The Boy Who Stole From the Dead

by Orest Stelmach

“Son, if you’re lying…”

  Derek glared at his father. “I’m not lying.”

  “Do you know her full name and address?” Nadia said.

  “Her last name is Arshun. I don’t have an address. We never went to anyone’s house.”

  “How about a phone number?”

  “Nope. I never called her. She’s Bobby’s girl.”

  “But you have your girlfriend’s number.”

  “I wouldn’t call her my girlfriend.”

  “Call her whatever you want,” Trent said. “But go get your cell phone, and call her now.”

  Derek stood up.

  “No, no,” Nadia said. “I just need a look at her Facebook page. If I can get a last name and a look at her picture, that’ll be plenty.”

  “You don’t want her phone number?” Meredith said.

  “No. I’ll find her,” Nadia said. She caught Derek’s eyes. “I’d rather her friends not warn her I was coming.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THERE WERE THREE Arshuns listed in the phone book as living in Brighton Beach. All were listed under men’s names. Nadia called them sequentially. A different woman with an Eastern European accent answered each time. Nadia identified herself as Cynthia Moss, Vice President of the Lauder Modeling Agency in Manhattan. She asked to speak with the promising young model named Iryna. Each time she was told no such person lived there. Nadia asked if they knew a teenage model by that name that lived in Brighton Beach. The first two women said no and hung up. The third one, however, kept talking.

  “Is this about modeling?” the woman said.

  “No,” Nadia said. “Super modeling.”

  The woman gasped. “Iryna lives with my daughter’s friend. Please hold. I give you phone number.”

  Nadia called and left a voice mail. Iryna called back three minutes later. She spoke good English but with the same accent. They agreed to meet for drinks at 8:00 p.m. After Nadia hung up, an investment banker called with a job proposition. His client needed a forensic securities analyst fluent in English and Russian. He wouldn’t reveal his client’s name. They set up a lunch for tomorrow. The prospect of a paycheck energized Nadia. She called Johnny, told him what she was up to, and took the subway to Brooklyn.

  There was a saying that Brighton Beach was conveniently located near the United States. Immigrants arrived en masse from the Soviet Union in the late 1970s. In the 1980s Brighton Beach became headquarters for the Russian mafia. A man named Marat Balagula was its leader. He had a kind heart with a soft spot for educated immigrants who couldn’t find jobs in America. He also made a fortune through shell companies that distributed gasoline but kept taxes for themselves. When word got out he was in business with the Italian mob, Russian hit man Vladimir Reznikov put his 9mm Beretta against Balagula’s head at a nightclub and demanded $600,000 for not pulling the trigger. Reznikov returned to the club the next day for payment. A Gambino crime family associate shot him dead.

  Much had changed in Brighton Beach since then. The ghetto was torn down and replaced with luxury condominiums. Afghans, East Asians, Mexicans, and Pakistanis joined the mix. If there was still a Russian mafia presence, it never made the papers.

  Nadia marched from the subway stop toward the Atlantic Ocean. The wind whipped her hair. The air smelled of salt. Nadia wasn’t worried about her safety but she still felt as though she was entering enemy territory. She was the daughter of Ukrainian immigrants walking into a Russian enclave. Ukraine had suffered for centuries under Russian oppression. The Soviet Union was a Russian creation. Stalin did his best to starve Ukraine. Brezhnev tried to eradicate all traces of its culture.

  Nadia learned to speak Ukrainian before English even though she was born in Hartford. When she was recommended for Russian language classes in junior high school by the Spanish teacher, her parents were initially reluctant for fear it would pollute her Ukrainian. They hailed from Western Ukraine, where nationalist pride ran deep. The further East one travelled, the more Russified the Ukrainian population. In Kyiv, Russian was still more prevalent than Ukrainian even though the country had been independent since 1991.

  Bobby was from central Ukraine. His Facebook page said he was fluent in Russian. That infuriated Nadia as it hinted at his past. It was an exercise in mindless self-indulgence. His Facebook page didn’t mention he spoke Ukrainian. That irked her. If he was boasting he spoke Russian, why didn’t he mention he was fluent in his native Ukrainian? It was as though the latter didn’t matter.

  His girlfriend’s Russian ethnicity also troubled Nadia. That ethnic bias, in turn, disturbed her. The end result was a continuous loop of distrust, apology, and acceptance. In Iryna’s case, however, Nadia seemed stuck on the distrustful part. She feared the girl was an opportunist who figured out Bobby might become a professional hockey player. She also worried Iryna might be older than seventeen.

  The name of the restaurant was Gogol-Mogol. Nadia expected an elegant dining room that morphed into a rowdy scene at midnight. Instead she walked into a small café serving coffees and pastries. Pink walls featured elegantly stenciled recipes. Macaroons, Baba Au Rhum cakes and chocolate bombs filled the display cases. Crumbs littered the shelves behind the counter. They were empty except for four loaves of bread.

  An old man sat reading a paper and drinking coffee at one table. A middle-aged couple shared an éclair at another. Music accompanied dessert. It arrived in muted bursts from speakers in the ceiling. Rap music. With Russian lyrics. Something about diamonds and disrespect. Sung by dueling women.

  A lithe girl stood behind the register in a pink shirt and white pants. Nadia recognized Iryna from her picture. She was about five foot seven with an oval face, enormous blue eyes, and perfect alabaster skin. She wasn’t the Russian girl next door. She was what the Russian girl next door aspired to look like.

  “Iryna?” Nadia said.

  She spoke so softly Nadia barely heard her. “Yes.”

  Nadia introduced herself and extended her hand. Iryna smiled, shook it, blushed, and dropped her head. The sequence was so sweet and genuine it took Nadia’s breath away. In the time it took to say hello, Nadia found herself questioning her preconceptions about the girl, her ethnicity, and her motives.

  “Would you like to talk in the kitchen?” Iryna said. “More privacy.”

  Nadia followed Iryna through a door into the kitchen. Four stainless steel ovens lined one wall. A matching stove, refrigerator, and sink filled another. A heavyset woman wearing an apron was rinsing utensils. The center island contained a mixer and various pans covered with flour and remnants of dough. The appliances looked new, except for the microwave oven elevated on an old wooden table near a pantry. It was a child’s toy, made of red plastic.

  A woman with pronounced cheekbones entered from a back room. Her skin suggested she was about thirty but the wear around the eyes said the years hadn’t been easy. She wore a chef’s uniform and carried herself with an air of authority. She stopped beside the toy oven.

  “Galina, do me a favor and take the register for a few minutes,” she said. She spoke perfect English.

  The heavyset woman shut the faucet, grabbed a hand towel, and left.

  “I’m Tamara,” the young woman said. “Iryna’s roommate. And cousin. You must be Ms. Moss.”

  “No,” Nadia said. “I’m not. My name isn’t Cynthia Moss. And I’m not in the modeling business.”

  Tamara reached inside the toy oven and pulled out a gun. She aimed it at Nadia.

  “We know you’re not. There is no Lauder Modeling Agency. Who are you and what do you want?”

  Nadia stepped back. She’d miscalculated. She was expecting a verbal confrontation once she admitted she’d lied. Not a gun.

  “My real name is—”

  “Usually it’s men who try to take advantage of Iryna. They say they run their own modeling agency or they’re film producers but the
y’re really after one thing. You’re the first woman ever. Why did you lie? What is it you want? I got robbed last month. I could shoot you right here—”

  “Don’t.” Nadia raised her hands in the air. “Please. Let me explain.”

  “What do you want from Iryna?”

  “I want to ask her some questions.”

  “About what?”

  “About a boy she’s been seeing.”

  “What boy?”

  “His name is Bobby Kungenook. Iryna knows him.”

  “Of course she knows him. I know him, too.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. He’s been here four or five times.”

  “He has?”

  “He’s a fiend for my fruit tart. How do you know Bobby?”

  “He’s my…I’m his…I’m his guardian.”

  Tamara’s eyes bugged out. “Oh my God. You’re Nadia Tesla?”

  Nadia nodded.

  Tamara put the gun back in the oven. She rushed to Nadia and hugged her. When they parted, they laughed. Nadia’s laughter was more a function of relief than any sense of humor in the situation. Iryna stood to the side looking more grateful than anyone.

  Tamara insisted they start over. She and Iryna brought in three cups of coffee and three raspberry-chocolate macaroons. Nadia hadn’t eaten dinner yet but she didn’t care. There were only two chairs in the kitchen so they stood at the center island.

  “Why did you pretend you were someone else?” Tamara said.

  “I was afraid Iryna wouldn’t talk to me,” Nadia said.

  “Why did you think that?” Iryna said.

  “It was a mistake,” Nadia said. “I have a tendency to expect the worst from people. It’s my profession. I’m a forensic financial analyst. I tear companies apart and look for something wrong. And I always find something. It’s made me cynical.”

  “It’s not that,” Tamara said. “It’s not a professional thing.”

  “It’s not?” Nadia said.

  “No. It’s a Uke thing. You’re Uke, right?”

  “Yes. Bobby told you?”

  Tamara nodded.

  “Wait. Only a Uke uses the phrase ‘Uke.’ You’re Ukrainian, too? What’s your last name?”

  “Shevchuk.”

  “Born here?” Nadia said.

  “Passaic, New Jersey.”

  Nadia glanced at Iryna.

  “She’s half and half,” Tamara said. “Her father was Russian but her mother was Uke. She came over from Ukraine…How long has it been, sweetie?”

  “About six years,” Iryna said.

  “Has it been that long?” Tamara shook her head.

  Nadia sipped her coffee. “So did you go to Uke school in Passaic on the weekends?”

  “It was Monday and Friday nights for us. Through eleventh grade. I never made it to matura.” Matura was the name of the high school “maturity exam” administered at community Ukrainian schools across America. “What about you?”

  “All the way through high school,” Nadia said.

  Tamara rolled her eyes sympathetically. “Christ. We missed out on all those school dances. The things normal kids did. That used to bother me when I was growing up. But now when I look back at it…”

  “It was worth it,” Nadia said. “Two languages, two cultures, richer life.”

  “You’re right,” Tamara said. She raised her cup of coffee. “To a free Ukraine,” she said in Ukrainian. “And new friends.”

  They clinked their cups.

  Nadia glanced at Iryna. “How did you meet Bobby?”

  “Through a friend of mine,” Iryna said. “Another model. She’s dating Derek, Bobby’s friend. She goes to prep school. Hockey is big in prep school—”

  “Where do you go to school?” Nadia said.

  “I graduated last year,” Iryna said. “Abraham Lincoln High School.”

  “Oh,” Nadia said. “So you’re how old?”

  “Eighteen. Just this January.”

  “That makes you what…five months older than Bobby.”

  Iryna blushed.

  Tamara shrugged. “Not so bad, huh?”

  “It rounds to zero,” Nadia said, especially given she was half Ukrainian.

  “I saw Bobby play hockey before I met him,” Iryna said. “I went to the game with my friend. Fordham Prep against Holy Cross. In Flushing. He was so beautiful on the ice. The way he moved. With the black hair under his helmet down to his shoulders. He looked like…he looked like the Dark Knight.”

  “That’s very sweet,” Nadia said. “When did you see Bobby last?”

  “I tried to see him yesterday but he wouldn’t come out.”

  “You went to Rikers?” Nadia said.

  Iryna nodded. “He was in the infirmary. I had to wait in two lines. It took me forever but when I gave my name to the guard at the hospital he came back and told me Bobby said to go away. He said to forget about him, that he never wanted to see me again.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. Tamara patted her shoulder.

  “He said similar things to me,” Nadia said. “Don’t believe it. He’s convinced he’s going to be convicted for something he obviously didn’t do and he’s pushing us away so we don’t suffer. Some sort of honor thing.”

  “I’m going to go back this week,” Iryna said. “I’m going to keep going back until he sees me.”

  The girl’s determination impressed Nadia. This was clearly more than a passing acquaintance. But they were teenagers, Nadia thought. She should have expected this.

  “How often have you been seeing each other?” Nadia said.

  Iryna shrugged. “Once a week. We mostly text. Lately we’d started to talk on the phone more.”

  “Was Bobby with you the night he was arrested?”

  “We were supposed to meet in the Meatpacking District,” Iryna said. “A friend was going to sneak us into Soho House Screening Room. Ethan Hawke was screening Dead Poets Society. I waited in front of Soho House but Bobby never showed. And then he called me on my cell phone to tell me he’d been arrested and he wouldn’t make it.”

  “Did he sound different leading up to that night?”

  “I don’t think so.” Iryna considered the question further. “There was this one thing, though.”

  “What thing?” Nadia said.

  “It was weird. We ordered some takeout for dinner. We were eating here at the outside table in front of the café. Just him and me. We’d gone to see a movie with Derek and my friend but they’d gone their own way after the show. Bobby insisted on taking the subway home with me and walking me to the door. He always does that, even though I tell him it’s safe. All of a sudden he got a phone call on his cell. He listened for a while, like almost a minute. And all the time he’s turning white. Like he’s going to pass out. And then he hung up and acted like nothing happened.”

  “He never said a single word?” Nadia said.

  “Nope. Not a single—No. That’s not true. When he first answered the phone he said ‘Yes,’ like you do if someone says your name. ‘Hello, is this Bobby?’ ‘Yes.’ That kind of thing.”

  “And that was the only word he said?”

  “That was it.”

  “Could you hear the other voice on the line?”

  “Yeah, I could hear a voice.”

  “Man or a woman?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. With the music and the other customers…”

  “Did you ask him who it was?”

  “Sure. He said it was one of those automated messages trying to give you a free cell phone for changing your service plan. But I could tell he was lying.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last Friday,” Iryna said.

  Four days prior to Valentine’s death, Nadia thought. She wondered if that phone call set a
chain of events in motion that led to Bobby killing Jonathan Phillip Valentine.

  “He’s such a sweet boy,” Tamara said. “We know he didn’t kill that man. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Nadia said.

  Nadia realized she was famished. She bit into the macaroon and looked around the kitchen. The appliances were top-of-the-line and brand new, too.

  “Your café is cute and this is a beautiful kitchen,” Nadia said.

  “Thank you,” Tamara said. “I didn’t know my father most of my life and it’s been a happy discovery. He spoils me. With stainless steel ovens and gold jewelry.”

  “And this macaroon is to die for, Tamara,” Nadia said.

  “Thank you, Nadia,” she said. “But please. Call me Tara. All my friends do.”

  CHAPTER 9

  NADIA GOT HOME at 10:30 p.m. She stripped her clothes and jumped in the shower. When she got out, she put on her favorite robe—the one with the pink elephants—and poured herself a glass of chardonnay.

  Bobby’s cell phone wouldn’t help Nadia identify who called him. It was locked away with his other personal possessions in prison. Nadia logged onto her wireless phone carrier’s website. Bobby’s cell phone usage appeared under her account as part of her family plan. She knew her ID and password by heart because she paid her bill online. She also monitored Bobby’s usage. The exercise provided unexpected satisfaction. It wasn’t the product of spying. It was a function of responsibility. It was a family plan. She was the head of the family. The title secretly thrilled her, though she never would have admitted it to Bobby. He held things inside. Acted as though discussing emotions was a weakness. Outwardly Nadia disagreed, but deep down she knew she was just like him.

  The phone calls and text messages Bobby had received during April appeared under current usage. Nadia studied the phone numbers. She recognized most of them: Derek, Iryna, her office, her cell, their apartment, the Fordham hockey coach, and three other hockey teammates. Iryna’s number appeared more often as time passed. The first of the month she texted him twice. The day Bobby was arrested she texted him twelve times. That bothered her less than it would have before she’d met the girl, but Nadia’s blood pressure still spiked.