Ed Dee - The Con Man's Daughter

He picked up Kevin's cell phone and called the North End Tavern to get an update on his brother and to hear Grace's voice. But he'd forgotten the line was temporarily disconnected. He started to call his house, when he heard an explosion on the dock. A puff of smoke rose from the deck of the Bright Star . Tear gas, or something similar. Somebody was on the bullhorn, telling Zina to give up.

A uniformed cop walked away from the dock, limping slightly. Eddie wondered if this was the start of one of those "injured on the job" scams. That pissed him off-some bozo seizing the opportunity to get three-quarters pension for a knee he'd hurt playing tennis. Not only was it a sleazy move; it cheapened the debt rightfully owed to those cops who were actually hurt in the line of duty. To some scheming leeches, three-quarters pay, tax-free, was like winning the lottery. The leeches hired lawyers and made a career of their fight to screw the city. We are the city, Eddie thought, his blood pressure rising as Matty Boland arrived in the Lincoln Town Car. He cruised past the limping cop, heading toward the smoke.

The guy on the bullhorn made further pleas in a heavy New York accent, all apparently unanswered. Eddie dialed information to get the number of Coney Island Hospital as the big shields edged closer to the boat. Eddie had no doubt that Zina Rabinovich would fight to the death. He wrote the hospital number on the palm of his hand.

He began dialing as the limping uniformed cop came toward the radio cars parked nearby. As he came closer, Eddie saw the guy was wearing a light blue uniform shirt. Not our job, Eddie thought, must be private security. NYPD cops had quit wearing the light blue shirts a few years ago. So much for his faked injury tirade. This guy was a square badge, getting the hell away from the impending fireworks. He was hauling ass, even with the limp. Couldn't blame him. No sense getting killed for minimum wage.

But as he got closer, Eddie could see the badge wasn't square. It looked like an NYPD detective's gold shield. The light blue shirt must have been the only thing in his locker today. The guy was highly decorated, an impressive display of ribbons and commendations on his chest. He was coming right at Eddie, moving fast. Then he started to run.

Eddie stood up quickly as the guy pulled a machine pistol from under the uniform jacket. The first blast took out the Camry's headlight. Eddie dived behind the car. Bullets thunked heavily into sheet metal. He squeezed his legs up behind the front wheel well. He reached for his service revolver, but he didn't have it, or a prayer. He got off his knees and ran to the marina building. Three steps into it, he felt as if he was slogging through heavy mud. Bullets kicked the ground around him. Then the Lincoln Town Car cut across the lawn and gravel flew. A heavy thud from the Lincoln's bumper sent the cop airborne. His hat flew off and hit the ground in front of him.

Even with the dust and cordite in the air, Eddie knew it was Zina. Matty Boland jumped out of the Lincoln, his gun drawn. Zina scrambled on hands and knees toward the machine pistol. Boland fired twice, the second shot smashing into her skull at an angle and sending chunks of bone and blood flying as she kept crawling on her belly until she reached the gun. Steps away, Boland fired five times, one shot hitting her in the face, just below her eye.

Eddie kicked the machine pistol farther away, but her crawling had ceased. Paulie the Priest would have put a few more rounds into her just to be sure. With lesbians, he'd say, you can never tell.

Up close, Eddie could see the uniform was old, faded, and far too big for her. The sleeves and pants had been crudely altered with safety pins. Eddie knew this particular uniform had been purchased in 1966 from an authorized police tailor on Kingsbridge Terrace in the Bronx. Inside both the jacket and pants, stamped in white ink, would be the last four numbers of Eddie's NYPD tax registry number. The gold detective shield with his number was a fake. A good fake. The black name tag with white lettering read dunne. Zina must have taken it from the back of his closet when she grabbed Kate. He never knew it was missing.

"How did you know it was her?" Eddie said.

"The Medal of Honor," Matty said. "I saw it when I rode past. You and the Priest were the only guys I ever worked with who won it. I thought, Who is this guy? Then it came to me. The ribbon had to belong either to you or Paulie Caruso."

Babsie came sprinting from the dock. Other cops, half her age, tried to keep up. Matty Boland knelt down and opened the jacket. Zina had strapped a massive arsenal to herself, including hand grenades, ammunition, and three other handguns. Eddie picked up the dusty uniform hat. Inside, under the plastic, was a picture of a ten-year-old redhead with more freckles than Howdy Doody.

Sunday, April 19

Noon

They were sitting on a park bench in Yonkers, looking down at the grass infield of Lennon Park. Two dozen little girls were playing soccer, kicking the ball in whatever direction appealed to them. The ball would suddenly appear before them and-whack-they'd kick it away, almost in self-defense. Most of them were content to get in a kick and jump back. They'd been playing for almost twenty minutes and the ball had not approached either goal. The goalies, their interest lost, gazed up at the crowd.

"If I had legs like that," Babsie said, pointing to Grace, "I would have kissed this job good-bye and tried out for the Rockettes."

She looked over at Eddie. "What the hell's so funny?" she said.

"I was thinking you'd make one hot Rockette."

Eddie had been at Coney Island Hospital earlier that morning. Kate had made remarkable strides. Her stomach had been pumped. Doctors weren't sure exactly what drugs she'd ingested. They went ahead and flushed her system as well as they could. Her main problem, serious dehydration, had responded well to the IV fluids. She looked much better. The bruises, abrasions, and broken bones would heal with treatment and rest. Kate said she'd been slapped a few times, but her injuries came from struggling. Her doctor, the son of a cop himself, predicted she'd be home by Tuesday. As soon as the soccer horn sounded, they were going to take Grace to see her.

Kevin Dunne remained in the hospital, a long road ahead of him-at least two surgeries and lifelong speech therapy. Martha was at the North End Tavern, supervising the cleanup crew and drawing new construction plans. Eddie promised to supply the labor.

"I filed the warrant for Sophie," Babsie said.

"We'll never see her again."

"Not without an army of lawyers. She was already on the Concorde when Zina was trying to kill you. Probably eating shrimp on the Riviera before we got home to Yonkers. Must be nice to be rich and beautiful."

"You are beautiful," he said.

"I'd rather be rich."

Bit by bit, it was all coming back to Kate. Eddie filled in some holes for her. She said she was first held in the apartment above Coney Custards. She remembered the smell of sour milk and the sound of the machines. The following night, they moved her to the boat, where she was guarded by two or three different people. She said that after the initial struggle with Zina, Sophie was the only one who had actually hit her. She'd come in drunk or high, start sobbing, then slap Kate around, yelling at her in Russian.

"Kate said she could smell mothballs," Eddie said.

"Your old uniform."

"I was so close to her that first day, Babsie. The day I met Lukin on the boardwalk. Just a few blocks. I could see Coney Custards. She was upstairs. If I'd walked a little farther, maybe I would have heard her voice, a scream."

"No second-guessing. You promised we wouldn't do any second-guessing."