"You put me on the spot back there," Babsie said, "telling them that everything said would stay in that room. That wasn't right. I can't go along with that, and you know it."
"So I lied. I would have done whatever it took, Babsie. Why don't we forget my sins for now and focus on how we're going to get Zina off that boat."
"With lots of backup, that's how," Babsie said, dialing her cell phone. "I'm calling Boland."
"Let me take a run at her first."
"She sees you, it's war. She sees an army, maybe she gives up."
"I can handle her."
"Eddie, Sophie's been your daughter for about an hour. Think about the one in Coney Island Hospital who's had to put up with you for the past thirty-four years. Kate doesn't need you to get blown away right now."
"So I just forget about Sophie?"
"Yes. Your role here is to not risk your life to please an overemotional Russian barracuda. You don't owe Sophie a thing. What is it with you guys? Is it the sound of the door slamming that causes male amnesia? You walk out of the house and-bang-you forget all about the family. The next pretty blonde gets all the quality time."
"This has nothing to do with pretty."
Babsie was already talking to Boland, giving him the address, the Sophie story, the whole megillah. Eddie wondered when the balance of power in this relationship had shifted to Babsie. He was suddenly stunned by how little control he had over his life. He'd always thought of himself as a tough guy, doing it his way, but now he realized how dependent he was on the opinions of women.
"Boland has two guys from the task force working out here," she said. "Apparently, they have a big Russian enclave near Great Kills. They'll meet us at the marina. He's also notifying Emergency Services, and the One-two-two. He says we're going to need bodies out here for crowd control."
"It's going to look like St. Paddy's Day with all the uniforms."
"Better safe than sorry," she said. "Harbor Unit is going to be there in case she pulls a
Miami Vice
. But there's no way
I'm
getting on any boat in this skirt."
"They'll need me to identify Zina."
"I can handle that. Let's be clear about one thing. This woman hates your guts, and mine. She tried to kill me and most of your family nine hours ago. And she kicked your ass already. Remember that debacle? This time, you and I are going to let the young studs handle it. The best thing we can do here is nothing stupid."
The setting sun, a bright orange ball burning through a purple-green haze, reflected on the dark Atlantic. The joint effort of nature and escaping gases of New Jersey blended into a spectacular, if not pristine, sunset.
"I didn't see the barracuda you're talking about," Eddie said.
"Sophie plays men," Babsie said, her voice softer. "And she's good at it. She does this Poor Little Buttercup routine and every guy wants to protect her. She plays Borodenko, and she played you. I figure she played Zina until she got her doing her bidding. But she wants everyone to think Zina was the aggressor. It's everyone's fault except poor sweet Sophie's. But I see big holes in the princess's fairy tale. Other people had to be involved in this. Who guarded Kate? There had to have been someone here watching her. And who dropped Kate off in Coney Island last night? Not Zina, I bet."
"So we can't even give her the benefit of the doubt?" Eddie said.
"Have you gone nuts, too? That shit never works when you're dealing with people like this. I know you want to mellow out in your old age, but sometimes you have to drag out your old ass-kicking personality. Give this woman a hard look, Eddie. And save the benefit of the doubt for the people who love you."
They followed a line of traffic into the marina parking lot. Some people were coming early for the restaurants. Others, in SUVs and pickup trucks, looked like they had supplies to load onto their boats for the weekend. Sunny skies and temperatures in the low seventies were predicted for Saturday. Eddie spotted the task force car parked behind the marina building. He recognized the two guys from the Flushing Salvage raid-one agent, one NYPD detective-going into the marina office. Eddie parked next to them. They were about fifty yards from the water.
"We have to figure a way to control this crowd before it gets out of hand," Babsie said, getting out of the car. "If she starts with the firepower, we could have a massacre. Let me talk to these guys. Maybe we can start isolating the area around the boat. Try not to turn into Mister Rogers while I'm gone."
Eddie got out of the car with her, then stood with his arms resting on the roof of the Camry. The flat-roofed one-story marina building blocked most of the pier. He could see a clear line of about thirty boats. Any one of a dozen of them could have been the
Bright Star
. He knew it wouldn't seem the same-nothing ever looked as good as its memory.
The Harbor Unit was already in place, cruising the row of boats. Two radio cars from the precinct went past the parking lot, pulling right up to the edge of the docks. Uniformed cops got out near the dock, looking around for whomever they were supposed to meet. No one ever tells the precinct guys enough.
When he thought about it, Eddie could see Lana in Sophie. Beyond the beauty, he could see mannerisms: the slow, crinkly smile; the way she held her fist close to her waist, with the thumb on the outside; how her eyes became damp at the mere mention of the word
love
. He knew Babsie was right about Sophie. As the days passed, he would have come to the same conclusion. But after he saw Kate this morning, it was as if all the air had gone out of him. He'd collapsed emotionally, ready to blow kisses to the crowd, forgive those who'd trespassed against him. Sophie took advantage of that. Or maybe, just maybe, Babsie had a point about the
pretty blonde
thing.
Precinct radio cars were following one another around, looking for a leader. They should decide in advance on one radio frequency for these things, then everyone is on the same page. Another uniformed cop approached, walking from the south, possibly private security trying to figure out what was happening.
The big blue Emergency Services truck arrived. One of the feds put his fingers in his mouth, whistled, and waved them over, the same way it was done before the invention of the telephone. All the cell phones, all the pagers, but a good whistle still works best.
The Emergency Services boss got it organized quickly. He sent the plainclothes cops up to the docks to move people quietly away from the
Bright Star
. Emergency Services crews strapped themselves into riot gear and dragged out the big shields as several other precinct cars cruised past. Babsie came running across the grass. Even in a skirt, she ran like an athlete.
"Zina's car is in the parking lot," Babsie said. "The marina manager says she's on board the
Bright Star
. We're going to freeze the area first The place is filling up fast."
"You don't need me."
"You got that right. We have more cops here now than we have in the whole city of Yonkers."
People who'd been in boats walked quickly to then-cars. Uniformed cops had been dispatched to all corners of the marina to hold back the new arrivals. Other cops watched the parking lot as the ESU guys lumbered toward the boat.
Babsie hustled back to the group. Zina was her arrest, and she wasn't going to miss out. Eddie wondered about Zina's bullet wounds. How bad were they? Unless Zina was sick or dead, she had to be noticing the massive troop movement around her. Dead would make things easier. Sick, she could be dangerous, probably suicidal. She'd try to bring everyone down with her.
Eddie sat on a picnic bench, thinking that he and Paulie the Priest wouldn't have called anyone for this. In those days, there was no one to call. You just fired up a cigar and kicked the door in. But that was before crack cocaine, suicide bombers, and a gun in every home.
He picked up Kevin's cell phone and called the North End Tavern to get an update on his brother and to hear Grace's voice. But he'd forgotten the line was temporarily disconnected. He started to call his house, when he heard an explosion on the dock. A puff of smoke rose from the deck of the
Bright Star
. Tear gas, or something similar. Somebody was on the bullhorn, telling Zina to give up.
A uniformed cop walked away from the dock, limping slightly. Eddie wondered if this was the start of one of those "injured on the job" scams. That pissed him off-some bozo seizing the opportunity to get three-quarters pension for a knee he'd hurt playing tennis. Not only was it a sleazy move; it cheapened the debt rightfully owed to those cops who were actually hurt in the line of duty. To some scheming leeches, three-quarters pay, tax-free, was like winning the lottery. The leeches hired lawyers and made a career of their fight to screw the city. We
are
the city, Eddie thought, his blood pressure rising as Matty Boland arrived in the Lincoln Town Car. He cruised past the limping cop, heading toward the smoke.
The guy on the bullhorn made further pleas in a heavy New York accent, all apparently unanswered. Eddie dialed information to get the number of Coney Island Hospital as the big shields edged closer to the boat. Eddie had no doubt that Zina Rabinovich would fight to the death. He wrote the hospital number on the palm of his hand.
He began dialing as the limping uniformed cop came toward the radio cars parked nearby. As he came closer, Eddie saw the guy was wearing a light blue uniform shirt. Not our job, Eddie thought, must be private security. NYPD cops had quit wearing the light blue shirts a few years ago. So much for his faked injury tirade. This guy was a square badge, getting the hell away from the impending fireworks. He was hauling ass, even with the limp. Couldn't blame him. No sense getting killed for minimum wage.
But as he got closer, Eddie could see the badge wasn't square. It looked like an NYPD detective's gold shield. The light blue shirt must have been the only thing in his locker today. The guy was highly decorated, an impressive display of ribbons and commendations on his chest. He was coming right at Eddie, moving fast. Then he started to run.
Eddie stood up quickly as the guy pulled a machine pistol from under the uniform jacket. The first blast took out the Camry's headlight. Eddie dived behind the car. Bullets thunked heavily into sheet metal. He squeezed his legs up behind the front wheel well. He reached for his service revolver, but he didn't have it, or a prayer. He got off his knees and ran to the marina building. Three steps into it, he felt as if he was slogging through heavy mud. Bullets kicked the ground around him. Then the Lincoln Town Car cut across the lawn and gravel flew. A heavy thud from the Lincoln's bumper sent the cop airborne. His hat flew off and hit the ground in front of him.
Even with the dust and cordite in the air, Eddie knew it was Zina. Matty Boland jumped out of the Lincoln, his gun drawn. Zina scrambled on hands and knees toward the machine pistol. Boland fired twice, the second shot smashing into her skull at an angle and sending chunks of bone and blood flying as she kept crawling on her belly until she reached the gun. Steps away, Boland fired five times, one shot hitting her in the face, just below her eye.
Eddie kicked the machine pistol farther away, but her crawling had ceased. Paulie the Priest would have put a few more rounds into her just to be sure. With lesbians, he'd say, you can never tell.
Up close, Eddie could see the uniform was old, faded, and far too big for her. The sleeves and pants had been crudely altered with safety pins. Eddie knew this particular uniform had been purchased in 1966 from an authorized police tailor on Kingsbridge Terrace in the Bronx. Inside both the jacket and pants, stamped in white ink, would be the last four numbers of Eddie's NYPD tax registry number. The gold detective shield with his number was a fake. A good fake. The black name tag with white lettering read dunne. Zina must have taken it from the back of his closet when she grabbed Kate. He never knew it was missing.
"How did you know it was her?" Eddie said.
"The Medal of Honor," Matty said. "I saw it when I rode past. You and the Priest were the only guys I ever worked with who won it. I thought, Who is this guy? Then it came to me. The ribbon had to belong either to you or Paulie Caruso."
Babsie came sprinting from the dock. Other cops, half her age, tried to keep up. Matty Boland knelt down and opened the jacket. Zina had strapped a massive arsenal to herself, including hand grenades, ammunition, and three other handguns. Eddie picked up the dusty uniform hat. Inside, under the plastic, was a picture of a ten-year-old redhead with more freckles than Howdy Doody.
Chapter 45
Sunday, April 19
Noon
They were sitting on a park bench in Yonkers, looking down at the grass infield of Lennon Park. Two dozen little girls were playing soccer, kicking the ball in whatever direction appealed to them. The ball would suddenly appear before them and-whack-they'd kick it away, almost in self-defense. Most of them were content to get in a kick and jump back. They'd been playing for almost twenty minutes and the ball had not approached either goal. The goalies, their interest lost, gazed up at the crowd.
"If I had legs like that," Babsie said, pointing to Grace, "I would have kissed this job good-bye and tried out for the Rockettes."
She looked over at Eddie. "What the hell's so funny?" she said.
"I was thinking you'd make one hot Rockette."
Eddie had been at Coney Island Hospital earlier that morning. Kate had made remarkable strides. Her stomach had been pumped. Doctors weren't sure exactly what drugs she'd ingested. They went ahead and flushed her system as well as they could. Her main problem, serious dehydration, had responded well to the IV fluids. She looked much better. The bruises, abrasions, and broken bones would heal with treatment and rest. Kate said she'd been slapped a few times, but her injuries came from struggling. Her doctor, the son of a cop himself, predicted she'd be home by Tuesday. As soon as the soccer horn sounded, they were going to take Grace to see her.