The Castle: A Ripped-From-The-Headlines Thriller Page 4

  “Griggs Tower. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”

  “I am, I just…never really thought I’d ever have a meeting there.”

  Remy didn’t know what to say. The lights in his head were dimming. He had no idea why Griggs wanted him at his office, nor could he fully believe what was even going on. But he replied with the first thing that popped into his head.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Griggs nodded. “Good.”

  “So do I, like, just ask for Rawson Griggs when I get there?”

  “One of my staff will greet you,” Rawson said.

  A BREAKING NEWS chyron popped up on CNN. Anderson Cooper’s face returned to the screen. Rawson noticed and turned to face the television.

  It read, DASTAN NOGOYEV REPORTEDLY KILLED IN PRISON.

  Remy’s eyes popped open. Nogoyev was dead.

  Anderson Cooper said, “We’re getting reports from the NYPD that Dastan Nogoyev, one of two suspects in the Upper East Side attack on Alena Griggs and her husband, Paul Bracewell, has been murdered in prison. Nogoyev was being held in the Tombs detention center following his arraignment in Manhattan Criminal Court when the incident occurred. Federal authorities were hoping Nogoyev could provide information on the motive behind the attack, as well as the location of his accomplice, who is still at large. There is no word on whether Nogoyev provided any of that information before his death. Again, one of the two men responsible for the attempted murder of Rawson Griggs’s daughter and son-in-law has been killed. We will update you with more information as it comes in.”

  Griggs turned back to Remy. There was no reaction evident on the man’s face. If there was rage, Griggs hid it. If there was pleasure in the death of the man who tried to harm his daughter, it was buried deep down. It also meant any information Nogoyev had on the attempted murder, his accomplice, or any future attacks died with him.

  Rawson Griggs took a single deep breath and said to Remy, calmly, “Next Monday. I never make an offer twice.”

  Then he left. And Alena Griggs opened the door.

  She said, “Please. Be there.”

  As soon as the door closed, Remy nestled into the darkness.

  The only thing that gave Remy a clue as to the mob scene that awaited him was an offhand comment by the kind orderly who helped him into his wheelchair prior to being discharged.

  “My goodness, I should get your autograph before the reporters outside tear you limb from limb.”

  Joking about patient dismemberment, to Remy, was subpar bedside manners.

  Remy didn’t think he needed the wheelchair. He’d been walking without assistance for much of the past two days, and other than a brief dizzy spell—“Your body is still recovering from the trauma of significant blood loss,” Dr. Kurzweil said. “Don’t push it.”—he wanted to get back to a semblance of normalcy.

  Two NYPD detectives had visited him the day after Rawson Griggs’s visit. Remy told them everything he could remember about that night. Ian, the bartender at Bailey’s, had confirmed Remy’s timeline.

  As Remy recounted, he’d seen Alena Griggs and Paul Bracewell walking west on 89th Street from East End towards York Avenue. He couldn’t see their faces and didn’t know who they were. Then he saw two men—Dastan Nogoyev and the other unidentified suspect—approach the couple. He saw Nogoyev brandish the gun, and that was when Remy acted.

  He remembered knocking Nogoyev to the ground, and Paul Bracewell picking up the fallen gun. He remembered the gunshot and feeling the bullet tear into him. He did not get a good look at the other gunman, just a dark shape disappearing into the night. The next thing Remy knew, he woke up at Lenox Hill with a flower smorgasbord usually reserved for deceased heads of state or Easter at Martha Stewart’s house.

  Trevor Mayhew had come to the hospital to bring Remy home. Trevor was a hugely popular fitness instructor, teaching fifteen classes a week at a Flatiron spin studio called CyclePro. He also trained several dozen private clients who paid him two hundred bucks an hour to whip them into “Trevor shape.” If anyone had told Remy that sitting on a stationary bike for twelve hours a week and yelling “pain is temporary!” at brides-to-be would earn him nearly a hundred and thirty grand a year, Remy would have thought twice before taking out enough student loans to place a down payment on a house.

  Trevor lived above Trader Joe’s in the Flatiron district, which he referred to as “the seventh circle of supermarket hell,” married a client named Chris he met while teaching at CyclePro, and seemed to have it all figured out. His plan was to teach fitness classes until his skin started to sag, at which point he and Chris would move to the suburbs and open an animal sanctuary.

  Remy had a hard time even making dinner plans.

  Having a father who was employed once every leap year, Remy had grown up believing a steady nine-to-whenever job was necessary to make something of yourself. Stability and routine were keys to success. Sit at a desk, rack up frequent flier miles, and you were on your way.

  As Remy was quickly learning, the road he’d taken hadn’t quite taken him on the path he’d dreamed of. And the meeting with Rawson Griggs loomed.

  When Trevor arrived at the hospital, he was dressed head-to-toe in CyclePro gear: track pants, a CyclePro t-shirt, and a Mayhew Fitness cap. Given the media ouroboros waiting outside, Remy had to admit that Trevor was a brilliant self-promoter.

  Trevor wheeled Remy towards the hospital entrance. Remy felt like a boxer about to enter an arena. He said to Trevor, “You could have at least brought me a change of clothes. I smell like the inside of an armpit.”

  “That you do,” Trevor said. “I can picture the Post headline tomorrow. ‘Smell Ya Later: Funky-Smelling Hero Leaves Hospital.’”

  “You know I hate you, right?”

  “You hate me and you love me. Our relationship is very complicated.”

  An orderly opened the double doors. A phalanx of at least twenty photographers and reporters was packed outside the hospital entrance, barely kept at bay by a half dozen NYPD officers.

  Suddenly the orderly’s comment about Remy being ripped limb from limb didn’t seem all that hyperbolic.

  Remy was dressed in a loose-fitting hospital gown with a paisley blue pattern straight out of the nursing home grandmother collection. Trevor looked like he could run a marathon at a moment’s notice.

  Remy said to Trevor, “What do you think about switching places for the next ten minutes?

  “And ride in the convalescent-mobile? Not a chance.” Trevor clapped Remy gently on his good shoulder. “I wouldn’t trade places with you right now for the exclusive rights to the fly zone surrounding Ryan Gosling’s underwear.”

  “You’re a good friend.”

  “Hey, we all have to make sacrifices. Besides, enjoy it. People love you.”

  Remy felt rivers of sweat dripping down his lower back. He had no idea how to handle this.

  THE UPPER EAST SIDE HERO, The New York Daily News had called him. The photo splayed across the front page had been taken from a traffic camera. It showed a black-and-white image of the carnage.

  In the photo, Dastan Nogoyev was on the ground, on his back. Remy was on top of him, fist raised in the air. Alena Griggs stood just a few feet away, her hand to her mouth, horrified. Paul Bracewell was leaning down, about to pick up Nogoyev’s dropped gun. Another man, his face and features masked in the gloom, stood just a few feet away from his downed partner, gun raised and pointed right at Remy. A moment later, that gun would go off, and Remy’s life would hang in the balance.

  Seeing a literal picture of the moment when, if not for luck or poor aim, he could have left this mortal coil, made Remy shiver at what might have been if Dastan Nogovey’s buddy had just aimed an inch or two to the left. The newspaper headlines would be very different.

  “You ready for this?” Trevor asked. Remy could sense his enthusiasm.

  “Geez, don’t sound too excited,” Remy said. “I bet CyclePro will be thrilled you’re wearing their logo on
your ass for all these cameras.”

  “Hey, I’m here for you, first and foremost, Remy. But you know how the saying goes: when life gives you lemons, you turn those lemons into cold, hard cash.”

  “I don’t think that’s how the saying goes.”

  “Well, that’s how my saying goes. Once people see this face and this logo all over the news, you won’t be able to book a bike in my class for months.”

  “Do I at least get a commission for all this free marketing?”

  “No, but I’ll reserve a bike for you. I’ve been trying to get you to come to my class for years.”

  “No, thanks,” Remy said. “I already almost died once this year. I don’t need to tempt fate a second time.”

  “You know, you could stand to lose a few pounds,” Trevor said. “Especially since you now have paparazzi. You gotta look sharp.”

  “Christ. Can you take me home already?”

  “You got it. Ready for this? There’s a limo waiting just past the crowd. Courtesy of Mr. Rawson Griggs.”

  “He sent a limo?” Remy said.

  “Not just any limo. A freaking stretch SUV limo. Even has the Griggs company logo on it.”

  Remy laughed. “Rawson’s a better marketer than you.”

  “Tell me about it. Even I’m impressed.”

  “Okay,” Remy said. He took a breath. “I’m ready.”

  “Hold onto your butt. Here we go.”

  Trevor began to roll Remy’s wheelchair towards the entrance. Several doctors, nurses, and orderlies clapped as he passed by. Remy smiled and waved, like a smelly, robed Miss America.

  Suddenly he was in the middle of a maelstrom of microphones and cameras. Men and women were shouting at him, shoving microphones into his face, screaming questions faster than he could understand them. He saw his face reflected in half a dozen cameras.

  This was madness. He saw camera crews from CNN, NBC, Fox News, the BBC—why in the hell did the BBC care about him?—and a few local New York crews. The questions were shouted at him like he was a celebrity leaving rehab after a six-month bender.

  “Mr. Stanton, how do you feel?”

  “Mr. Stanton, did you know it was Alena Griggs and Paul Bracewell that night?”

  “Mr. Stanton, is it true you met with Rawson Griggs?”

  “Did you know Dastan Nogoyev?”

  “Mr. Stanton, couldn’t this have been avoided if you, Mrs. Griggs, or Mr. Bracewell had legally been carrying firearms for protection?”

  “Mr. Stanton, who did you vote for last election?”

  “Mr. Stanton, do you have a girlfriend?”

  Remy’s head was spinning. But deep down in the reptilian part of his brain, Remy liked the attention. A lot.

  For the past five years he’d felt like nothing more than a small cog in a massive wheel. Finally, a new path had opened for him. Maybe embracing the attention—and even taking pleasure from it—wasn’t such a bad thing.

  Remy tapped Trevor on the arm.

  “Stop for a sec,” Remy said.

  Trevor looked at him, slightly panicked. “You sure? We slow down and they might eat you alive.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Trevor eased the wheelchair to a halt. Remy raised his good hand. The press corps fell silent.

  Remy braced himself and slowly stood up. The crowd stood there, rapt. Remy’s arm was in a sling, his balance still slightly off. But he was able to stand firm.

  “I just have one thing to say, and then I’d like to get home. I did what any other person would have done in that situation. I saw innocent people about to get hurt, and I believed I could help them. I’m just glad Mrs. Griggs and Mr. Bracewell are safe and sound. Thank you for being here and taking an interest in me and in their safety. Hopefully, if anything, this story will encourage other men and women to help when they see bad things about to happen to good people. That’s all I have to say for now. Thank you.”

  The moment he stopped speaking, a thousand more questions were fired at him. Remy pushed the wheelchair backwards with his good arm, a signal that he didn’t need it anymore. Trevor helped him to the limo. The driver came around and opened the passenger door. He was a hefty man wearing a navy tuxedo with the Griggs logo embroidered on the pocket. Remy slid in. Trevor followed and shut the door. The media horde was still hounding the car, inches from the windows, cameras recording him even as he sat inside the vehicle.

  “This is insanity. Does anyone actually want to see footage of me sitting inside a car?”

  “It’s dramatic. You’ve seen Law & Order, right?” Trevor said as the limo pulled away from the hospital. “Hey, you think they got the CyclePro logo?”

  Remy laughed. “I think the company should give you a raise.” He turned to Trevor. “Thanks, man. Really. I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Trevor said. “But if you think this shit is over, you got another thing coming. This is just the beginning. You saw that outside. You barely gave them anything. You’re the story now, Remy. People are going to want more of you.”

  Remy smiled.

  When they got to his apartment, Trevor helped Remy into bed and fell asleep on the couch. Remy took his pain medication and promptly fell asleep for ten hours.

  He dreamt about that night. The pool of red spreading beneath him. Paul Bracewell’s face covered in his blood. The terrified look on Alena Griggs’s face as she called for help. His body shivering uncontrollably, sure he was going to die.

  Remy woke up at four a.m., covered in sweat. He sat up on the edge of the bed until the shaking stopped. Then he got up, still a little dizzy, and got a glass of water. His stomach rumbled, and Remy realized he hadn’t eaten anything other than hospital glop in nearly a week.

  He checked the fridge. Embarrassing. Condiments, orange juice, and, yes, two slices of pizza he’d forgotten to wrap up that had grown moldy. He tossed the pizza and decided to order Fresh Direct in the morning. It was time to rejoin the human race.

  Trevor was asleep on the pullout sofa, snoring softly. Remy smiled. Felt like old times. Remy remembered countless college nights where he and Trevor stumbled back to their apartment on Temple Street, blitzed on cheap beer and boxed wine. Remy felt fortunate that they both ended up in the city, though he found it somewhat hilarious that Trevor’s degree in Renaissance studies had led to a burgeoning career in the spandex and Lycra-clad field of professional fitness.

  Remy gulped down a glass of water, refilled it, and downed another. He’d been given a prescription for Oxycodone to help with the pain. His shoulder was throbbing and his hand itched. He’d have to wear the sling for another three weeks while his sutures healed. He took one pill and washed it down, making a mental note to try to kick the stuff as soon as possible. The medication made his brain feel fuzzy, unfocused. He didn’t want to be in low gear when he met with Rawson.

  Remy lived in a large alcove studio, generously listed at four hundred and fifty square feet, with a window overlooking a lovely brick wall that completely blocked natural sunlight for twenty-one hours a day. That’s what three thousand dollars a month bought you in the West Village. His twin mattress barely fit into the alcove’s nook. It was so close to the walls that Remy had to climb out of bed the long way every morning—a few dates had learned this the hard way. There was a kitchenette with a two-burner electric stove, a small but updated bathroom, and a security buzzer system that would deter, maybe, eight percent of blind, deaf, and legless burglars.

  He’d furnished it with a pullout polyester couch and a round balsawood breakfast table that could fit two people, provided they didn’t back up too far.

  His walls were bare save a forty-eight-inch flat screen, his framed college diploma, a picture from Trevor and Chris’s wedding that was thumb-tacked above his twenty-seven-inch iMac, and a Corgi wall calendar that was a gift from an aunt who had what Remy felt was an unhealthy Corgi obsession.

  Remy was never much for decorating, but he began to feel a sense of sadness, remorse that he h
adn’t taken greater care in preserving the memories he’d earned, cherishing the friends he’d made and experiences he’d taken for granted. If he’d died the other night, what would be his legacy?

  Remy got his iPad out and took it into bed, shifting his weight to avoid putting pressure on his arm. The pain was constant. A maddening itch just beneath the surface of his skin.

  He propped a few pillows behind him and did a Google search on Rawson Griggs. Remy knew the basics. But he wanted to know everything he could about the man.

  Rawson Griggs was born on March 30, 1949 in Bensonhurst, New York. He was orphaned at the age of fifteen after his parents, Emily and Horace Griggs, were killed in an automobile accident in the Berkshires. After being drafted in 1969, Rawson Griggs fought in the 25th nfantry Division where he saw combat in Cambodia before being redeployed to the Schofield Barracks in Hawaii.

  Upon returning to Brooklyn in 1972, Griggs managed to secure a thirty thousand dollar bank loan and proceeded to build his first low-income housing project in Sheepshead Bay. He sold it in 1975 for over half a million dollars. By 1981, Griggs was the single largest developer in the tri-state area. He continued to build and then spread his investments among several emerging energy and technology firms. According to Forbes, The Griggs Organization officially became valued at a billion dollars in 1986. And Rawson never looked back.

  Rawson met Liliana Ricci, a magnificent bronze-skinned beauty, while overseeing the construction of a Griggs villa resort in Tuscany. It was his first European development, and like all his early ventures, he helped personally select the building materials and finishes. Liliana, a struggling model, had been hired by a marketing firm to give tours to prospective investors. Rawson took one tour, incognito, to ensure the villa was being promoted to his liking. According to an unauthorized biography of Griggs, Rawson was so smitten with the beautiful tour guide that he spent the entire presentation gathering up the courage to ask her to dinner. It was the last time Rawson Griggs ever questioned his own moxie.

  Liliana swooned over the charismatic, charming American. They were engaged three months later, and married two months after in Lanai, Hawaii, on a gorgeous bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Paparazzi flew overhead in helicopters, snapping photos with telescopic lenses.