Judge & Jury Read online

  Chapter 122

  I BOUNDED DOWN the stairway at the end of the hall, two steps at a time. Then I remembered Cavello’s other bodyguard. He was still guarding the hotel entrance, and that was a problem.

  I came to a stop on the second floor. The elevator was there. I reached in and pushed the button for the lobby, sending it on its way. Then I backtracked and crept along the staircase, following the clanking elevator down.

  I waited for the doors to open to the lobby.

  The second I heard the elevator rattle to a stop, I stepped out, my pistol drawn.

  Cavello’s bodyguard must have heard the commotion upstairs because he had his semiautomatic pistol trained on the opening doors. He heard a noise and spun toward me. I squeezed, popping two rounds into the logo on his mint-green warm-up, blowing him back into the empty elevator car. Then I ran out the front door.

  Outside the hotel there was no sign of Cavello.

  I took off in the direction of the harbor, back toward the Bar Ideal, where the Range Rovers were parked.

  As I turned into the square I saw Cavello. He was limping toward the cars, getting close.

  With a glance back, Cavello pulled himself up into the lead Range Rover and started the engine. He jerked it into reverse, did a three-point turn, smashing into a street sign and sending a few onlookers jumping out of the way.

  I ran over to my Land Cruiser, which was parked across the square. I pulled out after him. I knew that if he got to his ranch, he was lost to me. At best, there’d be months of red tape and diplomatic protocol, and a lot of explaining about my involvement.

  Besides, I hadn’t come down here to see him put on trial a third time.

  Cavello gunned the Range Rover through the town streets, careening around tight curves, flying through any stop signs and red lights. I followed a few car lengths behind.

  We made it to the east road out of Ushuaia—then he accelerated, going seventy, eighty, in the direction of his ranch. I picked up speed behind him. He passed a slow-moving truck, gunning for the narrow space between it and an oncoming bus, loudly honking its horn. Cavello didn’t move out of the way. The bus driver hit the brakes. Cavello jerked the car back in its lane, missing the bus by inches.

  I passed the truck, doing everything I could to keep the Land Cruiser on the narrow, weather-beaten road. The speedometer climbed. We both got up to about 160 kilometers, close to a hundred miles an hour. I could make out the back of Cavello’s head, checking me in the rearview mirror as I closed on him. His Range Rover began swerving. Once or twice I thought it was going to fly off the road.

  Suddenly Cavello’s window went down. I saw a semiautomatic.

  I slammed on the brakes as bullets ricocheted off the Land Cruiser. I hunched low over the steering wheel.

  Up ahead, I spotted a road sign, and a road approaching on the right. DAWSON GLACIER. I hit the gas one more time, making up distance. Then I plowed into Cavello at full speed!

  The Range Rover shot forward and spun. This time he couldn’t control it. He hit the brakes, screeching into a hundred-and-eighty-degree spin. I thought he was going to roll over, and hoped he would. The Range Rover somehow righted itself and clung perilously to the shoulder, dust and gravel billowing everywhere.

  I pulled forward and slammed my brakes, too. When I came to a stop I was blocking him. Our eyes met.

  Cavello’s only way out was into the canyon. He sent a spray of bullets my way. Then he took off up the road.

  You’re mine.

  Chapter 123

  IT WAS A ROCKY, unpaved mountain road, barely wide enough for a single vehicle. If we didn’t have SUVs, neither of us would have been able to stay on it for a hundred yards.

  And it was starting to climb higher.

  I pursued Cavello, my head nearly bouncing against the roof. I didn’t know if he knew where he was heading. But I sure didn’t, and I didn’t like the idea of this ominous-sounding glacier ahead and the unknown terrain. The canyon walls rose above us, overhanging and steep. Cavello’s vehicle sped ahead. It was hard to make up distance. Every time I hit a bump or a dip, I clung to the steering wheel as if it were a life preserver.

  The land had the look of a primordial world. Vegetation dwindled down to nothing. Ahead, gleaming, snow-capped peaks came into view. Frozen cataracts hugged icy cliffs overhead. It was surreal.

  We were going fifty or sixty, careering over huge bumps and dips. Any second, either of us could blow a tire and be dead because of it. Cavello fishtailed perilously around turns, scraping boulders and branches.

  I had to end this.

  Cavello slid around another turn, and I floored the accelerator, ramming his back end. The Range Rover swerved, trying to hold the turn—then its wheels sputtered wildly into a gully.

  The Range Rover rolled over, then landed upright in a cloud of dust. I slammed on my brakes and jumped out with my gun ready. I didn’t see any movement, and it looked bad.

  Suddenly, the passenger door creaked open. I couldn’t believe it! Cavello, with a bullet in his shoulder, along with whatever other injuries he’d just sustained, crawled out of the vehicle. He was still holding the gun, and he sprayed a barrage of bullets my way. I moved behind the SUV as bullets pummeled the Land Cruiser, shooting out windows. He kept firing until the magazine was empty.

  I called out to him. “End of the world, Dom—for you.”

  Chapter 124

  I STARTED TOWARD HIM, and Cavello began to hobble up the slope toward the ice field, limping horribly. What was with this guy?

  “It’s pay-up time, Dom. You remember Manny Oliva? Ed Sinclair?” I yelled, and my voice echoed.

  He continued to claw his way up the slope, falling back, righting himself, grabbing at rocks and loose gravel. I kept up, maybe thirty yards behind.

  Over a ledge ahead of us was a massive block of ice. It was thirty feet tall—and vast—clinging to the valley walls between two mountains. It was breathtaking. Could’ve sunk a thousand Titanics, and Cavello was headed toward it.

  He started to slide and fall. This time he cried out in pain.

  “How about Ralphie’s sister, Dom? Remember her? How about that little girl, the one you burned? What was she, a year old?”

  Cavello backed up against an ice-filled crevasse that was maybe twenty feet deep. There was nowhere else to go.

  He turned and faced me. “So what do you want now? You want me to kneel and beg? You want me to say I’m sorry? I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He mocked me and everything I stood for, believed in.

  I was breathing heavily, and exhausted. I reached out the gun, pointed it in the direction of the mobster’s chest. He just stood there, at the edge, with nowhere to go. I’d waited for this for so long.

  “Go on, Nicky Smiles. You won! It’s cold, and who knows what kind of animals are up here in the wild. You want some last words? I’m so sorry, Nick. I really am. I’m sorry I never got the chance to fuck her first before you came in. Quite a piece of ass. There you go, Nick. See how sorry I am! Go on. Shoot me!”

  I did. I sent a bullet ripping into his leg. Cavello buckled and howled. He staggered backward. I shot again, the ankle this time, shattering it.

  Cavello screeched then hobbled back; then his foot slipped over the edge. He began to tumble into the crevasse, scratching at the ice. He landed heavily on his back. Now he was completely trapped—no way for him to get out of there without my help.

  For a second I thought he was dead. He was bloody and twisted and barely moving.

  Then he stirred, clawing himself up to his knees. His eyes were glazing over. “You think you’re better than me? You’re done too, Pellisante. You’ll be lucky if you don’t spend the rest of your life in jail. You get the joke, Nick? You’ll give up the rest of your life, just to get me. So go on.” He spread out his arms. “Get it over with. Shoot! Better that than some wild animal. Make my day.”

  I aimed the Glock at Cavello, ready to take this pathetic animal out. I was thinking that w
e were in the middle of nowhere, no one around for miles. He couldn’t climb out. The smell of blood would act as a magnet and draw whatever predators were up here. Or maybe he’d just die of exposure during the night.

  I lowered my gun.

  “Y’know, Dom,” I said, “I kind of like your idea. I like it a lot. The part about the animals coming for you.”

  “C’mon, Nick, do it,” he snarled. “What’s the matter, you don’t have the guts?”

  “His name was Jarrod, Dom. He was ten years old.”

  “C’mon, do it. Kill me, you sonovabitch. Shoot me!”

  “You remember what you said to me that night in jail when I came to visit you, the day the juror bus blew?”

  Cavello kept glaring at me.

  “Well, I just want you to know—I’m going to sleep like a baby tonight.”

  I watched Cavello for another minute or so, until I was sure there was no way he could get out of there. Then I left.

  Chapter 125

  ANDIE AND I landed back at JFK in New York two nights later.

  I half-expected to be held by the police as soon as we got off the plane, but we breezed through customs and immigration. The terminal was crazy. Families and limo drivers, hands in the air, waving at everyone arriving. Some guy in a slick black suit came up to us. “Need a ride?”

  Andie and I looked at each other. We hadn’t made a plan, didn’t know how we were going to get back to the city. “Sure, we could use a ride,” I said.

  I gave the driver Andie’s address. For most of the ride into Manhattan we just stared at the familiar sights—the fairgrounds, Shea Stadium. I think we were both nervous and scared about what was going to happen next. I wasn’t sure I had a job anymore. I didn’t know if I would get arrested. And Andie—somehow I didn’t see her going back to auditioning for Tide commercials.

  We crossed over the Triborough Bridge, and as we got closer to Andie’s neighborhood, she just looked at me. Suddenly, there were tears in her eyes. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Nick, I just can’t.”

  “Can’t what, Andie?”

  “I can’t get out of this cab. I can’t go back to my life without you.”

  I put my hand to her face and brushed away a tear from the corner of her eye. She held my hand tightly. “I can’t go back to my apartment and pretend I’m going to start my life over, and that I’m the same. Because I’m not. And if I walk through my door I’ll have to face what’s there, my stupid life.”

  “Then don’t.” I held her by the shoulders. “Walk through mine.”

  “I can’t forget my son, Nick, and I never will. But I don’t want the rest of my life to be just missing him.”

  “Andie”—I put my finger to her lips—“walk through my door.”

  Tears were streaming down her cheeks. I didn’t know if they were tears of anguish or joy. “You know what I earned last year?” she said. “Twenty-four thousand six hundred dollars, Nick. That’s all. And even that was mostly from residuals.”

  “I don’t much care,” I said, holding her, caressing her. “I know the truth. You don’t have to prove it to me. The girl can act.”

  Andie choked back a laugh. Her mascara was running. I called up to the driver. “Change of address.”

  I gave him mine. We were going home, together.

  Epilogue

  ONE YEAR LATER

  Chapter 126

  RICHARD NORDESHENKO SQUEEZED a look at his hole cards—a king and a ten of hearts. He decided it was worth it to stay in the hand. He was feeling lucky tonight. He had several stacks of chips in front of him, and he’d looked forward to this evening for a long time.

  The American had been true to his word. Not a thing had happened after the abduction of his son. No policemen. No Mossad. No Interpol. No one had ever connected him to Cavello’s escape in New York. Or to Reichardt’s death in Haifa. He had closed up his business and stopped all contacts with his former network.

  A year later, he decided it was safe to put his toe back in. He’d taken another job in America. It involved some desperate men from Iran, but the pay was excellent and had been delivered up front.

  This time around he was Alex Kristancic, a businessman from Slovenia. His visa said he was here to sell wine at a trade show in the Javits Center.

  All night long, luck had gone his way. His stack of chips had steadily grown. He’d allowed himself two vodkas. He wasn’t even counting the money he had made.

  Once or twice, he caught the eye of a woman sitting at a table across from him. She was in a low-cut black dress, with thick curly hair pulled elegantly up on her head. She didn’t seem to be with anyone, and she was playing at the small-stakes table.

  The flop cards showed another king and a ten—matching his hole cards. The luck continued. Another player hung around until the end, which was excellent news. Nordeshenko flipped over his cards. The player groaned, beaten with two low pairs. The gods were still with him.

  “That’s it for me,” he announced, stacking his chips into neat, tall towers. He went to the bar and ordered another vodka, feeling very good indeed. His mood lifted even more when the woman he’d noticed slipped into an empty seat beside him.

  “Quite a night for you,” she said. “I couldn’t help noticing. Like everybody else in the room.” Her backless dress was sexy, and she was wearing an exquisite perfume. She had a long, very beautiful neck.

  “Yes. The poker gods were watching out for me tonight. And you? I hope you did well.”

  “Just enough to buy a gimlet and a taxi home. I guess I don’t trust the gods as much as you.”

  “Then let me buy the drink.” Nordeshenko smiled, signaling the bartender. “You’ll have doubled your winnings.”

  He introduced himself as Alex. She told him her name was Claire. They talked about the popularity of poker, some about wine, and New York City, where she was in real estate. They ordered another drink. A few times, Claire touched his arm as they spoke. After a while, he found himself doing the same thing. Her skin was soft and smooth. Her eyes absolutely dazzling.

  Finally it was past midnight. The card tables had started to thin. He was going to suggest to Claire that they continue their drinks elsewhere, when she put her hand on his arm again. She leaned in close. Her breath was clean and sweet.

  “You’ve already had a good night, Alex. Would you like to make it even better?”

  Nordeshenko felt a satisfied glow travel through him. It had already occurred to him this woman might be a prostitute, but what did it matter? She was highly attractive, and she seemed to be available. And he had won enough tonight to pay for several women.

  “That would be my pleasure,” Nordeshenko said, looking into her exquisite brown eyes. He tossed a few bills on the counter. She put her bag over her shoulder, and he took her elbow as she slid off the stool. “Let’s rock and roll.”

  Claire grinned in surprise.

  “My son’s expression. He watches American TV,” Nordeshenko explained.

  “You have a son?” She didn’t seem to mind it. In fact—if he read her right—it made her warm to him more.

  “Yes,” Nordeshenko said. “He’s thirteen.”

  “Is that so?” the woman said. Her eyes seemed to linger on him, perhaps losing a little of their dazzle. “I once had a son, too.”

  Chapter 127

  I KEPT THE NEWSPAPER on the kitchen table and read the article again—a short two-column report on the Metro page of the New York Post.

  I stared at the black-and-white photo of the murdered man. No matter how many times I looked at it, it was the same.

  BUSINESSMAN MURDERED IN POSH HOTEL

  The body of a visiting businessman, identified as Alex Kristancic from Slovenia, was found in the victim’s Times Square hotel room this morning, fatally stabbed in the neck.

  Police investigators placed the time of death at sometime after midnight last night. Hotel personnel recall Mr. Kristancic arriving back at the Ramada Renaissance around midnight, accom
panied by an unidentified female guest.

  Lt. Ned Rust, of Manhattan’s twenty-third precinct, said they are looking into whether the woman might be a call girl, but have received only sketchy details as to her appearance.

  “Mr. Kristancic apparently spent the evening at the Murray Hill Poker Club, a private club on East Thirty-third Street, and may have met up with the woman there,” Lt. Rust said.

  According to Lt. Rust, the crime scene showed no signs of struggle or robbery, indicating that Mr. Kristancic, who had more than ten thousand dollars in cash among his personal effects, may have known the killer.

  The lock to my apartment turned, and Andie, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, walked inside.

  She seemed surprised to see me home. For the past six months I’d been a partner at Bay Star International, a global security firm. “Nick . . .”

  “How’s Rita?” I looked up. “You said you were staying at your sister’s last night.”

  “Yeah.” Andie dropped a bag of groceries on the counter. “Then I had an audition today.”

  I pushed the newspaper article across the table. She picked it up and read. Finally she nodded, looked up at the ceiling, then back at me.

  “You are quite an actress,” I said.

  She sat down in the chair across from me. She looked at me, not trying to hide a thing. “He killed my son, Nick. He killed the jury, too.”

  “How did you know he was in New York?” I asked.

  “Your friend, the one from Homeland Security . . . Harpering. He sent you a fax a few days ago. It was about a guy you were interested in a year back. He wrote that the man had reentered the country under a different name. Homeland Security knew where he was staying, the hotel in Times Square.”

  “So is it finished now? Cavello. Nordeshenko.”

  “Yes, Nick.” She nodded. “It’s finished.”

  I stood up and went over to her. I pulled her up and hugged her, pressing her head against my chest. After a while I asked, “So how did the audition go?”