David Duffy - In for a Ruble

“Okay, I understand what you were doing,” I lied. “What about Irina? What was she up to?”

Silence.

I wanted to slap him, then drown his head in the sink. Jenny killed, his father hanging by a thread—because of him. I managed to stifle all that.

“Listen to me. This isn’t about you and your promises anymore. They killed Jenny. They tried to kill your father. They tried to kill Irina Sunday morning. She was the target, not her stepfather. Do you understand that?”

He looked at the ground.

“Do—you—know—where—she—is?”

He looked up. “We… we always agreed if there was a problem… if something happened, we’d meet at my dad’s house in Millbrook. No one ever goes there anymore.”

“Where in Millbrook?”

“White Horse Lane. Only house on the road. It’s more like… a farm. We used to have horses. But not since…”

Daria died, unless I missed my guess.

Foos was already at the computer, pulling up a map. I looked over his shoulder. White Horse Lane was a mile-long cul-de-sac that ran southeast off Route 44, several miles north of town. Foos switched to a satellite image. Rolling fields interspersed with patches of forest the fields had been carved out of. New York horse country. Few roads. He zoomed in on a large farmhouse with an equally large barn, garage, smaller house, pool, and tennis court. The main house, guesthouse, and garage were arranged like a backward “7” with woods north and west. The barn was a hundred yards to the east. The driveway, an extension of the road, split into a “Y,” one prong leading to the barn and the other hooking in front of the main house at the top of the “7,” the guesthouse, set back from the corner, and the garage at the bottom of the long side. The closest road to White Horse Lane, other than Route 44, was Caldecott Lane, another dead end, about a half mile south.

“Where exactly is she?” I asked Andras.

“Guesthouse. She has a key.”

“And you?”

He nodded.

“Hand it over.”

He hesitated.

I thought Foos was going to whack him. Andras must’ve thought so too. He reached into his pocket and took a key off a ring.

“Alarms?”

More reluctance.

Foos said, “Turbo’s on your side, man. But you’re losing me fast.”

“I’ll write down the code.”

“Somebody plow your driveway?” I asked.

“Dad has a caretaker.”

“And if he encounters Irina?”

“She has a letter to show him,” he said quietly.

With a forged signature. Not my concern.

“You set up a communications protocol—a means of contact, cell phone, a way she knows it’s you?”

His eyes bored through the cheap carpeting. If they were lasers, he’d be down to the Super 8’s basement by now.

“Goddammit! You’re wasting time, man,” Foos said.

“I call her three times. First time, four rings. Second time, two. Third time, she answers.”

“Phone has to be on for that.”

Foos banged at the keyboard.

“Back on.”

“Calls?”

“One incoming. Guess who?”

“She answer?”

“Uh-huh. Talked three and a half minutes.”

“Outgoing?”

“Two. One to the old country.”

“Russia?”

“You got it.” He read off a number.

“That’s Moscow. The other?”

“Seven-one-eight number… cell phone… in Brooklyn—Brighton Beach.”

“She’s setting up something—or someone.”

“Wait!” Andras cried.

“No time,” I said. “Foos, check the Yellow Pages—outdoor equipment or sporting goods.”

I was lucky—there was a store a mile away.

“See if there’s a Kinko’s nearby.”

“You’re on a roll. Looks like there’s one in the same strip mall.”

“E-mail a few pages from ConnectPay’s database for printing. They could come in handy.”

“On it.”

Andras shifted back and forth nervously.

“What are you going to do?” he finally blurted.

“First step, convince Irina we’re on her side,” I said.

“I can help,” he said. “I’ll call her right now.”

How do you tell a kid that not only has he been played for a sucker by his supposed girlfriend, but having got what she wanted, she no longer has any use for him?

You don’t. At least, not now.

“Let me get up there first, get the lay of the land. Then we’ll see.”

“But…”

“Turbo knows what he’s doing,” Foos said, shutting the door on discussion. “He calls the shots.”

I was calling the shots. Whether the first statement had merit was anybody’s guess.

Slow going. Only good thing—Konychev couldn’t be moving any faster.

Snow kept falling, wind kept whipping, plows and sanders fought the highway to a standoff. Rush hour traffic inched along. Inevitably, some idiot trying to make time ended up impacted on a guard rail or the back of another car. The Explorer’s four-wheel drive held its own, but that was no protection against the impatient fools around me. One of their miscalculations, and I was done.

Konychev and I started out equidistant from Millbrook, I figured, and we had the same traffic to contend with. I needed to get there first, and I wasn’t planning on the direct route up the driveway. That put me at least an hour behind. I’d stopped at the outdoor equipment store and lucked into a pair of boots that fit. Better yet, snowshoes. Watching one more idiot in an Explorer like mine lose control and take a Honda Accord to the side made me tap the brake and wonder whether Konychev’s Escalade had any better four-wheel drive than my Ford’s.

I turned off I-287 and followed a back road route to the Taconic Parkway. The roads were in worse shape than the interstate, but I had them to myself. As I reached the parkway, 1010 WINS reported a four-car pileup where I-287 and the Taconic met, five miles behind. All lanes blocked. With a little luck, Konychev was caught in the backup and I had the head start I needed.

I checked messages at the office. One, from Aleksei, a few hours before. Call ASAP.

No time for coffee protocol. I used Brandeis’s phone and called his disposable number.

“Thought you’d want to know right away,” he said. “Irina Lishina was treated at a Moscow hospital for a bad wound and infection on December twenty-eighth. She told the doctor she’d fallen on a metal staircase, but he said she’d also been burned. He put her down as a tough kid. She had to be in severe pain the entire time. We’re checking DNA now but I’m betting what we found on the murder weapon matches hers.”

“You got a date of death for her father?”

“Guess. Good tip. I’m grateful.”

He sounded sincere—maybe even a little contrite. Time for that later, I hoped. “You’re welcome.”

“Think she killed him?” he asked.

“Don’t know, but I wouldn’t put much of anything past her.”

“Konychev’s nieces have a penchant for trouble.”

“Meaning?”

“See Ivanov yesterday?”

“No time.”

“He finally ran down the identity of the girl in Konychev’s car on Tverskaya. Tamara Konycheva, daughter of Oleg Konychev. Big wheel in the Barsukov syndicate. And Efim’s stepbrother.”

“Ivanov have any theories on what she was doing in the car, dressed for a night on the town?”

“He says Uncle Efim likes the girls young and younger and isn’t inhibited by family connections.”

I thought about that for a minute. Things continued to clarify. “Can you check a Moscow phone number for me?”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Time’s running out here for someone.” I read off the number Irina called.

“Hang on, this may take a minute.”

It took several. “You’ll never guess.”