Линкольн Чайлд - City of Endless Night

Now Ozmian was talking and Harriman was listening.

“And so this ‘counter-blackmail,’ as you call it, consists of three parts,” Ozmian was saying, his voice calm, indicating the draft of the article. “You lay out, in detail, the events of thirty years ago, in which, before a crowd of churchgoers, I beat Father Anselm senseless at Our Lady of Mercy church. And you’ve got the affidavit to prove it.”

“That’s pretty much it.”

Ozmian leaned across the desk. “I couldn’t be less concerned with public opinion. However, I must confess—” and here he faltered for a moment. The anger seemed to drain away and a deflated look came over his features. “I must confess that the board of DigiFlood might not welcome this information getting out and casting a shadow over the company. I congratulate you on your investigative skills.”

Harriman accepted this compliment with dignity.

Ozmian swiveled in his chair, stared out the vast windows for a moment. Then he turned back to Harriman. “It seems like we’re at a Mexican standoff. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll take the frame off you, transfer the funds back into the account of the Shannon Croix Foundation, and make it look like a bank error. In exchange, you’ll leave me with the original of that affidavit when you leave — and you’ll agree not to publish anything on what happened at Our Lady of Mercy.”

As Ozmian spoke, Alves-Vettoretto noted that Harriman fairly glowed. He swelled in his chair like a peacock. “And what about my reporting on the murder?”

“I would ask you frankly, man-to-man, not to sully my daughter’s name any further than you’ve already done. There are plenty of murders after hers to occupy your pen.”

Harriman absorbed this gravely. When he spoke, his voice was freighted with gravitas. “I’ll try. But I have to tell you — if newsworthy information about your daughter comes to light, I’ll have to write about it. Surely you understand?”

Ozmian opened his mouth as if to protest, but ultimately said nothing. He slumped slightly in his chair, giving the faintest nod as he did so.

Harriman rose to his feet. “We have a deal. And I hope you’ve learned something from all this, Mr. Ozmian — despite your money and power, it’s never a good idea to take on the press. Especially in the form of a reporter as dedicated and experienced as myself. Truth will out, Mr. Ozmian.”

This miniature lecture on ethics accomplished, the reporter swiveled on one heel, and — without offering to shake hands — made for the double doors, trailing an air of injured virtue.

Ozmian waited until the doors had closed behind Harriman. Then he turned to look inquiringly at Alves-Vettoretto, who nodded in response. And as she did so, she noted that Ozmian’s equanimity — which had become rather discomposed in the wake of the meeting with Agent Pendergast — now appeared to be fully restored.

Harriman could barely restrain himself from leaping with triumph in the elevator as it shot downward toward the lobby. It had worked — just as he’d known it would work, during that dark night of the soul in his apartment, mere days before. All it had taken was the right kind of reportorial skill. And, truth be told, he had been a little modest just now, in his talk with Ozmian — there were few others who could have uncovered the man’s vicious little secrets as quickly and thoroughly as he’d done.

He had won. He had met the great and terrible Ozmian on the battlefield, with weapons of the entrepreneur’s own choosing — blackmail — and he had emerged victorious! The way he had caved so completely, even on the tender point about his daughter, spoke volumes.

The elevator doors whisked open and he strode through the lobby, out the revolving doors, and onto West Street. His cell phone — which had vibrated once or twice during the final minutes of his conference with Ozmian — now began to vibrate again. He took it out of his pocket.

“Harriman here.”

“Bryce? This is Rosalie Everett.”

Rosalie had been one of Shannon Croix’s best friends, and she was second in command on the foundation’s board of directors. She sounded unaccountably breathless.

“Yes, Rosie. What is it?”

“Bryce, I don’t quite know how to say this, and still less what to make of it... but I just now received, in a series of email attachments, a large number of documents — financial documents. It looks like they were sent by accident, not five minutes ago. I’m no accountant, but it appears that all the foundation’s assets — just shy of a million and a half dollars — have been transferred from our business account and placed in a private holding in the Cayman Islands, in your own name.”

“I— I—” he sputtered, too overcome by shock to articulate anything.

“Bryce, this has to be some kind of mistake. Right? I mean, you loved Shannon... But it’s right here in black and white. All the other board members have been getting copies, too. These documents — God, here come more of them — they all imply you emptied the foundation’s bank account just before the holiday. This is some kind of forgery, right? Or maybe a bad New Year’s joke? Please, Bryce, say something. I’m frightened—”

With a click, her voice was cut off. Harriman realized that, involuntarily, his fingers had curled into fists, ending the call.

A moment later, it rang again. After rolling over to voice mail, it rang again. And then again.

And then came the chirrup of a text message being received. With the slow, strange movements of a bad dream, Harriman looked down at the screen of his phone.

The text was from Anton Ozmian.

Almost against his will, Harriman opened the messages pane of his phone and Ozmian’s text sprang onto the screen:

Idiot. Proud pillar of the fourth estate, indeed. In your smug satisfaction at uncovering this story, you never thought to ask yourself the most germane question of all: why I beat up that priest . Here’s the answer you should have dug up yourself. When I was an altar boy at Our Lady, Father Anselm abused me. I was serially raped. Years later, I returned to that church to make sure he never preyed on his charges again. Here’s another good question: why was I charged only with a misdemeanor, which was quickly dropped? Sure, there was a courtesy payment, but the church refused to cooperate with any criminal investigation because they knew what damaging information would come out if they did. Now, ask yourself: if you publish this story, where is the public’s sympathy going to lie? With the priest? Or me? Even more germane, what will DigiFlood’s board of directors do? What will the world think of you for exposing my youthful abuse and its predictable psychical aftermath, which I overcame to found one of the most successful companies in the world? So go ahead and publish your story.

P.S. Enjoy prison.

But even as he read the text with mounting horror, the lines began to shimmer and grow faint. A second later, they were gone, replaced by a black screen. Harriman frantically tried to take a screen shot, but it was too late — Ozmian’s message had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

He looked up from his phone with a groan of disbelief and panic. This was a nightmare, it had to be. And sure enough — just as would happen in a nightmare — he saw, about half a block down West Street, two uniformed NYPD officers looking in his direction. One of them pointed at him. And then — as he stood rooted to the spot, unable to move — they began running toward him, releasing the thumb breaks on their holsters as they did so.

Longstreet, with Pendergast a silent shadow at his side, stood at the door to the garage of Robert Hightower’s row house on Gerritsen Avenue in Marine Park, Brooklyn. The door was open, allowing a chill wind to blow in — the short driveway was covered in a dusting of snow that had fallen late the night before — but Hightower seemed not to mind. The space was filled with beat-up worktables; personal computers of varying degrees of obsolescence; circuit boards spewing rivers of cabling; old CRT monitors missing their glass tubes; battered tools hanging from pegboard walls; band saws and compression crimpers and table vises; an assortment of soldering guns; half a dozen small-parts organizers, most of their drawers open, spilling screws and nails and resistors. Hightower, fussing over a worktable, was in his late fifties, solidly built, with short but thick iron-gray hair covering the dome of his skull.