Steal, page 26
I explained why I’d told him about Brunetti. Then I reached into my pocket and handed him an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“That’s a statement that the mayor’s office will be releasing to the press tomorrow afternoon. Somehow you’ve managed to get a copy of it in advance,” I said, getting up to leave. “Merry Christmas.”
After making a quick call to Julian to confirm that all the arrangements had been done, I made my third and final stop of the day. Home sweet home.
“Daddy D! Daddy D!”
Annabelle came running to meet me at the door, jumping into my arms. If she were any older she would’ve asked why there were tears in my eyes. As for Tracy, who turned the corner into our foyer a few seconds behind her, he didn’t need to ask at all.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“What for? Spending the night in a CIA safe house has always been on my bucket list,” he said. Then he smiled and hugged me. We all hugged. It was another Annabelle sandwich, this one maybe the best one ever. “So how much are you legally able to tell me?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” I said. “You deserve to hear all of it.”
Which is exactly what I told him over a bottle of red as we cooked dinner. All of it. Everything.
And I saved the best part for last.
CHAPTER 107
I really wish I could’ve been there to see von Oehson’s face at the exact moment he found out.
Instead I had to make do with trying to picture it, although admittedly that was still pretty damn good. I even mentally opened the window in our living room at one point, sticking my ear out into the cold, to see if maybe, just maybe, I could hear von Oehson cursing my name at the top of his lungs from his palace apartment in the sky on billionaires’ row.
Of course, the real question wasn’t whether he would throw a tantrum and curse my name. It was what, if anything, he would do next. My money was on his doing nothing—except smile for the cameras. That was what I envisioned, what he’d ultimately decide. In his otherwise lightning-fast mind, there would be a slow reckoning, that as far as a price to pay for all his crimes and misdemeanors he was getting off on the cheap side.
Of course, for a man worth twenty-four billion dollars, cheap is a relative term.
That next morning, Mathias von Oehson woke up to learn, courtesy of the New York Gazette, that he had donated two billion dollars to the city of New York to fund a new prekindergarten education program for low-income families in all five boroughs. Furthermore, this wasn’t one of those spread-out-over-ten-years donations. This was two billion—the whole enchilada—already paid in full to the city to fast-track major construction and massive hiring at the start of the new year.
That was another moment I would’ve liked to have seen in person. Von Oehson, in full panic mode, checking the balance of his numerous bank accounts, most of them offshore, that were indeed a total of two billion dollars less than they were the day before. Funny thing about those wiring instructions he used to steal the money from the Hungarians. Turned out they also worked in reverse. All it took was some tinkering from Julian, along with the proper routing numbers for the city of New York coffers, courtesy of Mayor Deacon.
How did we settle on two billion as the amount? I figured one billion for each week’s notice von Oehson initially gave Harlem Legal House to vacate their offices when he leveraged me into working for him. Yeah, that felt about right.
“It is my distinct honor to be awarding Mathias von Oehson a key to the city this Friday, a city that he has so greatly enhanced for generations to come, thanks to his phenomenally generous donation,” said Deacon, as quoted in the article. This was according to the press release, “a copy of which the New York Gazette has obtained in advance.”
Within an hour after the news broke, the mayor took to Twitter to further codify the transaction. “A gift to more than a million children has been placed under the city’s tree,” he wrote, before adding that it was his honor to work personally with von Oehson on the arrangement. Politicians never miss an opportunity to get in a plug for themselves.
All the better, though, to further leverage von Oehson. What was he going to do, ask for the money back? Claim that there’d been some kind of mistake?
No, not a chance. While two billion was a ton of money, his reputation would always be worth more. Lest there be any doubt, his two-word text to me that same afternoon summed it all up.
Well played.
A von Oehson man always knows when to cut his losses.
Who knows? Maybe he’ll even hang that key to the city on his wall.
For everything that’s ever been written about the idea of justice, its meaning will never be something that you can fully understand through words alone. Its full definition will always be something you feel. In your head. In your heart. In your gut.
My gut was telling me that justice had been served.
Not perfectly. Not permanently. But still just enough to feel it.
I’d been played, manipulated, and, for a good stretch, outmatched. There aren’t that many dumb billionaires in the world. Yet, in the words of the ancient Greek philosopher Epictetus—and at the risk of a serious eye roll from Elizabeth for quoting a famous dead guy—It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.
In short, von Oehson had his masterpiece.
In the end, I had mine.
EPILOGUE
The Finishing Touches
CHAPTER 108
’Twas a few nights before the night before Christmas.
That was our compromise, although I’m fairly certain Tracy would’ve held his ground were it not for the fact that I’d already bought the tree. The poor thing stood there naked in its stand for days. Actually, I take that back. About Tracy, not the tree. Since we were turning our tree-decorating tradition into a party to celebrate not only the survival of Harlem Legal House but its newly planned expansion, Tracy understood that we needed to accommodate the holiday travel plans of the guests on our list.
And what a list it was. In addition to many Harlem Legal House attorneys, we had CIA operatives (past and present), a couple of federal agents, and one high-priced female escort. Oh, and in lieu of two turtle doves, there was a new couple deciding to go public.
“I knew you were sweet on him,” I whispered while taking her coat.
“Shut up,” Elizabeth whispered back, softly enough so her date wouldn’t hear her. She smiled. She couldn’t help it. I’d never seen her look so happy. Come to think of it, I can’t remember my being so happy for someone after I opened the door and saw her and Danny Sullivan arriving together.
“Here, this is for Annabelle,” said Danny, handing me a gift-wrapped box.
“That’s so nice, thank you,” I said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Elizabeth leaned in. “Wait until he tells you what he got her. You’ll wish he hadn’t.”
I shook the box, but that was just for show. All I had to do was think back to the night I first met Danny at the Sky Rink at Chelsea Piers. “What’s wrong with ice skates?” I asked.
“Exactly,” he said, giving Elizabeth a nudge. “She acts like I got her a Barbie meth lab, or something.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and laughed, and I immediately knew. These two were meant for each other.
Speaking of couples, “Wait. Who’s that with your dad?” asked Elizabeth, looking over my shoulder. “Is that who I think it is?”
It was. Josiah Maxwell Reinhart had driven down from New Hampshire with his houseguest, Ingrid, whose days as “Jade” working for Vladimir Grigoryev were officially over. I’d love to report that my father miraculously talked her into a new line of work, but that’s a Disney movie that’s probably not going to get made. He did, however, take her hunting and teach her how to make his infamous squirrel stew, which, thankfully, doesn’t actually contain squirrel. The name derives from his making huge batches at a time and storing it, like nuts, for the winter.
“That’s right, you never met Jade,” I said, following Elizabeth’s eyeline to the strange juxtaposition of my father standing with a very tall and very beautiful Russian woman in her mid-twenties, as they chatted with Julian. “You only met Betty.”
For the record, Paulina—Carter’s Betty, his standing Tuesday date—was also no longer working for Grigoryev. Her unconditional “release,” along with Ingrid’s, was granted without much fuss by Grigoryev once he was made aware of the connection between my entanglement with him and the demise of Frank Brunetti. The criminal underworld is a zero-sum game, and the loss of an Italian mob boss with a firm grip on the five boroughs meant a significant gain in power for the Russian pakhan. Letting two of his girls go their own way was the least he could do for me, as was returning Vincent Franchella safely home to his family in New Jersey. I hoped Franchella’s days of hookers and hotel rooms were over.
“Come, try the eggnog,” I said. “I made it myself. It’s absolutely horrible.”
Elizabeth and Danny joined the party, and soon all of us began decorating the tree. Everyone took a turn hanging an ornament on a branch. I watched, enjoying every moment of it, while ever mindful of the irony. Suffice it to say, the man responsible for bringing us all together didn’t exactly score an invite. Not that Mathias von Oehson would’ve ever been angling for one. If he never laid eyes on me again for as long as he lived it would still be too soon for him. I would imagine that Julian, who was very much enjoying his new Italian toy, felt the same about von Oehson. There’s nothing quite like a Ferrari to turn a near hermit into a man about town. Once he got the new windshield installed, Julian was taking that baby out for a spin on a daily basis. I should know—I joined him a few times to get another turn behind the wheel.
“Okay, Annabelle. Are you ready, sweetheart?” asked Tracy, handing her the last ornament.
We hoisted up our little girl as she raised the star she’d made from a paper plate (with a scissors assist from Tracy), decorated with silver glitter (with a glue assist from me). As for the Cheerios that somehow managed to get mixed in with the glitter, that was all Annabelle.
“Higher, Daddy D! Higher, Daddy T!”
As Tracy and I lifted her higher, I couldn’t help but think in that moment of how lucky we were. How lucky I was. The void in my younger years, created when my mother died, had been filled with family, friends, and purpose. I knew what it felt like to love and be loved. Best of all, the future was literally in my hands. Her name was Annabelle, and she was the greatest gift of all.
Smiling and giggling, our little girl placed her star on top of the tree. It was sideways. It was off-center.
It was perfect.
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From America’s most beloved superstar and its greatest storyteller—
a thriller about a young
singer/songwriter on the rise and on the run,
and determined to do
whatever it takes to survive.
Chapter
1
AnnieLee had been standing on the side of the road for an hour, thumbing a ride, when the rain started falling in earnest.
Wouldn’t you know it? she thought as she tugged a gas station poncho out of her backpack. It just figures.
She pulled the poncho over her jacket and yanked the hood over her damp hair. The wind picked up, and fat raindrops began to beat a rhythm on the cheap plastic. But she kept that hopeful smile plastered on her face, and she tapped her foot on the gravel shoulder as a bit of a new song came into her head.
Is it easy? she sang to herself.
No it ain’t
Can I fix it?
No I cain’t
She’d been writing songs since she could talk and making melodies even before that. AnnieLee Keyes couldn’t hear the call of a wood thrush, the plink plink plink of a leaky faucet, or the rumbling rhythm of a freight train without turning it into a tune.
Crazy girl finds music in everything—that’s what her mother had said, right up until the day she died. And the song coming to AnnieLee now gave her something to think about besides the cars whizzing by, their warm, dry occupants not even slowing down to give her a second glance.
Not that she could blame them; she wouldn’t stop for herself, either. Not in this weather, and her probably looking no better than a drowned possum.
When she saw the white station wagon approaching, going at least twenty miles under the speed limit, she crossed her fingers that it would be some nice old grandpa pulling over to offer her a lift. She’d turned down two rides back when she thought she’d have her choice of them, the first from a chain-smoking lady with two snarling Rottweilers in the back seat, the second from a kid who’d looked higher than Mount Everest.
Now she could kick herself for being so picky. Either driver would have at least gotten her a few miles up the road, smelling like one kind of smoke or another.
The white wagon was fifty yards away, then twenty-five, and as it came at her she gave a friendly, graceful wave, as if she was some kind of celebrity on the shoulder of the Crosby Freeway and not some half-desperate nobody with all her worldly belongings in a backpack.
The old Buick crawled toward her in the slow lane, and AnnieLee’s waving grew nearly frantic. But she could have stood on her head and shot rainbows out of her Ropers and it wouldn’t have mattered. The car passed by and grew gradually smaller in the distance. She stomped her foot like a kid, splattering herself with mud.
Is it easy? she sang again.
No it ain’t
Can I fix it?
No I cain’t
But I sure ain’t gonna take it lyin’ down
It was catchy, all right, and AnnieLee wished for the twentieth time that she had her beloved guitar. But it wouldn’t have fit in her pack, for one thing, and for another, it was already hanging on the wall at Jeb’s Pawn.
If she had one wish—besides to get the hell out of Texas—it was that whoever bought Maybelle would take good care of her.
The distant lights of downtown Houston seemed to blur as AnnieLee blinked raindrops from her eyes. If she thought about her life back there for more than an instant, she’d probably stop wishing for a ride and just start running.
By now the rain was falling harder than she’d seen it in years. As if God had drawn up all the water in Buffalo Bayou just so He could pour it back down on her head.
She was shivering, her stomach ached with hunger, and suddenly she felt so lost and furious she could cry. She had nothing and nobody; she was broke and alone and night was coming on.
But there was that melody again; it was almost as if she could hear it inside the rain. All right, she thought, I don’t have nothing. I have music.
And so she didn’t cry. She sang instead.
Will I make it?
Maybe so
Closing her eyes, she could imagine herself on a stage somewhere, singing for a rapt audience.
Will I give up?
Oh no
She could feel the invisible crowd holding its breath.
I’ll be fightin’ til I’m six feet underground
Her eyes were squeezed shut and her face was tilted to the sky as the song swelled inside her. Then a horn blared, and AnnieLee Keyes nearly jumped out of her boots.
She was hoisting both her middle fingers high at the tractor trailer when she saw its brake lights flare.
Chapter
2
Was there ever a more beautiful color in the whole wide world? AnnieLee could write a damn ode to the dazzling red of those brake lights.
As she ran toward the truck, the cab’s passenger door swung open. She wiped the rain from her eyes and looked at her rescuer. He was a gray-haired, soft-bellied man in his fifties, smiling down at her from six feet up. He tipped his baseball cap at her like a country gentleman.
“Come on in before you drown,” he called.
A gust of wind blew the rain sideways, and without another second’s hesitation, AnnieLee grabbed onto the door handle and hauled herself into the passenger seat, flinging water everywhere.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “I thought I was going to have to spend the night out there.”
“That would’ve been rough,” the man said. “It’s a good thing I came along. Lot of people don’t like to stop. Where you headed?”
“East,” she said as she pulled off her streaming poncho and then shrugged out of her heavy backpack. Her shoulders were killing her. Come to think of it, so were her feet.
“My name’s Eddie,” the man said. He thrust out a hand for her to shake.
“I’m…Ann,” she said, taking it.
He held her fingers for a moment before releasing them. “It’s real nice to meet you, Ann.” Then he put the truck into gear, looked over his shoulder, and pulled onto the highway.
He was quiet for a while, which was more than fine with AnnieLee, but then over the road noise she heard Eddie clear his throat. “You’re dripping all over my seat,” he said.
“Sorry.”
“Here, you can at least dry your face,” he said, tossing a red bandanna onto her lap. “Don’t worry, it’s clean,” he said when she hesitated. “My wife irons two dozen for me every time I head out on a run.”
Reassured by news of this wife, AnnieLee pressed the soft bandanna to her cheeks. It smelled like Downy. Once she’d wiped her face and neck, she wasn’t sure if she should give it back to him, so she just wadded it up in her hand.
“You hitchhike a lot?” Eddie asked.
AnnieLee shrugged because she didn’t see how it was any of his business.
“Look, I been driving longer than you been alive, I bet, and I’ve seen some things. Bad things. You don’t know who you can trust.”
