Payback, p.4
Payback, page 4
He shrugged, shaking his head. “Who knows? It’s a long process. No guarantee of the outcome.”
I didn’t want to drop the topic. I was too excited. “We’ll talk to my mother about it as soon as she gets back from Florida. Mom is such a junkyard dog. She’ll help, I promise. And I will, too, obviously.”
He looked a shade unconvinced. Whether he lacked faith in his chances or in the counsel of Stone & Stone, I couldn’t guess. I wanted to discuss it further, to build his confidence, but at that moment, my phone hummed. It was a text from Bill, my friend and former coworker at the DA’s office. He was responding to the message I’d sent to him the night before, after we checked into our room at the Essex House.
Bill’s text read: I’m assisting in a jury trial today but if it’s really urgent, I can see you at the lunch break. Meet you by the halal cart.
I typed a hasty reply, agreeing to meet. Steven had returned to his cup of coffee, swigging it as he put his medical equipment away. He looked like he was preparing to depart.
“You’re not leaving?” I sounded petulant, like a disappointed kid.
He looked up, a question in his eyes. “Yeah. Don’t we both have somewhere we need to be?”
I tossed the duvet to the side, hoping to entice him with a glamorous nude reveal. Arguably, the sight was not entirely alluring. Purple splotches of bruises and red scrapes bloomed down my hips and legs.
But I persevered. “Checkout isn’t until eleven o’clock.”
He smiled and put down the bag.
Men are so easy to tempt.
Chapter 6
In the small park across the street from the Criminal Courts building, I hovered by the food wagons, waiting for Bill to appear. When he didn’t show, I obsessively checked my phone for messages. Ten minutes stretched to twenty-five as I paced in front of the carts by the park benches, dodging the government employees on break and keeping my eyes on the courthouse. I anticipated that he would surely exit through the main doors and come down the stone stairs.
Finally, I spotted Bill, hurrying down the steps of the grim limestone fortress and making his way toward me. I was surprised to notice he’d cut his hair short since I’d seen him. It was a new style, parted neatly on the side. He was wearing his best suit with a new tie. We had shared an office in the Manhattan DA’s office for three years. I knew Bill’s wardrobe by heart, could recite his ensembles from memory.
I hobbled up to meet him, wearing a smile. I didn’t even have to fake it. I had missed my coworker. It still felt strange to start a workday without the odor of smoked salmon garnishing a morning bagel, Bill’s go-to breakfast.
“Kate, how are you doing? Are you all recovered from the subway attack?”
The reminder of the recent push that had landed me on the train tracks gave my head an involuntary twinge. I shook it off. “I’m good. Thanks for asking.”
He edged closer, studying my face through his horn-rimmed glasses. In a hesitant voice, he asked, “Did you get hurt kickboxing? Or did somebody punch you in the nose lately?”
I groaned. “Long story.”
He bypassed me, stepping up to stand in line at the food cart. “Glad to hear you’re okay. Wish I had more time to catch up, to hear what’s been going on with you. But we’ll have to make this short. I have to get back inside in a few minutes.”
“No problem. Look,” I said, lifting up a plastic bag I’d been gripping in my right hand. “Let’s go find a seat. I got your favorite, a gyro with white cucumber sauce. I haven’t forgotten your preferences, Bill.”
He checked his wristwatch, an accessory that he broke out as part of his trial wardrobe. “I’ve got to take lunch back to Maya. She wants the chicken curry.”
His cocounsel’s curry was messing with my plans. “Why are you the errand boy? Can’t she get her own lunch? Bill, don’t let her order you around.”
He looked over his shoulder, undoubtedly worried that someone from the office might overhear. My outspoken tendencies had always made him uncomfortable.
Dropping his voice, he said, “This jury trial is a great opportunity for me. I wish you’d respect that, Kate. I don’t mind making the lunch run. I’m second chair.”
“Okay, fine. Sorry I said anything. Tell me about the case. What’s the charge? Who are you prosecuting?”
He paused for a beat before he answered. “Embezzlement.”
“Aha.” He sneaked a look at me. He knew what I was thinking. We’d gone around on this issue before. “Who’s on trial? A low-level employee, perhaps?”
“A Macy’s employee. Stealing merchandise.”
I pretended to look impressed. “Really? Taking it for resale?”
He gave me a resentful frown, like I was dragging information from him. “No. For her personal use.”
“I see,” I said. I made no attempt to suppress my disapproval. Bill gave me a warning glance over the top of his eyeglasses, but it didn’t shut me up. “So the DA’s office has a white-collar crime department with eighty attorneys, and Frank Rubenstein is using these resources to prosecute a shopgirl from a retail giant for snatching a pair of shoes. Sounds very Dickensian.”
“You know our office policy on white-collar crime. We prosecute all cases, big and small.”
I digested the statement while Bill stepped up to the window and rattled off the lunch order for his cocounsel, Maya. After he paid and received her bag of chicken curry, we broke away from the crowd lined up for the lunch trade.
“Come on, Bill, spill your guts. You know what I want to hear about. Is your department doing anything about Ian Templeton? That would be a big case, a better use of the resources then some girl wearing a pair of shoes from Macy’s. Ian Templeton is big time, and I still think he’s rotten to the core. I happen to know that the white-collar division received a ton of evidence about a Ponzi scheme he was operating.”
Templeton was a Wall Street magnate whose enormous wealth had been obtained illegally. In the past year, I’d tried to provide proof of his rackets to the DA’s office. They hadn’t taken any action against him as yet. Apparently, their focus was on prosecution of retail shoe thefts.
Bill started walking back to the courthouse, with me struggling to match his pace. When he spoke, his face wore a dogged look. “Kate, you know I can’t share that information with you. You’re not working on the law enforcement side anymore. You joined your mom’s defense firm in New Jersey. We can’t speak freely about things in the office, not these days. You understand; you’re not wearing the white hat.”
That last comment stung. Because actually, I believed that I was. It seemed like there should be room for heroics outside of Frank Rubenstein’s office. I was still dedicated to seeing justice done. I just wasn’t working as a prosecutor anymore, wasn’t wearing the ADA’s hat.
We were moving so fast I thought that Bill might break into a run at any moment, and I’d lose him. My knee still didn’t permit me to move with much speed. “Bill, when can we get together for a serious conversation?”
“Conversation about what? I thought you were going to be in Florida until next week. Did something happen?”
I had returned earlier than planned because I’d wanted to check in with Bill. But now that we were face-to-face, it seemed like a foolish impulse. Feeling defensive, I said, “I’m not comfortable with your situation in the office. Those white-collar ADAs aren’t our kind of cat. They have a different perspective on the prosecution role. And Rubenstein? He gives me a bad vibe.”
“That’s not fair, Kate. You never really knew him.”
Of course I didn’t. Rubenstein was a public figure. When I worked for him, I was a low-level assistant DA. That’s why it was jarring to hear Bill’s next statement. “Ruby is genuinely concerned with the welfare of his staff. He’s invested in all of us. That’s a quote, by the way.”
“Ruby?” Ruby was a nickname reserved for the DA’s close friends. “Since when did you start calling him Ruby?”
Bill’s face flushed—and not from the walk up the stairs that led to the courthouse entrance. “Since he’s been counseling me. We’ve been chatting on a pretty regular basis. About my therapy.”
“Whose idea was that? Don’t let Frank Rubenstein push you into therapy. It’s overreaching. You know he coerced me into it. He’s not a doctor, for God’s sake.”
Bill came to an abrupt halt. “Really, Kate? ‘Pushed into therapy’—like it’s a punishment? That’s an incredibly dated reaction. That attitude is the reason there’s still a stigma to mental illness.”
He was right. Maybe I was out of line. But I didn’t drop it. “I’m just saying.”
“You’ve got to stop this. Ruby is advancing my legal career. The white-collar division is incredible. Have you heard about the cyber lab?”
“Nope.” That was a lie, actually. I heard Rubenstein give a press conference, bragging about his state-of-the-art cyber lab that was battling cybercrime on the dark web. “What about Templeton? I think maybe Rubenstein won’t charge him because he’s covering for the guy.”
“God, Kate. You don’t understand him at all.”
He reached out and squeezed my shoulder. I tried not to wince, because he grasped a spot that had been banged up in the Suburban the day before. “Maybe instead of projecting your doubts on Ruby and Templeton, you should look inward.”
“Huh?”
“You tend to be paranoid. And everybody knows about your anger problem. Ruby tried to help you with that. Personally, I think you should go back and get therapy, find a support group. Give it a real effort this time.”
I snorted. Because the last time I joined a support group, I had connected with some dangerous characters. My support group involvement had damn near killed me.
My face must have revealed my honest reaction to his suggestion. Because Bill pulled me in for a hug, bumping the bag of chicken curry against my back.
His whisper tickled my ear. “I worry about you, Kate. You’re one of my best friends. I don’t want to lose you. Promise me you’ll get help.”
“I promise,” I said. And then he squeezed me tightly. Damn, it hurt.
After he released me, I watched him scurry through the courthouse door with his lunch bags. And I thought about the promise I had just made to him.
I did intend to get help. Probably not the kind of help Bill envisioned.
As I limped away, I felt foolish. Bill didn’t share my reservations about his switch to the new division, and he turned a deaf ear to my accusations against Ian Templeton. I’d achieved nothing by rushing back to the city.
If I could have a do-over, I’d be lounging on the beach in Florida.
Chapter 7
Riding the subway that day posed a challenge. It was the first time I’d walked onto the subway platform since my brush with death. As I heard the sounds of the underground cars speeding by, a wave of anxiety swept over me, making my stomach knot up. And my brain played a flashback of the moment I felt the powerful shove at my back and plunged onto the tracks.
It was essential that I overcome the trauma. I had to toughen up, conquer my newly developed reaction. I was a New Yorker. I relied on the train.
When the doors to the 1 train opened, I steeled myself and boarded the subway to ride back to upper Manhattan. Luck was with me that day, because I didn’t have to fight for a seat. An earlier customer had left his copy of the morning New York Times behind; the paper was strewn across the floor of the car. The business section was under my left foot. I bent down to check it out when I spotted Templeton’s name in the headline.
The bold headline said: “Templeton’s Cryptocurrency Is the Top ICO to Watch.” I wasn’t certain what it signified, but if Templeton was pitching it, it was sure to be a rip-off. The article looked like something I ought to read, but I wasn’t tempted to pick the newspaper off the grimy floor with my bare hands. It could wait until I was out of the subway and my Internet connection was restored.
When the subway slowed and ground to a stop, it was a relief. I’d survived the first train ride, and it would be easier the next time. I had my phone in hand as I mounted the concrete steps, eager to check out the press on Templeton’s new scam. As I emerged onto the street, I googled the article but didn’t have the chance to read it before my phone pinged with a FaceTime call.
Leo and Mom were calling in. I tapped the screen, and two faces appeared. One of them was smiling.
“Hey, Kate!” my brother said. “We’re missing you down here in Florida. Think you can fly back and join us? The weather down here is great, and the water—”
My mother broke in. “What the hell happened to your face?” she snapped.
I said, “Didn’t you get my message yesterday? I texted you. Leo, did you tell Mom about my call?”
His face fell. And then, he got the nervous expression he wears when he thinks trouble is brewing.
My mother said, “What phone call? Kate, you know I don’t pay attention to texts. That’s not how I communicate. I’m not a teenager.”
A bolt of irritation flashed through my brain. I had hoped that my mother and I might enjoy a new and more agreeable stage in our relationship since we’d survived the peril I’d encountered recently. Clearly, it was a false hope. Why would I think she would magically change after knowing her for twenty-eight years? I was fooling myself.
My voice sounded snippy when I replied, “So why did you call? I assume it wasn’t to give me the Fort Lauderdale weather report.”
“You’re right,” she said. On the FaceTime video, I could see her eyes narrow as she prepared her cross-examination of me. “What are you doing up there in the city? What’s going on with you? I got a notification on my American Express account. Someone put a room charge on one of my cards. A deluxe king at Essex House, Central Park view. I thought you were living in your humble flat in Morningside Heights. Has your card been stolen by one of the miscreants in your dismal part of the city?”
“No.” She could always make me feel like an unruly kid. I steeled myself, trying not to take the bait. Don’t sound defensive, I thought.
“I see. Then it was you. Dear God! What on earth are you up to? I thought you had to go back to the city to address some emergency with that coworker of yours.”
I tried to break in. “I did, I just left him.”
She talked over me. “And here’s something we need to clear up. Why do you need a hotel room? If you are sleeping with your coworker, why in God’s name didn’t he pay? Doesn’t the man pay for accommodations anymore?”
During the tirade, her voice had grown shrill. Everyone on the sidewalk could probably hear her. Fortunately, no one displayed any interest. I held the phone farther away to spare my ears. “Mother. I’m not sleeping with Bill.”
“Well, he would be a better choice than that doctor who lost his license. That doctor sounds like a complete waste of your time. What did you say that guy’s problem is? Was it drug addiction, do I remember that correctly?”
“No.” Why was I lying? I wondered. The product of a lifetime habit, I guessed. It was easier to shut her up if I avoided uncomfortable truths. “Do you want to hear what happened yesterday? Can you stop talking for a minute and give me the opportunity to speak?”
She let out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. Go ahead.”
Someone was walking directly beside me. I gave him the side-eye. I didn’t mind strangers hearing my mother’s rant, but I wasn’t keen to broadcast the story of my mishap the day before in Queens. He didn’t look like he’d be interested in my conversation, but you never know. Slowing down, I let him pass before I said, “I was the target of an abduction attempt yesterday.”
As I spoke, an ambulance passed, its siren blaring. Leo said, “What? Couldn’t hear you.”
So I repeated it and braced for a reaction.
Mom’s face was blank. “Are you serious? Abduction attempt—is that a metaphor for something else? Or is it some kind of joke?”
“Yeah, I’m serious. A guy met me at the airport, and said you’d hired a limo ride to take me into town.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would you believe that? It’s totally unlikely. I know you are capable of getting yourself from LaGuardia back to your place in Morningside Heights.”
Mom’s words were sharp, but her tone had changed. I saw the lines furrow in her brow. She must have skipped her Botox appointment this month, with all the crazy stuff that had happened.
I said, “I know that. So I called you to check it out, but you were at the spa. And the driver was really persistent. I ended up just going along, getting in the car with him.”
“Why on earth would you do that? Kate, you just got out of the hospital. A woman has been charged with felony assault and attempted murder, and the police are still searching for the man who pushed you onto the subway tracks. He hasn’t been apprehended yet.”
When she put it that way, it made me feel foolish. My instincts must be off for me to have let my guard down at LaGuardia the day before.
Someone bumped into me, throwing me off-balance. I needed to end the call. “Hey, I’m getting off now. I gotta go.”
“Where are you headed? Kate, I want more information. Are those freaks following you again?”
Her questions made me uneasy. I looked over my shoulder.
“I’m going to meet Steven, at the shelter.”
“What shelter?”
“The shelter on Amsterdam. The homeless shelter.”
“Why meet him at a homeless shelter?”
“Because that’s where he lives, Mom.”
At that, she shrieked something unintelligible. I could only make out some of the curse words. I ended the call and glanced behind me to check out the pedestrians on my side of the street. No one was tailing me.
I didn’t think so, anyway.
Chapter 8
I stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. The shelter where Steven worked was a short distance away, just a brisk walk for a person whose knees were working right. After a couple of blocks, I turned a corner and spotted the century-old sign for the Bohemian Hotel.
