Steal, page 10
A man’s eyes will tell you everything, whether he’s aiming a SIG semiautomatic at you in a hotel room or standing in the vestibule of St. Sebastian’s church in Darien, Connecticut. All you have to do is look and listen. The eyes are always the first to speak.
“What is it?” I asked Mathias. His eyes were suddenly screaming. But he wasn’t answering me. I stepped toward him. “What the hell is it?”
I could barely hear him, the words all but trickling out of his open and shocked mouth. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “It’s really him.”
CHAPTER 37
A von Oehson man always knows how to make an entrance.
I turned to look. There were so many people milling about, old and young. The young were presumably classmates of Carter’s, and a few I even recognized from my own class. But none of them saw what Mathias was seeing—what I was now seeing. Jesus Christ, it’s really him.
“Carter!” yelled Mathias. “Carter!”
It set off a chain reaction. Every head whipped around, first to the grieving father calling out the name of his dead son at his funeral. Then everyone followed Mathias’s eyeline to the front doors of the church. The gasps and screams were so loud that the stained glass windows in the vestibule shook, immediately followed by the near thud of Bethany von Oehson fainting to the floor. I’d caught her just in time.
Carter had a black eye and a cut lip. He looked dazed. Or was it shock? Shock was the right word for everyone else. No one knew what to do or say. Except Mathias. He dashed through the crowd, throwing his arms around his son. “Thank God!” he said. “Oh, thank God.”
The priest took that as his cue. He’d come from inside the chapel, having heard the commotion. He looked no less stunned but still managed to get the words out. Whatever had happened to Carter was obviously traumatic, and, as much as we all wanted to know what happened, we needed to give him and his parents some time alone together. Something like that. The priest’s only goof was then announcing that the funeral was postponed. Postponed?
“More like canceled!” someone gleefully yelled.
Everyone laughed, save for Bethany von Oehson, who was still passed out in my arms. She was beginning to stir, though, right about the time that Mathias realized he’d left her in the dust. Who could blame him?
“Honey!” said Mathias, dashing back across the vestibule.
Carter was right behind him. He was the first person Bethany saw after Mathias gently took her from my arms. She’d come to, woozy and still a bit weak in the knees, but overwhelmed now only by tears of joy. She hugged Carter, and hugged him some more. It would’ve gone on for an hour were it not for the fact that others wanted to get in on the act.
Before they could, Carter spotted me. He squinted, a bit confused. “Professor Reinhart?” Subtext being, What are you doing here?
I didn’t really have a good answer. Sure, he was one of my students, but it wasn’t as if I knew him—or he knew me—outside of the classroom. Certainly, none of his other professors had showed up. As for the university president and half the board of trustees being in attendance, that was simply a matter of what’s called MDM in fundraising circles. Major donor management. They were there more for Mathias than for his son.
“It’s great to have you back, Carter,” I said.
It was the best I could come up with in the moment, and also the end of our conversation, as those waiting to plant hugs and kisses on him moved in. The priest had given great advice, saying everyone should allow the von Oehson family some much-needed space. Everyone, in return, was now totally ignoring that advice. Once again, who could blame them?
They all wanted to know what the hell had happened to Carter. “It’s a long story,” he kept saying, over and over. “I’m just happy to be alive.”
The more he was surrounded, the more I began to step back, fading from the crowd. I was just as curious as anyone, if not more so, to learn what had happened to Carter, but I also knew that this was hardly the right time or venue.
As for who was most curious, that was surely Mathias. For now, he would be content simply to enjoy the moment. The miracle at St. Sebastian’s. But as I turned to head out the door, it was Mathias’s voice I heard calling my name. He’d slipped away from the crowd, as well.
He shook his head, smiling. Smiling and crying. “I’m speechless. It feels like a dream.”
“You were right,” I said. “He was still alive.”
Mathias nodded. The smile was still there on his face, but I could tell that his brain, as usual, was already looking ahead. I was right there with him. Call it the elephant in the vestibule. Carter was back, but the Monet wasn’t.
“All I care about is that he’s home and he’s safe,” he said. “I could give a shit about that painting now.”
“Good,” I said. “Hopefully, you won’t have to.”
We both knew, however, just how much was riding on that one word.
Hopefully.
CHAPTER 38
A voice message from Elizabeth was waiting for me after I left the church. I listened to it from behind the wheel of my rented Toyota Camry, which stood out just a tad from almost every other car in the parking lot.
I mean, I get it, Darien. You’re one of the wealthiest towns in the country, but who drives a Lamborghini to a funeral?
In the wake of the two guys bursting into my room at the Stafford Marshall hotel and making off with Vincent Franchella, I’d asked Elizabeth if she could flash her badge again. She probably would’ve protested more had I not hit her with my favorite Winston Churchill quote. “A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.”
“Ugh,” she responded. “If I do this will you promise to stop quoting famous dead people?”
“Deal. No more quips from the dearly departed,” I said.
“In that case, I’ll call you as soon as I have something.” Hours later, she had it. “Okay, here we go,” she said, kicking off her message.
She’d gotten hold of the security footage from the hotel, tracking the two guys from the moment they arrived, which was right on the heels of Franchella. I’d given Elizabeth a description of him. He was surely being followed.
One of the guys stayed on his tail once inside the hotel, stepping onto the elevator with him just as the doors were closing. He saw where Franchella got off—my floor—then got off on the next floor and hurriedly took the stairs down a flight.
Meanwhile, the other guy headed to the laundry room in the basement where he cattle-prodded a cleaning lady, took her master key card, grabbed a linen cart, and met up with his partner outside my room. It was all very quick and clever. Even more proof that these two were far from amateurs.
“I ran both guys through facial rec but got nothing,” continued Elizabeth in her message. “Their sunglasses were too big. As for Franchella, though, he has some interesting business ties.”
That was putting it mildly. Vincent Franchella was head of commercial lending for the New York office of Banca Nazionale del Lavoro, based in Rome. What wasn’t printed on his business card, according to Elizabeth, was his connection to organized crime. He was on an FBI watch list for suspected money laundering, and the only reason he hadn’t been further investigated was that laundering cases involving possible links to terrorism always took precedence—and there were more of those cases than there were Bureau agents to go around.
“Oh, one last thing,” said Elizabeth. “I checked the morgue and all hospitals. No Vincent Franchella. Of course, that hardly means he’s alive and well.”
That was for sure.
I drove back into the city in silence, thinking about my next move. While Elizabeth had been scouring the hotel security footage, I’d been checking the doorbell camera Tracy and I had installed outside our apartment. Maybe I truly was safe from Grigoryev. Maybe I wasn’t. Either way, no one yet had come to the door looking for payback.
I kept driving. By the time I reached the West Side Highway, I was no longer thinking about my next move. I already knew it.
To my right I could see the sunlight bouncing off the cresting caps of the Hudson River. The water looked frigid, almost angry, and yet there in the middle of it all, by itself, was a cutter sailboat about forty feet long.
It wasn’t riding with the wind, it was fighting it, heading straight into the gusts. Whoever was steering the boat was blocked by the mast and mainsail, but I could imagine an old man with an unruly gray beard at the helm, shaking his fist in the air as the bow slammed up and down against the swells, the spray needling his face but never once wiping away his defiant smile.
Sometimes you take only what the wind will give you. Other times you tell the wind to go to hell.
CHAPTER 39
It was a different doorman, but he shot me the same dubious look when I told him who I was there to see. Are you sure you want to do that, dude?
Sure was perhaps too strong a word, but there was no turning back now.
Two minutes later, the elevator door opened in the lobby, and out stepped Ivan. He somehow looked even bigger than when I last left him—wearing furry handcuffs—in Jade’s apartment.
“Hello, Ivan,” I said. “Nice to see you again.”
I knew he’d be the one who’d come fetch me. I could practically hear him volunteering to Grigoryev. Insisting was more like it.
Ivan shook his head at me. “You’re a stupid man,” he said.
I followed him back onto the elevator. He hit the button for the penthouse and stared ahead in silence. About halfway up the building he finally spoke. “I was told I’m not allowed to kill you,” he said. “Not a scratch on your face.”
“I guess today’s my lucky day, huh?”
Of all things, he laughed. Really loudly, too. Then he wound up and sucker punched me in the gut so hard I thought my stomach had exploded. I doubled over, dropping to one knee. The only reason I didn’t throw up was that I couldn’t breathe.
Ivan leaned down, looking into my eyes with sublime satisfaction as I desperately gasped for air. “Good,” he said. “Not a scratch on your face.”
Ding. The elevator opened.
I couldn’t get to my feet so Ivan grabbed me under both my arms and threw me out like a rag doll. I hit the floor of Grigoryev’s security room with a thump before rolling onto my back. Staring down at me was the man himself.
“You certainly have balls,” said Grigoryev. “Brains I’m not so sure about.”
My being an idiot had quickly become a recurring theme.
Grigoryev took a seat on the bench along the wall. Ivan frisked me, then stood guard in the corner, taking out his 9mm Makarov and twisting on the suppressor. It was déjà vu all over again. The only difference being that I had no move to make this time. Hell, I could barely move at all. It hurt just to talk.
“What’d you do with him?” I asked.
Grigoryev knew I was talking about Vincent Franchella but had no intention of answering my question.
“Just be happy you’re still alive,” he said. “How do you know Danny?”
“We have a mutual friend,” I answered.
If someone had given me a hundred guesses as to what Vladimir Grigoryev was going to do next, I still wouldn’t have come close. Not by a mile.
Out of the blue he stood up and began shuffling his shiny wingtips across the marble tile, back and forth, as if performing some soft shoe routine. Is he really dancing right now? Whatever it was, it was only the warm-up act. The main attraction followed. I was suddenly treated to a full-throated rendition of George and Ira Gershwin’s “Someone to Watch Over Me.” I mean, he was really belting it out with his Russian accent. “Looking everywhere, haven’t found him yet…”
Then, as quick as he’d started, Grigoryev stopped. “Did you know that Danny is a very good hockey player? For an American, that is.”
“I did know that,” I said.
“Russians always like Americans more if they can play hockey.” Grigoryev bobbed his head as if sizing me up. I was still laid out flat on my back in front of him. “You don’t play hockey, I’m guessing, do you, Professor Reinhart? Or is it Agent Reinhart?”
“You can just call me Dylan,” I said. “And then you can tell me if Vincent Franchella is still alive. He has a wife and kids.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel something?” he asked.
“Actually, yeah. It is.”
“How do you think Vincent’s wife would feel about his girlfriend, Jade? What would that something be? Not so good, right?”
“She’d still want to know if her husband’s okay,” I said.
Grigoryev thought for a moment. “Yes. He’s okay,” he said. “For now.”
“Why? What could change later?”
“You don’t get to know that,” he said. I figured as much. He turned to walk away.
“Wait.” I reached into my shirt pocket. “Here, this is for you,” I said.
I had another card for Grigoryev. It was the parking stub for his Range Rover, including the name and address of the lot.
He nodded, taking the card. “Ivan will show you out. And if you ever come back here again, I’ll shoot you myself.”
“You were going to kill her,” I said. “I had to do it.”
He nodded again. “Yes, I’ve heard that about you. It’s your Achilles’ heel,” he said. “A conscience.”
CHAPTER 40
I was still aching from Ivan’s gut punch, but at least it was officially safe to go back to my apartment. I just didn’t get to stay there very long.
Von Oehson didn’t text me. He called. Actually, his driver called. The guy wasn’t asking me to come out to the front of my building. No, he was telling me. That’s what I had to do. Eleven o’clock at night, and I was supposed to drop everything on a dime and go for a ride.
“I’ll be right down,” I said. Of course that’s what I said. I was finally about to learn what had happened to Carter.
“Temp okay?” I was asked after I settled into the back of a Rolls-Royce Cullinan. Maybe the Maybach was in the shop. Von Oehson’s driver, different from the one who’d been behind the wheel of the Maybach, had a Brooklyn accent. “Too cold? Too hot? Whattaya thinking?”
“Just right,” I answered.
And that was that, the extent of our conversation. I could’ve asked where he was taking me—where I was meeting up with von Oehson—but I figured I’d know soon enough. Even sooner, as it turned out.
We hadn’t left Manhattan. We hadn’t even left the West Side. Our destination was the West 30th Street Heliport.
Von Oehson’s helicopter was just approaching, its floodlights so bright I had to shield my eyes. Seconds after it touched down, von Oehson stepped out and made a beeline for the Rolls, joining me in the backseat. You always see people crouch when walking away from a helicopter. Not him. If there’s such a thing as walking like a billionaire, Mathias von Oehson had the strut down pat.
“Thanks for coming to meet me,” he said. “I obviously couldn’t have you out to the house in Connecticut.”
“That was going to be my first question, whether you said anything to Carter.”
“About you? No, and he can never know.”
“That’s the right answer,” I said. “In that case, thanks for making the trip into the city.”
“It’s not all for you.” Von Oehson wrapped his knuckles on the burled walnut of the center console between us, apparently an unspoken cue for his driver that we were good to go. Off we went.
“Where are we heading?” I asked.
“I’m heading to my attorney’s apartment. You’re coming along for the ride so I can fill you in,” he said. He pressed a button and up went a divider, sealing us off from his driver.
“What about the police? Have you spoken to them yet?” I asked.
“They wanted a statement from Carter this afternoon, but I was able to put them off until tomorrow,” he said.
“Did you mention anything to them about speaking to your attorney first?”
“I truly hope you don’t think I’m that stupid,” he said. “As it is, news vans are camped out in front of my house. Not the right optics. My son miraculously returns from the dead, and suddenly I need a lawyer?”
“Okay. So why do you need a lawyer?”
Von Oehson unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket, handing it to me while flipping on a reading light over my shoulder. I was now staring down at a front and back copy of a deposited check from an account in his wife’s name, made out to cash. The amount was seventy-eight thousand dollars.
“Impressive,” he said, “don’t you think?”
I was fairly certain he wasn’t referring to the seventy-eight grand. Other than that I wasn’t sure what to think yet. “What am I looking at?”
“A forgery.”
I stared at the signature. Bethany von Oehson. Beautiful handwriting. Big swooping letters. Elegant. “This wasn’t her?”
“Nope.”
It was the way he shook his head. I knew right away. Carter had forged his mother’s signature. “Why would he need to do that?”
“Two reasons apparently, the Rams and the Seahawks. Neither team covered the spread that week,” he said.
“Carter was betting on football games?”
“Among other sports.”
“So you’re saying your son has a gambling problem.”
“Yes. The problem is, he loses.” Von Oehson caught himself. “Actually, the real problem is that he couldn’t pay up. That’s how this entire mess started.”
CHAPTER 41
Von Oehson walked me through it. The whole thing.
He and Bethany took Carter home from St. Sebastian’s church that afternoon. The three of them talked for hours. Suffice it to say, Carter did most of the talking.
He knew his mother never looked at bank statements, and when his father occasionally did he never went check by check. Even if he had spotted the one for seventy-eight thousand dollars made out to cash, Mathias von Oehson would never have questioned his wife about it. Trust played a certain role in that, he explained, but what was left unsaid—the primary reason—was the amount. A man with a net worth of more than twenty-four billion dollars doesn’t blink an eye at anything less than six figures.
