Malkin waited patiently in the Entertainment Resources lobby across from the beautiful receptionist with those Eastern European cheekbones and warm lips. He tried not to stare while focusing on his story. The FBI didn’t understand Zelman like Malkin did. The guy was a paranoid nutjob.
The receptionist looked over at Malkin with kind eyes. Even though she was about the same age as him, she was so far out of Malkin’s league that her expression was more like a mother ogling a newborn.
“He shouldn’t be much longer,” she said.
Malkin steered his thoughts toward the farm up in Wyoming. Just open fields and plants and animals. His wife and daughter. The smell of burning wood and a rising moon. It was right there within his reach, he could practically feel it. He would need a new name, though, so he considered some American names that might work. Maybe John or Mark. That would be such a normal name. So uninteresting. Who would investigate a John from Wyoming?
Malkin played with the tiny camera in between his index finger and thumb, careful not to touch the adhesive backing on the button-sized device. The door opened and Ropa gestured for Malkin. The big, hulking man moved just enough for Malkin to squeeze between him and the doorjamb.
Malkin’s fingers began to twitch and his breaths were too shallow. He needed to make the adjustment and focus. He ran it through his mind—he was there to protect Mr. Zelman from the FBI. Pashkov was a traitor and he could prove it. But Zelman would have questions. Why did Malkin need a face-to-face just to snitch? Didn’t that seem suspicious? Why not just call?
Malkin’s brain swirled with dreadful thoughts, and he needed to gain some composure. Music filtered out into the hallway. A bouncy guitar sound. Very American.
When Malkin entered the office, Zelman was ruffling through some papers while standing behind his desk.
“Hello,” Zelman said with nothing in his voice.
Malkin was instructed to gaze around the room and comment on its massive size and awards displayed. He looked around and said, “Very nice, Mr. Z,” then went over to the framed poster on the wall directly across from Zelman’s desk. It was a superhero from his homeland, Captain Chechnya. Al Mancini had told the FBI exactly where it was located.
“This brings me back home,” Malkin said, touching the frame, and pressing the button-sized camera with adhesive back on the bottom right corner of the poster, just as instructed.
“Sit down,” Zelman said in a flat tone.
Malkin removed his thumb, grateful the camera did not adhere to his finger, or fall to the floor. Either one would have expedited his death.
He took his seat across from Zelman while Ropa stood behind him, hands clasped in front of his body.
“So,” Zelman said, “do you like this song?”
Malkin wondered how that was even mildly relevant to his visit. The singer was rhyming the word portrayal with betrayal and the bassline was very catchy. “Yes, who is this?”
“It’s the Doorknobs. My son, Jerry’s, band. He writes all the music for the group and plays guitar as well.”
“He is very talented.”
Zelman sat down, touched his laptop keyboard and the music stopped. It left a terrifying void in the room. Zelman’s leather chair seemed deliberately higher than Malkin’s, sitting there behind his oversized desk, a wall of glass behind him overlooking downtown Phoenix.
Zelman sat back and crossed his legs. “You found a mole in our team, eh?”
Malkin’s throat tightened. He managed to nod.
“You have a daughter, yes?”
Another nod.
Zelman sighed, swiveling his chair around to look over the city. Malkin didn’t like the body language he was receiving. It was going in a bad direction and Malkin sensed the worst.
“I have proof,” Malkin said, hoping to change the mood.
“How old is your daughter?”
“It is right here,” Malkin pleaded, pulling out the flash drive. “I can show you Pashkov meeting with the FBI.”
Zelman glared at Malkin, his face now severe. “Stand up,” he ordered.
* * *
Stevie sat behind the desk and pounded his keyboard furiously while Nick, Matt, and Thiel all stared at the giant monitor, just a wall of blue.
“What’s the hold up?” Matt asked.
“I don’t know,” Stevie said, staring at the screen. “Maybe their meeting was delayed?”
Nick went over to the window and shut the blinds, even though they were already shut. It was five minutes after four. Not only was the operation five minutes late, but it was only fifty-five minutes before Al Mancini’s meeting with Zelman. That gave Malkin very little time to bring the flash drive back to the office.
Nick passed a shelf full of photos. “You have the two?” Nick asked Thiel.
The SAC walked over and pointed to the girl, maybe eight, running in her bathing suit through a lawn sprinkler. “That’s Gina. She’s a swimmer. Loves the water.” Then he pointed to a boy, a little older, holding a baseball bat over his shoulder, a staged photo for all youth sports leagues. “That’s Robby. He’s my little leaguer. Wants to play in the MLB one day.”
“What position?”
“He wants to pitch.”
Nick grinned. “So does Thomas. I want him to hit though. Save the arm for when he’s older.”
“Sometimes, you just have to support them, no matter the choice.”
“Isn’t that the truth?”
Thiel glanced at the blue screen, then back to Nick. “Listen, I didn’t—”
“Don’t,” Nick said. “I’m thinking with my heart more than my brain lately.”
Thiel seemed to appreciate the gesture.
“Got it,” Stevie announced.
The blue screen converted to the digital image of Khasi Zelman’s office. A portion of the screen was blocked by the back of someone’s body. A large body.
“That’s Ropa,” Nick said. “The bodyguard.”
Zelman was sitting behind his desk with his back to the room, looking out at the Phoenix skyline. Malkin was sitting upright, his hands gripping the arms of the chair.
“Turn it up,” Nick said. “I can’t hear anything.”
“There’s no audio,” Stevie said. “We had a technical issue and I didn’t have time to fix it.”
“Great,” Matt muttered.
It was like watching a muted TV show, but you could see what was happening without ever hearing a word. Body language. Facial expressions.
“Do you have a lip-reader in office?” Nick asked.
Thiel pushed a button on his desk phone and directed someone named Karen to come to his office.
Matt took out a piece of gum, put it in his mouth and began to chew. “Give him the flash drive,” Matt urged, as if Malkin could hear him.
Zelman turned his chair back toward the camera. His expression was somber as he began speaking without moving anything but his mouth. Ropa moved out of the frame and gave everyone a clear view of Zelman leaning over his desk, talking with a purpose.
Theil’s door opened and a petite black woman rushed into the room. Thiel pointed to the muted screen and she zoomed in on Zelman’s face since it was the only pair of lips visible.
“Tell us, Karen,” Thiel instructed. “What’s he saying?”
“I am not an . . . idiot,” Karen blurted out, sounding like she had a South American accent. Maybe Brazilian. “I know what you did . . . Malden.”
Malkin was pleading his case, holding out the flash drive to Zelman who didn’t appear interested.
Nick glanced at the wall clock. Fifty-two minutes before Mancini showed up. “C’mon,” Nick said. “Take the flash drive.”
“It does not matter,” Karen spoke. “We know you melt with the FBI.”
A roomful of people quietly gasped at the revelation that Malkin was somehow outed.
“How?” Nick asked, looking at his partner and getting a half-shrug.
They watched Zelman pull himself out of the chair and move out of the screen.
Matt said, “Stevie?”
“I’m working on it,” Stevie said.
The camera moved to the left so they could see Zelman slowly reach down and bring up something from behind the desk. A baseball bat.
“Oh, no,” Thiel said.
Zelman moved around the desk, the bat down by his side.
“I want the truth,” Karen said, reading his lips. “You will get one chance.”
Zelman leaned back onto the front of his desk, looming over Malkin like a sadistic prosecutor.
Malkin was talking, but had his back to the team. He seemed to be imploring Zelman to take the flash drive, but wasn’t getting the result he wanted.
Zelman laid the bat over his shoulder, like a ballplayer waiting his turn to hit.
Malkin was explaining things and Zelman let him talk, giving everyone in the room hope. He seemed to agree with what he was hearing, but Nick could tell the guy was considering his next move. He’d seen that expression before and it was playing out like a horror film right in front of him.
“He needs to get out of there,” Thiel said. “We need to get him out of there.”
Nick rubbed a hand over his face. He’d gone too far this time. Was he doing it for Angela? For Sal? For him?
“It’s too late,” Matt stated the obvious.
Zelman cocked his head and swung the bat, connecting with Malkin’s arms which were covering his face trying to protect himself. The swings kept coming, from the left, from the right, like a switch hitter. Malkin was hunched low now, curled up on the floor, attempting to save his life.
“Fuck!” Nick shouted.
Zelman took a breath, standing over his victim. The flash drive a distant memory.
“I’m not done with you,” Karen said, still doing her job.
The swinging continued while the room filled with groans from what they were watching. Malkin’s arms could only protect his head, but Zelman kept attacking his torso like a punching bag, slamming his legs and arms, sideways, then over the top. A lumberjack splitting wood.
Malkin was below their line of sight, so Stevie adjusted the camera to see Malkin lying motionless on the floor of Zelman’s office.
Zelman took another vicious swing at Malkin’s lifeless body and it jerked awkwardly like a stuffed animal.
Thiel didn’t look at Nick. He didn’t need to. Even a glance would be more punishment than he could endure. Everyone knew whose plan this was and who was responsible for the consequences they were watching.
“Put him in the closet,” Karen said. “Make sure he cannot moon . . . or make a sound.”
Ropa pulled Malkin by his feet and dragged his body out of view.
Nick placed a hand on his chest, his heart pounding like a jackhammer. There were two people who needed to pay for their actions. Pashkov and Zelman. And now it seemed neither was going to receive the correct dosage of justice Nick wanted to inject.
He wandered over to Stevie’s desk and said, “Can you record what just happened?”
“It wouldn’t matter,” Thiel said, over Nick’s shoulder. “This is all inadmissible.”
Nick knew that, and so did Stevie, so he didn’t answer the question.
“And you can’t break into his computer, correct?” Nick asked Stevie.
Stevie gave Nick an empathetic look. “Nick, I would have a zero percent chance of getting in without an IP address. Mac address. Something.”
“So we move to wire fraud,” Matt said, joining the group around Stevie. “Accessory to murder. Accessory to—”
“Stop,” Nick said. “His lawyers will have him back on the street within hours.”
“Well, he’s not exactly going to admit to ordering the murders of the Perrino family. And that’s the only thing that could keep him inside for any length of time.”
“He owns a private airline,” Thiel added. “He has a hangar at Sky Harbor. He’d be considered a flight risk.”
“Everything you’re saying is true,” Nick said. “But none of it matters if he gets charged with anything less than murder.”
“We’ve got Chechens who might plead down,” Thiel said. “If they point to Zelman as a contract killer, it’ll still be premeditated. It’s homicide. He’ll never get out with that charge.”
Nick was hearing all the logical strategies that he should’ve employed in the first place if he were thinking straight. But he wasn’t. And he knew if they headed down this path of legal challenges, Angela would sic her crew on Zelman and Nick would be forced to uphold the law. Besides, was it really Angela or was it Nick himself who couldn’t wait for the wheels of justice to turn?
Nick looked up at Thiel, who waited for him to make a decision. “I don’t care,” Nick said. “Do what you want.”
“What I want is to put Zelman behind bars. I’m getting the feeling that’s not the same thing you want.”
Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “What I want is to drive over there and put a bullet into Zelman’s head, then turn myself in and spend the rest of my life in prison.”
The room was eerily quiet. No one knew what to say.
Thiel looked down at a text on his phone. “One of the Chechens is ready to turn on Zelman. That’s enough to get a warrant right there.”
“I’ve already been putting it together,” Stevie said. “Take me ten minutes to finish.”
“Have them send it to Judge Mitchell’s office,” Thiel said. “He’ll get it done within an hour.”
Stevie look up at Nick, waiting for his reaction.
Nick half-shrugged.
“Will do,” Stevie said.
Thiel pulled back on his full head of white hair and stared at the inside of Zelman’s office. “Let’s hope he’ll still be there in an hour.”
“He will be,” Nick said.
Thiel walked over to Nick. “Please, trust the process.”
“Yeah,” Nick said. “It’s not the process that I don’t trust.”
“All right, then trust me.”
Nick stared at him, thoughts swirling through his mind like a tornado. There was a tug on his arm as Matt pulled him toward the door.
“What’s the matter?” Nick asked.
Matt opened the door, then pushed Nick through the doorway and said, “We’ll be right back.”