Ted left Lester watching golf with the two Afghans and went back outside to make his next call. He was ready.
“Detective Duran, please. And, no, I don’t want to speak to his partner.”
Duran picked up a minute later. Ted’s luck had changed.
“I’ve got nothing to add,” Duran said. “Detective Kasabian filled me in on your earlier call.”
“Your partner is an obstructionist.”
“Don’t throw four-syllable words at me, Molloy. I went to public school.”
“There’s a case here. A good case. Let me help you break it.”
“We’ve been warned off.” Duran sounded a touch less absolute about it than his partner. “What does Nassau County have to say?”
“You know, I haven’t talked to them.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
“They think this is a carjacking,” Ted said in exasperation.
“And maybe they’re right.”
“They’re not. If you give me five minutes, I’ll show you why.”
Duran paused before answering. Despite his reservations, he was intrigued. “What have you got?”
“Meet with me.”
“I’m a busy guy.” Now he sounded bored. Was he losing interest or playing hard to get?
Ted laid down his sole trump card. “I have a video. All the players are in it. You’ll see. Come to the place we first met. See what I’ve got, and you decide if it’s worth anything.”
“I’ve been instructed to focus my efforts elsewhere.”
Ted held back his frustration and forged ahead. Formality would have to pass for forbearance. “I have information relevant to your ongoing investigation into the death of Richard Rubiano.”
“We no longer believe the cases are related.”
Ted couldn’t get a read on Duran. Was this truth or was this more obstruction coming down the chain of command? “Give me five minutes, and I’ll prove you wrong.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“Can you afford to ignore me?”
“You are becoming a pain in the ass. My partner isn’t going to buy into this; I’ll tell you that.”
“Don’t bring him,” Ted shot back. “I can be there in twenty minutes. In half an hour, you’re rid of me, or you’re a hero. Come on, take a chance.”
Nurses and firemen were two deep at the bar at Gallagher’s, spilling into all the booths on that side of the room. Ted waggled two fingers at Lili, and she passed him a pair of Brooklyn IPAs while simultaneously pouring shots of Jameson for a cluster of off-duty firemen. Ted retreated to his usual booth, only to find it occupied by four nurses drinking martinis. They were engaged in a heated debate on the relative merits of Girls versus Broad City. Seeing Ted hovering near the table, one of the women tried, flirtatiously, to elicit his opinion but lost interest when he admitted that he had never seen either show. Ted moved on.
An apparently empty booth nearer the door beckoned. Ted plunked himself down, glad for the packed house and the noise. Despite the attack at the courthouse, he felt safer in a crowd. And the alcohol-induced hilarity would drown out his conversation with the detective.
But the moment he settled in, resident barfly Paulie McGirk sat up, rising like a drunken Lazarus from the bench on the other side of the booth. He grinned sleepily at Ted.
“’S that beer for me?”
“No,” Ted said. There wasn’t another free booth available, or he would have moved.
“I thought you’d say that,” Paulie whined.
“Tell you what,” Ted offered. “I’ll buy you a beer if you let me have this booth.”
Paulie did not have to weigh the decision for very long. “That’s a good deal,” he said.
Ted waved at Lili and, when he got her eye, pointed one finger at Paulie. “Lili’s got your beer.”
“You’re a good man, Johnny. I’ll remember your generosity.” The last word was squeezed into three syllables and ended with a small spray of spittle.
Ted seriously doubted he would.
He could see only part of the street from this vantage point, so he kept his attention split between the door and the view. He didn’t have to wait long. Detective Duran came through the door alone, as promised. Ted let him scan the room before raising one of the IPAs in welcome. Duran eased his way through the melee, squinting against the onslaught of a particularly loud peal of high-pitched female laughter.
“How’s your friend?” he said, once settled across from Ted.
“Still in the induced coma. They’re focusing on bringing the swelling down. Who pulled the guards?”
“Very high up. That’s all I was told.”
“Who could do that?”
“Nobody in the department made that call. This came from outside. Someone with connections.”
A councilman? A major real estate developer? Or a retired judge? Ted felt his anger rising up again.
“I seriously doubt I can help you,” Duran was saying. “But show me what you’ve got.”
Ted stuffed his anger beneath the surface. It could wait. He handed the phone to the detective. “Watch.”
Duran played the video through three times before raising his eyes to Ted. “You know all these people?”
“No. I know who they are, though. Some of them. There’s Cheryl, of course. Pak I’ve seen before. I’m told that’s Reisner’s kid. It would be easy enough to get verification.”
“Too bad you couldn’t get the father on tape,” the detective said. “The head of the biggest real estate development firm in the city would be a nice addition.”
“I’m told the son only speaks when his father okays it in advance.”
Duran was nodding impatiently. “Do you have facial recognition on this phone?”
“Why would I?” Ted asked.
“My daughter’s sixteen. I use it every time I meet one of her boyfriends.” He tapped the keys on Ted’s phone, forwarding the video to his own. When he heard the incoming chirp, he opened an app and let the phone search for matching faces. A minute or two he later he grinned and handed Ted the phone. “Is this your guy?”
It was a younger and thinner version of the fat man from the restaurant. He still had hair, but it was thinning. He had already developed the same pose of smug arrogance. The picture was followed by paragraphs of miniscule type.
“That’s him,” Ted said, straining and failing to read the copy.
“This is why I’m here, isn’t it?” Duran asked. He swiped the screen again and began to read.
“I don’t know who he is, but I’d bet an arm that he made the call that resulted in my friend lying in a coma.”
“It says here your man is a banker.”
“Says where?”
“Euromoney. From”—Duran scrolled down the story—“six years ago. It’s an article on sons of Russian oligarchs. His name is Sokol Orlov. Born in Moscow. Studied at Cambridge. London School of Economics.” He looked up. “I read someplace Mick Jagger went there.” He continued reading. “Three years at Blandon, whatever that is.”
“Private bank,” Ted said. “Olde with an e. The joke goes they lent the Dutch the beads to buy Manhattan. What else does Euromoney have to say?”
“Sokol eventually saw the light and went to work for his father. Diversification. Special projects. But he stayed in New York to oversee their ‘growing real estate portfolio.’”
“Where does the money come from?”
Duran quickly scanned the rest of the short article. “Says here the old man is the largest manufacturer of ‘edible chemicals in Russia.’ Preservatives, flavorings, colorings. He’s the flavor-crystal king.”
“Mesquite-flavored barbecue potato chips?” Ted asked.
“Stoli Razberi.”
“Anything else there?” Ted gestured toward the phone.
“That’s it. Sokol is younger than he looks, by the way. A lot. He’s forty-one.”
“Evil adds years.”
“That’s what I tell them after I’m done reading them their rights,” Duran said.
“So the reporter doesn’t mention that this guy is guilty of extortion, loan-sharking, money laundering, murder for hire, and general mayhem?”
“Puff piece.”
“So, was the trip worth five minutes of your time? Can you do anything with that video?”
Duran sighed. “Mr. Molloy, I would love to run with this. The very thought of linking a corrupt city councilman with a Russian money-laundering scheme makes me rock hard. Never mind the fact that the widow of a recent murder victim is enjoying their company. But without some corroboration from an actual witness, I have nowhere to go with this. The LT will toss me out of her office.”
“I was there. I watched Kenzie make that video.”
“You are a person of interest in the Rubiano case.”
“I’ve been downgraded? Kasabian said I was still a suspect.”
Duran’s face closed up. “We are examining another theory that may or may not preclude your involvement.”
Ted let it go. The cases were one, he was sure. He and Lester didn’t have all the connections, but they were close. “Tell me what you need. I’ll find some way to make it happen.” Ted tried to sound confident.
Duran softened a tad. “Give me someone who will talk to me. A witness.”
Ted ran through a mental checklist. Cheryl wouldn’t talk to the cops unless he could prove without a doubt that she was complicit and facing hard time—and maybe not even then. Jackie was protected by client confidentiality. Then he hit on it. There was one possible witness—she was also a victim.
“I’ve got someone,” Ted said. “The old lady. Barbara Miller. She’ll talk to you.”
“That’s a hard sell. Didn’t you tell me she’s got Alzheimer’s?”
“Dementia, at any rate,” Ted admitted. “But you catch her at the right moment, and she’s as sharp as either of us.”
“If she isn’t crystal clear on the main points, I won’t talk to her. I can’t afford to make a mistake.”
Ted didn’t like it, but he understood. “I’ll see her tomorrow and let you know.”
“Heeeere’s Johnny!” Paulie McGirk was back, swaying to a slow rhythm distinctly out of pace with the Allman Brother’s “Whipping Post,” which was blaring from the jukebox. He stood at the end of the table, his face scrunched in concentration. “Did I forget to tell you something?”
“I’m in a meeting, Paulie,” Ted said. “Let’s chat some other time.”
“Did those two guys find you, then?” Paulie asked.
“What two guys?” Ted asked, though he had a strong feeling he already knew.
“I don’t know,” Paulie said, unhappy to disappoint, so unable to maintain eye contact. “They didn’t leave a card. They came in today, asked if you’d been in, then they left.”
Duran was following this conversation intently. “Describe them,” he said.
“Who’s this?” Paulie asked in an exaggerated stage whisper.
Ted thought that identifying Duran as an NYPD detective would make Paulie clam up and disappear. As much as Ted wanted to get rid of the brain-addled bar sponge, he wanted to hear about these two guys. “He’s a new friend, Paulie. Very interested in keeping me safe.”
“Then he should keep you away from those two guys,” Paulie said.
“What did they look like?” Ted asked.
Paulie stood, mouth agape, for long seconds. Direct questions on matters of fact often sent him into this kind of trance.
Ted tried another approach. “They were tough guys? Scary?”
“I wasn’t scared.”
Whether this was drunkard’s bravado or alcoholic depression, it was probably true.
Ted tried softening his approach. “I meant they were scary dudes. Most people would be scared of them.”
“Without a doubt,” Paulie agreed. “They had shark eyes. Know what I mean? Like they would have been happy to kill you, but maybe later when they weren’t so busy.”
Ted knew exactly what he meant.
Duran tried again to get a less subjective description. “Was one of them taller than the other? Fatter? Thinner? Both the same?”
“One of ’em had a shaved head and a face like a boxer.” Paulie flattened his nose with his index finger so it resembled the nose of a fighter who’d taken too many punches to the face. “And they had funny accents.”
Paulie lived in a part of the world where even the minority who grew up speaking American did so with an easily identified and often ridiculed accent. Ted let himself smile. Just a touch.
“Anything else you can add?” Duran asked.
“That’s the story.”
“Thanks, Paulie,” Ted said. “I’m going to tell Lili to put one—and one only—beer a day for you on my tab all this week.”
“Thanks, Johnny. You’re all white.”
Ted chose to have misheard. “And you’re all right, too, Paulie. Let me know if they come around again. Don’t talk to them if you can help it, but if they ask, you haven’t seen me.”
“You can depend on me, Johnny.” Yawing erratically, Paulie shuffled toward the bar.
Duran snorted a laugh. “You do travel in elite circles. First Nicky Greco and now Popov and Jackoff, the Russian tag team.”
“So?” Ted said, facing Duran. “Can we agree that there are evil forces out there meaning to do me and my friends some serious harm?” He was being hunted. His apartment had been torn to shreds; two people hospitalized, one in a coma. Bribery, fraud, assault, and worse. What more did Duran need?
“Get me that witness,” Duran said.