Zero Sum, Book One, Kotov Syndrome (21 page)

“You know what’ll happen if anything
hits the market with a flaw? Especially before we’re ready? Game
over.” Gordon sounded menacing, which was intentional. He’d put his
entire fortune on the line for this play. It had goddamn well
better go off without a hitch—he was already counting himself among
the planet’s billionaires, and he was not, repeat not, going to let
anything stand in his way.

“Of course. Which is why we’re handling
this with the utmost seriousness. Again, this is a courtesy call.
Nothing more.” Everyone had a lot at stake here.

“Keep me posted and let me know if you
need anything. I’ve already started positioning the oil futures for
next month. Let’s not blow this.” Gordon disconnected, deep in
thought.

His ingenious and hugely risky venture
involved oil, the integrity of the U.S. economy, and most
importantly, his personal fortune multiplying exponentially. One
play, three or four months tops, and he’d net over a billion
dollars, while his clients amassed many more billions. He’d have to
stay on top of this; those idiot peasants couldn’t be trusted not
to fuck up the simplest things. Christ. How hard could it
be?

Robert Gideon wheeled down the arrivals
ramp at San Francisco International Airport. Back on terra firma,
he made his way to the first class lounge, which was appropriately
outfitted for airport meetings. Airport wheelchairs were terrible
but at least they got the job done. He’d brought no luggage but a
carry-on bag, holding it in his lap as he sat in the lounge lobby
area waiting for his customer.

This was a big sale, one of the largest
in his life.

The client had contacted him over the
Internet, through his store, and expressed interest in several
extremely expensive pieces: four Patek Philippe wristwatches from
the 1950s and 1960s, complicated moon phase models that were hot on
the auction market. The whole deal had come to $1.1 million
dollars; after haggling they’d agreed on a purchase price of one
million for all four watches, and to meet in San Francisco. The
customer, a collector with an appreciation for fine timepieces, was
flying in from Korea for the transaction.

Gideon Watch Gallery was one of five
premiere previously-owned watch shops in New York, and one of very
few in the country with multiple pieces of that rarity and price
range. He’d been surprised when the collector had agreed to take
all four watches, but not that surprised—in the good old days of
the early eighties, when the Japanese yen had been king, he’d
routinely had customers buy two- and three-hundred-thousand-dollar
watches while on vacation. Lately Korea was a hot spot for fine
timepieces, as was China. He’d been in the business long enough so
that very little surprised him anymore.

Robert sat patiently awaiting the
arrival of Mr. Kiu, a member of the diplomatic team from South
Korea. Kiu’s credentials had checked out and he’d indicated he’d
bring cash.

That had caused Robert a bit of
pause.

Dealing in cash used to be routine, but
ever since the Clinton administration had commenced the steady
criminalization of using cash in the U.S. in any quantity, he had
dealt mostly in wire transfers. The Chinese loved their cash,
though, as did the Russians, and he supposed a million dollars was
beer money to a wealthy industrialist from Korea.

An older Asian gentleman walked into
the lounge and looked around, eyes finally settling on Robert.
Evidently Mr. Kiu, as he approached and introduced
himself.

“Mr. Gideon?”

“Mr. Kiu, I presume.”

“Yes. I apologize for running late, but
the flight experienced some head winds and we were delayed. Shall
we find someplace private?” Mr. Kiu hadn’t batted an eye over
Robert’s being in a wheelchair. Then again, he was a politician, or
at least a diplomat, so he probably had a good poker
face.

“I reserved a small meeting room. I
trust you’re ready to consummate?” Robert wanted to make sure the
deal was closed.

“Of course. Lead the way.”

They entered one of the smaller rooms
and closed the door. Robert pulled four dark wooden boxes out of
his carry-on bag and placed them on the table.

“You’ll note they’re in mint condition,
with full paperwork and histories. One million is a very good
price—I can’t imagine any other collector having this combination.”
Robert liked to reassure customers of the astuteness of their
selection. No one ever minded being complimented on their
acumen.

“Yes, yes, I’m pleased to have been
fortunate enough to find them.” Mr. Kiu opened each box and looked
at the watches for a few minutes. He nodded, and then placed his
briefcase on the table. “They appear most satisfactory, Mr.
Gideon.” He opened the locks and raised the lid, turned the case so
Robert could see the contents. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills,
neatly arranged in rows.

“Well, congratulations. Let’s begin the
counting, shall we? I presume you won’t have any objection if I
verify the authenticity of a few bills at random?” Robert planned
on stopping at one of the currency exchange booths to have the
bills checked.

“Not at all. Be my guest.” Mr. Kiu was
smiling amenably.

Robert extracted a portable currency
counter, plugged it in and loaded the first stack. All he had
brought with him was a bottle of water, some pills, a small fabric
valise for the watches, and the currency counter.

He was scheduled to return to New York
in two hours. The counting took less than ten minutes. One million
dollars. All there.

“Would you be kind enough to accompany
me to the currency exchange?” Robert replaced the four watch boxes
in the small fabric satchel and returned it to his bag. He handed
the cash-filled briefcase back to Mr. Kiu, while holding several
bills in his hand.

Robert wheeled himself to a small
currency exchange window several hundred yards from the entrance of
the club, accompanied by the Korean. He’d felt comfortable doing
the transaction at the airport because of all the protection; there
were police everywhere. It was safer than a bank, and no one made
it to the club area unless they carried a ticket and cleared
security.

Robert handed the clerk four crisp
hundred-dollar bills, and asked for Euros. The agent behind the
counter scrutinized the cash, ran an iodine pen across each, held
them up to the light, and compared them to others in his drawer. He
extracted the appropriate sum in Euros, and passed them through the
slot at the bottom of the bullet-proof glass window.

“Here you go. Anything else I can help
you with?” The clerk was bored.

“Nope, I think we’re done. Thanks a
million.” Robert couldn’t resist.

They returned to the lounge area, where
Robert extracted the fabric bag and swapped it for Kiu’s briefcase.
They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries—nice meeting you,
etc.

“I must return to my delegation, Mr.
Gideon. The watches are beautiful; I shall treasure them. Thank you
again.”

Robert wheeled himself back to his
departure gate and bought himself a vodka tonic. He’d just made
almost two hundred and forty thousand dollars on one deal; he
figured a little celebration was in order. He had the time, and
heck, he had the money.

But something about the transaction was
nagging him. Kiu hadn’t examined the watches the way an aficionado
would have, and his eyes hadn’t lit up like a covetous collector’s.
He was probably buying them for investment. Not a bad one, either,
Robert mused.

Oh well.

A deal was a deal.

* * * *

<3>

A row of police cars blocked the alley
on East 123rd Street, the forensics van active as the crew prepped
for duty. The NYPD had pretty much seen it all, but this was a
strange one even by their standards. Female, mid-twenties,
Hispanic, cause of death unknown, stuffed into a dumpster in back
of a Cuban Restaurant. She’d been there at least one night,
possibly two. It wasn’t pretty—the rats had gotten to
her.

They’d run prints and were waiting for
a preliminary ID, but who knew how long that could take? Her eyes
had been cut out, she’d been scalped, and her breasts were gone—cut
off, crudely but efficiently. Sex crime? No indication of rape.
Trying to make a routine murder look weird? Anything was
possible.

The forensics team was carefully
swabbing her fingers, going over the scene, as the detective in
charge spoke with their director, Amy Silva.

“What do you make of it? Psycho?
Boyfriend trying to fake a crazy? Or a girlfriend?” Detective Ron
Stanford had been with homicide for nine years, and in that time
had seen enough death for a whole career. He enjoyed catching the
bad guys, but hated the bodies.

Especially the girls. And really,
really especially in summer, when it got hot and decomposition was
almost instantaneous.

“Don’t know what to think. We need to
determine the cause of death. I’ll tell you one thing, she was in
remarkable shape. Almost solid muscle, like a gymnast or a dancer
or something.” Amy had a world-weary air to her. So many bodies. So
much tragedy. So much violence.

They walked over to study the corpse
again. Amy knelt down and peered at the chest area.

“I’d go with psycho for now.
Everything’s been removed very carefully. Definitely a very sharp
instrument. Maybe surgical. Our boy’s been practicing and
sharpening, thinking about this for a long time.” She stood up. “I
think he’s collecting, taking trophies. Eyes, breasts, scalps.
Question is why, and has he done this before, and will he do it
again…”

“What do you think?” Ron hated to even
ask.

“Oh, I think it’s safe to say if it’s a
psycho he’ll do it again. Like I said, he knew what he wanted and
what he didn’t. I’d say he’s a collector.” She considered the
mutilated corpse. “I hope I’m wrong.”

Ron glanced at the body, rubbed his
face, and sighed.

“I hope so too.”

The flight was on time, and Robert had
a car service drive him into the city. It was too late to stop by
his shop, so he went to his apartment on the upper West side. He’d
left his wheelchair with the doorman, who obligingly came out with
it when he arrived.

Robert had lost the use of his legs
thirteen years ago when he’d been run down while crossing the
street (with the light) to his shop. A shard of bone had severed an
important bundle of nerves, leaving him wheelchair-bound for life.
He was philosophical about the resultant change—he was still alive,
which was better than many who’d been hit by a car.

His wife died one year after his
accident, from complications arising from recently developed
multiple sclerosis. Forty-four years old. She had a seizure and
struck her head in the bathroom, then drowned on her own vomit,
while he was at the shop. No rhyme or reason to it. She’d never
harmed a fly, always wished everyone the best—and was now gone from
this earth. Those were the breaks, sometimes. Lousy, but what could
you do?

Robert carefully placed the cash into a
brown paper bag and then locked it in his bookshelf safe. He’d put
it into the safety deposit box tomorrow, keep it safely squirreled
away until he needed to buy more inventory.

After reviewing his messages and
preparing for bed he clicked on the late night news, feeling every
one of his fifty-eight years weighing heavily. Having clocked
almost six thousand air miles in the last fourteen hours, his last
thought as he drifted off to sleep was that he was too old for this
shit.

The Corral had been full earlier that
evening, with all the bike messengers stopping in after work to
dull their pain and socialize. By eleven it had pretty well cleared
out. Some had gone clubbing, others to score, and some had gone
home to work on books or art or sculpture. It was an eclectic mix,
the messenger crew, and you never knew what the next biker’s story
was.

Tess had been a computer programmer,
gifted, working for one of the Silicon Alley firms. One afternoon
she’d just gotten up from her workstation in the middle of a line
of code, glanced around, and had a meltdown—started crying, and
hadn’t been able to stop. She walked out and spent the next three
weeks in bed, depressed and despondent; it was a major depressive
episode that ended with a bungled suicide attempt.

She felt like she’d been trying so hard
to live up to everyone else’s expectations, she’d constructed a
life she hated, and was stuck. A fistful of pills had seemed like a
pretty good idea at the time.

After a trip to the ER where she got
her stomach pumped, she was admitted to a mental facility for
observation for a week, where they put her on a cocktail of
anti-psychotic meds and forced her to “share” her feelings with a
parade of casualties. Upon release, she was directed to a therapist
and wished the best of luck.

She had spent the next month trying to
figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up. No answers had
been forthcoming, so she decided to take a year off from computers
and do something mindless, where she could keep in shape while she
got her act together. On a lark she’d applied for a job at Red Cap
Courier. That was two years ago.