Brighton Beach: A Kurtz and Barent Mystery (Kurtz and Barent Mysteries Book 5)

by Robert I. Katz

  But despite their differences, Donna Ryan and Lenore Brinkman both came from close knit, extended families. Lenore was used to the ways that close knit families behaved. She felt comfortable in such an environment. Kurtz did not. Kurtz felt awkward. Also, if his suspicions were correct, one or more members of this particular close knit family belonged to the Russian mob and had murdered Steve Ryan.

  In the end, however, it turned out to be a pleasant enough evening, more a neighborhood party than a family dinner. The front door of Donna Ryan’s large house was left open. Nobody rang the bell. People came and went as they pleased. Most of them seemed to know one another. There were hand shakes and hugs and laughter and talk, all of it animated and most of it in Russian.

  Father Bob was there, sitting in an arm chair, sipping what looked to be Scotch, pleased with himself. He saw Kurtz and raised an eyebrow, smiled in appreciation at Lenore. “Father Bob,” Kurtz said, “my wife, Lenore.”

  “I’ve heard about you. I understand that you’re an old friend of Donna,” Father Bob said.

  “We went to school together,” Lenore said.

  “Then you probably know most of the rest.” Father Bob waved the hand holding his Scotch at the crowd. Father Bob, Kurtz noted, was a bit drunk. “A lovely family,” Father Bob said.

  Lenore frowned. “It’s been a long time. I imagine that you know most of them better than I do.”

  “I suppose I do.” Father Bob smiled.

  At that moment, a huge man with a thick black beard walked into the room. He had bushy eyebrows, a hawk-like nose, enormous shoulders and a barrel chest. He saw Lenore and blinked. Then he saw Kurtz. His eyes narrowed.

  “Uh-oh,” Father Bob murmured. “Get ready for the third degree.”

  The huge man waddled across the room, stopped in front of them, smiled at Lenore and said something in Russian.

  “Now, Mr. Petrovich,” Lenore said, “you know I don’t speak Russian.”

  The huge man chuckled. “You have grown up,” he said. “This should not surprise me, but somehow, it does. I still think of you as the little girl with the…” He blinked. “How do you call them? The pigtails?”

  Lenore winced. “I haven’t had pigtails since I was fourteen.”

  The big man made a clucking sound between his teeth. “Too many years,” he said. He fixed Kurtz with a beady eye. “And who is this?”

  “Richard Kurtz,” Lenore said. “My husband.”

  “Husband?” Mr. Petrovich’s eyes opened wide. “A husband? You are much too young to have a husband.”

  “He likes them young.” Lenore glanced at Kurtz, then leaned forward and whispered to Mr. Petrovich. “I think he may be a pedophile.”

  Mr. Petrovich smiled. Then he gave a booming laugh. He looked at Kurtz. “What do you say to this? Your wife claims that you like little girls.”

  Kurtz frowned. “I’m going to make her wear pigtails.”

  Mr. Petrovich snickered. “What happens between a husband and wife is nobody’s business but their own. I am certain that this one will keep you on your toes.”

  Kurtz grunted.

  Mr. Petrovich turned toward Father Bob and said something in Russian. Father Bob nodded and answered back in the same language. Mr. Petrovich turned back to Kurtz and Lenore. His eyes grew momentarily cloudy. “My daughter has recently had a very difficult time. She has told her mother and myself that you have stood by her. We are grateful for this. You honor us with your presence. Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for the invitation,” Kurtz said.

  Mr. Petrovich gave Kurtz a keen glance, reached into a pocket and handed Kurtz a small envelope. “Allow me to extend our hospitality even further,” he said. “Please accept this, with my thanks. It’s good for any time you wish to use it, but I suggest you come this Friday. We’re having a special dinner.” He nodded, smiled, patted Lenore on the hand and wandered off.

  Kurtz opened the envelope. It contained a small black card with embossed writing in Cyrillic. “What does he do, again?” Kurtz asked.

  “He owns a restaurant,” Father Bob said. “Classic Russian cooking. The food is terrific. The place is always packed.” He peered at the card in Kurtz’ hand. “That will give you seats at the chef’s table, and the food will be on the house.” Father Bob’s lips quirked. “You should go.”

  Kurtz slipped the card into his pocket. “Thanks,” he said.

  Parties are parties the world over, and this one was probably the same as most others. The fact that he couldn’t understand more than one word in ten, however, proved daunting. “Stick with me,” Kurtz said. “I’m feeling a little out of place.”

  Lenore grinned. “Sure.”

  In a corner of the room, seven chairs were arranged in a circle. A small woman with graying hair and dark blue eyes sat in the center of the circle, discussing something in Russian with three older ladies. She sat very straight. “Donna’s mother,” Lenore said.

  “The one who didn’t want the kids to speak Russian?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Let’s not disturb them, then,” Kurtz said.

  They wandered around the room. A side door led to a backyard with a sand box and swing set. A couple of kids threw a baseball back and forth. Three young women pushed younger kids on the swings, speaking to each other in Russian. Two other women watched over toddlers dumping sand on each other. The toddlers and the mothers were all laughing.

  “How long are we going to stay here?” Kurtz said.

  Lenore frowned. “Where’s Donna? We should at least say hello.”

  They came upon Donna Ryan in a den across from the living room, Arkady Lukin hovering near her shoulder. As Kurtz and Lenore entered the room, Arkady bared his teeth. It might have been a smile. If so, he wasn’t putting a lot of effort into it. Kurtz met Arkady’s smile with one of his own. Lenore frowned.

  Donna was sitting on an uncomfortable looking settee. A cocktail sat on a low, wooden table in front of her. She smiled when she saw Kurtz and Lenore and rose to her feet. “I didn’t think you would come.”

  “We wanted to say hello,” Lenore said, “but we won’t be staying for very much longer.”

  “No?” Donna grinned. “I understand. It’s not exactly your crowd. Too much Russian, I suppose?”

  “It’s nobody’s fault,” Kurtz said, “but we’re feeling a little out of place.”

  “Most of them do speak English,” Donna said, “when they want to.”

  Kurtz shrugged.

  “Well, anyway,” Donna said. “You should congratulate us.” Donna gave a tremulous smile. “Arkady and I are celebrating.”

  Arkady, standing next to her and a little behind, looked insufferably smug.

  “Celebrating?” Lenore said. She blinked and glanced doubtfully at Arkady’s face.

  Donna Ryan was only recently a widow. A little soon for a new engagement, Kurtz thought. So much for Arkady Lukin being gay.

  Donna looked at Lenore quizzically, then suddenly seemed to get it. She blushed. “Oh, my goodness, not that.” She gave Arkady a wry smile. “No, we’re celebrating our new business association. Very soon now, Arkady will be working with me, after the merger goes through.”

  “Merger?” Kurtz said.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Donna frowned. “But then, why would you? I only heard myself a couple of days ago. Hotchkiss and Phelps will be merging, with the Rugov Corporation.”

  “I’ve remembered something,” Arnaldo Figueroa said.

  Barent looked at him. “Go on.”

  “You know the three guys I was following? The night I got shot?”

  Barent nodded.

  “The neighborhood is mixed, mostly Hispanics. Most of those are Mexican.”

  Arnie’s background was Mexican. His job as an undercover cop had centered around infiltrating various gangs but mostly, the smaller gangs primarily composed of recent immigrants from Mexico.

  “I first picked up the three guys in a restaurant. They st
ood out. Big, white guys. They kept to themselves in a booth in the corner. They had a plate of nachos but they weren’t really eating it and they didn’t order anything else. They seemed to be waiting for somebody. After a half hour or so, another white guy showed up, this one smaller. He came into the place, looked around like he had never been there before, saw the three Russians (if they were Russian), walked over and sat down at their table.

  “They talked for awhile. One of the three guys handed the new guy an envelope. He put it his pocket, got up and left. Five minutes later, the three big guys got up, too. I followed them.” Arnie shrugged.

  “Okay,” Barent said.

  “I didn’t remember this until recently.”

  Barent glanced at Moran, who had listened without saying a word. “Okay,” he said again.

  Arnie’s mouth twitched upward. “The fourth guy, the one who left?” he drew a deep breath. “I think he’s a cop.”

  Moran winced. Barent stared at Arnie. “Why do you think that?” he finally said.

  “I saw him again, in Dr. Kurtz’ office. In the waiting room.”

  “Did you get his name?”

  Arnie shook his head. Barent let out a breath. “Shouldn’t be too hard to get it.” He picked up the phone.

  Normally, a physician’s fidelity is totally and solely to his patient. All medically related information regarding a patient, up to and including the patient’s identity, is to be kept strictly confidential. There are allowable exceptions, including a legitimate investigation by an officer of the law. In this case, however, even this exception was unnecessary. Richard Kurtz was a police surgeon and his treatment of police officers was done under the auspices of the NYPD, which, as an organization, was entitled to all relevant information regarding such officers.

  “Albert Morelli,” Kurtz said. “I saw him right after I saw Arnie.”

  “Don’t know him,” Barent said. Moran shook his head.

  “He had a frozen shoulder. It’s resolving.”

  “Is that so? Any reason to suspect that this frozen shoulder was faked?”

  Kurtz thought about it. “I suppose it’s possible. The diagnosis is made from the symptomatology. Later in the process, the joint capsule fibroses and thickens. Sometimes it can be picked up on x-ray. Early on? There’s nothing to see.” He grinned. “I sent him to an orthopedist. He got a steroid injection into the joint capsule. That hurts.”

  “If he was faking it, then he deserved it. If he wasn’t faking it, then he needed it. Either way, you did your job.”

  Kurtz shrugged. “Albert Morelli, or so I’ve been told, has a reputation as a lazy cop.”

  “Maybe he’s been faking that, too.” Barent picked up the phone. “Let’s see what Internal Affairs has to say about Albert Morelli.”

  Jason Blair was about forty, a good-looking guy with short, sandy blonde hair, weathered skin and faint lines around the eyes. He looked like he spent a lot of time in the sun. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt. “Morelli,” he said, and shook his head.

  “Tell me about Morelli,” Barent said.

  “About ten years ago, Morelli worked narcotics. The amounts he turned in often seemed just a little bit short.”

  “Nothing proven?”

  Jason Blair shook his head. “No.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A couple of complaints regarding alleged brutality. Nothing came of them.” Blair frowned. “The witnesses were considered unreliable.”

  Barent nodded.

  “He did beat up a pimp, once.” Blair shrugged. “The pimp had been beating up one of his girls. She wound up with a broken nose and a fractured jaw. Morelli was walking the street and came upon the assault while it was in progress. The pimp tried to complain about it afterward but Morelli’s actions were obviously in defense of the hooker, and the pimp did try to resist arrest. Nobody blamed Morelli for that one. Actually, it was the high point of his career.”

  “Supposedly,” Kurtz said, “he’s lazy.”

  “He is lazy, but lazy is not a crime. His evaluations aren’t the best. They’re not the worst, either.”

  “That’s it?” Moran said.

  “He worked vice for nearly three years. A couple of hookers claimed that he was sampling the merchandise.” Blair shrugged. “His word against theirs.”

  In the United States of America, approximately one thousand officers of the law are charged with a crime each year, the most common of which is assault. This is not to say that the cops in these cases are guilty, merely that they have been charged. Driving under the influence was second. Official misconduct and abuse of authority (whatever that meant) was number three. Forcible rape, so far as Kurtz could recall, was number ten on the list. Domestic abuse was in there, somewhere, as well.

  Cops are under a lot of pressure. They see a lot of sad, tragic and miserable things. Sometimes they take it out on the people around them.

  And sometimes, of course, they’re merely crooked, greedy and corrupt, but the thin, blue line did exist, and cops did tend to pull together. Nobody loved a snitch. In the abstract, the job that Internal Affairs did was one that all of them were supposed to applaud. In reality, it took a pretty blatant example of corruption before a crooked cop would be cast out of the club. Every cop was uncomfortably aware that he too, in a moment of weakness, was capable of doing something violent and stupid.

  Still, stealing drugs from drug dealers indicated considerably more than a moment of weakness, but even that could be excused, depending on what he was doing with the stuff. Using it himself? To escape from the horrors of the job? Bad, but understandable. A stint in drug rehab, a slap on the wrist and the offending officer would soon be returned to the job, chastened and determined to sin no more. It would be different if the cop was selling the stuff to the local school kids. Maybe. And the rest of it? From a cop’s point of view, minor offenses, hardly worth thinking about.

  “Not much there,” Kurtz said.

  “No,” Jason Blair said.

  “If he’s sold out,” Moran said, “then he’s presumably doing it for money. Where’s the money?”

  Jason Blair nodded. “I’ll see what we can find out.”

  Chapter 22

  “Well?” Javier Garcia said.

  Esteban Martinez was unhappy. His efforts to determine the person or persons behind the assassinations of first, Steven Hayward and his wife, then Alejandro Gonzales and Andrew Fox had so far come to very little. “They were from out of town,” he said.

  “And?”

  “They have covered their tracks well.”

  Javier Garcia looked at him, his face impassive. Esteban Martinez drew a deep breath. “After the latest assault, they split up and vanished.”

  “The weapons?”

  If they were found, the weapons could be linked to the crime. Nobody would be so foolish as to take their weapons with them. “Vanished as well. Presumably shoved down a sewer grate, or a furnace vent, or merely thrown into the East River.”

  “Nothing?” Javier Garcia blinked at him. “Nothing at all?”

  Esteban Martinez gave him a small, uncertain smile. “There is one lead. We are pursuing it. I should know more soon.”

  Javier Garcia sat back in his chair. “Let me know when you do.”

  “How is it,” Kurtz asked, “that Donna Ryan knew nothing about this merger?”

  Lenore frowned. “How should I know?”

  Kurtz looked at her. “I was speaking rhetorically.”

  “Ah…”

  It was a Friday night. On most Friday nights, they ate out, but it had been a long, frustrating week and when Lenore had suggested the idea of relaxing at home for a change, Kurtz had quickly agreed. Lenore did not exactly regard herself as a gourmet chef and Kurtz, while he could grill a burger or a steak, also had a limited repertoire in the kitchen. But that was alright, since the local Thai place delivered.

  “Another curry puff?” Lenore said.

  “Please.”

  Kurtz had
read somewhere that every culture on earth had at least one version of a dumpling. Thai Curry puffs—spiced potatoes and peas covered by a delicate, soft pastry, were among his favorites. Lenore had ordered a lot of them.

  He took a bite out of his curry puff, sipped a beer and felt himself slowly unwind. Lenore grinned at him. She had taken a bath before dinner and was wearing a black thong and a red silk robe, loosely tied at the waist. Nothing else. She leaned over to grab some cucumber salad and a beautiful, pink nipple poked enticingly out of her robe. Lenore, obviously, had plans for after dinner. Her breasts bounced, just a little as she moved.

  Kurtz quickly swallowed and drank down his beer.

  Lenore had ordered plenty of food, more than enough for dinner and then lunch the next day.

  “I still don’t get it, though,” Kurtz said. “Donna is a partner. Don’t the partners have to approve a merger?”

  Lenore shook her head. “Not all partnerships are equal. Donna is one of the youngest partners in the firm’s history, but she’s still a junior partner. Typically, the junior partners own a very small share of the corporation. If the buyout was negotiated by senior management, then they presumably had a majority of the shares. They could approve it on their own and keep the whole thing under wraps.”

  “I took a little stroll through the internet the other day,” Kurtz said. “Supposedly, investment banking firms are divided into various divisions.”

  “The larger ones are. The smaller ones tend to specialize. Hotchkiss and Phelps isn’t Goldman-Sachs.”

  “So, what do they specialize in?”

  “I don’t know. Would you like me to give Harrison a call? He might know.”

  The former fiancée… “Uh, no,” Kurtz said.

  Lenore shrugged. “Probably just the basics. Research, mergers and acquisitions. The smaller ones don’t issue bonds, they don’t function as market makers and they don’t have a brokerage division. Mostly, they arrange for loans between other corporations and make loans of their own.”