Korolev picked the items up. “Do we think it was a rival organization?”
“At this point, I know as much as you do. It’s your job to figure it out.” The Bean Counter hoped it wasn’t another family. That kind of conflict was bad for business. “And make sure you get it right. The last thing we want is to go after the wrong people.”
“I understand.”
“If you need any other resources, let Lauren know.”
Korolev took that for the dismissal it was and headed for the door.
“Leonid,” the Bean Counter said.
Korolev turned back.
“The sooner you have the answer, the better. By tomorrow would be best. The day after at the latest. Beyond that...”
The look in his eyes told Korolev exactly what would happen in that instance.
Korolev called the first number from the list.
“Samuels,” a man answer.
“Officer Samuels, the Greek sends his greetings.”
The sound of muffled movement was followed by Samuels whispering, “This really isn’t a great time.”
“I’ll be sure to let the Greek know that.”
The cop cursed under his breath. “Okay, okay. Give me a second.” It was more like twenty before he came back on and said, “How can I help you?”
“Email me everything the police have on the car bombing from last night.” He recited the throwaway address he’d created for this purpose.
“I, um—”
“You’re not going to tell me you can’t do it, are you?”
“No. No. I–I’ll get it. I just need a little time.”
“You have one hour. If I do not receive it by then, I’ll assume you are refusing to cooperate.”
“Hey. There’s no reason to—”
Korolev hung up.
Forty minutes later, Samuel’s email arrived, with an up-to-the-moment police report on the incident attached. Unfortunately, the police did not have much about the bombing so far.
The IDs of the victims — there were two — were still pending DNA tests. Trench’s name was listed, along with that of Thomas Bozeman, the owner of the car.
Bozeman worked at the gym that Trench used, so that’s where Korolev headed.
One of the first things he learned when he arrived was that Bozeman, who apparently went by Bozo, was the second gym manager to die that month. Both due to unnatural circumstances.
He also found out a trainer named Reggie Hogan had done a job for Trench and Bozo only an hour or so before the bomb went off. Hogan knew little, though, and was more hung up on the fact that he hadn’t been paid for the work. He did reveal that there was a woman on the job with him, who had played a larger role. For a hundred bucks, the man gave him the woman’s name and the location where she could be found.
Candy Parker started work at the diner at four pm. Korolev arrived at 4:15 and took a seat at the counter.
After she poured him a cup of coffee, he said, “You’re Candy Parker, correct?”
“I am. Do we know each other?”
“We have a mutual acquaintance. Trench Molder.”
“Trench? That’s Bozo’s friend, right? I’ve seen him but never met him.”
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but they were both killed last night?”
“What? Oh, my God!”
The outburst drew the attention of one of the other waitresses. “Candy? Everything all right?”
“Watch the counter,” Candy said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’ll be right back.” Without waiting for a response, she disappeared through a rear door.
Korolev followed and found her in the alley behind the restaurant, sitting on her heels, her back against the wall.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it’s shocking.”
It took a moment before she looked up at him. “How?”
“Someone blew up the car they were in.”
She put a hand over her mouth. “I went into the gym this morning to see Bozo, but was told he hadn’t arrived yet. I just saw him last night.”
“Near Patroon.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I talked to Reggie. He told me why you were there. He said you might know the names of the people Trench and Bozo were interested in.”
She shook her head. “No one told me their names. Bozo just gave me a description of the man he wanted me to watch. He called him ‘the attorney.’ ”
“Can you give me his description?” That would be better than nothing.
“Are you a detective?”
“Trench was related to a... friend. I’m helping find out what happened.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“The description?”
“Of the man? Or do you want descriptions of the women who were with him, too?”
“All of them, please.”
When Korolev arrived at his apartment that evening, a list of green Bentley owners in the city was waiting for him. This was courtesy of a woman who worked at the Department of Motor Vehicles, another “friend” of the family.
The list wasn’t long and included driver’s license photos of as many of the owners as possible. Korolev initially had high hopes of finding a match to one of Candy’s descriptions among them, but it was not to be. Most of the vehicles were owned by corporations, and none of the private owners resembled the people Candy had seen.
Korolev called the Bean Counter’s office.
“Hello, Leon,” Lauren answered. “What can I do for you?”
She was the only one in the organization that called him by his childhood nickname, something he usually hated, but not when she did it. “How is my favorite executive assistant?”
“Tired. Hungry. Dying for a drink. But I assume that’s not why you called.”
“It could be,” he teased.
“Leon, you know I don’t like it when you tease me like that,” she said, clearly liking it. “What can I do for you?”
He told her what he needed.
“That should be possible,” she said. “Can you hold, and I’ll check?”
“For you, anything.”
“If only that were true.”
It was more than three minutes before she came back on the line and said, “I’m told you will have the information by ten am tomorrow, latest.”
“Come on, Lauren. You know my deadline. You can’t do better than that?”
“If I could, I would. But what I believe you wanted to say was ‘Thank you, Lauren. I appreciate your help.’ ”
“Thank you, Lauren. I appreciate your help.”
“As you should. But if you really want to thank me, you can buy me a drink.”
“I would love to show my gratitude by buying you a drink.”
“What a lovely idea. Meet me in an hour. Nubeluz at the Ritz. I assume you know it.”
“I know it.”
“Don’t be late.”
Chapter 29
Earlier that day, Joan walked into Stone’s office. “It’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“Your follow-up doctor appointment.”
“Follow-up for what?”
She picked the blackjack up off his desk and mimed hitting herself in the back of the head with it. “Ring any bells.”
“If memory serves, it rang a lot of bells,” he said. “I don’t need to go to the doctor. I feel fine.”
“And we want you to stay that way, don’t we? Now, come on.” She moved around his desk and shooed at him until he got up. “Fred’s waiting for you in the garage.”
“I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?”
“What do you think?”
“Fine. I’m going. I’m going.”
A few minutes later, he was riding in the back of the Bentley.
“Fred, we haven’t picked up any new friends, have we?”