The Boy Who Stole From the Dead (10 page)

“No, no, no. Not Mikhail Prokhorov. Simeon Simeonovich. That is Simeon Simeonovich. How can you not know that? What kind of reporter are you?”

“An incompetent one, I’m afraid.” Nadia fished her real business card out of her wallet. “Give this to Mr. Simeonovich. Tell him I look forward to working with him.”

Nadia rushed back to the hotel lounge. An iced tea and a field green salad topped with grilled chicken awaited her.

She found the Wikipedia page for Simeonovich. He earned a PhD in quantum physics at age twenty-five. He used his profits from trading metals on the Russian market to become the country’s first corporate raider. His first purchase was a smelter. He slept near the furnace for the first six months to prevent criminals from ransacking the factory. After expanding his holdings in commodity businesses, he diversified into industrials.

He consolidated his businesses under the umbrella of the Orel Group. Orel, which rhymed with “propel”, was the Russian and Ukrainian word for eagle. He was the majority owner of eleven companies. Six traded publicly on the Russian stock exchange. A seventh traded on the Ukrainian exchange. Nadia subscribed to a global database of financial statements. She checked the most recent financials for the publicly listed companies in his portfolio. Nadia was certain he would never share private company financials with an outsider, let alone use them to test analysts. The two Russian companies had to be public.

She was right. The small Russian company was a specialty steel manufacturer. The large Russian company was the consolidated corporate entity. That left the third company. The American one.

The other candidates’ inability to identify the American industrial company perplexed Nadia. They were industrial analysts. They knew the American marketplace cold. If they couldn’t recognize the company, that meant it either wasn’t American, or it wasn’t an industrial. But it had to be an industrial. Ehren had emphasized his client’s obsession with industrial expertise. And if Simeonovich was looking to acquire an American industrial, it made sense to craft a test accordingly.

That meant the company wasn’t American. It was a Russian company whose financials had been re-stated according to United States GAAP standards. That’s why no one could identify it. The company itself existed but its American financials were manufactured for the test.

Nadia converted 2010 revenue numbers for the remaining company into rubles. She scanned the income statements of Simeonovich’s other companies. She checked five of them. None matched. She converted the sales numbers for the last company in Orel, a mining equipment manufacturer. Compared it to those of the third company. They were close, but didn’t match. The sales number on the Russian financials was higher. Then Nadia remembered they probably shouldn’t match. American accounting standards were notoriously strict. The Russian accounting system allowed sales to be recognized earlier. Revenue numbers might be higher under the Russian system.

Close only mattered with horseshoes and grenades, Nadia thought. And Russian accounting standards.

She scribbled the names of the three Russian companies on top of the financials. Stacked them together, flipped them upside down, and set them to the side. Sipped her iced tea and dug into her salad.

Ehren arrived. When he saw her eating, he smiled. He nodded at the stack of financials and donned a sympathetic look.

“You shouldn’t feel bad,” he said. “You were put in an impossible situation.”

Nadia flipped the financials upright and slid them across the table. Ehren froze when he saw the first name. His jaw dropped when he read the other two.

“This…this is impossible,” he said. “You couldn’t have…You…you cheated. You called someone.”

“The best industrial analysts in the world couldn’t identify those three companies. Whom exactly do you think I called?”

A cell phone rang. Ehren stood oblivious.

Nadia speared a chunk of grilled chicken. “It’s yours.”

Ehren fumbled with his pocket.

“It’s Mr. Simeonovich,” Nadia said. “He’s calling to tell you to hire me.”

Ehren’s eyes widened. He answered the phone. Stared at Nadia. He listened and interjected a few “yes, sirs.”

After he hung up, he slipped into the chair across from Nadia. The dazed expression never left his face.

“He wants to meet you as soon as possible,” he said.

“I have some urgent business in London. I’m leaving tonight.”

Ehren’s expression brightened. “How long will you be there?”

“Today is Friday. I’m returning home Sunday. We can set something up for Monday.”

“No. Mr. Simeonovich is based out of London. He’s only in New York City for the day. Let me see what his plans are. How is your schedule on Saturday? Could you meet with him there?”

“I have some meetings in the afternoon but I’m free in the evening.”

“Let me talk to him. Now, about your compensation.”

CHAPTER 13

 J
OHNNY
T
ANNER WAS
in the middle of his Saturday morning workout at the gym when his cell phone rang. His workout took an hour. Not fifty-five minutes. Not an hour and five minutes. One hour. The faster he worked, the more he revved up his metabolism. He’d been fat as a kid growing up—to ease the pain of his father’s beatings he hid in his room and ate. Skybars and salt water taffy, mostly. He never wanted to look that way again.

He did a thirty-minute circuit of weight training, followed by twenty minutes on the treadmill at seventy percent of his maximum heart rate, and finished with ten minutes of stretching. He always checked the phone number when someone interrupted but he only answered if a judge or an ADA was calling. Or a certain woman.

“Uh-oh,” Nadia said. “You sound out of breath…”

Johnny’s heart skipped a beat as soon as he heard her voice. “You caught me mid-workout.”

“I’m returning yours. It sounded urgent. You want to call me back?”

“Nope. I got a call from a friend in the NYPD. There’s been a new development in Bobby’s case.”

“Why does this sound like bad news?”

“The cops went to Fordham and interviewed a few teachers and the hockey coach. Standard procedure. Everyone said good things, without exception. No worries about his background. One thing, though. The Fordham hockey coach? He said there was an incident this past season after a game. Bobby got into a brief altercation with a random guy outside the locker room.”

“Altercation?”

“A shoving match. Nothing serious.”

“What guy? He never told me about this.”

“They showed the hockey coach a picture of Valentine. He confirmed it was him.”

“What?”

“There’s more. They interviewed the security guard at the rink. He said the same guy, Valentine, was hitting on a real cute Russian model in the stands during the game. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. The guard swears he heard her say number four for Fordham was her boyfriend and she wasn’t interested.”

“Iryna.”

“They found her name on Facebook and interviewed her this morning. She confirmed the altercation.”

“She didn’t tell me she’d met the guy Bobby supposedly killed when I spoke to her at the bakery the other day.”

Johnny let a moment go by. “Is that a realistic expectation? She just met you. You expect her to bare her soul? Besides, don’t you think Bobby told her to keep her mouth Ziplocked about everything? He doesn’t want to talk to you. You think he wants his girl talking to you?”

“No. You’re right. Bobby must have told her not to say a word about that to anyone.”

“But the district attorney has motive now. Protecting his girlfriend’s honor, his own honor, whatever.”

“How did Bobby and Valentine meet that night in the first place? The odds they bumped into each other on a Manhattan street is zero. One of them called or e-mailed the other to arrange it. My guess it was Valentine.” Nadia told Johnny about the call from London. “And it turns out Valentine was in London visiting his father on his deathbed.”

“So he calls Bobby from London to set up a meeting because of a spat over a girl? That doesn’t jive.”

“That’s why I’m in London. I took the red-eye.”

“London? What the hell—”

“I don’t think this was about Iryna. Bobby’s too levelheaded. He grew up turning the other cheek. And Valentine had too much to lose. The job, the lifestyle. All over a girl? It’s more likely this had something to do with his father’s death.”

“Which makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Which is why I’m here.”

“I’m going to see Bobby this morning,” Johnny said.

“Are you going to ask him about his brush with Valentine at the hockey rink?”

“Yeah, but if he’s not talking it’s not going to get me anywhere.”

“All you can do is try.”

Johnny cleared his throat. “Yeah, right. Trying is not going to make you feel better if there’s a guilty verdict. There’re plenty of bigger names that will take this case given the publicity it might get.”

“No—”

“We talked about this before. Reputation matters with judges and prosecutors. I graduated Rutgers, not Harvard. I’ve got no pedigree, and I’ve got no shame. I’ll represent anyone. I don’t play basketball with any judges. The bigger names do. Bobby might be better off with one of those bigger names.”

“No. You know everything that happened last year. Everything. You’re the only one I trust. And I don’t want to discuss this again.”

They discussed logistics and hung up.

Johnny did the rest of his resistance workout without pausing between sets. He imagined two scenarios. In the first, the judge dismissed the case because of a legal maneuver. In the second, a jury found him innocent after Johnny delivered a stirring closing argument. In both cases, Nadia expressed her gratitude by kissing him, and what was supposed to be a gentle thank you turned into something more.

Something much more.

CHAPTER 14

S
EABIRDS CIRCLED
L
ITTLE
Diomede Island, an American territory in the Arctic Circle off the northern coast of Alaska. They nested in the cliffs that surrounded the village. The early morning sun shimmered on the snow-capped sea.

Lauren followed her tour guide along the rock walkway. The village consisted of four rows of houses, thirty buildings max. She’d seen the Native Store, Washeteria, and clinic, bingo hall and the armory. It was 10° outside. Lauren was wearing a parka but never stopped shivering.

Her tour guide’s name was Karen Kuvalik. The trail of clues from Kotzebue had led Lauren to Karen and her husband, Sam. They knew Bobby Kungenook and his real story. Lauren was sure of it. Convincing them to part with the truth, however, was going to take some persuasion. Lauren was prepared to do whatever was necessary. If the locals were protecting Bobby Kungenook, the story had to be about more than hockey. It could be a simple matter of illegal immigration, but her gut told her otherwise. Cops didn’t point rifles at reporters’ heads to protect an illegal immigrant. Lauren suspected this was the type of story that created international headlines.

“So you know Ricky Wells?” Karen said. She spoke in a monotone.

“No. I don’t really know him. I’m producing a show on the Kobuk 440. And Ricky’s a top competitor. I know he comes out to Diomede once a year to hunt polar bears, and I thought that would be interesting to our viewers. I asked if he wanted to come out with me but he couldn’t take time off from work.” That was true, but the entire exercise was an excuse to meet with Karen and Sam.

“That’s too bad. I never met him. I’ve seen him from a distance but I never met him. He’s still single, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I thought you were married, Karen.”

“I am. But my sister isn’t.”

“Ah. I see. I imagine the pickings are slim on the island.”

Karen shot her a look. “What does that mean?”

“No, no,” Lauren said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“What did you mean?”

“Literally what I said. There are one hundred thirty-five people living on your island. How many age appropriate single men can there be?”

“It’s even worse than that.”

“It is?”