Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Natalia
I don’t have to work until later in the evening, so instead of moping around the apartment, wondering and worrying about the whole mess, I decide to do something.
I decide to find Giordano’s supervisor.
I research the FBI Field Office once more and check the administration chart to see who is who and, more importantly, who’s in charge of the maintenance division.
Martin. Fred W. Martin.
Martin is in charge of all staff in maintenance for the FBI field office.
He must be the man who told Deluca to do the deed. To tamper with the brakes on the vehicle my father took.
Why was my father driving a company car on the day of the accident?
Even I know it’s against company policy for an employee to use a company vehicle for personal reasons.
My mother should never have been in the car with my stepfather on the day of the accident.
Why would he break company rules and risk censure?
Something doesn’t make sense.
Was he running some operation involving my mother, and that was why she was with him?
I intend to find out, one way or another.
I do some more sleuthing and discover that Martin has a Facebook page, and while it’s not very active, which makes sense for an FBI employee, his wife Serena has a very busy family Facebook page that, for the most part, is public.
I spend some time reading her posts and learn that Fred has a favourite watering hole in the borough, The Yard Arm, which Serena mentions as a frequent check-in, and I decide to head there.
It’s located a few blocks away from the field office, and I imagine Martin and his fellow maintenance workers spend their time there on lunch breaks or after work because it has a pretty nice tavern and even a small patio where people eat their meals.
The atmosphere is nice, and the waitresses are busy but friendly.
I go inside and sit alone at the bar, glancing around, hoping to catch a view of Martin or at least some of his staff.
I see him arrive at around half-past five, and he’s with a couple of younger men who are dressed in what look like work clothes, a bit dirty, with smears of oil on the sleeves and pant legs. Yes, it’s Martin and his workers, come to get a beer after work, just as Serena wrote.
He sits at a table with the three others, and I watch as a waitress goes over to speak with them. They all laugh and talk like they’re old friends.
I want to confront him, but of course, I’m smart enough to know that would screw things up completely.
Instead, I sip my drink and watch them in the mirror behind the bar.
It gives me a good perspective, and I can see what kind of man and boss Martin is.
He looks to be a very nice boss, buying his workers a round of drinks after their shift.
He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would cooperate with the mafia to kill an FBI Special Agent and his wife…
Did he get an order from above, and was he simply doing his job?
I can’t imagine that a manager in the FBI would do something like that.
Before I can leave, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see a young man with glasses and a briefcase standing at the bar beside me.
“Hi, Natalia,” he says, smiling guiltily. “I hoped I’d be able to talk with you for a moment. Maybe in one of the booths?”
He hands me a card, and I check it out and see that it says his name is Vincent Leonard, a freelance reporter with the Manhattan Chronicle.
Has he been following me?
I glance around and look to see if there’s a man with a red pin on his lapel anywhere in sight, but seeing none, I hesitate. There’s no harm in sitting with this young reporter for a while, in public, so I nod my head.
“Sure,” I say and pick up my glass of Sprite.
He leads the way to an empty booth at the corner of the bar, and we take a seat across from each other.
“How do you know who I am?”
He gets settled in and glances around, then shakes his head.
“Let’s just say that my boss is really interested in you and tasked me with trying to get an interview.
I did a bit of research and found your address.
Then, I was planning to ask for an interview when I saw you walking out of the building and into an Uber.
I, uh,” he says and leans closer, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear his admission.
“I decided to follow you. For research purposes, you understand. I’m not stalking you or anything.
At least, not that way, if you understand me. For business purposes.”
“That’s nice to know,” I say and take a sip. “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Leonard? Why are you interested in me, of all people? I’m just a medical resident studying forensic psychiatry.”
“Hardly,” he says with a laugh, his eyes widening.
He leans forward again. “You’re the daughter of Stepan Mikhailov and the wife of Harrison O’Connor of the O’Connor Family.
You’re part of two crime families. And according to my sources, which shall remain nameless, your mother and stepfather were murdered by one of the other crime families. ”
I narrow my eyes, amused at his description, which is correct but sounds ridiculous when said out loud. “Don’t you think even saying that could get you, you know, unalived, as they say in the online world?”
He laughs at that. “I don’t plan on writing anything until this is all over,” he says and takes a sip of his own drink.
“But I thought I could propose something to you. Let me ghostwrite your memoir or tell-all when you’re ready.
I think you have the most interesting life, and it demands to be written down.
I get rights to several stories in the Chronicle in return. ”
“Don’t you think my tell-all might get me unalived?” I say, wagging my eyebrows.
It’s almost laughable, this bright-eyed new journalist hoping to convince me to write my memoir.
“Once they’re all in jail, I mean. I have someone on the inside who is telling me a few juicy details, and so I thought I’d approach you. Maybe get an agreement for when it’s all over.”
“What do you mean, on the inside? The inside of what? The Mafia?”
“No, no,” he says and shakes his head. “Not the Mafia. God no. The FBI,” he says and leans forward. “Someone who knows what’s going on.” He nods.
“Who?”
He shakes his head. “Nuh uh. Not gonna say. Suffice to say that it’s someone who knows, period.”
I take in a deep and frustrated breath. Of course, I fully believe in journalism, and support the kind of fact-based expose that this Vincent wants to write. It’s the only way for the truth to come out.
But at the same time, it could be very dangerous for both of us. Great for the Chronicle, but not so great for the writer and subject.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I say and take another sip.
It’s then that I get a phone call from an unidentified number. Usually, I let them go to voicemail, since so many are spam, but the number calls again, and then again and finally, fearing that something bad has happened, I answer, holding my finger up to Leonard.
“Yes?”
I listen and hear my Gramp’s very shaky voice. “Natalia, I’m so sorry. I’m okay, but you gotta get here as soon as possible. My, uh, benefactor says he needs to talk to you.”
I get up and motion to Leonard that I have to take the call. I go to the ladies' washroom and stand in a stall. “Gramps! Oh, my God, what happened?”
“Let’s just say I had an unscheduled trip to a warehouse in Brooklyn and leave it at that. Can you please come as soon as possible? My bladder can’t take this.”
“Give me the address, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“And call Harrison,” Gramps says. “They want Harrison as well. It’s a sit-down meeting to talk about mutual business interests between Mr. Andropov and you, to end any animosity between our families. But they figured you needed some convincing to attend. Both of you.”
“Where are you?”
He gives me an address in Brooklyn. “Okay, we’ll be there. Give us at least half an hour.”
I end the call and then immediately call Harrison, and as luck would have it, my call goes right to his cell.
“They have Gramps,” I say, tears already making my vision blurry.
“Who?”
“Andropov. They want both of us to meet. Gramps said he’s leverage, since they didn’t think we’d agree without something to convince us. I have the address.”
I give him the number and then return to the table where Leonard is waiting. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. Something’s come up, and I need to leave right now.”
“Let me write the articles and your book,” he says and stands up. “I guarantee it will meet with your approval.”
“I’ll let you know,” I say. “I have to go.”
I turn and leave the restaurant, not having done what I wanted to accomplish. Instead, I have a meeting to attend with a man who could have been the one to kill my parents. And Harrison’s father.
How can they expect us to cooperate with them, given everything?
But I realize that this is the way with the crime families. They accept that sometimes, people die, but that it shouldn’t get in the way of doing business.
I can’t believe I actually just accepted that, and so it reinforces to me how both Harrison and I have to do whatever we can to get out of their grip.
You can’t deny your blood, but you can refuse to associate with your family members.
Outside, my driver is waiting, and I take my seat in the back and give him the address of the warehouse in Brooklyn.
As the car makes its way to the location, the city streets and buildings pass in a blur.
Poor Gramps… I never wanted any of this to affect him, of all people. I know he’s tough, but still, he’s an older man, and the last thing he needs is the stress of being abducted and taken to a strange location in Brooklyn with a bunch of Russian thugs.
Sure, he spent his life in law enforcement, but still. He shouldn’t have to pay for Harrison’s and my mistakes.
When I get to the warehouse, I thank my driver and take in a deep breath, readying myself for what is about to happen. There’s a man in a black suit with slicked-back hair and sunglasses standing in front of the entrance, his hands folded in front of him. He looks at me as I walk up to the door.
“Identification,” he says and nods.
I take my wallet from my bag and show him my driver’s license. He nods, then motions for me to hand him my phone and bag. I do, and he then pats me down, like he thinks I carry a weapon. I realize that these people have to do that with everyone, and so I comply. What else can I do?
Finally, satisfied that I have no weapons and with my cell in his possession, he hands my bag back to me and opens the door.
“Please to go inside to second floor. They are waiting.”
I walk inside the cool, dim interior, wondering what the hell Harrison and I are going to do to get out of this alive.
I’ll do pretty much anything for my Gramps…