Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(51)

“He’s an art dealer,” I said. “That’s why he’s getting the invite. The mayor is interested in diversifying his financial holdings by purchasing a major piece of art as an investment. He’s heard Alexandrov is the man to talk to.”

“Is he actually?” asked Livingston. “The man to talk to?”

“He will be once you tell him he is,” I said. “He’s hardly going to disagree with you, Beau. It’s called an ego. Not that you Harvard boys know anything about that.”

Livingston had his snappy comeback all lined up, I could tell. Probably something about my alma mater, Yale, being his safety school. But Deacon cut him off. “Just for shits and giggles,” said the mayor, “if I did host this party, what’s the real reason you want this Alexandrov guy there?”

“I can’t tell you,” I said.

If looks could kill. “You’ve got a lot of balls, Reinhart,” he said.

“No, just one big chit I’m cashing in.”

I’d saved Deacon’s life, and he knew it. He also knew the reason I couldn’t tell him about Alexandrov, or at least he had a pretty good idea.

“Does it involve your previous employer?” he asked.

“It might,” I said.

“Then at least tell me it’s a matter of life or death, or whatever they would say at Langley.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t extremely important,” I said. “How’s that?”

The mayor nodded. He was gradually buying in.

Livingston, meanwhile, couldn’t believe it. “Are you seriously considering this?” he asked his boss.

Livingston was only doing his job. He got paid to be the devil’s advocate. There were only two words ricocheting around in his mind: Russian collusion. The last thing the mayor needed was a subpoena from Bob Mueller.

“If I do you this favor, Reinhart, are we square?” asked Deacon.

Powerful men don’t like owing anything to anyone.

“Square as a checkerboard,” I said.

“Okay, then. When do you want to do it? A couple weeks?”

“Actually, it needs to be a little sooner.”

“How much sooner?”

I put my hands over my ears and smiled. If you think I had balls before, Deacon …

“It has to happen tonight,” I said.

Ten minutes later, with the sound of the mayor’s screaming still ringing in my ears outside City Hall, I called Elizabeth.

“Remember those brand-new Louboutins you thought you’d never wear? Get ready to strap ’em on,” I said.





CHAPTER 71


IT’S GOOD to be the king. It’s even better to be the king of New York. Everyone wants to have a drink with you, no matter how last-minute the invite. I was banking on it.

Livingston called me within the hour to tell me that Alexandrov had said yes, no questions asked. Correction. One question asked. Alexandrov wanted to know if he could bring a date. It figured. He probably wanted to show off to her. Look at me, babe, I’m buddy-buddy with the billionaire mayor …

Livingston made it clear to Alexandrov that there could be no plus-one. That was key. Little did the Russian know I already had his companion for the evening all lined up.

“How do I look?” asked Elizabeth, performing a quick twirl in a little black dress outside the gates of Gracie Mansion. Deacon and his wife, Cassandra, only used the mayor’s “official residence” for entertaining.

“You look positively stunning,” I said. She truly did. Elizabeth had become so adept at concealing her attractiveness for the sake of her career that I almost hadn’t recognized her when she arrived. “I wasn’t sure you actually owned makeup.”

“Ha-ha,” she said. “The makeup is mine. The dress I borrowed from my neighbor. Remind me not to spill anything on it.”

“There are too many other things I need to remind you about,” I said.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure,” she said. Elizabeth extended a leg through the thigh-high slit of her borrowed dress and smiled. “After all, I’m wearing my lucky new shoes.”

Say no more.

We staggered our entrances. I went first. Earlier, Landon Foxx had sent an agent to my apartment to grab one of my suits and a tie, along with a clean shirt and a pair of loafers. The only thing lucky about the shoes he picked was that they matched my suit. Thankfully, the agent knew his way around a wardrobe.

Foxx was also providing temporary lodging for both me and my father, by way of the safe house in Brooklyn. At that very moment, my father was catching up on some much-needed sleep. His jury duty performance was Oscar worthy. One orchestrated ruse, however, was enough for him for one day.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Mayor,” I said, after being led into a parlor off the foyer of Gracie Mansion by a member of the house staff. If there was one thing about this impromptu cocktail party that the mayor actually welcomed it was the cocktails. Comfortably ensconced in his second term, and with the press nowhere in sight, he was happy to throw back a few.

Not as much as the man of the hour, though.

Deacon shook my hand and immediately walked me over to Alexandrov, who seemingly had the mayor’s wife cornered by the bar. Or maybe it was the bar he had cornered.