They Disappeared

55

Purgatory Point, the Bronx, New York City

“You’re sure it’s in here?”

Minutes after Jeff’s cab had left the Major Deegan Expressway, it rolled into a wasteland, making him doubt this was the location of the restaurant’s address on the printout.

“Yeah, man, relax,” the driver said. “I told you, my ex grew up here. I sent the bitch four years of support payments to this freakin’ zip code. It’s cool.”

But what Jeff saw was an industrial graveyard of abandoned factories and decaying warehouses built in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. They passed a crumbling tool factory, then a shirt factory that had been established in 1889, according to its massive decaying sign.

On the way out of Manhattan, the driver had explained how “the Point” used to be a grim section of the southwest Bronx, with the Harlem River to the west, and the East River to the southeast. You could see Rikers Island out there, and across the river you could see the planes lifting off and landing way out at LaGuardia. The cab now weaved through along hulking public housing projects, dingy apartment buildings and squat houses on deserted streets.

“A lot of people are on welfare and there’s a lot of crime,” the driver said. “I guess it’s getting better. People have fixed up big chunks and stuff. Most people here, like me, are Puerto Rican, but in the past few years a lot of art pothead student types and a lot of Eastern Europeans, Albanians, Turks, Chechens, Bulgarians, Russians, people like that, have moved into the neighborhoods and it’s been good, or so friends tell me. I live in Yonkers now.”

Jeff saw the architectural and esthetic changes emerging as they came to the revitalized business district. There were blocks of tree-lined sidewalks with inviting benches, neo-Victorian streetlamps adorned with hanging planters bursting with flowers. Older buildings had been converted to condos and lofts above new galleries, specialty shops, boutiques and offices.

“Here you go.” The driver nodded to a sign that read Vakhiyta’s Kitchen.

“Go another block and drop me there.”

“Okay.”

Before Jeff got out, he paid the driver and gave him another twenty.

“Can you stay here and wait for me? I’ll need a ride back.”

“Sure.” The driver handed him a card with his cell phone number.

Jeff adjusted his ball cap and dark glasses and headed for the restaurant. Since his face and identity had been published after the press conference he couldn’t risk being recognized.

Come on, this is crazy. I’m out of my mind to think this will amount to anything except pissing off Cordelli, Brewer and the FBI.

So what? I refuse to do nothing.

Vakhiyta’s Kitchen was old-world plain. The name was painted on a wooden sideboard over a weatherworn brick storefront. It had dirty windows with half-drawn shades. A yellowed menu was taped to the glass-front door under the Open sign.

Jeff went in and was greeted with the smells of boiled cabbage, cooked meat and spices. High-backed red vinyl booths lined the sides; about a dozen wooden tables and chairs filled the dining room floor that led to a dark wooden front counter and the kitchen.

Jeff took a booth on the left. The place was about a third full with a dozen customers. Old travel posters of the Caucasus Mountains had been taped to the wall. Soft, mournful violin music flowed from ancient speakers. The atmosphere was sleepy, akin to an outdoor cafe or gathering spot, where people passed time with idle talk. The pieces of conversation he picked up were not English. Given the restaurant’s specialty, he figured them for Eastern European.

The staff: a couple of women and men were deep in conversation behind the counter. No one came to take Jeff’s order. He noticed a spread of newspapers near the counter. It gave him reason to get closer to search for the take-out logo. He went to the counter and sifted through the papers-most were foreign, Russian, he guessed-before glancing around for a stack of take-out coffee cups.

“You would like something to eat?” asked one of the women, a heavyset babushka with an apron and head scarf.

“Yes-” Jeff had to buy time “-coffee to go and something to eat here.”

“Sit, sit. I bring you menu.”

Moments later she came to his table with a cracked laminated menu that listed a few dishes, none of which he understood.

“Maybe you like to try our soup? We make very good.” She smiled.

“Yes.”

“I bring you today special cream of potato, the best in New York.”

“Yes and coffee to go in a take-out cup, please?”

She nodded and returned with the coffee, creamers and sugar. Jeff’s attention flew to the logo and his heart skipped.

It bore a stylized V with blue letters spelling Vakhiyta’s Kitchen.

“Excuse me.” Jeff tried to stay calm. “Is this the only Vakhiyta’s Kitchen in New York? Do you have more at other locations anywhere?”

The woman held up a single, thick finger.

“Only one in the world,” she said.

When she left, Jeff took a few slow breaths. I should call Cordelli and Brewer, alert them. He struggled to understand what he had. He carefully withdrew one of Detective Chu’s pictures from his pocket, unfolded and turned it so the L resembled a V. He compared it with the logo on his take-out cup.

This is it. This is definitely it!

Jeff was convinced the killers had been in this restaurant, had bought coffee and food here, because he’d seen the containers in the van.

Okay, what now?

Think.

Were the killers just passing by? Or were they near?

He took slow inventory, assessing the customers, searching for anything to help him. He saw a young well-dressed couple he’d figured for Russian tourists. He took note of some old men playing chess. A group of other men were talking about matters they pointed out in the newspapers. Issues in the old country? Before Jeff could continue, a bowl of soup and slab of homemade bread with butter were set before him.

“You will like,” the babushka said.

In the time the soup came, Jeff ate it, liked it and continued eyeing the customers. After the woman took his bowl away, he continued his vigil. He declined more food and eventually feared that his investigation had stalled. He felt the futility, the weight of all his failures, come crashing down on him.

He called Cordelli, got his voice mail but hesitated. He didn’t leave a message. He couldn’t risk being overheard.

It can’t all end here.

Jeff glanced at the well-thumbed copies of the New York papers and reports of the investigation, the headline Murder-Abduction Trigger Terror Plot Fears, at his photo and those of Sarah and Cole. He touched his fingertips to their faces.

I can’t give up.

What if I am close?

Jeff was so lost in the faces of his wife and son he hadn’t noticed the man who’d entered the restaurant. His age was difficult to determine but from his body and posture, he had to be in his early thirties. He was about six feet tall, medium build. He wore a dark sweatshirt with the hood up, dark pants and work boots.

The man was standing at the counter near the cash, waiting as the babushka lady packed up a take-out order of coffee and food. He was solemn, engrossed in the newspaper reports on the “terror plot.” The chime of the register pulled Jeff from his thoughts in time to notice the man walking by his booth with his take-out order.

Jeff glanced down at the man’s boots. They were dark boots that covered the ankle. They had rounded toes and a thin bright red line where the top was stitched to the sole.

Jesus.

Jeff swallowed, fumbled for cash and tossed a few bills on the table.

He left his booth and, keeping a safe distance back, followed the man along the street, his heart hammering.

That fucker is one of them.