Authors: James Patterson,Andrew Gross
It was driving me crazy waiting to have the opening arguments begin, to have the first witness take the stand.
We got Miriam Seiderman as the judge. I’d had her on trials twice before, and she always seemed to bend for the defendants. But she was thorough, fair, ran a tight court. We could have done a lot worse.
I was thinking this looked like a pretty decent pool of jurors. A couple of them were downright entertaining.
There was a Verizon guy with a New England accent who said he had three town houses in Brooklyn he’d fixed up and that he was bagging the phone company job anyway, so he could care less how long the trial ran.
And a crime novelist who someone in the jury pool recognized. In fact, she was actually reading his book.
Then the woman in the third row. The actress and single mom. She was feisty and cute, with thick brown hair with reddish streaks in it. There was some writing on her T-shirt—D
O
N
OT
D
ISTURB
. Kind of funny.
Once or twice, Cavello glanced back at me. But most of the time he just sat there, hands joined, staring straight ahead.
A couple of times, our eyes met.
How ya doin’, Nicky,
his smile seemed to say, like he didn’t have a worry in the world, a guy about to go away for life.
Every once in a while he huddled with his attorney, Hy Kaskel.
The Ferret,
he was called. Not just because he made a living representing these bums, but because he was short and barrel-chested, with a hanging nose, a pointy chin, and thick, bushy eyebrows you could brush your shoes with.
Kaskel was a showman, though, among the best there was at his job. The Ferret had gotten two mistrials and an acquittal in his last three mob trials. He and his team just sat there sizing up each juror on a large poster board, taking notes. The Verizon guy. The MBA. The author.
I glanced up at the actress again. I was pretty sure she thought she was out of here. But sometimes that’s what you need on a jury, someone who can cut through the bullshit, break the ice.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Sharon Ann Moran, the judge’s clerk, got everyone’s attention. The defense and the prosecution had finalized their selections.
I was thinking, just give me twelve jurors smart enough to see through the bluster and bullshit, twelve jurors who won’t be intimidated.
One by one, the judge announced the names. Twelve jurors and six alternates. She told them to come up and take a seat in the jury box.
The crime writer was in. Shocked. So was the Verizon guy. And the Hispanic housekeeper, the one who was knitting for her granddaughter.
But the biggest surprise was the actress.
She was in, too!
I never saw anyone so stunned. I think everyone in the courtroom was holding back a smile.
“Ms. DeGrasse, Juror Number Eleven, you can take a seat in the jury box,” the judge told her, amused herself. “You got the part, dear.”
THE GLASS ELEVATOR of the Marriott Marquis rose higher and higher above Times Square. Richard Nordeshenko watched the glittery bustle of the street grow distant and small below.
Good riddance.
“First time to the Marriott, Mr. Kaminsky?” a chatty, red-capped bellhop asked as the elevator rushed them to the forty-second floor.
“Yes,” Nordeshenko lied.
Truth was, he had made the rounds of all the fancy hotels near Times Square. The area held a particular attraction for him. Not the lights or the nocturnal amusements, in which he took no part.
It was the crowds.
In the event something went wrong, all he had to do was duck into the throng any time of day or night.
“Kiev, right?” The bellhop grinned at him. It wasn’t a question, more like a statement of fact. “You’re from the Ukraine, right? Your accent. It’s sort of a game with me. Twenty floors, that’s usually all I need.”
“Sorry.” Nordeshenko shook his head. “Czech.” Inside, he was angry with himself. The chatty bellhop had nailed him. Maybe it was just the jet lag, but he had let down his guard.
The elevator opened, and the bellhop motioned Nordeshenko down the hall. “Close.” He smiled, with a shrug of apology. “But—what is it you say here?—no cigar.”
He’d been traveling for eighteen hours straight, stopping in Amsterdam on a Dutch passport, then in Miami on a business visa to the States. On the flight, he had put on Chopin and Thelonious Monk to relax, and had beaten a chess program on his computer on level eight. That made the voyage bearable.
That and the comfort of the first-class seats on Dominic Cavello’s account.
“Room 4223 has a wonderful view of Times Square, Mr. Kaminsky.” The bellhop opened the door to his room. “We got the View restaurant and lounge. Your gourmet Renaissance restaurant on the mezzanine. My name’s Otis, by the way, if you need anything during your stay.”
“Thank you, Otis.” Nordeshenko smiled. He pulled out a bill. He pressed it into the bellhop’s hand. Otis had fingered him, reminded him he could not be too careful.
“Thank
you.
” The bellhop’s eyes lit up. “Any sort of entertainment you need, you just let me know. The bar upstairs stays active until about two. I know some places that open up after that, if that’s what you like. The city that never sleeps, right?”
“
Velk´y jablko.
” Nordeshenko replied in perfect Czech.
“
Vel-k´y jab-lko?
” The bellhop squinted.
“The Big Apple.” Nordeshenko winked.
Otis laughed and pointed at him, closing the door. Nordeshenko laid his briefcase on the bed. He took out his computer. He had people to contact and things to set up. In the morning it would be all work.
But in the meantime, the bellhop wasn’t too far off about something else.
He did have his own brand of entertainment planned for tonight.
Tonight, he was going to play poker—with Dominic Cavello’s money.
“YOUR ANTE.” The dealer nodded toward him, and Nordeshenko tossed a fresh hundred-dollar chip into the center of the table.
He was in a fashionable poker club in a town house on the upper East Side. The large room had a high, coffered ceiling and tall palladian windows with embroidered gold drapes drawn. All types seemed to be there. Attractive women in evening gowns, amusing themselves at the small-stakes table. The usual gambler types in dark glasses who seemed to be playing for everything they were worth.
It was well after one in the morning, and the four tables were still going strong.
Nordeshenko sipped a Stoli martini as the dealer dealt him two downward cards. He was playing in what they called a freeze-out. A $3,000 buy-in had bought him $10,000 in chips. Winner takes all.
At ten o’clock there had been eight around the table. Now it was down to three: Nordeshenko; Julie, an attractive woman with straight blond hair in a tight-fitting pantsuit; and someone Nordeshenko had nicknamed “Cowboy,” an annoying, finger-tapping fool in a Western hat and aviator shades who, hearing Nordeshenko’s accent, insisted on calling him Ivan.
Nordeshenko had been patiently waiting to find himself alone with him in a hand all night.
He peeked at his hole cards. An ace and a queen, on suit. He felt his blood perk up a bit. When the betting came to him, he tossed in a $500 chip.
Before, when Nordeshenko had come to New York, he would go to a Russian club in Brooklyn and play chess, sometimes for a thousand dollars a game. He could hold his own, but he soon developed a bit of a reputation, and that brought attention to him—and attention was always unwanted. Now poker was his thing.
Julie, who had the fewest chips at the table and was playing cautiously, called, but Cowboy, rubbing his palms together, pushed a stack of ten greens to the center of the table. “Sorry, sweet pea, but these cards just won’t let me sit still.”
Nordeshenko held an image of what it might be like to spear this buffoon through the windpipe, which he could do with a sharp thrust of his hand. He thought about raising back, the cards warranted it, but elected, as did the blonde, just to call.
“Well, aren’t we all nice ’n’ cozy,” Cowboy crowed, tilting back his chair.
The dealer flopped three cards: a six, an ace, and a nine. That gave Nordeshenko aces, almost surely the high hand. He bet $3,000.
Julie hesitated, tapping her polished nails on the table. “Oh, what the hell.” She finally smiled. “It’s only the rent money, right?”
“Well, the rent just got raised a little, darlin’,” Cowboy said, pushing in another $5,000 in chips.
Nordeshenko looked him in the eye. This asshole was making it very difficult.
What could he possibly have?
He had watched him chasing cards all night.
“What’s
your
ticket say, Ivan?” Cowboy fiddled with his chips. “You still on this train, or time to get off?”
“Maybe one more station.” Nordeshenko shrugged, looking toward Julie.
“All in,” she said, flipping her cards and pushing the balance of her chips into the pot.
Four spades. Nordeshenko had been right. He had read her trying to make a flush. He still had high hand. And the Cowboy was bluffing.
The dealer turned over a queen of diamonds. Nordeshenko didn’t even flinch. Now he had aces and queens.
Julie winced. She hadn’t made her flush.
“Well, what’ya say we just put a little more coal in the burner and see what the river brings?” Cowboy cackled loudly, pushing the rest of his chips into the center—$10,000.
Murmurs went up from the people watching. It was clear this would be the final hand. The winner would take the entire $30,000 buy-in.
Cowboy stared at him, not smiling now. “You stickin’ around, Ivan, or what?”
“
Miraslav,
” Nordeshenko said.
Cowboy took off his shades. “Huh?”
“My name is Miraslav,” Nordeshenko said, meeting the bet.
The dealer turned over his last card, the river. A deuce of hearts.
Julie groaned.
Nordeshenko knew his aces and queens should be a winner. He couldn’t even imagine what the asshole Cowboy had. He counted out twenty hundred-dollar bills and tossed them outside the pot as a side bet.
Then, amazingly, Cowboy countered with a $5,000 raise of his own. Nordeshenko was stunned.
“Ivan, still with us?” Cowboy tilted back in his chair, clucking unpleasantly.
Nordeshenko reached in his jacket, counted out $5,000 in hundred-dollar bills, and laid them in the center of the table. This was no longer just an amusing diversion.
“Aces and queens.” He flipped over his hole cards.
“Oooh.” Cowboy blinked, as if stunned.
But then he grinned. “This is gonna hurt, Ivan.”
He flipped over his hole cards. Two more deuces. The last card had given him three. Nordeshenko felt as if he’d fallen off a cliff. The moron had been pushing the pot the whole way with just a pair of twos.
Cowboy leaped up, ooo-eeing like a donkey, raking in his chips. Nordeshenko thought he’d like to wipe the grin off the fool’s face. But just as quickly, the irrational urge subsided.
Not tonight. He had work to do in the morning. Important work. Whatever he had lost tonight was just a fraction of his fee.
“You know what they say, Ivan,” Cowboy said, stacking his winnings, “sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good. No hard feelings,” he said, stretching out his hand.
Nordeshenko stood up and took it. The imbecile was right about one thing: he’d been lucky tonight. Luckier than he would ever know.
The Israeli was going to let him live.
IT WAS AFTER EIGHT O’CLOCK that night when I finally made it back to Casa Pellisante.
Home for me was the same rent-controlled apartment in the Hell’s Kitchen section of Manhattan on Forty-ninth and Ninth I’d lived in for the past twelve years. I had a view of the Empire State Building from my study window and could kick back on the roof after work with a cocktail, looking out on the red sunsets over Jersey City. On weekends, I could step out the front door right into the Feast of St. Ignatius or a West Indian parade, or grab a beer at an Irish bar sitting next to some Westie I once put away.
I also had Ellen Jaffe there.
Ellen was a hotshot anesthesiologist over at St. Vincent’s, with wavy auburn hair, a small button nose, and long, slim runner’s legs that were a joy to behold. We’d met at a clambake thrown by a friend of mine and been together for the past two years.
Ellen was pretty, smart as a whip, and just as dedicated to her career as I was to mine. That was a problem. I worked days—and half the nights, lately, preparing the case. She was taking doctoral classes at Cornell Medical and doing her hospital rotations at night. We used to spend entire weekends together in bed. Now we could barely find a night to be in the same room and watch TV.
She said I was fixated on Cavello, and she was probably right. I shot back that she must be having an affair with Dr. Diprovan—Diprovan being the solution of choice when putting people under these days.
Whatever it was, it was killing me how things were sliding downhill between us. But you either fight for it or you don’t, and lately, neither of us was fighting a lot for anything.
So I stopped at Pietro’s on the way home and picked up an order of the best
amatriciana
in New York—Ellen’s favorite. She didn’t work Monday nights. Let’s not call it a party, but it would be the first quality time we’d spent with each other in at least a week.
Add to that a bouquet of sunflowers from the Korean grocer up the block. I had also left Ellen a message on the machine to set the table.
I turned the key in the front door and saw the table in the dining alcove set for one.
“Buonasera, signorita.”
“Nick?” I heard Ellen call from the bedroom.
She came out of the bedroom in her navy Burberry windbreaker and running shoes, knotting her long brown hair. Not exactly the fantasy I had in mind. “I’m sorry, Nicky. I was going to leave a note. Benson just called. They’re on overload tonight. They need me in.”