Andrew Gross 3-Book Thriller Collection 1: The Dark Tide, Don’t Look Twice, Relentless. Andrew Gross

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ squarely in our hands, and I’m looking at an Amber Alert for a dead guy’s ’66 Mustang.”

      “Thank you, guy. I appreciate whatever turns up.”

      “A wide goddamn hole in the Patriot Act”—Velko cleared his throat—“That’s what the hell’s going to turn up. We’re not exactly a missing-persons search system here.” He looked at Hauck, reacting to the marks on his face and neck and the stiffness in his reach.

      “You still skating?”

      Hauck nodded. “Local team up there. Over-forty league now. Mostly a bunch of Wall Street types and mortgage salesmen. You?”

      “No.” Velko tapped his head. “They won’t let me anymore. They seem to think my brain is good for something other than getting knocked around. Too risky on the new job. Michelle is, though. You should see her. She’s a goddamn little bruiser. She plays on the boys’ team for her school.”

      “I’d like to,” Hauck said with a fond smile. When Marilyn died, Michelle had been nine and Bonnie six. Hauck had organized a benefit game for them against a team of local celebrities. Afterward Joe’s family came onto the ice and received a team jersey signed by the Rangers and the Islanders.

      “I know I’ve said this, Ty, but I always appreciated just what you did.”

      Hauck shot Joe a wink.

      “Anyway, I better get on these, right? Top secret—specialized and classified.” Joe stood up. “Is everything okay?”

      Hauck nodded. His side still ached like hell. “Everything’s okay.”

      “Whatever turns up,” Joe said, “I can still find you up at your office in Greenwich?”

      Hauck shook his head. “I’m taking a little time. My cell number’s in the package. And Joe … I’d appreciate it if you kept this entirely between us.”

      “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.” Joe raised the envelope and rolled his eyes. “Taking a little time …” As Velko backed away toward the police building, he cocked Ty a wary smile.

      “What the hell are you getting yourself involved in, Ty?”

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

      After his meeting with Velko, Hauck went to the office of Media Publishing, located on the thirtieth floor of a tall glass building at Forty-sixth Street and Third Avenue.

      The publishers of Mustang World.

      It took Hauck’s flashing his badge first to the receptionist and then to a couple of junior marketing people to finally get him to the right person. He had no authority here. The last thing he wanted was to have to call in yet another old friend from the NYPD. Fortunately, the marketing guy he finally got in front of seemed eager to help and didn’t ask him to come back with a warrant.

      “We’ve got two hundred and thirty-two thousand subscribers,” the manager said, as if overwhelmed. “Any chance you can narrow it down?”

      “I only need a list of those who’ve come aboard within the past year,” Hauck told him.

      He gave the guy a card. The manager promised he’d get to it as soon as he could and e-mail the results to Hauck’s departmental address.

      On the ride back home, Hauck mapped out what he would do. Hopefully, this Mustang search would yield something. If not, he still had the leads he’d taken from Dietz’s office.

      The Major Deegan Expressway was slow, and Hauck caught some tie-up near Yankee Stadium.

      On a hunch he fumbled in his pocket for the number of the Caribbean bank he’d found at Dietz’s. On St. Kitts. As he punched in the overseas number on his cell, he wasn’t sure just how smart this was. The guy could be on Dietz’s payroll for all he knew. But as long as he was playing long shots …

      After a delay a sharp ring came on. “First Caribbean,” answered a woman with a heavy island accent.

      “Thomas Smith?” Hauck requested.

      “Please hold da line.”

      After a short pause, a man’s voice answered, “This is Thomas Smith.”

      “My name is Hauck,” Hauck said. “I’m a police detective with the Greenwich police force, in Greenwich, Connecticut. In the States.”

      “I know Greenwich,” the man responded brightly. “I went to college nearby at the University of Bridgeport. How can I help you, Detective?”

      “I’m trying to find someone,” Hauck explained. “He’s a U.S. citizen. The only name I have for him is Charles Friedman. He may have an account on record there.”

      “I’m not familiar with anyone by the name of Charles Friedman having an account here,” the bank manager replied.

      “Look, I know this is a bit unorthodox. He’s about five-ten. Brown hair. Medium stature. Wears glasses. It’s possible he’s transferred money into your bank from a corresponding bank in Tortola. It’s possible that Friedman is not even the name he’s currently using now.”

      “As I said, sir, there is no account holder on record here by that name. And I haven’t seen anybody who might fit that description. Nevis is a small island. And you can understand why I would be reluctant to give you that information even if I did.”

      “I understand perfectly, Mr. Smith. But it is a police matter. If you would maybe ask around and check …”

      “I don’t need to check,” the manager answered. “I have already.” What he told Hauck made him flinch. “You are the second person from the States who’s been looking for this man in the past week.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

      Michel Issa squinted through the lens over the glittering stone. It was a real beauty. A brilliant canary yellow, wonderful luminescence, easily a C rating. It had been part of a larger lot he’d bought and was the pick of the litter. Hovering over the loupe, Michel knew it would fetch a real price from the right buyer. His specialty.

      Issa’s family had been in the diamond business for over fifty years, emigrating to the Caribbean from Belgium and opening the store on Mast Street, on the Dutch side of St. Maarten when Michel was young. For decades Issa et Fils had bought high-quality stones direct from Antwerp and a few “gray” markets. People came to them from around the world—and not just couples off the cruise ships looking to get engaged, though they catered to that, too, to keep up the storefront. But important people, people with things to hide. In the trade, Michel Issa was known, as his father and grandfather had been before him, as the kind of négociant who could keep his mouth shut, who had the discretion to handle a private transaction, no matter what its magnitude.

      With the money trail between banks so transparent after 9/11, shifting assets into something tangible—and transportable—was a booming business these days. Especially if one had something to hide.

СКАЧАТЬ