"I didn't know," Danton said, shrugging. "Whatever I can do, Eddie."
It surprised Eddie that Boland could pay attention to their conversation while exchanging blown kisses with the suicidal blonde hanging out the third-floor window. She kept mouthing invitations and contorting her spiked tongue. Purple eye shadow, black lipstick, pierced everything. It all screamed loco.
"She wants my body," Boland said.
"Yeah, to plunge an ice pick into," Danton said. "No doubt in my mind that crazy bitch has an ice pick under the bed."
"It's the crazy ones," Boland said, "who make life interesting."
Eddie almost gave Boland a piece of advice about crazy women. But he wouldn't listen anyway. And some advice is better left unsaid.
"All these Russians are crazy," Danton said. "This Lukin, for example. Supposed to be like the godfather, a beloved figure, but I don't see any tears. I used to work uniform in the Fifth. If John Gotti or Carlo Gambino had been whacked on Mulberry Street, the screaming and wailing would shatter crystal in Jersey."
Boland said, "The U.S. attorney we're working with says that trying to figure out the Russian mind is like trying to snatch mercury off a countertop."
"So help me out here," Danton said. "You guys were on Lukin. Point me in the right direction. Who the hell am I looking for?"
"It was our first day on him," Boland said. "We don't have shit yet."
"You gotta have something."
If Boland had been with an agent, Howie Danton would never have known they were tailing Lukin in the first place. The feds never liked to get involved in local crime. Boland reacted like a cop, but then he intentionally avoided mentioning the name of Yuri Borodenko. When Danton asked if Lukin's murder could be part of a Russian mob war, Boland did the old soft-shoe routine, everything but sprinkle sand on the platform. He knew the feds were funny about sharing case information with the locals, a hangover from the reign of J. Edgar.
"This guy Lukin's claim to fame is the gas-tax scam, right?" Danton said, going through his mental list of usual suspects, looking for a motive he could buy. "Brooklyn DA indicted a bunch of them. Italians involved, too, weren't they?"
"Three Russians, seven Italians," Boland said. "This could be payback La Cosa Nostra-style."
Not that the gas-tax scam wasn't a big deal; it was still the biggest tax scam in U.S. history. But it was ancient history. The Italians came into it late. When the Gambino crime family got wind of the Russian gold mine, they horned in for a penny a gallon. Then the bubble burst and the Russians offered up a Sicilian sacrifice. The Gambinos never knew how much money they'd gotten screwed out of until the indictments came down. Lukin, the architect, was never touched. You don't kill your moneymaker.
"I wouldn't look too hard at the Italians," Eddie said. "The gas-tax scam happened a long time ago."
"That much money, I don't know," Boland said. "I'd hold a grudge for a long time."
"This doesn't even look like a Mafia hit," Eddie said. "A professional Mafia hit man would have blown Lukin's brains out as he climbed the stairs, not waited until a crowd formed waiting for the train. Or dressed like a woman."
"He's got a point," Danton said.
"The Italians were humiliated by these guys," Boland said, turning to face Eddie. "Don't tell me one of them isn't capable of holding a grudge. Your old partner's brother did time on that case, didn't he?"
"Angelo Caruso," Eddie said. "But he's been out for years. Why now?"
Eddie glanced down at the street. The invasion of police cars and TV news trucks grew as the morning wore on. Reporters circled the scene, each one trying to flaunt his personal street smarts and outflank the competition. All maneuvered to get the front-page angle on a slow news day. An on-camera reporter from NY1 planted herself in front of the Brighton Beach subway sign. Several ambitious cameramen found their way to local roofs and were filming from above.
"Listen, Howie," Eddie said. "Call the borough now. I want to get working on the sketch while I still remember. Guy my age forgets things fast."
"Yeah," Danton said. "I gotta get this crime scene closed before that transit schmuck has a coronary."
Enough good-byes. Eddie left. The others had time to bullshit and flirt-
their
daughter wasn't missing. He ran down die stairs, wondering why he didn't feel any sense of loss for Lukin, the man who'd turned him around at the lowest point in his life. Perhaps he'd come to realize that he hadn't been shown a new road after all, just another highway to hell.
Eddie grabbed a taxi on Coney Island Avenue. "The Six-seven" was all he told the driver. The driver didn't ask for a street address. If a cabdriver knows nothing else, he knows where all the police precincts are located. Eddie'd pick up his Olds after he finished with the sketch artist.
In the back of the cab, he studied the list of Borodenko locations, trying to decide where to start. There had to be some connection between Kate's kidnapping and Lukin's murder. He had two very different pieces of a puzzle: a stolen BMW, and now a quick glimpse of a face. Dark skin, big nose. Probably not even enough for a decent sketch. Boxing was so much easier. In boxing, you knew exactly who to hit, and he could run no farther than the ropes. It all came down to pain, who could inflict and absorb the most. He'd been absorbing more than his share. He needed to hunt this person down. Corner him. Corner her. Either way, it would be over fast. It felt good to think this.
Chapter 9
Tuesday
7:45 P.M.
Cops hate mysteries. Eddie heard the grumbling under his kitchen window as the night tour relieved the day tour. Standing by their cars in Eddie's driveway, cops and FBI agents whispered among themselves. No phone calls, no ransom note-what the hell kind of kidnapping was this? Welcome to the club, Eddie thought. If I had the slightest idea where to go, I'd be there now. But these spoiled bastards, they forget how to investigate. The overwhelming majority of criminal cases are solved for one simple reason: Someone tells the police who did it. A witness plus an informant equals a confession. Case closed. Well, it isn't the formula this time, boyos, so suck it up. Get off your dead asses and goose the case, work something, invent an angle, anything. You never know when you'll get lucky.
"I know winos sleeping in Larkin Plaza who look better than you," Detective Babsie Panko said.
"I'll bet you do," Eddie said.
"Yeah, that's what I get for growing up in an Irish neighborhood."
Early for her twelve-hour shift, Babsie hung her coat on the wall pegs next to the refrigerator and sat down at the kitchen table. The table was strewn with doll clothes from a pink Barbie doll suitcase Grace had emptied out. Grace sat on Eddie's lap, watching him struggle to squeeze the doll's long plastic legs into a pair of red panty hose. Babsie shoved doll clothes aside to make room for her case folder.
"I have the same trouble with my panty hose," the detective said, but it didn't get a smile out of Grace. Eyes down, she ran her fingers over her grandfather's smashed knuckles, gently tracing the consequence of too many fights with poorly taped hands.
"I'm on the phones this shift," Babsie said. "I'm ordering you to get some sleep."
"Tonight," he said, mostly for Grace's benefit. "Tonight I'm home."
After Lukin's murder, he'd spent the rest of the daylight hours in Brooklyn, first putting a face on paper, then driving around searching for its flesh.
"You want to talk about the case?" Babsie asked. She gestured toward Grace, questioning whether it was wise to talk in front of the victim's six-year-old. But Eddie didn't want to send her away; she'd clung to him since the moment he'd arrived. Grace had spent the afternoon with Aunt Martha. Enough to snuff out the brightest candle.
"Okay then, so…" Babsie said. "We're making good progress on the case; we're getting close." Then, when Grace wasn't looking, she shook her head no, an emphatic
no
. "We did come up with one guy who looks involved, but, unfortunately, he's in the wind. A twenty-two-year-old Latvian named Mikal Raisky.
Misha, they call him. He worked in that auto-storage place in Elmsford. We can't prove the BMW was snapped up on his shift, but I'd bet on it. This was the fourth auto larceny in the two months he's been working there. Before Misha, the average was less than one a year."
"You check his residence?"
"Gee, I wish I'd thought of that."
"Sorry, Babsie. Does he have an immigration status?"
"He's over here on a four-month student work visa."
"Then he should be easy to find. Those kids are brought over here by private agencies. They call them something like foreign student something agencies."
"Yeah, International Resources in Flushing. What a rip-off that is, by the way. The kids pay them three grand for the privilege of working their asses off for minimum wage. They need to work two and three jobs just to pay them back."
"That's why a few hundred bucks just to leave a gate open is so tempting."
"His listed residence is a Queens address," she said. "Nice old couple said he moved out weeks ago. We got some names of his friends, a couple of vague addresses. The agency gave us his height, weight, a copy of his passport photo, his parents' address in Riga, his university, and-let's see-his work sponsor, Coney Island Amusements."
"There's your Brooklyn connection. Ask Boland to check them out."
"Pretty Boy doesn't have to wrinkle his Armani. We already interviewed Coney Island Amusements. Misha hasn't shown up in two days."
"Phone records?"
"He gave all his employers the phone of his alleged
Queens address. The old couple said he called them every few days to pick up his messages. Apparently, he's got a cell phone, but we can't find any listing under his name."
"This kid knows who took the BMW."
"Yeah, and he's probably running scared," she said. "So we've been floating a sweetheart deal around Brooklyn. Letting his friends know the Westchester DA says she'll let him walk."
"He won't come in voluntarily."
"What the hell has he got to lose? We can protect him for a few months, until he goes back home."
"Home is his problem, Babsie. Borodenko knows where he's from, and the worst part is that, right now, Borodenko can reach his family back home. This kid knows they can assassinate his mother tomorrow morning if they want to."
Home is the thousand-ton hammer guys like Borodenko hold over every single former resident of any former Soviet bloc country. It's why no informant ever comes forward, no matter how courageous or desperate. They know that all it takes is the snap of a finger to wipe out your brothers, sisters, cousins, your children, whomever you love. And no one loses a second of sleep worrying about the law.
"So does the name Raisky ring a bell?" Babsie said. "Maybe you ran across his father or uncle during your Brooklyn days."
"Never heard the name before," he said. "You give this information to Boland?"
"I'm not the one who's afraid to share."
"We need to get his picture to the teams checking Borodenko's locations."
"Speaking of that list, I didn't even know it existed until a few minutes ago. I guess your pal Boland forgot to fax me a copy."
"Take a look now. See if anything corresponds to your stuff."
Most women hate guys who look like Boland, but he was surprised it bothered Babsie. Babsie was one of those women who did it their way, no matter what. The kind of woman who seemed to get more interesting after forty. She scanned the list quickly, using her finger to run the columns. Bright red nail polish. He wondered if she wore it while winging a softball eighty miles an hour.
"Nothing right on the nose," Babsie said. "Some of the Queens addresses might be close."
As soon as Eddie pulled the panty hose up over the doll's hips, Grace handed him a tiny plaid kilt. The Barbie doll and the clothes had belonged to Kate. The little pink suitcase contained dozens of handmade outfits. Kate had made most of the clothes herself when she was only nine or ten years old, working on a battery-operated toy sewing machine. It always amazed Eddie to see Kate sitting on the kitchen floor in total concentration, turning out tiny dresses and skirts, a few made from remnants of his police uniforms. Grace had never been interested in the doll clothes before, but today she'd dragged it all out of the attic.
"Do me a favor, Babsie: Fax Misha's picture to Boland."
Eddie fumbled as he tried to open the tiny snaps on the plaid doll kilt. He didn't want to pull the snaps out of the wool material by tugging too hard. He recognized the material as the tartan of Kate's old uniforms from Christ the King.
"So what happens now, Eddie?" Babsie said, glancing again at Grace. "You know… with you and the feebs, since Lukin… went away?"
"They still want Borodenko."
"Common goals with the feds, that a good thing?" Babsie said, raising her eyebrows. "Who knows, it may work, for the first time in history. But then, you can always count on your old pal Boland, right?"
"He's not that bad."
"Oh no, the guy's the salt of the earth."
"Not someone you'd want dating your daughter, but a good cop."
"What is it with guys sticking up for each other? I'd rather see a three-hundred-pound Hell's Angel at my front door."
That made Grace laugh. She'd put her head against Eddie's chest and closed her eyes, but when Eddie set the kilt aside, she sat right up and handed him another piece of clothing, a denim jacket with two more snaps sewn in as buttons.
"Let me see the picture of Misha," Eddie said.
"It's not the guy your brother saw going into the house," Babsie said, handing him a photocopy of a Polaroid. 'This kid's blond, not bad-looking. Kevin said the guy in the jumpsuit was dark-skinned."
"Kevin saw this picture?"
"I stopped by the bar on the way over here," Babsie said. "I wanted to show Kev the finished sketch. We're sending it all over Westchester and the city, most of them going to Brooklyn. And yes, I sent a stack to Boland."