The Con Man's Daughter

Chapter 7

Tuesday, April 7

4:45 A.M.

The phone didn't ring again for the rest of the night. Eddie lay in bed fully dressed, staring at the light shining under the door. Grace, all elbows and knees, slept fitfully next to him. He could hear the cops tiptoeing on the squeaky wooden floors, the toilet flushing, water running, cars coming and going in the driveway, and several times the voice of Babsie Panko. They tried to be quiet, but when, you've lived in a house as long as Eddie had, you could tell when its heartbeat became irregular. Not that anyone was keeping him awake. A little before 5:00 a.m., he called Kevin and asked if he and Martha could come over.

Two hours later, in the low-angled sunlight of the morning, Anatoly Lukin and his bodyguards emerged from a newly renovated Art Deco apartment building in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn. Watching from a block away, Detective Matty Boland picked up his radio and relayed a brief description to the other members of the team. Lukin wore only a baggy wool suit and the sable hat. Cold weather didn't bother the old man. He'd spent the first forty-two years of his life in the Ukraine, where an average day in spring inflicts more misery than the coldest New York City winter.

"The big shot," Boland said. "Looks like he doesn't have two rubles to rub together."

"Shkafy," said Eddie Dunne, "is the Russian word for big shot."

Boland mouthed the word quietly as he watched from behind the steering wheel of the black Lincoln Town Car he'd borrowed from the federal motor pool. He'd parked to the east of Lukin's building, knowing the glare of the morning sun would camouflage their presence. Even if Lukin's bodyguards spotted the car, its occupants could not be seen. The windows were coated with the darkest tint available.

"The guy in the camel-hair coat is Lukin's nephew, Pavel," Eddie said, nodding at the three men walking. "He runs what's left of the operation, hires the bodyguards, gets the old man from place to place."

"You'd think he'd drive him, or grab a cab."

"He's never been in a cab."

Although the old man will make an exception Thursday. His first and last cab ride, straight to JFK. The hell with the rest of them, Eddie thought; it will be a pleasure to see them in a cell. The Russian trio moved slowly toward Brighton Beach Avenue. Lukin's breath fogged in the damp morning air as he shuffled past cars coated with a thin coat of frost-the price of living next to the Atlantic Ocean in April.

"What's Lukin's purpose here?" Boland said. "Does he actually think that by dressing this way and taking the subway we'll think he's on the balls of his ass?"

"He knows he isn't fooling anyone, Matty. He's just too smart to flaunt money like John Gotti, with his limos and handmade suits. Gotti rubbed it in our faces, and we made a point of getting him."

Eddie gave Boland a rundown on both bodyguards. Pavel ran insurance scams for his uncle. The other goon was strictly a bodyguard. Whatever moonlighting he did involved the breaking of bones. Eddie went back to reading the list of known Borodenko locations. As promised, Boland delivered an FBI list of eighty-seven addresses known to be connected with the Borodenko operation: homes, apartments, garages, warehouses, bars, stores, junkyards, et cetera. The list would lend some organization to Eddie's search.

"Why do they have this list numbered?" Eddie asked.

"Not numbered, prioritized. The computer spits it out like that. It lists locations by the number of observations of Borodenko. The more observations, the higher the priority."

"His home is listed first," Eddie said. "Does anyone think they'd hide her there?"

"Now you see what I'm up against."

The mass door kicking Matty had promised was not-going to happen. Not without warrants, and the U.S. attorney said he needed more than the hunches of the victim's father. But a dozen teams from the Russian task force had begun surveillance of known Borodenko locations. Teams had four to seven spots each, depending on proximity. Their instructions were to shuttle between addresses and watch each location for activity consistent with a kidnapping situation. Whatever the hell that meant. Boland apologized, saying he had been led to believe they intended to be more aggressive.

"Let me ask you this," Boland said, adjusting the volume on the police radio. "Lukin ever tap you for bodyguard duty?"

"Occasionally. I was mostly just a courier. I picked up and dropped off packages."

"And you have no idea what was inside those packages."

"I made it a point not to know. Put me on the lie detector."

"Just breaking your balls, Eddie. He ever talk business when you were around?"

"Probably. But he did it in Russian."

Almost twenty-four hours since they'd snatched Kate, and still no ransom call. A cold fear lingered in the back of Eddie's mind. Would this massive police presence force the kidnappers to make Borodenko's problem disappear? The Russians knew a thousand ways to make that happen. Eddie's stomach churned with the realization that he'd put his trust in people more worried about legal niceties than about his daughter. He began making notations, his own priorities. The identity of Borodenko's hatchet man Sergei Zhukov would stay with him for now.

Boland said, "Whatta you figure's Lukin's main source of income?"

"Pump-and-dump scams on Wall Street. Then Medicare, and other insurance scams, staged accidents. Crimes dealing with paper."

"I heard the score on the gasoline-tax scam alone was over a hundred million."

"That was before I worked for him," Eddie said.

He gave Boland a brief rundown on Lukin's rise to criminal power in Brooklyn. Shortly after his arrival in the seventies, Lukin began working for the brutal crime boss Evesi Volshin, who ran gambling, loan-sharking, and extortion rackets in Brighton Beach. Volshin's victims were almost exclusively his own people. When

Lukin arrived, he introduced Volshin to paper scams, including the lucrative gasoline-tax scam. As the money poured in, Volshin became more and more convinced he was invincible. Not a single Russian tear was shed when Volshin was shot to death in a crowded restaurant in 1984, the third time he'd been shot that year. Lukin took over and the focus shifted entirely to paper crimes.

"Tell me how he rips off Medicare," Boland said.

"Easiest way to become a millionaire, according to Lukin. All you need is a doctor's Medicare number and a post office box. He started with fake clinics, generating millions in phony claims. Toward the end, he didn't even bother with the clinic. He just shuffled paper."

"Nobody checks that shit?"

"By the time they get around to checking, he's a few million ahead. All the investigators find is an abandoned post office box."

"What happens if they get lucky and grab someone picking up the checks?"

"That person makes bail, then disappears to the mother country."

Boland picked at the warm loaf of caraway bread Eddie had bought from the bakery on Brighton Beach Avenue. In his left hand, he held a container of coffee, which he balanced on the dashboard. A circle of steam formed on the windshield.

"What do you figure Lukin did with all his money?" Boland said. "Guys like him squeeze a nickel until the buffalo squeals. My guess is he'd be happy just to dump it in a big pit and roll around in it like Scrooge McDuck."

"Yeah, that's probably what he does."

"The word on the street is that he's got a pile of cash hidden somewhere."

"He doesn't pile cash, Matty. His office shelves are lined with about a dozen black binders filled with the paperwork on dummy corporations. It's going to take the government accountants years to figure out where he's hidden it."

The surf pounded steadily behind them. It was just the two of them in the confiscated limo. Boland sipped his coffee as he waited for Lukin to reach the corner. His job was to follow Lukin from his home to the subway, then alert the next segment of the tail. Thanks to Eddie, they knew where he was going.

"Listen," Eddie said. "How about you get me the transcripts of the wiretaps and informant interviews. Maybe I can pick out something your analysts might gloss over."

"The feds frown on that shit, but I'll see what I can sneak out."

Eddie handed him a copy of Novoye Russkoye Slovo, the only Russian-language daily newspaper in the United States. It meant New Russian Word.

"Start reading this," he said.

"It's in Russian."

"I know, but unless you understand these people, you don't have a prayer. Look in today's obit section. They've got five paragraphs on this thirty-year-old guy. It says he 'tragically died.' That means murdered. You can lay money Borodenko was involved. Somebody should be looking into this one."

"How much Russian do you understand?" Matty said.

"Enough to follow the obits."

"But not enough to understand Lukin when he talked about business."

"I didn't want to understand," Eddie said. "You want to become the Russian OC expert. Make a point to learn the language."

"The feds got rooms full of interpreters downtown," Boland said.

Intelligence sources predicted Yuri Borodenko would blame Lukin for the firebombing of his Rolls-Royce. He'd retaliate very soon; Borodenko was the patron saint of revenge. With a little luck, the task force hoped to grab someone in the act of murder, then turn him into an informant. Murder one, even the attempt, was a heavy sword to dangle over the head of the average lowlife. But Eddie knew they could never coerce a Russian into cooperating. The only reason a Russian ever spoke to the police was to make fools of them.

"How about drugs?" Boland said. "Lukin invest in a supply route or poppy field somewhere in Afghanistan, or one of those other 'stans?"

"Absolutely not. I'd stake my life on it."

"Cut the shit, Eddie. You're making these guys sound like Damon Runyon characters. This ain't Guys and Dolls out here."

"No, it's not. These are very smart people. Don't try to compare them to anyone you ever worked on before. They understand money and documents, they're bilingual, international, and they don't fear our court system. Our jails are like Club Med to them. They're the best white-collar criminals in the world, by far. But I don't see drug dealing and I don't see the violence you're talking about. At least not when I was working for Lukin."

"Well then, I have to bring you up to speed," Boland said. "Guys like Yuri Borodenko are the new, improved Russian mafiya. Russian crime exploded worldwide after the breakup of the Soviet Union. These guys are ethnic Russians with serious connections back home. They're using that old country like their personal warehouse. You want a tank, you want a box of grenades, just put your order in. They also control the shipping industry. See, this is why the hell the FBI is jumping in with both feet. They're afraid one of these guys like Borodenko is going to sell the bomb to Saddam, or some other psycho. And for the right price, don't tell me they won't do it."

"Wasn't that a Tom Clancy novel?" Eddie said, now realizing he'd underestimated Matty Boland. It wouldn't happen again.

"I got a lot more stories for Clancy," Boland said. "Two years ago in Florida, we arrested one of Borodenko's people for selling Russian helicopters to the Colombians, the Cali cartel. He even offered them a submarine for drug smuggling. Complete with Russian crew. That's just the tip of the iceberg."

Lukin and his bodyguards turned right on Brighton Beach Avenue. Boland drove slowly to the corner. Like all thoroughfares shaded by elevated train tracks, Brighton Beach Avenue offered both tracker and prey more places to hide. The avenue was almost deserted at this hour. Too early for the crowds of daily shoppers. Too early for the street vendors selling their pastries and ma-trioshka dolls.

"That's why I don't get this mob war," Boland said. "I mean, why? Borodenko has a huge operation with worldwide connections. He doesn't need Lukin's penny-ante scams. So why is he going after this washed-up old sock salesman? The only thing I can figure is that Borodenko knows that Lukin has a humongous pot-o'-cash stashed somewhere."

Boland pulled the car to the curb under the el tracks on Brighton Beach Avenue as Lukin made his usual morning stop, the Stolichny Deli, for tea and blintzes. Boland checked his watch and scrawled notes on times and locations. Slender beams of sunlight in geometric shapes slanted down through the tracks.

"You have anyone up on the platform?" Eddie asked.

"I suggested that," Boland said. "The assistant special agent in charge thought that was overkill. But we have a cop who'll be riding the train. He'll take them to Avenue J. Another team picks them up there and puts them in the doctor's office."

The two bodyguards emerged from the restaurant, followed by Anatoly Lukin, who carried a small brown paper bag. Boland relayed the information over the radio static. Lukin began to climb the stairs to the elevated subway station. A steady file of locals climbed the steps with him. Young women in tight skirts made their way to Manhattan office jobs. An old woman in a brown woolen overcoat pulled herself up the stairs with the help of the railing. Her other hand held tight to the floral babushka knotted under her chin. Unshaven construction workers carried coffee and lunch bags. Looking at these daily subway people, Eddie could see his own immigrant parents seventy years ago, chasing the dream by the sweat of their brow.

"Did they find out who was burned inside the Rolls?" Eddie asked.

"Not that I heard."

In the dappled sunlight under the el, the train roared into the station with a shriek of brakes grinding on steel rails. Out-of-towners wince and cover their ears at the discordant high-pitched sound, but New Yorkers keep right on talking, Eddie thought. Boland spoke of documented deliveries of Russian antiaircraft missiles, submachine guns, assault carbines, plutonium-enriched uranium, and anthrax disappearing into the Muslim pipeline. The train slowed to a stop in the metal-on-metal cacophony they'd heard all their lives. But Eddie thought he caught a faint pop-pop-pop right before the train stopped. Maybe he was listening too hard. Boland didn't seem to notice. The train stopped. They both heard the screams.

Boland yanked the gearshift into drive and floored it for the hundred yards to the foot of the station steps. He ordered Eddie to stay in the car, then took the keys with him. Boland scaled the steps quickly, but with a street cop's measure. Never race wildly up the steps. It's too dangerous. You hit the top out of breath, an easy mark.

Eddie sat forward in the car, studying those coming down the stairs. He memorized the wardrobes, trying to separate taste from disguise. He scanned faces. When innocent people run from crime scenes it's usually because they're hiding old sins: deadbeat dads, illegal aliens, bail-jumpers, America's Most Wanted, and lifelong cowards. Eddie watched the eyes for the bright gleam of new sin-eyes too wide open and unblinking, pupils dilated. The eyes are guilt's flashing neon. Or, better yet, examine the people you didn't figure to run. Like the old woman in the babushka who'd gone up behind Lukin. She came down the steps very quickly. Eddie got out of the car.

The woman clutched the babushka tightly over her face as she shoved her way through the stunned crowd. Eddie followed her for a block, trying to get a decent look. She definitely wasn't old. She motored down the sidewalk at a pace far too quick for a grandma. The gray hair had to be a wig. Eddie cut into the street to get a better angle on her face. The woman picked up speed, then turned the corner onto Brighton Eighth.

By the time Eddie reached the corner of Brighton Eighth, the woman was halfway down the block, sprinting like an Olympian. She'd shrugged off her heavy woolen coat. Underneath, she wore rolled-up jeans and a black turtleneck. Eddie scooped the woolen coat off the sidewalk without breaking stride, yet he lost ground. She ran recklessly, like a man, pumping with her arms and shoulders. At the next corner, she made a sharp left-but just before she made the turn, she glanced back over her left shoulder. A split-second look. He saw a dark complexion, big nose, and that was it.

She was almost a full block ahead, crossing Coney Island Avenue. He watched her slice between parked cars and disappear through the entrance to an immense construction site. No chance to catch her in a straight run, but his heart beat faster, because he knew she had to slow down on the rutted moonscape of the lot. She'd hide there, figuring the cops would give up easily. But not him. He had her exactly where he wanted. Far from the eyes of the civil servants.