David Duffy - Last to Fold

“This is going to be embarrassing,” I said to Mulholland. “I’m sorry. But that ransom note and photograph you received were both created right here in this apartment on your computer.”

“WHAT?” Mulholland jumped out of his chair. Polina sat ice-sculpture still.

“No question about it. The picture was created on Photoshop. I have the components.”

“But how…”

“Rislyakov had access to your computers, like I said. I had access to his, I could see where everything came from.”

I turned toward Polina. For the first time I saw fear behind the ice.

“Rislyakov was blackmailing you. Somehow he knew about your income stream, probably because the money was moving through the laundry he’d designed for Lachko. So he proposed a partnership, clipping you for fifty percent, and you accepted. Don’t object. I have his notes, the instructions, the account numbers, the whole deal. He knew who you were, who you’d become. But my question is this—how did he find you in the first place?”

“I have nothing to say to you— EVER !”

“You’ll find that a hard position to stick to. Back to the story. This is conjecture, now—Rislyakov needed money, faster than your partnership could provide it. His gambling debts were mounting. He hit on you again. Hundred thousand, cash, small bills, instructions to be issued in a week.”

The ice started to melt. I pulled myself up in my chair.

“You didn’t have it. Not enough in the accounts yet, or you didn’t want to risk accessing them, for whatever reason. You were desperate. We’ll come back to why. You had the idea of the kidnap scheme, and the even better idea that whoever delivered the payoff could also lead you to the blackmailer. Kill two birds with one stone, maybe literally. That whoever turned out to be me. Bad luck.”

Mulholland said, “That means the men you paid off were expecting…”

“They were expecting someone with a hundred thousand dollars in a red backpack. That’s what Rislyakov told them. That’s all they knew.”

“Then how…”

“I tracked the pickup men back to Rislyakov’s place. That’s where I found Eva, drugged. I also found Rislyakov—dead.”

“My God! Why didn’t you call the police?”

“The question everyone asks—and I’m still asking myself.”

Polina shifted in her chair. I sat forward in mine. Everything felt sore.

“Too many unanswered questions, I guess. I had no idea what was going on then. I have a better idea now, but not a complete one. For example, what did Rislyakov lift from your computer, Polya?”

The ice was melting faster.

“The other question is, again, Polina had done such a good job of hiding herself, not the least part of which was marrying you. How did Rislyakov find her?”

Her hand darted under the cushion. I dove for the floor as she leapt forward. I heard the knife puncture the leather.

I rolled, trying to ignore screaming ribs, until I hit a table leg. I found my knees and came up to see Mulholland behind Polina, his arms wrapped around her. She was pulling and kicking, but he held on. The knife had cut a four-inch slice in the back of my chair.

I got to my feet, setting off more pain, and pulled out the blade. Steak knife, but long enough to do damage. I tossed it into the oversized fireplace. Steel rattled against stone, echoing around the bookshelves. I pulled up the cushion of the chair I’d been sitting in, then the others around us. There was a matching knife under each one. Set of six.

“Looks like you were expecting trouble from someone, sooner or later,” I said.

“You evil fucking bastard. You want to destroy me, that’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.”

“I think you should leave,” Mulholland said.

“I intend to, while I can. But we still have the murder issue. Someone else was at Rislyakov’s place Wednesday night. Polina had your driver follow me when I went to pay off the supposed kidnappers. I led him to Rislyakov’s, without knowing it.”

“Lachlan?”

Polina spat at me. It fell short.

“Conjecture, I’ll admit—but I can place him in a rental car at Rislyakov’s Wednesday morning. He was treated for a gunshot wound at Beth Israel Wednesday night. Ask him where he got his limp. Eva shot him, in her stupor, through the door. I have the gun. But I’m still more interested in the two questions I asked before the hostilities started. What did Rislyakov phish from your computer, Polya, and how did he know to phish you in the first place?”

Mulholland loosened his hold. Polina lunged, but he pulled her back.

“You warned me about the past catching up,” he said. “I didn’t believe you.”

He had the look of a man who was breaking under the accumulated weight.

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid this is only the beginning.”

Hazy sun baked the sidewalk outside. A scattered crowd soaked it up on the Metropolitan’s steps. I could just make out Gina among them. My phone buzzed.

“You look like hell,” she said. “What happened?”

“Everybody has a nice word to say. Lost weekend.”

“Lost weekend? Turbo, you need someone to take care of you.”

“That seems to be a growing opinion. Listen, I don’t know how long this is going to take. I’m going to send Mo up here to spell you with the Valdez. That’ll be your post. We’re going twenty-four/seven. Sheila will take over from her. You’re back on in the morning. Okay?”

“Got it. But…”

“What?”

“Do we have to use the Valdez ? That thing’s embarrassing.”

“Nobody’s supposed to see you in it, remember?”

I should have caught a cab. Instead, I walked to Eighty-sixth Street and took the train. The walk aggravated the pain, but moving under my own steam felt good, despite the heat.

The subway ride made everything hurt more, but it was the quickest way to pull myself out of Polina’s world and back into reality. I scanned the faces on the train. No one paid attention to my stitched-up face. Subway etiquette—see everything, acknowledge nothing. Ordinary people, going about ordinary lives. No violence. No intrigue. No black pasts and mysterious presents all caught up with each other. Bullshit.

“Eight million stories in the naked city,” Lawrence Dobkin told American TV audiences every week for five years. We know better. There are only eight. They just keep getting told over and over again.

I hadn’t gotten an answer to my questions. Whatever/whoever Polina was scared of, she was more frightened of it/him than a murder rap. One more question burned—why had Ratko gone underground? He’d stiffed Lachko. He’d stiffed Iakov. Gambling debts were too simple an explanation. A hundred impassive faces on the subway car. None of them had an answer either.

The front door buzzer roused me from another netherworld, this one involving Pig Pen and Polina leering from opposite sides over my battered body. I was on the couch in my apartment, where I’d dozed off after lunch. My watch read 5:14. I’d slept almost three hours. Everything had stiffened. I almost needed a block and tackle to pull myself up. The buzzer buzzed again. Victoria, her patience intact. I hobbled to the intercom, pushed the button, opened my door, and waited. When the elevator arrived, Petrovin walked down the hall in his linen suit, grinning his relaxed grin—until he saw me.

“Someone with your appearance might want to ask his visitors to identify themselves,” he said as he extended his hand.

“My brain got rattled along with the rest of me.”

“Are you all right? You look…”

“I know. I feel just as bad, but I’ve had medical attention, and they tell me I’ll live. Lachko and I had an argument. He won.”