David Duffy - Last to Fold

“One of my professors knew the DA, and he set me up there. Everyone else was doing drug cases, but I went after crooked businessmen. Why should they get a free ride? Ninety percent conviction rate over three years. I liked prosecuting, but I needed to make some money, so I joined another firm. I let it be known at the outset I didn’t want to be messed with, and I built up enough of a caseload that people left me alone. They merged with an Atlanta firm, then it merged with Hayes & Franklin. I was ready for a change of scene, too, so I asked to move to New York. My timing was good. A lot of big securities fraud cases were breaking, and all the white-shoe lawyers had long forgotten the little bit of criminal law they’d had to study in school. Pretty soon I was running the whole department. Billed eighty million last year, before I left.”

I let out a whistle. I couldn’t help it.

“ Now you’re impressed. What is it about men? Sex and money always get your attention. You’re like all the rest—only interested in the same things.”

“The one thing I’m interested in is why Rislyakov phished Mulholland.”

The waiter cleared. We declined the offer of dessert. She ordered coffee.

“There is one thing you could do, if you’re so inclined. Kind of make up for all that spying on me.”

I wasn’t convinced I had anything to make up for, but I had no chance of winning that argument. “What’s that?”

“What you said about identity theft. It’s a world I know very little about. I need to know a lot more, and I prefer not to ask for an in-house tutorial.”

“Don’t want to demonstrate lack of knowledge?”

“Were you this obnoxious when you were a zek ?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Some men I work with would feel right at home in your Soviet system. They resent a woman in my position. So, yes, I prefer not to advertise any gaps in my expertise.”

“Good a reason as any. Would you like to come up and see my databases?”

“When will you get it through your bald head that you are not funny?”

“Don’t you Americans have a saying about old dogs?”

“I don’t mind old. Presumptuous pisses me off.”

“And you carry a gun.”

“How about first thing Monday?”

“Fine. My office is at 88 Pine. Eight thirty?”

“Great. Thank you. I do appreciate it.” She looked around. “Hey, we’re going to close the place.”

I signaled Giancarlo for the check. I hope I kept a straight face when he brought it—$680, before tip. The wine was $475. Victoria was smiling.

“You’re right,” I said, handing over my credit card.

“About what? Men?”

“No. The wine. I won’t be having that again.”

A phone rang faintly. She reached for her bag and pulled it out. She didn’t say much, but I watched her face change as she watched me watching her. She was angry—not her temper flaring like earlier. It was more substantive than that. I hoped it wasn’t aimed at me, but I had the feeling I was in the line of fire, at least tangentially. Her only questions to the phone were “Where?” “When?” and “You’re sure?” After a few minutes, she said, “I’ll be there,” and put the phone back in her bag.

“Y’all are gonna tell me, goddammit, everything you know about Rad Rislyakov. Tonight.”

“What happened?”

“You already know. He was found in a marsh off Flatbush Avenue. Body was dumped there. He’s been dead since midweek.”

I kept a straight face. “There’s not much I can tell you.” Sounded stupid, but at least it was mostly truthful.

“Bullshit.” She wasn’t trying to cover the anger. “I’m not sayin’ you had anything to do with Rislyakov’s killing, but if you did, I’m sure as hell gonna find out.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Let’s go downtown. You can come up and see my corpse.”

I chuckled, I couldn’t help it. I think she did, too, just a little.

I followed her outside. A black Town Car idled by the curb.

“It’s gonna be straight business from here on, so I want to tell you I had a nice time tonight, most of it anyway. But if you want to see me again, socially I mean, assuming you’re not in jail, stay the hell out of my private life.”

“Suppose it’s your private life I’m trying to get into.”

“I don’t mind a full frontal assault. Backdoor tactics are different.”

“I’m just trying whatever door you leave open.”

“Just because you can pick the lock doesn’t mean it’s open.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“You’d be wise to. Otherwise I’ll slam it in your face. There’s a cab.”

I’d assumed the Town Car was hers, but I was wrong on that count, too. The door opened, and Sergei and another man climbed out. Sergei showed us his gun.

“Get in the car,” he said.

“Let me put my friend in a—”

“Both of you, govnosos —shit-sucker. Get in.”

“No. She’s not—”

“In the fucking car!”

It was futile to resist, but I was going to try. Call it chivalry, pride, macho, or just not wanting to be railroaded by a couple of urki in front of Victoria. I took a step toward Sergei, who grinned. The other guy moved in to my right.

Victoria said, “Unless I miss my guess, that’s a Beretta Tomcat, just like the one I own. Don’t be stupid.” She turned to Sergei. “Let’s go.”

She walked to the car, opened the door, and climbed in. Sergei looked disappointed he wasn’t going to get to slug me, but he followed her to the car, and the other guy shoved me in after them. The Lincoln took off down Second Avenue and again turned east toward Brighton Beach.

Traffic was light, so we made the Badger’s palace in thirty minutes. Victoria sat silently through the ride, seemingly cool as ice. No way to gauge the temperature under the skin. Neither Sergei nor the driver said anything. I wondered if Lachko was aware of the identity of his other guest. If so, he was playing an aggressive hand, even for him.

The car went through the security check at the gate and pulled into the courtyard. I was yanked out, pressed against the steel, and patted down. Across the car, Sergei was getting ready to search Victoria.

“Hands off, Sergei,” I said. “Lachko won’t like it.”

“Fuck off.”

“She’s a U.S. attorney, Sergei. Top Fed, to you. She can bring every cop in New York to Brighton Beach. Boss want that?”

Sergei didn’t respond, but he didn’t search Victoria either.

I said to her, “You carrying your Beretta?”

“No.”

“Anything at all?”

“Pepper spray.”

“Hand it over and let him see your bag.”

She did as I said.

Sergei took the spray canister and looked inside the bag. “Okay.”

Victoria smiled at him and looked back at me. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Sergei told me to fuck my mother in Russian and led us into the palace, down the marble hall, through the Beidermeir reception room, and into Lachko’s office.

“Well, Electrifikady Turbanevich, you poisonous parasite, what is it I have to do to flush you from my system?” Lachko sat in a wheelchair tonight, wearing a gray tracksuit, papirosa smoking in one hand, cashews in a bowl next to him.

“Barsukov, Miss Victoria, Lachko Iakovlev Barsukov. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I apologize for interfering in your evening, but you were clearly in need of an improvement in company.”

“Turbo told me y’all were kinda insistent. He wasn’t joking.” She was laying the twang on thick and heavy.

“Ahhh. What else did my old friend tell you?”

“Y’all don’t get on so well anymore. And you’re a mean-ass son of a bitch.”