David Ellis - The Hidden Man

“Out of curiosity,” I said. “How did you expect this to play out? You get Sammy off the charges, and then you just tell him, ‘By the way, your long-lost sister is still alive, and could she please have one of your kidneys?’”

“You say these things as if there were many options. But there were no options.” He looked at me. “What would we have done? I don’t know. Offer him money for his kidney and for his silence, I guess. Would we have killed him afterward? You want me to tell you that wasn’t a possibility? I don’t know.” He shook his head. “None of that mattered until we got him out of jail.”

That stood to reason, which is to say, there was no reason. From his perspective, his only hope, short of confessing, was to get Sammy free and then think of something.

“You need to know, Jason,” Carlo said, wagging an insistent finger at me. “You need to know, this girl has been loved every day of her life. She was given everything, but most of all our-our love,” he managed, choking out the words. “Extreme actions. We took extreme actions, yes. But it was a matter of life and death. I would rip”-he grabbed at his midsection-“I would rip every organ out of my body to save her. So would my boys. We would do anything.”

“Everything but confess to a crime. This could have been all over months ago.”

“Yes. I admit it. I’ll confess now. Call the police. Have an officer come to this room.”

“I’m going to do just that.” I opened my cell phone, searched through the directory, and made the call. “Detective Carruthers,” I said. “Jason Kolarich. You won’t have to keep that photo of Audrey Cutler any more.”

I gave a little taste of the details and signed off.

“You tried to kill me today,” I said to Carlo. I thought it deserved mention.

He nodded. “I knew it was over. I was ready to go to the cops. I just wanted to protect the rest of my family. This was my doing. It should be me who pays. Me. Just me.” Carlo rose from the chair with some effort and approached me. He took my arm as he began to lose composure, his body trembling, tears falling. “I beg you, Jason. I beg you. The brother-he’ll hate me. He’ll hate all of us. He has every right to. But please, son- please convince the brother to donate a kidney.”

MY BROTHER ARRIVED at the hospital at almost the same time as the police. He showed up without an escort, having been dropped off at the hospital with instructions to head to the sixth floor. His left hand was bandaged where he’d lost the finger and he looked like absolute hell, but he was relatively intact and the sense of relief was all over his face.

My brother and I weren’t much for hugging over the years, but we had a long embrace and then I checked him over, with one arm over his shoulder. “I’m okay,” he insisted. “Other than the finger, they didn’t lay a glove on me. They pretty much ignored me, actually.”

I patted his chest. “A braver man than I.”

Police officers were streaming in now. Carlo had left Audrey’s room and was being questioned by Carruthers and other cops in an empty room down the hall. The whole thing was turning into a madhouse.

“Let’s get lost,” I suggested. Pete needed to have his hand examined-at least we were in the right place for that. But mostly I wanted to usher Pete away from this scene, from the entire affair, as quickly as I could. And once we broke away, there was another stop I wanted to make, too.

HIS NAME WASN’T SMITH. It was Raymond Hertzberg, an attorney in private practice who specialized in transactional work, an interesting way to describe what he did. His clients were a who’s who of shady characters-some whose names and photographs would be found on flow charts in the FBI offices, and many who didn’t quite rise to the level of mafia but had some connection or another with organized crime.

He was at his office until well after ten o’clock. He stuffed a number of documents into his old suitcase and carried an additional gym bag for the overload. A long trip was in the making, some place sunny with favorable extradition laws.

He had a firearm, which he typically didn’t carry, stuffed into his suit pocket. Just a few hours now and he’d be on his way, hopefully just to be sure everything had settled in a manner favorable to him. Otherwise, perhaps a permanent stay.

He trusted Carlo as much as anyone that ever lived. He knew Carlo wouldn’t give him up. But that didn’t guarantee Smith wouldn’t be exposed, least of all to Jason Kolarich.

He took one last look around his office space, wondering if he’d ever see it again. Then he awkwardly navigated the front door of the suite, putting down his suitcase, unlocking the door and pushing it open, then picking up the suitcase again and pushing the heavy door with his shoulder.

The door pushed back, crashing him against the door frame, once, twice, a third time, taking the wind from him. His suitcase fell, dumping over, papers scattering everywhere. A final time, the door crashing against his forehead and knocking the back of his head into the frame, a one-two combination that left him seeing stars as he shrunk to the ground.

“Hi, Smith.” Jason Kolarich’s foot connected with Smith’s jaw, knocking Smith sideways to the floor. Smith rolled over and looked up at Kolarich. “I’m not going to kill you,” said Kolarich, “unless you go for that gun.”

“He was an old friend,” Smith managed, fighting the searing pain in his jaw. “He was just trying to help his daughter.”

“I’ve heard the story, thanks.” Kolarich dropped a document onto Smith’s chest. “You’ve been served, Smith,” he said. “Or should I say Raymond?”

Smith tried to sit up, taking the document in both hands. He caught a caption, Peter Kolarich and Samuel Cutler versus Raymond Hertzberg .

“We’re suing you,” Kolarich said.

“Suing-?” Smith managed to get into a seated position and looked at the document. In his confusion and pain, he began to feel a stream of relief, as well.

“My brother is suing you for the tort of unlawful restraint, Smith. Sammy’s suing for intentional infliction of emotional distress. I think that’s an understatement, myself.”

Smith leafed through the five-page document.

“It’s quite vague, I admit,” said Kolarich. “Probably wouldn’t survive a motion to dismiss. I could always amend it and put in all sorts of details. But I’m not going to do that.”

“And-why-why aren’t you going to do that?”

“Because after I file it tomorrow, I’m going to voluntarily dismiss it.”

Smith shook his head in confusion, causing further pain to his jaw.

“You and me, we’re going to settle the lawsuit. Right here, right now. I’m thinking a million dollars for each of them, Smith. Think real hard before you answer.”

Smith touched his jaw. It was broken, he thought. He understood what Kolarich was doing. He was getting a sorry-for-your-troubles payoff from Smith but giving it cover-the settling of a lawsuit. Smith would officially be paying this money not as extortion but to settle a lawsuit out of court. And both Pete Kolarich and Sammy Cutler would collect a million dollars in tax-free compensatory damages.

“A million apiece is reasonable,” Smith said.

“I think so, too. Sign at the dotted line, please.” He threw a second document at Smith, a settlement and release of all claims, in which Smith was agreeing to pay these sums to Peter Kolarich and Samuel Cutler. Smith caught the pen that Kolarich tossed him and signed the document.

“Terrific.” Kolarich folded the document into his jacket pocket. “Looks like you might be planning a trip? Go ahead. Bon voyage. Personally, I hope you leave and never come back. But understand, Smith, I’ll have a judgment that I can enforce against you. I’ll attach every asset you have in this state, thanks to this settlement, whether you live here or in Barbados. Oh, and one last thing.”