Andrew Gross - The Dark Tide

Hauck laughed. More like winced, pain rising up in his belly.

“Yeah.” He held her. He stroked her hair. The fleshy round of her cheek. He felt her stop shaking. He felt himself start to feel at ease, too.

“We could try.”

Two weeks later

Hauck drove his Bronco up to the large stone gate.

He lowered his window and leaned out to press an intercom button. A voice responded. “Yes?”

“Lieutenant Hauck,” Hauck said into the speaker.

“Drive up to the house,” the voice replied. The gates slowly opened. “Mr. Khodoshevsky is expecting you.”

Hauck made his way up the long paved drive. Even applying the slightest pressure on the gas, his right leg still ached. He had begun some therapy, but there were weeks ahead of him. The doctors told him he might never again walk without the trace of a limp.

The property was massive. He drove past a huge pond. There was a fenced-in field-for horses, maybe. At the top he drove up to an enormous redbrick Georgian with a magnificent courtyard in front, an ornately crafted fountain in the center, with water spilling out of sculptured figures into a marble pool.

Billionaires ruining things for millionaires, Hauck recalled. Even by Greenwich standards, he’d never seen anything quite like this.

He stepped out of the car. Grabbed his cane. It helped. He climbed up the steps to the impressive front doors.

He rang the bell. Loud choral peals. That didn’t surprise him. A young woman answered. Attractive. Eastern European. Maybe an au pair.

“Mr. Khodoshevsky asked me to bring you to the den,” she said with a smile. “This way.”

A young boy, maybe five or six, raced past him riding some kind of motorized toy car. “Beep, beep!”

The au pair yelled out, “Michael, no!” Then she smiled apologetically. “Sorry.”

“I’m a cop.” Hauck winked. “Tell him to try and keep it under forty in here.”

He was led through a series of palatial rooms to a family room at the side of the house, featuring a curved wall of windows overlooking the property. There was a large leather couch, a recognizable contemporary painting over it that Hauck took to be immensely valuable, though he wasn’t exactly sure about the guy’s use of blue. A huge media console was stacked against a wall, a stereo that went on forever. The requisite sixty-inch flat-screen.

There was an old-time Western movie on.

“Lieutenant.”

Hauck spotted a set of legs reclining on an ottoman. Then a large, bushy-haired body rose out of a chair, wearing baggy shorts and an oversize yellow T-shirt that read MONEY IS THE BEST REVENGE.

“I’m Gregory Khodoshevsky.” The man extended a hand. He had a powerful shake. “Please, sit down.”

Hauck eased against a chair, taking his weight off. He leaned on his cane. “Thanks.”

“I see you’re not well?”

“Just a little procedure,” Hauck lied. “Bum hip.”

The Russian nodded. “I’ve had my knee worked on several times. Skiing.” He grinned. “I’ve learned-man is not meant to ski through trees.” He reached for the clicker and turned down the volume. “You like westerns, Lieutenant?”

“Sure. Everyone does.”

“Me, too. This is my favorite: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Never quite sure exactly who I identify with, though. My wife, of course, insists it’s the ugly.”

Hauck grinned. “If I remember, that was one of the film’s themes. They all had their motives.”

“Yes.” The Russian smiled. “I think you’re right-they all had motives. So what do I owe this visit to, Lieutenant Hauck?”

“I was working a case. A name came up that I hoped might mean something to you. Charles Friedman.”

“Charles Friedman?” The Russian shrugged. “I’m sorry, no, Lieutenant. Should it?”

The guy was good, Hauck thought. A natural. Hauck looked back at him closely. “I was hoping so.”

“Although, now that you mention it”-Khodoshevsky brightened-“I do remember someone named Friedman. He ran some benefit in town I went to a year or two ago. The Bruce Museum, I think. I made a donation. I remember now, he had an attractive wife. Maybe his name was Charles, if it’s the one. So what did he do?”

“He’s dead,” Hauck said. “He had a connection to a case I was looking into, a hit-and-run.”

“A hit-and-run.” Khodoshevsky grimaced. “Too bad. The traffic up here is unbearable, Lieutenant. I’m sure you know that. Sometimes I’m afraid to cross the street myself in town.”

“Especially when someone doesn’t want you to succeed,” Hauck said, staring into the Russian’s steely eyes.

“Yes. I imagine that’s true. Is there some reason you connected this man to me?”

“Yes.” Hauck nodded. “Saul Lennick.”

“Lennick!” The Russian drew in a breath. “Now, Lennick I did know. Terrible. That such a thing could happen. Right in the man’s own home. Right here in town. A challenge, I’m sure, for you, Lieutenant.”

“Mr. Friedman was killed himself a couple of weeks back. In the British Virgin Isles…Turns out he and Mr. Lennick were financial partners.”

Khodoshevsky’s eyes widened, as if in surprise. “Partners? Crazy what’s going on around here. But I’m afraid I never saw the man again. Sorry that you had to come all the way out here to find that out. I wish I could have been more help.”

Hauck reached for his cane. “Not a total loss. I don’t often get to see a house like this.”

“I’d be happy to show you around.”

Hauck pushed himself up and winced. “Another time.”

“I wish you good luck with your leg. And finding who was responsible for such a terrible thing.”

“Thanks.” Hauck took a step toward the door. “You know, before I go, there’s something I might show you. Just in case it jogs something. I was down in the Caribbean myself a week ago.” Hauck took out his cell phone. “I noticed something interesting-in the water. Off this island. I actually grabbed a snapshot of it. Funny, only a couple of miles from where Charles Friedman ended up killed.”

He handed the cell phone to Khodoshevsky, who stared curiously at the image on the screen. The one Hauck had taken on his run.

Khodoshevsky’s schooner. The Black Bear.

“Humph.” The Russian shook his head, meeting Hauck’s gaze. “Funny how lives seem to intersect, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

“No more,” Hauck said, looking at him.

“Yes, you’re right.” He handed back the phone. “No more.”

“I’ll find my way out,” Hauck said, placing his phone back in his pocket. “Just one last piece of advice, Mr. Khodoshevsky, if you don’t mind. You seem to be partial to westerns, so I think you’ll understand.”

“And what is that?” The Russian looked at him innocently.

Hauck shrugged. “You know the expression ‘Get out of Dodge’?”

“I think I’ve heard it. The sheriff always says it to the bad guys. But of course they never do.”

“No, they never do.” Hauck took a step toward the door. “That’s what makes westerns. But just this once, you know, they should, Mr. Khodoshevsky.” Hauck looked at him closely. “You should. If you know what I mean.”

“I think I understand.” The Russian smiled.

“Oh, and by the way”-Hauck turned, tilting his cane at the door-“that’s one hell of a sweet boat, Mr. Khodoshevsky-if you know what I mean!”

“Flesh becomes dust and ash. Our ashes return to the soil. Where, in the cycle set before us by the Almighty, life springs up again.”

It was a warm summer day, the sky a perfect blue. Karen looked down at Charlie’s casket in the open grave. She had brought him back home, as she promised she would. He deserved that. A tear burned in the corner of her eye.