The Con Man's Daughter (32 page)

"Eddie, you have to stay in the car tonight," Boland said as the silent convoy left the Belt Parkway. "Too much brass on this caper. They see you marching in with us, the shit will hit the fan. I'll come back and get you if we need you to identify Sergei. Or if we have good news. You can count on that."

The Queens County they rode through was not Archie Bunker's neighborhood. The streets around the junkyard loomed as surreal as a moonscape. An eight-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire encircled the huge lot. Across from the junkyard sat a collection of phantom factories, sandwich shops, and uninhabitable mystery shacks. The roadway, sidewalks, and grass were painted black with oil. No lights, no signs, no civilization. Packs of wild dogs owned the night. Skeletons of cannibalized cars were scattered about the streets like the abandoned caissons of a retreating army.

Boland donned his vest and a blue nylon jacket with NYPD in Day-Glo letters, then grabbed a portable copy machine from the trunk. He left the car running. The police radios had been set to a special frequency so they could hear the play-by-play. The commander of Emergency Services was running the show. They'd be the guys going through the door first.

"They don't need me in there," Babsie said.

"You don't have to baby-sit," Eddie said.

"Like you can afford my baby-sitting fee," she said.

"I'm just pissed at Boland. He should have given us a heads-up, so we knew how to dress. No way I'm getting grease on this new jacket. But I am a little surprised you didn't fight him. I thought for sure you'd want in on the door-kicking party."

"They'd keep me so far in the background, my ass would still be in Brooklyn."

"Yeah," she said, not quite buying his story. "They got enough bodies here to invade the Kremlin."

From where they were parked, Eddie could barely see the front gate. The barking dogs behind the fence, however, could be heard for miles. A heavily protected Emergency Services cop lumbered up to the gate and aimed a tranquilizer gun through the chain-link fence. One pop, then a howl. Yard-long bolt cutters snipped the chain as if it were strung popcorn. Another dog bit the dust. The cops yanked the chain through and tossed it to the ground. They swung the gate open and went in. One more dog barked pitifully, and then there were none.

The NYPD believed in the strategy of overkill. Always bring more cops to the party than you need. Four teams followed the ESU through the front gate. In the pitch-blackness, wavering flashlight beams were the only show as the cops moved around the stacks of front ends and quarter panels, past the mounds of tires, wheels, and hubcaps. Lights popped on here and there, small bulbs behind filthy windows. He wondered if Kate's world was like this: darkness, then pinpoints of light. He hoped her worst enemy was isolation. The Dunnes could handle isolation.

Only fifteen minutes passed before grim-faced Matty Boland returned. Eddie watched him cut across the beams of car headlights, his head down. He opened the driver's door and leaned in. A swath of grease cut across his cheek.

"We didn't find her, Eddie," he said.

Eddie felt the blood drain from his face. This was okay. This was fine. It meant they still had hope. Hope was everything, all they had.

"Tunnel thing was mostly bullshit," Boland said. "Only one tunnel, built for midgets, looks like. We got five live Russkie types, and a body we want you to look at." Then, as an afterthought, he said, "Male DOA."

They followed Boland through a tin warehouse building filled with deep shelves made from fresh lumber. On the shelves were hundreds of used auto transmissions. Cops from Auto Crime examined them for hidden serial numbers. They entered a new metal shed and climbed down through a trapdoor to a tight wrought-iron circular staircase, almost as narrow and twisting as the staircase up to the crown in the Statue of Liberty.

Down one level, the floor of the mobile home was intact, carpeting almost new. It had not been heavily used. The entrance to the tunnel in a side wall had been covered by a blue plastic shower curtain. Climbing in required a two-foot step up from the floor and good flexibility. The damp smell of fresh dirt prevailed. A draped body lay halfway into the entrance.

"We think they killed him here," Boland said. "One of the teams grabbed two guys running toward a pickup truck with a camper. The back hatch of the camper was open. They were getting ready to drop him somewhere else."

The body was partially wrapped in a brown woolen military blanket with writing in the Cyrillic alphabet. The face remained uncovered; no reason to protect the public down here. He'd been shot once in the center of his forehead.

"Sergei Zhukov," Eddie said.

The stippling around the entrance wound indicated it had been at close range. A harsh fluorescent ceiling light glared off the fake wood paneling and cast all faces in the same pallor as Sergei's.

"Is this legit?" Danton asked, handing Eddie a ring. "It was in his pocket."

It was a Claddagh ring-a common Irish gift-two hands clasped around a heart. This one was inscribed on the inside "To Kate from Dad."

"I gave it to her when she graduated from Sacred Heart," Eddie said, fighting to clear his throat as he stared at the ring. He'd bought it for her in Ireland, in a small shop in Galway, right after they'd walked through Claddagh, a small fishing community on Galway Bay and the Atlantic, the place that gave the symbol its life.

'This is a setup," Howie Danton said. "They put the ring on this mook to take the focus off Borodenko. He gets rid of the problem child, Sergei, plus he gets to blame him for Kate. It's this guy's MO. He plants more shit than Johnny Appleseed."

As they rode back to One Police Plaza, Eddie tried to get his mind around this. What did it mean for Kate? If she was dead, they could have just disposed of her body. Borodenko had ample means for causing bodies to evaporate, either Sergei's or Kate's. So why go through all this trouble, planting the ring on Sergei? Why would it matter who got blamed? It meant Kate had to be alive. That made sense, didn't it?
Didn't it
?

"Quit mumbling to yourself," Babsie whispered, squeezing his hand.

Too tired to con himself anymore, he began to wonder what he might have to say to his granddaughter. No harm in just thinking. Besides, it was good to think about the worst case, defusing God's sacred element of surprise. He'd talk to Grace about angels, because if there ever was a time to believe in sweet angels, this was it. The rest sent shivers. Aunt Martha and the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church would insist on a High Mass after a nightmare wake. He'd just hold Grace through all the ceremonial weeping and gnashing. That was best. Hold her. And when the smoke of the incense cleared from the air, he'd ask Babsie to move in with them. He'd get the best lawyer money could buy to fight his son of a bitch of a son-in-law. Then he'd spend his nights in Brighton Beach, with blood on his hands. As many nights as it took.

That's the worst-case scenario, he told himself. Paulie said the worst case never happened when you stacked the odds in your favor. He always said that only losers believed they had to play the hand they were dealt. Eddie Dunne needed to turn the odds in his favor. Lie, cheat, steal, it was all recommended in Paulie's book. Eddie didn't have an ace up his sleeve, but he had a key in his pocket.

Chapter 36

Wednesday

10:15 A.M.

When Boland parked behind One Police Plaza, he was still arguing with Babsie over possession of Kate's Claddagh ring. Babsie wanted to take it to Yonkers as evidence of the kidnapping, but Boland insisted on vouchering it under Sergei's case. "Evidence should be recorded in the jurisdiction where it is first discovered," Boland said. "Maintaining a consistent chain of evidence is vital in this case because it has worldwide implications." Worldwide implications, Eddie thought. One child from Yonkers was all he'd asked them to save. The world could take care of itself. And yet the shit kept piling higher.

A mayoral press conference was scheduled for noon to tell the city it could breathe easier. The immediate cause for celebration was finding the body of Sergei Zhukov, the El Greco diner killer. Beyond that, but un-mentioned, the feds had removed boxes of paper evidence from the sunken trailer, and left behind a tiny electronic ear. Success bred success. Matty Boland would ran home to shave and dig the Armani out of his closet. He could smell the money the rank of First Grade would bring. Eddie wondered if Boland would sound so triumphant if his child were still missing. But we've been through all that, he told himself. Human nature, the old story.

Pissed-off, Babsie drove home to Yonkers. Eddie went alone to Coney Island, once and again, his second home. When he was a cop, Eddie, like every cop he knew, lived two lives. Cops who couldn't handle separate lives didn't make it. He'd always kept his family away from his job and from Coney Island. Too dangerous, he'd told them, but the truth was, he couldn't risk bumping into a bimbo or bartender who knew him only as crazy in Brooklyn. No sense in exposing a persona he loved when he was in it, and was ashamed of when he wasn't. But he'd put himself in a position where he couldn't share a huge part of his past with the people he loved most. His life had been a lie then. It was a lie now.

He'd lied about Freddie Dolgev's keys. In his pocket was a key to an expensive French lock similar to those on the Mazurka nightclub. Dolgev's key ring had held a set for Coney Custards: freezer padlocks, an equipment closet, and custard machines. Freddie'd probably done maintenance work for the privilege of living in the dank apartment upstairs. One key was missing from the Coney Custards set; it was the one key Eddie had held out. It was marked simply Z and imprinted with the same logo as the dead bolt on apartment A. While Boland stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the mayor today, Eddie would be illegally entering the domicile of one Zina Rabinovich.

The law had had its chance, Eddie thought. All the warrants, affidavits, bugs, wiretaps, searches and seizures, all the surreptitious entries made righteous by words on legal paper added up to zero. He'd learned more from a Gypsy car thief.

Eddie parked two blocks west of Coney Custards and walked down the boardwalk. Gone were the Irish bars, all the wild Gaels dead or in Florida. Only a few Coney Island landmarks were still around: the Cyclone, the Flume, the Astrotower, the Wonder Wheel. Gone were the Mile Sky Chaser, the Thunderbolt, and Luna Park, a simulated city of Baghdad. Kate would have loved Luna Park.

In-line skaters rumbled past him. Bikers, walkers, and joggers were pounding the boards. Everyone out soaking up the warm sun. Eddie figured it had been nine days since his daughter had felt the sunlight. They wouldn't risk exposing her to the outside.

Looking ahead, he could see bright-colored flags and box kites flying. A clown danced around a helium tank, ready to twist skinny balloons into dachshunds. He wondered whatever happened to the fire-eater, the sword-swallower, and the guy who pounded nails up his nose. As the world got crazier, the sideshow became tamer, unable to keep pace.

On West Nineteenth, Eddie cut down the street and ducked into the hallway. He scaled the narrow steps two at a time. At the top of the steps, he let his pulse quiet down as he listened at both doors. Nothing. He waited calmly, hearing the sounds from the street, the clatter of the ice-cream business below. Then he knocked hard on Zina's door. He listened for movement. One more knock, then he used the key.

Zina's apartment was the polar opposite of Freddie's sparse abode. New furniture filled her dark living room, making it claustrophobic. Underfoot, plush carpeting, pillows strewn about the floor. Gauzy veils hung from lamps. Shelves held more candles than St. Pat's. Dark fabric draped the walls, along with what looked like strips of palm, but wider than the leaves passed out on the Sunday before Easter. The room reminded him of a harem scene from
Arabian Nights
.

What he was looking for was an address book or notes. As far as he knew, Zina hadn't been back since they'd arrested Freddie. Any memo or scribbled notation would have been written prior to her having been warned. The living room was an easy search. Not a piece of furniture had a drawer. He moved pillows around, peeked behind the wall hangings, under cushions. Two minutes and done.

In the kitchen, a terra-cotta Mexican tile floor held the weight of new chrome appliances, a gourmet stove, and a small center island with a grill and sink. Pots and pans hung from hooks on a form that circled above the island. Next to the wall phone, he found a calendar with notations. He copied all verbatim: "2:30 he appointment; S's b-day; SI noon;? Celltech." He recorded everything as it was written for March, April, and May.

Kitchens are an underrated source of information, Eddie thought. He remembered an organized-crime case he'd worked before he came to Coney Island. They'd used binoculars from outside a window and found a phone number written on a message board. The number turned out to be that of a Genovese capo. That number led to others, then pictures. It was a case their squad called the "Big Lie." They put twenty-five organized-crime figures on the stand. They all denied consorting with known criminals-one another-because it was a violation of probation. Despite undeniable proof, they all denied it, because the capo couldn't afford to have his probation revoked. Per terms of the deal, they all pled to perjury and did minor time. Except the capo, who walked.

Zina's kitchen drawer contained loose change, fast-food coupons, appliance warranties, old watches, new batteries, and a flashlight. Jammed in the back of the drawer was a file box that held unpaid current bills. He pulled her Visa bill, noting the account number and all of last month's charges. He copied down all her recent longdistance telephone calls with date, time, and duration. The only other bill was from Celltech Labs in Lewes, Delaware. He remembered the Celltech notation on Zina's calendar and made a note to check it. Six minutes and done.

An unmade canopy bed dominated the bedroom. A leopard-skin bedspread sprawled halfway across the floor. Eddie checked the nightstand: two pairs of drugstore reading glasses, a dozen pens, hand lotion, a small cache of clippers, tweezers, nail files, and a book of love poems. He hadn't thought she was the grooming or the reading type. Under the bed was an open box, in which were the sex toys he'd expected to find in the nightstand: vibrators, lubricants, and assorted gadgets, both strap-on and handheld. While down on his stomach, pushing the toy box back, he felt the plywood floor buckle slightly. He froze as the air in the room changed.