"So was the big shoot-out in the park. It was all a setup."
She thought of getting dressed and leaving. Maybe if he had a night to mull it over, he'd decide his secrets should remain with him. But Babsie made up her mind right then. She'd gone this far. Whatever it was, so be it. They'd be her secrets, too.
"How much did you know?" she said.
"It took me a few weeks to catch on. Remember you said you thought it was strange we just happened to be driving by the Rosenfeld house at the exact time of the robbery?"
"The first thing that occurred to me."
"Most cops say the same thing: too much of a coincidence. But I wasn't surprised. We drove by that house all the time. Sometimes ten, twenty times a tour. Paulie was always trying to get a glimpse of Lana. Like he was sixteen years old."
"Vestri and Nunez were patsies," Babsie said. "Set up to be killed, weren't they?"
"Paulie's brother Angelo engineered the robbery. He arranged for Nunez and Vestri to do it. Paulie had all the inside information. He knew where the safe was. He knew there was a ton of money in it, although I don't think he ever imagined how much."
"Paulie knew the exact day and time Vestri and Nunez would be there," she said.
"Probably down to the minute. After the robbery, Nunez and Vestri went to a prearranged spot in Marine Park. They were probably thinking they'd meet one of Angelo's men, switch cars or something. When Paulie followed them, he hung so far back on the Belt Parkway, I thought he was going to lose them. But he knew exactly where they were going. He drove to a spot hidden in a grove of trees. There they were. The shoot-out happened fast. As soon as we got out of the car, Paulie fired the first shot, but they already had guns in their hands."
"When they saw Paulie, they knew it was a setup. They had to be stupid not to smell something strange about Angelo giving them this big a job."
"Stupid, sure, that's why they were picked. But they did better than I did, because I didn't smell anything. None of it seemed forced or manipulated. Paulie was patient. He waited until we came up in normal rotation for that divisionwide burglary assignment. I fully expected him to ride by the house that day. It's what he did every chance he got."
"How much did the Carusos get?"
"Millions."
"How did they get the money out of the park?"
"I'm not exactly sure. After we shot Vestri and Nunez, I left to look for a telephone to call for an ambulance and the bosses. We had no radio in the car. I know, I know… part of the setup. I had to drive out of the park to find a phone. When I got back, ten or fifteen minutes later, I noticed Paulie had grass and twigs clinging to his pant legs. I asked him what had happened. He said he went into the woods to take a piss. He either took the money out of the trunk and hid it or passed it off to someone waiting."
"When did you figure it out?"
"It took me longer than I like to admit," Eddie said. "Maybe I didn't want to believe it. That night, we were heroes, our pictures in all the papers."
"I can't believe you didn't tell somebody about it. It's murder we're talking about here, Eddie. Why didn't you just leak it to IAB?"
"You're not going to like this."
"Oh no."
"Tell me if you don't want to hear it, Babsie. I'm serious. It implicates me."
He could feel her body tensing. Gone was the soft, warm drowsiness. He understood that it was natural for her to start thinking like a cop.
"In for a penny, in for a pound," she said. "I already know more than I want to. If you don't tell me, I'm always going to wonder how bad you really are."
Eddie said, "After the big press conference the next day, we're leaving police headquarters in Manhattan. We get in Paulie's car to go back to the precinct. Cops and brass are walking past us as we're parked there. Uniforms all over the place. Paulie tosses me a stack of bills, mostly fifties and hundreds. I say something like "Oh shit," and I shove it under my coat so no one will see it. I don't look until we're back over the bridge. Total of ten grand. He says he grabbed two stacks off the top, one for me, one for him. No big deal. He says no one has any idea how much money was there. The money was just going to Uncle Sam, and he'd never miss it."
"You kept the ten grand."
"I kept it. Eileen was sick; I owed everyone. It didn't seem like that big of a chunk of the four point two million we turned in. Remember, at that point I still thought it was a good shoot. I thought we were heroes. The only other choice I had was to turn on my partner. And, yes, as weak and wrong as it sounds now, I kept the money."
"Paulie was slick," she said. "He put you in a position where you were in it together. You couldn't go against him because you were equally guilty. No telling how much the bastard really grabbed."
Babsie thought, Five minutes after I tell this guy I love him, he drops a piano on me. That has to be a new record. What the hell is the rest of our life going to be like? But she had to admit, she thought the story was going to be worse.
"Next question," she said. "How did Zina find out about it?"
"Listen to me for a second," he said.
"Oh, Eddie. Don't do this again."
"I didn't know this until tonight," he said. "Mrs. Borodenko's maiden name is Sophie Ross. She's a model who grew up in Russia."
"I know that."
"She's also the daughter of Marvin and Lana Rosenfeld, Babsie."
"I thought their kid drowned in Russia."
'That's what I thought. Ludmilla told me tonight that Sophie's grandparents created that story to avoid a custody battle with the Rosenfelds. They hid her in some small village in the Ukraine."
Babsie could put the rest together herself. After Sophie moved over here, she somehow found out about her mother's nights on Paul Caruso's boat. She sent Sergei looking for Paulie. Paulie the Priest filled in the rest.
"One thing bothers me, Eddie. You said Paulie really loved Lana?"
"Like crazy."
"He put her in a hell of a dangerous position for someone he loved like crazy. In the middle of the robbery, with two nut jobs like Vestri and Nunez."
"That will always bother me, too," he said softly.
"What happens now?" Babsie said.
"This puts me more in the middle than I thought. Maybe Sophie blames me for what happened to her parents. I need to confront Borodenko, get it settled once and for all. Whatever he wants. Then I'll beg him to save Kate. She had nothing to do with this."
"I meant what happens between us," she said.
"Wait until this unfolds," he said. "Whatever you decide then, I won't blame you."
Chapter 41
Friday, April 17
7:25 A.M.
"Knock, knock," Grace said, as they walked down Roberts Avenue.
"Who's there," Babsie said.
"Banana," Grace said.
"I've heard that one a hundred times," Babsie said. "Don't you know any other jokes?"
"Okay, let me think."
Matty Boland had called early that morning. Yuri Borodenko had been burning up the telephone on the flight home from Moscow. Whatever he'd said, the offices of both the Mazurka and Flushing Salvage were buzzing with activity. Babsie knew the investigators working the plant could hear only one side of the telephone conversations, mostly a series of grunted replies that meant Yes, Yuri; yes, Yuri. Both operations were fully in motion before dawn. So many half-assed mobsters were on the road, the task force couldn't follow all of them. That was part of the plan, Boland figured. Lose the Keystone Kops in the clown chase. In the confusion, one trusted associate hides the evidence, or plants the bombs. It would all be over before 2:00 p.m., when Borodenko landed at JFK. Boland told Babsie he'd prefer it if Eddie wasn't there.
She'd let Eddie sleep. He needed it, and she needed time to think about her own moves. Fifty years old, might be a little late for a new life. She'd been independent for too long. She owned her own house, had a good job with a decent pension right around the corner. Now this Eddie Dunne thing, happening too fast. The trick was not to jump too far. Eddie was great, but maybe she needed to keep an escape route open. She remembered an old Yeats poem an English teacher from Sacred Heart used to spout when he got his load on. Something about "never give all the heart." Always keep a little of yourself back. Good advice. Now how the hell do you do it? she wondered.
"I know a joke," Babsie said. "Your teacher's name is Rita, right?"
"Mrs. Coughlin is my teacher, but her first name is Rita."
"Knock, knock."
"Who's there?" Grace said.
"Rita."
"Rita who?" Grace said, starting to laugh already.
"Rita good book and you'll learn something."
Grace laughed as if she were going to bust. Babsie never saw a kid who liked to laugh like this one. She brought out the comedian in everyone.
"I'll say that to my teacher today."
"Yeah, it'll go over big. Tell her your grandfather told you that one."
"Babsie, can I call you Grammy?"
Grace called her Grammy at the light at Palisade as a car came screeching around the corner. Babsie heard it before she saw it. Her instincts kicked in and she pulled Grace close to her. It was an old loud Camaro, coming straight at them. In one move, she scooped Grace under her arm and jumped backward, trying to put a parked car between them and the Camaro. She landed hard on her ass and elbows, her arms wrapped around Grace. The Camaro banged over the curb and stopped inches from the building. Zina had the window down, and the gun pointed. Babsie scrambled between parked cars and out to the road. The Camaro backed up, but Babsie had passed behind it and was running toward the North End Tavern, lugging Grace and her backpack. She could hear the loud Camaro engine accelerating behind her.
The first gunshots shattered the glass of McGrath Electric. The front doors of the North End Tavern were wide-open, blowing out the night's beer stink. Babsie made it in before bullets shattered their glass. Kevin Dunne came running from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. Babsie told him to stay the hell away from the windows and call 911. Babsie ran to the cellar steps, opened the door, and told Grace to get down there and stay. She slammed the door behind her. Martha came out of the kitchen and stood by Kevin, ready to give a piece of her mind to whoever had had the nerve to break her windows.
"Martha," Babsie said, "go downstairs with Grace."
"I'll do no such thing," she said.
The first grenade hit off a coat hook and bounded toward the empty booths. Babsie screamed at them to get down, but they stood there as if they were posing. The explosion rocketed up and out, debris releasing in a wide swath. Martha shrieked as Kevin fell to the ground holding his face, blood spurting through his fingers.
The next grenade came seconds later, as Babsie screamed at the police dispatcher: 'Ten-thirteen, ten-thir-teen." The dispatcher calmly asked, "Location?" The caller ID was unable to get an address from a cell phone. Babsie, who'd lived there all her life, didn't know the street number. "The North End Tavern," she yelled. "Palisade and Roberts. Ask one of the cops."
In the quiet after the second blast, she could hear Martha calling Kevin, repeating his name over and over in a detached and eerie voice. Babsie crawled through chunks of wet plaster and glass around the side of the line of booths until she reached a spot where she had a straight view of the front door. Water pouring from a broken pipe slapped off a table.
On her stomach, Babsie anchored her elbows on the floor and pointed the gun barrel at the light shining from outside. Zina would appear backlit, a decent target despite the smoke. The smoke was too thick to see the front clearly; she couldn't tell exactly where Kevin and Martha were. Just hang on for two minutes, she thought; the cavalry will be here. Two minutes. Her right hand was tightening up; her elbow felt swollen and numb. Eddie hurts his left; I do my right. Aren't we a goddamn pair?
Babsie heard footsteps walking on the glass, and no more sounds from Martha. The footsteps were slow and deliberate, not moving in a straight line. Pausing, moving, pausing, moving. From her shooter's spot, Babsie could see the front, but her view of the cellar door was from under a table. The heavy clouds lingered-the second grenade must have had a smoke component. Finally, she heard a siren in the distance.
The door to the cellar opened. From where she was, she could see only Grace's feet.
"Grammy," Grace called.
Babsie's hands slid on the wet glass and chunks of plaster. She rolled under the partition that separated the tables from the bar. The footsteps quickened.
"Honey," she said. "Go back where you were."
"I'm scared, Grammy."
Babsie got to her feet and ran toward the cellar door. Zina fired and missed. Babsie got to Grace first, picked her up, slammed the cellar door behind her. She ran down the steps as quickly as possible with wet shoes and the weight of a child in her arms. She knew if she could clear the steps and turn left, she'd be out of the line of fire; then she'd have the advantage. But the door opened as she was halfway down the shallow wooden steps that Kieran Dunne had built out of World War II ammunition boxes. She heard the gunshot, and made up her mind that a little bullet wouldn't be much more to carry. Then she heard a scream of pain. She turned, to see Zina clutching her thigh, then turning away, disappearing. Another shot was fired, then two more. Babsie hid Grace in a jumble of beer kegs and boxing gloves. She went back up the stairs quickly. Two more shots. Babsie kicked the cellar door open and moved into the open in the combat stance she'd been taught. Under a clock that Kevin had reclaimed from the demolished Yonkers Savings Bank stood a blood-soaked Martha Dunne, pointing a gun toward the front door. It was a gun so new, the price tag dangled from the trigger guard.
Zina was gone.
When Eddie arrived, only the medical personnel had finished their work. The Yonkers PD and FD, the NYPD and
ATF, and the FBI traipsed through the crime scene that had been the Dunne family bar. A tiny piece of shrapnel had pierced Kevin's throat; only the quick action of two Yonkers cops kept him alive. They'd carried him to their radio car and raced to St. John's Hospital.