White Russian Page 6

  Erin was a city girl. In fact, not counting New Jersey—and no self-respecting New Yorker would—she'd never been outside her home state. Now, driving out of Yonkers on 87, her mind cleared, but she also felt exposed.

  There was still daylight when she drove into West Hurley. It was funny; Erin hadn't met anyone in New York City who'd ever heard of the town, but it was right next door to Woodstock, a place everyone knew. Erin's dad liked to point out that the famous music festival hadn't actually happened in Woodstock, but sixty miles southwest in Bethel. He didn’t want people to think he was a Hippy.

  Erin pulled into the driveway of her parents' house around sunset. Before she'd even shut off the engine, the front door was open. She stood up just in time to catch her niece Anna, a seven-year-old bundle of delighted energy, as the girl hurled herself into her arms.

  “Guess what? I've decided to be a police officer, just like you and Grandpa!” Anna exclaimed, launching straight into conversation without bothering with a greeting.

  “I thought you wanted to be a ballerina,” Erin said.

  “I'm going to do that, too,” Anna said. “I'll dance when I'm not being a cop.” She looked past Erin. “Rolfie!”

  Erin set Anna down and let Rolf out of the back. She was lucky; Rolf was one of those police dogs who knew when they were off-duty. He treated children with gentle tolerance. The German shepherd nosed Anna in a dignified manner. The girl responded by flinging her arms around the dog's neck and vigorously hugging him.

  “Great to see you again, Sis,” said Michelle, Erin's sister-in-law. She'd come out onto the porch while Erin was dealing with Anna. Patrick, her other child, was five and a lot shyer. He lurked behind Michelle's legs, peering suspiciously at Erin.

  Michelle had been married a decade to Erin's oldest brother, Sean Junior. She was a striking-looking woman in her upper thirties, a tall French-Canadian who'd somehow held onto her figure through two pregnancies and seven years of motherhood. She was also one of the friendliest, most positive people Erin had ever known.

  “Hey, Shelly,” Erin said. They embraced, and Michelle gave Erin a kiss on the cheek.

  “C'mon inside,” Michelle said. “Everyone else is here already. Did you have dinner?”

  “Yeah, I ate on the way,” Erin said. “I didn't expect you all to wait.”

  “Something I've been meaning to ask,” Michelle said. “Did some member of your family starve to death, before I married in?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because your mother seems terrified someone might possibly go hungry in her house,” Michelle said with a smile. “We're about to have dessert. Triple-berry pie with ice cream. How on earth did you stay in shape growing up?”

  Erin laughed. “I had three brothers. I had to be quick to get my fair share at the table.”

  “Anna!” Michelle called. “Come inside. It's getting dark.”

  “But mommy, I'm playing with Rolfie!” Anna protested.

  “You can play with him in the living room,” her mother said.

  Inside, Erin got quick hugs from her brothers and her other sister-in-law Sarah, a firm handshake from her dad, and a big, warm hug from her mom. Then they all sat down at the table and dug into slices of Mary O'Reilly's homemade pie.

  “Glad you could make it,” Erin's dad said. “We missed you last year.”

  “You know how it is, working Patrol,” Erin said. “They need everybody on duty on the Fourth, especially the single officers.”

  “That doesn't seem fair,” Sarah said. “After all, you still have family, even if you're not married.”

  “Marriage is the fundamental building block of our society,” Mary said.

  Tommy, the youngest O'Reilly brother, and Erin's only unmarried sibling, snorted. “You know, marriage used to just be a convenient way of telling which man a woman belonged to.”

  “And now it's the other way round,” Michelle said with a sweet smile.

  “I think it works both ways,” Sarah said. “In a relationship, each person belongs to the other.”

  “It's what binds us together,” Mary said. “Erin, are you seeing anyone right now?”

  “Not right now,” Erin said, wishing this hadn't been brought up in front of everyone else.

  “Whatever happened to that nice art dealer?” Mary asked, not taking the hint.

  “I told you what happened,” Erin said. “He couldn't deal with dating a cop.”

  “It can't be easy,” Michelle said. “I worry about Sean whenever he's held up at the hospital, and his work's not nearly as dangerous as yours. I'd be a wreck if he was out there getting in gunfights all the time.”

  “By the time I see the results, the gunfights are already over,” Sean Junior said. He was a trauma surgeon at Bellevue Hospital in Manhattan.

  “Shelly, I was on the force twenty-five years, and I never discharged my weapon in the line of duty,” Erin's dad said. “It's a dangerous job, but there are lots of dangerous jobs. It's safer than being a fisherman, or a logger, or even a farmer.”

  “Maybe statistically,” Erin's middle brother Michael said. “But the fish and the logs don't carry guns and knives.”

  “But what about the other man you were seeing?” Mary asked, pulling the conversation back toward relationships. “James, I think you said his name was?”

  “It didn’t work out,” Erin said shortly. What she hadn’t explained was that James Corcoran had turned out to be a mid-level member of the O’Malley Irish mob.

  “So, how is it, being a detective?” Michelle asked Erin, recognizing the conversational dead-end and pulling a sharp U-turn. “Isn't it more interesting than patrol work?”

  “Sometimes,” Erin said. “But there's a lot of office time. And right now, we're stuck on our case.”

  “What're you working?” her dad asked.

  Erin glanced at the young kids, choosing her words carefully. “You hear about that thing at the motel? Double vics, GSW?”

  “That stands for gunshot wounds,” Anna said with great seriousness. “I'm studying police terminal-ology.”

  “Terminology,” Michelle corrected. “She's reading everything she can get her hands on about police work.”

  “Yeah, I read about the motel thing,” Erin's dad said. “Sounds like a mob hit.”

  “I know,” Erin agreed. “But it's not that simple.”

  “We can talk about it later,” he said, catching Erin's meaningful look. “This is great pie, Mary.”

  It was. Erin's mom was an excellent cook, but baking was her particular specialty. Erin took a bite of pie, then got distracted by Anna, who was trying to sneak Rolf a mouthful under the table.

  After dessert, the group fragmented. Tommy went out on the front porch to play his guitar. Mary sat on the porch swing, listening. Michael and Sean were talking baseball in the den. The Yankees had beaten the Twins 3-2 in Minnesota that afternoon, and Michael was doing well with his fantasy baseball league at work. Michelle was getting her children ready for bed, Sarah providing reinforcements. That left Erin and her dad. They went into Sean's office. It was filled with memorabilia of a career in law enforcement. Pictures of smiling, uniformed officers, newspaper clippings, various certificates of merit from Sean's commanding officers, and so on. There was also a gun cabinet, which was always kept locked.

  “So, what's the roadblock?” Sean asked.

  Erin sighed. “For starters, we can't ID the female victim. No prints on file, no identification. She was young, probably a Russian illegal, and had most likely been a prostitute. Maybe she still was, but we think she was trying to get out of the life.”

  “Human traffickers.” His mustache twitched angrily. “Bastards.”

  Erin nodded. “Her pimp would be a suspect, if we knew who the pimp was.”

  “It'll be Russian mafia, I guess,” Sean said. “You have contacts in that part of the underworld?”

  “No,” she said. “Vic Neshenko's poking around a little, but you know how it is. Nobody talks
about the mob.”

  “Your last case was mob-related,” Sean observed. “You cracked that one.”

  “Yeah, Dad. But that was the Irish.”

  “So? How'd you do it?”

  “It was an internal thing,” Erin said. “Competition in the gang.”

  “You think that might be worth looking into?” Sean asked.

  “How do you mean?” Erin asked. “Dad, I don't know who any of these guys are.”

  “Why not start with someone you do know? Lean on a low-level guy in the O'Malleys. Find one with a couple Vice busts in his jacket. He may know who the players are, and you'll have leverage on him. Use him to get to the competition.”

  “That's not a bad idea,” Erin said. But even as she said it, she thought she might have a better one. A guy in the O'Malleys owed her a favor. But her dad had a history with the guy and wouldn’t like that plan, so she didn't tell him.

  The main event of the Fourth of July was the family picnic. Erin's dad grilled, while her mom filled the rest of the table with fantastic food. It felt like summer was supposed to feel to Erin. She remembered backyard grilling when she'd been a girl, and the smell of charcoal brought it all back to her.

  Anna was playing at being a K-9 officer, calling commands to Rolf. The dog followed her patiently, but paid no attention to her orders. For one thing, she was speaking English, and Rolf had been trained in German. For another, while he was friendly to the girl, he had no respect whatsoever for her authority. Patrick trailed after the two of them, hesitantly patting Rolf's flank when he thought the dog wasn't looking.

  “Just look at them,” Michelle said. Her face was full of a love that made Erin a little embarrassed. It was so open and vulnerable, like the woman was watching her own heart running around outside her body. “Erin, haven't you ever wanted one?”

  Now Erin really was uncomfortable. “Come on, Shelly, not you too. Mom's bad enough. Every conversation I have with her these days, she's always asking about my biological clock. Like I'm a time bomb or something.”

  Michelle laughed. “That's not what I mean. It's just... I mean, how long have you wanted to be a cop?”

  “Since before I was Anna's age,” Erin said. “I think as soon as I understood what Dad did, I wanted to do it myself. I wanted it more than anything in the world.”

  “That's how I felt about children,” Michelle said. “I know it's not politically correct these days. I'm supposed to have a career, to think of myself first. My mom's like that. She always wanted me to be, I don't know, a lawyer or a senator or something. But isn't the whole point of feminism that I can make my own choices?”

  “I guess so,” Erin said.

  “And the first time I held Anna,” Michelle went on quietly, “it was the best feeling I've ever had.” They were standing a little apart from the rest of the family, but she still lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “You know, Sarah told me she and Michael have been trying to have a baby. She's got some kind of condition, though, and it hasn't worked so far. I don't know how she can stand it, poor girl. It would just break my heart. I'd have done anything, absolutely anything to have Anna and Patrick. I'm the luckiest woman in the world, I swear.”

  Michelle stopped talking. She looked at Erin, first with curiosity, then concern. “Erin? Are you okay?”

  Erin blinked. “Yeah, I'm fine,” she said. “Thanks, Shelly.”

  “For what?”

  Erin was smiling now. “I get it.”

  “I'm glad,” her sister-in-law said. “Look, Erin, you don't have to have kids if you're not ready for it. God knows there's enough unwanted babies out there already. And I don't mean to push you—“

  “No,” Erin said. “I mean, I get it. I know what Markov was doing with the Jane Doe.”

  “Erin,” Michelle said, “I swear, you use real words, but sometimes I have no idea what you're talking about.”

  Chapter 9

  Erin didn't wait to get back into Manhattan. She called Webb from the road a little after eleven that night. She'd stayed to watch the Woodstock fireworks with her family, then started driving.

  “Webb,” he said.

  “I didn't wake you up, did I, sir?”

  “Who is this? O'Reilly?” He did sound a little groggy.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay,” he said. “For a minute there, you sounded a little like my first wife. I thought maybe I was having a nightmare. Or a child-support hearing. Which comes to about the same thing.”

  “Um... sorry.” There didn't seem to be anything else to say on the subject.

  “What is it, O'Reilly?”

  “I'm on my way back. And I know what was going on at the motel.”

  “You got an ID for me?” Webb's voice perked up.

  “No,” she admitted. “But I know why Markov was meeting Jane Doe.”

  “She was a hooker,” Webb said. “I thought we established that.”

  “No,” Erin said again. “Well, yeah, she was, I think. But that's not why he was seeing her.”

  Webb sighed. “All right, I'll bite. What were they doing?”

  “Discussing adoption.”

  “Come again?”

  “Natalie Markov said they really wanted a kid, but they hadn't been able to have one,” Erin said. “The girl was pregnant. She'd kicked her drug habit, which suggests she was trying to have a healthy baby. Gregory Markov had a history of helping illegal immigrants.”

  “So, what... he was going to buy the baby?” Webb asked.

  That took Erin aback. “I guess you could call it that. She'd have had trouble taking care of a kid, even if she was out of the life. I expect he was offering a better future for the baby. She was an illegal, after all. If she got deported, or arrested, or killed, at least she'd know her child would be safe.”

  Webb wasn't convinced. “Seems like a shaky motivation.”

  “With respect, sir, you're a man,” Erin said. “Of course it sounds shaky to you.”

  “O'Reilly,” Webb said. “Don't jump to conclusions. I've got two kids of my own, and if you think I wouldn't step in front of gunfire for them, you don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

  Erin swallowed. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Never mind. Does this help us catch the killer?”

  “No. But I think it helps us ID the victim.”

  “How so?”

  “We can check Markov's papers for payments to hospitals,” she said. “She might've been admitted under an assumed name, but maybe not. And his files might have something on her. He absolutely had her medically checked out. Markov was a smart guy. This was a high-risk pregnancy.”

  “No kidding,” Webb said dryly. “The mom's in the morgue. No, I know what you mean. And you're right. Run with it. Get hospital info to Jones and she'll help with the calls. You got anything else from your day off?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “There's a guy I can talk to, but I don't know if he knows anything.”

  “Okay, keep me posted. Drive safe.”

  “See you tomorrow, sir,” Erin said and signed off. It was the Fourth of July, and there'd be more drunks than usual on the road. She needed to concentrate on her driving.

  She made it home okay, despite a couple of close calls on the road. She thought about running down her other lead that night, but it was after one in the morning, she was tired, and she wanted to catch him alone if possible. Late morning was probably her best bet, so she went to bed.

  By seven-thirty she was up and caffeinated, had taken her morning run and a quick shower, and headed in to the precinct. She was already appreciating the much shorter commute. It was even walkable in a pinch.

  “Morning, Erin,” Jones said from behind her computer monitor. “The LT said you've got something for me.”

  Erin explained her thinking. “I'll call Mrs. Markov,” she finished. “She said she'd go through her husband's papers. I can tell her what we're looking for.”

  Jones nodded. “That'll help.”

  �
�Either of you two seen Neshenko?” Webb asked.

  Erin looked at Jones, who shrugged. “No, sir,” they said in unison.

  It was almost eight-thirty when Vic trailed in. He had bags under his eyes and an enormous plastic cup filled with yellow liquid in his hand.

  “Either it's time for your monthly piss test, or that's the most Mountain Dew I've ever seen in one place,” Jones said. “You have a good time last night, Vic?”

  Vic mumbled something inaudible and sat down at his desk hard enough that Rolf looked up to see what had happened.

  “Take a good look, Erin,” Jones said with a grin. “Vic Neshenko, departmental cautionary tale.”

  “You go down to Little Odessa last night?” Erin asked him.

  Vic turned his head slowly, as if it hurt to move fast. “Yeah. What about it?”

  “You find out anything?”

  He tried to smile, but it didn't quite take. “Fantastic things. Unbelievable things.”

  “Right,” she said. “Anything pertinent to our case?”

  “Nope.”

  “You got laid, didn't you,” Jones said. “I hope it was worth the hangover.”

  Vic took a long drag on his drinking straw and didn't answer. Jones quirked an eyebrow Erin's way.

  “Take a look at that guy,” she said. “I'll bet he doesn't even remember losing his virginity.”

  “Course I do,” Vic said. He paused. “Just don't remember with who. Got a couple prime suspects, but not enough to charge 'em.”

  Erin shook her head and called Natalie Markov. The woman readily agreed to provide all the papers she could find. She even said she was headed into Manhattan for some legal arrangements a little later in the day and would drop the stuff off at the precinct.

  “I don't think she killed him,” Erin said when she got off the phone.