Thursday, April 16

10:10 A.M.

 

On the morning of the tenth day, Eddie Dunne sat on the hood of Kate's Toyota, looking up at his house and waiting for Detective Babsie Panko. His body, which had never let him down before, now shouted messages of surrender to his brain. His left forearm was still swollen, the stiffness in his fingers getting worse. But even if he had time, he wouldn't go to the hospital; they'd just sling it and hand him a painkiller. A few years earlier, he'd broken the radial bone in his elbow while sliding headfirst into third base in a bar league's softball game. It felt like that again. Nothing broken ever heals completely.

He'd been waiting for Babsie for almost an hour. She'd worked into the night on Zina's Visa card and phone bills. Then, a little after 7:00 a.m., she ran out the door, saying she wanted to talk to the DA in White Plains. Not a word from her since, and they needed to get moving soon if they were going to have time to visit the Sheepshead Bay Marina. For a woman who grew up a mile from the Bronx, Babsie didn't have a clue about how long it took to get around the city in the middle of a weekday.

With the warmth of the spring sun boring through the trees, Eddie could recall the sight of Eileen at her kitchen window, singing in that thin soprano common to churchwomen. As a young girl in cuffed jeans and tight pink sweaters, the former Eileen McGuire sang the words to every doo-wop song by the Dell Vikings, the Dell Satins, or any of the street-corner wonders of the fifties. Somewhere along the way, the joy diminished and the hymns and the sadness engulfed her. It was no secret that she considered the life choices of her husband to be more than she could bear. In the end, she sang the same sad stanzas over and over, without realizing she was doing it.

With a screech of rubber, Babsie's Crown Vic came around the hedges and barreled up the driveway. She looked frazzled, her hair wild. Eddie made the mistake of looking at his watch.

"Just get in the car," she said.

"We don't have time for the marina."

"We have time. Get in."

Eddie insisted on taking his car. He had his reasons. The Yonkers Police Department's Crown Vic had no official markings, but it looked so much like a police car, it might as well have had the bubblegum lights on the roof. Then he whispered to her that he didn't want to use her city-owned car to transport the money. Using his car would give weight to her "story" in case his plan went sour.

"As far as I'm concerned," he said, "you don't know anything about the bag in my trunk. Whatever I do will be a complete surprise to you."

"Let me see this fake boodle," she said, sighing theatrically as she grabbed her cell phone, notes, and camera and shoved them in her purse.

Eddie opened the Toyota's trunk and unzipped a blue canvas duffel bag. Babsie whistled, then picked up what appeared to be a tall stack of older hundred-dollar bills. She held it between her thumb and fingers, fanning the ends with her other thumb.

"This might work," she said. "How did you get them wrapped so tight?"

"Kevin and I used to deliver advertising flyers; the machine is still in the basement of the bar. It cuts, wraps, and binds stacks of paper with this reinforced wire ribbon. You need heavy-duty scissors to cut these bindings."

Babsie began the trip in silence, rearranging her purse. Eddie told her the rawness in his tongue had eased, toughened from a night's reprieve of scraping across a cracked tooth. Then he explained the layout of Jimmy's Bistro, particularly the parking lot. He said he thought he'd be able to approach Zina outside, if Babsie could flash her identification and pull Mrs. Borodenko aside for a few minutes. This would give him time to show Zina his good faith, now bundled tightly in the trunk. The next move would be hers. Babsie nodded, as if to say, Whatever you want.

"I called Celltech this morning," she said.

"You didn't use your nurse connection?" Eddie asked.

"It wouldn't have worked. They never give out information on DNA tests without a court order."

"What DNA tests?"

"That's what I'm getting a court order to find out," she said. "We know that Zina submitted two samples for comparison, but they won't tell us the names without a court order."

"What's the basis for the order?"

"We have reasonable cause to believe that evidence regarding our homicide victim, Paul Caruso, is in the possession of Celltech labs."

Eddie knew the circumstances surrounding the murder of Paul Caruso gave them the legal footing for the court order. A torn photo, similar to one recently removed from the residence of said Paul Caruso, had been found in a premises under the control of Zina Rabinovich, the individual who had submitted the DNA for testing. Ms. Rabinovich was known to have criminal ties to the alleged murderer, Sergei Zhukov, who was in Sicily at the time Mr. Caruso and the photo disappeared. It wasn't a tremendous reach.

"At this point," Babsie said, "we know Zina submitted a VNTR pattern request. That's a parent-child pattern analysis to determine paternity. If one sample turns out to be Paulie's, then it's evidence in a murder investigation."

"How soon will they know?"

"Couple of hours, at most. Our people already completed Paulie's pattern, to back up the dental record identification. Soon as the court order is signed, Celltech can compare the two. How the hell long could that take?"

"If it is Paulie, fatherhood or not, it links Zina directly to his murder."

'Then she's a collar," Babsie said. "So take your best shot at her today."

Toby Davis, the caretaker of the Sheepshead Bay Marina, knew Eddie Dunne the moment he walked through the door. Although his eyes were failing, the grizzled old sailor, who'd won a Purple Heart at Iwo Jima, said Eddie's name before the door closed behind him. Mr. Eddie. Eddie introduced Babsie as a friend. Babsie corrected him, emphasizing she was a detective investigating the murder of Paul Caruso. It surprised Eddie that Toby didn't mention his daughter, but the old man probably never knew his last name. Paul Caruso had owned the boat, rented the slip, paid all the bills.

"Shame about your partner," Toby said. "But he lived a lot longer than I ever thought he would. His momma raised one insane child."

Babsie showed Toby the picture of Paul Caruso, Eddie, and Lana standing in front of the Bright Star. Toby held it up close to his face. He knew the guys, he said, but he didn't recognize the woman. Eddie didn't know whether he was being discreet or honest.

'Toby didn't think much of us as sailors," Eddie said.

"Sailors?" he said. "You two wouldn't make a pimple on a sailor's ass. When the Bright Star left the dock, I had to put the Coast Guard on alert. Every night, I went home thinking, Tonight's the night those crazy sons a bitches gonna burn down my marina."

"One fire and you're an arsonist," Eddie said.

"On my dock, miss. They start a bonfire on a wooden dock. Now what the hell kind of senseless boys do that?"

Babsie asked the old man what ever happened to Paul Caruso's boat. He didn't have to look in the file. Toby remembered boats, not blondes.

"The Bright Star?" Toby said, playing to Babsie. "It was like putting a three-year-old behind the wheel of a race car in the Indy Five Hundred. A thirty-five-foot

Grand Banks. Beautiful craft. Mr. Caruso thought it was like driving a car. He'd forget it didn't have brakes. We had to put two layers of extra tires around their dock. Whomp, the whole place shook when they pulled in. Never saw anything like it."

"Lucky they didn't kill somebody," Babsie said.

"How we all survived, I'll never know. God takes care of beautiful things, and He took special care of this boat. Mr. Caruso asked me to sell it shortly after you two got tired of it. I jumped up, got right on the phone. We found it a good home with a young New York City fireman. Local boy named Stark. Mr. Caruso gave him one hell of a deal on it, too."

"We weren't that bad, Babsie," Eddie said.

"Miss," Toby said, "when I came to work in the morning, I never even glanced over at the Bright Star. I was afraid what I was gonna see. Beer cans floating in the water, brassieres flying from the outrigging, bare asses on the foredeck."

"Does Mr. Stark still keep it here?" Babsie asked.

"For a while, he did," Toby said. "One summer, he was here almost every day, scraping and painting. Looked better than new when he finished. He renamed it Stevie's Dream. Now he keeps it at a private dock behind his house, over near Gerritsen Beach."

Toby said that Stark had reupholstered everything that could be reupholstered. He redid the teak and replaced almost everything in the galley. He said that Stark still brought it in every year for engine work. Usually around this time, late April, early May.

"The day that boat left here," Toby said, "both me and it were smiling."

 

* * *

 

Despite making great time on the Belt Parkway, they got to Jimmy's Bistro in Staten Island as the valet was parking Borodenko's Mercedes.

"Today's the day they had to get here early," Babsie said.

"We should have been waiting."

"Okay, my fault," Babsie said. "We'll grab them on the way out."

Valet parking complicated Eddie's plan. They hadn't used it the last time he'd followed them here. His idea was to approach Zina as they were getting in or out of the car, but now the valet would deliver the car to the front door of the restaurant. A good chance there'd be a crowd waiting under the awning. Too many people within earshot might spook Zina.

"We're not even sure Zina is in there," Eddie said.

"She's in there. It was on her calendar. We'll just wait."

"I need to know when they're leaving," Eddie said. "Why don't you go inside and eat. Get a table close to them. They have no idea who you are."

"Looks pricey, Eddie. I don't think I have enough money on me."

"I've got nine bucks left," he said. "Everything else is tied up. I'd give you my credit card if I had one."

Babsie said she'd use her own, then slung her purse over her shoulder. The big leather bag bulged with equipment-her camera, her cell phone, her gun, her case folder. All he'd brought to the island was nine bucks, an aching body, and a half-assed plan. He couldn't blame her if she cut her losses with him. Why should she believe that he had a snowball's chance in hell of ever getting anything right? Ten minutes later, he heard the ringing of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling."

"Your friend Zina," Babsie said, "is uglier than her booking photo."

"What she lacks in looks, she makes up for in muscle."

"The other one just came back from the ladies' room. She's a little wobbly."

"Probably shit-faced," Eddie said.

"She looks like a bulimia case with a Jackie Onassis wardrobe: raincoat, scarf, and oversized sunglasses. Can't see her face. Okay, okay, glasses off, rubbing her face. Pretty. Very pretty girl. What is she, about twenty, twenty-one?"

"Maybe a year or two older."

"She's wearing a dress that looks like something Joan Crawford wore in Mildred Pierce. Not that I'm an expert or anything, but it looks old to me."

"Save the fashion commentary," Eddie said.

"Okay. Two bottles of wine on the table. Bottle of red, bottle of white. Zina pouring red. I'll tell you right now… Zina looks like that badass Indian in The Last of the Mohicans."

Babsie said she'd schmoozed the maitre d' by telling him he reminded her of a young AI Pacino. "Works every time in marinara joints," she said. She refused three booths, until he placed her at a small table in the back. Situated behind an ivy-covered partition, it offered a workable sight line to Zina's plush curved booth.

"I saw this in a spy movie," Babsie said. "Peeking through the ivy. Casablanca maybe, something in black and white."

Eddie heard a breath. She said she'd blown out the candle and set it in an opening in the ornate brick latticework. The candleholder held down enough ivy to provide a less obstructed view. Then another voice: a waiter, giving the luncheon specials. Eddie wanted to ask how much it would cost if they just called it lunch.

"You're paying for this," Babsie said. "Fifteen bucks for a goddamn house salad. Two fifty for goddamn iced tea. I gotta take this menu to Martha and Kevin."

Eddie heard the clink of china and silverware in the background. Jerry Vale sang "Innamorata." Babsie bitched about the prices. What a great surveillance tool a cell phone was. Eddie never would have thought of using it this way. Wearing a body mike and lugging an expensive receiver were the old way. This was so easy. Half the people in the place were probably yakking away on them anyway, so the cover was ideal.

Babsie said, "You were right about Zina being the one in those sketches. That schnozz is unmistakable."

"All you have to do is tell me when they're leaving."

"Oh, Jesus…" Babsie said.

"Oh Jesus what?" Use whole sentences, he wanted to tell her.

"Zina just leaned over and kissed her."

"Really?"

"Not just a kiss… a big wet tongue."

"Bullshit, not in public."

"I told you this was a romance," she said. "This is why you can't let guys do surveillance work. They miss the nuances."

Eddie heard a click and a motor whine. Sounded like a camera, but she wouldn't be using a camera.

"I'm taking a few pictures," she said.

"That was pretty loud, Babsie. Anybody around you?"

"Empty tables and the back door."

"Careful," he said.

The camera clicked and whined four or five times. Babsie laughed softly.

"You need to see this, Eddie. Zina's treating her like she's a prom date. Doing everything but pinning on a corsage. You want to know how to treat a woman? Watch her. The little touches, fixing the scarf around her neck. Brushing the hair off her face. Two women going to lunch are not this touchy-feely. We've got a major romance going here."

"I believe it. Now put the camera away."

"I just did," she said. "And my salad is here."

Eddie waited twenty minutes, listening to Babsie chew and brag about how she'd predicted it would be hot and heavy at Jimmy's Bistro. Women had a sense of subtle behavioral details; guys only saw the obvious. The world according to Babsie.

"Another bottle of red," Babsie reported. "That didn't take long. And they just got their entrees."

Hopefully, it was Mrs. Borodenko chugging the wine. He didn't want Zina drunk. No telling what she'd be like drunk. Eddie tried to figure out how this romance affected the life of his daughter. If it did at all. According to Boland, not a word about Kate had been mentioned on any of the bugs they had in Borodenko's businesses. The cops working the plants felt that the kidnapping was outside of the Borodenko criminal empire. Yuri himself was the only one who ever referred to Kate; every day, he asked if she'd been found yet. It could be bullshit, but he appeared to be out of the loop. Zina might be more of an independent contractor than he'd thought. Wrapping the alcoholic Mrs. Borodenko around her finger. Using her. This would account for Sergei's trip to Palermo. Eddie needed to connect and deal seriously with Zina before Yuri killed her.

"I think AI Pacino gave me up," Babsie said.

"Who?"

"The maitre d'. He's over at their booth now, and Zina is looking my way. Pissed-off. Here she comes."

Eddie heard rustling sounds. He could hear Babsie clear her throat. Then he heard another voice: Zina's.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Babsie said.

"Give me the fucking camera." It was Zina. No doubt about it. That voice was etched in his mind.

Eddie sprinted stiffly across the parking lot. His right hip ached as he bounded up the steps. When he found Babsie's table, she was sitting back, smiling up at Zina. The way her hands were in her lap, he knew she had her gun under the table and was pointing it at Zina's stomach.

"Eddie Dunne, shit," Zina said. "I knew you didn't have the balls to handle it on your own."

"I need to talk to you for a second," Eddie said.

"Get your fucking hands off me," Zina said.

Babsie identified herself to the maitre d', who was running in circles around them. She dropped the camera down in her purse with a big satisfied smile. Zina told the maitre d' she wanted the film before they left. Two burly guys in tight suits converged on them from the bar. Eddie whispered he had the money in the trunk.

"Three million," he whispered.

"You ain't got shit with you," Zina said. "Except this old whore with a badge."

"Okay, last words before the fight," Babsie said.

She was already up, swinging her leather bag over her shoulder. One burly guy maneuvered his body between the two women. The maitre d' asked Babsie to leave, then explained to Zina he couldn't take the camera. Babsie was a police officer on an official investigation.

"Not so fast, bitch," Zina said, reaching around. "I told you I want that film."

Zina grabbed Babsie by the hair and yanked her toward her. Burly guy number one tried to pry Zina's fingers loose. Babsie ducked and spun, swinging the purse low, as if it were a fifty-pound sandbag. She caught Zina behind the knees. Zina buckled backward, then went down flat. Babsie followed with all her weight as her knee slammed into Zina's midsection. Zina gasped, trying to catch her breath, fists flailing at Babsie's face. Both burly guys reached for whatever they could grab-arms, legs, shirts. Eddie planted his foot on Zina's sternum, grabbed Babsie under the arms, and pulled her up.

The bigger burly guy wrapped Eddie in a bear hug, squeezing his sore left elbow against his ribs. The maitre d' Babsie called AI Pacino helped the wheezing Zina to her feet. A clump of Babsie's grayish blond hair clung to the fingers of her right hand. Quick eye contact with Eddie-Babsie saying she was okay. Zina bent over, trying to catch her breath, pointed a finger at Eddie, then made a gesture. She held her palm flat, indicating about three feet high, then ran a finger across her throat. "Grade," she rasped.

"You come near that little girl," Babsie said, "and I'll blow that ugly head off."

Eddie struggled to get out of the bear hug. He looked around for Mrs. Borodenko, but the pale blonde was standing only a few feet to his right in her Joan Crawford dress. Her eyes were puffy and red, as if she'd been caught in the middle of a drunken crying jag, and she was looking right at him. Staring at him.

"Forgive," she said in a breathy Russian accent. That sad, pretty face. A face from another time. She touched his arm as Zina pulled her toward the door. "Forgive."