The Boy Who Stole From the Dead (7 page)

An old man sat reading a paper and drinking coffee at one table. A middle-aged couple shared an éclair at another. Music accompanied dessert. It arrived in muted bursts from speakers in the ceiling. Rap music. With Russian lyrics. Something about diamonds and disrespect. Sung by dueling women.

A lithe girl stood behind the register in a pink shirt and white pants. Nadia recognized Iryna from her picture. She was about five foot seven with an oval face, enormous blue eyes, and perfect alabaster skin. She wasn’t the Russian girl next door. She was what the Russian girl next door aspired to look like.

“Iryna?” Nadia said.

She spoke so softly Nadia barely heard her. “Yes.”

Nadia introduced herself and extended her hand. Iryna smiled, shook it, blushed, and dropped her head. The sequence was so sweet and genuine it took Nadia’s breath away. In the time it took to say hello, Nadia found herself questioning her preconceptions about the girl, her ethnicity, and her motives.

“Would you like to talk in the kitchen?” Iryna said. “More privacy.”

Nadia followed Iryna through a door into the kitchen. Four stainless steel ovens lined one wall. A matching stove, refrigerator, and sink filled another. A heavyset woman wearing an apron was rinsing utensils. The center island contained a mixer and various pans covered with flour and remnants of dough. The appliances looked new, except for the microwave oven elevated on an old wooden table near a pantry. It was a child’s toy, made of red plastic.

A woman with pronounced cheekbones entered from a back room. Her skin suggested she was about thirty but the wear around the eyes said the years hadn’t been easy. She wore a chef’s uniform and carried herself with an air of authority. She stopped beside the toy oven.

“Galina, do me a favor and take the register for a few minutes,” she said. She spoke perfect English.

The heavyset woman shut the faucet, grabbed a hand towel, and left.

“I’m Tamara,” the young woman said. “Iryna’s roommate. And cousin. You must be Ms. Moss.”

“No,” Nadia said. “I’m not. My name isn’t Cynthia Moss. And I’m not in the modeling business.”

Tamara reached inside the toy oven and pulled out a gun. She aimed it at Nadia.

“We know you’re not. There is no Lauder Modeling Agency. Who are you and what do you want?”

Nadia stepped back. She’d miscalculated. She was expecting a verbal confrontation once she admitted she’d lied. Not a gun.

“My real name is—”

“Usually it’s men who try to take advantage of Iryna. They say they run their own modeling agency or they’re film producers but they’re really after one thing. You’re the first woman ever. Why did you lie? What is it you want? I got robbed last month. I could shoot you right here—”

“Don’t.” Nadia raised her hands in the air. “Please. Let me explain.”

“What do you want from Iryna?”

“I want to ask her some questions.”

“About what?”

“About a boy she’s been seeing.”

“What boy?”

“His name is Bobby Kungenook. Iryna knows him.”

“Of course she knows him. I know him, too.”

“You do?”

“Sure. He’s been here four or five times.”

“He has?”

“He’s a fiend for my fruit tart. How do you know Bobby?”

“He’s my…I’m his…I’m his guardian.”

Tamara’s eyes bugged out. “Oh my God. You’re Nadia Tesla?”

Nadia nodded.

Tamara put the gun back in the oven. She rushed to Nadia and hugged her. When they parted, they laughed. Nadia’s laughter was more a function of relief than any sense of humor in the situation. Iryna stood to the side looking more grateful than anyone.

Tamara insisted they start over. She and Iryna brought in three cups of coffee and three raspberry-chocolate macaroons. Nadia hadn’t eaten dinner yet but she didn’t care. There were only two chairs in the kitchen so they stood at the center island.

“Why did you pretend you were someone else?” Tamara said.

“I was afraid Iryna wouldn’t talk to me,” Nadia said.

“Why did you think that?” Iryna said.

“It was a mistake,” Nadia said. “I have a tendency to expect the worst from people. It’s my profession. I’m a forensic financial analyst. I tear companies apart and look for something wrong. And I always find something. It’s made me cynical.”

“It’s not that,” Tamara said. “It’s not a professional thing.”

“It’s not?” Nadia said.

“No. It’s a Uke thing. You’re Uke, right?”

“Yes. Bobby told you?”

Tamara nodded.

“Wait. Only a Uke uses the phrase ‘Uke.’ You’re Ukrainian, too? What’s your last name?”

“Shevchuk.”

“Born here?” Nadia said.

“Passaic, New Jersey.”

Nadia glanced at Iryna.

“She’s half and half,” Tamara said. “Her father was Russian but her mother was Uke. She came over from Ukraine…How long has it been, sweetie?”

“About six years,” Iryna said.

“Has it been that long?” Tamara shook her head.

Nadia sipped her coffee. “So did you go to Uke school in Passaic on the weekends?”

“It was Monday and Friday nights for us. Through eleventh grade. I never made it to
matura
.”
Matura
was the name of the high school “maturity exam” administered at community Ukrainian schools across America. “What about you?”

“All the way through high school,” Nadia said.

Tamara rolled her eyes sympathetically. “Christ. We missed out on all those school dances. The things normal kids did. That used to bother me when I was growing up. But now when I look back at it…”

“It was worth it,” Nadia said. “Two languages, two cultures, richer life.”

“You’re right,” Tamara said. She raised her cup of coffee. “To a free Ukraine,” she said in Ukrainian. “And new friends.”

They clinked their cups.

Nadia glanced at Iryna. “How did you meet Bobby?”

“Through a friend of mine,” Iryna said. “Another model. She’s dating Derek, Bobby’s friend. She goes to prep school. Hockey is big in prep school—”

“Where do you go to school?” Nadia said.

“I graduated last year,” Iryna said. “Abraham Lincoln High School.”

“Oh,” Nadia said. “So you’re how old?”

“Eighteen. Just this January.”

“That makes you what…five months older than Bobby.”

Iryna blushed.

Tamara shrugged. “Not so bad, huh?”

“It rounds to zero,” Nadia said, especially given she was half Ukrainian.

“I saw Bobby play hockey before I met him,” Iryna said. “I went to the game with my friend. Fordham Prep against Holy Cross. In Flushing. He was so beautiful on the ice. The way he moved. With the black hair under his helmet down to his shoulders. He looked like…he looked like the Dark Knight.”

“That’s very sweet,” Nadia said. “When did you see Bobby last?”

“I tried to see him yesterday but he wouldn’t come out.”

“You went to Rikers?” Nadia said.

Iryna nodded. “He was in the infirmary. I had to wait in two lines. It took me forever but when I gave my name to the guard at the hospital he came back and told me Bobby said to go away. He said to forget about him, that he never wanted to see me again.”

Tears welled in her eyes. Tamara patted her shoulder.

“He said similar things to me,” Nadia said. “Don’t believe it. He’s convinced he’s going to be convicted for something he obviously didn’t do and he’s pushing us away so we don’t suffer. Some sort of honor thing.”

“I’m going to go back this week,” Iryna said. “I’m going to keep going back until he sees me.”

The girl’s determination impressed Nadia. This was clearly more than a passing acquaintance. But they were teenagers, Nadia thought. She should have expected this.

“How often have you been seeing each other?” Nadia said.

Iryna shrugged. “Once a week. We mostly text. Lately we’d started to talk on the phone more.”

“Was Bobby with you the night he was arrested?”

“We were supposed to meet in the Meatpacking District,” Iryna said. “A friend was going to sneak us into Soho House Screening Room. Ethan Hawke was screening
Dead Poets Society
. I waited in front of Soho House but Bobby never showed. And then he called me on my cell phone to tell me he’d been arrested and he wouldn’t make it.”

“Did he sound different leading up to that night?”

“I don’t think so.” Iryna considered the question further. “There was this one thing, though.”

“What thing?” Nadia said.

“It was weird. We ordered some takeout for dinner. We were eating here at the outside table in front of the café. Just him and me. We’d gone to see a movie with Derek and my friend but they’d gone their own way after the show. Bobby insisted on taking the subway home with me and walking me to the door. He always does that, even though I tell him it’s safe. All of a sudden he got a phone call on his cell. He listened for a while, like almost a minute. And all the time he’s turning white. Like he’s going to pass out. And then he hung up and acted like nothing happened.”

“He never said a single word?” Nadia said.

“Nope. Not a single—No. That’s not true. When he first answered the phone he said ‘Yes,’ like you do if someone says your name. ‘Hello, is this Bobby?’ ‘Yes.’ That kind of thing.”

“And that was the only word he said?”

“That was it.”

“Could you hear the other voice on the line?”

“Yeah, I could hear a voice.”

“Man or a woman?”

“I couldn’t tell you. With the music and the other customers…”

“Did you ask him who it was?”

“Sure. He said it was one of those automated messages trying to give you a free cell phone for changing your service plan. But I could tell he was lying.”

“When was this?”

“Last Friday,” Iryna said.

Four days prior to Valentine’s death, Nadia thought. She wondered if that phone call set a chain of events in motion that led to Bobby killing Jonathan Phillip Valentine.

“He’s such a sweet boy,” Tamara said. “We know he didn’t kill that man. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

“That’s kind of you,” Nadia said.

Nadia realized she was famished. She bit into the macaroon and looked around the kitchen. The appliances were top-of-the-line and brand new, too.

“Your café is cute and this is a beautiful kitchen,” Nadia said.

“Thank you,” Tamara said. “I didn’t know my father most of my life and it’s been a happy discovery. He spoils me. With stainless steel ovens and gold jewelry.”

“And this macaroon is to die for, Tamara,” Nadia said.

“Thank you, Nadia,” she said. “But please. Call me Tara. All my friends do.”

CHAPTER 9

N
ADIA GOT HOME
at 10:30 p.m. She stripped her clothes and jumped in the shower. When she got out, she put on her favorite robe—the one with the pink elephants—and poured herself a glass of chardonnay.

Bobby’s cell phone wouldn’t help Nadia identify who called him. It was locked away with his other personal possessions in prison. Nadia logged onto her wireless phone carrier’s website. Bobby’s cell phone usage appeared under her account as part of her family plan. She knew her ID and password by heart because she paid her bill online. She also monitored Bobby’s usage. The exercise provided unexpected satisfaction. It wasn’t the product of spying. It was a function of responsibility. It was a family plan. She was the head of the family. The title secretly thrilled her, though she never would have admitted it to Bobby. He held things inside. Acted as though discussing emotions was a weakness. Outwardly Nadia disagreed, but deep down she knew she was just like him.

The phone calls and text messages Bobby had received during April appeared under current usage. Nadia studied the phone numbers. She recognized most of them: Derek, Iryna, her office, her cell, their apartment, the Fordham hockey coach, and three other hockey teammates. Iryna’s number appeared more often as time passed. The first of the month she texted him twice. The day Bobby was arrested she texted him twelve times. That bothered her less than it would have before she’d met the girl, but Nadia’s blood pressure still spiked.

Five phone calls were placed to Bobby on the day Iryna said he’d answered the phone and turned white. One was from Nadia, the other from the hockey coach. Nadia didn’t recognize the other three numbers. The first had a 718 area code. Nadia searched the Internet.

Brooklyn.

She dialed the number.

A woman with a Slavic accent answered. “Hello, Café Glechik, how can I help you?”

Nadia entered “Glechik” into the computer and searched. “Are you a restaurant?” she said.

“Yes.” Annoyed now. “How can I help you?”

“Do you do a big takeout business?”

“Yes. What would you like?”

“Thank you.” Nadia hung up.

The search brought up a supposed Ukrainian restaurant in Brighton Beach. The sour cherry dumplings looked tempting, but half the dishes were Russian. The owners were from Odesa near the Black Sea. That explained the Russian influence. That must have been the takeout Iryna and Bobby ate for dinner.

The next number had a 551 area code. Northern New Jersey. Nadia dialed the number.