Ed Dee - The Con Man's Daughter

They followed Boland through a tin warehouse building filled with deep shelves made from fresh lumber. On the shelves were hundreds of used auto transmissions. Cops from Auto Crime examined them for hidden serial numbers. They entered a new metal shed and climbed down through a trapdoor to a tight wrought-iron circular staircase, almost as narrow and twisting as the staircase up to the crown in the Statue of Liberty.

Down one level, the floor of the mobile home was intact, carpeting almost new. It had not been heavily used. The entrance to the tunnel in a side wall had been covered by a blue plastic shower curtain. Climbing in required a two-foot step up from the floor and good flexibility. The damp smell of fresh dirt prevailed. A draped body lay halfway into the entrance.

"We think they killed him here," Boland said. "One of the teams grabbed two guys running toward a pickup truck with a camper. The back hatch of the camper was open. They were getting ready to drop him somewhere else."

The body was partially wrapped in a brown woolen military blanket with writing in the Cyrillic alphabet. The face remained uncovered; no reason to protect the public down here. He'd been shot once in the center of his forehead.

"Sergei Zhukov," Eddie said.

The stippling around the entrance wound indicated it had been at close range. A harsh fluorescent ceiling light glared off the fake wood paneling and cast all faces in the same pallor as Sergei's.

"Is this legit?" Danton asked, handing Eddie a ring. "It was in his pocket."

It was a Claddagh ring-a common Irish gift-two hands clasped around a heart. This one was inscribed on the inside "To Kate from Dad."

"I gave it to her when she graduated from Sacred Heart," Eddie said, fighting to clear his throat as he stared at the ring. He'd bought it for her in Ireland, in a small shop in Galway, right after they'd walked through Claddagh, a small fishing community on Galway Bay and the Atlantic, the place that gave the symbol its life.

'This is a setup," Howie Danton said. "They put the ring on this mook to take the focus off Borodenko. He gets rid of the problem child, Sergei, plus he gets to blame him for Kate. It's this guy's MO. He plants more shit than Johnny Appleseed."

As they rode back to One Police Plaza, Eddie tried to get his mind around this. What did it mean for Kate? If she was dead, they could have just disposed of her body. Borodenko had ample means for causing bodies to evaporate, either Sergei's or Kate's. So why go through all this trouble, planting the ring on Sergei? Why would it matter who got blamed? It meant Kate had to be alive. That made sense, didn't it? Didn't it ?

"Quit mumbling to yourself," Babsie whispered, squeezing his hand.

Too tired to con himself anymore, he began to wonder what he might have to say to his granddaughter. No harm in just thinking. Besides, it was good to think about the worst case, defusing God's sacred element of surprise. He'd talk to Grace about angels, because if there ever was a time to believe in sweet angels, this was it. The rest sent shivers. Aunt Martha and the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church would insist on a High Mass after a nightmare wake. He'd just hold Grace through all the ceremonial weeping and gnashing. That was best. Hold her. And when the smoke of the incense cleared from the air, he'd ask Babsie to move in with them. He'd get the best lawyer money could buy to fight his son of a bitch of a son-in-law. Then he'd spend his nights in Brighton Beach, with blood on his hands. As many nights as it took.

That's the worst-case scenario, he told himself. Paulie said the worst case never happened when you stacked the odds in your favor. He always said that only losers believed they had to play the hand they were dealt. Eddie Dunne needed to turn the odds in his favor. Lie, cheat, steal, it was all recommended in Paulie's book. Eddie didn't have an ace up his sleeve, but he had a key in his pocket.

Wednesday

10:15 A.M.

When Boland parked behind One Police Plaza, he was still arguing with Babsie over possession of Kate's Claddagh ring. Babsie wanted to take it to Yonkers as evidence of the kidnapping, but Boland insisted on vouchering it under Sergei's case. "Evidence should be recorded in the jurisdiction where it is first discovered," Boland said. "Maintaining a consistent chain of evidence is vital in this case because it has worldwide implications." Worldwide implications, Eddie thought. One child from Yonkers was all he'd asked them to save. The world could take care of itself. And yet the shit kept piling higher.

A mayoral press conference was scheduled for noon to tell the city it could breathe easier. The immediate cause for celebration was finding the body of Sergei Zhukov, the El Greco diner killer. Beyond that, but un-mentioned, the feds had removed boxes of paper evidence from the sunken trailer, and left behind a tiny electronic ear. Success bred success. Matty Boland would ran home to shave and dig the Armani out of his closet. He could smell the money the rank of First Grade would bring. Eddie wondered if Boland would sound so triumphant if his child were still missing. But we've been through all that, he told himself. Human nature, the old story.

Pissed-off, Babsie drove home to Yonkers. Eddie went alone to Coney Island, once and again, his second home. When he was a cop, Eddie, like every cop he knew, lived two lives. Cops who couldn't handle separate lives didn't make it. He'd always kept his family away from his job and from Coney Island. Too dangerous, he'd told them, but the truth was, he couldn't risk bumping into a bimbo or bartender who knew him only as crazy in Brooklyn. No sense in exposing a persona he loved when he was in it, and was ashamed of when he wasn't. But he'd put himself in a position where he couldn't share a huge part of his past with the people he loved most. His life had been a lie then. It was a lie now.

He'd lied about Freddie Dolgev's keys. In his pocket was a key to an expensive French lock similar to those on the Mazurka nightclub. Dolgev's key ring had held a set for Coney Custards: freezer padlocks, an equipment closet, and custard machines. Freddie'd probably done maintenance work for the privilege of living in the dank apartment upstairs. One key was missing from the Coney Custards set; it was the one key Eddie had held out. It was marked simply Z and imprinted with the same logo as the dead bolt on apartment A. While Boland stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the mayor today, Eddie would be illegally entering the domicile of one Zina Rabinovich.

The law had had its chance, Eddie thought. All the warrants, affidavits, bugs, wiretaps, searches and seizures, all the surreptitious entries made righteous by words on legal paper added up to zero. He'd learned more from a Gypsy car thief.

Eddie parked two blocks west of Coney Custards and walked down the boardwalk. Gone were the Irish bars, all the wild Gaels dead or in Florida. Only a few Coney Island landmarks were still around: the Cyclone, the Flume, the Astrotower, the Wonder Wheel. Gone were the Mile Sky Chaser, the Thunderbolt, and Luna Park, a simulated city of Baghdad. Kate would have loved Luna Park.

In-line skaters rumbled past him. Bikers, walkers, and joggers were pounding the boards. Everyone out soaking up the warm sun. Eddie figured it had been nine days since his daughter had felt the sunlight. They wouldn't risk exposing her to the outside.

Looking ahead, he could see bright-colored flags and box kites flying. A clown danced around a helium tank, ready to twist skinny balloons into dachshunds. He wondered whatever happened to the fire-eater, the sword-swallower, and the guy who pounded nails up his nose. As the world got crazier, the sideshow became tamer, unable to keep pace.