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  Anonymous

  It was a long shot, of course. Reporters didn’t give up sources easily. If she didn’t tell him, he would use the death of her husband. But her husband had died in service. He preferred to get what he needed without dishonoring his sacrifice. He’d keep it in his back pocket. He opened the chatroom and typed out a message.

  T-Paine: Brothers, I need information on death of Sgt. Matthew Bright, Andar district, Ghazni province, Afghanistan, February 2, 2016. Details. Personal information. Something I can use to gain leverage.

  He wouldn’t have to wait long. If there was anything out there about Cole’s husband, his brothers would find it quickly.

  16

  I never reveal my sources, but thanks for reading The Sun.

  Cole pasted the reply from the folder of boilerplate messages she used to combat the never-ending deluge of emails she got from readers.

  “What was that?” Warren asked as she pressed Send.

  “Email. Nutjob wanting to know the name of a source.”

  They sat at the table in Warren’s kitchen, a single light bulb dangling just above their heads.

  Cole eyed the dented and duct-taped heavy bag, but didn’t mention it. “Rival businessmen, disgruntled employees, personal grudges, extremists. Those are the four categories of possible suspects the TV networks are speculating about. Here.” She set her phone on the table. It was open to a clip from CNN titled, Hunt for Ambani’s Killer Begins.

  Warren glanced at the screen, but didn’t seem to want to read it. “So what?”

  “The clip mentions those four groups, zero specifics, which means CNN is getting generalities from sources. As am I. They’re spending more time speculating about racist-extremist groups, even though there’s no evidence of that. Hate sells.”

  “Means nobody knows anything. Nothing worth leaking.”

  “That means your information about the weapons might be more than anyone else knows. We’re both jumping to the same conclusion—nine weapons means this could be just the beginning—but let’s look at the other options first. Rival business deals.”

  Warren asked, “Ambani was in tech, right?”

  “He was one of those Mark Cuban kind of guys. I heard about him constantly but didn’t know much about his actual businesses. Researched him and found out he pioneered high-frequency stock trading. Became a billionaire early, then started a firm that did all sorts of stuff. Tech, finance, international business.”

  Warren typed on his phone as she spoke, then held it up. Cole read the headline of an article displayed on his screen. Critics Say Ambani Deal Would Create Monopoly.

  “I literally just googled Ambani’s name with the phrase ‘business rivals.’ Eight million results, and this was the first one. Something about a deal for X-Rev international.” Warren scanned the article. “Hmmm, believe it or not, X-Rev stands for ‘Extreme Revenue.’ High frequency trading firm working on every major stock exchange. Ambani was trying to buy the company, which pissed off a lot of people. There are quotes from three people arguing that the deal should be stopped. David Swanson from National Investment Strategies, Inc., Ibo Kane from Kane, Inc., Sarah Schwitzer from Gussendorf Analytics. I don’t have a damn clue who those people are or what they do, but they sound important, and rich, and they’re all quoted in this article saying Ambani shouldn’t be allowed to buy X-Rev.”

  Cole stood and walked a small circle around the table, angling her shoulders to avoid the wall and the heavy bag. “I wonder how a deal like that gets approved.”

  “I don’t know, but you can bet it involves a lot of juice in D.C. An alphabet soup of federal agencies. FTC, DOJ. Those things are all about who you know.”

  Cole did another lap and let out a long, deep sigh.

  Warren said, “No offense, but you look like you need to sleep.”

  “We said no judgments.” Cole stopped at the fridge and pointed at the bottle of Remy Martin. From what she knew, he’d had a bout with alcohol, but was now sober. “Doesn’t Cognac count as empty carbs?”

  “I keep the half-full bottle there as a reminder of who I used to be. Booze. Other things. Who I’m not going to be again.”

  By other things he meant drugs, but she didn’t press him on it. “I’d call that bottle of Cognac ‘half-empty.’”

  He smiled at the joke. “By the way, what I just said wasn’t a judgment. Just an observation. You look tired.”

  “Then your place is a hellhole.” She smiled. “Just an observation.” She sat. “My boss is in my head, telling me to follow the money, but I don’t know any more about those three people than you do. And you said eight million results. My guess is we could find another hundred business rivals. Each one could take a week to look into and I’d be starting behind all the business reporters who know about this stuff. Then there’s the weapon angle. Hold on.” She grabbed her phone, which was vibrating in her pocket.

  The caller ID read, “The Italian Stallion.”

  She shot a look at Warren. “One of my best sources. Been waiting for this call all day.” Before he could respond, she hurried through the living room and shut herself in the bathroom. “What’s up?” she whispered.

  “You free?” His voice was wet and throaty. It was after five, and this meant he was on the third or fourth pull from the hip flask of Amaretto he carried with him at all times.

  “I’m in the Meatpacking District. I’m busy, but if—”

  “Got something to show you. You’re gonna want to see this.”

  “Joey, promise me you’re not talking about something in your pants.”

  “You know I only answer to ‘Stallion.’”

  “Fine, Stallion.”

  “After you see the video I have, you’re gonna wanna see what’s in my pants.”

  “Don’t screw with me...Stallion.”

  “I’m on the Lower East Side. Tell me where and I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  She gave him the address of the bar across the street from Warren’s apartment and braced herself internally. Mazzalano was like a drunk, abusive Santa Claus. She loathed every minute with him, but he always came bearing gifts.

  17

  She steeled herself as he waddled through the door.

  In his twenties, NYPD Lieutenant Joey Mazzalano had been a decent boxer, and still clung to his nickname so everyone knew it. After failing at a professional career, he joined the department and rose through the ranks busting low-level mafiosi on the Lower East Side. She’d smelled the corruption on him from the moment they’d met. Now fifty, he was anything but a stallion. Average height, he had a massive square head that was somehow too large for his doughy body. He constantly combed over the few strands of greasy black hair he’d managed to retain, which only brought more attention to it.

  He threw his overcoat on a stool and leaned in to hug her. The smell of Amaretto and sweat lingered as he wedged his belly under the bar. “You buying?”

  She nodded and he waved down a bartender. “Negroni. And as soon as you see me take my first sip, start making another one.”

  She leaned away for a breath of fresh air, but smiled politely. “You have something to show me?”

  “Always business with you.”

  “When I’m working it is.”

  “And when you’re playing?”

  She grabbed a peanut from the bowl in front of her and shrugged. “I’m always working.”

  The bartender set down his Negroni, a mix of gin, vermouth, and Campari he’d forced her to try the night they’d met downtown at a cop bar. She’d hated it.

  Sources like Mazzalano talked to her for one of two reasons. Most wanted something—usually gossip she’d heard on the street, but sometimes information she’d gleaned from within the department. Other sources just liked to talk, to show off how much they knew, or to spread rumors about colleagues. Mazzalano was a combination of the two. Nothing made him happier than knowing something she didn’t. He loved to show off what a big shot he was.

 
; But he wanted something from her, too. And it wasn’t information.

  He’d never let a meeting pass without hitting on her. He was a pig, but that made it easier to work him. Besides that, he was one of her most reliable sources, and Ambani’s murder was the biggest story in the country. “You know my policy on sleeping with sources, Joey. I mean Stallion. As much as I’d like to, I simply can’t.” She slid his drink toward him. “Drink up, and show me what you have. On the phone you said it was something big.”

  Mazzalano let out a hearty laugh. “Something big?” He took a long sip of the Negroni, splashing the drink onto the bar as he set it down. “I’m not even going to go there.”

  He leaned in conspiratorially, sliding his extra-large phone down the bar. He nodded for her to scooch closer. She did, reluctantly.

  “This video,” he whispered, “has only been seen by a half dozen people. You’re the first in the press. And you will owe me.”

  “What is it?”

  He leaned away and gazed at her with droopy wet eyes. “I said, ‘You’ll owe me.’ Got it, Cole?”

  “I always pay my debts.”

  He pressed play and a video began.

  The grainy footage showed ten feet of pavement leading to the side of a building. Attached to the building was a black ladder that stopped about two feet from the ground.

  “The alley behind the townhouse,” Mazzalano said. “We believe he climbed the ladder to the roof, and that’s where he made the shot.”

  Cole noted that the color of the stone matched the townhouse she’d written about.

  After a few seconds without activity, a single dried leaf dropped through the frame, dark brown and twirling slowly until it landed near the ladder. A moment later, a figure appeared from the bottom-left. He walked slowly. Hobbled, actually. And he was bent over at an odd angle, like he favored his low back. He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt and brown pants.

  “Moves like an old man,” Cole said as he reached the ladder.

  “There’s not a great facial shot, but there’s something coming up.”

  One hand on the bottom rung of the ladder, the man adjusted something on his back. “Backpack?” Cole asked.

  “Rifle pack. Ask me, it’s the perfect size for a fifty cal.”

  With great effort, the man swung his left foot up to the bottom rung, pulled himself up, and climbed. Soon he was gone from the frame.

  Mazzalano swigged the rest of his drink and smacked his lips. “Hold on.” He scrolled back, pausing the video just as the man pulled himself up with his right hand. “There. It’s not much, but it’s enough to narrow it down.”

  Using her thumb and index finger, she zoomed in. The image was blurry, but it clearly showed the side of a wrinkled white face. A thin, wispy beard partially covered a sharp chin.

  “Holy shit,” she said. “That’s the man who shot Raj Ambani. Can I have a copy of the video? I’ll tell you where my grandma was born.”

  Mazzalano’s eyes widened and he nodded his ascent. For years, he’d noted her black hair and prodded her about whether she had any Italian heritage. He’d do his best Tony Soprano impression, asking “What part of The Boot you from, hon?” A reference to the first episode of the show. Wanting to keep her distance, Cole had always declined to answer.

  “My mother’s mother came from Sorrento.”

  “I knew it! But that’s not enough. Might give you a copy of the video, but only if…” His meaty hand gripped her knee. Casually, she sipped her wine with her left hand as she tried to brush away his clammy paw with her right.

  He held firm and she leveled a glare at Mazzalano. “Stop it.”

  He closed his eyes and his head rolled back, as if in some kind of reverie. The sweaty warmth of his hand soaked through her pants. His nails dug into her skin through her jeans. “You’re hurting me.”

  Eyes still closed, he croaked, “You owe me. I need this.”

  She jerked her stool away forcefully, but his grip was so tight it pulled him toward her. He staggered forward, nearly collapsing on her, then fell back into his stool.

  “Everything alright?” the bartender asked.

  “Fine.” Cole straightened her shirt and brushed hair from her eyes.

  “Fine,” Mazzalano said. “Might’a had one too many.” He pulled a black comb from his jacket pocket and made a pathetic attempt to get his greasy hair to cover the expansive bald spot that was the rest of his head. “Sorry. Figured maybe you were just playing hard to get.”

  Resisting the urge to smash her wine glass over his head, she slid her barstool back another six inches. “Joey, I appreciate the heads up on this. Like I said, I always pay my debts. But not in that way. And if you ever touch me again, I’ll rip your balls off.”

  She slapped down a twenty and strolled out as Mazzalano’s drunken laughter filled the bar.

  18

  Back at Warren’s apartment, Cole didn’t mention the way her meeting with Mazzalano ended, but she went over every detail of the video.

  “I suppose you want to go write about it?” Warren asked when she’d finished.

  “Not yet. It’s a scoop, but it’s not enough.” She could win five minutes of fame by sending out a tweet identifying the prime suspect as “older white man,” identifying Mazzalano as a high-ranking member of the NYPD, as she always did. But she could get a lot more by finding out who the old man was.

  “You said sixty-five or seventy? Makes me think...” Warren shook his head. “Nah, never mind.”

  Cole didn’t let it go. “What?”

  “We’re not supposed to take leaps based on race.”

  “Cops aren’t, but right now you’re not a cop.”

  “Yeah, you think I need to be reminded of that?”

  “We’re just talking here,” Cole said. “Try me.”

  “When Ambani went down, I thought about that dark web transaction. The nine rifles. The comment from the chatroom: ‘NBC’s favorite liberal billionaire.’ I hadn’t given it a ton of thought, but when Ambani went down I realized something. Since that day at JTTF, I’d had a picture in my mind of the kind of guy who’d buy a bunch of specialized fifty-cals.”

  “And?”

  “I pictured a guy like the one you described. Older white guy, probably motivated by extreme political views. The way he decided to do it—sniper-style—it suggests military experience, right?”

  “Those are big leaps.”

  “We’re just talking here, right? Plus—”

  “Wait.” Cole leapt up and pressed her hands into the table. “Going with your theory for a second...the chatroom conversation happened when?”

  Warren considered. “Three, four months ago.”

  “Assuming the guy from the chatroom is the guy from the video, he planned it for months and decided on that particular shot. From a rooftop while Ambani walked into the Met.”

  Warren looked confused. “And?”

  “Maybe the location means something. Maybe the…look up how long ago the Met event was announced.”

  Cole did laps around the heavy bag as Warren went back to his phone.

  “Press release from June, so—”

  “Six months ago.”

  “International Wildlife Protection Fund.” He scanned the press release. “Huge fund to create international legal standards for wildlife protection.” Looking up from his phone, Warren caught her eye. “What are you thinking?”

  She leaned on the heavy bag. “If I buy nine weapons from the dark web and plan to take out a famous billionaire with one of them, I do it one of two ways. If I’m a certain kind of terrorist, I strap a bomb to my chest and walk up to his limo as he gets out in front of his house, or his office. If, on the other hand, I want to stay alive, I find a time when he’ll be in public and I take him out with a rifle from as far away as possible. I make sure I have a safe place from which to take the shot. My question is this: why is the crummy video I saw the only video?”

  “You said it was from the alley behind t
he townhouse?”

  “Right, so why isn’t there better video from the rooftop?”

  “Maybe they didn’t have cameras up there.”

  “Or maybe they were disabled. My point is, if you were planning this killing months in advance, wouldn’t you make certain you weren’t going to be recorded? Wouldn’t you make sure the building was a safe zone?”

  Warren stood as Cole sat. He positioned himself in front of the heavy bag and whacked it with a couple quick jabs. “So the question is, who owns the building?”

  * * *

  Under normal circumstances, Cole could get building ownership records in five minutes through a simple web search. The owner of the townhouse, it turned out, was shielded by layer after layer of anonymity.

  A public records search told her that the home had been purchased seventeen years earlier by a company called Key One Research. It took her an hour to learn that Key One Research was an LLC formed in Tortola in the British Virgin Islands. As far as she could tell, the company had no American business operations. It’s only asset was the townhouse.

  It was a shell company, and three years earlier, her search would have ended there.

  But in 2016, 11.5 million pages of documents had been leaked from Mossack Fonseca, a law firm based in the British Virgin Islands. The documents, which became known to the public as The Panama Papers, provided the most comprehensive evidence of tax evasion and corruption among the ultra-wealthy that the world had ever seen. The database was online, and there Cole found her answer.

  Key One Research had been created by Manhattan billionaire Chandler Price. A call to a colleague at the business section convinced her that Price had purchased the townhouse through the shell company for one of two reasons: to hide wealth from the city and state to avoid taxes, or to separate the asset from his personal wealth, half of which he’d lose in the event of a divorce from his wife, Margaret Price.

  From there, the connections had been easy to make. Margaret Price was sixty years old and well known on the Upper East Side for her extravagant parties and her taste for old champagne and young men. She and Mr. Price had been separated for years, but had never formally divorced. For now, she still called the lavish limestone townhouse home. If her Instagram feed was to be believed, she’d been out of town during the shooting. A two-day shopping trip to Paris.