Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(50)

My father chuckled. Exhausted as he was, he was still listening to every word. Better yet, he was reading between the lines.

“He means he knows who the intermediary is,” said my father. “He knows who the money is funneled through.”

Julian grinned and put a finger to his nose again.

Bingo.





CHAPTER 69


“WHO IS it?” asked Foxx.

Julian took out his cell. The picture was already cued up. “Meet Viktor Alexandrov,” he said.

We all stared at the photo. It came from the web pages of Viktor Alexandrov International.

“That’s convenient, the guy has a website,” I said. “Does it list an address?”

“No, just his phone. But it’s a New York number,” said Julian. “He lives in SoHo.”

Foxx grabbed the phone for a closer look, his finger scrolling. “He’s an art dealer?”

“A Russian art dealer,” said Julian. “And if there was ever a country that would create a darknet cryptocurrency to counterfeit the ruble it would be the Russians. Black market weapons, money laundering, influencing foreign elections—and, of course, the occasional funding of terrorism.”

“Who better to run cover for them than an international art dealer,” I said.

“We need to get acquainted with this guy,” said Foxx. “Quickly.”

“He could be sitting in your lap right now, and it wouldn’t make a difference,” said Julian. “He’s not going to know anything.”

“What do you mean?” asked Foxx. “How would he not know where the money emanates from?”

Again, my father chimed in. “That’s the whole point of the intermediary,” he said. “He can never know.”

Foxx was back to being pissed. “What the hell, Julian? So it is a dead end.”

“I didn’t say that. All I meant was that Viktor Alexandrov wouldn’t be able to tell you the source even if you waterboarded him on a bed of nails,” said Julian. “But there is a way to find out.”

“How?” asked Foxx.

“I would need access to his computer.”

“Easy,” said Foxx. “I can have a search warrant by this afternoon.”

“Are you sure about that?” I asked. “On what evidence, a hacked digital currency transaction?”

“You’re both missing the point,” said Julian. “Alexandrov can’t find out that I’ve accessed his computer. Even if he doesn’t know the origin of the transactions, he can still signal whoever it is.”

“So we need to get you in front of his computer without his knowing,” said Foxx.

“That’s one way,” said Julian.

“What’s another?” I asked.

“I only need access to the computer. That doesn’t mean I have to be the one in front of it,” said Julian. “I don’t need to be in the room.”

“But someone does,” I said. “Right?”

“That gives us some more options,” said Foxx. “Any ideas?”

“Yeah, two,” said my father. “Breaking and entering.”

“Or maybe just the latter,” I said.

“What do you have in mind?” asked Foxx.

I pointed at Julian’s phone and the picture of Alexandrov. He had slicked-back hair and looked like a rich playboy standing in front of what appeared to be an El Greco, given the elongated, almost drippy-looking figures in the painting.

“What else do we know about this guy?” I asked. “His personal life.”

“How much more do you need to know? He’s Russian,” said Julian. “He likes to drink and chase women.”

“Exactly,” I said. “All we need to do is give him a chance to do both.”

“I’ll ask you again,” said Foxx. “What do you have in mind?”

I was already halfway out of the booth. “I’ll let you know in one hour,” I said. “Maybe even sooner if the mayor’s in a good mood.”





CHAPTER 70


EDSO DEACON stared at me in utter disbelief from behind his desk at City Hall. “You want me to do what?”

“I want you to throw a cocktail party,” I said, handing him a folded piece of paper. “Here’s the guest list.”

Deacon took the paper, clumsily unfolding it. He looked. He squinted. He stared back at me again. “There’s only one name on it,” he said.

“That’s the only name I care about. The others you invite are entirely up to you,” I said.

“Really? I get to choose the rest of the guests at my own party? That’s awfully kind of you,” said Deacon.

As if his sarcasm weren’t enough to convey his annoyance, the mayor looked over at Beau Livingston and rolled his eyes. Livingston, sitting on the couch along the wall, let loose a sycophantic laugh.

“Yeah,” said Livingston. “That’s real generous of you, Reinhart. Do you have another piece of paper with the hors d’oeuvres you wanted served?”

“Caviar, for starters,” said Deacon. “The guy’s Russian. Viktor Alexandrov.”

“Are we supposed to know who that is?” asked Livingston.