“And no Zelvas,” Benzetti said.
“Zelvas is dead,” Chukov said.
“Zelvas is dead?” Benzetti repeated so that Rice could hear the news. “And you know that how? You’re sure of it?”
“He was stealing from us,” Chukov said. “I’m in charge of the Syndicate’s loss-prevention department. Ten minutes ago I got a confirmation call from the field that Zelvas’s thieving days are over.”
Benzetti breathed out in relief. “I’m impressed. Where did you find someone who could get the drop on Walter Zelvas? Never mind. Did your man in the field say anything about the diamonds?” Benzetti asked. “If they’re not here, I figure Zelvas took them with him.”
“If he did, our man didn’t see them,” Chukov said. “He barely had time to finish Zelvas off when a shitstorm of cops arrived. He was lucky to get away.”
“He never saw any diamonds?” Benzetti said.
“That’s what he told me. I really don’t know, but I want those diamonds back!” Chukov yelled.
“And so does somebody named Nathaniel Prince,” Benzetti said.
That seemed to get the Russian’s attention. “What do you know about Nathaniel Prince?”
“Is he your boss?”
“You and Rice work for me,” Chukov said. “That’s all you need to know.”
“Actually, there is one other thing I need to know,” Benzetti said. “Who’s Natalia? She’s around five ten, dark hair, fantastic rack, a very pretty lady.”
“How do you know Natalia?” Chukov asked.
“We’ve got her handcuffed in Zelvas’s bedroom. She was opening his safe just as we got here.”
“Natalia is Prince’s girlfriend.”
“Prince’s girlfriend? She said she was Zelvas’s girlfriend.”
Chukov laughed. “She gets around.”
“What should we do with the lovely Natalia?”
“Two choices,” Chukov said. “You can uncuff her, apologize for not knowing who she is, and tell her you’re going to do all you can to get the diamonds back for Nathaniel Prince.”
“I’m not much for apologies. What’s my second choice?”
“Keep her cuffed, rip off her clothes, fuck the living shit out of her — and a few hours later, you’ll be happy but dead. Prince will kill you—gulag-style.”
Chapter 10
THERE’S SOMETHING SURREAL about sitting in the back of a taxi with a bag full of diamonds. This can’t be happening to me, I kept telling myself. But it was. I only wished I could open the bag and make sure.
My benefactor from New Jersey didn’t even talk to me. He was on his cell with someone in Tokyo, hedging funds or whatever those investor guys do. I’m sure by the time he got to Ridgewood, he’d made more than enough to pay for the thousand-dollar cab ride.
The driver was chatty all the way downtown, filling me in on his own financial plans.
“I can be back at Grand Central in an hour. There’s gotta be hundreds of rich guys willing to pop big bucks to get home to the suburbs,” he said. “This is the kind of incredible night a cabbie waits for.”
So little time. So many desperate stranded souls to gouge. I smiled and hefted my medical bag. Who was I to judge?
He took me to the Emergency entrance at St. Vincent’s and left in a hurry. I walked the three blocks to my apartment, looking left, right, and behind me every step of the way.
My apartment is in a five-story brownstone, built back in the early twentieth century, when craftsmanship and integrity were still the hallmarks of the construction industry. The brick is so solid-looking that the tenants call it the Fortress.
I live on the top floor. There’s a closed-circuit TV system in the vestibule, and most nights I wave at the camera, and whoever sees me opens their door and gives me a “Hi, Matthew.”
But tonight I ran up the five flights, opened my door, double-locked it behind me, and exhaled. I hadn’t been arrested or killed and I still had the diamonds. I was safe. For now.
I always feel good about walking into my apartment, and tonight I felt even better. It’s hardly the biggest space in New York, but it feels homey. That’s because it’s wall-to-wall me. Literally. Every inch of wall space is covered with my paintings. I don’t know if I’m any good, but I like my stuff enough to want to look at it all the time.
My cat sauntered in. I got him at the shelter two years ago. He’s black and white, with about fifteen shades of gray. His name was Hooper when I adopted him, but I changed it to Hopper, after my favorite painter.
It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t come no matter what I call him.
“Look what Daddy brought home,” I said, showing him the bag of diamonds. He couldn’t have cared less, but I had been dying to show somebody.
“Well, you might not be interested, but I hear this stuff can be catnip for some women.”
I grabbed a beer from the fridge, sat down on the sofa, opened the bag, and let the diamonds trickle through my fingers. I was in I’m-Rich-Beyond-My-Wildest-Dreams euphoria when the doorbell rang.
Someone was coming for the diamonds! That had to be it. Shit!
I jumped up, sloshing beer on my pants, and headed for the cabinets where I store my paints, brushes, and a Beretta M9 semiautomatic. I’m an ex-Marine. Whoever was downstairs thought I was just an art student. Advantage: for me.
I gripped the gun and moved over to check the closed-circuit monitor. The cat, just as curious to see who was at my front door at ten minutes after midnight, followed me.
I looked at the screen and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Jeez, Hopper,” I said. “One of us is as nervous as a cat.”
Chapter 11
AT THE AGE of five I was given my first toy chest. It was a Marine Corps footlocker. While other kids got colorful wooden boxes with their favorite superhero or sports team logo painted on the front, my father decided I should have an olive-drab, steel-reinforced, double-padlock trunk emblazoned with SEMPER FI and steeped in his own personal military history.
I still have it. It’s bolted to my bedroom floor. I unlocked it and buried the medical bag with the diamonds under layers of old uniforms and a few souvenirs I brought home from Afghanistan. I shut the lid and made sure it was locked up tight.
Then I went back to the living room, tucked the gun back in the art cabinet where it belonged, and opened the front door.
And there she was, wearing a dove-gray V-neck sweater that matched her eyes and a just-to-the-knees denim skirt that showed off her legs nicely. Katherine.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” I said. “Besides looking terrific, that is.”
She threw her arms around me. “Haven’t you heard? There was some kind of terrorist attack at Grand Central,” she said, kissing my cheeks, my neck, finally my lips. “I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
“Good thinking,” I said, pressing her body against mine. “After the railroads, and maybe planes, the next logical terrorist target would be art professors.”
She stepped back. “Are you making fun of me, Matthew?”
“Never.”
“Will you watch out for me? Keep me company tonight?”
“Uh-huh.”
And I meant it. My mother raised me to be an artist, but my father trained me to protect the people I love. When I was growing up, he was more like a drill sergeant than a dad. Once when I was ten, we were hiking in Pike National Forest. One minute we were together and then suddenly he was gone, and I was all alone in the middle of the Colorado wilderness. I had nothing but a hunting knife. No food, no water, no compass. I knew we hadn’t separated by accident, either. This was a test. It took me thirty hours to pass it, but I finally found my way home.