“Barbara Miller was taken—by the Russians, damn it—and moved, most likely to another nursing home. They did this so she couldn’t point the finger. But I would bet they didn’t take her far. It would take me weeks to find her, but the NYPD could do it in minutes. With those files and Miller’s testimony, you’ve got a case.”

“Why didn’t you give me the lawyer’s name before?”

“It’s personal. I owed a favor.”

“And what? Now it’s paid?”

“They tried to kill my friend. Twice. That cleans the slate.”

“But why?” There may have been a hint of sympathy in his voice. “Why was Zielinski a threat?”

Ted had been turning this over and could only guess. But he believed it was a good guess. “It’s the fat Russian. Slobovich or whatever his name is. He recognized her even with the disguise. He had to be spooked. Kenzie was getting too close. If she put all the pieces together, she could go public. The deal would be dead. And fat boy would have to explain to his daddy why he’d screwed up again. I made a call to a pal in London. Orlov didn’t resign from that bank. He was fired for money laundering. It cost his old man seventy million pounds to keep the kid out of jail.”

If Duran was at all surprised, he didn’t show it. “That’s verifiable?”

“I would think so. My source said it’s common knowledge.”

Duran kept his poker face, but he was nodding. He saw the whole picture. Ted had his ally.

The door opened. No one knocked or announced themself. ADA Petronelli came in looking as if he’d bitten into a bulb of raw garlic. He was immediately followed by a tough-looking couple, a man and a woman both dressed in jeans, lace-up boots, and dark windbreakers. The man had the close-cropped, fresh-from-his-workout look of a Navy SEAL or a member of Delta Force. A guy you wouldn’t want to have upset with you. The woman looked tougher. Mervyn came in last, missing his usual bombast and radiant confidence. His expression was worried.

Petronelli cleared his throat before reluctantly delivering a short speech. “I’ve had a call from the federal prosecutor’s office, Mr. Molloy. You are no longer my problem. We’re to hand you over to these US Marshals.”

-67-

-67-

“Call Lester Young McKinley,” Ted said to Duran as the marshals approached him. He checked his phone and rattled off the number. “He’s good with the details and Miller trusts him.”

Mervyn was working his phone, trying to get hold of a federal prosecutor he knew at the Eastern District. “I’ll find you,” he said, but his eyes said he didn’t have a lot of hope for an immediate resolution.