Next of Kin Page 14

  “Because all four blocks of shares must agree.”

  “So who has control of the shares that belonged to Alton?”

  Dietrich Brook said nothing.

  Buddy was stunned. He’d figured it out. Of course. A $24 billion transaction was being held up by a ten-year-old boy—or by his trustee, Ray Sawyer. And if that ten-year-old boy were to die, then the shares he owned would be divided evenly between Carl and Dietrich, and they’d have total control of Brook Instruments and its $24 billion sale price. They could sell Brook Instruments to GE, and they could turn around and sell as much of their GE stock as they wanted. The money would make their families important and famous for generations.

  He stared across the small room at Dietrich Brook, who again thrust his chin forward in a gesture of invincibility. The assertion of privilege made Buddy’s chest burn.

  Their silence lasted a minute, perhaps longer.

  Dietrich got up from the chair. “You’re finished, Detective.”

  Buddy kept the digital audio recorder running. “Mr. Brook, would you give me copies of the bills of sale for the paintings you inherited from your grandfather?”

  Brook’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck off.”

  Buddy stood, picked up his audio recorder, and left the room. With Dietrich two paces behind him, his walk to the foyer was without incident. As he pushed the button for the elevator, the heavy metal door behind him slammed into its frame with such force that it clanged in the small lobby.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Mei saw the office towers of Manhattan come into view above the horizon. She turned around in the front seat of Ward’s Range Rover to look back at Ben. His expression was anxious. He was sitting quietly in the plush black leather, well dressed but small and fragile. He was only ten, but he wasn’t stupid. He was aware of the risk they were taking by returning to Manhattan. But the events of last night had shown that nowhere was safe. Danger made Mei yearn to be in the same city as Buddy, even if he spent all day and even into the night at work. Ben, she knew, wanted the same.

  “You okay?” she asked Ben, though his face gave her the answer.

  For a moment he was quiet. Then his eyes brightened as he said, “Do you have a gun?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Ward said, “You will.”

  She turned to him—he was in the back seat, behind the driver—and studied his face to see if he was joking, but his expression was grim, determined. She said, “I don’t know how to use a gun.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I’ve never even held one,” she told him. “I can’t be like you, rushing down a hallway in the dark and firing at someone.”

  “You don’t have to be like me,” he said. “But you need to be able to defend yourself. I’ve brought a gun for you, a small .38 caliber.”

  She looked at him. “Where is it?”

  He patted the messenger bag between his feet. “Here. I’ll give it to you when we’re at your place.”

  “I won’t accept a gun,” she said. “And that’s final.”

  Ben’s voice filled the SUV. “But Ward saved us with a gun.”

  Mei hesitated.

  Ward glanced at her, saw her expression, changed the subject. “Ben,” he said calmly, “would you like to go back to school this week?”

  Ben nodded. “I want to be in school, but not my school. Everyone will ask me about what happened, and I won’t know what to say. And how can you and Buddy protect me?”

  Ward reached over and put a hand on his arm. “I know of a great school for kids like you. Top-notch security. I’ll call and see if we can visit later today. I’ll hire two bodyguards to take you there and back. And they’ll guard Mei’s apartment, one in the lobby, one in her foyer.”

  Mei didn’t like how Ward offered something or made a decision and expected everyone to agree and accept it. She felt herself stiffen. She said, “Bodyguards are appreciated, but I won’t have one inside my apartment. I don’t have room for them, and I want some privacy.”

  “No,” Ward said, all the fingers with his raised hand extending outward. “You’ll be much safer with one guard in the building lobby and one in your foyer. It’s absolutely necessary to have a guard with you, Mei.”

  Mei saw the logic, but she wouldn’t live in a prison. She didn’t like Ward’s hand so near her face. And she didn’t care for his controlling tone. Thank God Buddy managed to be both strong and respectful. She said, “Guards anywhere but in the apartment. That decision is final. You can put one in the building lobby and one in the exit stairs and even a third in the elevator, but nobody in the apartment.”

  Ward lowered his hand and sighed. “All right. But would you let me give you the small revolver? Just until Buddy arrests the killer? Just in case someone gets past the bodyguards?”

  Mei began to refuse, but Ben interrupted.

  “Ward’s gun is the only reason we’re alive,” he told her. “We must have a gun with us.”

  Mei didn’t respond. Not right away. She didn’t want to shout at Ben or Ward. Instead she considered Ben’s logic and decided it was correct. She hated guns, yet she wanted no guards in her house, and she wanted Ben to be calm. “I’ll agree to the handgun,” she said evenly, while silently promising herself that she’d never use it.

  Once they’d settled into her apartment, she left Ben in the kitchen, where he snacked on an apple she’d cut for him. She led Ward into the master bedroom and closed the door.

  Ward carried the messenger bag. Black ballistic nylon. He unzipped it and withdrew a nylon case in the shape of a gun. He unzipped the case and pulled out a small black revolver. It had a snub nose and a stock with a nubby surface to enhance the grip. He opened the gun’s cylinder, held it up to the light, and confirmed that all six chambers were empty. He handed it to her.

  She took it in her right hand. It was cool. Heavier than she expected. She looked up at him.

  He said, “There’s no safety. Just point and shoot. Like a camera.”

  “How far away do I have to be?”

  “Any distance. But this one’s for a relatively close target. If you shoot at someone a football field away, you’ll miss. If you’re shooting someone in this bedroom, you’ll hit him. Just aim for the center mass. Nothing fancy like aiming for arms or legs or shoulders or head. Chest only. Got it?”

  “I think so.”

  He reached into the bag and took out a box of fifty rounds. He handed it to her.

  She took it quietly.

  He said, “Normally I’d tell you to keep the gun loaded. But with Ben in the house, I’d keep the gun in the top drawer of your night table and the ammunition on an upper shelf of your closet. Somewhere Ben can’t reach. Ideally you’d lock everything. Do you have a safe?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then keep the box on the top shelf of your closet. You see how to do this? You press this small button—it’s an ejector release—and the cylinder rotates out. You put in the rounds and push the cylinder closed. Then you aim and fire. Okay?”

  She nodded, just staring at the gun and considering what it could do. She said, “Would you give me a moment?”

  He set the gun case on the bed, closed the flap of the messenger bag and put it over his shoulder, and then left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Wishing away the revolver, she set the box of ammunition on the bed and took up the gun case. She zipped the revolver into the case, went into her closet, used her elbow to flick on the light switch, kicked the stool to the far corner, and stepped up on it. She pushed the gun case under a stack of sweaters, far back on the top shelf, against the wall. Then she climbed down, went out to the bedroom, picked up the ammunition, and took it into the closet. Again standing on the stool, she pushed the box under the pile of sweaters to the right of the sweaters under which she’d hidden the revolver. Then she climbed down, kicked the stool to the other side of the closet, and walked out into the bedroom. She stood there and realized she was breathin
g rapidly and perspiring. She noticed the faintest indentation on the bed where she’d set the box of fifty rounds.

  She reached out with both hands and smoothed it away.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Tourists out on the streets braved the bitterly cold air that went right through Buddy’s overcoat. He raised the coat’s collar and pulled his leather gloves on more tightly. At least the sidewalks aren’t as crowded as usual, he thought, as he made his way over to West Forty-Seventh Street. He had a private matter to deal with over his lunch hour. Something that had to remain secret from everyone on earth except himself and one man.

  Steam rose, white and ghostlike, through the sidewalk grates, proof of a massive subterranean world that powered the one Buddy could see. Above him soared residential buildings and office towers of granite, limestone, steel, and glass. Hundreds of feet below him ran the sewers, power lines, and subway trains that burrowed through a maze of tunnels. Connected worlds, he thought, but the connections were often invisible. He looked into a store window and caught his reflection, his expression. His face was blank, his eyes tired.

  Forty-Seventh Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, a small doorway with a smaller rectangular window. Mid-block, and you wouldn’t notice it unless you knew what to look for. He pressed the buzzer to the right of the door and looked up at the camera mounted on the lintel. A moment later he heard the buzzer. The lock pulled back. He pushed on the door and stepped inside.

  From the breast pocket of his overcoat, he pulled a stack of hundred-dollar bills. They were bound neatly with a paper band, as if they’d just been printed or put into circulation by a bank. Or they’d been turned into NYPD’s property clerk after a drug bust, although they hadn’t. He set the stack of bills on the glass counter.

  The old man took the money quickly, nodded once at Buddy, and then pushed a small package across the counter. Buddy picked it up and put it in the same breast pocket of the overcoat where the money had been.

  The man said, “You not check it?”

  Buddy shook his head. “I trust you. Why don’t you count the money?”

  The old man shrugged. “I trust you.”

  They nodded once to each other, and then Buddy backed slowly away from the counter and went out the door and onto the sidewalk along Forty-Seventh Street. He pulled the door closed and confirmed the lock was set. He glanced once more through the rectangular window, but suddenly the entire shop was dark. He couldn’t see the old man.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Early afternoon, Buddy stood on the sidewalk, looked up, and saw the security camera.

  Vista was a private school, kindergarten through eighth grade, for the children of the rich and famous. It was located at the intersection of Tenth Avenue and West Twenty-Eighth Street in Chelsea, and tuition, at $45,000 per student per year, didn’t include books, music lessons, field trips to Los Angeles and London and Paris, or donations to frequent capital campaigns.

  He brought his eyes down and followed Mei and Ben inside. They stood at the security desk and showed their driver’s licenses to an armed guard. The guard typed their information into his computer and issued them visitor badges, and a third badge to Ben, though he had no identification. All three of them held up their badges to a scanner embedded in the flat surface of a three-foot-high electronic turnstile. The scanner flashed green. They walked into the school lobby.

  Buddy thought that someone with a glass cutter—someone like the person who’d tried to kill Mei and Ben at Ward’s house—could get in through a perimeter window, but not silently or without being noticed by the many students and teachers. Vista was probably the most secure elementary and middle school in the United States. Buddy knew why. He turned around and saw a movie star picking up her daughter, and a news anchor picking up his daughter and son. He tried not to stare. He was from New York and was supposed to be jaded.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and tensed.

  “Relax, Buddy.” Ward’s voice.

  Buddy turned to see Ward standing beside him in a navy-blue windowpane suit with a white shirt and a light-blue tie with a pattern of little white Ferraris across it. His sandy-colored hair was pomaded back. He’d draped a camel-hair overcoat over one arm. Stylish and clean-shaven, Ward seemed at ease at the school for the wealthy.

  The headmaster met them. Or met Ward. He was about fifty years old with salt-and-pepper gray hair, a fair complexion, eyeglasses with faux tortoiseshell rims, and a blue suit that wasn’t as nice as Ward’s. He extended a hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mills. I’m Ty McConnell. Mr. Bloomberg has great praise for you.”

  Ward shook his hand and said, “You’re very kind, Mr. McConnell. Mike’s an old friend. May I present Buddy Lock, Mei Adams, and Ben Brook?”

  “How do you do?” McConnell said, taking Buddy’s proffered hand and then bowing slightly to Mei and Ben. “I’m happy to give you a tour of our school. Normally there is a long wait-list, especially at Ben’s grade level. But in Ben’s case we’d make an exception. If we can’t help a friend in need, what good are we?”

  Mei said, “Thank you, Mr. McConnell.”

  “Come along, then,” he told them, and ushered them to the right and along the main-floor hallway.

  Halfway down the hallway they came to a set of doors on the left. McConnell led them through the doors into an auditorium complete with rows of cushioned seats on a floor slanting down toward a large stage. Buddy thought it was better than some of the professional theaters at Lincoln Center. Then he remembered that many of the Vista students had parents who performed at Lincoln Center and on Broadway. Maybe not the most normal environment for a boy, Buddy thought, yet safety was key.

  When they’d left the auditorium, Mr. McConnell led them into a classroom.

  Ben smiled as he saw a full-sized velociraptor on display. “Hey, look at this!” he said, turning to look back at Buddy and Mei with an expression of joy. An expression they’d never seen.

  Responding to Ben’s enthusiasm, Mr. McConnell described the dinosaur and how it had been extinct for millions of years. Buddy listened carefully, relieved Ben seemed comfortable here. He observed the skeleton’s chocolate-colored bones. Its eye sockets were large and its teeth sharp. The claws on its hind feet curved like sickles. It had been a vicious predator, McConnell explained, expert at taking down weaker animals.

  Buddy considered asking McConnell to move on, away from any subject related to death. Yet Ben’s face was alert, hanging on the headmaster’s every word. He crouched down to be nearer the feet. His right hand touched one of the dinosaur’s claws. He tilted his head as he studied the ancient animal. Buddy realized that instead of being frightened, Ben was intrigued and possibly inspired. It seemed Ben wanted to be predator rather than prey. Buddy thought that wish might save him.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Midafternoon in the bull pen at the Nineteenth Precinct, Vidas rolled back his chair and looked into Buddy’s cube. He said, “No surprise, but you can’t go to your local hardware store and buy enough cyanide to kill a family. So that leaves us with national suppliers. But even that’s mostly limited to educational and industrial research facilities.”

  Buddy turned to his partner and listened carefully. He saw Vidas’s loosened tie and tired eyes, but his partner’s face showed eagerness and the excitement of the hunt. Buddy said, “A high school or university student couldn’t get his hands on it?”

  Vidas moved his head right and left as he thought. “Yeah, a student could get enough to poison someone by putting it in a soda, but he couldn’t get the quantity needed to gas four people.”

  Buddy nodded, thinking Lucy Brook’s mystery boyfriend was looking less and less likely as a killer. “So we go up the food chain. Who can get bigger quantities?”

  “Distributors. Manufacturers.”

  “Any in the New York area?”

  “Only one. A place in College Point, by La Guardia.”

  Buddy stood. “Come on. Let’s knock on the door.”<
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  A bulb of land in northwest Queens that jutted into the East River, College Point was packed with retail, residential, and industrial buildings.

  Vidas pulled his unmarked Ford Fusion into a small parking lot and truck dock by a low-slung gray-painted warehouse building on Fifteenth Avenue. A sign on the service door read “Employees Only.”

  Buddy climbed out of the car, walked up to the door, and tried the knob. It was icy cold and wouldn’t turn. He pounded twice on the metal door, took a step back, and held up his badge wallet.

  A man opened the door. He was tall, very thin, disheveled, with graying blond hair and large glasses atop a long nose. He wore jeans, hiking boots, and a fleece pullover with “Blu Chemicals” stitched onto the breast pocket.

  Buddy said, “Detective Lock, NYPD. This is my partner, Detective Vidas.”

  The man didn’t respond, only pushed open the door and ushered them inside.

  A moment later Buddy and Vidas were standing in an office. Behind them a metal lattice separated them from dimly lit shelves weighed down with containers of different colors, sizes, and materials. The tall, thin guy had a metal desk and an old metal chair with a seat of olive-green vinyl. He pointed at Vidas and said, “You called for an appointment half an hour ago?”

  Vidas smiled. “Yes, sir. We’re investigating a crime involving industrial amounts of cyanide. As you’re the primary distributor in the New York area, we thought we should start with you.”

  The thin man watched Vidas carefully but gave no response.

  Vidas continued, “Have you sold large quantities in the past twelve months?”

  The man stared at Vidas through his large eyeglasses. He didn’t move or say anything.

  Knowing Vidas was about to keep talking, Buddy touched his elbow. Give the guy room, Buddy thought. Let him answer.

  The thin man observed the gesture but still didn’t reply. After a long moment he dropped onto the green vinyl chair and touched his computer mouse with an index finger.