Michael’s reputation as an ace prosecutor. As he began to try and win the bigger cases, he had to square off against more and more hardened criminals, at least those whose defense attorneys were dumb enough to put them on the stand. Michael Roman, even in those heady early days, was unflappable, solid as a rock. Thus the Stone Man.
For Tommy, the nickname also had a dual meaning. Tommy Jesus came first out of the obvious. Tommy’s last name was Christiano. But his reputation in the office was one of a prosecutor who could take a dying or dead case, and bring it back to life, like Lazarus from the tomb.
Michael turned around. Behind him stood an inebriated Gina Torres. When Michael had started at the Felony Trial Bureau, Gina Torres had been a paralegal; a slender, leggy knockout, given to skin-tight business suits and expensive perfume. Now, a few years later, she had moved on to a private firm – they all did – and put on a few pounds, but they all landed in the right places.
“You look fucking great ,” she slurred at Michael.
“Gina,” Michael said, a little taken aback. “You too.” And it was true. The café au lait skin, the shiny black hair, the pastel lipstick. That tight skirt.
“I heard you were married,” she said.
Michael and Gina had had a brief, sparking romance for a few months when he’d gotten to Kew Gardens. It ended as abruptly as it started. But Michael recalled every tryst, every coffee-room kiss, every elevator encounter. He held up his ring finger. At least he hoped it was his ring finger. He was getting hammered.
Gina leaned forward and planted one, hard and sloppy, on the mouth.
Michael almost fell off the stool.
She pulled back, ran the tip of her tongue over his lips. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
When Michael was able to speak, he said “I kinda do.”
Gina slid her business card onto the bar in front of Michael, took one of the full shot glasses, downed it, then walked away. Every man at the bar – actually, every man at the Austin Ale House – watched the show.
Michael glanced at Tommy. For the moment, for the first time in his life, he was speechless.
“Dude,” Tommy said. “You’re my fucking hero.”
Michael picked up a napkin, wiped the lipstick from his lips. He drank a shot, shivered. “Abby’s going to know, isn’t she?”
Tommy laughed, sipped his drink. “Oh yeah,” he said. “They always do.”
NINE
O n a busy street in the Astoria section of Queens, two men sat in an SUV near the corner of Newtown Avenue and 31st Street, beneath the rumbling steel canopy of the El. They had stopped at a Home Depot on the way, paying cash for a total of twelve items. The cashier had been Pakistani. Aleksander Savisaar wondered if there were actually any Americans in America.
Aleks took what he needed from the plastic bag, and put it in his leather shoulder bag.
The address they sought was a narrow doorway lodged between a funeral parlor and a store that sold pagers. The cracked stone steps and grimy door told Aleks that this portal did not lead to a flourishing enterprise of any sort. Next to the door was a verdigris-covered bronze plaque that read:
P EOPLE’S L EGAL S ERVICES , LLC.
V IKTOR J. H ARKOV , E SQ .
S UITE 206
They circled the block, then parked across the street. An aged sign in the window on the second floor declared Attorney / Notary Public . It appeared to be from the 1970s.
“Check to see if there is a back entrance,” Aleks said.
Kolya slipped on his sunglasses, glanced at the side-view mirror, and stepped out of the vehicle.
Aleks reached into the box on the back seat. Inside were a half-dozen prepaid cellphones. He extracted the printout from his pocket, one he had made at the Schlössle Hotel in Tallinn, the address and phone number of Viktor Harkov. He punched in the number. After five rings there was an answer.
“People’s Legal Services.”
It was a man, older, Russian accent. Aleks listened to the
For Tommy, the nickname also had a dual meaning. Tommy Jesus came first out of the obvious. Tommy’s last name was Christiano. But his reputation in the office was one of a prosecutor who could take a dying or dead case, and bring it back to life, like Lazarus from the tomb.
Michael turned around. Behind him stood an inebriated Gina Torres. When Michael had started at the Felony Trial Bureau, Gina Torres had been a paralegal; a slender, leggy knockout, given to skin-tight business suits and expensive perfume. Now, a few years later, she had moved on to a private firm – they all did – and put on a few pounds, but they all landed in the right places.
“You look fucking great ,” she slurred at Michael.
“Gina,” Michael said, a little taken aback. “You too.” And it was true. The café au lait skin, the shiny black hair, the pastel lipstick. That tight skirt.
“I heard you were married,” she said.
Michael and Gina had had a brief, sparking romance for a few months when he’d gotten to Kew Gardens. It ended as abruptly as it started. But Michael recalled every tryst, every coffee-room kiss, every elevator encounter. He held up his ring finger. At least he hoped it was his ring finger. He was getting hammered.
Gina leaned forward and planted one, hard and sloppy, on the mouth.
Michael almost fell off the stool.
She pulled back, ran the tip of her tongue over his lips. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
When Michael was able to speak, he said “I kinda do.”
Gina slid her business card onto the bar in front of Michael, took one of the full shot glasses, downed it, then walked away. Every man at the bar – actually, every man at the Austin Ale House – watched the show.
Michael glanced at Tommy. For the moment, for the first time in his life, he was speechless.
“Dude,” Tommy said. “You’re my fucking hero.”
Michael picked up a napkin, wiped the lipstick from his lips. He drank a shot, shivered. “Abby’s going to know, isn’t she?”
Tommy laughed, sipped his drink. “Oh yeah,” he said. “They always do.”
NINE
O n a busy street in the Astoria section of Queens, two men sat in an SUV near the corner of Newtown Avenue and 31st Street, beneath the rumbling steel canopy of the El. They had stopped at a Home Depot on the way, paying cash for a total of twelve items. The cashier had been Pakistani. Aleksander Savisaar wondered if there were actually any Americans in America.
Aleks took what he needed from the plastic bag, and put it in his leather shoulder bag.
The address they sought was a narrow doorway lodged between a funeral parlor and a store that sold pagers. The cracked stone steps and grimy door told Aleks that this portal did not lead to a flourishing enterprise of any sort. Next to the door was a verdigris-covered bronze plaque that read:
P EOPLE’S L EGAL S ERVICES , LLC.
V IKTOR J. H ARKOV , E SQ .
S UITE 206
They circled the block, then parked across the street. An aged sign in the window on the second floor declared Attorney / Notary Public . It appeared to be from the 1970s.
“Check to see if there is a back entrance,” Aleks said.
Kolya slipped on his sunglasses, glanced at the side-view mirror, and stepped out of the vehicle.
Aleks reached into the box on the back seat. Inside were a half-dozen prepaid cellphones. He extracted the printout from his pocket, one he had made at the Schlössle Hotel in Tallinn, the address and phone number of Viktor Harkov. He punched in the number. After five rings there was an answer.
“People’s Legal Services.”
It was a man, older, Russian accent. Aleks listened to the
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