The Con Man's Daughter (27 page)

Eddie strolled around reading wanted posters,

Detective Division memos, and personnel orders. Then, when the cop went into the boss's office to drop the typed form in his in box, Eddie lifted a booking photo of Zina Rabinovich and put it in his pocket. He didn't need any lineup. This was the face.

Chapter 30

Monday, April 13

1:00 A.M.

Except for the fact that every patron was female, Alice B's could have been any neighborhood bar in town. It had once been a raucous Coney Island beer joint, and the new owners apparently liked the blue-collar ambience, as very little appeared to have changed. Centered on the wooden frame above the bar was a piece of stained glass too lovely to remove. Embedded in the glass was the image of a harp, the national symbol of the Emerald Isle, and the name of the previous owner: O'Gorman. Eddie took a stool in the corner, far away from the other drinkers. His back was against the wall, cop-style. At that angle, he could see everyone in the place.

Midnight on Sunday finds most New York bars dozing. Alice B's had that hushed feel, everyone whispering but not knowing why. Even though he wasn't drinking anymore, Eddie still liked the calm of gin mill Sunday nights. It was a time for the bar's family to reconnect, for the bartenders and waitresses to sip the owner's good stuff and trade dirty jokes. The obnoxious weekend crowd was gone, so the regulars finally got the attention they deserved. Eddie figured the people in Alice B's tonight were regulars. So when he walked in, he interrupted not only girl talk but family hour.

The attractive slender woman behind the bar wore leather pants and a black turtleneck sweater. She didn't rush right down to Eddie, waiting a few beats instead, hoping he'd figure things out on his own. When he didn't, she sighed and made a big show of schlepping down to his end of the bar. Most bartenders slap a coaster down in front of you, then invite you to name your poison. This one did neither.

"I think you picked the wrong place, pal," she said. 'Try Nevin's, down the block. I think you'll feel more comfortable there."

"Club soda," Eddie said. "Twist of lime, if you have it."

"Look around, big guy. The diddly-diddly crowd ain't here anymore."

"Forget the lime if it's a problem."

"You didn't hear me."

"I heard you," Eddie said.

Eddie watched to make sure she didn't play games with his drink. He put his money down on the bar; there was no way she was going to let him run a tab. As his eyes got used to the light, he could see there were four women at the bar, another half dozen at tables, and two moving slowly across the dance floor. One of the dancers was a redhead. Her hair, full and wild, made him look twice, but she was much shorter than Kate. Eddie took out the photograph of Zina and leaned it against his club soda.

You rarely see a smiling mug shot. Zina was not pretty, but she had a great wide smile, full lips, and a complex-ion that wasn't suffocated by makeup. Her nose was big and slightly off center, but it made you focus on those immense dark eyes. Oddly enough, her hair looked clean and shiny. A neat trick for someone who supposedly lived under the hood of a car.

Eddie took his time studying each woman who might possibly be Zina. Most were too fat, too thin, or too Barbie. The nearest drinker at the bar was a big-boned woman with a GI buzz cut. She was wearing a sleeveless denim vest. On her right biceps was a large tattoo of a leopard holding a banner in its teeth. He couldn't read the words on the banner. His eyes kept drifting back to the redhead on the dance floor as the jukebox played a slow country-and-western song. The couple swayed, barely moving. The C &W surprised Eddie. He didn't think this would be a Nashville crowd.

The bartender sat on a cooler, her legs tucked up under her, as she talked to a small blonde at the bar. Eddie waited, sipping his club soda. He wanted them to get used to him for a few minutes. Let them realize he wasn't a self-loathing drunk out searching for a beating, or a lesbo watcher looking to get his jollies. The bartender and the blonde were facing in his direction but were looking at the TV above his head. He could see in the mirror's reflection that they were watching a
Law and Order
rerun. With the sound off, they read the closed captions.

"Bartender," Eddie finally said. He knew better than to refer to her as miss, or think of her as a
barmaid
.

She said something out of the side of her mouth, which got a few laughs, then walked down.

"Do you know this woman?" he asked, showing her the picture of Zina. He held his thumb partially over the B number under her chin, but still letting her see it.

"I figured you gotta be a cop," she said. "Ballsy attitude and all. My friend says it's not balls, that it's something kinkier, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."

She took a quick look at the photo, not long enough to tell anything. Her answer was prepared and practiced.

"Never saw her before."

"Look again," he said. "She comes in here all the time."

"I told you: I don't know her."

"Sure you do. Her name is Zina Rabinovich."

"If you know who she is, why the hell you asking me?"

"I need to find her."

"Sorry, can't help you."

"Then I'll ask your friends," he said, starting to get off the stool.

"Wait, wait, wait," she said. "What's so important that you need to find her tonight?"

"Because a friend of hers just got arrested. A retarded guy named Freddie Dolgev. He lives across the hall from her. He wanted me to find her."

"If you know where she lives, go there."

"I did. She's not home."

"Okay, just show me some identification before I let you go around interrogating my customers."

Eddie took out the small leather case that contained the replica of his old detective shield. The tattered case looked like it had been around the block. He'd carried it since he'd first made detective. The emblem and numbers had embedded in the leather. It couldn't have looked more authentic. His ID card was another matter. Retired cops got to keep their ID; it was merely stamped "Retired." No such perk if you resigned. Before turning in his ID on his last day as a cop, he'd color-copied and laminated it. It looked official-enough, sitting behind the yellowed plastic sleeve in the case.

"Give me a minute," the bartender said.

Her leather pants squeaked as she went back to the other end to confer with the small blonde. The big bare-armed woman, muttering to herself, slapped the bar hard with the palm of her hand; then she stood up and walked out. As she turned to throw an ugly glare at Eddie, he saw that the tattooed banner read death before dishonor. A minute later, the small blonde pulled up the stool next to him. She wore a navy blazer over faded jeans and could have been a suburban soccer mom.

"I never saw you around here before," she said after she asked to see his identification.

"I'm on special assignment."

"Where do you normally work?"

"The Four-eight in the Bronx."

"You know Kevin Moroney?"

Eddie did know Kevin Moroney. But he also knew the blonde was a cop and that she had his number.

"It was the ID, right?" Eddie said.

"The whole department changed years ago. We use an upright card now, and it's red, white, and blue. Only retired cops carry these old maroon cards."

"I should get it changed."

"If you're going to pull this stunt again, you'd better. There's one thing I want you to remember: Don't ever pull this shit in here again or I'm going to lock your ass up. You're not an active cop. You can't play like you're one. That's impersonating. It's a crime. Good try, but you can't do this. We understand each other?"

"Yeah," Eddie said. "But how about Zina?"

"Don't worry about Zina. Someone will get word to her that Freddie is jammed up. Is he in the Six-oh?"

The couple on the dance floor clung together during another slow tune, a twangy female vocalist who had it bad and that ain't good. All other eyes were focused on him.

"Listen," Eddie said, leaning over so he could speak softly. "You seem like a nice young woman. So I have a little advice for you. Don't get on the wrong side of this. If Zina has anything to do with kidnapping my daughter, you don't want to come out of this as a lesbian cop who obstructed justice."

The little blonde sat back and gave him a look that said, Okay, now I've got it. "I know who you are," she said, nodding her head. "I heard the story. Tough thing, tough goddamn thing. I want you to know that if Zina had anything to do with it, I'll be the first one to put cuffs on her. Okay? We see eye-to-eye on that, right? Like I said, I feel bad for what happened. Hurting your family is bullshit, but that doesn't give you the right to come in here and threaten me. All that does is piss me off."

"I wish all I felt now was pissed-off," Eddie said.

"Get the fuck out of here," she said. "Before we have to call an ambulance."

In the quiet, the regulars picked up on the tension in the blonde's voice. Eddie nodded toward her and scooped all but a buck off the bar. Nothing to be gained in forcing the issue. On the way out, he stopped to read the posted softball schedule. The Brooklyn Adult Women's Fast-Pitch Softball League. Six teams total, a few in Queens. Alice B's played Dietrich's for the season opener on May 1. Eddie snatched the schedule off the wall. It gave him five more places to look. One called Lady's was close by, in Bay Ridge, ten minutes away. He had enough time before closing to hit a few of them.

A damp, cold Coney Island chill hung in the night air. The streets were empty, but as soon as he took three steps from the bar, he could see something was wrong. The entire driver's side of his Olds tilted toward the road. He had a flat tire and no spare. There would be no tour of lesbian bars tonight. Then as he got closer… double that problem. Two flats. Both tires had been slashed.

Sunday night was always a bitch in Brooklyn. Auto mechanics in the borough were never informed that Brooklyn was part of a town called "the city that never sleeps." Just try to get a tire fixed on Sunday night. Eddie took both tires off, then eventually found an off-duty cab-driver willing to make two hundred bucks. He tossed the tires in the trunk and the driver took him to the spot his garage used. He bought two retreads from Northey's Discount Tire, got them mounted, and paid another two hundred for the ride back.

By the time he got there, a hint of a sunrise had begun to lighten the sky. Srillwell Avenue was so quiet, he could hear the ocean churning. A few early birds hustled toward the el station. Eddie jacked up the front end of the Olds and slid the wheel on, only hand-tightening the lugs. Then he went to the back wheel. He heard another car nearby, the engine idling roughly. Looking in his side-view mirror, he saw a dark blue muscle car, either a Camaro or a Firebird, parked in front of the coffee shop across from Nathan's. The car vibrated from a badly tuned engine. The glass was tinted black. A stream of cigarette smoke rose from the crack above the window on the driver's side. Eddie tightened the lug nuts on the back wheel. He didn't bother with the hubcap; he tossed it in the trunk for now. Then he went back to the front wheel.

With two lugs to go, Eddie worked faster. He needed a shower, something to eat, and a chance to talk to someone who loved him. He pressed his cheek against the front fender and leaned into it. Then something hit the car. He heard it at the same moment he felt the impact. It hit the roof, something solid, a heavy, rolling bang. At first, he thought it was a rock, maybe a baseball or pool ball. Rolling… from the roof… rolling down to the hood. It bounced off the hood, hit the pavement, and rolled against the curb right in front of him.

Nobody had to yell "Grenade." Despite stiff knees, he moved quickly, three steps to the back of the Olds. He hit the ground and rolled under an SUV parked behind him. He saw the muscle car peel out, but he only heard rubber squealing for a moment. Then the explosion.

The aftermath was worse than the boom. His ears rang as if he had a burglar alarm in his head. The SUV still shook. Dirt and grit that had fallen from the undercarriage of the SUV when it was rocked by the blast filled his mouth, eyes, and hair. Eddie pushed himself out, then to his feet. He could feel the smashed safety glass in his palms. The air was full of rising dust and dirt and the smell of explosives. And the ringing car alarms, burglar alarms.

Then another ring, the wail of sirens. On Stillwell Avenue, people in bathrobes came from apartments he didn't know existed. They were out pointing at him. Cops were on the way. Eddie knew they'd be uniformed precinct cops finishing up a midnight tour. Looking to get home and crawl in the sack with mama still warm from the night. He knew the cops had just finished checking the business glass in their sectors, ready for morning coffee and a hard roll. They were thinking, Can't this bullshit wait for the day tour? It never did. He also knew what the Coney Island cops would say after the mop-up and the paperwork were done. They'd say what Paulie the Priest always said: "Just another day at the beach."

Chapter 31

Monday

8:30 A.M.

The Bomb Squad dug small chunks of metal out of car fenders and wood-framed buildings and identified the weapon as a Russian RGO fragmentation grenade. RGOs sold for five bucks apiece on the worldwide stolen-weapons network. The fuses often varied in length by as much as seven seconds. Eddie'd been lucky to get a slow burner.

His ears weren't as lucky-he could still hear the ringing. His skin felt tight and drawn, as if freshly sunburned, and he'd inhaled and swallowed a pound of grit. Otherwise, he was fine.

No stitches, no broken bones. The biggest victim was the Olds. After the CSU went over it, they towed it to the precinct, but it was history. "Junk it," Matty Boland told him. "Your insurance won't cover acts of God or hand grenades."

Although he was hurting, Eddie felt surprisingly at peace. It was the same feeling he'd always had in the days after a tough fight. Pain and exhaustion were strangely comforting. Boland drove him home the long way. A quiet ride up the Major Deegan past the white stone facade of Yankee Stadium, the home of the Bronx Bombers, a name that had taken on a new significance. The Baltimore Orioles were due to get blasted at 8:10 p.m. He closed his eyes in the morning sun as they drove past Yonkers Raceway, where the suckers arrived at 7:30.