“Nothing, really. Just putting a few thoughts down on paper.”
She laid her head on my shoulder and pointed at the page where I’d been doodling and said, “I especially like your thoughts about this boat and the giant shark behind it. Did you watch Jaws again last night?”
I let out a laugh. “No, but I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
She turned that beautiful face toward me and looked at me like I was about to explain the meaning of life.
I said, “The only things I can draw are boats, sharks, and swords. Anything else looks like a chimpanzee grabbed the pencil.”
Jane said, “That’s incredible. I’m in the same boat.”
“You can only draw a few things?”
“No. Mine is with reading. I can really zip through novels I like by great writers like Michael Connelly and Tess Gerritsen. But when I read the history books I’m assigned at school, I just can’t get into them. Now that I know it’s just a family issue, I won’t worry about it as much.”
Even though I liked her sly smile, I said, “Sorry, that’s not gonna cut it. It’s an interesting argument and I admire the effort that went into it, but you’ll read every history book assigned or I’ll try to draw your portrait and post it at school.”
Jane said, “I like that kind of out-of-the-box thinking. You’re turning out to be a pretty good parent.”
That was the kind of praise I needed about now.
I was still smiling at the remark a few minutes later when my phone rang and I heard Harry Grissom’s voice. As usual, he got right to the point.
“Mike, it was too hard to listen to that jerk-off Santos. He was jabbering on about you not following regulations. But all I could say was, ‘So what else is new?’”
A smile crept across my face, though I’d been dreading this call.
Grissom said, “I’ve never seen them quite like this before.”
I said half-jokingly, “So you don’t want me to show up at the FBI office tomorrow?”
“I don’t even want you to show up at an NYPD office tomorrow. You’ve earned a day or two off. Enjoy yourself.”
If I was a good parent, Harry Grissom was a great lieutenant.
CHAPTER 24
I SPENT SUNDAY with the family and on Monday was up early to make sure everyone got off to school without a hitch. It was fun. We played a couple of quick games over breakfast and on the short ride to Holy Name. We even arrived more than five minutes early. I was afraid it might give Sister Sheila a heart attack.
She surprised me with a simple smile and wave.
I ran some errands, cleaned up the apartment, and in general sulked about not being at the task force. Then, in the afternoon, I stopped in to say hello to my grandfather. He was busy at his desk when I walked through the front door of the administrative offices for the church.
I said, “What are you working on, old man?” I expected a smart-aleck reply.
Instead, Seamus said, “I’ve got to get this grant into the city before the close of business today.”
“Since when do you worry about grants?”
“Since I want a way to bring kids in the neighborhood, who aren’t Catholic and don’t attend the school, to an afterschool program that would include a meal and tutoring.”
“That sounds like a worthy project.”
“At my age I only work on worthy projects.” He set down his pen and looked up at me. “Is this how you’re going to spend a precious day off? Harassing an elderly clergyman? Do you think you could find something better to do with your time?”
A broad smile spread across my face. “It’s odd to have the shoe on the other foot for a change. You know how usually I’m trying to work and you’re bugging me about something. How does it feel?”
Seamus said, “You tell me. How does it feel to block my efforts to bring underprivileged kids in for a snack and extra tutoring every day?”
“Okay, you win this round, old man. But I’ll be back.” Just then, my phone rang. I said to Seamus, “You were saved by the bell.”
I backed out of the office as I answered the phone. I didn’t recognize the number. “This is Michael Bennett.” I shaded my eyes from the afternoon sun.
“And this is Lewis Vineyard.”
It took me a second to realize that was my Russian mob informant’s new name. At least one he was trying out. “I’m a little surprised to hear from you.”
Lewis said, “We need to meet. Today.”
I thought about explaining that I was off duty, but I could tell by the tone of his voice he needed to see me. We picked a diner we both knew on the West Side.
I said, “What do you got? Did you find Temir Marat?”
“No. But I know where he’ll be tonight.”
CHAPTER 25
LEWIS VINEYARD HAD hooked me. I wanted to meet with him right away, but he said he couldn’t. He had other commitments. And it would look suspicious if he slipped away right now. He met me four hours later, at a diner near West End Avenue. I knew that meant he was serious. He didn’t want to risk any of his Russian friends in Brooklyn seeing us together. I was in the booth waiting for him thirty minutes early. I never did that. It took me a moment to notice Lewis coming down the street toward the front door. I craned my neck to look out the window at my overly tan informant wearing a nice button-down shirt and jeans. He almost looked respectable. He was dark, but not leathery; he hadn’t started spending all his time in the sun until the last few years.
As soon as he plopped into the booth across from me I said, “It’s not cool to tease me with important information, then not meet me immediately.”
He held up his hands to calm me down and said, “No way around it. I called you as soon as I had the information, but things got hopping around the bar and I couldn’t just leave. And there was no way I could have you show up there.”
“I believe that the information you have is good, otherwise you wouldn’t come all the way up here to see me.”
Lewis said, “It’s nice to see how the other half lives. Just walking down the street, I’d say you guys live pretty good up here. I prefer Brighton Beach. But that’s just me.”
I couldn’t wait any longer. “If you’re done with your monologues about New York City, can you tell me where Marat will be tonight?”
“It’s not quite that easy. This is worth a lot.”
I said, “What about the time there was a hit on you and I stopped the hitter in Brooklyn Heights? What was that worth?” I just stared at him and waited for an answer.
“You have a point. You’ve never screwed me, and you help me out. So I’m going to give you this information—if you tell me you’ll make the FBI pay. This is so big the NYPD won’t have the cash.”
“I doubt that.”
His smile told me he had some good info. Finally, I nodded and said, “If it’s good information, I’ll do everything I can to get you paid. That’s the best I can promise.”
Lewis Vineyard said, “That’s good enough for me.” Now he took a moment to gather his thoughts and glanced around the diner to make sure no one was close enough to hear us speak.
Lewis said, “Your man, Marat, will be at the Harbor House, down by Battery Park, at eight p.m. tonight. He may be meeting someone there. A couple members of the Russian mob are going to intercept him.”
“How do you know that information so precisely?”
Lewis perked up and said, “I sold them the guns. Two SIG P220s. It’s a shame they’ll probably toss them in the river after the hit. They’re some nice guns just to use one time.”
I looked down at my watch and realized I didn’t have much time. I didn’t have time to verify the information or even scope out the restaurant. But that’s how things with informants usually worked.
CHAPTER 26
I RACED SOUTH on West End Avenue until I could slip onto the Joe DiMaggio Highway. It was too late to call in the troops and plan anything worthwhile. Besides, this could still all be bullshit. I’d
know soon enough.
I had to catch myself when I realized I was driving like a lunatic. My driving was the reason people always cursed at New Yorkers. I cut off a UPS truck and tried to wave my apology to a heavyset driver who was not happy.
I’d zipped past all the Trump buildings, some with plywood hiding his name. The vents for the Lincoln and Holland tunnels barely registered on my right.
I tried calling Darya, just so someone knew what was happening. No answer. I didn’t leave a message.
Now I started to consider the questions that were popping into my head. Why would someone pay the mob to kill a terrorist? Who gained from his death? Were the local Russians worried about backlash? Did they really love America that much, or was it their bottom line? All the same questions any homicide detective would ask.
I didn’t know the answer to any of them.
I didn’t call Harry Grissom. There was no need to put him in the trick bag if I screwed this up. I had to let things unfold.
And I wanted Temir Marat alive. I had questions to ask him before he was in FBI custody and no one got to talk to him again.
It was true, our last meeting had not gone the way I planned. He was tough and he had skills like no one I had seen in a long time. But I was determined. I had my Glock. And I had a backup revolver on my ankle.
I was as ready as I would ever be.
I exited the highway just before the tunnel that would loop me around to the East Side, parking illegally before I started running through the maze of parks and benches before the water. I scouted the area thoroughly, hoping to see Marat out in public. What the hell, it seemed to happen all the time—fugitives caught by someone who was keeping their eyes open. There had been a baseball hat in my car, left there after the last police league softball game of the season. I’d pulled it on as low as I could, since Marat would no doubt recognize me.
I didn’t see him, so as I approached the Pier A Harbor House, I slowed down to take it all in, peering into some of the windows that didn’t face the water. I finally stepped inside.
The heat inside the restaurant made me realize how strong the chill in the air was, which I hadn’t registered as I ran there. I scouted for other exits and windows while standing in the corner of the bar, noting that a long bar led to the dining room.
There was no one here I recognized. Lewis Vineyard had told me that one of the hitters who bought the guns from him was a well-built man about my height in his early forties, with a distinguishing characteristic of a purple birthmark on his cheek below his left eye. Lewis said the man worked with a tall female who had long black hair. There was no one that fit either of those descriptions that I could see.
I stepped farther into the restaurant, then saw someone I recognized. And frankly, it caught me by surprise. I might even say it shocked me. Sitting alone at a table by a window overlooking the river was Darya Kuznetsova.
What the hell?
I was about to get her attention when it hit me. This couldn’t be a coincidence. What was she doing here? Was she luring Marat to be killed by the Russian mob? Why? Why not do it with her own government people?
That line of questioning led me to wonder—why had she provided a photo of Marat if she just intended to kill him?
Then I understood. At least that part of it. She didn’t have a clue where Marat was hiding. The more people looking for him, the better.
She’s the one who spread the word in the Russian community. That’s how his aunt and uncle knew he was a suspect, why Konstantin said, “I wondered how long it would take the authorities to find us.”
Shit. I was a fool.
CHAPTER 27
ONCE I MADE up my mind, I didn’t dawdle. I stepped up, crossed the room, and sat down directly across from Darya Kuznetsova. I removed my hat like a gentleman, and smiled as if I were her date.
The look on her face and the way her eyes darted around the room told me she didn’t want me there and expected someone else.
Darya took a moment and sipped her water. Then she said, “Hello, Michael, what a surprise.”
I said, “Do you mind if I join you? Are you waiting for someone?”
She gave me a flat stare and said, “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. All cops are curious. I noticed you’re quite curious. Are you a cop in Russia? Or a spy? C’mon, you can trust me.”
“I’ve learned I can trust no one.”
I shrugged and said, “Too bad. Life’s a lot easier with friends.”
Darya said, “It’s longer if you don’t trust friends.” She paused. “You’re very sharp. I’m used to dealing with FBI bureaucrats. You’re not like them at all.”
“Flattery won’t help you now.”
Darya said, “I want this terrorist stopped as much as you do.”
“Dead or alive?”
“That’s how Russia views all terrorist hunts.”
“There’s a lot more to this than just hunting for a fugitive.” I waited while she seemed to ponder my question and consider whether she could trust me.
Finally, Darya said, “Are there factions within the NYPD?”
“Yes. All agencies have factions.”
“So do we. I suspected it was the same everywhere. Some in my government have different ideas about the war on terror. Unfortunately, they’ve acted on them. You might call them cowboys or rogues.”
“What kind of different ideas do these factions have?”
She brought those intense, blue eyes to rest on me. “We all have the same goal: stop terrorism. Some people in the Russian government feel like the US has not participated the way it should.”
I couldn’t hide my shock. “Are you saying this is a Russian government–sanctioned attack?”
Darya stayed calm and steady. She didn’t rush what she had to say. That was the mark of a pro.
She said, “No, just the opposite. Now this is all hypothetical, of course. But suppose a rogue element, which was now neutralized, had forced a Russian agent to carry out an attack like this.”
“Temir Marat worked for the Russian government?”
She lifted her hands and said, “I was just giving you a theory. I’m doing this because I know you’re actually trying to help things.”
I said, “I want to capture Temir Marat and question him. What do you want?”
Darya gave no answer.
Before I could press her on it, I glanced up. There, near the front door, at the end of the bar, stood Temir Marat.
CHAPTER 28
IT FELT UNREAL to have been searching for someone so hard and then see him in person not far away. I guess part of me thought Lewis Vineyard was full of shit.
I stared at Marat. A bandage on his cheek covered the cut I’d given him with the bottle. He wore a NY Rangers baseball cap pulled low. He was gazing around the room, looking for someone. I suspected I knew who.
I eased out of my chair, getting ready to make a casual stroll across the dining room to get next to him.
Then I saw the couple coming into the bar behind Marat. A tall, burly man with short hair, and a woman nearly six feet tall with black hair. The man’s birthmark told me exactly who he was. The birthmark looked like a smeared tattoo of a purple house.
All I could think was that the FBI was going to owe Lewis Vineyard a truckload of cash.
If I wanted Marat alive, I would have to act quickly.
Then the mob hitters made their move. It was smooth and professional—if I didn’t know what I was looking for, I might’ve missed it.
The man stepped up right next to Temir Marat, folded his hands across his waist, and casually slipped his right hand under his dark linen coat.
It was subtle, but not too subtle. Marat immediately picked up on the man right next to him. He moved like a cat.
I could clearly see the Russian mobster as he pulled his blue steel SIG Sauer P220 semiautomatic pistol. It was an ugly thing, out of place in a nice restaurant like this.
But Marat was smooth as
he turned and used both hands to block the gun before it could come up. He locked the man in close, with the pistol pointing almost straight at the floor.
The killer struggled with the gun under the power of Marat’s grip. I could tell he was also struggling with the shock. He’d thought this would be easy.
Marat head-butted him, then ripped the gun right out of his hands. Now the woman got involved, reaching into her Louis Vuitton purse to pull out an identical pistol.
Marat reacted immediately, jerking the dazed man right in front of him as the woman pulled the trigger, shooting her partner twice in the chest.
Marat shoved the motionless man toward the woman. The dead weight knocked her off balance.
This all happened before I could even reach the bar. Everyone was looking around, startled by the two gunshots. The echo had made it difficult to pinpoint. This guy really did have skills.
I was a few feet away from the bar when the female hitter regained her balance and had Marat in the corner. The man with the two bullet holes in his chest was dead on the white tile floor. His blood was swirling into dark red pools and running along the grout lines.
Marat didn’t have his pistol up yet. He was at the mercy of the female hitter.
I kept coming full speed and threw my entire body into the hitter. It was just a gut reaction.
We both hit the tile hard, but I landed on top of her.
She was out cold, the pistol loose on the floor.
Marat gave me a faint smile, raised the pistol to his forehead, and saluted me before disappearing out the door.
Darya appeared at my side as I was kneeling to make sure the woman was breathing properly.
I said, “Watch her.” Then I was on my feet and out the door.
As soon as I hit the open area beyond the restaurant, I had my head on a swivel. There weren’t many people out. Then I caught just a glimpse of someone running. It was the way his head bobbed up and down, and the blue and red of the Rangers cap.
He was running south, along the water. I drew my Glock and started to run the same direction. I fell into a measured pace, not knowing what I might have to deal with once I caught this unusual suspect. At least he wouldn’t surprise me with his abilities this time.
Triple Homicide: Thrillers Page 22