Live to Air: An Ethan Benson Thriller

Edition

PROLOGUE

THREE BLACK LINCOLN NAVIGATORS slowly made their way down Eighth Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn. It was two o’clock on a clear and cold Monday morning in the middle of March, the temperature hovering around twenty degrees, the air crisp and still. A layer of ice crystals shimmered as the full moon rose in the north sky, casting eerie, ghostlike shadows that danced up and down well-kept brownstones sitting along narrow, tree-lined streets. A dog began barking, interrupting the deathly silence, as the caravan of cars waited for a traffic light on the corner of Flatbush Avenue, then headed to the Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan.

Four burly men sat shivering in each car, bundled up against the cold, wearing old leather coats and gloves and dark woolen hats pulled down over their ears. Fully loaded Beretta 9mm handguns bulged in shoulder holsters under their arms, and Uzi submachine guns rested silently at their feet, carefully hidden under piles of dirty clothes and tattered blankets. Their leader, a small, well-dressed man named Nikolai Stanislov, was sitting in the backseat of the lead car. He was wearing a long camel hair coat, a gray pinstripe suit, white shirt, and yellow tie. A thick, jagged scar ran down the side of his face from just below his left eye to the corner of his mouth, an ugly disfigurement he proudly considered a badge of honor earned in a knife fight when he was growing up in a Brooklyn ghetto everyone called Little Russia.

The caravan continued driving, inching along the empty roads, then veered left onto Tillary Street and up the ramp to the bridge. Nikolai puffed on a Cuban cigar, choking the car with thick, arid smoke. Sitting next to him was a tough-looking twenty-year-old, small and compact in build, with jet-black hair and a scowl on his face. Violent and hotheaded, Pavel Feodor had done his first stint in juvenile detention when he was twelve after nearly beating a schoolmate to death. In and out of trouble ever since, he’d been arrested for armed robbery, breaking and entering, auto theft, and drug dealing, making him one of the most notorious young hoods in the city.

As the Lincolns crawled onto the FDR Drive, the two men sat in silence, the gang leader puffing away on his cigar, the young man peering blankly at the wall of skyscrapers looming above him, his right hand jammed into his pocket, slowly caressing his Beretta, feeling the touch of the cold steel.

Relax, Pavel, you’re gonna wear a hole in your coat, Nikolai said. "This job will be over soon, and then you can go back home to your warm bed with a little extra cash for that little slut—that gopnitsa you call your woman."

Pavel didn’t respond. He just looked out the window and fingered his handgun, the gang leader now worrying he’d made a mistake bringing him along for the ride. As the caravan reached the tip of Manhattan, he took one last drag on his cigar and flipped it out the window. Talk to me, Pavel. What’s eating you?

I don’t like Mexicans. I don’t trust them. What if they try to rip us off?

Nikolai touched his scar, feeling the jagged surface of the skin. That’s my problem, not yours, he said, anger burning in his voice. I’ve dealt with this cartel many times. I know them. How they act. How they think. He tapped his forehead. So you do your job, and I’ll do mine. Am I making myself clear?

Pavel nodded, never changing his expression, his eyes fixed on a homeless man sleeping under a box in a doorway.

Nikolai leaned forward, the biting cold seeping into the car through the partially opened window, sending a chill up his spine. "Don’t make me sorry, Pavel. I stuck my neck out for you with the Pakhan. His face became hard. He wanted me to get rid of you. Said you were too wild. Too unpredictable. So don’t disappoint me tonight. You know what I’ll do to you if you do something stupid. It won’t be pretty."

He smiled and patted Pavel on the cheek.

Still there was no reaction.

The caravan inched along, reaching Battery Park on the tip of Manhattan and heading up West Street, past the new World Trade Center and the 9/11 Memorial, before making a left onto a dimly lighted side street called Tenth Avenue in the heart of the Meatpacking District. The neighborhood was dilapidated; piles of garbage spilled out of trash cans and rats scurried under parked cars, avoiding traps placed every few feet on the sidewalks.

Nikolai whispered into the driver’s ear, a thug with bushy eyebrows and a scraggly red goatee. Cut the lights and make the next right. That’s Little West Twelfth. Then drive down to the end of the block. They picked their way around potholes and a broken-down car or two, past a boarded-up brick building and an old-man bar, and into a narrow alley leading to a secluded parking lot hidden behind a warehouse belonging to a wholesale meat distributor.

Everybody out, Nikolai said, checking the chamber of his Beretta.

The car doors flew open, and the heavily armed men spilled out into the darkness. After checking to make sure there was nobody watching from the windows of the surrounding tenements, Nikolai walked to the back of his Lincoln, unlocked the liftgate, and pulled out two duffel bags. Then he faced his men. Yuri, take three guys and guard the alley. Anatoly, you take everybody else and fan out around the parking lot. Make sure your guns are drawn and in plain sight. I want them to know we mean business. And for God’s sake, everybody stay calm. No shooting. Unless I say so. He spun around and pointed at Pavel. You. Stay with me.

Picking up the duffel bags, he walked up a short flight of stairs, pulled out a set of keys, and unlocked a door on a loading dock in the back of the warehouse. He placed the two duffel bags on the ground, turned, and peered around the parking lot.

Everybody was in position.

Now all they had to do was wait for the Mexicans.

They didn’t have to wait long.

Two Cadillac Escalades pulled into the alley and stopped, six Mexicans climbing out toting high-powered handguns and Walther HK MP5 assault rifles. Their leader, a short, round man with a pencil-thin mustache, motioned to his men to wait by the cars and strutted over to the loading dock, showing no fear. He was holding a .357 Magnum as he approached Nikolai, who was standing in the doorway—Pavel right behind him—his Beretta drawn and aimed at the Mexican’s head.

Marco, my friend, glad you could make it, Nikolai said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

Good evening, señor. It’s nice to be here, to do business with you again. It’s very cold tonight, too cold for me and my men. Let’s not waste time. Do you have the money?

Nikolai pointed to the two duffel bags sitting on the platform. It’s all right here. One million in cash. In unmarked hundred-dollar bills. Just as we agreed. Do you want to count it?

No, that’s not necessary. I trust you. We’ve done business before. Just open the bags so I can see the greenbacks.

Nikolai unzipped the two duffel bags.

The Mexican looked in. The cash was stacked and bound in ten-thousand-dollar packets.

Where’s the heroin? Nikolai said as his eyes darted to his men.

The Mexican slowly turned and opened the back of the lead Cadillac. There—stacked in four large suitcases—was two hundred pounds of pure, uncut heroin, neatly packaged in gallon-size Ziploc bags. Here’s your heroin. Just as we promised. A bargain for a million dollars. He pulled out a bag from one of the suitcases and dangled it in the air.

Nikolai stared at the white powder, then studied the Mexican’s face, looking for telltale signs something was wrong. I wanna test it before I make the buy. I’ve been burned in the past, he said suspiciously.

Señor, you don’t trust me? I trust you. I no count your money. You told me it was all there, and I believe you. I’m telling you the heroin is pure, the best money can buy. There was outrage in the Mexican’s voice. He looked like a man whose honor had been scorned.

Seconds ticked by. It felt like hours.

Then Nikolai nodded to a man standing in the shadows. That’s my chemist, Marco. Give him the bag.

The Mexican never took his eyes off Nikolai as he tossed the package onto the ground. The chemist knelt and pulled a small test tube out of his pocket—cutting a small hole in the plastic bag and dropping a pinch of heroin into a clear liquid. After shaking it for a moment, he stared at the test tube. This stuff is high quality, Nikolai. Just like the man says, it’s close to 100 percent pure.

See, my friend, we don’t lie, Marco said, a smirk on his face. The cartel likes doing business with you. We wouldn’t cheat you.

There was another long pause, Nikolai still uncertain. Something didn’t feel right. The tone in the Mexican’s voice too confident, too spurious, like he was hiding something. He turned to his chemist. Take a bag from the bottom of a suitcase. Test it. I wanna make sure.

No. I can’t let him do that, Nikolai. Nobody touches the heroin until you give me the money.

No money. Until we test a bag from the bottom. A bag we pick. What’s the problem, Marco? Are you trying to cheat us?

The Mexican’s face hardened. He gestured to his men to close the liftgate, then made his way back to the lead Escalade, his .357 Magnum drawn and aimed at Nikolai. No deal, señor. We trusted you when you said you had the cash. Now you don’t trust us when we say the heroin is the best money can buy. This is no way to conduct business. There is no honor.

Silence, as Marco opened the passenger door and started to climb in.

Nikolai walked to the edge of the loading dock and stopped, ordering his men to hold their fire. Nobody moved. Then Pavel, hovering in the background, all but forgotten in the heat of the moment, suddenly began to scream, hatred filling his eyes. You fucking wetbacks. You’re all the same. As he raised his gun, Nikolai lunged forward, trying to grab his arm, knowing his young protégé had snapped.

Damn it, Pavel. Don’t shoot. The deal’s a bust. You’re gonna bring the cops down on us.

But Nikolai was a second too late.

Pavel pulled the trigger, and a bullet ripped through Marco’s shoulder.

Pandemonium broke out, the other Mexicans surrounding their leader and opening fire with their automatic weapons, spraying bullets around the parking lot, the sound echoing like blasts from a cannon. Two of Nikolai’s men went down, hit in the chest, arms twitching and feet kicking spasmodically. As they lay dying, blood poured from their mangled bodies and pooled in large circles on the pavement.

Nikolai ducked behind one of the Navigators, cursing at Pavel as he emptied his Beretta into a Mexican, blowing off most of his head, his brains splattering on the loading dock and up against the wall of the warehouse.

Holding his bloody arm, Marco stumbled into the backseat of his Escalade, his men continuing to hose the parking lot—rat, tat, tat—trying to protect him. Then they climbed into the two Cadillacs, gunned the engines, and roared onto the street, Pavel racing after them like a madman, squeezing off one shot after another. A Mexican leaned out the window and fired his Walther, ripping a stream of bullets through Pavel’s leg, sending him crashing to the ground, his head smashing on the pavement, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

Then silence.

Nikolai slowly stood and peered at the carnage. Two of his men were dead, and Pavel was lying in a heap, unconscious—blood gushing from his leg, spilling in torrents all around him. Lights clicked on in the surrounding buildings, and people leaned out their windows and screamed. Nikolai picked up the duffel bags and raced to his Navigator, dropping the cash in the back and slamming the door. Don’t stand like idiots, he said, bellowing at his men. The cops are gonna be here soon.

What about the dead guys? the chemist said, pointing at the bodies littering the ground. We can’t just leave them.

Nikolai walked over and kicked Pavel. I don’t care about this little shit. He’s bleeding like a pig and ain’t gonna make it. He kicked him again. This is all his fault, the crazy motherfucker. I should never have brought him. Leave him for the cops. They can’t link him to us.

What about everybody else?

"I don’t give a shit about the Mexican, but take our guys. The Pakhan won’t like it if we leave them."

Two minutes later, they tore out of the alley, one car after the other. When they reached the corner of Little West Twelfth and Washington Street, they pulled to a sudden stop. Sprawled on the sidewalk was another body—a pretty young woman lying on her back, twisted and broken. Nikolai rolled down his window and cursed. Goddamn it, the bitch must’ve been hit in the crossfire. This is a problem. A big problem. He lit a cigar and motioned to his driver. Get us the fuck outta here.

Then the caravan pulled through the intersection and weaved along the empty streets as police sirens wailed in the distance. Soon they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and left Manhattan, vanishing into the dark night.

CHAPTER 1

IT WAS OPPRESSIVELY HOT, the air thick and sticky, a late-July thunderstorm rumbling in from the west. Flashes of lightning streaked through Ethan’s bedroom, followed by loud claps of thunder and heavy raindrops. He lay quietly, watching the light show and listening to the cacophony of sound. Drenched in sweat, he looked at the clock. It was four o’clock. After carefully pulling back the covers, he slipped out of bed. Standing naked, he stared at his wife, Sarah, and watched her shallow breathing, marveling at how she could sleep so soundly with all the noise filling the room. He kissed her on the nape of her neck, pulled on a red T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans, tiptoed across the floor, and gently closed the door.

Ethan Benson was a tall, handsome man standing a little over six foot three, with blue eyes and curly black hair that he wore short and neatly trimmed. A touch of gray showed at his temples, and a handful of age wrinkles circled his eyes. Sometimes brash and sometimes stubborn, he was outspoken and at times even arrogant, but his warm and charismatic personality was endearing, often stopping a conversation dead in its tracks when he entered a room.

Yawning, he walked down the center hallway, cautious not to make the loose floorboards creak, and opened the door to his son’s bedroom. Luke was fast asleep, his yellow Labrador retriever, Holly, standing guard next to the bed, her tail thumping rhythmically on the floor. He smiled, brushed a lock of hair from the little boy’s forehead, then carefully backed out of the room. As he made his way to the kitchen, he felt restless, unsettled, his mind cycling through the same nagging questions that had kept him awake all night. What’s wrong with me? he thought, worried. Is it my job? Is it my marriage? Is it something else in my life? Why can’t I sleep?

Frustrated, he made a pot of coffee and continued to his study, flipping on the lights and casting the room in a warm glow. Newspapers and magazines were strewn about his desk, documents stacked in huge piles on the tables, and a half dozen large ashtrays overflowing with cigarettes. Plopping down in a worn leather chair, he grabbed a bottle of Motrin for the pounding in his head and tried to remember how much scotch he’d consumed before going to bed. Was it three glasses? Was it four? Was it more? Christ, he had to get his drinking under control.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he decided to check the headlines. An award-winning producer on The Weekly Reporter—a television newsmagazine on the nation’s number one network, the Global Broadcasting System—Ethan was the consummate news junkie, never wanting to miss a big story or feel out of touch. He turned on his computer and began to read: The price of oil had climbed two dollars on the British Mercantile Exchange, threatening to drive up gasoline prices at the pump, Congress had proposed new cuts in military spending to balance the budget, and a Palestinian terrorist had blown himself to smithereens in a crowded marketplace in Jerusalem, killing twenty-seven and injuring a score more.

They were all breaking news.

All important.

All his kinds of projects.

He sighed, knowing the show would never program any of these stories, now only interested in rapes and murders and high-profile sex scams—tabloid topics he abhorred to the bottom of his heart. What had happened to real journalism? To real reporting? To his thirst to discover the truth? Was that why he was hitting the bottle so hard?

He poured another cup of coffee and clicked on his messages.

A dozen emails had landed in his inbox. Most were unimportant, clutter from midlevel management, but as he scrolled through the list, he noticed a message from his boss, Paul Lang, the executive producer of The Weekly Reporter. How had he missed that one? It was flagged urgent, response requested, and had been sitting in his mailbox since early the night before. Ethan took a long drag on his cigarette, angry at himself. He should have checked and answered before going to bed. He opened the message and read:

Ethan, where are you? The senior producers and I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Not since your last story aired. I can’t run my show when my staff is AWOL. I’d like you in my office tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m. sharp. I have a high-profile story I need you to produce. Let me know if you can make the meeting. And be there on time.

Ethan read the message a second time. It was just like Paul to question his productivity. Ethan had been cranking out one blockbuster story after another, and there was nobody on the staff any faster. Am I in trouble? Should I shoot him a quick email and tell him I’ll be there? he thought, scratching his head. He can’t possibly be awake, not at this hour. I’ll wait and call him when I get to the office.

He clicked off his computer and walked back to the bedroom, but decided he might wake up Sarah if he climbed into bed, so he slipped on a pair of loafers, picked up Holly’s leash, and headed out for some fresh air.

• • • • •

The rain had stopped falling and the sky was brightening in a kaleidoscope of colors as he climbed off the elevator and made his way through the lobby. Ethan lived on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and had spent all of his forty-four years in the same apartment on the corner of Ninety-First Street and Madison Avenue. Feeling invigorated, he waved good morning to Winston the doorman and headed out to the street. Rays of sunshine were peeking through the clouds, and pools of water sat shimmering on the sidewalk. His neighborhood felt warm and inviting, and Ethan began whistling, his headache disappearing as he strolled down Fifth Avenue and into Central Park.

Then his cell phone rang.

He fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out his iPhone. Shit, it’s Paul, he whispered to himself, his mood darkening once again. I should’ve returned that damn email. After taking a deep breath, he answered, Hello?

Hi, Ethan, hold on for Paul. It was Monica, Paul’s number one assistant. God, they were already in the office. He waited for what seemed like an eternity before Paul barked into the receiver.

Where the hell are you? There was no Good morning. How are you? What are you doing awake at this hour?

Ethan responded calmly, hiding the disdain in his voice. Hi, Paul. It’s pretty early for a telephone call, don’t you think? I’m walking my dog, then heading back to my apartment and into the office. Should be there in about an hour.

I sent you a message last night. Did you get it? I haven’t heard a word from you. Nothing.

I just saw it. So what’s up?

You know what’s up. I told you I’ve got a big story for you. Why didn’t you answer my email?

Ethan hesitated, trying to control his temper. Because I didn’t read it until just a little while ago and thought it could wait.

What do you mean you thought it could wait? Paul was now yelling. This is important. I need to know if you’re available for an assignment.

Well, you’ve found me, and I’m definitely available. So what’s the story?

It’s the Pavel Feodor case. It’s been front page in all the newspapers. The guy was just convicted. First-degree murder.

Ethan recalled seeing the headlines but had no memory of the details.

Paul droned on. It’s a crash, and I want you to jump on it right away. You’re not doing anything at the moment, are you?

I’m in between stories, Ethan said sharply, not backing down. I was on the air just a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve been pitching ideas ever since. But I don’t do crime stories, Paul. You know that. Isn’t there somebody else who could produce this story?

There’s nobody else, Paul said indignantly.

Ethan hesitated, realizing there was no way to avoid the assignment. So what’s so special about this murder?

I’m too busy to give you specifics. I’ll fill you in when I see you at the meeting, and so help me God, don’t be late.

He hung up the phone.

Ethan lit another cigarette and took a deep drag. Why are all conversations with that guy the same—short, sweet, and full of sarcasm? He’s a real piece of work, he said to himself. No wonder I can’t sleep at night. He stroked Holly between the ears and started back to his apartment, his mind spinning as he tried to remember anything he might have read about the Pavel Feodor case.

But there wasn’t much.

In fact, there was nothing.

• • • • •

Sarah was standing in the foyer getting ready for work as he pushed through the door and put Holly’s leash on a table. She was dressed in a dark-gray suit, a satin shirt matching her slate-blue eyes, and open-toed high-heel shoes. A touch of makeup accented her silky smooth skin, and her long blonde hair, freshly washed and smelling of jasmine, sparkled as it flowed over her shoulders and down her back. Ethan’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t aged a day in ten years and was just as beautiful as the first day they’d met. He leaned over and kissed her tenderly on both cheeks. Hey, babe, you’re off to work early this morning.

I’ve got a ton of paperwork piled on my desk and a dozen impatient lawyers clamoring for my time. She looked in the mirror, smoothing her eye shadow, then peered at his reflection in the glass. You look pale, Ethan. Do you have another headache? she said cautiously.

No. Had one when I got up, but it’s gone now.

Did you drink too much last night?

Not too much.

How much?

Come on. Not now, Sarah, he said ruefully.

She continued staring at his visage. So why the long face, Ethan?

I just got off the phone with Paul.

At seven thirty in the morning?

Ethan slumped into a chair, suddenly weary from his sleepless night. Yeah. He was pissed as usual and chewed me out for not answering an email.

Why’d he do that?

Because he says he can never find me and wants me to produce some story about some big-time murder. A guy named Pavel Feodor.

You don’t do crime stories, Ethan. That’s not your thing.

I know. I know. And I know nothing about this case. Do you? he said, hoping she’d learned something about the murder at the Manhattan District Attorney’s office, where she worked as a legal assistant.

Pavel Feodor has been hot gossip for months, she said, surprised. But I didn’t work on the trial, so I don’t know much more than what was whispered in the hallways. She blotted her lipstick on a tissue. Tell you what. I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.

That would be great, he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, the pounding in his head starting to flare up again.

You really do look awful, Ethan, she said stonily. What’s goin’ on?

Nothing, babe. I’m just tired.

I’ve heard that before. Will you be home for dinner tonight? she said as their six-year-old raced into the foyer wearing his camp uniform and holding his baseball glove.

Dad, there’s a Yankee game on TV tonight. Want to watch it with me?

Sure, Luke, sounds like fun.

Ethan, don’t make promises you can’t keep, she said icily as she peered at her face in the mirror one last time.

I’ll do the best I can, Sarah. You know that.

That’s what you say now, but something always comes up and you forget about us. Let’s go, Luke. I don’t want to be late for the bus. She smiled, blew him a kiss, and walked out the door.

Ethan stood motionless, listening to Sarah’s high heels clicking on the floor as she made her way to the elevator, angry at himself for always putting work ahead of family. Then he lit another cigarette and headed to his study, sitting down at his desk and rebooting his computer. After running his fingers through his hair, he punched in Pavel Feodor’s name and pulled up a year’s worth of newspaper and magazine stories.

It was time to get ready for his meeting.

CHAPTER 2

THE GLOBAL BROADCASTING SYSTEM was headquartered on West Fifty-Seventh Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue. It was a huge structure, Gothic in style, built in the 1920s by a big oil conglomerate. GBS had bought the building in the late 1960s and converted it into a television network. The complex housed every division of the corporation—radio, Internet, sports, entertainment, and news—each occupying several floors. Staffed twenty-four hours a day, the broadcast center was a beehive of activity, pumping out programming, filling the airwaves.

Ethan hopped off the bus and looked at his watch. It was just after nine. Plenty of time before his meeting with Paul. He hustled down the block and pushed his way through a revolving door and into a cavernous lobby with a marble floor, potted plants, and an oversized seating area. The receptionist was sitting behind a large desk, sporting a cheerful smile and talking to a large group of noisy tourists waiting to be escorted to a taping of one of the many talk shows on the daytime schedule.

Ethan searched for his ID card, swiped it through an electric eye, and passed through a turnstile. Hustling down to the elevator bank, he squeezed onto a crowded car and rode up to the tenth floor, then made his way through a maze of hallways, stopping to say hello to a handful of producers before unlocking his office on the far side of the building.

The room was big and bright with beautiful views of Central Park and the New York City skyline. Facing the door was a large oak desk sandwiched between two file cabinets stuffed with documents, video disks, and DVDs. A reclining chair sat in the corner under a floor lamp, and a large leather sofa covered with scripts and newspapers was pushed up against the wall. Sitting proudly on a credenza under the window was an Emmy Award for an investigative report Ethan had produced on political corruption in Washington—a story the show would no longer program—a relic from the past.

Ethan sat down at his desk and opened the file folder of Pavel Feodor articles he’d downloaded in his study. As he leafed through the pages, a short, heavyset woman with mousy blonde hair and sparkling green eyes handed him a Grande Mocha from the Starbucks across the street before plopping down and making herself comfortable on the couch. Mindy Herman was an associate producer, and at twenty-five, one of the best journalists on the show. She specialized in stories about big-city crime and urban blight and knew her way around New York City’s halls of justice like a predator searching for prey.

Hey, what’s shaking, Ethan?

I’m about to take a meeting with Paul, he said, sipping his Grande Mocha.

That sounds like fun, I guess. What’s he want?

To assign me a new story. Some murder involving a guy named Pavel Feodor. Know anything about it?

Of course, she said, her eyes flashing. You haven’t been following the case?

Just the headlines. Not much more.

Jeez, Ethan, the network’s been all over the story for months. Don’t you watch our programming?

Yeah, almost every day, he said. I just haven’t focused on Pavel Feodor.

So you’re going to meet Paul and don’t know anything about this guy or the murder he committed.

That’s the gist of it, Ethan said, waving his folder. I’ve skimmed through a couple of these articles but don’t have a real good feel for the crime. Can you give me a quick summary of what happened?

Mindy got up and moved to a swivel chair in front of his desk. She began attacking the mess around his computer, straightening documents and putting a handful of paper clips back in their box. She was almost as obsessive as Ethan—one of the big reasons they loved working together. Come on, stop fussing. I don’t have a lot of time. Tell me about Feodor, Ethan said impatiently.

You really don’t know anything about him, do you?

Just bits and pieces. So who the hell is he?

A real piece of work, she said. Busted dozens of times as a kid. Was in and out of juvenile detention.

For violent crimes?

He was arrested once for attempted murder but got off. And since his juvy record is sealed, only the police and the DA know for sure about that part of his life. But the tabloids make him out a real monster.

Ethan pulled out his iPad and started taking notes. So what’s this case about?

"There was a gun battle in the middle of the night about a year and a half ago in the Meatpacking District. No eyewitnesses. The police say a small-time gang was trying to buy heroin from one of the Mexican cartels, but the deal went south. Feodor was one of the shooters. The