Brooklyn Graves

by Triss Stein

  “There’s more. I was there.” Under his gentle questioning, I told him all about it and he was right. It helped. At the end I said, “Do you know anything about what they’ve found?”

  “It’s not my case, so not much more than you could hear on tonight’s news. If it was a professional robbery, something stopped them before they finished the job, that’s for sure. Of course the other possibility is that the victim left a door open, and it was a crime of opportunity. Real nice house, easy access, probably has some things worth snatching. They went in, were grabbing whatever they found and he stumbled into it.”

  “That makes me want to cry.” I had to stop and get calm. “Did you know they apparently snatched up some valuable papers that are mine? Uh, not really mine, the museum’s. Why would anyone do that?”

  He shrugged. “Panic. Stupidity. Evidence, like blood on it. Lots of reasons. What do you mean by valuable? Worth real money, like…”

  “Like an original Declaration of Independence? Or, oh, Jackie Robinson’s autograph on a baseball? No, they only have historical value. Plus they weren’t even the museum’s. They were on loan. I am in big trouble for letting them leave the building.”

  “I see. Did you do it? Let them leave?”

  “Hell, no, I’m not a complete idiot. I just couldn’t stop them.”

  “Cheer up.” He poured the last of my beer into my glass. “Another? Or food?”

  “Both, please. You know this place, you order. I can’ t even focus on the menu.”

  I was soon making inroads on my second beer. “Maybe I can help you, too. Did you know, that night that Dima was killed, he was working at Green-Wood Cemetery? “

  He looked surprised. “Of course.”

  “How come everyone knew but me?” The beer was starting to hit me. “I guess it wasn’t one of the things Dima and I talked about. No overlap. It was not as important as what we shared, like school and kids and fixing houses. Just his other job to pick up some extra bucks. Hmm. Probably used it to buy that other house. There was a robbery there that night at Green-Wood. I suppose you know that, too?”

  “Yes. But remember, Ostrov left the job in the middle of the night. He used his card to open the gate. We can’t rule out that someone else used the card, but that, plus the way they left his body, makes our best guess that he wasn’t killed there and it’s not about the robbery. Not that we aren’t looking at that, too.”

  “The cemetery honchos sure didn’t want anyone to know about the robbery.”

  He looked a little grim. “Damn right. They didn’t even tell us at first. Not telling us is borderline concealing evidence. Idiots, but it probably doesn’t matter.” He smiled at me. “You’re looking a little spacey. Here.” He slid his plate across the table. “Eat up the rest of my appetizers. And here’s the food, too.”

  A big drink of water and scarfing down some rice soaked up some of the alcohol. Two beers didn’t used to do this to me. Probably it was the exhaustion. And not eating much today. Surely it was not age creeping up.

  “So what are you focusing on? With Dima?” I asked the big question. “Was it his brother? Or that nutcase guy on his other block? I know, I know, the way they did it, the way they left him, looks like something professional.”

  “Yes, well, everyone knows that these days, thanks to cop shows on TV. It doesn’t help us do our job, believe me. What jurors think about the magic powers of DNA you wouldn’t believe.” He shook his head. “The short answer is, we are taking a very good look at the brother. He certainly has some history. And we are taking a very good look at the neighbor, because he is one loose cannon altogether. And we are taking a very good look at every piece of Ostrov’s life, not to miss some crucial connection. He had one secret, about that house. There may be others. And that’s all I am going to say.”

  “Shucks. And here I thought I’d charm you into telling me absolutely everything and then I’d go out and solve it all.”

  He laughed. “I suggest you watch fewer crime shows .”

  “I don’t have time to watch any. I haven’t been to a movie since the days I had to take my daughter. Now she prefers her friends. And I don’t watch crime shows. I grew up around cops.”

  He asked how I grew up around cops and I told about my dad’s best friend and where we lived and my mother’s cop cousins. He kind of laughed and said he got it.

  That led naturally to high school and which teachers we had in common and some of his brother’s exploits. I claimed not to have been involved in any of them, and he said that wasn’t what he heard from Kenny, and I, on my third beer, started laughing, too, claiming I had to deny it all. I had a high school daughter who needed a good role model.

  Third beer and the last of the curry, Thai salad, shrimp in coconut milk. Mango sticky rice and fried bananas for dessert to share. And espresso before I went home to Chris.

  Against all odds, we were having fun. At my door, he kissed me, just like his brother Kenny would have, like an old friend, but said, “Next Saturday night? Fish and chips?” It sounded good to me.

  I came home to Chris pacing the floor and snapping out at me, “Where have you been?” before I even had my jacket off.

  “What are you talking about? You were out, so I had dinner with a—with a friend.”

  “Until 10:30? Did you forget you have a child at home? You’re the one who sets my school night curfew.”

  “Chris. Listen to me. You. Were. Out.” It had been too hard a day for this.

  “You weren’t here when I got home. And I needed you.”

  The headache was starting again, right behind my eyes.

  “Okay, Chris. What is going on that is so important?”

  “Everything. My life sucks. All of it. “

  Oh, lord. It was an extension of the argument we had in my office.

  “Uh, could you be more specific? I can’t deal with ‘everything.’ And maybe we need cocoa for this.”

  “Mom! Am I a baby? Cocoa??? I have grown up problems here. A chem test I am bound to fail. Guidance class assignment is a sample college essay. How—how?—am I supposed to do that without help? I’m not ready. Oh, yes, one more little thing. I know two people who were just killed. That’s not normal for my age! I’m just like Alex—who is getting weirder by the day, by the way—I only have one parent. But I don’t even seem to have that lately.”

  Her voice rose with each sentence.

  “Chris.” I took a deep breath. “You can’t just dump all of these things on me at once. Be reasonable. I have grown-up problems. Yours are different.” I saw her expression and quickly added, “Not that they don’t feel big to you, I know they do, but give me a break here. It’s been a tough day.” I took another deep breath. “If you’re failing chemistry—which I don’t even believe—I’ll scrape up the money for tutoring, okay? Ask around at school for a name. I’d love to hear about Alex but not right now. I’ll help with the essay over the weekend. Okay? Anything else?”

  I was so tired I was swaying and sat down quickly.

  “Is that it? That’s it? Like, we just had a meeting?” She started to cry. “You don’t get it. You don’t understand. My life sucks. It’s all a mess, all of it. I need…” She was sobbing now. “I need…” She gulped and finally said, “On top of everything else, I haven’t heard from Jared in three days.”

  “That is what this drama is all about? You haven’t heard from this…this teenage twerp? I can’t do this, Chris. I have very real, very serious problems on all sides of me that you can’t even imagine, and I am so exhausted I am shaking. It’s not that I don’t care, but not now. The problems will still be there to talk about tomorrow. “

  She stopped in mid-sob and looked at me with an expression I could not read. Not then.

  “You think my life isn’t serious like yours is? Well, it’s serious to me. You just don’t get it. Not one thing. E
ven if you are a PhD candidate.”

  She turned without another word and walked away toward the stairs. I tried to say, “Oh, Chris, I didn’t mean…” Then I heard the door to her room slam, and right then, I just didn’t care. I couldn’t. As I said, the problems would still be there for solving in the morning.

  I slept and slept and woke up and rolled over and slept some more. I was recovering from this extraordinarily stressful week. It was not a workday and it felt like a gift not to have to deal with anyone there. Or like an answered prayer.

  Chris’ door was closed when I finally got up. I knocked and called her name, just making sure she had gotten up and to school on her own. Getting up on time is not a key skill for any teen.

  No answer but I could see from upstairs that her backpack and jacket were gone from the coat stand. Good. I concluded she had gotten up and out on her own. I left her door closed and reveled in the prospect of a quiet morning with no drama.

  Food and caffeine started to work their magic. I hit the speed dial for Darcy but she didn’t answer; it was the middle of her busy working day. My buddy Joe apparently had a new girlfriend. I didn’t want to talk to my always-stressed out grad school classmates. I especially didn’t want to talk to my dad. Maybe I’d go see the one person I knew who might have some practical advice. Leary. He would be distracting company. And he knew an awful lot about crime.

  I picked up a rotisserie chicken at one of the many delis, added some sides and was ringing Leary’s lobby bell in precisely twenty-seven minutes.

  Someone with a key went in and I just followed. Not real smart of the key holder, but he probably figured someone who had a shopping bag smelling of roasted chicken was not dangerous.

  “Leary!” I pounded his door and shouted and pounded some more, and finally I heard the multiple locks clicking open.

  “Well?”

  “Try to pretend you’re glad to see me. I need advice and I brought lunch.”

  His expression changed from annoyed to interested. “There wouldn’t happen to be a slice of fudge cake in there?”

  “Oh, sure. A six-pack, too.”

  “Don’t torment an old man. But come in, I guess. A man’s got to eat, even if it’s healthy crap.”

  He didn’t fool me. I knew he was glad to see me.

  I cleared a mountain of mail off his only table, rummaged in his kitchen and tableware, and said, “Was your aide here recently? I’m finding clean dishes.”

  By the time we had demolished the chicken and the pasta, he had stopped grousing about the lack of alcohol, and said, “So, Miss Meals on Wheels, what’s on your mind?”

  I blurted it all out. Ryan. My work issues. Dima’s murder. My questions about the stolen window. My worries about the stolen papers.

  “Whoa. You’re flipping all over the place. And I don’t deal with feelings, anyway. Or office politics. I wasn’t good at it when I had some and you wouldn’t want my advice. Now crime, that’s another matter altogether. So let’s break it down.”

  I nodded.

  “You got all these weird events, right? Maybe just coincidences? Nothing to do with you, anyhow. But you want to know if they are connected? Yeah? That’s all it is?”

  “I guess. Yes.” His cold water actually did seem to make it less of a muddle. “At least, it’s a start.”

  “Hmm. Back when dinosaurs roamed Prospect Park and I was a hot reporter, we started with Churchy Lafam.”

  “What? Who the hell…”

  “Churchy Lafam, cookie. Find the girl.” He looked smugly amused. “You never heard that expression? And you a doctoral student?”

  The fog cleared. “Oh, for God’s sakes. You mean cherchez la femme. Very funny.”

  “Well,” he said mildly, “we used to think it was.”

  “Doesn’t apply here. There are femmes all over the place. Natalya. Chris. Bright Skye. Dr. Reade.”

  “Go home and make a list with notes. Put in all the names, no matter how unimportant. Sometimes your typing hands know what your brain hasn’t figured out. Know what I mean? And, no, you can’t do it here. No one but me touches my keyboard. Then the other old saying is ‘Cui bono.’”

  “Leary!!! Dammit. I came for help, not mind games.”

  “Okay, okay. In courtroom English, ‘Who benefits?’ or, translated to Brooklyn English, ‘Follow the dough.’”

  “That might make more sense, or it might if I had any answers.” I checked them off on my fingers. “Dima—no one benefits…”

  “That you know about…”

  “As I was about to say, maybe his scary brother, if Natalya is right. Ryan, whoever broke in? Window theft, the thieves. Duh. I feel like I am the place where it all connects.” I got up and paced his cluttered living room. “I knew Dima. I have had dealings at Green-Wood about a Tiffany window. The Tiffany letters were in my possession. And if there is a mystery about Maude, it’s my job to solve it. But I’m totally useless. I can’t make any sense of any of it. “

  “Nah. You just need to noodle it some more. Start with what you know most about, those letters. Or tackle your most solvable personal problem and get it out of the way. Or,” he said, with unusual gentleness, “you could just let it go. It used to be my job but it ain’t yours.”

  I thought it over, ignoring his last sentence.

  “The window is just a theft. Probably. It’s appalling, but yeah, it is not personal. I only really, deeply care if it has something to do with the rest. Do you think it does?”

  He shrugged. “Not thinking anything, because we don’t have enough to go on. Ever hear of facts first, then theory?”

  “And Dima—that’s for the police. Totally their job. I do know that. But people I care about care about that. A lot. Natalya. And Alex, who I know is in pain. I’ve known him since he could barely walk. Even Chris.”

  “And this kid? Ryan, is it?”

  “I don’t think I can forget about him either.”

  “Ha. I wouldn’t know about this, personally—thank God!—but sounds like a mom kind of feeling in there? Yeah?”

  “Maybe. Yes. “

  “Well, get rid of it! It’s not helping you. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, have I taught you nothing? You need to think, not feel.”

  I considered smacking him, but after silently staring away for a long minute, I decided to make better use of him.

  “You’ve been around a long time. What do you know about Russian crime in Brooklyn?”

  “Not a damn thing.” He didn’t hesitate for a second. “After my time. In my day, Russian crime meant spies, cloak-and-dagger stuff. All I know is that when the USSR opened up immigration, not all of them were bleeding-heart-worthy refugees. Sure, there’s a mob, maybe more than one. Why should they be different from any other Americans?”

  “That is not helpful. I was thinking about Natalya’s brother-in-law.”

  “Sorry. Like I said, after my time. When they came in, I wasn’t covering Brooklyn anymore and then I wasn’t working anymore at all.”

  He grinned. “You just got to keeping pulling on those threads until it starts unraveling. Start with the one thing most likely to get you results. And okay, I do know who might know something. I already got my phone calls in. I might have an answer as soon as tomorrow.”

  “And you’ll tell me as soon as soon as you have something?”

  “Maybe.” He saw my face and laughed. “Yeah, you little persistent mosquito, I will. See, I always said you have the makings of a reporter.”

  “You know, Leary, if we went online….”

  “Ha. Even I thought of that, but not everything is out there, ya know? And what you maybe don’t know is that not everything reporters learn gets into print. I’ve still got a few sources so I’ll do it the old school way—we’ll talk.”

  ***

  I left feeling better all around. Surprisi
ng—no, incomprehensible—that a visit with a grouch like Leary had helped lighten my mood.

  I walked the block to my car, quickly, purposefully, and with a posture that tried to say, “Mess me with me and I’ll rip your eyes out.” Attitudes can be armor. I hoped. And I hoped the guy in that doorway across from my car was just waiting for a friend. Or someone to mug that looked more vulnerable than I do. And that he was not looking at me. Or for me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I thought some extra time at work would give me the chance to pull on some of those threads.

  Then the chance came to me. Dr. Flint was at my doorway, just in time to interfere with my need to find some giant cookies. Stress eating was kicking in full force and I did not care.

  Even in my present distracted state I could see he did not look well. The perfect hair was sticking out oddly, the elegant clothes were mismatched and rumpled.

  “I am going to have things out with you. No more nonsense.” He stepped in without being invited. His eyes were like marbles and his tone was belligerent. I gave him a glassy cold stare in return. Country clubs are not the only place to learn how to stare people down. Not even the best place.

  “Really? Just what is it you have to say to me? Let me rephrase: just what is it you think you have to say to me? And why should I listen?”

  He checked, perhaps surprised, and then seemed to reboot. “You made a fool of me in front of my colleagues. I am not having a little snip like you demeaning my reputation…and my professional integrity.…”

  I folded my arms, and said, “I could not have made a fool of you without your abundant help. I didn’t force you to steal—yes, steal!—those documents. I tried to stop you. And if that’s all you have to say, get the hell of my office.”

  I dimly knew this might be a career-damaging moment. I no longer cared.