Robin Cook - Vector

The trip was even better than Jack imagined it would be, especially going over the Brooklyn Bridge and riding through Prospect Park. The Coney Island Avenue portion was less stimulating but still enjoyable. As he passed Neptune Avenue, he noticed something he’d not expected: all the business signs were written in the Cyrillic alphabet.

As soon as Jack saw Oceanview Avenue, he pulled over and asked directions to Oceanview Lane. It wasn’t until he’d asked three people that he found someone who could tell him where to go.

Jack was surprised by the neighborhood. Just as Flash had described it, there was a whole section of small wood-frame houses jammed together in a cheek-by-jowl hodgepodge. Some were reasonably maintained while others were dilapidated. Fences constructed of a melange of materials separated individual properties. Some yards were clean and planted with fall flowers, while others served as junk heaps for doorless refrigerators, TVS with their guts hanging out, broken toys, and other discarded refuse. Roof lines angled off in bewildering juxtapositions, a testament to the uncoordinated way the original structures had been enlarged. A forest of rusted TV antennae sprouted like dead weeds from the ridgepoles.

Jack slowed and looked at individual buildings. Some still had definite Victorian embellishments. Most were in sore need of paint and repair. About half had freestanding garages. There were a lot of dogs that barked and snarled as Jack rode past. Very few people were in evidence and no children save for a few infants in the care of their mothers. Jack remembered that it was a school day.

The area had a grid of normal streets, but also numerous lanes, some named, some not. The lanes were narrow, some so narrow that they permitted only pedestrian traffic, and the houses on them could only be reached by foot. Across all the lanes stretched a spiderweb of telephone and electric wires.

Jack located Oceanview Lane with the help of a hand painted sign precariously nailed to a telephone pole. He turned into the lane and immediately had to pay attention to the large cracks in the concrete pavement or his bike would have toppled over.

Few of the houses had numbers on them, although Jack did see number thirteen written on a garbage can. Assuming the next building was fifteen, he continued until he was abreast of it. The structure was similar to the others although it sat on a full foundation rather than the more typical cinder-block piers. It also had a two-car garage. The roof was asphalt shingle; a number of the shingles were missing. The screen door was torn. The downspout at the corner was broken, and the top part angled off precariously. The whole thing looked as though it might fall over if the front door was slammed hard enough.

A waist-high chain-link fence separated the tiny, overgrown front lawn from the concrete alleyway. Jack locked his bike to it. He opened the gate and approached the door. Venetian blinds in the windows on either side of the door were closed shut, so Jack couldn’t peek in.

After vainly searching for a doorbell, Jack opened the torn screen door and knocked. When there was no response, he knocked harder. After one more attempt with sustained knocking, Jack gave up. He allowed the screen door to close with a thump. He was discouraged. After making such an effort to get there, he still was not going to be able to contact Yuri Davydov.

Jack was about to walk back to his bike when he became aware of a continuous, low-pitched hum. Turning back to the door, he listened. Now that he concentrated on the sound, he realized that it wasn’t continuous but rather modulated, like a very distant helicopter or a fan with very large blades. Jack eyed the house warily. It didn’t seem large enough for the size fan that would yield such a vibration.

Jack glanced around at the other houses in the immediate neighborhood. All seemed shuttered as if their owners were at work or at least not at home. The only person in sight was an elderly gentleman sitting in his yard who was totally unconcerned about Jack’s presence.

Jack walked across the lawn to peer down between Yuri’s house and his neighbor’s. The separation was only about six feet, and it was bisected by the chain-link fence. After another glance at the elderly man, Jack walked between the buildings to emerge in Yuri’s tiny backyard. There he found what looked like a metal furnace vent issuing forth from a recently patched hole in the house’s foundation. The vent angled upward to extend higher than Jack could reach. By touching the vent and feeling the vibration Jack could tell he’d at least found the exhaust for the fan. Considering the size of the house, the kind of furnace the vent suggested seemed like overkill.

Jack continued to circle the cottage. On the side facing the garage was another door where Jack again knocked. Cupping his hands around his face, he peered through one of the small glass panels. He could see an L-shaped room that served as both living room and kitchen.

Leaving the door, Jack walked along the garage toward the front of the house. As he arrived at the patch of lawn, a bearded man appeared walking along the alleyway carrying a bag of groceries. Jack hadn’t seen him until the last possible moment because the garage had blocked his view.

This sudden appearance of the individual within arm’s reach made Jack start. He hadn’t realized quite how uneasy his trespassing had made him. But as startled as Jack was, it was apparently less than the stranger. The man dropped his groceries while trying vainly to get his right hand out of his jacket.

“I beg your pardon,” Jack intoned.

The man took a moment to recover. Jack used the time to come out through the gate and help retrieve some of the man’s purchases, which had fallen out of the bag.

“I’m awfully sorry to have startled you,” Jack said as he picked up several boxes of cake flour, a frozen dinner, a tin of cinnamon, and a bottle of vodka, which miraculously had not broken.

“It’s not your fault,” the man said. He squatted down, righted the bag, and began repacking his groceries. At the same time his eyes kept nervously darting around as if he was afraid someone else might startle him.

Jack handed over what he’d picked up. He couldn’t help but have noticed the man’s strong Slavic accent. It seemed appropriate given his dark beard and Russian-style hat.

“Are you a resident of this enclave?” Jack asked.

The man hesitated for a moment before answering. “I am,” he said.

“Do you happen to know Yuri Davydov? He lives here in number fifteen.”

The man made a point to look around Jack and study the building.

“Vaguely,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

Jack struggled to get his wallet out of his back pocket. As he did so, he asked the man if he was Russian. The man said he was.

“I noticed all the signs up the street were in the Cyrillic alphabet,” Jack said.

“There are a lot of Russians living in Brighton Beach.”

Jack nodded. He opened his wallet and showed the man his shiny medical examiner’s badge. Jack appreciated that the official emblem generally made people more cooperative and willing to answer questions.

“My name is Dr. Jack Stapleton.”

“Mine is Yegor.”

“Glad to meet you, Yegor,” Jack said. “I’m a medical examiner from Manhattan. Would you by any chance know where Yuri Davydov is at the moment? I knocked on his door, but he’s not at home.”

“He’s probably out driving his taxi,” Yegor said.

“I see.” To Jack, that meant that either Yuri was emotionally strong or there’d been the lack of domestic bliss Flash suggested. “When do you think he’ll be getting home?”

“Not until late tonight,” Yegor said.

“Like nine or ten?” Jack asked.