The Boy Who Stole From the Dead (40 page)

T
HE
G
UN DROVE
the Town Car around the same block slowly three times. Tall lamps cast circles of light at the street corners. Victor admired Johnny Tanner’s home. It was an old English style house made of stone. It even contained a turret that looked like a rook. Victor had to hand it to the lawyer. He didn’t look like a man of good taste, with his slick black suits and that horrific ponytail. But here he was, living the American dream.

“This is one of the best neighborhoods in Elizabeth,” the Ammunition said, reading from the screen of his cell phone. “It’s called Westminster.”

Victor grunted. “That’s no surprise. You see a beautiful building or taste good food in America, more often than not you can thank a foreign country. Like England.”

The Gun parked behind the house, a block away. Victor and the Ammunition walked to the front door. The Gun went to the back of the house.

The Ammunition rang the front doorbell. A curtain parted in a room to the left. He rang the doorbell again. The door swung open and Johnny Tanner appeared.

He looked shocked. He glanced quickly in each direction as though he was afraid someone would see Victor on his stoop. “What do you want?”

“You have a beautiful home,” Victor said.

“Thank you. I bought it at an auction. Why are you here?”

“I’d love to see the inside,” Victor said.

“And I’d love a summer house in Spring Lake.”

“Would you rather I talk with Nadia when she returns instead?”

Johnny let them in. Victor and the Ammunition followed him into a living room. It was filled with small furniture built in another century for smaller people. Victor saw dollar signs. He couldn’t help it. He was a thief.

“You have some beautiful things here,” he said. “I didn’t know you were a collector.”

“I’m not,” Johnny said. “This stuff came with the house.”

Victor and the Ammunition sat down on a red velvet couch. Johnny slipped into a small chair the shape of a half-circle. He wore blue jeans and sparkling white tennis shoes. Sneakers, Victor thought. In his own home. Victor cringed. No foreign country deserved thanks for such a complete lack of class. That was America’s creation.

“Since you’re here,” Johnny said, “I might as well be hospitable. You guys want coffee, tea? Something stronger? I’ve got bourbon. And vodka.”

Victor was taken aback by the offer. He studied Johnny. Noticed his hands looked red and clammy. This was not a man who lost his cool easily. Victor knew from experience. Johnny was anxious because he knew why Victor was here. He was nervous because he did indeed have the locket. Best to let the evening develop slowly. In Victor’s experience, patience was a prerequisite to a non-violent resolution. And the pursuit of non-violent resolutions was the single biggest reason he was still alive today.

“Since you’re offering,” Victor said. “Coffee will be fine.”

Johnny glanced at the Ammunition, who shook his head.

A fourth voice rang out. “I’ll have a Coke if you have one.” The Gun appeared in the hallway. “You should keep your backdoor locked. Nice neighborhood, but it’s still Elizabeth.”

“It was locked,” Johnny said.

The Gun put his hands on his hips. His sports jacket opened up to reveal a gun in his waistband. “Huh. Somehow I walked right in.”

Johnny took a deep breath and regarded the twin with a mixture of respect and concern. “I don’t have Coke. I have Diet.”

“Coca Cola Light? That’s for girls. I’ll have coffee instead.”

Victor nodded to the Ammunition. The three of them went into the kitchen. Johnny described how he’d bought the house from a bank after the former owner was sent to prison for embezzlement. Victor wanted to interrupt him but couldn’t find an opening to say a word. Johnny simply wouldn’t shut up. No surprise, Victor thought. He was a lawyer.

The water came to a boil before Johnny was finished. He fixed two coffees and a tea for himself. Victor and Johnny sat down at the kitchen table. The Timkiv twins stood, one near the hallway leading to the front door, the other blocking the way to the back door the Gun had jimmied open.

“You know why we’re here,” Victor said.

“I do?”

“Yes. I could see it in your face as soon as you opened the door.”

Johnny pretended he didn’t know what Victor was talking about. Victor stayed patient. Let him deny his accusation five times.

“One last time,” Victor said. “You know why we’re here.”

Johnny took a breath. “The locket,” he said.

“Good. Where is it?”

“You know where it is. In an envelope with Bobby’s other personal possessions waiting for his release.”

Victor sipped his coffee. It was good and strong, the way he liked it. “I don’t think so.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then where is it?”

“Here. In your home. Or in a safe place of your own choosing.”

Johnny laughed. He sounded nervous. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Of course it is. That’s what makes it so brilliant. The boy knew he was going to meet Valentine, didn’t he? That’s my guess. He must have known his life was in danger. And he knew the locket might be priceless after all. So did he wear it the day he ended up killing Valentine in self-defense? Of course not. The last thing he wanted was for the locket to fall into someone else’s hands, or simply be lost. So he sent it to you through the mail for safekeeping instead. He knew you from his journey to America. He knows you’re the man Nadia trusts the most. In fact, he probably knew odds were high he’d either be dead or might need a lawyer. Making you an even better person to trust with his most priceless possession.”

“That’s such a load of garbage I don’t even know what to say.” Johnny turned serious. “You didn’t come up with this on your own. Who told you this?”

“I only act on impeccable information,” Victor said. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Impeccable information means an impeccable source.”

Victor chuckled. “Are we going to dance all night? You know me. You know how I work. Do I need to remind you the pressure I can bring to bear to make you speak the truth?”

“No,” Johnny said. Victor was certain he was thinking of Nadia. “You don’t have to remind me what kind of man you are.”

Music started up on a radio. It was a song about a preacher’s son named Billy Ray. Johnny reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile telephone. Victor realized it was a phone call, not a radio. Johnny touched the phone and started reading the screen.

“Stop,” Victor said. He extended his hand. “Make it loud so everyone can hear.”

Johnny held both hands up, phone in his right. “It’s not a call. It’s a text.”

“A text?”

“A written message.”

Victor snapped his fingers. The Gun stepped forward and took the phone from Johnny’s hands. He read whatever was written on the screen. Then he frowned, glanced at Johnny, and handed the phone to Victor.

The message consisted of two words.

It’s done.

Victor checked to see who sent the message but he didn’t see a name. Just a random string of numbers and letters.

“What’s done?” Victor said.

Johnny didn’t answer.

“Your laundry?”

“No.”

“A transaction related to the boy’s case?”

Johnny considered this for a moment. “I guess you can say that.”

“I’ll ask you one more time. What’s done?”

Johnny leveled his chin at Victor. “You’re done.”

Victor laughed. “Really.”

“Yes. Really.”

Victor nodded at the twins. The Gun headed for the foyer to look out the front window. The Ammunition stepped to the rear to check the back door.

“You have less than two minutes,” Johnny said. “You might still have a chance if you make a run for it now.”

“Who am I running from?”

“Now.”

Victor smiled. “Let me give you some advice, Johnny.”

“What’s that?”

“Never bluff a thief.”

“I’m not bluffing.”

Victor studied Johnny. Light perspiration dotted his forehead. Was he sweating because Victor and the twins were in his house, or because he was waiting for some plan to come to fruition?

“Impossible,” Victor said, the word escaping his lips accidentally.

“Not only is it possible. It’s done.”

The twins returned.

“Nothing,” the Gun said.

“The back’s clear, too,” the Ammunition said.

Johnny glanced at his watch. Some gaudy black thing with a face the size of a manhole cover. “The cops will be banging on both doors in less than a minute. This is your last chance.”

A sense of apprehension seized Victor. It was an alien feeling, one that came to him in rare moments of self-preservation. The sensation infuriated him, as it suggested he may have been duped, which was the most horrific thought he could imagine other than his daughter or grandson getting injured. Who could have duped him? The ponytailed one? Impossible.

“Do you play chess?” Victor said.

“No. But I played checkers as a kid.”

Relief washed over Victor. “Then I give you my congratulations. You had me doubting a second ago. You actually had me considering leaving your home without the locket. You had me scared. That is not an easy feat. Nicely done.”

“Thank you,” Johnny said. “But I can’t take credit for all this. I had help.”

Engines screamed in the distance. Victor thought his imagination might be running away from him. The noise grew louder. Victor glanced at Johnny with disbelief.

Johnny had one foot stuck outside the table in case he needed to make a move. Victor realized the abomination wasn’t wearing tennis shoes because he was an American slob. He was wearing them in case he needed to run. In the unlikely event his plot was foiled and he needed to fight.

The Gun ran to the front window. The Ammunition checked out the back door.

“Cops,” they said.

They ran back into the kitchen. Both of them had their guns bared. They pleaded with their eyes for instructions.

Victor offered them a soothing expression and motioned for them to put the guns on the table.

He turned to Johnny. “How did I miss this?”

“Once, when Bobby was out on a date with Iryna, she went to the ladies’ room and left her cell phone on the table. Bobby checked the address book. There was a phone number for a Rotciv Randob.”

“Rotciv Random,” the Gun said. “I know that name. Rotciv Random’s battle number three was a Super Mario game.”

“I said Randob,” Johnny said. “Not Random.”

“Rotciv Randob,” Victor said, “is Victor Bodnar spelled backwards.”

“Bobby knew who you were from the year before. When you and your cousin Kirilo—the one you murdered in the butcher shop basement—chased him around the world. And once he saw your name spelled backward in her phone directory, he knew Iryna belonged to you all along.”

Tires screeched. Doors opened outside.

Victor said, “You seem to have forgotten the role I played in getting your witness to speak the truth.”

“Who’s going to believe you? I’m not going to back up your story. The witness sure isn’t. It’s your word against ours. And who are you exactly? Are you even a proper citizen? I never shared anything confidential with you. If one of your boys took a look at one of my files while I was in the men’s room, that’s not on me. You came here tonight to threaten me. To extort my client’s private property. I’m protecting myself and my business.”

Someone pounded on the front door. “Police.”

Johnny stood up.

More pounding, this time on the front and back doors.

“You realize this isn’t over,” Victor said. “I survived the
gulag
. I will survive American prison.”

“Ten to twenty is a long time,” Johnny said. “Good luck with that.”

Victor thought of Tara and his grandson. Then he remembered his own words, the ones he’d spoken. If he’d survived the gulag, he could survive an American prison. But survival wasn’t enough. He’d be damned if he spent his last days in a prison cell away from his family. He needed to escape. Was that even possible? Everything was possible, he reminded himself, especially for a man who could disappear by standing sideways.

Ten to twenty years implied he was about to be accused of a serious crime. But he’d never serve a year. He didn’t know how or when, but he’d make his escape.

And then he would seek compensation from those who’d put him behind bars. The ponytailed lawyer and the son of the best confidence man the Soviet Union had ever seen.

That’s who’d outsmarted him, he realized.

A child.

Two members of the Elizabeth Detectives Bureau and Narcotics Unit interviewed Johnny. After they left, he called the James brothers and thanked them for their help. They’d purchased five ounces of heroin from one of their old suppliers on Johnny’s behalf for nineteen thousand dollars. Then they’d planted the drugs underneath Victor’s Lincoln Town Car the night before. Victor parked on the street, and at 3:20 a.m., most Manhattan side streets were usually empty.

Anyone caught with five grams of heroin in the state of New Jersey was charged with intent to sell. The cost had wiped out half of Johnny’s savings excluding his equity in his house but it was a bargain. The only other solution he could conjure was killing the twins and Victor and Johnny simply couldn’t contemplate it. He could rationalize putting murderers in a prison to protect Nadia. Couldn’t he? But taking a life—any man’s life—was an entirely different matter.

He had two double bourbons to calm his nerves before he went to sleep. As he drifted, he comforted himself by reviewing the to-do list that defined his existence. He’d vowed to protect Nadia by removing Victor from her life. Bobby had set up Victor by telling Iryna he’d mailed the locket to Johnny, which was a lie. It was with his possessions in jail. Check. He’d promised to secure Bobby’s freedom. The DA wanted to talk. It was just a matter of time. Check. And he’d assured Nadia he’d find out the truth about the locket from Bobby. Check.

There was nothing left to do but get the girl.

CHAPTER 58