“Just seeing the sights,” he said amiably.
“Sorry the weather’s not nicer. It was warm last week.”
They ordered: cheese and pâté and bread, and a bottle of Brunello.
Sipping the potent Tuscan wine, they talked about everything, free associating — everything, that is, except the October List and the kidnapping, much less the plastic bag. She’d brought to the table with her the files from her apartment, labeled Prescott Investments — Open Items. But she let them sit unopened, as if afraid they might not have the answers as to how they could save a kidnapped child.
She looked at her phone and sighed. “From Rafael. He got out safe and made the delivery. So far, so good.”
Nodding at this bit of good news, Daniel slipped his jacket off and she caught a glimpse of a line of reddish flesh, a scar visible in the V where his shirt tugged open. It crossed from chest to shoulder. He caught her eyes and pulled his shirt closed again, self-consciously.
“Can I ask what happened?”
He seemed to be debating.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, I’ll tell you. A few years ago I was driving with the kids up to New Hampshire and I was really tired. I shouldn’t have pushed it. I fell asleep and went off the road.”
“Jesus.”
“The car went down an embankment into a river. The doors were wedged shut. It started to fill up with water.”
“Daniel, no!”
“God, it was cold. We’d gone to see the leaves. It was September but really frigid.”
“What happened?” she whispered.
“We would all’ve drowned but some local guy happened to drive by — looked like he was out of Deliverance, you know? A mountain man sort, a redneck. He drove his pickup down the embankment, grabbed an ax and jumped in after us, even though the water had to be about thirty-five degrees. He just swam to the car and kept smacking away at the back window until he got us out. I got cut on a piece of metal after I shoved the boys out.”
“Oh, how terrible.”
Daniel gave a brief laugh. “And you know what? As soon as we were on the shore, he waved goodbye and left. Wouldn’t take any money, wouldn’t give me his name even. He just acted like, hell, who wouldn’t risk freezing to death to save somebody? Like it was the most natural thing in the world.”
“It hurts still?” A nod toward his chest.
“No, no. That was five years ago. Stiff sometimes, in the damp. But that’s all.” He grew quiet. “I was stupid and nearly got my sons killed. It was like that guy gave me a second chance. I don’t really think I deserved it. But there he was.”
She lowered her hand on his arm and pressed. She wanted so badly to kiss him but, with some effort, refrained. They returned to the wine and both fell silent.
Daniel signed the check and, at her suggestion, they divided up the files. They would spend the remaining hours of the evening, until exhaustion struck, looking for any leads to cash that Charles Prescott might have hidden. They walked to the elevators. When they exited the car he accompanied her to her door.
She hugged him. “Daniel, I—”
“Don’t know how to thank me?”
Her response was to grip him harder and surrender to sobbing.
“She’ll be okay,” he said. “Your daughter’ll be all right.”
Gabriela wiped her eyes and, stepping away, breathed deeply. Controlled herself.
A few seconds passed; they remained immobile, listening to voices laughing a few rooms away, a TV rumbling with an action flick.
She opened her door and stepped inside, turned back to him. Daniel eased closer.
Would he kiss her? she wondered.
She wondered too how she would respond.
But instead he offered the most chaste of embraces, murmured, “Good night,” and, holding his stack of folders, stepped back into the hall. The door swung shut and she was alone.
Chapter 20
A Good Judge
10:00 P.M., SATURDAY
10 HOURS, 30 MINUTES EARLIER
“Hal. Sorry to ruin your Saturday night.”
“Never a problem to see you, Pete.”
The men pumped hands vigorously. Both right wrists, coincidentally, were encircled by gold bracelets. One tasteful, one not.
“Well, sit down,” said Peter Karpankov, gesturing toward a chair across from the ornate but well-worn antique table he used for a desk, deep mahogany. “Have a seat. Do you want a drink? You want some whisky? Is that your drink? You want something else?”
“Naw, but thanks.” Hal Dixon, body a bit stocky, suit a bit rumpled, but shirt pressed, even now at this hour of the evening.
They were on the top, the third floor, of the ancient building on Tenth Avenue that housed Karpankov’s company.
The Russian poured some vodka and sipped it warm. He lifted his eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Naw, really, Pete. I mean, you’re right, yeah, I like whisky but nothing for me. The wife smells it on my breath I go home and it’s all hell to pay. I can have a drink with her but not a drink before her. You know how it is.”
“Ah, women, women, women...” The lean man chuckled. He looked so much like Vladimir Putin that Dixon had wondered if he was somehow related to the Russian president. He had no accent but sometimes you imagined he did.
There was a rumble from the corner and Karpankov’s large dog — whose breed Dixon didn’t recognize — stretched and looked over the visitor slowly. Not exactly hostile, not exactly friendly. He flopped back down on his cushion and sighed. The thing had to weigh 150 pounds. The dog’s brown eyes settled on Dixon and would not let go. Black-and-gray fur maybe naturally spiky, maybe rising, as in hackles.
As in just before the attack.
“He’s a good boy,” Karpankov said affectionately.
“Big,” Dixon said.
“Things’re going good for you, I hear.” Karpankov looked impressed. “The new shopping mall project.”
“Sure,” Dixon said. And kept his eyes locked with the Russian’s. “We’re making money hand over fist, even though I have no idea what the fuck that expression means.”
Karpankov blinked. Then laughed. “Ha, that’s true. I never thought about it. ‘Hand over fist.’ What’s that mean? People are careless, what they say. Clichés, lazy speaking. Makes you sick, sometimes.”
“Sick.”
The view from Karpankov’s office was of the Hudson River. Now, at night, the water was just a strip of black. What ebbed and flowed were lights, yellow, red, green, white, easing north and easing south.
Karpankov disconnected and then turned to Dixon, who regarded the man’s eyes for as long as he could.
Those are some very weird pupils, he thought, looking away. Not fifty shades of gray. Two.
The Russian said, “I’m thinking we should talk about that project in Newark. You and me.”
A joyous drumbeat tickled Dixon’s gut. He said enthusiastically, “That’s going to be a ball buster, Pete. Eight figures, easy. Mid eight figures.” Then to himself: Calm the fuck down. You’re talking like a tween gushing about Bieber.
“Eight, yeah, we’re figuring.”
“You’ll clean up with it,” Dixon said.
This was a joke because part of the project involved leases to a large dry-cleaning outfit. Dixon had been dying to participate.