Last to Fold (21 page)

“You seem very confident.”

“I guarantee it—or your money back.”

“I’ll need an invoice.”

“Of course,” I said. I picked up a pad of lined paper from the coffee table and wrote “Vlost and Found” at the top, “For services rendered … $700,000” underneath, and signed my name below that. I added my taxpayer ID number at the bottom. Whatever the system, the government wants its piece of the action.

“This includes expenses. They ran high.”

Mulholland looked at the page and frowned again. “This is somewhat unorthodox. I would assume that—”

“I don’t use letterhead. Keeps costs down. And I don’t think a more detailed description of my services is in anyone’s interest.”

Still frowning, he went to his desk and took out a big checkbook and a gold pen. He scribbled for a minute and returned holding a check for $700,000, drawn on his account at FTB. I didn’t ask about Bernie’s bankruptcy petition. I was tempted to inquire about the bank’s solvency but minded my admonition to behave. Still, I intended to make a deposit as soon as I got out of here.

Mulholland was looking me over, trying to decide something. He stood behind his chair, his hands on the back. He dropped his eyes to the floor and brought them back up to meet mine. “Eva was part of the so-called kidnapping, wasn’t she?”

He wasn’t as obtuse as I gave him credit for. Yet he didn’t know the half of it—and I didn’t want to be the one to tell him. “She could have been. She’s been hanging out with some bad people, criminal people.”

He nodded, as if I’d confirmed his hypothesis. “She’s always been a troubled child.” He sat in his chair, and the frown began to ease. After a minute or two, he just looked glum. “You don’t think much of me, do you, Mr. Vlost?”

“I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion. Bernie speaks highly, and I‘ve never found reason to fault his judgment.”

“A good nonanswer. I don’t mind telling you, I’ve spent much of the last few days staring into an abyss. My business, family … I learned years ago you can only fight so many fights at one time. You have to prioritize or be overwhelmed. You have to know when to ask for help.”

He stopped long enough to take a breath and collect his thoughts. This couldn’t be easy. He’d probably never asked for help in his life.

“I have to attend to my legal problems. I haven’t done anything wrong, but that doesn’t mean I can be lax in my own defense. I have to save my bank. I owe it to our depositors and shareholders. That leaves Eva, where, I’ll be honest, I’m at a loss about what to do.”

He put his head in his hands.

“That fight Eva had with her mother the last time we saw her, the one I mentioned when we met before,” he said, looking at the floor. “I heard things no one should ever say to someone else, especially family.” He freed his head and looked up. “Maybe that’s what some families are all about. I’m not sure I’d know.”

“What did they fight about, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“What didn’t they fight about? Life, each other, me, the past, the future … No perceived sin or offense omitted.”

Sounded like Polina. “This a common occurrence?”

“I’ve witnessed three or four. There may have been others. What they lack in frequency they more than make up for in intensity.”

“What set this one off?”

“You know, I’m not really sure. Some little thing. You don’t see it coming. Then, all of a sudden, it’s like each of them puts a match to her own gas can of resentment and anger, and … boom!”

He shook his head and put it back in his hands.

“Are you sure you don’t know what Eva meant by that note?”

He looked up. The black eyes had lost their hardness. They were needy, almost desperate. “She said it that Sunday, the same thing. ‘You should have left me with Lena.’ Screamed it at Felix, right before she ran out.”

“But you don’t know who this Lena is?”

He shook his head again. “Eva had some major trauma in her childhood—the full extent of which I do not know. Lena’s part of that, I think. She had no father until I attempted to fill the role. Her mother has—how shall I put this?—cared too much and tried too hard to overcome the other issues.”

Mulholland kept his voice low and even. “Eva believes—believes very firmly—that she herself is responsible for much of the misfortune that has befallen her. I also believe she feels guilt for her mother, for reasons I don’t know. It’s clear this guilt eats away at her, that it’s responsible for her lack of self-esteem, her erratic behavior, her drug use, her animosity toward us. Even her stutter. I’m very afraid of what she might try to do. I appreciate your not wanting to get between Felix and me. I’ll talk to my wife. Right now, though, I need to know we are doing whatever we can to help Eva. So I’m asking you to find her. If it’s a matter of money, I’ll pay whatever you ask. Will you help me?”

I couldn’t picture the man I’d met last week saying what he’d just said. Perhaps looking into the abyss does change a person.

“I’ll do what I can. But even if I find her, I can’t guarantee she won’t take off again.”

He nodded. “I know that, of course. Something else I learned—one step at a time.”

“Any idea why she would have run from the hospital?”

He shook his head. “Only to avoid being brought home.”

“Any idea where she would have gone?”

“None. I’m afraid that for all our concern, we don’t know nearly as much about her as we should. That goes for her mother, too.”

“You will talk to her? Your wife, I mean,” I said.

“Yes. I’m on my way home now.”

“I think you’ll find her under some stress.”

“About Eva?”

“In part. How much do you know about her past?”

He hesitated, surprised by the question. “Not a great deal. She grew up in Queens, Jackson Heights. Went to CCNY. Sold real estate—very successfully. Married once before. Her first husband died. I haven’t pried. Not really my business.”

“I don’t mean to add to your troubles, but her past is a good deal more complicated than that.”

“What are you driving at?”

“Just that I think it’s about to catch up with her.”

CHAPTER 20

Trastevere was in the early Eighties. I didn’t know it, the Eighties not being my normal neck of the woods. A simple room, in an elegant kind of way, the kind of simplicity that comes at a price. I arrived hot and sticky and was greeted at the door by an old-world Italian gentleman of about fifty with kind eyes and a warm smile.

“Ms. Millenuits just called,” he said when I announced myself. He looked around the room as if trying to decide something. “She … she said she is very sorry, but she’s been detained. She doesn’t know how long she’ll be. She suggests that you meet here tomorrow night. She said…” He stopped and looked troubled.

“You’re being very kind. I’m guessing she isn’t sorry, very or otherwise. You can tell me what she really said.”

He was clearly uncomfortable. A good host doesn’t attack his guest as soon as he walks in the door.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve already been on the receiving end of Ms. Millenuits’s temper. Would you like to see the bruise?”

He smiled, but he didn’t relax. He unfolded a piece of paper from his jacket.

“She said, ‘Tell that bald Bolshevik he can buy me your best bottle of wine tomorrow night if I cool off between now and then. And tell him to bring his body armor. He’s going to need it.’ Those were her words. She wanted me to repeat them exactly.”

“I’ll attest you did as requested, if given the chance,” I said with a smile. “No hard feelings.” I put out my hand, which he took quickly.

“I’m sorry to—”

“Don’t think any more about it. Would it be okay if I had a bite at the bar? Since I’m here, and solo.”

“Of course. But please, let me give you a table.”

“The bar’s fine. I’ll have a dry martini with Russian vodka, if you have it, followed by whatever pasta you’re recommending tonight.”

“Right away.”

The martini was cold and dry, just like it should be. It went down quickly, so I ordered another. The pasta came coated with a sauce of escargots and mushrooms that was wondrous in its depth and complexity. I found myself looking forward to coming back regardless of whether Victoria showed up.

The place was busy, as was the bartender. With no one to talk to, other than the owner, who came by three times to make sure I wasn’t angry at him, I spent the meal musing on intersections of past and present.

I probably shouldn’t have warned Mulholland about Polina. It wasn’t my business, and he’d made his own bed (with her)—but in spite of myself, I felt bad for him. Perhaps because I knew in ways he’d yet to experience what he was in for. Perhaps because he’d surprised me with his concern for Eva, real and heartfelt. Perhaps because a new snake pit was about to open at his feet, one he wasn’t likely to see before he fell in. Bad enough that Polina had been married to me and hadn’t told him, but Lachko was a whole different nest of vipers. I had a mental image of Victoria licking her Cajun chops when she heard the news.

Nothing I’d learned in the last thirty-six hours caused me to change my initial belief that Polina was hiding from Lachko. I still couldn’t see why. Lachko had expressed less than no interest in her or Eva. I’d half expected him to drag me back to Brighton Beach or at least send Sergei around, but he hadn’t even asked which hospital Eva was in. Maybe he’d found out by other means. Iakov expressed more curiosity in Eva and her mother, and he hated Polina. Always had.

Then there was the enigma of Ratko. He knew exactly who Polina was—he was using the information to put the bite on her. How, and why, had he found out in the first place? Why didn’t he tell his boss? Why was he getting ready to disappear as Alexander Goncharov? Greed—not wanting to share the spoils—seemed much too simple an answer.

Iakov’s Cheka business somehow involved Ratko. How had he put it—
laying old ghosts to rest?
Why did he need Ratko for that? Why didn’t Lachko know his resident tech genius was working on the side for his old man? There was a lot Lachko didn’t know—a lot that was going on right under those thundercloud eyebrows. Maybe his illness had slowed him down to the point where he was out of touch. Based on our encounter yesterday, I doubted it.

One piece of good information had come from all this. Aleksei was alive and, according to Lachko, working with the CPS—the Criminal Prosecution Service. I hadn’t wanted to show it, but that was the first hard news I’d had in years. It appeared Polina had abandoned him following Kosokov’s death. Perhaps she’d left him with her sister, or another relative. Had she been in touch since? Did he know about his mother’s new identity? Then there was the question I’d been asking myself for two decades—what, if anything, had she told him about me?

My head was starting to spin, and other investigations tugged. I’d had enough vodka to numb whatever pain was in Sasha’s envelope. Tonight was as good a time as any to look into my own old ghosts. I asked for the check. Two martinis and pasta—eighty-five dollars by the time I signed the receipt. There are sound Marxist reasons why the East Eighties aren’t my neck of the woods.

I remembered my disabled cell phone and turned it back on. It buzzed half a minute later.

“
BASTARD!
Tell me right now…”

I’ve never appreciated the opportunity to listen to other people’s phone conversations while I’m eating, even when they’re friendly, so I told Polina to hold on, thanked the owner and reminded him I looked forward to sampling his fare again tomorrow, and walked out into the heat of Second Avenue. Just after nine thirty, the street was still hot and busy.

“You keep calling me like this, I might think you have ulterior motives,” I said.

“Ulterior motives? My only motive is to get you out of my life!”

“You talk to Mulholland?”

“He’s a stubborn fool, like all men.”

“He’s trying to help. Eva, I mean.”

“I can take care of her. I always have.”

I didn’t point out that Mulholland thought that was part of the problem. Or that I agreed with him. “Why’d you pull that scam?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The kidnap picture. You Photoshopped it, sent it to Mulholland with that bullshit kidnap note. Why didn’t you just tell him you were being blackmailed?”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“How do you … Nobody’s blackmailing me!”

“If you say so, but the only person delusional this time is you.”

“You … You … You haven’t changed at all, you son of a bitch.”

“Still the same guy,
zek
and all, I always was. What are you afraid of? Lachko?”

Pause. “Yes.”

“Why’d you run out on him?”

“Long story.”

“You want to tell it? I’m not far away.”

“Stay away from me!”

“I’m not the one trying to hurt you, Polya.”

“I said, stay the fuck away.”

This was getting nowhere. “Where’s Aleksei? Did you leave him in Russia?”

“He’s all right. That’s all you need to know.”

“Lachko says he’s working for the CPS.”

Another pause, longer this time. “That bastard.”

“You can’t isolate yourself, Polya. Lachko, me, Mulholland. A couple of us might still be on your side, if you let us.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I think you do. I think that’s why you called. What did Rislyakov take from your computer?”

“This conversation is over.”

The line went dead. I was at Seventy-first Street. I walked south and tried calling her from Fifty-eighth Street. I tried again at Fifty-second. No answer. I hailed a downtown cab.

*   *   *

The office was dark, but Pig Pen was awake, listening to his radio.

I retrieved Sasha’s envelope and stopped to say good night.

“Truck lanes closed. Exit nine. Fuel spill,” he said.

“Not on my route. Pig Pen, what do you know about serendipity?”

He gave me his hostile one-eyed stare. He hates words of multiple syllables—he thinks I’m teasing him.

“No joke, seriously, serendipity.”

“Pity me?”