The Kremlin Phoenix (3 page)

Craig’s phone rang. “Yes?”

“You have the photograph?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

“A trade. I will tell you what
happened to your father, in return for everything you have on one of your
clients.”

“Client information is
privileged,” Craig said automatically. “I can’t giving you anything.”

“Then you will never know the
truth about your father.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I will tell you nothing until
you give me what I want. Do you need time to consider my request?”

Craig hesitated. If he did what
this man asked, he could be disbarred, or face criminal charges, and if he didn’t,
unanswered questions would haunt him the rest of his life.

“Mr Balard, do you need time to
consider my offer?”

Craig cursed silently. “Which
client?”

“Marcell Laurence Incorporated.”

Craig had never worked on MLI,
but he knew the name. “Why them?”

“That is not your concern. I will
call you later today to arrange a meeting. Tell no one about this.”

Craig replaced the receiver, leant
back in his chair and rubbed his temple. After a minute, he picked up the old
black and white photograph again, and stared at the dirty, bloodied face of his
father, wondering what had really happened to him.

* * * *

Detective Rick Harriman wore a plain
grey, inexpensive suit. His top button was undone, his tie loose and his black shoes
scuffed. Strands of grey flecked his unkempt hair and a perpetual stubble covered
his chin, but as he entered Jerry Goldstein’s office, his eyes swept the room
with an intensity that missed nothing. Goldstein lay on his back, halfway
between the desk and an open liquor cabinet, eyes staring vacantly at the
ceiling. A single bullet hole penetrated his forehead, smearing his face and
saturating the surrounding carpet with blood. An empty glass lay on its side, not
far from Goldstein’s open hand.

Harriman circled the forensic team,
now busily at work, noting the neatly ordered piles of documents on the desk,
the sophisticated computer and the expensive hand carved teak furniture. When
he had a feel for the scene, he approached Dr Benjamin Chaing, the white coated
forensic scientist studying the body. “Morning Ben. Got anything for me?”

“Hi Rick,” Dr Chaing replied with
only a glancing look. “Not much so far. The entry wound indicates a small caliber
bullet. No abrasion ring around the wound, so they were quite far apart when
the shot was fired. Precise shot, right through the center of the forehead.
Considering the distance, I’d say the shooter is quite an expert.”

“Found the bullet?”

“Got a few pieces.” Chaing stood
up. “It’s a hollow point, shattered on contact with the skull. Blew the back of
his head right off.”

Harriman gazed at the large blood
stain on the carpet, and the broad splatter pattern behind the victim. “Professional
hit?”

“Maybe.” Dr Chaing pointed
towards the door. “He shot from over there. Low light conditions. Target might
have been moving. Clean, very clean.”

Harriman grunted appreciatively. “Any
idea of the time?”

“Around midnight.”

Hal Woods, Harriman’s tall, fair
haired partner, came into the office. He edged past the forensic guys and fell
in beside the senior detective.

“Thanks Doc,” Harriman said. “Let
me have your report -”

“Yeah I know, yesterday.”

Harriman turned to Woods, who
flipped open a small notebook. Hal Woods was only a few years out of uniform,
twenty years Harriman’s junior, and full of enthusiasm.

“The vic’s name is Jerry Abraham
Goldstein,” Woods began. “Lawyer, married, two kids, fifty six years old. Ivy
League type. Has an apartment on the Upper West Side.”

“Was he expecting any visitors
last night?”

“There was nothing in his
appointment book.”

“Did building security see anyone
enter the building around midnight?”

“There was a man who came in
about eleven fifty. He had ID, but the guard didn’t get a good look. Tall guy,
well built, dark hair, suit. Could have been anyone. No security pictures, no
record of him using the elevator.”

Harriman looked puzzled. “I’ve
seen at least a dozen security cameras since I walked through the door.”

Woods gave him a knowing look. “The
whole system was down from eleven forty five to twelve thirty last night.”

“That’s convenient. Get one of
our IT guys to have a look at their security system.” He turned back to Dr
Chaing. “Ben, was he carrying his wallet?”

Dr Chaing nodded. “Yeah, four
hundred in cash and credit cards. He’s still got his Rolex and solid gold cuff
links.”

“Thanks,” Harriman said, gazing
at the second glass sitting on Goldstein’s private bar. He was already sure it
wasn’t robbery. “He knew his killer, but he wasn’t expecting to be killed. We’ll
start interviewing his partners, and work our way down. Get his secretary to
get us a conference room.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Where’s the coffee
machine?”

* * * *

The Marcell Laurence Incorporated
computer files were stored in a secure online system. Craig could access some
of the general business files from his own computer, although not the
confidential material handled by the partners. To his surprise, he discovered
all of the MLI files had been deleted, and the system log told him Jerry
Goldstein had done it.  

Was this why he was murdered?
he wondered.

Considering MLI was the golden
goose, Craig was shocked to find it had vanished from the firm’s computer
system. When he checked the cabinets in the fire proof vault, where paper files
and signed documents were stored, he found the MLI drawers were empty. He
returned to his office and worked half heartedly while his mind raced,
wondering how his father’s disappearance could possibly relate to the loss of
his firm’s golden client, and perhaps to Goldstein’s murder.

In the late afternoon, the man
with the thick accent called again. “Do you have something for me?”

“No. The MLI files are gone.”

“Don’t play games with me, Mr
Balard.”

“I swear. Nothing’s left.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“I tried to get what you wanted. Why
don’t you just tell me what you know about my father?”

“That is not possible.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“I have no interest in your money,
Mr Balard. If the files are gone, we have nothing more to discuss.”

“Wait! Look, I don’t know what’s
happened, but give me a little more time.”

“If the files I want have been
taken, you will never see them again.”

“Give me one day. If there’s
anything left, I’ll find it.”

“Very well. You have twenty four
hours.”

* * * *

Mack’s was a family owned steakhouse tucked
away behind an old theatre on Fifty Second street. Ed McCormack ate there once
a week, but tonight he’d not even glanced at the menu. The fat little lawyer
had spent his time keeping an eye on the door and checking his watch. Both he
and his partner, Phil Powell, had spent over an hour each being grilled by Harriman,
although neither had given the detective any clue as to why Goldstein was dead.
He fidgeted nervously while he waited, practicing what he’d tell Powell. He no
longer cared about the money, he just wanted to get out. He wanted to stay
alive.

When Powell entered the steakhouse
carrying a plastic bag, he strolled confidently to McCormack’s table. “Is it
dark enough for you?” Powell asked sarcastically as he sat opposite, noting they
were in the gloomiest corner of the restaurant and the candle on the table was
out.

“I didn’t know if I was followed!”

Powell gave him a disgusted look.
McCormack was a good lawyer, but a disgraceful coward. “They’re not going to gun
you down in a crowded restaurant.”

“You don’t know that! I don’t
know that. I’m not taking any chances.” McCormack’s voice had an hysterical edge
to it.

“You know what you need?” Powell
asked.

“Yeah, a stiff drink and a new
identity.”

“You need confidence.” Powell
opened his coat to reveal a gun in a shoulder holster. “Meet my new best
friend, courtesy of Mr Smith and Mr Wesson.”

McCormack’s eyes widened. “You’re
crazy!”

Powell placed the plastic bag on
the table and pushed it across to him. “Any son of bitch who crosses me is
going to get
his
head blown off. They’re not
going to do me the way they did Jerry.” Powell spoke with a cold anger McCormack
had never seen before. “Yours is in the bag.”

“Mine? No, I don’t want it. I
couldn’t!” McCormack pushed the bag back towards Powell.

“You take it! You load it! And
you damn well wear it! And if some bastard comes at you, shoot first.”

“I don’t know how to shoot. I’ve
never held a gun in my life.”

Powell pushed the bag all the way
across the table. “If you want to live, learn fast!”

Slowly, McCormack reached for the
bag and glanced warily inside. “I’m leaving New York, the partnership,
everything.”

Powell gave McCormack a scornful
look. He regretted having such a weak man for a partner. Goldstein would have
had more guts.

“You can’t leave.”

“Yes I can. I’m getting out. I’ve
made a lot of money and I want to live long enough to enjoy it.”

“It won’t matter where you go. If
they want you, they’ll find you. You can’t hide from people like this.”

“We don’t know that,” McCormack said.
“We don’t even know who they are.”

Powell smiled sourly. “We know
enough.”

McCormack looked confused. “What
do you mean?”

“We know where the money is.”

“So?”

“The MLI computer files are
wiped. All the documents are gone. Everything! Jerry must have done it. They
must have told him to.” Powell’s fist was clenched. “They’re removing all trace
of the money. The only way they can do that, is to get rid of us.” He tapped
his temple, adding, “And what we know.”

“But we’re not going to tell
anyone anything. It’s privileged. And why now, after all these years? It makes
no sense.”

“People like this don’t care
about privilege. That means nothing to them. That much money means one thing
only, raw power.”

“But we’ve worked so hard for
them. No one could have done a better job than us.”

Powell smiled cynically. “And we
got very rich. Now
we’r
e
the money trail: you, me, and those other guys overseas. We’re all dead men!”

“Maybe we can make a deal.” McCormack
ran his shaking hand through his hair.

“With who?” Powell asked sharply.
“All we’ve got is a post box in Berlin. Besides, these sort of people don’t
make deals.”

“Then we should go to the cops,
right now! We’ll tell that detective – Harriman – that we need protection.”

“Really? How long can the police
protect you? Will they still be there in six months? In a year?”

McCormack was sweating heavily. “We
could join the witness protection program.”

Powell grunted. “Oh yeah? Who are
we going to bear witness against? For what crime? To be in that, you have to
know something about someone the cops want to bust. We’re not eligible.”

“God, what are we going to do?” McCormack
was sweating and his hands were shaking.

“Do what I told you. If you can
pass the bar exam, you can shoot a gun. Morons do it every day.”

The waitress approached with her
notebook.

“Are you gentleman ready to
order?”

Powell picked up the menu. “Sure.
Got any specials?”

* * * *

April 7, 2276

“But you don’t know he’ll be
there?” Wilkins asked uncertainly.

“We’re relying on a two hundred
and fifty year old police report,” Mariena replied. “It said he was in his
office at that time. It’s the best we can do.”

“Why him?”

“We didn’t choose him, they did.
They’re trying to blackmail him into helping them – which is what we want. The
problem is, he doesn’t know where to look. If we don’t help him, he’ll miss
it.”

“How do you know they’re
blackmailing him?”

“It was mentioned in Prime
Minister Gundarovsky’s autobiography,” she said. “They failed, because he never
found what they were after.”

“The master list?”

“Yes. He was too late. That’s why
I asked Goldstein to hide it.”