The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

CHAPTER 19

NADIA TOOK A taxi to Natasha Valentin’s white stucco mansion in Lowndes Square, a residential section in a part of London called Belgravia. The mansion had been broken up into condominiums. A stocky butler let Nadia in and guided her to a modern living room. Dark paneling covered the walls. Nadia took a seat on a rich burgundy sofa flanked by glass tables with gilded frames.

Natasha, boobs overflowing in a leopard skin jumpsuit, bounced down a leather-clad staircase.

“There she is,” Natasha said. “The girl who whispered the magic words.”

“Simeon Simeonovich.”

“How did you know I’d care?”

“I didn’t. But he owns a soccer team and I figured you might be a fan.”

Natasha cracked a smile.

“And he’s one of the world’s most eligible bachelors,” Nadia said.

Natasha chuckled. “You work for him?”

“He’s my client.”

“And this is a matter of life and death?”

“Yes.”

“And I can help?”

“Yes.”

“And if I help you I’d be helping Simmy?”

“Indirectly.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means you’d be helping me tremendously, which means I’ll be better emotionally prepared to do a good job for him. Which means your help will be beneficial to him.”

Natasha frowned. “So this isn’t about Simmy?”

“Not directly.”

“Big mistake. Let me give you some advice. Never underestimate the pretty girl. Now, should I call Otto in here, or do you want to tell me who you are and why you’re here?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How close were you to your deceased stepson?”

Natasha studied Nadia. Shock registered on her face.

“Oh my God,” Natasha said. “You knew him. In the Biblical sense. You’re his type, aren’t you? A little older, but still attractive. Smart—and more importantly—you weren’t interested. Nothing turned that boy on more than a challenge—”

Nadia decided to speak the truth. Natasha struck her as a plain-speaking woman who would not respond well to a lie. It was a gamble, she knew, but at least she’d be speaking from the heart.

“No, Natasha. That’s not it.”

“It’s not?”

“No. I could make up a story and pretend what you said is true. But I won’t do that. I’m going to tell you the truth, and then if you want me to leave, I’ll do so immediately.”

“This is getting interesting.”

“I’m the legal guardian of the boy who’s accused of killing Jonathan.”

Natasha’s eyes widened.

“It’s true. He’s a great kid, but he refuses to tell me what happened. I came here because I know Jonathan was here for his father’s funeral two to three weeks ago. That’s exactly the time when my boy got a call on his cell phone from London. A week later they met on a street and somehow Jonathan was killed.”

Natasha remained speechless.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Natasha considered the question. “Do you have a picture of the boy?”

“Do I have a picture? Yes. I have a picture of Bobby. Why are you asking?”

“Let me see it.”

Nadia opened her wallet and pulled out two photos of Bobby. One was his Fordham Prep hockey team picture. The other one was of the two of them at the Statue of Liberty. She showed them to Natasha.

“Same picture I saw on his sports team’s website,” Natasha said.

“You saw Bobby’s picture online?”

“The story made the papers here. I was told about the arrest. I looked him up.”

“I’m confused. Why did you ask to see a picture of Bobby if you already saw one?”

“To make sure you are who you say you are. Forget the tea. Let’s have a spot of champagne. Johnny boy is dead. That’s a cause for celebration if there ever was one.”

Otto brought a bottle of chilled Bollinger. He poured two glasses and left.

“To freedom,” Natasha said.

Nadia thought of Bobby. “To freedom.”

They clinked their glasses and drank.

“How do you like the décor?” Natasha said.

“It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s Candy & Candy, the top interior designers in London.”

“In a masculine way.”

“I’m a devout heterosexual. Masculine is gorgeous to me. My husband. One thing I can say about the bastard—may he rest in peace. He only wanted the best.”

“I’m sorry about your loss. I mean, where your husband is concerned.”

“Don’t be. You know what they say in London? You want a romance, date a Russian. But if you want a good marriage, marry an Englishman.”

“How did you meet?”

“Through a dating service. He was older, you know? He knew how to treat a woman. He bought me gifts. Flowers, jewelry. We didn’t have sex until our fourth date. Next day, he bought me a Mini Cooper. Who does that?”

“A gentleman.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“No?”

“The night of our wedding, when he was finished with me, he sent his son in for sloppy seconds.”

Nadia wondered if she’d heard correctly.

“He said it was an old tribal custom from the village where his ancestors came from in Russia.”

“Oh my God.”

“By then I was so drunk, I couldn’t fight him off. He wouldn’t stop. It went on for hours. And became a regular thing.”

“Why didn’t you leave? Or call the police?”

“Because Ivan would have killed me. So I stayed. And now I’m single and rich. I earned my money.”

“Yes. I should say so.”

“And today I buried the father of my child. May he rot in hell.”

“I’m sorry for your suffering,” Nadia said.

“Honestly, I’m glad I have someone to talk to. Sometimes it’s easier to pour it all out to a complete stranger. Once you get to know someone, you care too much what they think of you.”

“I was thinking the same thing recently.”

“You know what my husband said to me on his deathbed?”

Nadia shook her head.

“Bury me at Harrods. That way I know you’ll visit me at least once a week.” Natasha tightened her jaw. “I didn’t bury him at Harrods.”

They drank more champagne. A petite young nanny came downstairs with a baby girl. Natasha held her baby and fell into a trance. She carried her around the living room for ten minutes. She sang a lullaby. Afterward, she told the nanny to give her a bath.

“What do you know about your late husband’s life in Russia?” Nadia said.

“Not much. I know he owned a lumber company in Siberia.”

“Siberia?”

“That’s what he told me. That’s where his money came from. He got dividends every year. Supposedly I’m going to inherit the company. But it’s Russia, right? We’ll see if I’m so lucky. No matter, Ivan accumulated a big bank account for me here.”

“Do you know how he came to own the company? Russia was part of the Soviet Union during most of his life. It was a communist country. He couldn’t have owned the company back then.”

“Yeah. He told me a story about those days. He said he put in an order for a new car once. A month later the salesman called and said, ‘Good news. Your car will be delivered exactly six years from today.’ Ivan said, ‘That is great news. Do you know if it’s going to be delivered in the morning or the afternoon?’ The salesman said, ‘Why?’ Ivan said, ‘Because I already have an appointment with the plumber in the afternoon.’ ”

“My father told me the same story about life in Ukraine.”

“He did? Damn. I should have known. Ivan wasn’t the creative type. He was a general manager before he owned the lumber company.”

“A general manager? Of the lumber company?”

“No, for some government office. He said he was an administrator for the government.”

A government official, Nadia thought. A Soviet bureaucrat. An apparatchik. Apparatchiks controlled the former Soviet Union, including Ukraine. Was there, perhaps, a connection between the old man and Bobby’s father? They were of the same generation, probably similar in age. If only his father were alive to answer that question.

“Let me show you a picture,” Natasha said.

She retrieved a photo album from a cabinet. She flipped to a family portrait of her, a vigorous-looking man twice her age, and his handsome son, Jonathan Valentine. The older man looked imperial, the younger one entitled. The older one sported a huge gold ring with a black gemstone carved into the number three.

“There we are,” Natasha said. “The threesome. Together. And that wasn’t the only time and place we were a threesome.”

“Would you mind if I borrowed this picture?”

“What for?”

“I want to show it to Bobby. You never know. Maybe it’ll get him to talk to me.”

Natasha shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“I’ll make a copy as soon as I get home. I’ll send you the original back in the mail.”

“Don’t. It reminds me of the night before that picture was taken. That’s one I’d rather forget. Like some others.”

Natasha took the photo out of the album and handed it to Nadia.

“Did you ever hear either of them talk about a boy in America?” Nadia said.

“No.”

“By the name of Bobby?”

“Never. But you have to understand. Ivan only spoke Russian to Jonathan. He changed his son’s name because he didn’t want him to be discriminated against in London. But he taught him Russian. When they got together, I didn’t understand much. That’s how they wanted it. And I didn’t mind.”

“Did Ivan have any business in America?”

“Not as far as I know. It was all in Siberia.”

“Why did Jonathan move to New York?”

“Because London wasn’t big enough for him. He said New York was the center of the world. And that’s where he was going to make his fortune. I did everything I could to encourage it, believe me.”

“I’m sure you did. I suspect his father wasn’t happy.”

“No, but he could never say no to his son. Jonathan wanted to be Donald Trump. Actually, he wanted to be one of Donald Trump’s sons. He worshipped them. He wanted to make his mark on the world in New York real estate. So he moved to New York and got a degree. And his father got him a job at some big real estate company through his contacts here. And bought him an apartment. Should I keep it or sell it?”

“Do you see yourself visiting New York often?”

“Are you going to tell Simmy about me?”

“If the opportunity arises, yes.”

“Then I’ll keep it. For now. And Bobby? How old is he?”

“Seventeen.”

“And they’re keeping him in prison?”

“Yes.”

“He must be scared.”

“Yes. But he never shows it.”

“And you believe he’s innocent?”

“He’s innocent, yes.”

“Then I hope he’s set free soon.”

“Me too.”

“As you go about trying to prove he’s innocent, if you run into Jonathan’s real killer, would you give him a message from me?”

“What’s that?”

Natasha took a deep breath and exhaled. “Tell him I said thanks.”