Ed Dee - The Con Man's Daughter

"The next twenty-four hours are critical."

"Always are," Babsie said, searching his face for whatever that meant.

"We're never going to feel safe until we get Zina," he said.

"When Kate gets a little stronger, she'll be able to tell us more. You're right, though. We don't want to push her right now. Let's hold off until she can handle it. Until then, we'll put a couple of cops here, around the clock. I'll get Yonkers to supply a body."

"Sophie Borodenko knows where Zina is hiding," Eddie said.

"Like she's gonna implicate herself and tell us? Yuri's calling in all his lawyers now. If she's not already on a plane to Moscow."

"Let's go over there."

"Borodenko's house? He has no reason even to let us in the door."

"He'll let us in. I'll tell him who killed Sophie's mother."

"Nunez and Vestri," Babsie said.

"They pulled the trigger. I know who killed her."

Friday

4:00 P.M.

"I wonder how much bootleg gas it took to start this bonfire," Babsie said.

Thick black smoke drifted up through the upper scaffolding of the Cyclone roller coaster. Police diverted traffic on Surf Avenue into one lane, steering them around fire hoses strung through an empty lot and down to the boardwalk. Eddie slowed down to see the blaze that fully engulfed the two-story frame building on West Nineteenth that housed Coney Custards. The entire building was too far gone, swallowed up in flames. Firefighters stood back and dumped water on it, trying to protect the surrounding buildings.

"Yuri destroying the evidence," Eddie said.

"That's why he's not going to let you near his wife," Babsie said. "He'd burn down half of Brooklyn to protect her."

The front door of Yuri Borodenko's home had the same ornate carvings as the door of the Mazurka. Eddie pressed a button and the chimes rang out a few notes of a song he didn't recognize. Before he could ring again, a voice came over an intercom. Eddie pressed another button and gave their names. He said he needed to speak with Mrs. Borodenko. He had important information about her parents. They waited over five minutes, then an Asian man in a white Nehru jacket invited them in. A set of Gucci bags was stacked just inside the door.

"Women's luggage," Babsie said.

They were led into a room lined with books. The books were arranged too neatly to have been read by anyone. Borodenko came in immediately through another door. He was much shorter than Eddie had thought, but he'd only seen him seated. The Russian introduced himself. Not a bodyguard in sight. There had to be video security throughout the house; thugs close by, ready to pounce. Babsie sat on a red leather sofa. Eddie refused a seat, wandering around instead, looking for the portal with the hidden rifle pointed at him.

"You have information for me," Borodenko said, getting right to the point.

"First, I want to thank you for finding my daughter."

"Your daughter?" he said, looking surprised. "Your daughter is in the hospital, am I correct? I heard on the television. Doing well, I hope."

"A little rough right now, but it looks good."

"I'm happy for that, Mr. Dunne. But don't thank me. I had nothing to do with your daughter's return. From what I've heard, you worked tirelessly to find her, as I would in your position. I cannot imagine what lengths I would go to in order to save my wife or child. The most extreme, I can assure you."

"I'm not here to hurt Sophie, if that's what you're thinking. Or to rehash these past twelve days."

"Very noble of you. I'll pass your thoughts on to her."

"I need to talk to Sophie in person," Eddie said.

"That's not possible. You'll just have to forgive my wife's absence. Rest assured I will relay your message."

"Then ask her where I can find Zina Rabinovich."

"Sophie doesn't have that information."

The room was far less gaudy than Eddie had expected. It could have been the library of an Ivy League dean. A huge red-and-black Oriental rug centered the room. Dark wood all around. The paintings on the walls appeared to be the work of Russian artists. Eddie recognized an oil by Konstantin Lomykin, a favorite of Lukin. Snow-covered roofs in Odessa, the scene as desolate and sad as a hollow in Appalachia.

"I know who Sophie is," Eddie said. "I know all about her."

"And just what do you know about my wife?"

"I was the detective handling her parents' murders."

"I've read your reports."

"Then you haven't read the truth."

Borodenko was less imposing than Eddie remembered. He'd gotten paunchier, and balder. The cardigan sweater, though a soft expensive wool, gave him a frumpy look. His face showed the ravages of the long trip from Moscow and a marriage to a troubled woman half his age.

"Being that you know the tragedy of Sophie's parents," Borodenko said, "it surprises me that you would embarrass her with those photographs."

"We had a potential tragedy going here ourselves," Babsie said.

"I needed a way to force you home," Eddie said.

"Those photographs did not get me home, sir. My travel arrangements were made days earlier."

"Do you want to know why Sophie's mother died?" Eddie said.

Borodenko picked up a silver humidor from the table. He opened it and offered its contents to both of them. Eddie expected cigars, but it was filled with cigarettes-unfiltered cigarettes in a cream-colored paper. Borodenko lit one and walked to the window. The ocean looked as calm as a lake, not a ripple of white anywhere except at the very edge of the shore.

"Sophie's parents were killed during the act of robbery," Borodenko said.

"Nunez and Vestri, the two men who committed that act, went there with specific orders to kill them."

"Give me one reason why I should accept your version of the truth."

" You don't have to accept it, because I'll only tell her what happened," Eddie said. "Are those her bags near the door?"

"Sophie is going away for a short time. She has had a rough period recently and needs rest and medical attention."

"She's well enough to travel?" Eddie said.

"Yuri," Sophie called out.

Yuri Borodenko crossed the room and put his arms around the slender woman. Sophie was wearing a dark business suit, but she looked to be still in the process of getting dressed-no jewelry, no makeup, her hair still wet from the shower. Borodenko spoke softly to her in Russian, obviously imploring her to go back to her room.

"My wife is not prepared for this, Mr. Dunne. She is being treated for severe depression and is taking medication."

"No, Yuri, please," she said, pushing him away. "I want to say how sorry I am for the trouble I have caused. It's all my fault, all this trouble. All of it."

She was glassy-eyed and slurring her words slightly.

Yuri said, "My wife is a victim, Mr. Dunne. She has listened to an adviser who preyed upon her like a vulture."

"Zina only wanted to help," Sophie said. "First, let me explain everything to you about Zina."

"You have nothing to explain," Borodenko said sharply; then he spoke to her again in Russian. When he was finished, he said in English, "We are not doing this. This woman is a detective sitting here. We are going to postpone this discussion until I have time to have a lawyer present."

"Nothing any of us says will leave this room," Eddie said. "You have my word."

"I want to speak," Sophie said, pointing to Eddie. "I don't care of the consequence."

Even mob guys can be whipped, Babsie thought. Yuri doing everything but licking her shoes. And she didn't like the way Eddie was letting Sophie work him. Both males circling around her in some middle-aged dance of seduction. Babsie didn't want to hear the blonde's story, or Eddie's latest tale. She'd had enough sad stories in her life. But what pissed her off most was the fact that Eddie had the balls to commit her to legal silence.