“Eighteen years. He’s like a brother to me.”
Karpankov’s tone — more than his earlier words — explained that this would be a hard story to tell.
He turned and poured some Stolichnaya into a glass. He offered it to her. She shook her head. He tossed down the whole glass then began the story. “Reardon picked Carole up in a bar. Took her back to an apartment his company keeps for clients. The Norwalk Fund. Somewhere on the East Side, in the Fifties. He seduced her, though it was really rape. He drugged her. He took pictures of her. Disgusting pictures. He tied her down on an iron coffee table. He used these tight knots he knows because he sails boats. It was like a game with him. She couldn’t move. Then he beat her with a riding crop.” His voice choked. “The pain was terrible... the pain.”
After another shot of vodka and a dozen slow breaths: “Then he and another man, they took turns... well, you understand. That was filmed too. Her face was visible, not theirs. Reardon threatened to put the videos out on the Internet. My God, Carole was in college, she taught at Sunday school! That would destroy her life.”
Gabriela took this information in with a faint nod. Her heart-shaped face revealed no reaction. To her these were just facts. Though she knew and liked Henry, she felt no personal interest in the matter whatsoever.
The ease of making this separation was part of her gift.
If gift it was.
Karpankov continued, “Reardon used the pictures to force Henry to divulge information about my operation. Computer files, passwords. Reardon and his associates broke into our system and stole nearly four hundred thousand dollars before we shut down the servers. Henry tried to kill himself. He took pills. I went to the hospital and he confessed what had happened.” After a pause. “I forgave him.”
“Carole?”
“What can I say? She’ll never be the same.”
Gabriela nodded.
On his large desk were papers and files and printouts and a large collection of model cars. Expensive ones. Metal. You could open the doors and hoods and look inside. They were really quite some works of art. Aside from the phonograph records the Professor had given her, Gabriela didn’t collect anything. There were no trophies in the upstate house; she hunted for the meat. And weapons? They were simply tools of the trade, to be discarded or swapped if a more efficient one came along.
“So. Reardon? He’s after your company?”
Karpankov Transportation didn’t transport much except laundered money, weapons and prostitutes — though, despite such limited specialties, it made a great deal of money.
“I think what happened with Carole was opportunistic. Reardon struck up a conversation with her, learned her father worked for a profitable company and he took advantage of that.”
“He and this other man? It’s just the two of them?”
“No, there are three who work together. One is Andrew. There’s an enforcer too, first name Sam.” Karpankov added solemnly, “I think Sam was the second man with Carole.”
“That’s their modus operandi? Finding innocents and exploiting them?”
Karpankov laughed. “ ‘Modus operandi.’ You studied Latin, I remember. Your father told me that. He was very proud of his schoolgirl.”
Her father had gone to the police academy right out of high school, but he appreciated education and had indeed been proud that his only child had graduated with honors from Fordham. He himself had taken continuing education courses, specializing in history, and would spend hours talking about New York’s past with Gabriela and her mother. They’d good-naturedly dubbed him “the Professor,” and the nickname had stuck.
“It’s one of his MOs,” Karpankov now said. His voice trembled; the sentiment of a moment ago was gone. “They come up with a lot of different schemes — extortion, blackmail, kidnapping, outright murder. Sometimes they masquerade as business consultants or insurance experts. They get close to executives, find inside information, learn their weaknesses.”
“Businessmen, insurance?” Gabriela mused. She found this an interesting strategy. She filed the fact away for her plans, which were already forming. “So you want Reardon dead, you want me to find out who Andrew and Sam are. And them dead too. And your money back?”
“That’s right.” Karpankov pulled a model car closer to him. She thought it was a Jaguar. She didn’t know much about autos. In the Adirondacks she kept a 1,000-cc Honda motorcycle.
The mob boss continued, “I don’t care about the money but—”
“Respect.”
“Exactly. Respect and revenge. You see what I mean by complicated?”
It was, yes.
But Gabriela lived for complications. She straightened her jacket, small white and black checks, houndstooth. And smoothed her skirt, which was gray as the Hudson’s unsettled water this morning. From her orange leather Coach bag Gabriela took a roll of knitting, blue and green yarn, and began absently working the needles.
Click click click competed with the sound of trucks from outside Karpankov’s window. He said nothing.
“Tell me what you know about Reardon,” she asked, matter-of-factly, which was her way of saying, Yes, I’ll take on the job. Of course I will.
“He’s in his late thirties. Good looking. Here.” He displayed a picture of a dark-haired businessman.
Good looking enough, yes, she decided. Broad shoulders. Gabriela felt a stirring, though only partly because of his physique and curious resemblance to the George Clooney of ten years ago. The attraction was primarily due to his narrow eyes. Cruel, they seemed. Savvy. Predatory.
“Ink?”
“Apparently no tattoos,” Karpankov said. “But he has a scar — on his chest and shoulder. He set a bomb in an arson scam and it went off prematurely. Apparently he claims he got it saving two children from a car crash, or when somebody saved him from a crash. He changes the story to suit the scenario.
“He has a degree in business from an Ivy League university. And he has a legitimate investment company he runs as a cover. The Norwalk Fund I mentioned. Makes a lot of money and spends it. Cars and boats. But he’s also a sociopath. Last spring Andrew and he killed a man who threatened to be a witness against him. Reardon could have shot the man when he was alone. But he killed the family too. I have to believe part of him killed them because he enjoyed it. The wife was tortured and raped. Sadist, I was saying — like with Carole.”
Gabriela, knitting.
She closed her eyes, letting thoughts churn. Karpankov remained silent; she’d worked for him for years and he knew how her mind spun, when to speak, when to demur. For several minutes she was in a very different place. Making order out of tangle. And he said not a word.
When she surfaced she was for a split second actually surprised that she wasn’t alone. She re-centered herself. “I have some ideas. I’ll need somebody else to help. Muscle. Not afraid of dirty hands. Better if he didn’t have too much of a connection to you.”
Karpankov thought for a moment. “There’s somebody I use on a freelance basis. He’s good. Very smart.”
“And he has no problem with?”
The sentence didn’t need to be finished.
“None at all. He’s done a dozen jobs for me. He’s here now, as a matter of fact. Downstairs,” Karpankov said.
“Let’s talk to him.” Her eyes settled on Gunther again. He looked back. His tail thumped with pleasure.
Karpankov made a call, politely asking the man to join them. Then disconnected. “What are you making?” A nod toward the yarn, green and blue.
A song she liked. James Taylor.
She said, “It’s going to be a shawl.” She gazed at the tips of the needles. Ideas were coming quickly.