Ed Dee - The Con Man's Daughter

"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.