The Russian - SETTING

by Patterson, James

  Mostly, Ott blended in and traveled with hardly anyone even speaking to him. He was happy he’d found uses for his superpower. Now he was the one doing the taunting.

  Ott read some of the article. No comment from the NYPD spokeswoman about details connecting the murders. Ott knew TV news wasn’t as careful as print. News shows would play up an angle to increase ratings; before too long, they’d create special graphics and theme music for these murders.

  He didn’t want to be too obvious, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off the page. He’d stop every couple of seconds to look up and nod hello to someone walking past. Everyone who worked at the insurance company stayed busy and avoided idle chitchat. That focus gave him room to indulge himself in this big comfortable office, with its north-facing view of the park and abundant takeout options—all the trappings of a secure, safe haven.

  His cell phone chimed with a short, low, professional tone. He smiled and snatched the phone from his belt. Technically it was his lunchtime. His mouth stretched into a wide grin as he said, “Hello, sweetheart.”

  He was surprised by giggles and his two daughters sing-songing together, “Hello, Papa!”

  “Hello, my little dumplings. I thought it was your mother calling.”

  “She’s right here. We wanted to surprise you.”

  “And what a great surprise it is.” Ott’s three-year-old, Tatyana, and five-year-old, Lilly, were his absolute prizes. He worked hard so that they would never know hard times. And he was raising them to be polite and respectful. Thankfully their mother, Lena, had few of the arrogant habits most American women did.

  Lena was Polish and had proven to be a good wife and a great mother. She was simple and sweet, very meek. They’d met online, and Ott quickly knew she was the woman for him. He even spoke a fair amount of Polish. They used it as a code to talk privately around the girls.

  He chatted with his daughters, who told him about their homeschool lessons, the books they were reading (or pretending to read), and how they’d raced their mother and won.

  Ott never would’ve imagined he could feel as much love as he did for these girls. He wondered if either of his parents had felt anything for him approaching the love he had for his daughters. He doubted it—his father had barely acknowledged him, except to make mean jokes, and his mother had just seemed exhausted all the time. When she died, Ott had felt relief for her, that she could finally rest. Since then, he’d probably spoken no more than thirty words total to his father.

  Lena got on the line, and his mood shifted. His wife tended to bring up less enjoyable topics, problems that needed solutions. She said, “We need to enroll the girls in a dance class. And the dog has a cough again.”

  Ott hid a groan as he hurried his wife off the phone. “I’m sorry, dear, I have to get back to work.”

  She said she understood and told him she couldn’t wait to see him. He smiled after hanging up, thinking about his two separate—and very different—lives. Over the past year, it had become clear that he needed both to survive, though it was a daily challenge to keep them from crashing into each other.

  Ott loved his wife and girls, but he couldn’t deny himself the pleasure he got from killing. The feeling could make his head spin, and he had an increasingly difficult time containing his urges. He felt the sensation in his entire body, like wave after wave of excitement. A release. A renewal. He wouldn’t describe it as sexual in nature—it was more primal and satisfying.

  Usually the victims were obvious to him. It had to do with their attitudes. That was his catalyst, his reason to act: he could not abide women with insolent, demeaning attitudes. He no longer put up with arrogance and ridicule from women. Nor could he understand why American women thought they were smarter, prettier, and more important than anyone else in the world. There was something about their egotistical speech patterns that shocked his nervous system.

  His work dictated the pace he kept in his avocation. Since he only took victims outside his home area, occasionally choosing his next victim from an office where he had done contract work, the length of his business trips determined how patient he could be.

  He did his best to be patient, let some time lapse. Usually. But sometimes the urge hit him so strongly that he couldn’t wait.

  He’d been in New York for only about a month now and had already succumbed to the temptation of three perfect victims. It was more than he usually allowed himself, but then again, in a city as big as New York, he was almost surprised the media had even connected them. Not that he was concerned. At each crime scene, he’d been careful not to leave any evidence that could be linked to him, and careful about security cameras.

  Today would be his last day in this office. He’d figured out a way to reroute the company’s computer network to integrate more easily with the software he was installing. He never bothered to explain his work to the clients, just to his boss back at Computelex headquarters in Omaha. HQ was the only one he needed to impress.

  Ott moved from his desk to work at a control box in a tiny room at one end of the floor. He had been in there before and realized that from that vantage, he could hear everything in the manager’s office, the copy room, and the break room, which all surrounded the control box.

  As he worked, he overheard two women talking. It took him a moment to realize they were standing in the break room. He recognized one of the voices as belonging to an intern, a smart girl from somewhere north of the city.

  He was about to go back to his desk when he heard the intern say, “How much longer is that telephone tech going to be here?”

  The other woman said, “I think he’s supposed to finish up today.”

  “I’m so glad I’m studying communications in college. I’d hate to do such lonely, anonymous work. It doesn’t suit me.”

  Ott stood still for a moment. Silent. Furious. Who the hell is this arrogant bitch to think she is better than me? In fact, he was widely recognized in the industry as one of only six or seven techs in the whole country who could do what he did. And he got paid well for it too. More than this bitch intern would ever make in communications or whatever useless degree she was getting.

  His hand started to tremble with anger. Then he smiled with a new sense of purpose.

  He always felt energized the moment he found a new victim.

  Chapter 5

  It wasn’t quite nightfall by the time I got home to my family. I’ve spent my career trying to keep my family life as separate from my work life as possible. If I’m thinking about some gruesome crime I’m investigating, I’m not focusing on the kids the way I need to be, and it’s important to focus exclusively on the children for a fair amount of time each day.

  But today was one of those days that wore me down. The unidentified killer who’d violently murdered these women had gotten into my head. It was hard to stop thinking about the case, even as I was welcomed home by three beautiful, happy young girls.

  Though frankly I’d expected more than 30 percent of my kids to greet me at the door.

  That’s right, I have ten children. Six girls and four boys. All adopted. Each with his or her own unique personality and challenges. And I wouldn’t trade a single one of them for anything in the world, though as anyone with a lot of kids will tell you, it takes an enormous amount of energy.

  My twins, Bridget and Fiona, were always good for a double hug, and my youngest, Chrissy, still insisted on a giant hug and a quick lift and whirl around the room. It’s possible she didn’t insist as much as she used to. But I still did it anyway, every day.

  I wandered farther into the apartment and found my fiancée, Mary Catherine, sitting at a small writing desk in our bedroom, working on some wedding details. We were getting married in a matter of weeks, and the quick look she gave me revealed that she was feeling rather overwhelmed.

  “I need some fresh air,” Mary Catherine said. “Get changed, real quick. You promised we’d ride our new bikes at least three times a week. Let’s go.”

 
I knew not to argue. Also, it’s bad policy to ignore commitments. And I never break a promise. It took me only a minute to slip out of my work clothes and into sweatpants and a Manhattan College T-shirt. Underneath the school’s logo it said, PHILOSOPHY, IT’S SO MUCH MORE THAN A MAJOR. The kids had gotten me the shirt as a joke gift for my birthday since that had been my major in college. I loved it. The joke was on them. Philosophy was a lot more than just a major.

  As we slipped out the front door, Mary Catherine called over her shoulder, “Ricky, finish up dinner. Your great-grandfather will be here in a few minutes. He can get everyone organized. We’ll be back in thirty to forty minutes. Less if I have to call an ambulance for your father.”

  Mary Catherine’s lilting Irish accent didn’t make these sound like a series of orders she expected to be carried out precisely. But both the kids and I knew that when she used that tone of voice, she was on a mission. In this case, it was our newest hobby: riding mountain bikes.

  You might ask, Who buys mountain bikes when they live in Manhattan? The answer is, anyone who wants to work up a sweat without going forty miles an hour on a racing bike.

  We collected our bikes from the basement and took off. Within twenty seconds of riding behind Mary Catherine, I knew we were headed to her favorite bike trail, which runs along the river next to the Henry Hudson Greenway. It was an easy trail to get to from our building, and if she wanted to work out hard—which she obviously did—this was the spot. When Mary Catherine got like this, it was all I could do to keep up as she pedaled with wild abandon. And God help any poor tourist who happened to step in front of her.

  I was huffing and puffing a little bit as I pushed my Fuji off-road mountain bike to catch up to Mary Catherine. Between gasps for air, I managed to eke out, “Something you need to talk about? This isn’t just blowing off steam on the bike path. This is running your engine so hard you could blow a rod.”

  That made her smile and slow her pace considerably. There really weren’t many people around. This was also where she liked to talk about sensitive subjects. It was about the only way we could be sure the kids weren’t listening in somehow.

  Mary Catherine said, “Everything just seems to be happening at once. The wedding, the kids getting all sorts of new interests and making new friends, and Brian’s readjustment to life after prison. It’s a lot to take on.”

  “No doubt. And you’ve done a phenomenal job.”

  “I didn’t drag you out here for compliments. We both need the exercise. I’m going to fit into that wedding dress if I have to have my spleen removed.” Mary Catherine paused, then said in a serious tone, “I’d really like to talk about Brian.”

  Even a smart-ass like me knew not to joke. “What’s up?”

  Mary Catherine said, “He disappears during most of the day. Just slips out sometime in the morning and sort of reappears in the afternoon.”

  I said, “I’ve been careful not to question him too closely. It’s important we show that we trust him.”

  “Yes, but I feel like we’ve been walking on eggshells, maybe giving him too much leeway. He’s got to understand the rules we laid down when we allowed him to return home, the rules about making good use of his time. And I worry that he’s not making good use of his time. I worry that he’s breaking our trust.”

  “I get it. But he hasn’t been out that long. He’s still readjusting. Let’s give it just a little time. At least a few more days. Then we’ll sit down with Brian and see what’s going on. How’s that sound?”

  She looked over her shoulder and said, “Like we’re going to have to ride really hard for that to be okay with me.” She started pumping the pedals faster than I thought possible. If nothing else, this new hobby was going to shore up my aerobic ability. Not that I was planning to engage in any foot chases.

  Chapter 6

  We rode for about half an hour more, then returned home. It didn’t take long for us to store the bikes in the basement. We chained them in the storage area and gazed in amazement at the ten other bikes of various sizes locked up next to them.

  I’d read that New York was in the top ten of US cities for biking. Certainly the dozen members of my immediate family helped contribute to that statistic.

  I planned to stay in my sweaty clothes for dinner until Mary Catherine gave me a look.

  “Oh, c’mon,” I said. “It won’t kill the kids to smell their dad once in a while.”

  “I wouldn’t have a problem with it usually,” she replied, “but we’re having a guest for dinner.”

  “If you start calling Seamus a guest, we’re never going to have a comfortable dinner again.”

  “It’s not your grandfather. Jane has a friend coming over.”

  “That’s nice. What’s her name?”

  “It’s a boy.” She hesitated, then added, “A boyfriend.”

  “You mean a friend who happens to be a boy, right?”

  “You wish.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “I’m not sure I’m ready for Jane to have a boyfriend.”

  “Fathers never are. Yet the fact remains. We both need to clean up because the boy will be here shortly.”

  “Is he from Holy Name?”

  Mary Catherine nodded. “Allan Martin III.”

  “Is his dad the hedge fund guy?”

  “He is.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. This was a lot for me to take in. Jane was my third-oldest child, after Juliana and Brian. I’d come to terms with Juliana dating, and I thought I was prepared to deal with the other girls doing so too. Apparently I was wrong. I still had four even younger daughters. I hated to think what my future held.

  Mary Catherine got cleaned up first, then I took a quick shower. When I wandered back into the kitchen, I was impressed to see how efficiently Ricky, my second-oldest son, had managed to pull together a spectacular spaghetti dinner and get everyone involved. I saw the table was already set, and my grandfather, Seamus, sat at the far end, sipping a glass of red wine, looking well dressed in his clerical collar.

  “Comfortable, Seamus?” I asked as I strolled into the dining room.

  “Aside from the sarcastic questioning, everything is great. How about you, my boy?”

  “Peachy.”

  Then the doorbell rang and I heard my normally reserved, incredibly smart daughter Jane squeal. An honest-to-God squeal. What is happening?

  Young Allan Martin III turned out to be a nice-looking man who showed good manners as well. He shook my hand and looked me in the eye. He looked a little like his father. Tall, with blond hair and brown eyes.

  Jane stood next to him like they were attached by some invisible, and extremely short, cord.

  I noticed, though, that when Brian walked past Allan, he bumped the young man. It looked a little like an accident, but I wondered if there was more to it.

  Then Mary Catherine and Ricky called out in unison, “Dinner is on the table!”

  Chapter 7

  Even if you’re used to dinner at our apartment, the sight of all thirteen of us could be overwhelming, though Allan seemed to take it in stride. And, of course, he sat right next to Jane.

  I watched Brian, who quietly observed everything around him without showing much interest or emotion. He sat three spots from the end, hunched over his plate of pasta. It was a habit he’d gotten into during his months in prison, and correcting it wasn’t on my list of priorities at the moment.

  My youngest, Chrissy, had taken to sitting right next to Brian at dinner, as well as at any other time. It was as if she was afraid her big brother might be taken away again. For his part, Brian seemed to appreciate the attention. Never said a word when she scooted her chair a little too close. He always took her hand when she slipped it into his. But tonight he seemed focused on Jane’s new boyfriend.

  Mary Catherine broke the tension by asking Allan how he liked going to Holy Name.

  Allan smiled and said, “My mother thought about sending me to Regis for the superior academics
, but my dad wanted me to have a real-world experience. He says attending Holy Name helped him mix with all kinds of people as he was building his career.”

  I mumbled, “You don’t get much better at ‘all kinds of people’ than this family.”

  Seamus laughed at that.

  Then Brian focused his laser-beam eyes on the young man. “Who do you hang out with at Holy Name?”

  Allan hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure he was supposed to answer questions from the gallery. He threw out a few names, then shrugged and added, “I also hang out with John Chad and Tim and Terry Jones.”

  Brian didn’t hesitate to say, “The Jones brothers are bad news. I’d recommend you stay away from them, especially if you’re going out with Jane.”

  Jane gave her brother a look. “Chill out, Brian. Those boys are in all of our classes,” she explained.

  Mary Catherine was about to follow up, but I placed a subtle hand on her leg under the table. I wanted to see where this was going. I also, selfishly, wondered if Brian would ask questions I might shy away from.

  Trent, my youngest son, said, “You’re on the basketball team at Holy Name, right?”

  “Yes, I’m a guard on the varsity team.”

  “That’s not saying a whole lot. I was the captain of a basketball team once. It didn’t mean I could play,” Brian retorted.

  As Jane’s sisters Bridget and Fiona erupted in nervous laughter, I realized Brian was talking about the team he played on in prison. I looked over at my grandfather, who was eating quietly but keeping an eye on Brian. The two of them had always had a special connection. I wondered why he was staying so silent.

  Brian said, “I heard you play lacrosse too. Holy Name’s got a pretty good lacrosse team. How do you think they’ll do in the city tournament?”

  Allan brightened at the question. “I think we’ll take home the trophy this year.”