FaceOff (14 page)

Reincarnation had not lost that day, Judy Chan had.

“And now we have Lot 121,” the auctioneer called out in his singsong voice.

Malachai watched as the jade turtle that belonged to the estate of John Wen soared past its estimate of $10,000. The antiques dealer had indeed amassed a very valuable collection of fine antique Chinese treasures. It was a shame he’d had to die protecting one of them.

The turtle was removed by a young man in a dark-brown uniform and a similarly dressed man brought out the next item for sale and placed it on the podium.

“And now,” said the auctioneer in his Boston accent, “we have the Laughing Buddha. Lot 122. A fine example of eighth-century Tang Dynasty carving.”

The wait for the estate to come to auction had seemed interminable to Malachai, but the police wouldn’t release the items in Wen’s office until after Chan’s trial and arraignment were complete.

“Do I hear ten thousand?” the auctioneer called.

Malachai had needed to be careful when he’d come to Skinner’s to inspect the Buddha before this sale. If he’d shown too much interest in it someone might have noticed and wondered why. The private viewing room in the auction house where he’d
looked it over had a camera in plain sight. Malachai hadn’t dared risk trying to take the statue apart to determine if the base might actually be the secret receptacle used by Davenport to hide the list of lost Memory Tools. But closer examination had revealed such a thing might be possible. The approximate size and shape of the wooden base. The classic Tiffany artistry showcased by the gold-seamed corners and intricately inlaid abalone. In Malachai’s mind, the statue’s base could very well be the piece commissioned by Davenport from Tiffany himself after that first murder, over a century ago.

“Fifteen thousand on my right. Do I hear—yes, twenty to the gentleman in the back. Do I hear twenty-five? Twenty-five thousand, thank you, ma’am.”

For the next few moments Malachai waited for a lull in the bidding. He didn’t want to help drive up the price. Expecting a slowing in bidding to come at $50,000, he was unhappy when it didn’t arrive till the price hit $75,000.

But what difference did money make now, with his quest nearly over, the list of lost Memory Tools about to be his? He had been waiting for decades.

“I have seventy-five thousand from the gentleman in the back. Going once. Twice.”

Malachai raised his paddle.

“Thank you, sir,” the auctioneer said, acknowledging the new bidder. “I have eighty thousand in the front . . . and . . . eighty-five in the rear. Now to you, sir, ninety thousand in the front.”

Finally, after another five minutes, the bid was again with Malachai at one hundred fifty and there it stopped. Malachai’s head was spinning. Was it his?

“Going once. Twice.” The bang of the gavel. “Thank you, sir. One hundred and fifty thousand in the front.”

Malachai had won his prize.

After paying for the jade statue, Malachai took the objet d’art back to his hotel room at the Ritz Carlton where he’d booked a suite.

Carefully and with ceremony, he unwrapped the carved sculpture that rested on a fine base with hammered gold-seamed corners inlaid with abalone. The Tiffany signature had been verified by the auction house. The catalogue gave the base alone an estimated value of $10,000.

But that did not even come close to what it was worth.

Malachai enjoyed pomp and appreciated ritual. He believed in savoring the moments that mark one’s life. This was such a pinnacle. He’d reached the end of a long, long road today.

Leaving the Buddha sitting regally on the table by the window, Malachai removed the bottle of Cristal champagne he’d put on ice before leaving for the auction house. Opening it with a pop, he poured himself a flute of the pale yellow ambrosia.

Raising his glass, he toasted the silent statue and then took a sip. Thinking, as he did, of John Wen who had died for this moment. Of Judy Chan, who was going to rot in prison for her efforts to prevent it.

“The time has come, my friend,” Malachai said as he walked to the table. He’d done his research. He wouldn’t have to remove the jade piece from the pedestal. All he had to do was manipulate the seams on the underside of the base. By pressing them in a certain way, he would, the experts had assured him, reveal a carefully concealed cleft.

It was easier than he’d imagined. And as promising as he’d dreamed. The base gave way, a fine sprinkling of dust falling onto the table, indicating it had not been opened in many years. As he’d hoped, no one at Skinner’s had discovered this compartment.

·  ·  ·

Malachai didn’t look into the hidden compartment. Not yet. The anticipation after so very long was too delicious.

He took a long, slow sip of the cold bubbly.

This was his moment. After almost 150 years, the past and the present had come full circle. Malachai reached into the narrow enclosure. His fingertips felt . . . smooth wood . . . and . . . more smooth wood . . . satiny.

He tipped the piece over. Stared into the narrow coffinlike space where he was certain the treasure he sought had once been stashed. Where now there was nothing.

Malachai Samuels held the statue in his hands and stared into the abyss. For a moment, even though it was nigh on impossible, he thought he heard the Buddha laughing. Or maybe it was merely Davenport Talmage, still hoarding his list of lost Memory Tools from beyond the grave. Forever his to hide, and Malachai’s to seek.

F
act:
In 1922, Howard Carter, then an itinerant archaeologist who had been combing the Valley of the Kings, discovered one of the largest treasure troves in history. Carter, on a single-minded quest for nearly two decades, unearthed the tomb of the boy king, the pharaoh Tutankhamen. He found subterranean caverns filled with priceless artifacts, hundreds of items of hammered gold, precious
gems, and entire chariots crafted from exotic woods. Among those objects was a priceless figurine, a statuette of the boy king perched on the back of a black panther. The cat, carved from ebony, was molded from exotic resins, its formula known only to the ancient Egyptians.

Fact:
For nearly ninety years the priceless artifacts from Carter’s find, including the panther and its golden king, resided in the Egyptian Museum at Cairo. Then, in early February 2011, in what became known as the Arab Spring, civil unrest gave way to looting. The museum was breeched and among the items taken was the statuette of the boy king atop the black cat.

Fact:
On September 11, 2012, a marauding band of terrorists attacked the U.S. consulate in Benghazi, Libya, torching the structure and killing four Americans including the U.S. ambassador. For weeks the burned-out structure languished, largely unguarded, with documents, some of them highly classified, strewn about in the abandoned wreckage.

Got your interest?

For two talented writers like Steve Martini and Linda Fairstein, this was all they needed to start a story.

Paul Madriani is the protagonist of twelve best-selling novels by Steve Martini, a former journalist and California lawyer. Linda Fairstein was a lawyer, too, a prosecutor for thirty years, and the head of the Sex Crimes Unit of the New York County District Attorney’s Office. Wily prosecutor Alexandra Cooper is her creation. So far there have been fifteen novels featuring Cooper.

Crossing swords at a lawyers’ conference seemed the easiest way for these two characters to connect. Next, an enterprising young reporter returns from Benghazi and files a story about what she may have found in the burned-out consulate building. When
that reporter turns up dead, Madriani and Cooper find themselves launched on a mad chase in search of the killer and the golden boy king.

It’s a legal thriller for the twenty-first century.

From two masters.

S
O WHAT YOU’RE SAYING IS
that you have no sympathy for the victim?”

“As I explained previously, I can’t discuss a pending case,” said Madriani.

“Well, then, let’s go back to the hypothetical,” said Cooper, flashing a smile at him. “I just tried to get you to tip your hand about that big case you’re trying in LA. Give the locals here some pointers. The situation we’ve been given to discuss today has a few similar issues. I’d like to know what you gain by being so vicious about a dead woman.”

“There’s no lack of sympathy, not on my part.”

Cooper ignored his denial. “Why is it so many litigators show no empathy for the female victim? In our hypo, she was a woman excelling in a male-dominated vocation. Or maybe you saw her as someone who was socially undesirable—a parasite, perhaps?”

“Your choice of words, not mine,” said Madriani. He didn’t
like being cross-examined. Alexandra Cooper made him feel like a witness on the stand.

“But you agree with that assessment, don’t you? You like blaming the victim.” She knew she had him over a barrel and was pressing hard.

Paul Madriani, a criminal defense lawyer, knew that he’d be making a mistake if he allowed her to mention the case he currently had on trial in LA. Like stepping on the trigger of a land mine. He tried to figure some way to ease off and keep her focused on this exercise.

“Let’s just say that a jury is not likely to view the activities of your hypothetical victim as rising to the level of a holy calling. Can we just agree on that? Fair game?”

“The hypothetical deceased ran a top-tier advertising agency, Paul—a start-up she created with her own guts and brain.”

“She started up more male body parts than one could count, Alex. I’ll give you that,” Madriani said. “She also ran an escort service out of her Park Avenue offices.”

Some laughter from the audience, but none from Alex Cooper whose gaze at the moment consisted of two slits, both directed like lasers at Madriani’s Adam’s apple. To Cooper, a thirty-eight-year-old career prosecutor, head of a pioneering sex crimes unit in New York City, these were fighting words.

“So you think she deserved to die, Paul?”

“As I said earlier, you have to admit that the woman’s death may well have had to do with some of the lowlifes she encountered in the sex trade and nothing to do with my hypothetical client’s business strategies.”

“We have a question from the audience.” The moderator tried to break up the gender brawl with some Q & A.

“What you’re saying,” said Cooper, not quite ready to give up
the fight, “is that a woman operating a legitimate portion of her company, perhaps more aggressively than her male competitors, deserves to be sexually assaulted, then bludgeoned—”

“That is not what I said.”

“She deserved the end she got, is that it? Is that the takeaway for the young lawyers here in the audience?”

Cooper and Madriani found themselves pitted against each other as speakers on a criminal-law panel of the New York State Bar Association, debating tactics in capital cases. In today’s session, they were using the example of a businesswoman in both legitimate and illegitimate realms, who’d been brutally sexually assaulted in her Manhattan office. As the defense attorney, Madriani was representing the hypothetical accused—a rival businessman—and his argument was that the deceased had many more unsavory enemies in her secondary “career” who may have killed her. In other words, he was casting aspersions on the dead victim’s character in order to create reasonable doubt for his client. And Alexandra Cooper wasn’t having any of it. Madriani had committed to the engagement months earlier, long before he had a trial date in a similarly high-profile case—
People v. Mustaffa
—which was supposed to be off-limits for the panel’s discussion since this matter was now pending, though Cooper was doing her best to rile him on it. He had taken the weekend off to fly to New York, and was now beginning to rue the day.

“Is that your pathetic attempt at a defense?” Cooper asked, before he could answer her last question.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“Then perhaps you should explain yourself,” said Cooper.

“Paul Madriani never needs to explain himself,” the moderator said. “He’s a master in the well of the courtroom. In fact, Alex, since we’re almost out of time, I suggest you take our visiting dignitary
down to the bar and buy the first round. Isn’t that your tradition during jury deliberations?”

“It was nothing personal, Alex,” Madriani added. “It has nothing to do with the victim’s gender.”

Alex was used to having the last word. She tried to interject another comment, but could see that some of the attendees were closing their notebooks, hoping to snag an introduction to the two lawyers before they could escape the conference ballroom.

Madriani was having none of it. “What I mean is that you don’t have the most sympathetic victim in this kind of a situation.”

“Really? You think anyone deserves to die in such a horrific way? Would it be better for you if it was a male victim who had his genitals mutilated?”

“No!” he said. “Well, maybe!”

Laughter from the audience. Right now Madriani was beginning to sense what that might feel like. Cooper offered up a smile, the gender card dropped on the table by a skilled prosecutor, showing him how it’s done. “Can I ask you a question, Ms. Cooper?”

“Be my guest,” said Alex.

“I take it you’re not on special assignment here, undercover so to speak, with the LA District Attorney’s Office, are you?” Lawyers in the audience laughed again.

Cooper just smiled. “Touché! I tried to get you off-mark, Paul, but I couldn’t budge you. Better to have met you here than in the courtroom. And thanks for coming to do this.”

Litigators started moving to the podium in the front of the room. Paul leaned over to Alex as she stuffed her notes into a folder. “The hotel bar in fifteen?”

“No.”

“Don’t be a bad sport.”

“I’m just being a good hostess, Paul. Lose your acolytes and I’ll
take you to the best bar in Manhattan. Best steaks, too, knowing how you like to devour red meat.”

Madriani smiled and nodded to accept the invitation.