Brooklyn Graves (19 page)

Natalya made a gasping sound.

“And you did not tell me? Me, your mother? Knowing how I feel about him, that snake?

Detective Henderson said, “Mrs. Ostrov, please sit down. Now.” Polite words but commanding tone of voice. “Please! This may be very interesting and helpful for us.” He turned to Alex. “Do you mean your uncle, Vladimir Ostrov?”

Alex nodded.

Natalya said, “Who is he, this guy? Some thug, if he is a friend of my brother-in-law. I have here a list—I wanted to bring to you and discuss…a list of all wrong things and suspicious things he has done.” She smacked her hand on the table for emphasis. “Is very important you know this!”

“I don't have time to discuss it right now, but I will add it to the file and read it later.” He held out his hand for it. “Now, Alex, tell me, did you talk to him or have any contact when you saw him with your uncle?”

“No, no, nothing. Only, it was more than one time.”

Henderson looked ready to ask more questions, but Alex added on his own, “I don't know where or when—just, you know, walking or something. I noticed because it was my uncle. It was a couple of times. They were talking. That's all. I never heard what they said or anything.”

Henderson nodded. “And you, and Mrs. Ostrov, you are both sure you saw no one else that you know, in those pictures?

Alex said softly, “I saw faces I have seen, just around, but no one I know and no one with connection to my family.”

Natalya nodded. “The same for me.”

“Ms.—um—Donato, do you have anything to add to this?”

“No, not a thing.”

“Then thanks to all of you. You can go now.”

Natalya shook his hand and then laid her finger on his sleeve. “And we will be in touch? You will look into Volodya? Is so important, we must know, what really happened. We need—Erica, what word I need?”

“Is it closure?” I noted her English got weaker when she was more emotional.

“Ah, yes, that is the one! Please, you will keep in touch?”

“Yes, ma'am, I will.” Behind her back, he smiled at me and mouthed, “Friday night?” I nodded.

Alex edged toward the door. “Mom, I have to go. I need to get to chem class. Now.”

He was halfway down the stairs, gone, before she was able to get a word out. Her expression of surprise was almost comical. “I wasn't done talking to him! Always, he runs. We do not talk lately. He is out on a planet, somewhere.”

I said, “Oh, brother, do I ever hear you. Chris, too. You know, it must be the age, plus…” I faltered.

“Plus this has been hard time? I know, I know, but oh, Erica, I feel like I am losing him, and myself, too. I was not always this crazy woman, was I?”

“No, of course not. You were a lot of fun, but right now…”

“Yes! I used to be fun, and Alex and I, we had laughs together, too. And if I do not stop, with all this crazy feeling, what becomes of Alex?”

“You are allowed to be crazy for a while.” I hugged her. “It's okay, for now. You know, my friend Joe always says to exercise when you are sad. Even if it doesn't help, after, you are too tired to think.” I smiled, hoping she would smile back.

Instead, she said something Russian. From her voice and face, I guessed it meant “Don't bother me with that nonsense.” Then she said in English, “And tell me, does it ever work for you? Did it, when you lost your husband?”

“No. I mean, I didn't know Joe then, but no, it wouldn't have. Not so soon. What really works is time. Really.”

“Oh, very good.” She had a sardonic smile, more like the old Natalya I remembered. “What am I supposed to do until I get there?”

We had reached her subway station. We hugged good-bye. I was saved from trying to answer that question.

I needed to make a few stops before heading home myself. I found myself pointed toward Chris' school. And it was just about dismissal time.

Was this a good idea? No. But there I was anyway, feeling like a stalker, standing across the street and behind a van.

The upper-school students came pouring out. The younger boys were jumping around, leaping down the steps and tossing books, punching each other's shoulders, while the girls made fun of them. Some of the older boys and girls were slinking away to the corner and lighting up cigarettes as soon as they were off school property. Or maybe they weren't cigarettes.

On the narrow street, cars honked repeatedly, signaling parents double-parked for pick-up that they needed to move pronto. The block was complete chaos.

Here was a pack of Chris' girlfriends, chattering away, stopping to fix each other's scarves in the sharp breeze. Where was she? What day was it? Oh, damn, Tuesday. Basketball practice. She would not be out for two hours.

I needed to leave before someone spotted me.

Then I spotted someone myself: Alex, across the street, walking up to a man in a black leather jacket. They turned toward me, still across the street, but I could see them clearly, the man with his arm casually slung across Alex's shoulders as they walked. They were deep in conversation and Alex did not look unhappy. Or coerced. Or uncomfortable in any way.

The man was his Uncle Volodya.

Chapter Eighteen

They walked down the block having a lively conversation. Was that Alex laughing? They looked perfectly normal together. In other words, the exact opposite of everything I had seen, heard or would have expected. I was completely baffled.

They turned toward downtown Brooklyn and it wasn't hard to follow discreetly on these heavily trafficked sidewalks. They went into the large chain bookstore; I followed, just a few shoppers behind them.

When they entered the crowded bookstore café, I finally had the sense to stop and ask myself what I thought I was doing. Before I had a good answer, and before I had time to duck behind the nearest book display, Volodya was walking in my direction. He looked large and angry. As usual.

“I know you.” He spoke in a whisper, not attracting attention, but it was a whisper with the force of a shout. “You just accidentally turned up? I don't think so. What do you want?” For emphasis, he grabbed my shoulder in a tight, painful hold and gave it a shake.

I tried to step back but couldn't break his hold. I forced myself to look right at him and say, with completely phony calm, “You are mistaken. And you need to let me go.”

His grip only loosened slightly while he said, “No. I am not mistaken and you should not mess with me. You tell me now. I do not accept being spied upon.”

Alex came up behind him, red-faced and upset. He put a hand on his uncle's arm, the one holding me, and said, “Uncle, she is the mother of my friend. Please. Let go.”

He gripped me tighter for a moment, then gave a disgusted shake of his head, and let go. He said to Alex, “You call me!” and walked away.

“Please. Please do not tell Mama. I must go now, too.” As he turned away, I grabbed his sleeve.

“Oh, no. You tell me what is going on. Why are you seeing that man? And looking all friendly?” I fixed him with my best terrifying mom look and he started to crumble. The anxiety in his face went up the scale, and his voice followed.

“It's not what you think, well, maybe it is, I don't know what you think, but it's not something bad. But my mama would not like it. But…”

“Slow down and take a breath. We are going over to a table, and sit and talk. Got it?”

He took a few deep, gasping breaths, as if he were hyperventilating, and finally was able to say, “Mama hates him. And yes, okay, he is kind of a tough guy, yes, but he's not so bad, not really. Ever since Dad…” He had to stop there and get himself under control. “Ever since, he has been keeping in touch with me. It helps me, to talk to him man-to-man. We can talk about my father. It upsets my mother, to talk like that, so I am glad to have uncle. I am glad. Glad!” Then he looked away from me, stood up, walked away and came back.

Oh, my poor boy, I thought. When he came back and sat down again, he was calm, though his face was red.

“I understand, at least I think I do, but do you think it's all right to deceive your mother?” Coming from me at that moment, it was not a neutral question.

“I don't know. No, I guess not, but what choice? He's my uncle. My dad loved him in spite of everything. I can't cut him out and I can't talk to her about it. She has reasons. I guess. I think, no, I'm pretty sure, Volodya messes around.” He looked down and then back up at me. “Makes money in bad ways, you know?”

“Can't you see why she doesn't like him?”

“Yeah. Yes. I said. But if my dad still saw him? He used to keep dad company sometimes, at the cemetery, when he was working there. Nights were long and boring. They would talk and walk. Dad told me this himself. So he was doing it, too, seeing Uncle Volodya without my mother knowing.”

“I bet she's worried you will want to be like him. Any mother would be.”

He looked just like Chris when he gave me one of those special teen have-you-lost-your-mind? looks.

“Not in a million years! She should know me better. If I did, Dad would. Dad's ghost would. I would never. Besides…”

“Hmm?”

“Look,” he said with grave, almost adult seriousness, “can I trust you? I mean, really, really trust you? If I tell you something?”

“Yes, sure. No, wait. Let me think about it.” He was a kid, after all. I was his mother's friend, after all. “As long as it is not something dangerous for you, I can keep a secret.”

“He thinks he knows something about how my dad died. Or he can find out. He's working on it. He knows people.”

“He says. Do you believe him?”

“Yes, I do. Or I want to. I don't know!”

“And if he knows something, why isn't he taking it to the police?”

He gave me a look that was way beyond his years, and said, “Uh, maybe he has his own reasons for not wanting to discuss anything with police-type people?'

“Oh, Alex, be careful.”

He shook his head, “No matter what my mother says, he would never hurt me. He doesn't like Mama any more than she likes him, but he cared about my dad. He did. Truly. And me.”

He looked so lost and confused, so like a much younger child, I wanted to hug him—which I knew would embarrass him completely. Then he jumped up and said, “Look at the time! I have to meet my mom and I am way late.” He shouldered his pack and was gone, leaving me with a lot to think about. Too much.

Was Volodya just a neighborhood bully or was he actually a criminal? Was there any way for me to find out? I had as much as promised not to tell Natalya about any of this, but did I maybe have an obligation to push Alex to tell her? Maybe. Probably.

I took care of some errands and headed home at last, getting a seat on the train. My feeling of being on automatic was sliding into sleepwalking and my thoughts were harder to control.

I would be all alone tonight. Not that this has never happened before—sleepovers, camp last summer, a school trip. Visit to the Nona in Buffalo. I've been a single parent for twelve of her fifteen years; usually I relished some time alone, it is so rare.

This time was different. This time I was being deserted. As I dozed off, my mind was a jumble of my dad (“how could he?”), and Alex's words about missing his father, and something Joe once said about a teen girl needing a father-figure.

I woke up with a start, two stops past my own. I swore, gathered my belongings and got off. I trudged up the stairs, crossed and then trudged down, to the other side of the platform, to get the train back. I'd get home even later, but what did it matter, since no one was there waiting for me? I could have chocolate-frosted doughnuts for supper. Or no supper at all. Or a six pack. Watch
Friends
re-runs all night, or turn on a shopping network or MTV. No one to set a good example for.

But in my little catnap, I had a glimmer of an idea about what was going on with Chris. Aside from her just being mad at me, of course.

It was still bright sunshine outdoors, but with later-afternoon lengthening shadows. In my house all was dark. No lights left on all over, telling me Chris was back. It felt lonely. I flipped a light on in the foyer and then in the living room, hung my jacket on a hook, dropped my purse and keys and the mail on the table next to the door, checked the usual places for messages. No e- mail, no voice mail, no text, no snail mail that wasn't trying to sell me something. A hundred ways to keep in touch and my daughter wasn't using any of them.

Then I heard footsteps upstairs. It's an old house. The floorboards creaked.

Chris? Before I called up to her, I stopped myself. Not one item of her belongings was scattered in the living room. No jacket, backpack, books, papers, snacks.

It occurred to me that I should just leave. Go over to a neighbor's. Call 911. I slid my feet toward the door, silently as I could, and silently lifted my purse, and moved to the still unlocked door.

Footsteps were coming down the stairs. I didn't have time to get out the door so I hide behind it, hoping he could not hear my heavy breathing.

Next thing I knew he was trying to charge through the door himself.

I screamed. He jumped back and shouted.

It was Volodya, and he looked as frightened as I was. He grabbed me by the shoulders and I kicked him. He let me go, screaming “Ow! Ow! What are you doing?”

“What am
I
doing? What the freaking hell are you doing in my house?” I was panting. “You keep away from me. I have neighbors, I have a phone, I can scream.”

He stepped back, his hands up defensively.

“No, no. No! You have it all wrong. I am not…bad guy. I am not here to hurt you. Crazy lady, believe…”

He ran his hands through his hair, put one out again, conciliating. “Because…because…I can help you.”

“You stay far away from me. Go sit—over there—and talk fast. I have 911 on speed dial. Phone is in my other hand, in my pocket. No tricks.”

He sat on the sofa, looking surprisingly meek. He said, “Please, could I have glass of water?”

“Hell, no! Do you think this is a social visit? You broke into my house. You better tell me why. Right now.”

He swore softly in Russian—at least, it sounded like swearing—and finally said in English, “Is big mess, but please believe, I am not doing harm.” I glared at him. He took a deep breath and said, “Dima. My brother. Who I loved, no matter what Natasha thinks.”

“Yes?”

“I know what happened to him.”

“Say that again. I don't believe what I think I heard.”

“Is true.” He looked at the floor, shoulders hunched, hands gripping his knees. He looked up at me, finally, pain in his eyes and face. “Is true. I know about that night. I was not there. If only I had been. But I know about what happened.”

“Are you talking about the cemetery?”

He did not answer, but slowly, he nodded his head.

“How is that even possible?”

“I helped someone. I helped them to do something. I knew what to do because Dima worked there. And it all went wrong. Wrong guys. Did not follow my plan.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” My voice rose with each word. “Here, snooping around in my house? What do you want here? And why aren't you taking it right to the police so they can do their job? This is….”

“As to what I am doing here, that I cannot tell you. Is confidential, but you must believe it, it is part of my new plan. To trap someone. I need to know what they will do next. I was only looking for information here.” He squared his shoulders, “And police? We don't discuss things with them.”

“We who? We, bullies and thugs? We, gang members?” He didn't look so frightening, and speaking my mind seemed to make sense at that moment. Not so much, when I thought about it later.

“You have it all wrong, because you listen too much to my sister-in-law!” he said with resentment. “She does not know truth from—from gossip. I am not some punk in a gang. I am—I am a businessman.”

“Businessmen behave lawfully. Like citizens. And they go to police with crimes.”

“Not Russians. At least, not smart ones. You Americans are such children. You believe what they say in kindergarten ‘nice policeman is your friend,' yadda, yadda, No. No policeman is a friend. No, forever nyet.”

I knew not all Russians believed that—there are Russian-American cops!—but of course it provided a convenient excuse.

“You know that word?
Nyet
? Dima was my only brother. I will handle this. Me. The guilty ones will get what they deserve.” He folded his arms across his chest and his eyes became harder with each word. “You must not, must not call police. Please. It would mess up all my plans.”

He stood up and said, simply, “I go now. You keep quiet about this. You will. You must. Because, you know? I could come back.” He almost smiled, and then I was definitely scared. “And then I would be less polite.”

And then he walked right out my front door. Just as if he was a regular person. A visitor. A friend.

And then my knees gave out as the adrenaline receded and the reality of what just happened hit me. Someone had broken into my home, I had talked to him, he kind of, sort of, half told me something important. Or at least, implied it. And then he just walked out. Poof.

I had a flash of being profoundly glad that Chris had run off to her grandfather. If I was going to attract this kind of craziness, I did not want her to be anywhere near. And I knew that my dad was a tough old guy. True, no longer the scrapper he claims to have been in his youth, but still, tough. Anyone who messed with Chris on his watch would regret it for a long time.

So I only had to worry about my own safety, not hers; the security of my house; my job-related mystery and with it, my job security. Oh, yes, and the murders of two people I knew. That's all. And however much I wanted to creep up under a quilt and sleep for a week—preferably snuggled up with a stuffed bunny—I had a job to do. Volodya had let himself in somehow and I had damn well better find out how.

I worked my way from the top floor down.

I checked the old skylight, original to the house, high above the stairwell. It locked from the inside. The lock was probably as useful as a safety pin, but I could see that it had not been disturbed. The dust of decades was in place.

There was a ladder to the roof, a scary wooden thing that went up a narrow chute and ended in a trapdoor to the roof. The trapdoor locked from the inside of the house. No one could open it from the roof without breaking down the door.

The windows at the back of the house open on to the enclosed space of adjoining gardens. There was no possible way for him to get to the back windows without being seen by a neighbor. Right?

The back door to my deck was still locked from the inside. It was a heavy padlock, not simple to remove or tamper with. I thought.

The windows at the front. Yeah, right, he had come down from the roof on a rope, on a public street in broad daylight. The lower windows had steel security gates. No way he got through those without power tools. I thought. I hoped.