George Carrick stood up and smiled when I walked into his office the next morning.
He emerged from behind his desk, bounced on the balls of his feet, then gestured to the couches. We took the same places as before. Today, he was wearing a gray suit with a tie, and his laptop was open on the coffee table.
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. McNaught.” Carrick smiled. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. I have plenty of buildings, like I told you. I’m sure I can find one you like, and that makes sense to your wallet as well.” He leaned forward and hit a key on his laptop, and then took a moment to check that a webpage was loading properly. “Here’s what I currently have on the market. This is a private site. I can give you the link, but please don’t share it with anyone else, OK? Good. Now, do you want to start with a particular budget, or shall we just dive in and see what grabs you?”
“Let’s dive in.” I picked up the computer and scrolled through the first couple of listings. “These are nice, George. Much better than the place the Masons are living in. Well, where Mr. Mason’s living. Mrs. Mason’s still in the hospital, I believe.”
“Of course they’re better. The Masons’ building is due to be torn down. All of these, they’re good for years to come.”
“How about from the tenants’ point of view? Do you think they’d be safe in these kind of places?”
“They’d absolutely be safe.” Carrick shrugged. “Well, as safe as you can be in New York City.”
“That’s good.” I nodded. “That means a lot, coming from you. Because let’s face it, you should know.”
Carrick’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you sent Norman Davies to attack Mrs. Mason. You did that. Not the Russians.”
“That’s crazy.” Carrick stood up. “You can’t come into my office and make bullshit accusations about me. You need to leave. Now.”
Carrick reached for the laptop, but I pulled it away, out of his reach, and slid a thumb drive into a slot on its side. I held him at bay until the right menu popped up, then hit Play and put the computer back down on the table, where we could both see the screen. Norman Davies’s ratlike face appeared. He looked flushed and nervous, but his squeaky voice was clearly audible as he stated his name and the date of the recording. He went on to confirm that Carrick sent him to his building in Hell’s Kitchen to intimidate Mrs. Mason. Davies held up a key to the building and swore that Carrick had given it to him. He also talked about the wrench. He said it was Carrick’s idea to use it, because he knew from experience that they’re scarier-looking than bats or clubs. The problem was, Davies claimed, the wrench was heavier than he’d expected, never having used one before, and that was why his “warning” blows had hurt the woman much more than he’d intended them to.
Carrick was still on his feet. Veins were bulging in his temples. His fists were clenched and he was leaning in toward me like he was suspended by an invisible rope. He reminded me of a pit bull straining to break its leash. “This is total bullshit! It’s made up. From beginning to end. Davies was paid to say all that stuff. He was just saving his own skin. Where is he? The little asshole. I’ll kill him.”
“His statement’s not made up.” I stayed on the couch. “And I’m going to the cops with the video unless we can reach an understanding. Right here. Right now.”
“Forget it.” Carrick stomped across to the window and gazed out down Fifth Avenue. “The building’s still not for sale. I’m still knocking it down.”
“You’d go to jail, rather than sell it?”
Carrick shrugged. “I’ve been to jail before. It’s no biggie. And I have better lawyers now. I’d never get convicted. Not with what you’ve got.”
“Maybe we can find a way to avoid testing that theory. Let’s talk about the demolition. You’re really going through with that?”
Carrick nodded.
“I don’t understand. Why do you want to? How do you benefit?”
“I don’t want to!” Carrick raised his voice. “The whole thing’s ridiculous. It’s not my idea!”
“So why do it?”
“Because I’ve been told to. Ordered to.”
“By whom?”
“It was Walcott’s fault, the idiot. It was his mistake. But it’s Madatov’s order.”
“Walcott? Madatov? Who are these guys?”
“Walcott’s a finance guy. We do business sometimes. I help him out with development deals. He has cash—or he knows people who have it—but nothing else. I provide the expertise. Madatov—he’s a whole different story.”
“How so?”
“I’d never have gotten dragged in if I’d known Madatov was involved. The guy’s a psycho. And not a Hollywood-style one, who does weird things to a few people because his dad was mean or a talking dog told him to. Madatov’s from Azerbaijan. It’s an old Soviet republic, but he’s been here for years. They’re trying to rival the Russians and the Ukrainians. No one had heard of their country when they arrived, so they built a reputation all on their own. Madatov’s the worst of them. He’ll do anything—and I mean anything—to get what he wants, and to keep his people in line.”
“How did the money guy get involved with him?”
“Walcott worked in Azerbaijan for years. He was tight with the rulers after the USSR collapsed. There were heaps of money, from a ton of oil and gas. The politicians basically stole it all. They needed help to clean it. Hide it. Move it around. And also to spin their ‘elections’ to avoid there being a revolution. The regime finally collapsed last year. Walcott came back to the States and started introducing himself to the Azerbaijanis who were already here. He’s basically trying to carry on like it’s business as usual. Which is asking for trouble.”
“So he screwed something up?”
“Right. Walcott came to me saying he had funding for a development. A major project, up on Central Park South. They’re breaking ground next year. Anyway, as usual, he had the money but needed help making things work. Which I gave. But which I wouldn’t have given if I’d known one cent was coming from Madatov.”
“How did Walcott screw up, if the project’s proceeding? Is it over budget? Massively late?”
“No.” Carrick threw up his hands. “The project’s in perfect shape. The problem was that Walcott got his wires crossed. Madatov apparently just wanted to give some cash a quick rinse. Major developments like the one we’re talking about make huge profits, but that takes years to happen. So that got Madatov mad, and he started dealing out punishments.”
“Your punishment is to demolish your building?”
“Right.”
“Why? Isn’t that a little random?”
“No, actually. It’s all about the view. Madatov has a place nearby. Mine blocks his view of the river.”
“So this Madatov guy wants you to demolish a perfectly good building and throw a bunch of tenants out on the street to improve his view?”
Carrick shrugged. “Look, it’s a pain in everyone’s ass. But from my point of view, really, I got off light. Listen. A year or so ago, Madatov got in a beef with some guy about a painting he bought. It turned out to be a fake. No one was suggesting the guy deliberately ripped him off. It was just one of those misunderstandings. Swiss bankers were involved, Nazis, whatever. Anyway, Madatov did this thing to the guy that’s some kind of ritual from his home country. They take starving rats, a fire…let’s just say it’s not pretty.”
“What about Walcott? What was his penalty?”
“His is easy. He just has to pay a fine. That shouldn’t be hard. The guy’s made a gazillion dollars over the years, or so he claims. Although I guess he can’t actually be that great with money, because he came to me, asking for a loan. Can you believe that? After what he did? I told him, the second word’s off. Pick the first for yourself.”
“Where could I find this Madatov guy? Does he hang out at this place near yours?”
“He does. But you should stay away. First of all, you don’t want to find him. Word has it he caught a guy snooping around a house he owns in Connecticut one time, so he stripped him naked and tied him to a tree near a wasps’ nest and watched while he got stung to death. And second, Madatov’s become super paranoid. No one’s seen him for months.”
“How does he communicate, then?”
“Through his lawyer. A guy named Roberto di Matteo. He’s the only one who’s allowed access anymore. Apart from his security guards—trusted guys from home—and his mistresses. He has two of them. He must come out sometimes, though, even if it’s just to kill people. He’s still racking up the bodies as fast as ever.”
“And where’s Walcott?”
“In hiding somewhere. While he raises the money, I guess. He has an office on Wall Street. His assistant keeps it open and takes messages. I don’t know if he gets them. He and I aren’t exactly speaking.”
“OK. Just one more question before we talk about a solution to your video problem. After Davies got arrested for hurting Mrs. Mason, you fixed the evidence so he’d be released. How did you do that?”
“That wasn’t me.” Carrick sat back on the couch opposite me. He seemed smaller somehow, like some air had been let out of his chest. “I wasn’t expecting the idiot to get arrested. When he did, I panicked. I reached out to Madatov, through his lawyer. The message I got back just said, ‘It’s handled.’ I didn’t know what they were planning.” Carrick paused for a moment. “Honestly, after I reached out, I was worried. I was expecting them to have him killed in the jail.”
“All right, George, so here’s where we are. I see two problems. One’s moral. One’s practical. Morally, you broke the law. You got a woman hurt. And you sent Davies to kill Jonny Evans. You should go to jail. Good lawyers or not.”
Carrick leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “What’s it called? Extenuating circumstances? Think about Madatov. I wouldn’t have done any of those things if it wasn’t for him. And Walcott’s stupid mistake.”
“Maybe. And Davies didn’t kill Evans, so we can let that go. No harm, no foul. And if you went to jail, that would make our practical problem worse. Your tenants. They need a place to live. A decent place.”
“I already promised to rehouse them.”
“I know you did. But you also lied about sending Davies to hurt Mrs. Mason, and then you tried to set up a murder. So call me cynical, but I don’t believe you.”
“You can trust me. I swear. Listen. I’ll get my lawyer to write it up. We’ll make it a legal contract. I’ll guarantee that everyone will be looked after.”
“They can all go together to the same building, if they want?”
“Of course.”
“They can stay in the same neighborhood?”
“If they want to.”
“They’ll pay the same rent as now. And that’ll be frozen.”
“Not frozen. I’ll give them the same terms as rent control. That’s what they have now. Most people in New York would kill for that.”
“OK. But the point is—no monster rent increases. Now, Mrs. Mason. She’ll either need a first-floor apartment or a building with an elevator.”
“No problem.”
“And she’ll need help with her medical bills. There’s a possible new treatment, which might get her out of her wheelchair.”
“No way.” Carrick crossed his arms. “How much would that cost?”
“I don’t know. How much is it worth to stay out jail?”
Carrick stood up, crossed to the window, and bounced on the balls of his feet as he stared out over the city. “All right.” Carrick turned back around. “I’ll help with her bills. Within reason.”
“And if she is permanently in a wheelchair, you’ll pay for her to have a helper.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“What? You’re happy to pay assholes like Davies to hurt people, but not to help them?”
“OK. A helper. If she stays in the chair. But not twenty-four/seven. Only when she needs to go out. To the store, say once a week, or to the doctor.”
“To the doctor whenever necessary. And three trips out every week, wherever she wants to go.”
Carrick rolled his eyes, then nodded.
“Good.” I smiled at him. “Seems like we have a deal, then.”
“Not quite. I need the tape of Davies’s confession, plus all the copies you made.”
“There’s no need. The point is, I’m keeping you out of jail so you can provide for the tenants.”
“I understand that. But humor me. Please.”
“OK. I’ll give you the tapes once the agreement’s signed. Have the papers sent to my hotel. The Brincliffe.”
“Give me a day.”
“No problem. But one thing. At the hotel, have your messenger leave the papers addressed to Paul McKenzie. There was a snafu with my name when I registered, and I’ve been too busy to sort it out.”