Brooklyn Graves
Page 9
“Cookies for the road?” I poured the rest of the box into a plastic sandwich bag. I added a peanut butter sandwich.
“I…thank you. It is, this is…it is a bad time.”
“Of course it is. Hugs for your mother. Now head home before it gets any later.”
I did a right thing first. I found the card Detective Henderson had given me, and called him. I didn’t reach him so I left a detailed message about Alex’s discoveries, and asked him what I should do about getting it to him.
Then I did a wrong thing. I opened the phone again, and looked at the short contact list. I wrote down the names and numbers. I don’t know why. At the back of my mind I thought Natalya might want them somehow, someday. And I have an instinct also, part of my work, to want information to be recorded and filed.
I looked at the phone. It was a cheap ordinary model, I thought. No buttons for games or photos or fancy apps. It made calls, took messages, texted. I didn’t see the icon that said Messages Waiting.
I pushed the button that would give me the greeting. Dima’s voice came on, a little scratchy but definitely Dima. “If you are calling about 16 Brighton 4th Street, leave a message.”
What? That wasn’t Dima’s home.
That was it. No “Hi, it’s Dima.” No “I’m busy but I’ll call back.” If you didn’t know who you were calling, you certainly wouldn’t find out when you called. I wondered if that was deliberate, or if Dima was just awkward with the technology. It was very odd, and it suggested to me that I take another look at the names.
Most were as straightforward as they seemed when I first looked with Alex. One was listed simply as V. I wondered if it was Dima’s brother, the scary Vladimir. One said Loan. A bank? Without taking the time to think about it, I tapped the button. Instead of a recorded cheery female voice telling me I had reached the desk of So and So at Citibank, it was a man, not at all cheery, saying “I’m not here, I’ll call back. Don’t leave a message.” That was even stranger than Dima’s greeting.
My heart was beating a little too fast, and I suddenly realized my curiosity was leading me down a road where I had no business being. I put the phone into a plastic bag and into a kitchen drawer.
What remained out was the list of names and numbers. I put that away in my desk for Natalya or Alex, if they needed it. Or if I did.
Where did that thought come from?
For now, the question was Chris. Exactly where was she and when would she be home? And what responsibility for her well-being did I have tonight? I would not be able to give any further attention to this problem after she was home.
A quick call established the plan that she and Mel would go to Mel’s house for dinner, and continue working. Chem exam tomorrow. I was fine with that. More than fine, because I had an idea, and I couldn’t follow through if she was home.
I called the person who knows everything about buildings.
“Hi, Joe. I was just wondering if you have a couple of free hours this evening.”
“Lucky timing. Someone canceled an appointment. Is this social or do you have a house emergency?”
“Ah, you could say that, sort of, but it’s not mine.”
“Got it. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
That secret phone meant something and I wanted to know what. The cops would figure it out, but their priority was not going to be protecting Natalya or Alex. If I knew what was going on, maybe I could prepare them. Or protect them somehow. I knew it was fuzzy logic, but I could not think more clearly until I knew more.
Battling traffic all the way, Joe and I were there at the mystery address in only about twice as long as I expected. Listening to music and chatting about crazy customers and life with a teen, we had a comradely drive.
The location was in Brighton Beach, as I expected, not very near the Ostrovs’ home, but not very different, a tired brick house on a tired but well-kept, homey street. The houses were just barely freestanding; they were separated by the width of the shared driveway that led to garages in back. Lights were on in the nearby homes, and there was an occasional passerby on foot or by car. I heard a TV from the house on one side, and voices from the other. A child’s voice was complaining “Spaghetti again?”
“This is the mystery house? Right address? Come on, let’s take a look. You’ll find a flashlight in the glove compartment.”
Joe focused it across the official papers pasted on the window and I tried to read by the wavering light. Using the beam as a pointer, he said, “The work license goes to the contractor. See it? And here is the owner? What does it say?”
“It just says Ostrov Construction.”
“So Dmitri was doing the work. Does it show this address? It should be the place where the work is being done.”
“Yes, address is here.”
“The permission should say what he is and isn’t allowed to do. Can you see that? No wait. Hold the light a sec. Keep it steady here.” He reached into his jacket pocket to take out his phone, and used it to snap a photo of the paper. “Now you don’t have to remember it all.”
I kept reading, learning that he had permission to convert the house to a three-family dwelling. Three apartments to rent out? I guessed it could be a nice source of extra income. The paper also said what kind of work could not be done. Various kinds of concrete, as much as I could understand it.
“I thought it would tell me who owns it. “
“No, not here, but there are other ways. I’ll tell you later.” Joe was peering in the window as he spoke. “Come here. See over there? That’s new wiring in two walls, and I see supplies for more.” He moved the light. “Sheetrock. That would be next. See? Unfortunately for us, he has the house locked up tight, smart if he is storing materials there.”
We walked around to the back, following the light along a humped and cracked cement walk. There was a back door with a short flight of metal steps. It was padlocked, but Joe could see in the window.
“They haven’t started on this kitchen. If they are going to make apartments, they’ll be adding more kitchens, too. Everything here is about fifty years old, but I see lines and arrows penciled on the wallpaper—that’s about fifty years old, too—that shows where they are planning to install new appliances and cabinets. Damn, I wish we could get in.”
He wiggled the padlock and tried the window without luck. “I could do it if I had my lock picks.”
“Wait. You can pick locks?”
“Sure. You’d be surprised how often keys have disappeared in old houses.” He smiled. “In this case it would probably be completely illegal.”
“Probably? Probably?”
“Who are you kidding, Miss Nancy Drew? You’d do it if you could, but it’s not gonna happen tonight. Now I’m going to fight through that jungle of weeds around to the back of the garage. Looks like there’s another window there. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Alone, I jumped at a shockingly loud noise on the quiet street. I whipped around and saw a man on the lawn next-door. He was hammering a sign and I could have touched him across the narrow space. He looked up suddenly.
“What the hell are you doing at the Grossbergs’ house?”
“I…I…I’m just looking for…”
“Are you working for that damn Russki?”
“What? No. I’m…”
“Because it’s bad enough having his crew here. All day with the pounding and sawing and jabbering away. I’m telling you, I don’t plan to put up with it at night.”
He was an elderly man. No, an old man, in a sleeveless undershirt and gym shorts and bare feet. Not a pretty sight, and not enhanced by his hostile expression.
“No, no, you can see I’m not working. I just wanted some information. Maybe you can help me?”
He glared at me and I probably glared right back.
“You from city planning? Someone’s final
ly showed up?”
“Umm, not exactly. I said, I’m just looking for some information.”
“Yeah? Who are you? Speak up, I don’t hear too good. Are you from city planning like they promised?”
“No…”
“I want to make a complaint about that Commie, I got a lot of complaints about him, that guy. The Grossbergs, now they were decent neighbors. Shoveled the sidewalk in winter and kept to themselves. I wish they wouldn’t have moved.“
“I don’t understand.”
He tossed his cigarette into the shared driveway. “Russians took over this whole damn neighborhood, ya know. Damn Commies, all of ’em!”
“Well, actually, most of them…” It’s a reflex of my work, sharing the facts.
He rode right over my words.
“They killed my old Brighton Beach a long time ago, ya know, and I lived here my whole life. Well, except for the Army. Walk along Brighton Beach Avenue and it’s all Russian. Ya go in to a store to buy underwear or a box of cereal or something and they just ignore you and keep up the Russian jabber-jabber. Now they’re buying up my own street.” He spat over the porch rail, “That one.” He pointed, “And that one. And now right next door. Next freakin’ door to me. He’s gonna fill it up with more Russians. I been having some little confabs with the planning department about all this.”
I looked at his sign. “Are you planning to sell, too?”
He moved away from his sign with a grand gesture. It said: Commies Go Home. Not Wanted in All-American Brighton Beach.
“Hell, no! Hell no, never. But I can speak up.” He grinned. I did not like that grin, not at all. Actually, I wanted to slap it off his hateful face.
“Ya know, maybe I’ll just make it easier and call Immigration. Bet you they’d like to know about this. Never should have let them in the first place.”
“Mr.—uh, your name is…?”
His expression suddenly shifted from belligerent to crafty. “I’m not giving my name out without you do likewise. I want to see some kind of ID! How do I know you’ve got a right to be standing there?”
“So don’t tell me. I don’t care.” I had his address; I knew I could find his name if I wanted it. “But come on, you must know they’re here legally. And they for sure do not love Communism. Why would you…?”
“Sez you. Most of them can’t even speak English. And rude! They don’t belong here. Who needs them, taking over from us Americans?”
I knew—really, I knew—there is no point whatever in arguing with someone who didn’t want to be confused by the facts. But I also knew the influx of Russian immigrants had revived a dangerous, dying neighborhood. I was only writing a dissertation on these issues. So I argued. I couldn’t resist nailing him to the wall.
I folded my arms and looked hard at him. “Yeah? I’m just wondering, where did your people come from?”
“What? What do you mean, my people? I’m pure American through and through.”
“But where did they come from? Every family came from someplace else, sometime. Unless your background is Iroquois and I’m guessing it isn’t.” I had a pretty good hunch, but I wanted him to say it.
“I was born right here, in my parents’ apartment on Neptune Avenue. Spitting distance from where you’re standing. And I’m proud of it. Did my share in the war and fly the stars-and-stripes too. “
“And your parents, or grandparents?”
“What’s it to you?”
I shrugged and said nothing. I waited.
He threw me a venomous look and finally ground out the words. “Mostly Ukraine. Yeah, part of Russia in those days. Yeah, Russia. But they were different kind of people. They knew they were lucky to be here. Ya know? These new Russians, they think everybody owes them help when they get here. And they still think they’re better than us. And as soon as they have a few bucks, boy do they throw it around. Nightclubs. Fur coats. Me, I’ve never been in a nightclub in my life.”
I thought about how hard Dima worked to keep his house meticulously maintained. The carefully painted wood trim, the rose bushes, the new flagstone terrace he laid and the smooth driveway he poured. I looked at this man’s home, with the cracks in the walk, the broken window, the missing bricks. I knew who I’d prefer for a neighbor.
The old man was escalating his rant. “I don’t know who you are, young lady, but you can take it for a promise. I’m never gonna have them for neighbors. Not never!” He was nodding now. “That guy moves in next to me with all his friends and relatives? He’ll be sorry.”
He leaned back on his heels, arms folded, glaring right at me. He’d settled the matter to his satisfaction.
“Hey, buddy, did we surprise you? We don’t mean any harm.” Joe finally came back from his trek through the weeds. He strolled over to the angry man, smiling, and offered his hand. The man looked it over with hostility and then put his out. Only then did I see he had a gun on the other hand, holding it casually, pointing down.
“I’m a builder myself. Here’s my card. I heard this property might be on the market soon.”
The old man’s face changed. There was some skin wrinkling that might have smiled.
“You thinking of buying? You’d be welcomed. No one likes those damn Russians. And you’d be getting a good deal too. I knew the people before. They took good care of it.”
That was an obvious lie. Everything about the house was cracking and peeling, the kitchen hadn’t been touched in decades and I was betting the bathrooms were just as bad.
“Confidentially…” He leaned down over the rail, looked both ways as if afraid of being overheard, and whispered—“the new owner died. Something messy. I bet the wife would turn it over for way under value, if you moved fast on it. You know, while she’s still not thinking straight.”
He peered at Joe with a sly look. “I’ll give you another tip. Other people have been here, lurking around, just like you. Bet you’re not the only buyer.”
“Interesting.” Joe kept a firm hand on my shoulder while he said it, letting me know I should keep cool and fake indifference, as he was doing. “Maybe you’re right about moving fast. Wonder if I know any of those others? Did you get to see them?”
“How the hell would I know about them if I didn’t? I’m old but I’m not blind and I keep a watch on the block. Sure I saw them.”
“Anything you’d care to share about them?”
“Russians! After I knew that, I lost interest. “
“I bet a sharp guy like you did see something more. Was it a young man? Or was it men?”
He considered that. “Two men. Different times. At my age, everybody looks young. Ya know? So somewhere between my grandson, who’s about—oh, hell. He just got out of the Army, so about twenty-three. So, older than him and younger than retirement. That’s all I got. Now go on. I want to get inside. Too cold for old bones out here.”
“We appreciate your help,” Joe said, “but you don’t need to stay out here for us.”
He stared at us for what seemed like a long time. “Yeah, I do. You’re trespassing and I wouldn’t leave you or anyone out here sneaking around. So you stay, I stay.” His gun was now resting on the porch rail, as if he thought he was defending his ranch against outlaws or a beachhead at Normandy. It wasn’t pointed at us. Not exactly.
Joe smiled. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you and thanks for the tip. It’s time for us to get home anyway.” He nudged me gently along, silently overriding my impulse to stay right there and argue.
Back in the car, he laughed while I tried to argue with him instead.
“The look on your face.” He was still laughing. “Oh my God, you were funny.”
“Funny? No, I’m really mad.”
“Erica, you can’t argue with a guy like him! And you learned quite a bit already, didn’t you? Plus, and not a small thing, there was a gun.”
“I don’t know, but we’d be the crazy ones to count on that. Right? Come on!”
“I hate to say it. I mean I really hate it, but you’re right.” I thought a little more. “You handled him very smoothly. Nice going.” My admiration was real.
“You know only half my job is building? The other half is handling hysterical customers. I’ve seen crazier people than that old S.O.B.”
“So you agree that he’s kind of crazy?”
“Certifiable.” He hesitated. “Honestly, I think you need to stay away now. If I hadn’t been there, what would have happened?”
“What? It’s a regular neighborhood, not high-crime, and it’s not late at night. People are still out. It wouldn’t have been dangerous, even on my own. Really!”
“Hmm.” He was looking away from me, so I couldn’t see if he was still laughing. “Funny, I’m imagining you arguing with him, telling him off for the idiot he is, and him taking offense. Holding a gun. What could possibly go wrong?” He wasn’t laughing now.
He had a point. I didn’t say a word.
“Seriously.” He turned to look at me. “Why are you so involved? Dima was murdered. Police are not ignoring that. I know, I know. He was your friend and his wife is your friend and his son is Chris’ friend, but finding out what happened can’t be up to you. What are you doing here?”
His expression was full of—was it concern? It was my turn to look away.
“I don’t know exactly. I feel like I can’t abandon them. They want my help so I have to give it, and this is what I’m good at, putting little pieces together to get the whole picture.”
And then, when I stopped talking, I did know what I was doing. When Jeff died, we had the only fact that mattered. We knew what happened. A middle-aged man had spent the afternoon at a bar instead at of his job. That is the reason Jeff died, plain and simple. I could not then and would not ever be able to answer the why because there was no answer. But maybe there was an answer out there for Natalya and Alex. Maybe, even if I would never help myself, I could help them. So I had to. End of story.