The Deal (34 page)

“Stop.”

I sat up in my chair and leaned forward.

Pavel Derbyshev.

“Derbyshev,” I said out loud. “Derbyshev. Why do I know that name?”

The fact it was a Russian name on a personal American account opened on the day in question was interesting in its own right. It felt like something more. It felt like I had just literally seen or heard that exact name.

I shot out of my chair sending it straight into the wall. Pavel Derbyshev, same last name as Piotr Derbyshev who, according to the history, was one of Henrik Wigstrom’s most trusted hands at the House of Fabergé. One of two craftsmen believed responsible for creating the eight eggs that would one day go missing.

Chapter 35

After returning home somewhere around four and crashing in the living room, the landline rang at 8:02
a.m
. My eyes sprung open only to close again about halfway. The sun’s fury was beaming, splintered, as it came knifing into the living room. My shirt was sticking to me. I was warm. To my left, Neo was still asleep, his white fur shining from the glare as his chest moved rhythmically.

I looked at the caller ID. The call was coming from my father’s townhouse. Moving as fast as I could I answered it.

“Hello?”

“Jonah, it’s Mattheau.”

I sensed trouble in his voice.

“What is it, Mattheau? What’s wrong?”

He paused, so I continued with caution. I was concerned about speaking on the phone.

“Was the...how was...is...”

“All is well,” Mattheau said, taking my cue.

I should have been relieved, but I felt there was more. Was something going on between my father and Mattheau? Had I been wrong to trust him?

“You need to come to your father’s, Jonah,” he said. “Now.”

I didn’t answer him.

“Now Jonah. I promise. It’s all right to come here.”

“What’s the...when was...”

“Jonah. Come now!”

Mattheau spoke with honest urgency. I grabbed the gun and cell phone on my way out.

The Upper East Side is quiet early on a Saturday morning, especially in the summer. The rear windows of the cab were down and the city whooshed by. I tried desperately to figure out what could possibly be happening. I couldn’t.

As we pulled around the final corner I was surprised, frightened by the fact that there was apparent commotion going on in front of the home. When the cab stopped I handed the driver a twenty for a five-dollar fare telling him to keep the change. I looked out the window again once more before opening the door. Faces were looking back. If I had taken off at this point it would have been suspicious. I forced myself out of the car.

I had not anticipated the scene ahead. There were cops wearing the familiar blue uniforms, and others in street clothes with their shields in full view. Detectives, I presumed. I thought, did Mattheau fuck me and go to the cops? I started looking for him, the bags of money, Pangaea-Man’s remains, anything related to the crime.

A plainclothes detective was calmly walking toward me at the moment I noticed the police line by the front door. Mattheau saw him coming toward me and started my way as well.

“Can I help you?” the cop asked.

He was calm, matter of fact. No colleagues following him. No gun drawn. He genuinely had no idea who I was. There I stood—murderer, conspirator, thief, illegal gun carrier, illicit drug user—and this fucking cop was clueless. So clueless, in fact, that he had just asked me if I needed his help.

“I live here,” I started. “I mean, I used to. It’s my father’s house.”

Mattheau reached us. I addressed both of them.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, Jonah,” Mattheau said, turning his attention to the front door area and back again. “I couldn’t tell you over the phone.”

“Tell me what?”

Like a slap across the face, I then realized the only reason in the world Mattheau would have brought me back to the house that morning was my father. Either Pop knew what was going on or something had happened to him. I looked again toward the front of the house. Before my eyes, the yellow of the police line became brighter than the rest of the scene, like it was doing all that it could to become fluorescent. Like it was doing all that it could to tell me something. I found myself drawn toward it.

“No,” I said, quietly.

I slowly started in the direction of the front door.

“No,” I said again.

“Jonah, I don’t think you—” started Mattheau.

The cop put his hand on my shoulder. I swatted it away and darted toward the police line.

“A little help,” the cop yelled to the others.

Everyone’s attention was pulled toward me as I headed in their direction. They were all staring at me though I barely noticed any of them. I just felt them, their concern, their desire to protect me, as I made my way. At one point I almost lost my balance, but I kept going without hesitation, never even dropping my chin. The feeling of disaster in front of the townhouse, all of which I felt was being funneled toward me, was beyond palpable. It was downright telling.

As I approached the landing I saw a white sheet draped over a lifeless body. Blood had seeped through the thin fabric toward one of the edges. A few feet before the yellow tape, arms began to grab for me, brace me, from all angles.

“Pop!” I yelled as my momentum was halted. “Pop—”

I continued my thought silently. What the fuck did you do?

I only wanted to peel back the sheet and have one quick look underneath. It was all of the hope I had left of seeing that it wasn’t what I thought; that I would get to see my father again. These cops, these arms, they were all trying to restrain me. I started to fight.

“No!” I yelled once again.

This couldn’t be the end. We had unfinished business.

I grabbed at random forearms, and remember trying to literally pry them from my body.

“No fucking way!” I went on, saliva spraying from my mouth with each disbelieving, angry word. “No fucking way!”

“Tell me your full name.”

Fifteen minutes later I was leaning against a black-and-white parked by the curb. I was standing with a detective. Two officers dressed in blue stood talking a few feet away between me and the crime scene. They had been placed there in case I made another break toward my father, who was still technically part of the physical evidence.

Pop had been shot twice in the head as he came out of the townhouse. He was leaving early for his golf game in Connecticut. Mattheau was waiting out front in the limo when it happened. When he heard gunshots, for the second morning in a row, he ducked down for safety. There were three shots. Two found my father’s skull while the third was found embedded in the front door, also head high. According to Mattheau, he looked up when he heard a car tear away. His eyes searched for my father who was lying lifeless on the ground. By the time he thought to look at the vehicle it was already too far down the street. All he remembered was the fading rear end of a dark car.

I spotted the limo on the street. The rear window was properly intact.

“Jonah Gray.”

“Middle name?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

“How about Mom?”

“Died when I was young.”

“How young?”

“Five years, three months, two days.”

“So it was just the two of you.”

“That’s right.”

“You two close?”

“Yeah,” I answered, unsure now if this were even true. “We were.”

Detective Tim Morante was in his late thirties. He was wearing jeans, black Kenneth Cole shoes, and a solid, royal blue button-down shirt, sleeves neatly rolled up. His eyes, hair, and skin were all dark. His shield dangled low around his neck secured by a thin,
silver chain. He didn’t come across like the detectives I was use
to from the movies. He was well kept, properly groomed. And he didn’t take notes as I spoke. He just listened.

“Jonah, what did your father do for a living?”

“He was a commercial real estate owner. Office buildings.”

“It seems from the looks of things that he lived a very nice lifestyle. Had he been in this field for a long time?”

“My whole life. His whole life.”

My eyes drifted again to the front of the house. Pop’s body was still lying there, covered like some dog that had just been hit in the street, as crime-scene investigators evaluated, assessed the crime scene. There was a gurney waiting nearby for when the green light was given for his removal.

“Jonah, I’ll be frank with you. This crime screams premeditation. There were three shots fired in the direction of your father’s head. There is no evidence that anyone tried to break into the house and nothing was taken off of him once he went down. His watch, his wallet, nothing. According to the limo driver, as soon as those shots were fired a car was out of here in a hurry.”

I returned my attention to him. I knew where he was going.

“You’re thinking it was a hit,” I said, saving him the trouble of having to find the right words.

“Did he have any enemies?”

“No,” I shot back, careful not to hesitate.

“Had any deals recently—”

Keep the cop at bay, I reminded myself. Get where you need to go.

“My father was a good man, detective. An honorable man.”

The word, honorable, passed through my windpipe no easier than a poorly chewed hunk of meat.

“Ask anyone in the real estate community and they’ll tell you the same thing.”

“Anything happen lately in his business dealings that seemed out of the ordinary?

“No,” I shook my head. “Absolutely not. We talked real estate almost every day. He told me everything.”

“So you don’t even see the slightest possibility—”

“No!” I snapped, before gathering myself. “No. I’m telling you, my father was by the book when it came to business.”

“So who then would have wanted to do this to him? Can you think of anyone? Maybe if not in his professional life, his personal life?”

I gently shook my head “no.”

“How about you?” the detective went on.

“Me?”

“You said the two of you always talked business. Are you in real estate also?”

“I am.”

“With your father?”

“No.”

“Then in what capacity?”

“I’m a broker with PCBL.”

“I see,” said the detective before pausing for a few seconds. “Tell me a little about that.”

“About what?”

“Your job.”

I sighed.

“Detective, is this really necessary right now?” I asked extending my arm and gesturing toward my father’s destroyed body.

“I promise to make it quick. Tell me about your job.”

“Simple. I make deals. I represent owners as well as tenants, depending on who needs my services.”

“Deals ever get hairy?”

“Sometimes,” I said. “Sure.”

Stay calm, I told myself. Let him go down that road. It’s going to happen eventually, so just let him go down that road. Stay cool and get it over with.

“How about you? Any enemies on your end?”

React.

“None that I know of.”

“None at all?”

“Nope. I mean—”

“You mean what?” he prodded.

“I mean sometimes deals can get pretty edgy, but nothing that has ever gone past a conference room. My dealings are all with top-level executives, principals and CEOs. Why?”

“Formality. I just need to gather as much information as I possibly can.”

“Look, are we almost through here?” I asked.

“Almost. I appreciate you cooperating. This must be very difficult. Now, I just need to know where you were last night. Again, formality.”

Fuck.

“I was at home by myself,” I said confidently, as if I hoped that would suffice.

“Do you often spend Friday nights at home alone?”

“No. Yesterday I wasn’t feeling well so I left my office early in the afternoon.”

“Where’s your office?”

“Chrysler Center. I spent the rest of the day and most of last night on the toilet battling some stomach thing.”

“Is that why you’re wearing a suit this early on Saturday? You haven’t changed from yesterday?”

Christ, I thought. The fucking suit.

The gun.

“That’s right,” I answered. “Never quite had a chance.”

I was pissed by the fact that I was being questioned as a possible suspect. Pissed, that is, until it dawned on me that if I was wrong about Pop, I was possibly responsible for his death.

“And where is your apartment?”

I gave him my Park Avenue address that in the long run I knew would help me out. It was obvious right away I had cash on my own. A little research on the detective’s part would uncover the fact I was self-made, to some degree, thus lessening my potential motive.

“My building lobby has cameras, detective—” I said.

I looked to bolster my alibi and lead him away from the night’s devilish hours. Those hours that if you get caught lying about where you are, the reason’s never good.

“You can see when I came home yesterday as well as the exact time I left just a few minutes ago.”

I looked again to the front of the house. Two men lifted Pop’s limp body onto the silver rolling table. Another detective, along with Mattheau, was coming toward us. I turned back to the detective.

“Look,” I continued, trying to close out our little question and answer session.

I moved myself away from the car and stood up straight. Then I deliberately stared Detective Morante in the eyes as I spoke, as if I was in my office trying to put the finishing touches on a deal.

“You just tell me what I need to do in order to help you figure this out,” I said.

I looked again at the two approaching men, but still spoke so only Morante could hear me.

“I need to know who did this.”

“Anyone have a key to get in the house?” asked the second detective once they arrived.

“Jonah?” Morante asked as he turned to me.

“I don’t understand? I thought you said this was a hit?”

“It most likely is. But we wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t make sure. The reason for the hit may lie within your father’s walls.”

An image of the cash filled duffel bags blanketed my mind like one of those tarps they pull over center court at the U.S. Open when it starts to rain. Then I saw Pangaea-Man. I felt myself becoming very nervous.