Steal, page 3
His text was waiting on my cell when I parked my bike in the garage near our new apartment on 82nd off West End Avenue. He wanted me to meet him at Vincenzo’s a few blocks away, our favorite Italian restaurant in our new neighborhood.
“You’ll need to catch up,” Tracy added with a couple of martini emojis. He clearly wasn’t there to eat.
In fact, when I walked into Vincenzo’s the first thing I saw was another round being placed in front of him at the bar. Broken Shed vodka, two olives, and only a drop of vermouth. His usual. Although not usually in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. Something was up, all right.
First things first, though. Where’s our daughter?
Tracy being Tracy, he answered the question even before I asked it. “Lucinda agreed to stay an extra couple of hours,” he said when he saw me approaching.
Lucinda’s our go-to babysitter. She emigrated from Portugal a decade ago. We didn’t hire her very often when we first adopted Annabelle because we couldn’t stand being away from our new baby girl. We still can’t stand it, but one of the things Tracy and I have learned about parenting skills is that they improve after having some alone time together as a couple.
Also, some alone time apart from each other as a couple. For me, that’s my teaching and…well, yeah, some of my “extracurriculars” over the past few years, such as chasing down a serial killer who used playing cards to announce his victims in advance and, more recently, helping to stop a major terrorist attack on Grand Central station. So much for my early retirement from the CIA.
For Tracy, he has his acting career and the amazing volunteer work he does with Harlem Legal House, putting his Yale law degree to use by helping those who aren’t able to afford a private attorney. Lately, though, there have been fewer auditions and more hours spent up in Harlem. He still loves acting, but the satisfaction he gets from making sure the justice system works for everyone, and not just the wealthy, is greater than—and I quote—anything he’s ever felt onstage or in front of a camera. That makes me love and respect Tracy even more.
So if that means having Lucinda watch Annabelle three afternoons a week instead of two so Tracy can volunteer more and I can still prepare for my lectures, so be it. We adore Lucinda. Annabelle adores Lucinda. Plus, how many American two-and-a-half-year-olds can already say please and thank you in Portuguese?
“Okay, then,” I said, pivoting from our daughter back to Tracy. “What’s wrong?”
CHAPTER 7
“You’re kidding me. Why? How?” I asked.
But it was as if he couldn’t hear me. He was rambling, trapped in his own panic. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. Seriously, we’re screwed. The budget, our operating costs—we’re already in debt up to our ears as it is. We couldn’t possibly afford a lease somewhere else…”
Harlem Legal House occupied storefront office space rent-free in exchange for providing the building owner with free legal services. It was a quid pro quo, the good kind, with Harlem Legal House definitely getting the better end of the bargain. But the building was about to change hands.
“Maybe you can make the same deal with the new owner,” I said.
“We already asked and were told no.”
“Okay, so you’ll find a new landlord who’ll say yes.”
Tracy just shook his head. Fat chance. He was right, too. The current owner was kind and considerate, two qualities rarely associated with New York City landlords.
“Besides, there’s no time,” said Tracy.
“What do you mean?”
“Since we don’t pay rent, our lease is technically on a month-to-month basis.”
He’d never mentioned that to me. “So you only have until the end of this month?”
“Not even. We have to be out before that. By Christmas.”
“That doesn’t seem right.”
“None of this does. The owner wasn’t looking to sell, but he told us he got an offer too good to pass up. The deal closes right after the new year.” Tracy reached again for his martini. He was holding on to it like a life preserver. “We just feel so blindsided.”
“There’s got to be a solution,” I said. The volunteers at Harlem Legal House were some of the best legal minds in the city.
“We were brainstorming the entire morning. It’s pretty hopeless, but we’re going to get together again tomorrow. Maybe there’s a miracle to be had. I’m going to cancel my trip.”
Tracy had plans to take Annabelle for a few days’ visit with his sister, who lived in Marblehead, just outside of Boston. “You can’t cancel,” I said.
“She’ll understand.”
“Of course she will, but that’s not the point.”
“I know,” he said. “Believe me, I know.”
Tracy’s sister, Rebecca, had suffered a miscarriage six months ago. She and her husband had been trying to have a child for nearly two years before that, and Rebecca was devastated. Tracy had been trying to see her since it happened, but she kept putting him off. Finally she said yes. She even made a point of asking Tracy to bring Annabelle. You don’t need a degree in psychology to understand the importance of that.
The bartender came over, and I ordered a Maker’s Mark, neat. He gave me a heavy pour while nodding at both of us. The guy was clearly good at reading body language.
“To better days,” I said to Tracy, raising my glass. To think, I hadn’t even told him about the one I’d had.
“Yes, to better days.” He then mumbled something else under his breath. I immediately did a double take.
“What was that?” I asked.
“What you said, to better days.”
“No, after that. To better days, but…”
“But to hell with the next two weeks. That’s what we were given to vacate the building,” said Tracy. “Two weeks’ notice.”
Son of a bitch.
I downed my bourbon in one swig, pushing back from the bar. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Wait. Where are you going?” asked Tracy.
“I’ll explain later.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just trust me,” I said.
CHAPTER 8
“Right this way, Dr. Reinhart.”
The doorman didn’t even ask who I was or who I wanted to see in such a damn hurry. He already knew. And I’m not just talking about the doorman.
“Good to see you again,” said Mathias von Oehson as the private elevator opened to his penthouse apartment, sixty-five ear-popping stories above West 57th Street, a.k.a. billionaires’ row. He was standing contentedly in the middle of a massive foyer, arms folded and tongue planted firmly in cheek as he added, “What a nice surprise.”
Nothing takes the piss out of storming another man’s castle than when the man not only knows you’re coming but basically orchestrated the visit. Still, I did my best to convey exactly how I was feeling.
“Fuck you,” I said, stepping off the elevator.
Von Oehson shrugged. “I suppose that’s fair.”
I really wanted to hit this guy. Level him. Lay him out flat on his Brazilian hardwood floor, or wherever the hell it came from. “You knew I would turn you down, that I’d say no.”
“Yes, that’s right,” he said.
“So, before you even spoke to me this morning, you’d bought the building where—”
“Where your partner volunteers.”
“He’s my husband,” I said.
“My mistake.”
“Hardly your biggest one of the day.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said. “As for the building, I don’t technically own it yet. There’s only an accepted offer.”
“One that’s too good for the current owner to pass up, apparently.”
“I told you earlier. People tend to like my offers.”
“Good. Now I want you to rescind it.”
“And I want you to find my son. I believe this is what’s called a standoff.”
“I can think of another name for it,” I said. “Front-page news.”
“You’re not going public with what I told you, Dylan. May I call you Dylan?”
“That depends. May I call you a prick?”
“You’d hardly be the first,” he said, “and you’re not going to the press because you know the difference. Not helping me get Carter back is one thing. Doing something that could harm him is another.”
He was right. We both knew it. Talking to the media would put Carter at further risk, assuming he had indeed been kidnapped. What I needed, though, was for von Oehson to see the light.
“Yes, let’s talk about doing harm,” I said. “You’re shuttering a legal aid center. Do you hear me? A legal aid center.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t. So why do it?”
“You’re here right now, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, and you’re lucky we’re just talking.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he said. “Taking a swing at me?”
“It’s more than crossed my mind.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“You’re not worth it,” I said.
“An ironic turn of phrase.” He glanced over his shoulder at his fifty-million-dollar apartment, give or take. As if I needed any reminder of how wealthy Mathias von Oehson truly was. “Desperate men do desperate things, Dylan. You’re a father. You must be able to understand,” he said.
“That much I do. But not what you’ve done here.”
“You still haven’t heard my offer, how much I’m willing to pay.”
“I told you, it wouldn’t make a difference,” I said. “I don’t need your money.”
“I know you don’t. That’s the whole point.”
“What is?”
“Why you’re going to find my son and bring him home to me,” he said. “What’s more, you’re going to do it without my paying you a dime.”
That’s when von Oehson finally told me his offer.
Damn, if I didn’t accept it on the spot.
CHAPTER 9
The air was dense with imminent snow as I walked outside von Oehson’s apartment building. I texted Tracy, asking where he was. I knew I’d get a quick reply. He had to be wondering where the hell I’d run off to.
TJ’s, he texted back.
Tracy had given up on the afternoon martinis and was making a quick trip to Trader Joe’s before heading home to relieve Lucinda. By the time I caught up to him he was in the bread aisle. That was somewhat fitting, as he was about to learn.
“What was that all about?” he asked. “Where were you? Where’d you go?”
“I went to see Mathias von Oehson.”
It took him a moment. Mathias von Oehson? “You mean—”
“Yeah, the hedge fund guy,” I said. “His son was the one from my class. I went to his apartment down on 57th.”
Tracy knew about Carter’s suicide. I’d told him about it as soon as I’d found out. Even if Carter hadn’t been my student, the story was all over the news. Tracy squinted. “That’s where you rushed off to? You never even mentioned you knew his father.”
“I don’t,” I said. “Or, at least, I didn’t until earlier this morning. He came to see me on campus.”
The more I explained, the more confused Tracy became. I couldn’t blame him. “Why?” he asked. “Was it something about his son?”
“He thinks Carter is still alive, that he didn’t kill himself.”
“Why would he think that?”
This answer wasn’t about to help. “He has his reasons,” I said.
Cue the eye roll. “In other words, you’re not going to tell me,” said Tracy.
“It’s only to protect Carter.”
“Do you really think he’s still alive?”
“I don’t know, but von Oehson wants me to find out,” I said.
“You mean, like, to help the police with an investigation?”
“Not exactly.”
“What then?”
“He doesn’t want to involve the police.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “He has his reasons.”
“Something like that. If it’s any consolation, I told him no at first.”
“What changed your mind?”
“He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” I said. I at least had the good sense not to do my Marlon Brando impression. Tracy was in no mood.
“In other words, he’s paying you,” he said.
“It’s more like leveraging me.”
I watched Tracy’s face as it all suddenly clicked, why I left him at the bar so quickly after he told me about Harlem Legal House and the sale of their building. “Shit. Von Oehson’s the buyer, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but now you all don’t have to move, and you still don’t have to pay rent,” I said.
“That’s not leverage, Dylan. That’s extortion.”
“Tomayto, tomahto.”
“Yeah, so let’s call the whole thing off.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Screw him. To hell with von Oehson.” I then reached into my coat pocket, handing Tracy an envelope. He looked inside.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s a check.”
“I can see that.” He took it out, staring. He all but rubbed his eyes in disbelief. “Is this for real?”
“Not only is it real. It’s only half of it. The first million is the down payment. The back end is another million.”
“He’s paying you two million dollars?”
“No. Look again. He’s paying Harlem Legal House two million dollars,” I said. That’s how von Oehson had made out the check. “Technically, it’s a donation.”
“That’s insane.”
“Or maybe he’s just a desperate father who also happens to be a multibillionaire.”
“I get it,” said Tracy. “I really do. This is all about his son, and he’ll go to whatever lengths and spend whatever it takes. That doesn’t make it right, though.”
“I agree, it’s messed up,” I said. “Then again, so is the justice system for poor people, right? That’s the whole mission of Harlem Legal House, to right that wrong. Ask some of your clients how they’d feel about an extra two million in their corner.”
I watched Tracy mulling it over. It wasn’t so much that I had to talk him into this. I simply had to give him enough time to make peace with it.
“What am I supposed to tell the board?” he asked.
“You tell them the good news that you’ve struck a deal with the new owner of the building. It’s the same deal you had with the old owner. Crisis averted.”
“And the two million?”
“Let’s wait until we have all of it before you mention anything. In the meantime, go see your sister as planned.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You’ve agreed to help find a man’s son who everyone thinks is dead. Do you even know where to start?”
“I already have,” I said.
CHAPTER 10
I wanted to spend the next morning with Annabelle, some one-on-one time, before she and Tracy headed up to Massachusetts to see his sister. Four-plus hours is a lot of time to be strapped in a car seat, so the plan was to bundle up and get her plenty of fresh air beforehand. For Annabelle, that meant going to her new favorite place. The Central Park Zoo.
After a full trip around all the exhibits, with Annabelle happily out of the stroller and tramping through the fresh snow for most of the visit, we landed on a bench by the sea lions. That’s where I’d told him to meet me.
“We’re just going to wait a little bit for my friend, sweetheart. He should be here any minute,” I said.
Annabelle hardly minded. A fox, a giraffe, a hippopotamus, an iguana—she was on my lap and fully engrossed in the A-to-Z animal picture book I’d bought her at the gift shop, although she was having a heck of a time turning the pages with her mittens on. When I tried to help her she all but swatted my hand away. Score another one for the movement against helicopter parenting.
“I do it, Daddy,” she assured me. “I do it!”
A minute later he arrived, wearing a bulky overcoat, a wool trapper hat, and one of those ski masks with cutouts for the eyes and mouth.
“You look like you’re about to rob a 7-Eleven,” I said.
“Can’t help it,” said Julian. “We Brits don’t like the cold.”
It wasn’t that cold, but I was fairly certain the ski mask was serving a dual purpose for my old friend. Warmth, yes, but also anonymity. Just in case.
Of course, the trick to being known as one of the world’s most gifted and feared hackers is not to be known at all. Only a handful of people on the planet could pick Julian Byrd out of a lineup. Thankfully, Vladimir Putin wasn’t one of them, nor were any members of ISIS, Al-Qaeda, Hezbollah, Hamas, Boko Haram, or the Taliban. Julian had wreaked havoc on all their hidden bank accounts over the years, in addition to either blocking or intercepting the bulk of their online communications. They’d all love to kill him. If only they knew who he was.
The fact that I did was rooted in my CIA days stationed in London, back when Julian was with MI6. After I left the agency, he soon joined it—with MI6’s permission, naturally. In return the Brits got a guarantee of better shared intelligence, plus access to some advanced spyware out of a certain Silicon Valley lab disguised as an academic software developer.
“My apologies for running late,” he said.
“No worries. You’re the one doing me the favor,” I said. “As usual.”
“Yes. That is true, isn’t it?”
“Plus, you actually left your Batcave and braved the weather for me.”
“How could I say no? I finally get to meet this gorgeous little lady.” He pulled up his mask, flashing a huge smile. “Hello, Annabelle! I’m Julian.”
“Beard!” she said, pointing.
Toddlers love to cut to the chase. Julian truly did have an epic beard these days. It wasn’t long, but it was big and bushy.
“Do you want to touch it?” he asked, leaning forward.
Annabelle patted away on his beard with her mittens, laughing as Julian made one funny face after another.
