Collar Robber (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-eight

Jay Davidovich

Once past the guard desk as I exited the luxury suite area, I transferred the envelope from my back pocket to the right side pocket of my khakis. Making my way in a bustling, self-important hurry—in other words, like a New Yorker—I took two flights of stairs down to ground level and then scampered to a window-fronted counter inside the special entrance for people with suite tickets. Lettering above the circle in the glass window read VALET PARKING.

At that point I slowed down a little. I handed one of my Transoxana business cards to a grizzled African-American who had “retired cop” written all over the features under his fuzzy, salt-and-pepper hair.

“What's this supposed to be?”

“Hi. Jay Davidovich from Transoxana. Could you call a taxi for me?”

He gave me that puzzled/intrigued New Yorker look—the one that says, “Is this asshole just jerking me around, or could there possibly be people in the world this fucking stupid?”

“Sir, do you have a car valet-parked with Stadium Parking Services?”

“No, that's why I need a taxi.”

“We don't do taxis here, sir. Call nine-one-one and tell them you're a mental case.”

I raised the first two fingers of my right hand to my right eyebrow for a mini-salute.

“Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it.”

I strolled casually out the door to the driveway where the valets pull up cars they're returning to their owners. While pushing through the door, I dug out my wallet to search for a five as if I intended to give someone a tip. I crossed the driveway, turned back toward the suite-ticket entrance, and nodded casually at a couple of dudes in valet-parking jackets. They nodded back, but I got the feeling they didn't really have their hearts in it.

I got to feeling real conspicuous about forty-five seconds into the charade. I sucked it up. Finally a car pulled up to be valet-parked for the big shot driving it. The moment it came to a full stop I turned around and started down the sidewalk, heading away from the suite-ticket entrance. Three more or less normal strides, and then I clicked into full run. It took me less than a minute to reach the subway entrance. Tokens ready, through the gates, down the stairs, on the platform, waiting for a train that would take me back to midtown Manhattan.

It would have been a nice gesture for New York to have a train pulling into the stop just as I reached the bottom of the stairs, but the city apparently had other things to worry about. I had a three-minute wait. I used the time constructively. Specifically, I kept my eyes laser-focused on the stairs leading down to the platform, seeing if I could spot anyone who looked like he (or, in theory, she) had gotten a cell-phone call about spotting the tall blond guy and looking for an opportunity to knife him and relieve him of a compromising envelope—and who hadn't been led astray by my Oscar-caliber performance at the valet parking station, and who could then somehow keep up with me while I was running like a scalded chicken.

None of the eight people who came down during the wait fit the bill. None of them even glanced in my direction. When the train arrived I held back. All eight of them got on, even though they couldn't know which car I'd choose. So, ninety-nine-point-nine-percent chance I was home free.

Even so, a tenth of a percent ain't zero. I boarded the last car, sat with my back against the bulkhead at the far end, and kept an eye on the door leading from the car ahead. No one came through during my twenty-five-minute subway ride. That didn't mean it was time to let down my guard. I got off a stop early and walked the rest of the way to the Millennium Broadway Hotel.

Almost certain that Nesselrode's envelope handoff had surprised Halkani. Almost no chance that Halkani would have had some accomplice ready to do unpleasant things to me if the need happened to arise. Almost. But I'd seen that sonofabitch's eyes. Not stone cold. Lively and excited, as if he were enjoying himself. He wasn't some wounded soul working out pent-up hostilities beaten into him by abusive parents or ass-grabbing uncles. He was just your basic greedy bastard with his eyes on a big payday and quite ready to kill to make it happen. So until I was inside the hotel room with the door bolted, I'd be on Defcon Four.

TV Voice: “…played winter ball with Harry and I in the Dominican Republic after last season. Man, they
love
baseball down there!”

Rachel: “Or ‘…played winter ball with Harry and
me,
' as educated people sometimes say.”

Weird. As if I'd somehow triggered this snarky little dialogue just by carding open the door to Room 1125. Taking the kind of deep breath you do just before going out for a full dress inspection, I opened the door all the way and strode into the room. Rachel had flown up to New York with me to share this trip, and apparently she'd brought a dose of Rachel-tude along with her. I snapped the security lock into place.

“Hi, I'm back.”

“…see him lying prone on the field on the tape there.”

“Hi. Excuse me a second. ‘
lying supine
on the field,' you semi-literate cretin. He's on his
back
, and what he's doing is
intransitive
. How was the game?”

“Hasn't started yet—which is why MSG is still running that inane pre-game blather you're savagely criticizing.”

Rachel scissor-legged nimbly off the bed and ran over to me. Wrapping me fiercely in her arms and ungently pulling my torso down toward her level, she serially kissed me: lips, cheekbone, chin, eyelids, then lips again—the second one long, slow, deep, and hungry. It must have taken her half a minute before she came up for air on the last one.

“I'm glad you're here.” She gulped breath.

“I can tell. Grammatical errors must really turn you on. I'll file that for future reference.”

“I'm just trying to help them with their work.” Her eyes danced with light and life as she smiled.

“You understand that they can't hear you, right?”

“That's just a rumor spread by the government to suppress dissent. A writer named Bill Vaughan said that in the newspaper once, so it must be true.”

I pulled her hard against my body, intoxicated by the scent of shampoo in her hair and of fresh soap on her face, basking in the gentle pressure of her blond head on my right shoulder and the needy grip of her fingers digging desperately into my ribs.
God I love this woman. All the shit, all the mishigas, even the occasional impulsive slap—I don't care. Doesn't make any difference. I love her. I love her so much.

“So,” she said, stepping back from me but keeping her hands on my shoulders. “We're in New York. Maybe not the greatest city in the world anymore, but one
hell
of a lot better than Alexandria, Virginia. What would you like to do?”

Now, a rookie husband would probably have blown that question. He would have suggested some New Yorkish adventure or (even worse) said something like, “Whatever
you
want to do, beloved.”

I'm no rookie. I fielded it cleanly. Got my butt down, eyes level with the screaming one-hopper, and snagged the ball back-handed in the webbing of my glove just before it would have gone skittering down the left field line. I picked Rachel up, left arm under her shoulders, right arm under her knees, and carried her giggling and squealing to the bed. While getting my shirt off I might have mentioned something about it being a silly question, but I really don't remember.

***

A little over two hours later, I stood in the darkened room in front of a window looking over Broadway. Rachel slept contentedly, emitting occasional little lady-like snores that reminded me of an agile cat purring. I had the room phone on speaker as I poured a blow-by-blow account of my suite adventures into Proxie's voice-mail. I kept my hands free so that I could use both of them to hold a towel dampened with hot water against my back. Eight distinct scratches there, each an inch or so long. Nice passion trophy, but about twenty minutes ago they'd started to sting.

“No doubt after tonight,” I told the phone. “Suspicion confirmed.
Eros Rising
is the target of a carefully planned theft that hinges on lending the thing to a museum in Vienna. Most likely scenario is a flush-and-switch. They get the thing into the open by arranging for the transfer, then somewhere on the way to Vienna they substitute a forgery for the real painting. They can probably count on weeks before someone suspects the forgery, but even if it's caught while the painting is being readied for display, the thieves will be okay. The catch is that Nesselrode wants to turn the painting over to heirs of the original owner as some kind of vigilante Holocaust reparation gesture, and Halkani wants to turn it into five million dollars or so—probably by selling it back to us so we can cut our loss, if we're stupid enough to insure it. Assuming I can reach Szulz's lawyer tomorrow about turning over the letter, next stop will probably be Pittsburgh. Stand by for updates, you know the number if we have to talk further.”

I slung the towel over the shower-curtain rod in the bathroom, then came back out and just stood beside the bed, gazing at Rachel. In the subdued light she radiated a loveliness that took my breath away. Radiated a lot of other stuff too, of course: need, guilt, anxiety, insecurity, nauseating panic that I won't find her desirable any more once her belly gets really big. Stuff that had played at least as big a role as lust in her come-on a couple of hours ago. But that was okay. Marriage is a package deal.

Kicking aside trousers and underpants along the way, I walked back over to the desk where the phone sat. I picked up the letter Nesselrode had given me. I'd promised to put the thing in Szulz's hands, and I intended to do exactly that. But I hadn't said anything about the envelope. No promise about not reading the letter before I turned it over.

Except, of course, that I don't read German. It was addressed to “Alma.” Penmanship okay, like a guy's, instead of exquisite, like a chick's. Dated something like twenty-five years ago. Signed “Tabby.”

The room phone rang.
What the hell
? I hurried to answer before the polite burring could awaken Rachel.

“What does the letter say?” Proxy's voice.

“It says a lot of stuff in German. Proxy, are you seriously still at your desk after ten-fifteen on a Tuesday night?”

“No, I'm at LAX before seven-thirty local time. I'm waiting for a flight home, checking my iPad for a PDF of a letter in German, and not finding one.”

“No wonder you didn't get my fax.”

“
Fax
? I thought the Berlin Wall fell on the last fax machine left in the world. Don't they have scanning capacity in the business center at whatever hotel Quindel found for you?”

“They barely have a business center. The next option after fax was Pony Express.”

An exasperated little squeal told me how frustrated Proxy was. Her next words confirmed it.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens!” (This is Proxy-speak for
Shit!
) “There's a rush meeting in Hartford tomorrow night, because the window is closing on the Pitt MCM opportunity.”

“Please tell me I'm not invited.”
Please please PLEASE!
I haven't prayed for anything so hard since my third date with Rachel.

“You're the guest of honor. Command performance.”

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.”

“Try to say something constructive, Davidovich. Quindel's last memo called this a five million-dollar decision. That would be one of the emails sitting in the in-box that I'm guessing you haven't checked in the last twelve hours.”

“Okay, steady soldier.” I covered my eyes with the heels of my hands and ran my fingers through hair that, frankly, could have used some Head 'n Shoulders. “There has to be an all-night Federal Express/Kinkos somewhere in midtown. I'll get the thing copied, scanned, and emailed to you in the next ninety minutes or so. If you don't get it before your flight takes off, you can sleep on the plane and read it while the limo is taking you from La Guardia to Hartford.”

“Maybe…” Proxy's voice trailed off in grudging displeasure.

“Tell me something.” The new voice startled me. I glanced over to see Rachel out of bed and slipping into a white, Millennium Hotel robe. “Why do people just assume that all Jews can read German?”

“I don't think anyone assumes that, Rache.”

“Who's that?” Proxy demanded.

“My wife, Rachel.”

“It's like assuming that all white people have natural rhythm.”

“I don't think you'll get much buy-in on that one, either.”

“WHO?” Proxy again. “Are you sure?”

“Give me the letter,” Rachel said.

“Okay, Proxy, I'm gonna put you on speaker. Unless I'm mistaken, my beloved wife—not a call girl, not a hooker, not a spicy little bundle of expense-account padding but
my wife
, Rachel Davidovich—is proposing to favor us with a sight-translation of this little missive.”

“Go ahead.” Proxy's audible sigh chilled three thousand miles' worth of electrons.

I gave the letter to Rachel, who gazed at it dubiously while she flipped the room lights on.

“Okay. ‘My Dearest and Most Tender Alma.' We begin badly, with a cliché from Young Werther's copybook, but no matter. We heroically continue. ‘I approach the glorious day when I can rid myself of the final constraint and think of joining you again. You have never left my thoughts, true heart. I know you don't believe me. You thought me bound by a chain I could never break. I have proven you wrong.'
Proven!
Underlined with an exclamation point, if you please. ‘I enclose a copy of my
Acta Formalis Defectionis
.' That last part was phonetic. The words aren't German. They look like Latin, and I don't know what they mean. ‘I submitted it to my' something-something, can't tell, superior, maybe, ‘to my superior yesterday morning. Now you know! Now there is no going back for me, dearest heart! For me, or for you either! I count the minutes until I can lay my poor eyes on you again. Ever, ever,
ever
yours, Tabby.' I hope that was helpful. If you will both excuse me, I am now going to go vomit.”