Obvious in hindsight, p.10
Obvious in Hindsight, page 10
“I’m hearing that SDNY is looking at him. Guessing, pay to play? Usually is. But it could be something else. I don’t know yet. Wondering what you’ve heard.”
Abby puts her feet on her desk and feels relaxed for the first time today. Nick getting hung out to dry? She could get behind that. The oxytocin hit will last until the next email or phone call from another reporter. “Very interesting. But it’s the first I’m hearing of it.”
“If you make some calls to your colleagues in law enforcement, I’m pretty sure you could learn a lot more. If, you know, you think getting me out of your hair for a while might be helpful.” Julia pauses. “Or, I could go back to that investigation on why the last six multimillion-dollar procurements all went to major Navarro donors. That’s a fun topic. I believe you still owe me some FOIAs on it.”
That’s the last thing Abby wants to deal with. She doesn’t control who gives Navarro money. She doesn’t control who receives City contracts. She just has to clean up the mess, day after every fucking day.
Abby smiles ruefully, hating her job sometimes, still wondering why she takes so much shit for a boss she doesn’t even like, but also appreciating how good Julia is at the game. “I’ll start making some calls.”
Chapter Sixteen
New York City
U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York
Cy walks down the hall to the office that investigates public corruption. For as long as he’s worked here, the office is so bland he can sometimes still get lost if he’s not paying attention. Just a sea of gray—flimsy gray walls, gray carpet, gray light.
Brendan McClain, the Public Corruption Unit Chief, is sitting at his desk, feet up, scanning something on his computer. Looks like the Atlantic.
“Oh no,” Brendan says when he sees Cy.
“Why does everyone always assume I have bad news?”
“Because you almost always do. What’s this one about?”
“Are we investigating Nick Denevito?”
“I don’t know. Who’s that?”
“Political consultant,” Cy says. “Really connected. Julia from the Post called me about him. Said she’s heard we’re looking at him.”
McClain shrugs. “I’ll call over to the Bureau.”
After a series of phone calls and texts, Agents Wheeler and Rosario are standing at one end of a conference table, Cy and Brendan sitting on the other end. As Wheeler starts laying out the investigation, both Cy and Brendan are only mildly interested. A rich consultant defrauding rich clients isn’t that exciting. It’s not even really public corruption—it’s just regular business fraud.
But then they see the video with Viktor Velonova. It’s always a bit of a jump start to find yourself dealing with one of the biggest criminals in the five boroughs—Cy didn’t know Viktor was also a confidential informant. And he probably should have.
“Holy fuck,” Cy says, pushing a palm into his forehead, which still aches a bit. “Now I get why Julia thinks this is public corruption. Velonova means taxi medallions. That means campaign contributions. Which means this could go deeper than just some consultant.”
Wheeler feels completely validated. “Exactly! Who knows where this could lead?”
“But now that the Post knows, the clock is ticking,” McClain says. “Cy, how long can we stall them?”
Cy thinks, shrugs, thinks again, then says, “A week tops if we can come up with a few things from our end that make the story more interesting. But Denevito isn’t that big a deal. This is still a one-day story. So we don’t need to get too worked up yet.”
“Exactly,” McClain says. “Denevito is a decent enough score. And if Viktor slips up, that’d be the best thing to come out of all of this. Maybe we get really lucky and find some politicians sticking their hands in the cookie jar along the way. Cy—keep stalling with the Post. Buy these guys as much time as you can. Maybe this leads to something useful.” McClain turns back to the agents. “This isn’t going to hold for much longer.”
Wheeler and Rosario both nod, knowing better than to talk at this point, and take their exit. They get it. Bring in Nick’s scalp, along with a few others if possible, and do it before the Post blows the whole thing up.
***
As the agents exit the conference room, Wheeler turns to Rosario. “That was good, right? Except they want Velonova, which isn’t really what we promised him when we asked him to give Nick up.”
“Does he have it in writing?”
“No.”
“Then fuck that guy. He doesn’t deserve any lenience from us. Being fair to Viktor isn’t our problem. Our issue is timing.”
“How so?”
“If the Post knows, we’re going to have to make something happen a lot faster than we planned. Which means moving a lot harder on Lisa. No matter what we have to threaten her with. Get a wire on her, get a meeting set up with her, see what we can sort out. I think she’ll come around.”
“Ah, shit,” Wheeler mutters. “I’m going to have to sit down with my calendar.”
“Is there a problem?” Rosario asks.
She wonders if Wheeler is having second thoughts—this was all her op anyway. At first, Rosario didn’t think Nick—even with Velonova involved—merited their time. She already had a career full of running down shitty tips from jackass confidential informants that invariably led to nowhere. But Wheeler saw something, pushed hard, and Rosario finally relented.
“Wait,” Rosario says. She realizes that Wheeler means this could interfere with her schedule for the International Federation of Competitive Eating. “This fucking thing again?” Rosario asks.
“It’s a big one,” Wheeler says, a little desperate. “If I do well in the next competition, I could make the mayonnaise eating contest in Tampa, or maybe even the sliced bologna eating contest in Anchorage.”
“What’s the contest this time?” Rosario dutifully asks, though Wheeler knows she’s exasperated by it. Not just because of how many work breaks Wheeler has to take to maintain her IFOCE ranking, but also because she manages to somehow keep the weight off.
“Poutine. I’m flying up to Montreal Monday night. Contest is Wednesday. Big annual tradition in Canada. Almost like a national holiday. Every February twenty-eighth—unless it’s a leap year. I’ll do my last-minute training on Tuesday, recover Thursday, and be back at work first thing Friday morning.”
“And how much do you need to eat to qualify?” Rosario asks.
“The record is twenty-eight pounds in ten minutes. But you know, that’s Joey Chestnut. The GOAT. No one can touch him. But I think if I can eat eleven pounds, that should keep me in the game.”
Rosario stops her at the elevator before they press the button to go down. “Remember when you came into my office? Told me about this thing with Denevito? Said it would open the door to uncovering a whole new world of corruption? I gotta say, kid, after all that, I’m not thrilled to hear you’re more worried about your next meal.”
Wheeler looks at her incredulously. “It’s a slippery slope, Sarah. If you miss the poutine competition, next thing you know, you’re missing fried Oreos. Then samosas. And then tacos de lengua. At that rate, I’ll never make it to Coney Island.”
Rosario is annoyed. Really annoyed. Wheeler is young but has pretty good instincts—instincts Rosario has sometimes wondered if she lacks. Eighteen years in the Bureau and still no big notches in her belt. The best cases always went to the boys’ club, the golfers and the bar buddies, and she’s gotten stuck with the scraps.
But that’s never going to change. So they need to make a dollar out of fifteen cents. Which is what Wheeler promoted when she made the case for Denevito: there are bigger fish in these waters. Who knows where this could lead?
“Yeah, you’re right,” Rosario says. “I guess waiting a week won’t matter. If the Post hits before then and we can’t get the rest of the evidence we need, no big deal.”
Rosario is sure that Wheeler is smart enough to recognize reverse psychology—but that doesn’t mean it’s not effective. “Look, okay, I get it,” she says. “But there’s something here. All these failed startups Denevito kept investing in. On-demand toothbrushing. Create your own emojis. Buy Dogecoin so Elon Musk can shoot more cars into space. They’re all fucking stupid. I’m not surprised that Denevito lost money on them. Honestly, I don’t even care whether or not Denevito pays the loan sharks back by double-dealing his asshole clients or not.”
“But?” Rosario asks, like she’s hopeful that maybe the trip to Montreal can wait.
“This feels different from the usual political corruption, you know? It’s politics and tech combined. Maybe this starts to send a message. At least show them we’re watching.”
Rosario ponders her next move. “You know, you’re absolutely right. We bust Denevito and show everyone all the stupid shit he was investing in, maybe it shines a light on how the whole tech industry sells the public a bill of goods and rarely delivers. And with tech taking over everything these days, that’s important.” Rosario pauses. “It’s almost as important as poutine.”
Wheeler arches an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. She makes Rosario wait a little longer. “Okay, fine. I’ll just have to train even harder for shrimp cocktail.”
“Do you dip them in the sauce during the contest?”
“No time.”
“What do you do with the shells?”
“I just eat them. Faster that way.”
Rosario makes a mental note to take a sick day when Wheeler returns from shrimp cocktail.
Wheeler stops and turns to Rosario. “Call Lim. Let’s get working on that wire.”
Chapter Seventeen
New York City
Times Square
As Lisa walks through the front door of the Times Square Alliance, a text comes in from her dad. There’s no message—there almost never is—just a Facebook link to the profile of someone she went to high school with and hasn’t talked to in a solid fifteen years. She clicks the link anyway. Brenda Janowitz got a new Volvo. Great. What’s she supposed to do with that information? Why doesn’t her dad ever text her about something actually relevant? Even a quick “how’s it going?” would work. Instead, it’s all passive aggressive complaining that Lisa didn’t pursue a career he thinks is sufficiently secure, even after all these years. The fact that her younger sister became a dentist certainly doesn’t help either. And the fact that Lisa is considered a rising superstar in her industry matters even less.
Lisa briefly considers responding, but she knows her dad. Even before her mom died, anything emotional was strictly off limits. Logistics and current events only. If you need someone to move a desk chair from point A to point B? He’s your guy. But anything that involves feelings? He runs for the hills.
Rosario keeps texting her, wanting to know exactly when she’s meeting Nick. Lisa knows that ignoring an FBI agent can probably get her into trouble, but she didn’t break any laws. They don’t have anything to arrest her with. She has paying clients who need her attention. And right now, she has more immediate issues to deal with.
Something to distract her, at least.
When local business leaders created the Times Square Alliance in the bad old days of the early nineties, the group’s founders never would have imagined that their biggest problem thirty years later would stem from the literal Disneyfication of the neighborhood—people dressed in cartoon character costumes harassing tourists for money. Being assaulted by Minnie Mouse or Buzz Lightyear is a relatively new problem for Times Square, but even if it’s coming from Goofy, assaulting tourists is still a problem.
And for the last few months, it’s been Lisa’s problem.
Lisa takes a seat at the head of the table in the Alliance’s conference room. Everyone at the table is still in character: SpongeBob, Dora, the crew from PAW Patrol. Except all the costumes are cheap knockoffs. The colors and details aren’t right. The stitching is shoddy.
“You took it too fucking far.” Lisa has been trying to amicably resolve this issue for too long—she’s done being nice. “Asking tourists if they want to take a photo with you and then accepting a tip is one thing. Jumping them to demand a photo and then assaulting them if they don’t tip is another. You put yourself in this position. I warned you. And then I warned you again. You didn’t listen.”
Muffled sounds come from Elmo. Lisa shakes her head. “The ACLU’s not going to save you this time. Disney wants nothing to do with you. Neither does Universal. And I don’t think you realize how pissed off City Hall is. Navarro can’t even keep people safe from Scooby fucking Doo? Do you realize how embarrassing that is? Especially for someone as insecure as him?”
The Scooby Doo character at the end of the table hangs his head in shame. It’s so weird that they won’t take their masks off for these meetings, but she’s come to accept it.
Elmo tries to protest, but Lisa presses on. “Sure, you can go to court and say the law that the City Council’s about to pass—the law that bans you completely—violates the First Amendment. Who knows? Maybe it does. And in three or four years, the City’s Law Department will probably settle the case.”
Lisa looks hard at everyone. “None of you will be here by then. You’ll all be back in Toledo. If you’re lucky.”
Iron Man and Sonic shake their heads. Muffled sounds come from one of the Power Rangers.
“Will one of you please communicate like a human?”
Dora takes off her head. Finally. It’s a young white guy with long, matted dreads. “So what’s your alternative?” he asks.
“We set up a zone where you can take photos and accept tips. You don’t leave the zone. Tourists enter. Voluntarily. As long as you stay in the zone and don’t assault anyone, we’re good. The minute you do, NYPD picks you up and takes you straight to the Tombs.”
“Give us a minute,” Dora says.
The characters all huddle in the corner of the room. Lisa thinks they’re finally going to take their heads off; instead, Dora puts his back on.
Spider-Man looks upset. Garfield has to talk him down. Finally, Pikachu walks over to Lisa and extends his paw.
Knowing to never risk snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, Lisa says thank you and gets out of there as quickly as possible.
Plus, she doesn’t want to make Nick wait.
Suggesting to Nick that they meet up on the corner of Forty-Fourth and Broadway was a terrible idea, but Lisa knows that Nick wouldn’t want to meet her inside the client’s office and risk having to pretend that he’s actually been following their campaign on a minute-by-minute or even day-by-day basis. The street is packed with tourists, as usual, but Lisa’s innate aura of annoyance sends a force field across her personal space, causing everyone to give her a wide berth. She finds Nick easily, standing against a parking meter like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Like he’s not double-dealing his clients.
Like he’s not facing imminent violence from a cadre of loan sharks.
“How’d it go?” Nick asks.
Lisa considers saying something. Warning him—or bracing him. Something. She wants to say it’s the smart play to keep a lid on things, but the truth is, she just doesn’t want to deal with the confrontation. “At least we delivered for one client,” she says.
Lisa suggested lunch as a way to do some of her own digging. Maybe there are extenuating circumstances to Nick’s activities that explain everything. Maybe she can exonerate him. And if not, the better she understands what Nick has been up to, the more likely she is to get Rosario and Wheeler what they need and get this over with. It’s worth the effort either way.
They walk into a high-end sushi place on Forty-Eighth Street that Nick frequents. No sign out front, only a few tables, and no menu, so it’s omakase or nothing. The Kosher Mexican Korean food truck is parked outside. Lisa realizes how dumb it was of Wheeler and Rosario to choose that. The weird food combination may keep people away, but it’s easy to spot and remember.
Nick stops for a second and looks at the truck. He scrunches his face up like he’s about to ask Lisa whether she’s been noticing the same truck around a lot lately too, but Lisa quickly intervenes with a “we’re late for our reservation” and Nick heads inside.
After they’re seated and have sorted out what type of water they want, Lisa jumps in. “So, I’ve been working at Firewall for around four years now.”
Nick nods, seemingly more concerned with picking out the right sake from the small printout handed to him by the waitress.
“And I think I’m starting to get a sense of how the economics of this business works.”
Nick lifts his face from the menu and looks worried.
“Don’t worry, I’m not asking for a raise. I’m just trying to figure out how to move to the next level.”
“Well,” Nick says, “you’re already the most senior person at the company after me. And trust me, elevating you over people like Allison and Alphonso, who have been there for a lot longer, wasn’t easy…”
“I know and I appreciate it. But I’m thinking broader. Bigger picture. Firewall is a client services business. We charge high fees and they can add up, but it’s still ultimately the same as what they say about lawyers and doctors and consultants—live well and die poor. What I’m wondering is—is there a way to do better than that?”
Nick’s expression remains passive. “Like what?”
