Swimming with Sharks (16 page)

“You’re the mayor, Nick. You can do this.”

“I can’t do it without losing face in the process. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll get the permit. It’s only a question of time, and it will cost me a lot of money. Money that I’d rather spend on a kindergarten than on lawyers and appraisers.”

“I can’t do it.”

Rosenbaum shrugged his shoulders with a thin smile on his face.

“I’ve always taken you for an intelligent man. But apparently I was mistaken. You’re harming this city with your stubbornness and unwillingness to compromise. The financiers and investors will go somewhere else. To a place where they are welcomed with open arms and a good deed isn’t considered bribery.”

Rosenbaum had expressed his opinion more clearly than anyone before him, and Nick painfully realized for the first time that because of his strict morality, perhaps he wasn’t the right person for this job. For the benefit of the city and its citizens, he would have been forced to agree with him and forget his black-and-white thinking. Hundreds of children would benefit from this new kindergarten, and it probably wouldn’t
bother anyone that a new skyscraper turned out to be a bit taller than initially planned and permitted. Nevertheless, if he accepted this bargain just once, then he wouldn’t be able to say no the next time. He’d once called his predecessors “the establishment’s corrupt puppets.” The people of New York had voted for him because he promised to be different.

“It’s a shame,” Rosenbaum said. “I thought that you’d been around long enough to understand that you won’t get anywhere with these small-minded policies. You’ll go down in history as the mayor who ruined this city with his exaggerated moral standards.”

Nick had mulled over Rosenbaum’s words ever since. Serious doubts about his approach had tormented him. He lay awake at nights thinking, but Nick ultimately decided that he couldn’t compromise if he wanted to stay true to himself.

The taxi stopped at Gracie Mansion, and Nick paid the driver. The security guards saluted the mayor and his wife politely. They were used to seeing Nick taking taxis or the subway, rather than traveling by private car. Mary and Nick silently strolled toward the house, which looked like a Southern mansion, with its surrounding veranda and white railings. The fragrance of lilac mixed in the air with that of the roses. The foliage was so thick and dark that the driveway seemed narrow. It was a beautiful night.

But Mary’s search for comfort in the beauty of the garden was in vain. Her husband walked next to her like he was a stranger, with his hands buried deep in his pockets and his eyes downcast. She was desperately searching for the right words to liberate him from this mood that she knew all too well. Recently, he suffered from these bouts of melancholy more often. He closed himself off, and he got this empty, bitter look on his face, which hurt Mary very much.

“Nick,” she said. She couldn’t take his silence anymore. Moths were flitting around the streetlight, and the unceasing sounds of the city could be heard as a muted mumbling from the distance.

“Yes?” He avoided looking into her eyes.

“It hurts me to see you so desperate and discouraged. You’ve always kept fighting no matter how hopeless the situation seemed. You can’t give up now!”

Nick didn’t answer.

“I love you,” Mary said softly. “I don’t give a damn what other people say.”

Nick was silent and shook his head.

“I have to accept that I’m not the right man for this job.”

“But that’s nonsense! You’re the best mayor this city ever had!”

Nick’s gaze, helpless and scornful at the same time, hit Mary like a slap in the face. He laughed mockingly. “Well, at least one person thinks so.”

Then he turned and quickly walked to the house. Mary followed him slowly. He had never rebuffed her this harshly before. Tears burned in her eyes, and a lump rose in her throat. He was distancing himself from her, and she couldn’t understand why.

The next morning, Nick Kostidis passed the gate and assured the two security guards—as he had done so many times before—that he was quite capable of getting downtown himself. He walked along Eighty-Sixth Street to the subway station at the corner of Lexington Avenue. He rushed down the stairs with quick steps, just barely catching the downtown express train, and sat down on an empty seat in the very last car. At this early hour on a Sunday morning, the subway was deserted save for a few early-rising tourists. The train rattled and raced through the dark tunnels, flying past the brightly lit local stations.

Nick leaned back and closed his eyes. He’d hardly slept last night. He woke up drenched in sweat from a nightmare at four in the morning. He
couldn’t remember the details, but he could still feel the dream’s sensation of powerlessness. Until the crack of dawn, he’d lain awake in his bed wondering which one of his employees was double-crossing him. Who knew that Zuckerman was brought to that hotel and that he had agreed to testify against Vitali?

The train came to a screeching halt and the doors opened, just to close again seconds later with a pneumatic sigh. Coming out under the blue sky at City Hall Park, he squinted into the bright August sun. He stopped for a short moment and looked at his office building with a mixture of pride and resignation.

Thinking about how many mayors before him had tried to govern this incomparable city more or less successfully since 1821 filled him with awe and respect, as it always did. At the same time, he felt that the arrogant proximity of the modern glass-and-steel skyscrapers towering so mightily above city hall was symbolic. The people sitting in these skyscrapers—the banks and corporations with ruthless men at their helms—held the true power over this city.

Nick Kostidis sighed and walked up the steps to city hall. A horde of press people lurked in the entrance hall, immediately storming toward him when they saw him coming. They had somehow heard he would be there.

“Mayor Kostidis!” an eager young woman yelled. “What do you have to say about the accusations that you had something to do with David Zuckerman’s death?”

Within seconds, he found himself trapped by reporters, photographers, and camera crews pushing their microphones into his face. How the hell did the press already know about Zuckerman?

“Nick!” It was John Steele from Network America. “There are rumors that Zuckerman was killed by the Mafia. What do you think?”

Nick raised his hands and waited for the yelling to subside.

“First of all, good morning.” He tried to put on a friendly face. “I can’t comment at this point in time because all I know right now is that Mr.
Zuckerman was shot dead last night. I’m on my way to have a meeting with the police commissioner right now. We will release a statement later today.”

“Mr. Kostidis,” the eager woman persisted, “there’s a rumor that you were involved in Zuckerman’s death. Is there any truth to these allegations?”

Nick saw an unprofessional lust for sensationalism in her eyes.

“These allegations are nothing but hot air,” he responded. “Zuckerman was charged with aiding and abetting fraud and bribery. This matter is solely the concern of the US Attorney’s Office. I’m the mayor of New York. This case doesn’t fall under my jurisdiction.”

“But,” the eager woman persisted, “according to some people, Zuckerman worked for Sergio Vitali. It’s well known that you and Mr. Vitali—”

“Listen,” Nick interrupted her impatiently, “you apparently know more than I do. Why don’t you wait until I find out what this is all about? Okay?”

With these words, he pushed himself through the crowd of journalists. He swiftly disappeared into the hallway leading to his ground-floor office. Frank approached him at the door.

“How did the press find out about this?” Nick yelled at his assistant in a rage. “What the fuck is going on?”

“The press?” Frank gave him an astonished look.

“Yes, damn it.” Nick quickly paced along the hallway. “They ambushed me in the entrance hall, bombarding me with questions. I wasn’t prepared. They asked me whether I was involved in Zuckerman’s death!”

“You?” Frank asked, surprised. “Who gave them that idea? How did the press find this out anyway?”

Nick stopped so abruptly that the young man almost ran into him.

“That’s exactly what I’d like to know. It looks like no secret whatsoever is safe here! Not even ten hours have passed, and everyone in the city appears to be better informed than I am!”

His eyes flashed angrily, but he wasn’t really mad. He had a sense of futility, as if someone had taken the helm out of his hands.

“By the way, Truman McDeere has been waiting in your office,” Frank said, “for the past half hour.”

They reached the west wing of city hall. The hustle and bustle usually reigning here was absent on the weekend. The offices were empty. Only Nick’s secretary, Allie Mitchell, sat at her desk, as well as Raymond Howard.

“The press is bombarding us with phone calls,” Allie said to Nick. “And Mr. de Lancie called, and Governor Rhodes wants you to call him back.”

“Great.” Nick frowned. “They’ll have to wait. I first want to hear what McDeere has to say.”

He disappeared into his office, while Frank, Ray, and Allie exchanged telling looks.

Truman McDeere rose from the chair he was sitting in when Nick Kostidis entered his office. He looked even more pinched than usual.

“How could this happen, McDeere?” Nick snapped at the FBI officer.

“I’m not accountable to you, Mayor Kostidis,” the bald federal agent responded sharply. “We’re not guilty of anything.”

“Except that a man who was supposed to be protected by fifteen FBI agents was shot to death.”

McDeere’s expression turned even grimmer.

“The men weren’t informed properly about this operation. They were just briefed about the identity of this man on-site,” he snapped. “They didn’t know each other. Just your people and I knew about this.”

“What interest would any of us have in seeing Zuckerman killed?”

McDeere shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarillo. Nick watched him closely. He had known Truman McDeere for some time and he suspected that there was more to this story than the FBI agent was willing to admit.

“So, Truman,” he said in a conciliatory tone, “what really happened?”

After a brief internal debate, McDeere took a deep breath and started to speak in a quiet voice.

“Our people were positioned throughout the entire hotel. At all of the back entrances, the kitchen, the underground garage, and the elevators. One man stayed in the room with Zuckerman the whole time. It was about eight thirty when someone knocked at the door of the room. That person knew the agreed-upon knocking signals, and he also reached the sixth floor unchallenged. So the officer opened up. The agent thought he recognized the man from the meeting the night before and assumed that he was part of the squad. When the agent was told that he should go to the lobby to report the changing of the guard, he left the room.”

Nick closed his eyes. An old, brazen Mafia trick, and the Feds fell for it! McDeere apparently had trouble admitting the mistake.

“When the agent got downstairs to see the others, it was immediately clear that something was fishy. They rushed back upstairs, but it was already too late by then. Zuckerman was dead as a doornail. Two shots at close range to the heart and one to the head. The murder weapon was a .45-caliber Smith & Wesson with a silencer. We found it.”

“Oh?” Nick opened his eyes again.

“It was in a cart with dirty laundry.”

“Did you trace it?”

“We couldn’t. It has no serial number, no fingerprints, nothing. Ballistics are examining the gun, but there’s no way to trace anything by way of the weapon. This guy was a pro.”

“Looks like Mafia.”

“Definitely.” McDeere nodded, his face sullen. “We made a mistake precisely because we wanted to be absolutely sure that nothing went wrong. This is why we only used officers who didn’t know each other. And that was exactly the opportunity for the killer to do his thing.”

“He must have known all the details,” Nick said. His darkest fears seemed to prove true. Only Vitali could be behind this cold-blooded execution.