Judge & Jury Read Free Page B

bluster and bullshit, twelve jurors who won’t be intimidated.
    One by one, the judge announced the names. Twelve jurors and six alternates. She told them to come up and take a seat in the jury box.
    The crime writer was in. Shocked. So was the Verizon guy. And the Hispanic housekeeper, the one who was knitting for her granddaughter.
    But the biggest surprise was the actress. She was in, too! I never saw anyone so stunned. I think everyone in the courtroom was holding back a smile.
    “Ms. DeGrasse, Juror Number Eleven, you can take a seat in the jury box,” the judge told her, amused herself. “You got the part, dear.”

Chapter 5
    THE GLASS ELEVATOR of the Marriott Marquis rose higher and higher above Times Square. Richard Nordeshenko watched the glittery bustle of the street grow distant and small below. Good riddance.
    “First time to the Marriott, Mr. Kaminsky?” a chatty, red-capped bellhop asked as the elevator rushed them to the forty-second floor.
    “Yes,” Nordeshenko lied.
    Truth was, he had made the rounds of all the fancy hotels near Times Square. The area held a particular attraction for him. Not the lights or the nocturnal amusements, in which he took no part. It was the crowds. In the event something went wrong, all he had to do was duck into the throng any time of day or night.
    “Kiev, right?” The bellhop grinned at him. It wasn’t a question, more like a statement of fact. “You’re from the Ukraine, right? Your accent. It’s sort of a game with me. Twenty floors, that’s usually all I need.”
    “Sorry.” Nordeshenko shook his head. “Czech.” Inside, he was angry with himself. The chatty bellhop had nailed him. Maybe it was just the jet lag, but he had let down his guard.
    The elevator opened, and the bellhop motioned Nordeshenko down the hall. “Close.” He smiled, with a shrug of apology. “But—what is it you say here?—no cigar.”
    He’d been traveling for eighteen hours straight, stopping in Amsterdam on a Dutch passport, then in Miami on a business visa to the States. On the flight, he had put on Chopin and Thelonious Monk to relax, and had beaten a chess program on his computer on level eight. That made the voyage bearable.
    That and the comfort of the first-class seats on Dominic Cavello’s account.
    “Room 4223 has a wonderful view of Times Square, Mr. Kaminsky.” The bellhop opened the door to his room. “We got the View restaurant and lounge. Your gourmet Renaissance restaurant on the mezzanine. My name’s Otis, by the way, if you need anything during your stay.”
    “Thank you, Otis.” Nordeshenko smiled. He pulled out a bill. He pressed it into the bellhop’s hand. Otis had fingered him, reminded him he could not be too careful.
    “Thank you. ” The bellhop’s eyes lit up. “Any sort of entertainment you need, you just let me know. The bar upstairs stays active until about two. I know some places that open up after that, if that’s what you like. The city that never sleeps, right?”
    “ Velk´y jablko. ” Nordeshenko replied in perfect Czech.
    “ Vel-k´y jab-lko? ” The bellhop squinted.
    “The Big Apple.” Nordeshenko winked.
    Otis laughed and pointed at him, closing the door. Nordeshenko laid his briefcase on the bed. He took out his computer. He had people to contact and things to set up. In the morning it would be all work.
    But in the meantime, the bellhop wasn’t too far off about something else.
    He did have his own brand of entertainment planned for tonight.
    Tonight, he was going to play poker—with Dominic Cavello’s money.

Chapter 6
    “YOUR ANTE.” The dealer nodded toward him, and Nordeshenko tossed a fresh hundred-dollar chip into the center of the table.
    He was in a fashionable poker club in a town house on the upper East Side. The large room had a high, coffered ceiling and tall palladian windows with embroidered gold drapes drawn. All types seemed to be there. Attractive women in evening gowns, amusing themselves at the