Джеффри Дивер - The Midnight Lock

This move, banning consultants, was clever. It would lay the blame for the Buryak screwup at the feet of someone not directly with the NYPD. And by banning consultants, the city — that is, the mayor — would be seen as taking strong action to clean house.

Willis’s harsh voice continued, “I should bring up another policy we’ve instituted: that any employee of the NYPD who employs or works with a civilian will be subject to discipline, including suspension and firing.”

Mel Cooper said, “And what do the PBA attorneys say about that?”

“They’re in agreement.”

Well, this had certainly been thought out.

Rhyme found himself looking at Al Rodriguez, who grimaced, gave a faint shrug and thumbed at his thin mustache.

Willis said, “Also effective immediately, Detectives Sachs and Cooper, you’re to have no communication with Captain Rhyme.”

“Commissioner,” said Sachs, “Lincoln and I are married.” Her voice registered disgust.

“You know what I’m saying, Detective. No professional communication. I’ll be having the same conversation with Lieutenant Sellitto and Patrolman Pulaski. The officers on the Locksmith case will continue to run it. But all forensics will be done by department personnel at the lab in Queens.”

Sachs sighed and sat in a rattan chair.

Willis said, “I’m sorry about this.”

Rhyme now understood from her voice that “this” referred to something yet to be.

It was for someone else, Rodriguez, to tell him.

In a rather imperious voice he said, “The commissioner and chief of department have been in touch with the district attorney. His policy is that any officer who intentionally uses civilian consultants in an investigation may be indicted for obstruction of justice. The consultant too.” Rodriguez added, “I’ve been put in charge of enforcing that policy.”

An assignment that he would not be pleased about.

Still, he said what was inevitable.

“Detectives Sachs and Cooper, pack up all the evidence there and have it transported to Queens. Thank you for your time, Captain,” Willis said. “I am sorry it worked out this way.”

The Zoom screen vanished.

Viktor Buryak was in his lovely Tudor home in a leafy section of Forest Hills, Queens, the most idyllic suburb of New York City, in his opinion, apologies to Staten Island.

Buryak was sipping strong English breakfast tea, his second favorite drink. The brew was wonderful. It warmed him, heart and belly. His wife ordered this brand online for him. After he’d had a serious bout of the flu some years ago, coffee became repulsive and he began drinking tea. A man curious by nature, Buryak had looked into the origin of the beverage. His research, hardly academically rigorous, revealed that English breakfast tea was misnamed in several ways. It came from India, Sri Lanka and Kenya, not England. It was imported to the British Isles by the Portuguese, who drank it in the afternoon. A Scotsman popularized its consumption at breakfast. Victoria was responsible for bringing the seductively fragrant leaves south, and it was the Americans who had given it the name “English,” which made sense because why would the Brits refer to it that way? To them it was just “tea.”

His two cats chased each other briefly, amusing Buryak. They were grayish Maine Coons and massive. Brick, the female, was dominant and feisty. The male, Labyrinth, was younger and was happily bullied. Lab had replaced Mortar when he passed, several years ago.

He turned to his computer — a high-def model the size of a small TV — and began the meeting.

“Gentlemen.”

There were five windows open on the monitor. Buryak’s face was in one — the upper right — and from three other squares, faces peered out as well. He received in reply nods or greetings as perfunctory as his had been.

As each person spoke, a red outline appeared around the window. The program was similar to Zoom, but had been created by Buryak’s IT people and was virtually unhackable. As far as tracing went, if you rode the coattails of the proxies, you ended up somewhere in Europe but there the trail would end.

In the upper left was Harry Welbourne, a sinewy and sour fifty-five-year-old. He radiated impatience, here and in person. He would be in his office in Newark. In the lower left was Kevin Duggin, whose face, very dark, was as round as Welbourne’s was narrow. There was no telling where youthful, muscular Duggin might be. His businesses were scattered throughout East New York and Brownsville. But judging from the background — a Miró-like modern painting — he was probably in either his town house in Harlem or his house on the South Shore of Long Island. In the final occupied window were the Twins — Buryak always thought of them in upper case. Stoddard and Steven Boscombe. Both of the thirty-seven-year-olds wore their blond hair shoulder-length and middle-parted.

The center window was black.

“I heard about the verdict, Viktor. Congratulations, man.” This was from Stoddard. Fortunately — for those wishing to tell them apart, if not for the man himself — Steven’s cheek was disfigured by a two-inch-long scar.

Duggin was nodding. “I feel for you, man. Been there. Nothing worse than sweating out those verdicts. Who was the ADA?”

“Prick named Sellars.”

Stoddard: “Murphy had to go. No loss to the world there. Wonder who did it.”

“Don’t have a clue. It’s being looked into.”

Welbourne rarely spoke and he didn’t now.

Buryak said, “Let us get down to business, okay?” He’d been in the U.S. for thirty years. His Ukrainian accent had all but vanished and his English was flawless. Occasionally, though, he tended to speak more formally than colloquially.

“Got my checkbook,” Duggin said.

Stoddard offered, “You’re playing with the big boys now.” His brother snickered.

Welbourne might have grunted. Buryak couldn’t tell.

“First lot...” He typed and a picture of a yellow articulated dump truck appeared. “This is a Volvo, ten years old. Payload capacity 28 short tons. Gross weight 104,499 pounds. Max engine gross power 315, gross torque 1,505. Max speed of 33 miles per hour. As you can see it’s in fair condition. The reserve bid is fifty thousand dollars, and I’ll accept increases of five.”

“Fifty,” the Twins said simultaneously. Their high voices, coupled with their cold blue eyes, made the stereo effect just plain eerie.

Duggin: “Five five.”

“Sixty,” scarfaced Steve said.

In his rich baritone voice Duggin said, “Sixty-five.”

Buryak was watching Welbourne, who was looking at another part of the screen. His eyes narrowed. He wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to someone off camera.

The Twins regarded each other and chimed in with, “Seventy.”

Buryak said, “Come, please. It is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. This truck can turn your businesses clean around. Did you hear? Three fifteen horsepower? Three fifteen!”

He enjoyed playing auctioneer.

Duggin said, “Come on, you motherfuckers. You’re killing me. Seventy-five.”

No one looked at the camera; Duggin and the twins were gazing at their upper left-hand corners, trying to see if they could get a clue as to what Welbourne was up to. The New Jerseyan was reading another portion of the screen, maybe some personal information, a spreadsheet or a website. He jotted another note and handed it off.

The brothers muted their call and began conferring.

“It’s at seventy-five, Harry.”

“I’m aware.”

“You heard that torque.”

“I heard.”

“Viktor, my friend,” Duggin said, “ain’t it time to bang the gavel?”