by James Tucker
Brick turned around the big but powerful car and headed north on Tibbett Avenue. The heavy SUV leaned right and left as he sped over Broadway and got onto the Mosholu Parkway that carried them south and east toward the Bronx River Parkway.
Ward pulled out his phone and called the man watching Dietrich Brook.
The line rang and rang, rhythmically and seemingly forever. Ward stared at the back of Brick’s head as he listened. His heart began to pound. Another ring and another.
And then the line went to voicemail.
Ward ended the call and dialed a second time. With the same result. The line rang eight times, then went to voicemail.
He didn’t want to alarm Buddy. Not unnecessarily. Not when the goon might have been using the restroom or talking on the other line with his girlfriend. So he decided to wait a few minutes and try again. If he still got no answer, he’d warn Buddy that Dietrich Brook might be in motion.
Ward ended the call and looked out the window as they sped through the city. We’re too late, he decided. We won’t get there in time, even if we’ve guessed Ben’s location.
Chapter Ninety-Five
Ben thought it was strange that Detective Vidas knocked on the door of his own apartment. When they’d climbed out of the unmarked Ford and walked up the five steps to the ground floor of a ramshackle apartment building, Vidas raised a hand and pounded on the gray metal door.
From inside came the sound of a television. And footsteps. Ben looked at the mail slot and saw the name Vidas in faded lettering. He didn’t feel right in this neighborhood. The street, the buildings, and the small shops were unfamiliar and he didn’t know anyone. He wished Detective Vidas hadn’t brought him here. Why hadn’t he told the detective he wanted a hot dog or something near his school or near Mei’s apartment?
The door opened and an old woman was standing there. She smiled at Detective Vidas and invited them in, waved them in, but she didn’t speak English. It was a language Ben didn’t recognize. It wasn’t French or Spanish, because his mother had spoken French and his former nanny Spanish. This old woman smiled at him. He followed Detective Vidas into a dark and dingy room. And the apartment was really just one room: living room, galley kitchen on the interior side, and a white sheet hung to separate a tiny bedroom. The tan-painted walls were nearly barren, the ceiling stained and caramel colored, the furniture old and brown and sunken. On the living room sofa lay an old man. His legs were frail and too thin, like those of a bird. His blue plaid pajamas couldn’t hide his emaciation. The old man frightened Ben. He didn’t move, except that he held an oxygen mask up to his mouth. His eyes saw Ben and then searched upward for Detective Vidas. Then the old man extended his free hand.
Vidas grasped the old man’s hand and bent forward. He kissed the old man on the forehead and spoke to the old man in the strange language.
Vidas straightened and seemed as large as a giant in the small room. He turned to Ben and said, “These are my parents. They’re poor, and my father is sick. He worked for Brook Instruments for many years. You’ve heard of the company?”
Ben nodded. “My family’s company.”
“That’s right,” Vidas said. “Your family’s company.” In a low but angry voice, he continued, “My father swallowed his pride and ignored what your family had already done to mine. He worked for your family for thirty years because they needed his expertise in chemical engineering. And then last September he was in an accident at the factory upstate. Your company refused to help when the insurance didn’t cover all the surgeries he needed. He had to leave the company and his health insurance ran out by Thanksgiving. All you gave him was a set of military binoculars.”
Ben looked down. He put his hands in his coat pockets.
Vidas continued, “My parents had to sell their house upstate and now they rent here, although I pay for everything. But their money’s almost run out—and mine, too. When my father goes, my mother will have to move in with me, at my apartment a few blocks from here. Do you see her? She’s a broken woman with bad health. It’s been a shitty decade for them. And every day I have a reminder of what your family did to mine. Every fucking day.”
Vidas glowered at him.
Ben said, “I’m sorry.”
Vidas snorted. “It’s too late for that.”
The old woman mumbled in the language Ben didn’t know. Ben turned and saw that the old woman was offering him a dark-brown cookie on a small plate. He wanted to shake his head and tell her he wasn’t hungry, but he decided he wouldn’t refuse. He feared insulting the old woman and further angering Detective Vidas. So he nodded, tried to smile, and took the plate and the small cookie on it.
She watched him expectantly.
He picked up the cookie and took a bite. It was a ginger snap. He murmured, “Very good.”
She grinned and turned to her son.
Detective Vidas spoke to her in the strange language.
They seemed to be arguing, yet Ben understood none of it. He’d finished the cookie and was holding the plate, unsure where to put it.
Detective Vidas turned to him and saw it. He took the plate and handed it to his mother. Then he said to Ben, “Let’s go.”
Ben walked to the door, Detective Vidas’s heavy footsteps behind him.
Detective Vidas said, “See the walls, Ben?”
Ben stopped and looked. The walls were bare except for the small painting that hung on the wall over the sofa, above the old man with the oxygen mask. It was of a young boy with black hair and a fruit-filled wreath on his head.
“See the walls?” Vidas repeated.
Ben said, “Yes.”
“Anything on them?”
“Just the one painting.” Ben’s eyes stayed for a moment on the canvas, which seemed familiar, but he didn’t remember where he’d seen it.
“Yeah, Ben. Just the one,” Detective Vidas said in a strange voice. “But there should be more. The paintings at your house should be here.”
Ben didn’t know what to say.
The detective reached around him, grabbed the door handle, and jerked the door violently open.
Chapter Ninety-Six
Ward told Brick, “When we’re a block away, pull over. I don’t want him to see the car—or me.”
Brick nodded almost imperceptibly. A block west of the address, Brick slowed the car and double-parked. He said, “Where do you want me?”
“Here, or as close to here as you can get,” Ward replied, opening the right rear door.
A moment later he was walking down Beach Avenue. The area once had a fearsome reputation but now was solidly middle-class with all kinds of ethnicities. A Lithuanian wouldn’t have stuck out. Instead of walking to the front of the building where Vidas lived, Ward first jogged around it. He saw no backyard or alley, only more apartments. Then he doubled back.
The modest building was red brick and had small windows. It would be dark or at least dim inside, and it wouldn’t have a modern security system, let alone a doorman. Ward strode along the street and then turned left onto Beach. He approached the steps that led up to the building’s ground floor entrance. He reached into his left coat pocket. Sprinting up the steps, he tried the door handle, but it was locked. He brought out a small nylon bag. He unzipped the bag and removed two delicate metal tools. With one hand he used a torsion wrench, with the other a hook pick. A moment later the door’s lock drew back. Ward dropped the tools and the nylon bag in his pocket.
With his left hand he pushed the building door open. His right hand gripped his Desert Eagle.
He went inside quickly, quietly, closing the door behind him. He was glad it didn’t squeak or jangle. He glanced at the directory to the left of the door, and moved like a cat up the terrazzo staircase covered with a dirty maroon-colored runner. Two or three steps at a time. He turned on the first landing but saw no sign or Vidas or Ben.
He climbed another flight.
Nothing. The building was quiet.
He moved up to the thir
d floor, but there was nobody there.
Up again to the fourth floor.
He stopped, listening. He heard nothing but his own breathing, which spiked along with his heartbeat.
He took a deep breath and ran up to the fifth floor.
Three doors, each with a name in gold block lettering in a small holder in the middle of each oak door. Vidas’s door was the one in the middle. It was scuffed and battered and old, but also thick and solidly made. Ward doubted he could kick it open. He moved to the side of the door and carefully, silently, placed his ear against the wood. Holding his breath, he remained still and listened.
He heard something.
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Ward listened at the door to Detective Vidas’s apartment. He heard what seemed to be the muffled sounds of a child. Definitely not a man’s voice. He also thought he heard light footsteps. In his mind he pictured the detective standing silently and unmoving on the other side of the oak door, listening for him and aiming a sawed-off shotgun at groin height in the center of the door.
He looked around the small landing with three nearly identical doors, one to the left of Vidas’s door, one to the right. He looked down at the maroon carpeting. But there was no table or chair he could use as a battering ram. He’d have to kick in the door, or shoot off the lock. Both approaches would be loud and dangerous. Both would give Vidas time to kill Ben.
But he had no good alternative. Picking the lock would take too much time and be too much of a risk.
Quietly Ward positioned himself in front of the door. He held his arms out on either side for balance, his right hand gripping the gun. He raised his left leg and kicked the oak door panel near the lock.
Smack!
The door splintered, but the lock held.
Angry now, Ward raised his leg and kicked at the door as hard as he could.
Still, it held.
He was out of time. He kicked again, aiming his heel near the lock. Now it was coming loose.
He held his breath and bashed at the door.
At last it flew open, banging against the interior wall to Ward’s right. He crouched in combat position and aimed the gun into the center of the opening, ready for the assault or the bullet that would surely come from the dimly lit room.
Yet no assault came. No bullet flew. He listened in the sudden silence and heard only the same faint cries from within the apartment.
Trying to remain calm, he moved swiftly to the side of the doorway. He dipped his head into the opening. Once, twice, he peeked in.
It was a small living room. Nondescript black leather sofa. Flat-panel television set on a low wooden stand. A bookshelf. Nothing on the walls. The blinds were open, and the gray dusk came weakly through the windows.
To the left of the living room was an opening.
Ward stepped through the doorway and against the wall to his left.
He crept toward the opening, tense and prepared to shoot. As he neared it, he saw the faint glow from a light. The same muffled, high-pitched voice grew louder. It sounded like someone attempting to speak.
At the opening Ward bobbed his head at the edge of the open space. Once. Twice. But again there was no assault, no bullet. He saw only a small kitchen and beyond it a bedroom. The bed unmade. The yellow glow of a lamp near the windows but outside his view.
And the sound of a voice mixed with anxious movement.
Crouching down, he stepped through the kitchen and leaned against the wall to the right of the opening to the bedroom. To his left he saw a small room with a white tiled floor. The bathroom.
He took a deep breath, moved across the opening to the bedroom, and leaned against the wall to the left.
No new sound.
He dipped his head and glanced into the room.
Chapter Ninety-Eight
To be sure the detective was out of the apartment, Ward slid around the bedroom wall until he reached the bathroom door. It was narrow, white, and half-closed. He stood by the opening and pushed the door open with his foot. He remained alert and kept his weapon up, but he’d become close to certain he was alone. Yet always careful, he bobbed his head into the doorway. He saw nobody, only an empty shower stall, toilet, vanity. He flicked on the light and walked into the bathroom.
Nothing unusual that he could see. Nothing pointed to the apartment’s occupant as anything at all. There’d been no attempt to make this a home. It seemed completely anonymous. But he’d look a little further.
He opened the doors under the vanity. They rattled open and contained nothing odd, except the middle and bottom drawers to the right of the sink. The middle drawer was . . . filled with bottles of cologne. Perfectly organized, alphabetized, in neat rows. Cheap bottles and expensive ones, their tops gleaming brightly. He saw Tom Ford and Ralph Lauren, Creed and Dior. He held up an unusual-looking bottle and read the label: Zizan, by Ormonde Jayne. Looked expensive, but he didn’t recognize it. He sniffed. A pleasant scent. He thought the collection a strange fetish for a police detective.
After replacing the bottle and closing the middle drawer, he opened the bottom drawer.
And drew in his breath.
He knew what this was, but he didn’t touch it.
He thought of the death of Bruno Brook and his family, of the Zyklon B. Of how they’d died but someone else in the room had lived.
Lying in the drawer was a black gas mask, the nylon mesh straps loose, the plastic eye coverings clear, the filter canister at the end of it frightening even in repose.
Now it all made sense, but he was too late.
He slid the bottom drawer closed and returned to the bedroom. Near the window but not too close to the floor lamp was a cage made out of bamboo. And within the cage were two small white birds. They watched him warily, silently.
He pulled his mobile phone from the breast pocket of his suit coat and hit the speed dial for Buddy.
When the call went to voicemail, he said, “Nobody at the apartment, but Vidas is your target. Leaving now to back you up.”
After ending the call, he dialed 911 to report a suspected kidnapping at the town house owned by Ben’s family. Then he put away the phone, thrust his gun into the side pocket of his coat, and ran down the stairs, out of the building, and onto the sidewalk.
His silver Range Rover was idling half a block away.
He sprinted toward it.
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Ben knew the town house. Knew it better than anyone, for it was his family’s and he’d lived there all his life. But he didn’t understand why Detective Vidas had pulled his car alongside the curb on East Seventy-Fourth Street. Or why they hadn’t gone directly to Mei’s apartment, where she’d told him she’d wait for him. He wanted to be with her, to be having an after-school snack in the kitchen while she made dinner and he told her about his new school. She was his family now, and being here only made him sad and fearful, but not afraid of Detective Vidas, who’d always been kind to him and who’d even taken him to meet his parents. He hadn’t understood the detective’s reference to the walls of the dingy apartment they’d just visited. What could art have to do with him? He knew nothing about paintings, even if he liked those his family owned. He’d grown up with them, and so he accepted them as part of his life, of his family’s life. They didn’t seem extraordinary in any way, except that some of them were large. His friends had paintings in their houses as well, sometimes even with naked women. Yet he was more interested in his friends’ games and toys than in their parents’ art collections. He didn’t know why the detective knew or cared about paintings.
Vidas said, “You have the keys?”
Ben looked over at him. Vidas was sitting behind the wheel, his face calm and almost friendly. Ben said, “They’re at Buddy’s.”
Vidas glanced past Ben at the town house’s wide front door. It was up four wide stone steps and had so many coats of black paint that it gleamed under the streetlight. Men and women passed by on the sidewalk, some talking to companion
s, others with their dogs, and a few by themselves.
Ben waited.
Vidas said, “Well, we won’t let that stop us.” He unbuckled his seat belt, glanced at his side mirror, and opened his door. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s take a look around.”
Ben wasn’t going to disobey a police officer, especially not Buddy’s partner. And at least he wasn’t with one of his uncles. With Vidas he felt safe, although the detective was acting differently from what he’d expected. So he unbuckled his seat belt, opened the passenger door, and stepped out of the car.
The cold braced and startled him fully awake. A west wind had picked up and swept through the street and between the town houses and apartment buildings. Suddenly he was alert. He held his hands at his sides, ready to move. He was ready to go home to be with Mei. With Buddy. He looked around, hoping to see someone he recognized. Maybe Buddy would appear. Maybe he’d arranged to meet Vidas here. Maybe they needed something from the town house.
He heard another car door opening and saw Vidas lift a black duffel bag from the back seat. Vidas closed the door, smiled at him across the roof of the car, and walked around to the sidewalk where Ben was standing.
The detective said, “Let’s go inside. I’d like to check on the property.”
Ben didn’t want to go into his former home. He pursed his lips and didn’t respond. He hunched his head down into his shoulders and wished he’d brought a hat. The cold was biting.
“Come on,” Vidas said, ushering him up the wide steps.
Ben followed obediently.
“Stand by the door.”
“Okay.” Ben moved where the detective indicated, to the left of the handle.
Vidas pulled something out of his coat pocket and leaned close to the silver lock. Ben didn’t look at him, only listened to the slight rasping of metal on metal. A few moments later the lock drew back.