"We weren't that bad, Babsie," Eddie said.
"Miss," Toby said, "when I came to work in the morning, I never even glanced over at the
Bright Star
. I was afraid what I was gonna see. Beer cans floating in the water, brassieres flying from the outrigging, bare asses on the foredeck."
"Does Mr. Stark still keep it here?" Babsie asked.
"For a while, he did," Toby said. "One summer, he was here almost every day, scraping and painting. Looked better than new when he finished. He renamed it
Stevie's Dream
. Now he keeps it at a private dock behind his house, over near Gerritsen Beach."
Toby said that Stark had reupholstered everything that could be reupholstered. He redid the teak and replaced almost everything in the galley. He said that Stark still brought it in every year for engine work. Usually around this time, late April, early May.
"The day that boat left here," Toby said, "both me and it were smiling."
* * *
Despite making great time on the Belt Parkway, they got to Jimmy's Bistro in Staten Island as the valet was parking Borodenko's Mercedes.
"Today's the day they had to get here early," Babsie said.
"We should have been waiting."
"Okay, my fault," Babsie said. "We'll grab them on the way out."
Valet parking complicated Eddie's plan. They hadn't used it the last time he'd followed them here. His idea was to approach Zina as they were getting in or out of the car, but now the valet would deliver the car to the front door of the restaurant. A good chance there'd be a crowd waiting under the awning. Too many people within earshot might spook Zina.
"We're not even sure Zina is in there," Eddie said.
"She's in there. It was on her calendar. We'll just wait."
"I need to know when they're leaving," Eddie said. "Why don't you go inside and eat. Get a table close to them. They have no idea who you are."
"Looks pricey, Eddie. I don't think I have enough money on me."
"I've got nine bucks left," he said. "Everything else is tied up. I'd give you my credit card if I had one."
Babsie said she'd use her own, then slung her purse over her shoulder. The big leather bag bulged with equipment-her camera, her cell phone, her gun, her case folder. All he'd brought to the island was nine bucks, an aching body, and a half-assed plan. He couldn't blame her if she cut her losses with him. Why should she believe that he had a snowball's chance in hell of ever getting anything right? Ten minutes later, he heard the ringing of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling."
"Your friend Zina," Babsie said, "is uglier than her booking photo."
"What she lacks in looks, she makes up for in muscle."
"The other one just came back from the ladies' room. She's a little wobbly."
"Probably shit-faced," Eddie said.
"She looks like a bulimia case with a Jackie Onassis wardrobe: raincoat, scarf, and oversized sunglasses. Can't see her face. Okay, okay, glasses off, rubbing her face. Pretty. Very pretty girl. What is she, about twenty, twenty-one?"
"Maybe a year or two older."
"She's wearing a dress that looks like something Joan Crawford wore in
Mildred Pierce
. Not that I'm an expert or anything, but it looks old to me."
"Save the fashion commentary," Eddie said.
"Okay. Two bottles of wine on the table. Bottle of red, bottle of white. Zina pouring red. I'll tell you right now… Zina looks like that badass Indian in
The Last of the Mohicans
."
Babsie said she'd schmoozed the maitre d' by telling him he reminded her of a young AI Pacino. "Works every time in marinara joints," she said. She refused three booths, until he placed her at a small table in the back. Situated behind an ivy-covered partition, it offered a workable sight line to Zina's plush curved booth.
"I saw this in a spy movie," Babsie said. "Peeking through the ivy.
Casablanca
maybe, something in black and white."
Eddie heard a breath. She said she'd blown out the candle and set it in an opening in the ornate brick latticework. The candleholder held down enough ivy to provide a less obstructed view. Then another voice: a waiter, giving the luncheon specials. Eddie wanted to ask how much it would cost if they just called it lunch.
"You're paying for this," Babsie said. "Fifteen bucks for a goddamn house salad. Two fifty for goddamn iced tea. I gotta take this menu to Martha and Kevin."
Eddie heard the clink of china and silverware in the background. Jerry Vale sang "Innamorata." Babsie bitched about the prices. What a great surveillance tool a cell phone was. Eddie never would have thought of using it this way. Wearing a body mike and lugging an expensive receiver were the old way. This was so easy. Half the people in the place were probably yakking away on them anyway, so the cover was ideal.
Babsie said, "You were right about Zina being the one in those sketches. That schnozz is unmistakable."
"All you have to do is tell me when they're leaving."
"Oh, Jesus…" Babsie said.
"Oh Jesus what?" Use whole sentences, he wanted to tell her.
"Zina just leaned over and kissed her."
"Really?"
"Not
just
a kiss… a big wet tongue."
"Bullshit, not in public."
"I told you this was a romance," she said. "This is why you can't let guys do surveillance work. They miss the nuances."
Eddie heard a click and a motor whine. Sounded like a camera, but she wouldn't be using a camera.
"I'm taking a few pictures," she said.
"That was pretty loud, Babsie. Anybody around you?"
"Empty tables and the back door."
"Careful," he said.
The camera clicked and whined four or five times. Babsie laughed softly.
"You need to see this, Eddie. Zina's treating her like she's a prom date. Doing everything but pinning on a corsage. You want to know how to treat a woman? Watch her. The little touches, fixing the scarf around her neck. Brushing the hair off her face. Two women going to lunch are not this touchy-feely. We've got a major romance going here."
"I believe it. Now put the camera away."
"I just did," she said. "And my salad is here."
Eddie waited twenty minutes, listening to Babsie chew and brag about how she'd predicted it would be hot and heavy at Jimmy's Bistro. Women had a sense of subtle behavioral details; guys only saw the obvious. The world according to Babsie.
"Another bottle of red," Babsie reported. "That didn't take long. And they just got their entrees."
Hopefully, it was Mrs. Borodenko chugging the wine. He didn't want Zina drunk. No telling what she'd be like drunk. Eddie tried to figure out how this romance affected the life of his daughter. If it did at all. According to Boland, not a word about Kate had been mentioned on any of the bugs they had in Borodenko's businesses. The cops working the plants felt that the kidnapping was outside of the Borodenko criminal empire. Yuri himself was the only one who ever referred to Kate; every day, he asked if she'd been found yet. It could be bullshit, but he appeared to be out of the loop. Zina might be more of an independent contractor than he'd thought. Wrapping the alcoholic Mrs. Borodenko around her finger. Using her. This would account for Sergei's trip to Palermo. Eddie needed to connect and deal seriously with Zina before Yuri killed her.
"I think AI Pacino gave me up," Babsie said.
"Who?"
"The maitre d'. He's over at their booth now, and Zina is looking my way. Pissed-off. Here she comes."
Eddie heard rustling sounds. He could hear Babsie clear her throat. Then he heard another voice: Zina's.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Babsie said.
"Give me the fucking camera." It was Zina. No doubt about it. That voice was etched in his mind.
Eddie sprinted stiffly across the parking lot. His right hip ached as he bounded up the steps. When he found Babsie's table, she was sitting back, smiling up at Zina. The way her hands were in her lap, he knew she had her gun under the table and was pointing it at Zina's stomach.
"Eddie Dunne, shit," Zina said. "I knew you didn't have the balls to handle it on your own."
"I need to talk to you for a second," Eddie said.
"Get your fucking hands off me," Zina said.
Babsie identified herself to the maitre d', who was running in circles around them. She dropped the camera down in her purse with a big satisfied smile. Zina told the maitre d' she wanted the film before they left. Two burly guys in tight suits converged on them from the bar. Eddie whispered he had the money in the trunk.
"Three million," he whispered.
"You ain't got shit with you," Zina said. "Except this old whore with a badge."
"Okay, last words before the fight," Babsie said.
She was already up, swinging her leather bag over her shoulder. One burly guy maneuvered his body between the two women. The maitre d' asked Babsie to leave, then explained to Zina he couldn't take the camera. Babsie was a police officer on an official investigation.
"Not so fast, bitch," Zina said, reaching around. "I told you I want that film."
Zina grabbed Babsie by the hair and yanked her toward her. Burly guy number one tried to pry Zina's fingers loose. Babsie ducked and spun, swinging the purse low, as if it were a fifty-pound sandbag. She caught Zina behind the knees. Zina buckled backward, then went down flat. Babsie followed with all her weight as her knee slammed into Zina's midsection. Zina gasped, trying to catch her breath, fists flailing at Babsie's face. Both burly guys reached for whatever they could grab-arms, legs, shirts. Eddie planted his foot on Zina's sternum, grabbed Babsie under the arms, and pulled her up.
The bigger burly guy wrapped Eddie in a bear hug, squeezing his sore left elbow against his ribs. The maitre d' Babsie called AI Pacino helped the wheezing Zina to her feet. A clump of Babsie's grayish blond hair clung to the fingers of her right hand. Quick eye contact with Eddie-Babsie saying she was okay. Zina bent over, trying to catch her breath, pointed a finger at Eddie, then made a gesture. She held her palm flat, indicating about three feet high, then ran a finger across her throat. "Grade," she rasped.
"You come near that little girl," Babsie said, "and I'll blow that ugly head off."
Eddie struggled to get out of the bear hug. He looked around for Mrs. Borodenko, but the pale blonde was standing only a few feet to his right in her Joan Crawford dress. Her eyes were puffy and red, as if she'd been caught in the middle of a drunken crying jag, and she was looking right at him. Staring at him.
"Forgive," she said in a breathy Russian accent. That sad, pretty face. A face from another time. She touched his arm as Zina pulled her toward the door. "Forgive."
Chapter 39
Thursday
2:00 P.M.
"Sorry," Babsie said.
Sorry
was a word he didn't want to hear again. It never changed anything; time never rolled backward to accommodate your regret. If it did, Kate would be home, Eileen still singing doo-wop. He was sorry for all the pain he'd caused, all the mistakes he'd made. What good did it do? He wanted to put a blinking purple neon billboard in the heart of Times Square, announcing that no one ever had to apologize to him again. Babsie certainly didn't have to.
"It wasn't your fault," Eddie said. "It was a stupid plan. Never had a chance. The woman is a psycho. You can't pin your hopes on the reaction of a psycho."
'The camera was a mistake," she said.
"Babsie, forget what happened."
"I just keep thinking…"
"I love you," he said for the first time. "From the first moment of this, you've been my heart, my head, everything I could have ever wanted. In my eyes, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, you could ever do wrong."
Little else was said on the way back to Yonkers. The thing about apology is that no amount of it eases anyone's pain, thought Eddie. And no amount of money was ever going to get Kate home. He'd fooled himself into thinking this was about money. He wanted to believe it, because it was a tangible way to fix everything. But if it had been about ransom, Kate would have been home long ago. Cash and carry. This was something else. Some Zina Rabinovich-conjured vendetta. Zina was using Mrs. Borodenko to carry it out, and nobody in Borodenko's organization had the guts to tell Yuri his beautiful wife was hollow. Everyone knows what happens to the messenger. Eddie Dunne was not afraid to be the messenger.
"Let me have the camera," he said.
"Let's go home," Babsie said. "Ten days you've been at this. Not sleeping, not letting up. You're emotionally exhausted."
It was too late for exhaustion. It was the last round: Go for the head. He'd decided to peel the veneer off the beautiful Mrs. Borodenko. He intended to broadcast throughout the Russian community the relationship between her and a homicidal lesbian. He had no doubt it would plunge a dagger through Borodenko's macho self-image and bring him rushing home to repair the damage. It could also backfire, but he was down to last chances. Ten days had gone by. Ten days.
Babsie's cell phone rang. He heard only her part of the short hi-and-bye conversation. She answered no questions, gave no advice. She just listened to the dictates of a legal system in full gear. The ball was rolling with or without her.
"Celltech called back," she said. "The DNA sample sent to them by Zina matches ours. They're both Paul Caruso."
"Let me know when you're ready to pick her up."
"Don't worry," she said. "The thing of it is, Paulie's DNA didn't match Zina's. She's still looking for her father."
They stopped at a one-hour photo on Central Avenue. Eddie picked two pictures from the sample sheet. The photo shop was glad to see Eddie. He ordered a hundred blowups each of two pictures in which you could clearly see the faces of both women as they leaned across the table for an eyes-closed, mouths-open, tongues-engaged kiss. No mistaking it for platonic.
He dropped Babsie off at home. She went right to her car and backed down the driveway, on her way to Christ the King. Grace would never be out of her sight until Zina was in custody. Eddie opened a stack of bills from the very top layer of the boodle in his trunk. He folded them and stuck them into his pocket.