The Con Man's Daughter (3 page)

Eddie parked in the shadow of the rickety old roller coaster, the Cyclone. He turned the engine off and waited, studying the cars moving behind him on Surf Avenue. Waves pounded against the shore as he stared at the rearview mirror. After three full minutes, he slammed the car door and walked toward the boardwalk. He was still wearing the frayed sweatshirt and nylon running pants he'd put on that morning.

Anatoly Lukin, like many of his fellow Russian émigrés, loved to spend his afternoons by the ocean. Even on the most frigid days, the boardwalk was packed with beefy men and women in fur hats, reminiscing about Odessa and the icy wind off the Black Sea. Lukin claimed that the Black Sea was much darker than the Atlantic; during severe storms, it churned as black as ink, because there was no animal life, no oxygen below two hundred feet. Eddie turned left on the boardwalk and walked toward Brighton Beach, a half mile to the east. A seagull swooped down to snatch a pizza crust off the splintery planks.

Eddie spotted Lukin's entourage near the Aquarium, walking slowly back toward Brighton. The old man dragged his right leg, the result of a stroke. A pair of bodyguards strolled a few steps behind him. Down on the beach, a white-haired gent in an air force parka scanned the sand with a metal detector. Too old for undercover, Eddie thought, but you never know. The Gotti-fueled decline of the Italian mob in New York had freed investigative resources to work on the nouveau Mafias.

Anatoly Lukin didn't qualify as a member of the new breed. He'd landed in Brooklyn in the mid-1970s, part of the huge influx of Russian Jews allowed to leave the Soviet Union during detente. Many of the new émigrés settled in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, then turned it into a miniature replica of the motherland with Russian-language movie houses, restaurants, and bathhouses. Most were decent, hardworking people, but Premier Leonid Brezhnev, like Castro with the Mariel boat lift, had opened the prison doors. Anatoly Lukin, forty-two years old at the time, was considered a
vor
by Russian police. The full title was
vory zakone
, which meant thief-in-law, a title bestowed by fellow thieves on the most feared and respected of outlaws. According to the FBI, Lukin was one of only four
vors
living in the United States.

The wind blew salty spray as Eddie came up behind the bodyguards. He knew they'd spotted him coming, then looked away quickly. He hoped they weren't in the mood for showing off. Today was the wrong day for macho games. But when he was a step behind Lukin, a meaty hand grabbed the collar of his sweatshirt and yanked him back. Eddie spun and slammed a left hook into the bodyguard's ribs. The hook was Eddie's best punch. He kept his balance and rotated his body, bringing the force of his rage behind the blow, like a heavy gate swinging around a hinged post, the whole barn pivoting behind it. The burly Russian coughed out a blast of air and staggered back. Eddie stepped in and snapped a straight right, which landed on the guy's cheekbone. The second punch was half-strength-he didn't want to break his hand-but the guy went down hard, flat on his ass, his leather heels clattering on the wood. The other bodyguard went straight to the hardware. A Beretta M9 pointed at Eddie's face.

Lukin moved between them, murmuring, "No, no, don't let them see this." Lukin assumed he was always being watched. He ordered the bodyguard to put the gun away but kept his huge hand on Eddie's chest until the gun was holstered. A smudge of ink, a Russian prison mark, stained the web of his hand.

"Why you do that bullshit, Eddie?" the standing bodyguard said. "Pavel's just doing his job."

"No, he wasn't," Eddie said. "I know what he was doing."

Pavel's face was ashen. His left eye had already begun to puff up. He pointed up at Eddie and growled something that was clearly a threat in any language. Lukin ordered him to shut his mouth. Still sucking air, Pavel grabbed the wooden rail and pulled himself to his feet.

The goons who surrounded Lukin had always made it clear they didn't like the non-Russian in the organization. But Lukin knew that Russian criminals changed alliances more often than their underwear. It was one of the reasons he'd hired Eddie. He knew that it was loyalty, no matter how misguided, that had forced Eddie out of the NYPD.

Lukin motioned for Eddie to walk with him. They turned around quickly, heading back toward Coney Island. Lukin liked to stay in between Coney and Brighton to cut down on surveillance possibilities. Eddie flexed his right hand, examining the small, brittle bones. He could smell Pavel's cheap cologne on his knuckles.

"No word on your daughter?" the old man asked.

"Nothing," Eddie said.

"And now you've come to find out who you should kill."

Eddie didn't know what to expect from his former boss. The old man didn't owe him anything. Lukin had hired him after his forced resignation from the NYPD and Eileen's cancer diagnosis. These events, and other sins, had become nightmares Eddie could no longer drink away. Becoming Lukin's overpaid courier had given him a solid place to stand.

"First, I'll get my daughter back," Eddie said.

The bodyguards were behind them now, talking angrily in Russian. Eddie checked the back of his neck for blood. Pavel's fingernails had dug into his skin.

"I have no one left to help you fight this animal," said the old man. "These two idiots behind us, maybe six others. He's taken everything else."

"Then it is Borodenko," Eddie said.

"Borodenko is in Moscow, but that means nothing. My sources tell me certain things today. He runs this show one hundred percent."

"You still have sources inside his operation?"

"For what I pay, they should kiss my feet."

Yuri Borodenko was a flashy thug who loved to cruise the Brighton Beach nightclubs, showing off his stunning young wife, a former Russian model. Although in the United States only five years, he'd amassed a fortune through extortion and brutality. He was known to walk into local businesses wielding a cattle prod, announcing he was the new partner. An ethnic Russian, Borodenko got rich by terrorizing his own people.

"Why kidnap my daughter?"

"Snafu," the old man said. "My source is having breakfast with this braggart Lexy, who's telling him Borodenko calls him this morning from Russia. Very pissed off, Mr. Borodenko. This snafu made him cancel this important shipment due to leave today. A woman is involved in this snafu. Lexy says that Borodenko gives him strict orders to find Sergei, his man to fix this special problem. Lexy is an errand boy, but he's bragging. Big man. As if Borodenko is asking
him
to fix this problem."

"This woman is my daughter?"

"This is what I think."

"I know Lexy Petrov, the bartender," Eddie said. "But is he talking about Sergei the Macedonian?"

"No. Sergei Zhukov, a Russian. One of Borodenko's new lunatics. He surrounds himself with people without brains. But how much brains are needed to hit people over the head and say 'Give me your money'?"

"Why would Borodenko's men be searching my house in the first place?"

"Money. What else? There's an old Russian saying, Eddie. In English, it means 'The clock is ticking and the house is burning.' The Russians think you should be making money every second of the day and night."

Lukin offered Eddie a handful of the sunflower seeds that filled his coat pockets.

"Why would Borodenko think I have money?" Eddie said.

"Because you worked for me. Last few months, he's been going after my old friends, some with me from the beginning. In case he finds a loose dollar I'm holding out on him. My fellow Russkie wants everything I have, if I have it or not."

Borodenko made no secret of his ambition to be the most important
vor
in the United States, then the richest man in the world. A former Soviet army officer, he flaunted his solid connections in the Russian black market, particularly those in the military establishment. Soviet weapons of all types were his advertised specialty.

"I read about Ukraine Nicky and Seidler," Eddie said. "The papers said they were robberies. Cash and jewelry stolen both times."

"Robberies, yes. But torture also. Ukraine Nicky… big thoughts, but harmless, am I right? Yet someone tortures Ukraine Nicky. Then Seidler, the jeweler. Two old men. Tell me, why torture? Because he is looking for my money is why. He believes I am King Midas."

The old man didn't seem to notice the raw breeze off the ocean. Spring was the worst season at the shore. The ocean took all summer to warm up; then September and October registered the warmest water temperatures. The water stayed warmer than the air until mid-December. But once it got cold, forget about it until July.

"Put a cash offer on the street, Anatoly."

"First, I have already sent word that if your daughter should suddenly appear safe and sound, the situation will end there. No retaliation. It won't work, but we'll try this."

"Whatever it costs," Eddie said. "Ten, twenty grand, fifty grand. I'll get it, whatever it costs."

"A life is what it will cost. Our friend learned from his KGB friends. He kills the weak links, those who talk; this is automatic, no exceptions. Dead'men can't enjoy your money. No takers will call."

"Make it worth the chance. Promise more, a million, two million."

"Inhale some ocean air," Lukin said. "Take deep breaths. Calm yourself, or you'll be no good to anyone."

Lukin wore a threadbare cardigan sweater and a dark fur hat he claimed was Russian sable. Whatever he'd done in Russia, Lukin didn't function through violence in America. He was a scam artist, a paper-pusher who preyed on big government and big business. In Eddie's opinion, Lukin was no worse than the Armani-clad conspirators on Wall Street, or the thieves in the ivory towers of most corporations.

"Where should I look for the BMW?" Eddie asked.

"Don't waste the time," Lukin said. "This morning, Mr. Borodenko planned to send a ship with stolen luxury automobiles to Latvia from a dock in New Jersey. Very lucrative operation. They steal automobiles and hide them. When the ship is ready to sail, they put the automobiles inside containers labeled machinery. Customs pays no attention to what is shipped out of the country. He collects two, three times their value."

"The BMW was supposed to be on this ship?"

"Of course. BMW is an expensive automobile. Space on a ship is limited. Expensive automobiles take up the same space as cheap automobiles. Just as easy to steal expensive. Everything is profit margin."

"Do you know what pier, or the ship's name?"

"No, no, no. Don't go running off without your head. Everything was canceled because of this snafu. The car you saw is not on this ship, I am quite sure. That one is probably in the crusher."

"Then who was driving it?"

"My source swears they do not keep such records at his end. All financial arrangements for car thieves are made in Brooklyn. What he tells me is that they were working the last three nights, moving automobiles to the pier. Four BMWs were expected to be delivered to the dock this morning. Only three arrived. The missing automobile was black in color."

Most of the businesses in Coney Island were still closed. Summer businesses were a tough gig. You needed sixteen good weeks to break even, and bad weather killed you. Here and there, a few doors were wedged open, the owners blowing out the musty stink of a seaside winter. One hardy soul slapped mustard-colored paint on his hot dog stand. Only the optimistic entrepreneur who ran the Cockroach Circus had opened for business. The ringmaster stood out front, hawking the attractions inside. Eddie wondered what he was really selling. A precinct cop on a bicycle rumbled over the boards, a female voice squawking in his radio's static.

"See over there," Lukin said, pointing to a clapboard shack with plywood nailed over the windows. "First place I worked in America. Minimum wages." Eddie knew the story, but he believed you should always listen to the stories of old people, no matter how many times they told them. "Sweating my brains out over an outside grill," Lukin said. "Cooking sausage and peppers for sandwiches. Onions, everything smelled like onion. My clothes, my hair. Keep the grill perfect, move the food evenly, that is my secret to grill cooking. Like this, I learned…" The old man demonstrated his grill technique, sliding an imaginary spatula under imaginary food and moving it four times, a quarter turn each. The setting sun spread orange onto the slate blue Atlantic.

"Car thieves are creatures of habit," Eddie said. "They return to places where they're comfortable working. This car was stolen from a gated storage facility in Elmsford. Not every street junkie has the skills to pull that off."

"More than you think," Lukin said. "But I will ask my source to narrow the list. We will find your baby girl safe and sound. Very soon. I have three more days to shake the bushes."

"Three more days?"

"In three days, I am going home," the old man said, the shell of a sunflower seed clinging to his thick lower Up. "I want to be buried in the dirt where I was born."

"Odessa?"

"Not so loud, please. Only you and I can know. Not even my idiot nephew behind us."

"Are you well enough for this?" Eddie asked.

"What is well enough? All I do these days is go to my doctor. Every Tuesday, he says the same thing. 'Eat well, exercise, stop smoking, see you next week, pay cashier, thank you.' It's this Medicare; they keep you going around the revolving door. We should have been doctors. They are the real
moschenniki
."

"The swindlers," Eddie said.

"Doctors swindle the swindlers."

Eddie offered to drive him to the airport, but Lukin said he'd call a taxi. It would be the first time he'd ever ridden in a taxi. The old man stopped and leaned against the wooden rail. A V squadron of geese flew high above the water, following the coastline north.

"If you were me," Eddie said, "what would you be doing now?"

Lukin spit sunflower seeds, which he claimed were the only luxury of his Odessa youth. "You know why they call this Coney Island?"

"Because of ice-cream cones," Eddie said, although he knew the real answer. Lukin had told him this story many times.