with Ranger. Plus I know this is shallow, but I was in his megabucks Porsche, feeling like I was in a James Bond movie.
Ranger took the Turnpike to the Lincoln Tunnel and parked in a lot on the Upper West Side of Manhattan not far from the Gatewell Hotel. It was midday, and the streets were crammed and the sidewalks weren’t much better. The Gatewell was in the middle of the block, two blocks off Broadway. The doorman was dressed to look like Chairman Mao. The lobby was small but elegant. Lots of shiny black and white and silver with touches of red.
Ranger showed the manager his identification and his right-to-recover papers for Emilio Gardi.
“We have reason to believe he stayed in this hotel,” Ranger said.
“The FBI have already asked about him,” the manager said. “They were here yesterday.”
“This is a different issue,” Ranger said. “I represent his family and his bondsman.”
“I don’t have much information on him. He stayed here for one night last week. His room was prepaid in cash. There were no additional charges. No credit card on file.”
“Do you have the name or phone number of the person who made the reservation?” Ranger asked.
“There’s nothing on record, but one of the young men on the front desk remembered the transaction. The man making the reservation did it in person two days in advance and prepaid in full. He stood out because he had a slight British accent and an odd tattoo on his neck. A skull and a flower.”
The hotel had a lounge off the lobby. We sat at a high-top table and ordered sandwiches from the bar menu.
“Is Vlatko British?” I asked Ranger.
“He’s Russian, but he speaks fluent English that’s more British than American.”
“Do you speak Russian?”
“I understand some Russian, but I speak very little.”
“There has to be a reason why he chose this hotel.”
“There’s a large Russian community here on the West Side,” Ranger said. “I’m guessing he has ties to something nearby. A relative. A friend. A job. A woman.”
We finished our lunch, and Ranger returned to the manager.
“Do you have many Russians staying here?” he asked.
“A fair amount,” the manager said. “There’s a satellite arm of the consulate one block south on Seventy-fifth Street. They host trade shows and small VIP parties, and they sometimes recommend us to visitors.”
I followed Ranger out of the hotel and we walked one block to Seventy-fifth. We looked up and down the street but saw no Russian flags displayed. We walked east and studied the buildings we passed. We found the consulate on the second block. It was identified by a gold plaque fixed to the building. Writing was in Russian and English. The door was locked. There was a call box beside the gold plaque.
We crossed the street to get a better look. Five stories. Black wrought iron filigree on the lower-level windows. The windows on the upper floors were tinted and most likely impact glass. Security cameras scanned the street from the roof.
Ranger called Tank, gave him the consulate’s address, and told him to research the week’s events. Minutes later, Tank texted Ranger the consulate’s schedule.
“There’s a trade show going on this week for Russian vodka,” Ranger said. “This consulate will be hosting a meet-and-greet party at five o’clock. That would be a good time for us to slip in.”
We had some time to kill, so we went back to our high-top table at the Gatewell Hotel. We ordered drinks and received our complimentary bowl of bar nuts. We didn’t touch any of this. We watched the room. There were four men at the bar. Two of them looked like cartoon versions of Russian vodka salesmen. Large red noses, too much flesh, laughing too loud, drinking vodka. And they were speaking Russian.
“You need to introduce yourself to those men,” Ranger said. “It would help break the ice if you gave them more to look at. Something that would compensate for the fact that you don’t speak Russian.”
“What if they don’t speak English?”
“They probably speak enough to get by.”
I went to the ladies’ room and looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing a black business suit with a silky white shirt under it. My hair was pulled into a ponytail, and I was wearing heels. It was appropriately sexy for a funeral, but not so much for Russian vodka salesmen.
I opened enough buttons on the shirt that I was showing some cleavage. I wasn’t sure if it was enough cleavage to compensate for