Private Rogue

Chapter 45

It was bitterly cold. Justine shivered as she and Sci walked along West 81st Street. They’d arrived in New York that morning, having caught the red eye with Mo-bot. Jessie Fleming had met them at JFK and driven them to Private’s office at Forty-one Madison, a thirty-six-story black glass and steel skyscraper that stood on the corner of Madison Avenue and East 26th Street, overlooking Madison Park. Private New York was headquartered on the thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth floors, and they’d been given a meeting room that was to act as the base of operations for their investigation into the man posing as Beth Singer’s father.

“You’ve been pretty quiet,” Sci observed as they weaved around another couple heading along the icy sidewalk.

“Just thinking,” Justine replied.

“Pining?” Sci remarked with a knowing smile.

“No.” She elbowed him playfully.

In truth, she was worried about Jack. The thought of what he could be facing in Afghanistan was almost too much for her to bear, particularly after what had happened in Moscow. She’d insisted they come to New York, not just to be closer to the guy they were investigating, but because she wanted to be there the moment Jack stepped off the plane on his return.

She had tried not to worry and had focused on getting the local investigation up and running. She didn’t have Sci’s forensic skills or Mo-bot’s knowledge of computers, but as one of the country’s leading criminal profilers, Justine knew people.

“You don’t have to worry,” Sci said. “Jack knows how to take care of himself.”

“I’m not worried,” Justine replied, but that was less than the truth.

She wasn’t just worried about whether or not Jack would come home. Each of these major investigations took an emotional toll on him, and while it might remain hidden from others who only saw the confidence and bravado of a hero, she saw beneath the façade. The Moscow investigation had been particularly grueling, and even Jack acknowledged how much it had affected him. It wasn’t often that Jack Morgan benched himself. Justine knew Afghanistan already held traumatic memories for him. She prayed that he would not pay too high a psychological price for whatever was to come.

“If you say so,” Sci responded. “Although I’m a little offended that after all these years working together, you don’t think I’m smart enough to read you like a book.”

Justine elbowed him again.

“Cut it out,” he said. “Try to be professional. We’re almost there.”

Mo-bot had traced the cell phone Justine had called to contact Donald Singer to an apartment building on West 81st Street, one block from Central Park. Justine and Sci had volunteered to see if they could pin the phone to a specific apartment. It hadn’t moved since it had been taken into the building.

38 West 81st Street was a grand old building with a green awning that traversed the sidewalk. It was the kind of prime real estate foreign investors would pay over the odds for. It was a short walk from the park, and apartments on the upper levels had balconies that overlooked the small playground in the broad West 81st Street median. It was a beautiful part of New York City, and ownership of an apartment in the building would have been a status symbol for a certain class of jetsetter.

A liveried doorman opened the brass-bound door for them and smiled as they entered a huge vaulted lobby. There was marble everywhere and lush pot plants abounded, as did expensive abstract artwork. Justine didn’t need to be an expert to know these were all costly originals.

She and Sci crossed to a long marble reception desk.

“Can I help?” the suited receptionist asked.

“I hope so,” she replied. “My colleague and I work in Fisher’s, a jeweler on Fifth. One of your residents was in the store yesterday and he left his billfold. We have his address for delivery of a bespoke piece he ordered, but we’d like to make sure he gets his money back sooner rather than later.”

Sci produced the billfold containing three thousand dollars in hundreds.

“My colleague accompanied me for security,” Justine said.

The receptionist’s smile was condescending. “Quite. Well, if you’d like to leave it with me?”

“We’d rather not,” Justine replied. “It’s quite a lot of money.”

The receptionist’s teeth remained on show even though Justine could tell he was offended.

“We don’t have any dishonesty in this building,” he said coldly.

Justine fought the urge to scoff.

“Could you give me the resident’s name?” he asked.

“Donald Singer,” Sci replied.

The receptionist frowned. “We don’t have anyone here by that name.”

Sci produced his phone and showed him a photograph of the man posing as Donald Singer. It had been lifted from the false Singer Investments property company website.

“Ah, Mr. Andreyev,” the receptionist said. “A very private man.”

“Naturally,” Justine responded. “Many of our clients use pseudonyms for reasons of discretion.”

Sci handed the receptionist the billfold. “Can you make sure he gets this?”

“And could you also ask him to phone Fisher’s and confirm receipt?” Justine asked. “Just to put my boss’s mind at rest.”

“I can certainly ask,” the receptionist said. “I will run this upstairs immediately.”

Sci and Justine thanked him and headed for the exit. The doorman smiled as he let them out. When they were a short distance from the building, Justine spoke into the microphone concealed within the cuff of her sleeve.

“You got it?”

“Yes,” Mo-bot replied into Justine’s earpiece. “I’m following it through the building now.”

The billfold contained a tracking device that would enable Mo-bot, sitting in the warm comfort of their operations room at Private New York, to pinpoint Andreyev’s exact location.

“And I’ve started running the name,” she added.

“We’re on our way back,” Justine said, satisfied with their work.

In a few minutes they would know exactly where their target was based, and soon they’d know who he really was.