Chapter Thirty-Eight
WHEN JOHN BURNLEY had met with Ted in the coffee shop on Wednesday morning and learned that Ted was being blackmailed, he’d been delighted that Ted thought it was him. He’d certainly encouraged Ted to believe it.
But at the same time, he was also very curious. Who had managed to get damning recordings of Ted and his wife? He needed to find out more about the Westcotts, about their lives.
He discovered Ted’s address and quietly scoped out the brownstone the next morning.
He’d hardly arrived and was sitting on a bench in a small parkette across the street when he saw an airport limo arrive.
Ted and Jill hurriedly climbed inside while the driver piled their luggage in the back.
John wondered where they were going, and for how long.
If they were running away, they couldn’t run for ever.
After they’d fled, he turned his attention back to the now empty brownstone.
He was sure they had a security system in place, which begged the question of how someone had snuck cameras in there.
Was it an inside job? Someone they trusted, who had access to the house?
There might be cleaning staff, or a dog walker if they had a dog.
From his bench he had a good view of the front door.
Fortunately, the weather was fine. No one seemed to notice him, or care.
He was well dressed, in a suit, reading The New York Times.
No one bothered him. He stuck around for a while, but the house was quiet.
He showed up again the next morning, and that’s when his efforts paid off.
A stocky, fortyish woman arrived at the Westcotts’.
He watched as she used a key to open the front door and reached in to disable the security code.
Bingo. The cleaning lady. But before she disappeared inside, a woman walking down the sidewalk called out to her.
John thought she looked familiar. He tried to remember where he’d seen her before and then it came to him – she was at the memorial, glued to Jill Westcott’s side.
He got up from his bench and casually began to walk closer, to better hear what they were saying.
‘Nadya!’ the familiar-looking woman called from the sidewalk.
The woman on the front stoop turned and looked at her. ‘Yes?’
‘Remember me? I’m Lara.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She added, ‘They’re not here. They’ve gone away.’
‘Oh.’ After a pause she asked, ‘Where have they gone?’
‘They went to Venice for a few days. She didn’t tell you?’
‘No.’ Another pause. ‘Jill usually asks me to take care of the plants when they’re away.’
The cleaning lady shrugged and began to turn away.
‘Well, have a good day,’ Lara said, and then turned and went back in the direction she’d come.
John watched the woman retreat; he was already walking casually in the same direction, on the other side of the street. He thought it was worth finding out more about her. If she usually took care of the plants when the Westcotts were away, she also must have a key and know the security code.
John tracked her discreetly for several blocks to another brownstone, where she went up the front steps and let herself in. He now had her address. He entered it into his phone. He would find out her full name. He thought about her all the way back to the Westcotts.
He couldn’t sit in the parkette for hours waiting for the cleaning lady to come out; she would probably be there all day. He explored the neighbourhood and had a long lunch, but he didn’t want to miss her leaving. By midafternoon he was back on his bench.
Just before three o’clock, the door opened.
The cleaning lady, whose name he now knew was Nadya, exited and locked the door behind her.
He fell into step and followed her into the subway, keeping his distance, but keeping her in sight at all times.
She seemed oblivious, lost in thought. She switched to the 7 and finally got off in Sunnyside.
He kept with her. As she walked down the sidewalk in what he assumed was her own neighbourhood, he worried that he would stand out in his expensive suit.
But he needn’t have worried; she never once looked back.
At last she arrived at a small house on Horace Street.
She used a key to open the front door and paused to open her mailbox and riffle through it, taking her mail inside with her.
The door closed behind her, and through a window he saw her in the front room, moving around.
He took out his phone and made a note of the address. He would do a little research.
John went home after that and did some looking into Lara Donleavy and the cleaning lady, Nadya Sokolov.
He assumed Lara was a close friend of Jill’s.
He learned that they had both attended the same college at the same time.
Lara was married to Ben Donleavy, an attorney at a Manhattan firm.
Like the Westcotts, the Donleavys obviously had money.
Did they want more? If Lara watched the Westcotts’ place when they were away, then she had to have had keys at some point.
She would have been told the security code.
A friend like that could easily plant microphones or cameras.
And John knew not all friends could be trusted.
If she was behind the blackmail, given Ted was so convinced it was John, she must be doing a pretty good job of pretending to be a friend.
And if she was behind this, he could assume her husband was in on it too. John wondered how easy it would be to shake them down. He knew he would enjoy it.
The cleaning lady had immigrated from Nizhny Novgorod, Russia, in 2001. She had a son, Peter, aged twenty-three, who still lived at home. He decided to focus on the Donleavys first.
That was Friday. And then John had received the text from Ted on Saturday evening, calling his bluff, and he knew that Ted was on to him.
He also knew that Ted was scared shitless – someone was blackmailing him, and he obviously didn’t know who.
Clearly, whoever had planted those cameras was clever enough not to reveal who they were.
Ted must be desperately trying to find out.
But Ted was a bit of an idiot. John was much smarter than Ted.
He’d had to be. He hadn’t grown up with everything handed to him on a silver fucking platter.
John had made good use of his time in prison.
He’d cultivated people with the right kind of skills, and who he knew would be getting out before too long.
People who might be useful if he ever needed them.
So he knew who to call when he wanted someone to study the Donleavys’ place and figure out how to break in. Billy was a B&E expert, out on parole, and willing to work. He was also loyal and discreet. They arranged to meet on Monday night at a deserted location – under an overpass in the Bronx.
John arrives first and smokes a cigarette leaning against his car while he waits in the dark for Billy to arrive. Billy is a bit late, but John finally sees the headlights of his car approaching. The car pulls up beside him and Billy gets out. He comes over and stands next to John.
‘Can I bum a cigarette?’ Billy asks.
John hands him the pack. Billy reaches in and takes one, then uses a cheap plastic Bic to light it.
He takes a deep draw and says, ‘Good news.’ He exhales and says, ‘I got in, no problem. They’ve got all these alarm signs up, but no actual security system hooked up to anything.
’ He shakes his head. ‘These people are so stupid. I just picked the lock to the back door. Easy. So you shouldn’t have any trouble.
If you can’t pick the back door, just quietly break a kitchen window in the back, you’ll be fine.
It’s pretty private. And,’ he adds, ‘it looks like they’ve gone away for a few days, so the coast is clear. ’
John hadn’t told Billy why he wanted access to the house. Now, unfortunately, he’ll have to wait till they’re back, and he hates waiting. ‘How do you know they’ve gone away?’
‘There was a message on the fridge to somebody about feeding the cat. Said they’d be back Thursday evening. So you’ve got time.’
John nods and smokes his cigarette. He’ll just have to wait.