Nele Neuhaus - Swimming with Sharks

“I don’t give a damn,” Nick replied. “Let me through!”

He pushed the US marshal aside and walked around the building until he found the kitchen door. Under no circumstances did he want to be seen by a dozen people at this bar.

Nick knocked on the door, and Spooner and Khazaeli stood behind him.

“At least keep your weapons out of sight,” Nick asked them.

“So that these guys can gun us down?” Spooner cocked his Glock. “I don’t think so!”

The door opened a crack, and an unshaven, pockmarked man peeked out suspiciously.

“Are you…?”

“Yes,” Nick replied impatiently. “I’m Nick Kostidis.”

“And those guys?”

“US marshals,” Spooner said. “Open the door, pal!”

Nick rolled his eyes. Deputy Spooner was as diplomatic as a steamroller.

“Come in,” the man said, opening the door, and Nick entered the incredibly dirty kitchen. The place made a mockery of New York’s health regulations.

“Hi, Mayor Kostidis.” A fat woman with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth appeared in the doorway. “I can’t believe it! We all voted for you—me and my regulars.”

Nick forced a smile. “I want to see Ms. Sontheim.”

“Unbelievable. Ain’t it, Travis?” The corpulent woman rammed her elbow into the pockmarked man’s side. “The mayor himself in my place.”

Nick shook with impatience.

“Travis here pulled the girl out of the river,” the fat woman said, patting the man’s back. “She was butt naked and half dead—the poor thing.”

Nick turned pale. Had Vitali really tried to get rid of Alex in the river in classic Mafia style?

“Come with me, Mr. Kostidis.” The fat woman waved to him. She planted herself in front of the two US marshals.

“You stay down here, boys,” she said with an authority that tolerated no dissent. “The babe’s in pretty bad shape, as you can imagine. And I’m sure that she doesn’t want to see any cops.”

“But—” Spooner was about to protest.

“Nope. You stay here.” She heaved herself up the narrow staircase, and Nick followed her along a dimly lit hallway to a door.

“You better be nice to her,” the fat woman said in a quiet voice. “She got roughed up pretty good, the poor thing. Lost her memory and had a high fever. But she’s doin’ better since midday today. She remembers what happened now.”

Nick nodded. His heart was racing, and he would have loved to charge past the big woman.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said in a surprisingly gentle way, “you got a visitor.”

She stepped aside, and Nick entered the room. He didn’t notice the greasy wallpaper, the worn-out carpet, the nicotine-yellow curtains, the decrepit furniture, or the red lamp that made this room what it was in the evenings: a pay-by-the-hour motel. Nick only had eyes for the slender figure that sat at the head of the bed with her arms wrapped around her knees.

“Alex! Oh my God, Alex.”

Her face had been mangled terribly, looking like one big bruise. Blood had dried on her cheeks, chin, nose, and busted lips. Burst blood vessels surrounded her eyes.

“Nick,” she whispered. Her eyes were filled with fear and looked nearly dead. Only a picture of misery remained of this beautiful young woman. He knelt down in front of the bed and looked at the wounds on Alex’s wrists. She was wearing a jogging suit that was much too large.

Nick had a feeling that more had been destroyed than just her beautiful face. A broken human being crouched before him.

“He came to the hotel,” Alex whispered. “I thought that you had come back, that’s why I opened the door.”

Nick frowned as he tried to hold back the tears. This was all so simply horrifying. Tears of anger rose in him and a lump caught in his throat. What unfeeling animals could do such a thing to a woman?

“I didn’t tell him anything. Not a single word,” Alex continued.

She was speaking mechanically; her expression was empty, trancelike.

“They beat and raped me. He said that he would kill me. I couldn’t defend myself. He sat on a chair and watched, and then he… laughed …”

Her voice failed her. She swayed back and forth while the tears ran down her face. Nick felt a wild, powerless anger. Sergio Vitali—this brutal, merciless monster without regard for human life—had destroyed Alex. And then Nick’s heart tensed when he remembered her expression of happiness back on the beach in Montauk. That seemed like light-years ago.

“Come with me, Alex.” Nick extended his hand.

“If he finds out that I’m still alive,” she said, her gaze wandering around the room aimlessly, “then he’ll try to kill me again.”

“I’ll look after you, I promise you.” Nick’s voice sounded brave. He extended his hand patiently to her, until Alex finally let go of her knees and grabbed it.

“Oh, Nick,” she suddenly sobbed. “Why did all of this have to happen? Why?”

She threw her arms around his neck, pulled her sobbing body toward him, and buried her face in his chest.

“I’ll take care of you, Alex.” Nick pressed his face into her hair. “I promise you, my love. I’ll protect you.”

He held her tight, cradling her in his arms like a baby, letting her cry. Once she calmed down a bit, he picked her up and carried her out to the hallway, where the fat woman was still on guard. Nick’s eyes met with hers.

“Thanks,” he said. “Thank you for your help.”

“It’s okay,” the woman replied and stroked Alex’s stringy hair. “Take good care of her.”

He carried Alex down the stairs, past the marshals to the car. In the car, Alex cuddled in his arms. Her whole body shivered even though the car was warm and she was wrapped in a wool blanket. Nick murmured senseless, calming words that one might say to a child; his sympathy for her was so deep.

“Where are we going?” Deputy Spooner asked curtly.

“Goldwater Memorial on Roosevelt Island,” Nick replied, “and keep a low profile, please.”

“Of course, sir.”

As the car drove off, Nick stroked Alex’s beaten face and held her tightly in his arms. He searched for consoling words, but there was no solace. Nick remembered his own emotions all too well. In the days following Mary’s and Christopher’s deaths, he couldn’t bear to be spoken to. The lights of the Brooklyn Bridge illuminated the injuries to Alex’s face. Nick wished that he could spare her everything that was waiting for her. She would have to endure endless questioning by the US Attorney’s Office, the SEC’s investigation unit, the NYPD, the doctors, and especially the FBI. Time and again, they would force her to remember what she probably wanted to forget. Often enough during his tenure as a US attorney, Nick had had to ask such questions. He had never realized how painful they could actually be.

The news that Alex had surfaced again put Lloyd Connors into a state of sheer euphoria. His exhaustion was forgotten. With fiery zeal, he and his staff worked overnight on the indictment against Sergio Vitali. However, Alex’s murder charge had to be redacted for her to be a credible witness of the prosecution. But Oliver Skerritt’s testimony would prove Vitali’s guilt, along with St. John’s documents, and—last but not least—Nelson van Mieren’s confession that now had unexpected weight because Alex was alive. Alex had witnessed a hired assassin reporting the killing of David Zuckerman to Vitali. Vitali could not possibly wrench himself free from this accusation. It was six forty-five when Tate Jenkins stepped into Connors’s office accompanied by two men.

“Your time is almost up now, Connors,” the deputy director of the FBI said with a patronizing smile. “How far along are your people with the indictments?”