F Train (14 page)

Hanging up the phone, Eng noticed Flo's interest in his reading choices. “I have trouble sleeping on planes.” His tones were New England prep school nasal. “Here to China is a very long flight. And you never know who's sitting next to you. So I keep my business papers out of sight, my laptop closed, and my nose in a good book.”

Eng smiled, almost ceremoniously. A solemn presence, he wasn't remotely Ivy League smarmy but professed the look of knowing extraordinary wisdom, a characteristic of men who possessed natural power gazing down at a weak world from the safe heights of their convictions, regarding other humans' frailties as unfortunate flaws on creation. His eyeglasses were wire-rimmed and the dark brown eyes looming behind the thick lenses revealed character: eyes alert, cagey, intelligent, confidently superior. His face had a high, wide forehead—a sign of great intelligence, they say—a straight nose, and under those thick, bushy eyebrows his amused eyes were set far apart: a strikingly mandarin face.

As he stood to shake Flo's hand, Eng turned out to be not particularly tall for so dominating a figure, about five-eight, his trim, wiry body elevated by a thick shock of straight black hair, crowning a head that would appear large on someone a half-foot taller. An Asian complexion and, under heavy eyebrows, his alert brown eyes held Flo in an assured cast alternating between slightly amused, as if to signal,
I know what you're up to here, Lieutenant, don't think you can put one over on me
, to what Flo could only interpret as a pitying expression as though he, William Eng, Esq., lived on a higher plane of enlightenment to which neither she nor anyone else, to his everlasting regret, could ever achieve entry.

His navy suit was quietly tailored, tie dark blue, white shirt high-collared, the combination almost a uniform. He nonetheless managed to differentiate himself sartorially, sporting a he-man-sized gold Rolex, diamond chips for numerals, a flamboyance, an idiosyncrasy signaling pricey possessions like the French cuffs linked with braided gold and kept prominently outside the sleeve ends of his suit coat. The late Marie Priester's fiancé seemed somewhat vain about his thick black hair as well, patting it frequently, not out of nervousness—he appeared incapable of anxiety—but for the sheer proprietary pleasure of it.

Flo was under no illusions. William Eng's manner, like his appearance, was designed to conceal as much as reveal. A snob, clearly, yet unfailingly polite and assiduously disinterested, if never uninterested, never obviously bored in the presence of others, no matter how inferior he found them.

After several moments at these close quarters, Flo realized she might have seen William Eng, Esq., before, the partly blurred face in some of those snapshots of Marie Priester and John James Reilly. If so, and if there actually was an affair between the mystery woman and the special agent, it was one of the odder arrangements Flo had encountered investigating homicides.

Eng offered her a cup of Chinese tea. He sipped tea almost continuously during their conversation. Next to his chair he kept a Go game board set for playing.

“I experiment with different game strategies, the same way some people might take a break from work and throw darts or do push-ups. So tell me, please, what can I do for you this morning, Lieutenant Ott? I assume you want to talk about Marie. The news absolutely devastated me.”

So absolutely devastated, he couldn't adjust his business schedule to come home sooner, a lawyer with the meter running and not a minute to squander. “Why didn't you come back sooner?” Flo said.

“I was told she'd died,” he said. “It's beyond our powers to revive the dead. Are you here to examine me on my
insensitivity?”

Insensitivity
…Maybe an affair between the woman and a Federal Bureau of Investigation special agent might not, after all, have been such an odd arrangement.

“No, counselor. But I would like to hear what you know about the man she was with—and since we can't revive the deceased, let's be frank—the man she was with at three o'clock in the morning.”

“John J. Reilly,” he said slowly, in lowered tones as if straining under duress to control his true feelings. “Yes, that puzzled me, too. I don't know what Marie could have been doing at three in the morning with an immigration lawyer. A nice guy, Reilly, lots of laughs, always good company. We went out with him several times for dinner and drinks. He wanted to treat us to the best Asian restaurants, and in that jurisdiction I may be your ideal native guide.”

Immigration lawyer
…As William Eng refilled their teacups, the only sound Flo heard in the room was a whining wind clawing at the window. “He treated you?”

“That's right. We were referring a nice stream of business his way. And he wanted to show his gratitude. We're a high-end corporate firm, we don't have immigration specialists on staff. But issues come up, for important clients' personnel, from Chinese companies we represent, and we contacted John. He knew his way around government offices.”

“Issues.”

“Covered by lawyer-client privilege, Lieutenant. But nothing terribly grave, I can assure you.”

Immigration specialist
…
knew his way around
…a cover revealed. And perhaps the makings of a sting.

“Had you been working with Reilly for a long time?”

“Several months. Marie found him for us. Do you have any idea, Lieutenant, who was behind this atrocity?”

“Not yet. That's why we're talking to everyone.”

“I don't know how much help I can be, but here I am. You have my number, you can always book a time. He was such a pleasant man, John Reilly. Marie and I enjoyed his company immensely. And he was highly effective at his specialty.”

“Did he talk about himself?”

Counselor Eng paused. He glanced over at his Go game board, then peered down into the dark tea in his cup, yet another fortune-teller consulting clouded crystal, ghostly glass.

“You know, Lieutenant, now that you're asking me, I don't think I ever actually knew anything very much about the man that was personal. He was affable, a good dinner companion, but I don't suppose we ever discussed his private life.”

“And yours?”

“Mine? My private life? Well, I know you've been talking to Marie's mother—Sister Julia, she's a wonder, isn't she?—so you've heard all about the two of us. Our engagement wasn't public knowledge here at the firm. We were waiting, since once it was announced it would have been difficult for Marie to stay on here. I suppose Reilly certainly figured out we were more than just colleagues. He was nobody's fool. And we weren't really being deceitful, you see, simply discreet.”

Discretion being the greater part of valor, Flo saw no advantage continuing this conversation. She had enough out of the lawyer. He dealt her some very promising new cards.

“Thanks for the tea, counselor. And your time.”

“My duty. I owe it to Marie. And her mother. And if you need more time, Lieutenant, you know you can always call my assistant and book an appointment. Feel free. But just tell me one more thing, please. Did John Reilly leave a family?”

She paused at the door.

“A wife and two children.”

Information any halfway attentive investigator could uncover. John James Reilly's true occupation, however, remained another matter.

11
A.M.,
B
ROOKLYN
H
EIGHTS

Detective Sergeant Marty Keane felt the cold cutting right through him, even with the car heater on and despite wearing two pairs of socks, a storm coat, a hat with earflaps, and fur-lined gloves.

He kept a rear window open a crack to prevent the car windows from fogging over, always a giveaway on a stakeout.

Outside, somewhere down the street, a car alarm whooped like a great metal beast screaming in agony, distressingly loud in vain cries, making the icy avenue seem even colder, as frigid and desolate as arctic tundra.

But Detective Keane didn't budge.

He waited a half-block from the Heights Antiques shop, as immobile as only a policeman can wait.

His second day on the stakeout, and he'd already been sitting there on Atlantic Avenue almost three hours, and now a white van pulled up in front of the shop and, moving quickly, two men hopped out and opened the van's back doors.

Marty called for assistance.

He watched the pair remove a large painted trunk from the van and carry it through the shop door. Judging from their posture—bent, straining—he surmised the trunk was far from empty.

A car with two detectives drove up and parked in front of the van. Marty Keane executed an illegal U-turn and parked immediately behind it.

Leaving the car, he opened his coat and withdrew a search warrant covering the Heights Antiques shop and all individuals on the premises.

He placed his other hand on his service weapon and, following the two detectives, moved forcefully into the shop.

“Police! Stay there!” His shout echoed through the cavernous space. “We got a warrant. No one moves. No talking.”

At the entrance to the next showroom, the trunk carriers stopped stone-still. Ella Mae Bontemps stepped out from behind a pair of stuffed grizzlies. “Oh, shit…”

Her getup on this occasion was a main event in periwinkle blue, her blazing red hair a lasting glory, even as change flickered across her eyes, pain and perplexity equally reflected, her face as mournful as a gravedigger hollowing out his own plot.

“Drop the trunk,” Marty said. “Down on your knees, hands on heads. You, too, lady, down.”

Marty read the warrant aloud as two detectives frisked the three kneelers.

“No weapons,” a detective said.

“They got keys to the trunk?”

No one answered. The trunk bearers appeared too shocked and Ella Mae Bontemps looked utterly crushed.

A second frisk and a detective found the keys. After a few fumbles, he opened the trunk…

…filled to brimming with foil-wrapped packages of OxyContin, opiate painkiller, a prescription narcotic, highly addictive. Heroin in a chewable pill. As marketed on the street, over two million dollars' worth in the trunk, maybe three. Good old Oxy, peddled up and down backstreets of every town in America. For no-needle abusers, a treasure trunk of dreams, an HIV-proof boon to drug-dependency wherever oblivious and crippling detachment was a preferred lifestyle. Oxy made billionaires of some pharmaceutical entrepreneurs.

1:10
P.M.

Marty Keane entered Flo Ott's office, straight from the arraignment in special session of Arkady “Archie” Pjatkov, Lev Gubarin, and Ella Mae Bontemps…

Earlier he'd confiscated as evidence all of Heights Antiques's bookkeeping records, an absurdly paltry few papers. The shop was now closed and sealed off as a crime scene.

“Hey, how about that redhead,” Marty said.

Frank applauded. “Nice going, you got all the luck.”

“A chest full of OxyContin and guess where it comes from—”

“A drugstore near Coney,” Flo said.

“Who told you?”

“Narcotics called. The pharmacist had a ten-year supply of those pills in stock, and he phones in a burglary this morning soon as he opens his store. Narcotics figures he's in on it with the Russians. And—surprise, surprise—he's Russian, too. They're pulling him in for questioning, and they want to know if we'd like a round.”

“Do we?”

“Sure do,” Flo said. “The copies of those Heights Antiques papers.” She patted a folder. “Pretty slim pickings for a booming business. I still can't put a finger on what bothers me about these Russians more than drugs and money laundering, it just keeps gnawing away.”

“Like?”

“Like maybe we're putting the wrong take on Davidov, and maybe we were right in the beginning, and it was just a coincidence he was on that train. Maybe the public got lucky for a change, and it was only an accident whoever pulled those killings pushed a rat into his grave. The Russians had too much going for them to take out a bunch of civilians just to get back at Davidov for whatever reason. They had easier options, if they actually wanted him whacked. But we haven't been wasting our time, absolutely not, not with three in the can now and maybe a fourth on his way. We're not on a totally wrong track.”

“Count on it, Flo.”

“That still leaves us one FBI special agent, half the time pretending he's someone else, plus a high-flying Wall Street law firm's paralegal. Hardworking, dedicated, intelligent, both solid citizens. Definitely not your ordinary Brooklyn lowlifes.”

“Not in our Brooklyn,” Frank said.

“So why are they dead?” Flo said. “Coincidence? Lousy luck? I can't buy luck here. It could be too expensive. And Reilly's notebook tells me maybe no coincidence. That's my take.”

Flo's intern came in with a round of Starbucks.

“On Sergeant Murphy,” he said.

And Frank said, “Here you go, Flo, a bribe to loosen your lips. What's his secret?”

“What we're looking for—better have some coffee first—is an ambassador who collects snakeskins. Slavishly.”

“That's it?”

“No. That's so far. But I make more sense of it, we can take that to the bank. It's definitely not meaningless.”

“Those photos from the Chinese restaurants,” Frank said. “I'm not absolutely positive here, but I think I recognize one of them. Chinese. Or some kind of Asian. A waiter or bartender, hard to tell from the shot. Looks like a guy we nailed when I was in Manhattan homicide before I got the transfer home here. Lee something. I wasn't on the case but I heard a lot of talk about it. He copped a plea, got murder one down to manslaughter one. And all thanks to Bobby Keating, his terrific lawyer.”

“The golden mouthpiece,” Flo said. “No wonder he copped a good deal. What happened to Lee?”