell. And I imagine it was poking around Hartzell’s investment strategies that got Kellervick in the crosshairs.”
“If Hartzell has the Midas Touch, why are Fiorella’s men coming for him?”
“The last thing Palma told me—before it got ugly—was that Moretti had someone on the inside, someone chummy with Hartzell’s keeper, Rudy Ciolino. Anyway, Moretti’s certain someone was able to sneak a bug on Ciolino’s phone.” Westlow held up a cell. “I got this from Palma. It allows me to listen in on Ciolino’s phone calls. The guy’s a tight-lipped bastard, but after a phone call from a contact in the New York Attorney General’s Office, there was a flurry of panicked calls from Ciolino that painted a bleak picture. That’s when I called you.”
“The New York Attorney General’s Office?”
Westlow nodded. “The contact informed Ciolino that Drake Hartzell was coming in first thing Monday morning. You can guess what that means. Ciolino just about popped a blood vessel.”
“You got me a name on who’s inside the Attorney General’s Office?”
Westlow shrugged. “Ciolino doesn’t use names on the phone.”
“Nothing on the leak in the Bureau?”
Westlow shrugged again. “Ciolino made three short calls in rapid succession. Like I said, he doesn’t use names, but there was a common theme—theme being, quote, ‘Hartzell’s fucking us! Get to his penthouse!’ unquote.”
The cab pulled up to the skyscraper. Both men climbed out of the passenger door and stepped over the curb.
“Any idea who Moretti has on the inside with Ciolino?”
“Not a name per se,” Westlow replied. “Just someone Palma referred to as
the stewardess
.”
Cady badged the red-suited guard behind the security counter in the main lobby at Drake Hartzell’s high rise.
“Are the Hartzells in?”
“They got back from the ball game an hour ago. With their guests.”
“Guests?”
“A couple of businessmen have been staying with Mr. Hartzell,” the guard answered, a what-the-hell-is-this-all-about expression on his face. “More of Mr. Hartzell’s business associates were buzzed up maybe ten minutes ago.”
“We’ve got a situation here.” Cady pointed at the security guard after getting Hartzell’s top-floor suite number. He read the guard’s nametag. “No one can leave the building until the FBI arrives or I come back down. You understand that, Derek?”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you about it over a beer sometime, Derek. You need to call 911 and then alert your other security guards. Make sure the police cordon off this building. No one leaves, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
The two men sprinted toward the elevators.
“Not very sporting putting Derek on lockdown, Agent Cady,” Westlow commented. “At least when it comes time for me to dance my way out of here, Derek here will think I’m a Fibbie.”
Cady ignored Westlow. He flipped his cell phone open and speed-dialed Agent Preston.
Cady selected the floor two flights below Hartzell’s penthouse. They would take the north stairwell up the rest of the way to maintain whatever element of surprise they could use to their advantage. Both men watched the numbers fly past on the digital display above the sliding doors.
“It’s the girl, right?”
Westlow glanced at Cady but said nothing.
“You think the rest of them deserve each other,” Cady said. “But we’re here to save Hartzell’s daughter.”