A Jeff Resnick Six Pack Page 15

  Baldwin nodded. “We suspect he’s killed at least another four prostitutes since your wife’s death, but we haven’t got enough to pin him down.”

  “Can’t you at least deport the scumbag?”

  “So he can just kill prostitutes in his homeland?” Baldwin shrugged. Did he figure a whore was a whore and it didn’t matter that her executioner was likely to keep killing no matter where he landed?

  “It looks like we made the trip from Buffalo for nothing,” Richard said with bitterness.

  Baldwin nodded toward me. “He said he might get some insight from touching the evidence.”

  It was unfortunate that what I got was no more than what the detective already knew, and I said so. There was no point in asking him for more details on the Russian; I knew he wasn’t going to share them.

  “So, I guess you’re ready to go home,” Baldwin said.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve been away for two years. There are people and places I’d like to reconnect with.”

  Richard turned to look at me, his expression grim. He was more than ready to return to his wife and daughter. I wasn’t.

  Baldwin’s gaze was still riveted on me. “I talked to your former bosses. You were a trained investigator and you were good. Damn good, they said.”

  Oh, yeah? Too bad that hadn’t saved my friggin’ job.

  “So what are you saying?” I asked, playing dumb.

  “Don’t go looking for the Russian.”

  “You’ve given me nothing to go on.”

  “No, but if your insight is even half as good as your investigative skills, you might be able to track the guy down.”

  “And even if I could, what do you expect me to do? Kill the bastard?”

  “That’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”

  I offered the detective a wan smile. “But you forget; I’ve made a whole new life. I’ve got a family back in Buffalo. I’ve got a lady there, too. Why would I blow all that for a woman who left me, who bled me dry?”

  “Because you loved the bitch,” Baldwin said bluntly.

  I looked away, stung. Was he right? Was I stupid enough to sacrifice what I had—and my future—to avenge Shelley’s death?

  I wasn’t sure.

  #

  We took a cab back to Manhattan and somehow ended up at Tiffany’s. I followed Richard and looked at case after case of amazing jewelry and felt like a piece of shit because there wasn’t one sparkling item I could afford to buy for my sweet Maggie. Richard bought a pair of gold-and-diamond earrings for Brenda and they were placed in that distinctive little blue box. I’d spent my excess cash on a decent coat for the trip and had nothing to spare for a gift for Maggie.

  Next up was a trip to Toys “R” Us. Richard heeded my suggestion and didn’t buy a six-foot stuffed polar bear for his baby girl, but he didn’t go on the cheap for a chess board, either. He picked out a set made of white marble and black granite, which weighed a ton, and made arrangements to have it delivered to the apartment. By then, it was lunchtime and we settled on an elegant restaurant not far from the apartment.

  We ordered drinks before Richard’s expression turned grim as he faced me. “Now what do we do?”

  “You can go home if you want. I want to stay for a few days.”

  “To track down the Russian?”

  I answered honestly. “Yes.”

  “And then what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where would you start?”

  “A few years back, I’d contact a buddy of mine at the DMV. The problem is, since I got whacked on the head by those muggers, I can’t even remember the guy’s name.”

  “Other than roaming the streets of the city, where else would you go?”

  “I might visit the UN.”

  “I’ve never been there, “Richard admitted.

  “Neither have I.”

  “What do you think you might find there?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. It might be nice to take a tour. I’m sure they give them.”

  “A few years back, Brenda and I went to Asheville to see Biltmore. They gave private tours that went behind the scenes and let us see and touch stuff the regular tourists weren’t privy to.”

  “Do you think the UN does that, too?”

  “They might. If one paid enough.”

  “That lets me out.”

  “But not me—and a guest.”

  “What are you thinking?” I asked, staring into his intense blue eyes.

  “That on a private tour one could actually sit in the seats of the Russian delegation.”

  “And if I got nothing?”

  “You’d learn some nice history about US-Russian relationships since the League of Nations was supplanted by the UN.”

  I gave him a wry smile. “I do like to think of myself as a bit of a history buff. In fourteen-hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.”

  “That, too,” Richard said with amusement.

  We were on the same page.

  “I’m not sure I’m up to it today—or even if we could schedule it this late in the afternoon.”

  “I’ll do some research when we get back to the apartment. I presume you’ll need to crash for a few hours.”

  “No, not really.” Two years after the mugging, I was beginning to make real progress on that front.

  Richard smiled. “Good. So, should we find a grocery store or order in for supper?”

  “You’re no cook.”

  “And you’re not much better.”

  “So maybe we should order a pizza instead.”

  “We could.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “What about breakfast tomorrow?”

  “We could hit the same deli I went to yesterday. I assume you wouldn’t want more for breakfast.”

  “Not really.”

  “Then let’s do that. Then after that, I need a little FaceTime with Brenda and Betsy.”

  “Oh, the wonders of the world-wide net.”

  “Will you call Maggie tonight?”

  “I don’t think I want to talk about what we learned today—and I know she’ll ask.”

  Richard nodded. “I can tell Brenda what went down and ask her to share it with Maggie.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “That’s probably a good idea. If you’ll loan me your iPad, I’ll email Maggie a quick note.”

  Again he nodded.

  We kept walking and in less than five minutes had arrived at our temporary digs. The concierge announced that our chess board had been delivered and awaited us upstairs.

  Once back in the apartment, I went to my room to change into my real-life clothes, while Richard called his friends in California. Within an hour, his former secretary and friend had arranged a private tour of the UN for us for the next day. Then Richard changed into what he considered his grungies—Dockers and a cashmere sweater—and we set up the chess board. We played a couple of games before ordering a loaded pizza.

  Later, after we’d messaged our loved ones, we watched college basketball on the tube. March madness was about to start. We took opposite teams and cheered and swore and tried not to think about what we’d learned about Shelley’s death during the past thirty-six hours.

  But that night all the horror came back to assault my psyche in the form of nightmares. Four years out, I knew it would take a long, long time for me to come to terms with Shelley’s gruesome death.

  #

  The next morning we killed time by reading the paper with our coffee and bagels and then we took a walk around the neighborhood. Richard seemed restless; he strode forward with his hands thrust into the pockets of his heavy winter coat, and in no mood to chat. I wasn’t feeling that talkative, either. I had too much on my mind.

  Back at the apartment, we changed back into business attire, then took a cab to the UN’s General Assembly Building and checked in with the information desk. We were met by a petite Asian woman.

  “Dr. Alpert?” />
  “That’s me,” Richard said. “And this is my brother, Jeff Resnick.”

  She nodded. “I’m Lisa Chang.” Her English was perfect. “I’ll be your guide this morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I understand you gentlemen are from Buffalo.”

  “That we are,” Richard said.

  “I’m from Batavia.”

  “Get out,” I said, and actually smiled.

  “I swear,” Lisa said. “I went to school at UB.”

  Richard’s smile widened. “So did I.”

  “It’s a small world,” Lisa said. “It will be my pleasure to show a couple of my homies around the UN.”

  Lisa launched into a well-rehearsed speech about the history of the place, the architecture, and led us around the building. It was all very interesting, but I found myself looking at every guy in the place, searching for a silver-haired man who resembled Vladimir Putin—not that I even had a clue what Shelley’s killer actually looked like.

  Richard and Lisa chatted away. He asked loads of questions and she happily answered them, but I couldn’t seem to concentrate on a word they exchanged.

  It wasn’t until she led us into the General Assembly Hall that I was able to absorb the gist of what she was saying. I looked around the cavernous room clad in rich wood paneling, with two Jumbotrons flanking either side of the magnificent granite podium. The carpet between the delegates’ seats was green, the chairs a buff-colored leather, and black rectangular signs with glowing blue lettering marked the delegates’ assigned seating. There were a lot of them. How the hell was I going to find where the Russians sat during open sessions?

  Richard was my savior. “Can we go up to the podium and look out at the whole room?”

  “No problem,” Lisa said cheerfully. She seemed keen to please a fellow alumnus.

  We followed her down the aisle and mounted the area around the podium, looking out at the hundreds of seats we’d so often seen on TV or in the print news media.

  “Where does the US delegation sit?” Richard asked.

  Lisa pointed. “Over there.”

  “And Canada?”

  “Over there.”

  “How about the Russian delegation?”

  I watched as Lisa’s arm swung around to point again.

  Richard knew what I needed to do, so he moved to stand off to one side, and Lisa instantly turned to face him. He kept her engaged in conversation, giving me the opportunity to slip away. I practically jogged up the sloping aisle, making my way over the block of five seats.

  I knew I didn’t have much time and sat down in the first chair, settling my arms on the rests, my fingers grasping the material, hoping to gain some kind of knowledge, or glom onto some dark feelings. Unfortunately, I got nothing. Nada. Zilch.

  I moved over one chair and something inside me thrummed. The man who regularly sat here felt strongly about something. I shut my eyes and concentrated, trying to home in on the emotion that permeated the fabric. Slowly I managed to interpret the strong feeling … homesickness. As marvelous as New York was, it wasn’t home, and the man who regularly sat there was counting the days until his assignment was over and he could return to Mother Russia. Hope you get to go home soon, buddy. I moved to the next seat.

  No sooner had my ass hit the chair than I knew I’d hit pay dirt. I’m not exactly sure what it was I was feeling, just a sense of malevolence. Whoever sat there on a regular basis felt contempt for Americans—and American women in particular. He saw them as objects—for his pleasure and as sport.

  I shuddered in revulsion, but I didn’t get up. I needed to glom onto as much of this bastard as I could—try to experience who he was—what kind of sadistic monster he was.

  I kept swallowing, afraid I might gag. Soon, my head began to pound. I had to get out of there. I’d gotten what I needed as a start, but I had to have more. A lot more. Could I impose on Richard’s former colleagues to cut through red tape and get me the information that would help me track down Shelley’s killer?

  I stood, still swallowing way too hard. Good God I did not want to embarrass my brother by puking in the UN’s General Assembly Hall. I started off toward the exit where I was sure I’d seen a men’s room not far from the big doors. I made it to one of the stalls before I tossed my bagel and coffee breakfast and was hit with the dry heaves. Spent, I sat down on the toilet seat, head bowed, elbows on knees with the heels of my palms pressed against my eye sockets until I could think again. Other tourists came to use the facilities and then left. I wasn’t sure it would be safe for a cab to have me as a passenger, but maybe once I got outside, the fresh air might help.

  Ten minutes after my retreat from the hall, the door to the john opened once again and a familiar voice called, “Jeff?”

  “Here.”

  Soon a pair of polished black shoes appeared just within sight of the closed stall door. “Are you okay?”

  “Not really,” I answered.

  “Is our tour over?” he asked, sounding worried.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Grasping the toilet paper holder, I hauled myself onto unsteady feet and opened the door. Richard stood before me, looking worried.

  “Did you get what you need?”

  “Partially.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I need more information.” I stared into his worried eyes and waited. He knew his friends in California could give me the information I wanted—needed—in only minutes, but he wasn’t willing to ask them for it because he feared about how I’d use it.

  At that moment, so did I.

  #

  I was feeling a lot better by the time we’d walked halfway back to that beautiful apartment. We stopped at a convenience store and Richard bought me a carton of yogurt. He made me eat it right there on the street and I have to admit that, aside from a bit of a headache, I felt a lot better afterward.

  “You’re a good doctor,” I told him as I tossed the plastic container and spoon into a trash can.

  He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  We started off again.

  “What do you want to do next?”

  “Gary King described the guy who killed Shelley. He’s part of the Russian delegation to the UN. He shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  “And what would you do if you found him?” Richard asked.

  Did I detect fear in his voice?

  “I want to meet him.”

  “And do what?” he persisted.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Baldwin is worried that if you knew who the guy was, you’d do something stupid. So am I.” We kept walking. “Am I right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Richard grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the pedestrian traffic. “I need your word that you won’t do something stupid like go after the guy.”

  “Rich, I don’t own a gun and I’m half the size of the goon who killed Shelley. What could I do to bring the bastard down?”

  “You’re nothing if not resourceful.”

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  “But you still can’t promise you won’t try to get back at him.”

  I hesitated before answering. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “That’s the best I can do.”

  He looked at me, his eyes welling with tears.

  “Rich, have I ever really disappointed you?”

  He swallowed. “No.”

  “Then I promise you, I won’t disappoint you now.”

  He nodded. “Okay. That’s good enough for me.”

  I felt like hugging him, but that was his style—not mine. So I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile. He nodded, but wasn’t able to reciprocate. We started off again.

  “I feel a lot better since I ate that yogurt.”

  “The enzymes help promote digestive harmony,” he said, distracted.

  “My gut is definitely singing a happier song.”

&nb
sp; “Are you up to having lunch?”

  “Maybe in another half an hour or so.”

  “Good. Shall we keep walking?”

  “I’d like to. When I lived here, I walked everywhere. That’s not conducive back in Buffalo.”

  “Brenda’s looking forward to spring when we can take Betsy for walks around the neighborhood in her stroller.”

  “That’ll be nice. I may even take her out myself—Maggie and I,” I amended. I needed him to believe I had plans for the future—plans beyond the next day or so.

  “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

  We didn’t talk much during the next half hour. We consulted a number of menus before Richard chose a restaurant. We were shown to a table by the window and ordered a couple of beers, which arrived in record time, and then Richard consulted his iPhone while I stared, unseeing, at the menu in my hands. Already a plan was beginning to formulate in my mind. As King had said, how many Russian diplomats with silver hair and a Lexus could there be in the city? But I was also worried that Baldwin might assign someone to follow us. That probably wouldn’t happen for at least another day—if ever—but I didn’t want to take that chance.

  Richard finally set his phone down and picked up his menu. “What looks good to you?”

  “I don’t know. A ham sandwich, I guess.”

  “You’ve been thinking,” he accused.

  “I think all day—every day.”

  “About Shelley’s killer?”

  “Just a little,” I admitted.

  “What are you going to do about him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a law-abiding citizen,” Richard said adamantly, as though saying it with enough conviction would insure it.

  “For the most part.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “I admit it. Sometimes I do more than thirty-five miles per hour while driving down Main Street. Do you think that warrants jail time?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Then just what are you talking about?”

  “Your soul.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “You know I don’t believe in that shit.”

  “Oh, no? What about Sophie? What about my grandmother?”

  “Earth-bound spirits. Even they couldn’t explain what’s beyond our five senses.”

  The waitress arrived. “Ready to order?” she asked hopefully.