Desperate Measures

25

The two detectives, Sharkey and Paulson, made themselves at home in the commodious lobby of the New York Athletic Club and flashed a badge when a retainer asked their business.

“This is quite a place,” Sharkey said.

“You wouldn’t believe,” Paulson replied. “I used to work out here with a friend who was a member — until he couldn’t pay his dues anymore, and they kicked him out. There’s twenty-six floors here, a couple of restaurants and bars, gyms, steam rooms, a pool, a running track, everything you could imagine in the way of indoor sports.”

“And rooms for the members?”

“A couple of floors of them — for guys whose wives have kicked them out, or guys between apartments, or out-of-towners.”

“So, I guess Donald Trask is a regular member.”

“I guess so. The commish says he’s a member of the Yale Club, too, and might move over there because of the gun thing. But he’s supposed to be going to Connecticut from here, so we can bust him at Grand Central Station.”

“Twelve-thirty,” Sharkey replied. “And there he is.”

Donald Trask entered the lobby from Central Park South, stopped at the front desk for a brief conversation, then got onto an elevator. The detectives walked over and noted the floor number of his stop, then took their seats again.

“Maybe he’s packing up to move,” Paulson said.

“We’ll see.”

Shortly after one o’clock, Trask got off the elevator in the lobby, towing a large suitcase and carrying a smaller one. They followed him to the door he had entered. Outside, a black town car was waiting for him. Sharkey trotted around the corner to get their car. The driver stowed the luggage and drove away, making a U-turn toward Columbus Circle, with the detectives following half a block back.

“We’ll brace him at Grand Central and take his gun and license,” Paulson said.

“Then where the fuck is he going?” The town car had turned uptown on Broadway.

“Beats me.”

The town car turned west on West 72nd Street and drove all the way to the West Side Highway, where it turned onto the ramp and headed north.

“Maybe he’s staying with friends on the Upper West Side,” Paulson said, but near the George Washington Bridge exit, the town car turned east.

“How long do we follow?” Paulson asked.

“I don’t know — to the city limits, maybe?”

The town car turned north, and still the two cops followed.

“Suppose he’s headed for Boston?” Paulson asked.

“I’m good as far as the Connecticut state line,” Sharkey replied, but when they reached that point, he kept going.

“We’re out of state now,” Paulson pointed out.

“Yeah, but now I’m curious.”

Twenty minutes later they were in Greenwich, following the shoreline, and the town car turned through large stone and wrought-iron gates and went up the drive to a large, Georgian-style house, where, from the street, Donald Trask could be seen taking his luggage through the front door.

“All right,” Sharkey said, getting out his cell phone and pressing a button. “Detective Sharkey for the commissioner.”

“Bacchetti,” Dino said.

“Commissioner, Donald Trask didn’t go to the Yale Club, and we never had a chance to brace him. We followed him to a big house in Greenwich.”

“Connecticut?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know we don’t operate up there, unless we’re serving a warrant.”

“Yes, sir. It looks like he lives up here.”

“Not for long,” Dino said. “He got divorced this morning, and he’s got to clear that house by Friday afternoon at five. Pick him up then, follow him to the city, and do what you’ve got to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get your asses back to New York, where you belong.”

Sharkey hung up and reported the conversation to his partner. “I think we should take his suggestion.”

“Doesn’t sound like a suggestion,” Paulson said.

The two drove back to the city.

A week later, on Monday morning, a meeting attended by Cilla Scott, the two Realtors, and the seller’s attorney, took place in Herb Fisher’s office. Cilla signed many documents — the seller had already signed — and handed over a check.

“Congratulations,” the seller’s attorney said. “The apartment is yours.” He handed over four sets of keys and a bill of sale for the furniture she had bought, then departed.

Cilla thanked Herb for everything, then she and Margot left.

“I have an offer on the Carlyle apartment,” Margot said.

“Already?”

“I think we priced it right.”

“What’s the offer?”

“He offered $3,500,000; I countered with four and a half, and he came up to $4,250,000.”

“Accept it,” Cilla said. “He can close anytime. I’m moving this afternoon.”

“May I help?” Margot asked.

Back at the Carlyle, Cilla packed, while Margot phoned and accepted the offer, then they put Cilla’s things into a hired town car and ferried it over to Fifth Avenue.

The apartment was neat and spotless, and there were fresh linens on the beds. Cilla hung her things in the dressing room. “Now I have to go buy a car,” she said. She found Paul, the male half of her newly hired couple. “Paul, do you drive?”

“I drove your predecessor everywhere.”

“Then come with me.”

Downstairs, Margot excused herself to deliver the signed offer of the apartment to the buyer’s Realtor.

Cilla thanked her profusely. “Margot, do you know where the Bentley dealership is?”

“It’s called Manhattan Motorcars, and it’s on Ninth Avenue, below Forty-second Street.”

Cilla and Paul got into a cab, she googled the dealership for the correct address, and they were there in twenty minutes.

Cilla walked into the showroom, followed by Paul, and a salesman approached.

“May I show you something?” he asked.

“You can show me that,” Cilla said, pointing at a silver Flying Spur.

He did so, and she examined the window sticker carefully. “How much of a discount can you offer me?” she asked.

“None, I’m afraid. Everything here is sold at list price. I can offer you your first detailing free, though.”

“Write it up,” she said, digging in her bag for her checkbook.

A half hour later as they were driving uptown, she caressed the beautiful leather of the seats. “This is going to be your second home, Paul,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Paul replied. “And a fine home it is.”