“The Boston is popular with a lot of influential people,” Dinara said. “How do you know she was the target?”
Yenen’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
“I’m going to have to consult with my superior,” Dinara told him. “We have a—”
The billionaire cut her off dismissively. “You are going to take the investigation. Your business is failing because you are owned by an American. Solve this case and my patronage will change things for you.”
“I need to know—” Dinara began.
Yenen interrupted her again. “I’ve told you everything you’re going to get.”
This was a man who was used to being obeyed, and his high-handedness rankled.
“What about terms?” she asked.
“Call my lawyer,” Yenen replied, handing her a card. “Talk to him about the details. You will find another number on the back.”
Dinara turned the card over to find some hand-scrawled digits.
“That is how you reach me. You, and nobody else.”
Yenen studied Dinara for a moment, before starting toward the parking lot. “Move, Dinara Orlova. You are wasting precious time.” He called to his men. “Hey!”
The guards broke off their conversation with Leonid and hurried to join their boss.
“So?” Leonid asked as he sauntered over.
“One of the richest men in Russia just hired us to investigate the murder of an office worker,” Dinara replied. “How does he even know her?”
“Where did she die?”
“Last night at the Boston Grill,” Dinara said.
Leonid whistled as they watched Yenen and his bodyguards walk down to the three SUVs. “Noisy death,” he observed. “The mark of someone who is confident they won’t be caught, or who isn’t worried about the consequences if they are.”
Dinara nodded. “And how does he know Yana was the target? The police haven’t even confirmed the cause of the explosion, let alone identified a motive, if there is one.”
Yenen and his men climbed into the three vehicles.
“Maybe we should have asked for a ride,” Leonid said, looking around the deserted park.
“A little walk won’t hurt,” Dinara replied as she started toward the path.
Leonid grunted disapprovingly and joined her. “So are we taking the case?”
“You got anything better to do?” Dinara asked. She watched Yenen’s convoy drive out of the park and speed into the distance. “Come on,” she said, picking up the pace.
Chapter 17
Watching the surveillance footage was difficult. Up on that podium, I’d been totally oblivious to my surroundings, and had been so focused on Karl Parker that I hadn’t been alert to the danger right in front of me.
I was in the security control room of the New York Stock Exchange with Seymour “Sci” Kloppenberg, the head of Private Los Angeles’ science and forensic lab, and Ben Katz, the Exchange’s head of security. They were standing next to Maureen “Mo-bot” Roth, Private’s top computer genius, and next to them was Justine Smith, our brilliant forensic profiler, who for a while had been the woman I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with. But a combination of work, my own stupidity and a failure to communicate meant our relationship hadn’t been as straightforward as either of us would have liked. The last time we’d spoken on a personal level, she’d made it clear she wanted nothing more from me than professional contact, and I suspected even that would end if someone came along with the right job offer.
She was beautiful and intelligent and even though I couldn’t find comfort in her arms, I was grateful to have her with me. After everything we’d been through, the familiarity of her presence was reassuring. We watched eight screens that were broad-casting simultaneous footage shot by different cameras around the Exchange.
“He might as well have been waving a red flag,” Mo-bot remarked, pointing at the monitor which showed the assassin moments before Karl walked to the front of the podium.
Why didn’t you turn your head? I asked my past self.
Mo-bot was right. The assassin had come into the Exchange late and had walked around looking for a vantage point. He’d been one of only three guards in the huge chamber, but unlike the other two who stood near exits, this man had placed himself among the traders. He’d kept glancing at the genuine guards and had shone a fake smile at anyone who caught his eye. If I’d seen him, I was certain I would have sensed he was a threat.
“I’m sorry,” Mo-bot said after seeing my face drop. “I didn’t mean... It’s a lot easier to see things after the fact. Especially when you’ve got a close-up of the guy.”
“Any idea how he got into the building?” Sci asked Ben Katz.
Katz was a short, thin man who reminded me of a math teacher I’d once had. Dedicated and diligent by reputation, the security breach obviously pained him.
“Someone added false credentials to our system,” Katz replied. “We’re working on trying to find out how.”
“Why wasn’t he challenged by anyone?” I asked.
Katz gave a resigned shake of his head. “I don’t have a good answer for that. We’re going to be conducting a major review of our procedures after this.”
“Should I continue?” the Exchange’s security technician asked.
He’d paused the footage moments before Karl was shot. Katz sought guidance from me and my team.
“I need to see what happened,” Sci replied. “Sorry, boss,” he said to me.
I had no desire to see my friend die again, but I knew we had to watch it. I stood frozen as the horrific event was replayed in sharp detail, and felt suddenly overwhelmed. I needed to get out of that room and away from those screens which were showing me images I knew I’d never be able to forget.
“I’ve seen enough,” I said to the group. “I’ll meet you outside when you’re done.”
Justine gave me a sympathetic look as I left the room, and I nodded my appreciation.
I waited for them on Broad Street, and went over the events of the previous day. If I’d been a little faster, a little stronger, the shooter might have been in custody. But I couldn’t undo the past. All I could do was use it to beat myself up.
It was another freezing day and the fresh snow being dumped by the black clouds was keeping the Saturday morning streets quiet. A few tourists braved the weather and snapped photos of the Exchange and the other grand old buildings around it. There were still a couple of news trucks on Wall Street, but no other sign that a good man had been murdered here the previous morning.
“You did what you could,” Justine said when she joined me. She placed a reassuring hand on my back. “It looks like a professional hit.”
“You buying this Ninety-nine story?” Mo-bot asked as she and Sci approached.
The media was running with the sensational idea that America’s wealthiest were now under threat from a radical political group, and armchair pundits were chewing over my friend’s murder, filling the airwaves with dangerous chatter and speculation.
“I think it stinks,” Sci remarked, zipping up his vintage biker jacket so it covered his chin. “That wasn’t some zealous idealist. That was a soldier.”
I nodded. “I’m not buying it either. Sci, I want you to stay here. Run your own analysis on the scene. The shooter might have touched something or had contact with someone on his way in. See if you can track his arrival. Find out how he got here.”
Letitia Jones, the Parkers’ lawyer, had arranged for us to be accorded every professional courtesy by the Exchange. Any help they could offer to bring the killer to justice would play well in the media, and I had no doubt the executives were terrified by the prospect of being hit with a wrongful death and negligence lawsuit by the Parker family.