EVEN MORE THAN THE back of Coney Island, Brighton Beach was a separate pocket of Brooklyn, and a self-enclosed universe.
If you continued east from the crime scene, moving along the shore, you’d see the old Parachute Jump rising up over the boardwalk, a defunct ride that looked like the skeleton of a giant steel mushroom. Then a couple of small amusement parks, just a grubby reminder of the resort’s former glory, but still crowded in the summertime. The Coney boardwalk was an incredible melting pot, all kinds of working-class New Yorkers coming out to the beach as they had for decades, seeking relief from the broiling concrete and asphalt of the city. Hip-hoppers and salsa enthusiasts, Pakistani car service drivers and big Mexican families, Italian-American deli countermen in bleached jean shorts and wifebeater shirts—they thronged the boardwalk in a pulsing river of city life.
Walk fifteen minutes along the weathered gray boardwalk, though, and everything changed.
As a boy, Jack had come to Brighton Beach several times a year to visit his uncle Leon, who always had a box of saltwater taffy ready for his nephews. Back then the neighborhood had been different, filled with European immigrants. In the past few decades the Russians had taken over. You heard the language everywhere, as Jack did when he emerged from his car on Brighton Beach Avenue, the neighborhood’s main shopping artery. It was like passing through some kind of Star Trek transporter machine. The place was known as Little Odessa, because so many people from that region had emigrated here, and they had done their best to re-create a world of seaside cafés and glitzy nightclubs. They filled the avenue, buying foods from home and cheap, flashy clothes. There was something elemental and doughy about them; they had grown up on meat and potatoes, and potatoes alone when there was no meat. The old women looked like little plump doves, their men like bare-knuckles boxers who hadn’t been very good at protecting their faces.
The sun had broken through the clouds now, and the day was warming up. Jack turned onto a quiet side street, where he passed a row of old apartment buildings designed like Tudor castles—if Tudor castles had fire escapes running down the fronts. Ahead stood the boardwalk, and beyond that, a bright blue strip of ocean.
Up on that boardwalk, Jack remembered, were a couple of cafés, where a line of sun-leathered old women sat on benches facing the sea, hands folded over round bellies. Some of them might mill around a wizened little woman selling knockoff designer scarves out of a shopping cart. Another might offer something else, little packages that disappeared rapidly into the shoppers’ bags.
“Medicines from Russia,” Daniel Lelo had explained once, smiling at his cop friend’s suspicion. “For foot care, for headache. They miss the things from home.”
Daniel had led him a little farther down the boardwalk, where a bunch of men sat playing chess. Each pair was surrounded by a huddle of spectators, old guys in sporty caps who stood with their hands behinds their backs, watching intently and offering advice—kibitzing. No one spoke English. Daniel could become completely absorbed in some strangers’ match. And when he sat down to play, he surveyed the board with impressive cool, made his moves rapidly—and won. “I am not an addict to vodka, cigarettes, or coffee,” he had said. “But every day I must have my chess.”
Jack had asked if the NYPD was having any luck finding the shooter who had put him in the hospital. The Russian shook his head. “I hev mostly bad luck. My family is famous for this. Half of my relatives was killed by Stalin. Of the ones still alive, half was killed by the Nazis. We are specialists in being in wrong place in wrong time.” He smiled at Jack. “Do you like jokes?”
Jack had shrugged. This seemed like an odd segue, but as a cop he knew that humor was one of the only ways to deal with the worst things in life.
“Okay,” Daniel said. “A communist, a fascist, and a Jew is walking down a road. From sky comes voice of God: ‘For each of you, I give one wish.’
“The communist says: ‘I wish all fascists will be destroyed from face of earth.’
“The fascist says: ‘I wish all communists will be destroyed from face of earth.’
“‘And you?’ God says to the Jew.
The Jew thinks a minute, then he says, ‘If you will give their wishes, then I will just hev a nice cup coffee.’”
Jack smiled grimly at the memory as he marched toward a big brick apartment building.
THE FOURTEENTH-FLOOR HALLWAY WAS a pale minty green that reminded him of the ruffled tuxedo shirt he had rented for his high school prom. He had been nervous then, gearing up to meet his date’s parents, but that was nothing compared to the unsettled feeling he had now. He reached out and rang the bell.
The door opened. Eugenia Lelo stood there in a black dress; she looked as if she hadn’t slept since her husband’s body had been found.
He quickly stuck out his hand. “Mrs. Lelo, I’m Jack Leightner. You might not remember me, but I was in the hospital with your husband a while back.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know if your husband told you, but I’m with the New York Police Department.”
Eugenia—or Zhenya, as Daniel had called her—brushed a wisp of hair from her eyes. As always, there was a distance to her, a willed remove. New York was full of attractive, haughty women, but her somber face was that of someone who had grown up in a harder world, and her recent news had certainly compounded that gravity. Today, though, Jack sensed something vulnerable about her. She looked faintly bedraggled, like a cat caught out in a light rain, and he found himself oddly moved by a little gap between her front teeth.
He took a step forward. “Would you mind if I come in?”
The woman frowned. “Other police come already. Yesterday.”
Jack nodded. “I know. I’m just here to help them, and it would help me if I could talk to you.”
She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, with pale green cat eyes. She seemed to decide that there was no point in arguing, and stepped aside. Jack had been here before, to pick up his friend for their walks together, but he’d never seen the inside of Daniel’s apartment, and he figured that Eugenia had likely been responsible for this lack of hospitality—she had never shared her husband’s decision to open up and relax.
Though small, the place was lavishly decorated. A chandelier hung above the front hallway, which was lined with shelves of ornate porcelain figurines: little lords and ladies, shepherds, swans. The woman’s taste was over the top, in Jack’s opinion, but he told her it was a beautiful apartment—he was trying to melt the frost.
She led him quickly through the dining room. A black cloth was draped above the mantelpiece; Jack figured that it probably covered a mirror. He didn’t know much about what these new immigrants did when they were alive, but he knew about their funeral practices—and those of the Chinese, Yemenites, Pakistanis, and other groups who had swelled Brooklyn’s population. A Jewish death would be followed by a week of sitting shiva, a time when mourners would be comforted by visits from family friends. He felt a twinge of hurt that he had not been invited, but shrugged it off.
Several sandwich platters sat on the dining table, along with piles of cookies and cakes. The only visitor at the moment was a squat little woman with an ancient, sun-dried face. She bustled around rearranging the food; with her air of grave authority, she reminded Jack of a little bishop.
He nodded hello as Eugenia led him on, into the living room, where the walls were covered with bookcases. Daniel, Jack remembered, had been a voracious reader: novels, science, history, poetry. A sectional white leather sofa faced a big picture window and a balcony overlooking the beach. Eugenia waved her hand, inviting Jack to take a seat.
“I’m very sorry about Daniel,” he said.
Eugenia didn’t respond. “Would you like some tea?” she said instead. It sounded like she was reciting from a phrase-book.
Jack nodded—maybe this little act of hospitality might relax her stiff façade.
While she was gone, he stepped out onto the balcony and raised a hand to shade his eyes. Way down on the beach, the late morning sun glinted off a lounge chair; farther on, heads bobbed out in the choppy ocean. A steady stream of old-timers shuffled along the boardwalk. Directly below stood a big fat man who looked stark naked; as he moved away, Jack was relieved to see that his giant belly overhung a tiny bathing suit.
Across the way, a swanky new condo complex dominated a huge plot of beachfront property. For most of the century, the site had been home to the Brighton Beach Baths, a private club where members could swim, whack a handball, play a round of canasta. Jack’s family would never have been able to afford the membership. When he was little, at home in Red Hook, he didn’t know they were poor, but he remembered coming here to visit his uncle; he would stand on the boardwalk and look on wistfully as the club’s laughing families drank pink lemonade and relaxed under shady umbrellas. Maybe that was when he had first learned that the wealth of the world was not equally shared.
Daniel’s wife came out and set down a teapot and two glass cups in filigreed metal holders. As she bent over to pour the tea, he glanced at the scar on her jaw and noticed a bit of soft blond down at the back of her neck. It puzzled him that his outgoing friend had married someone so glum, but if he had learned one thing in life, it was that marriages were often difficult to understand from the outside.
Eugenia’s body shifted under the black silk of her dress; even with its conservative cut, it was clear that she had a fine figure. Maybe sex had provided her marriage bond. There was something very appealing about her sulky face, her pouting lips. Jack blinked: it had been a long time since he had felt any real attraction to another woman, after the way his last relationship had ended. … He looked away. Get a grip, he told himself. This is a murder victim’s wife you’re looking at. Your dead friend’s widow.
He sat in a rattan armchair, and the woman handed him a cup of tea. He blew across the top to cool it, then took a sip: it was very strong. Eugenia sat too, though she perched on the edge of her chair, uneasy.
“How are you doing?” Jack said.
She looked at him as if he had just inquired about the weather on Pluto. “My husband is dead.”
He cleared his throat again—evidently, she was not in the market for comforting. Not from him, anyhow … “Could you pass me the sugar?” he said. The bowl was just a couple of feet away, and he could easily have picked it up himself, but he wanted her to pass it. It was a technique he had used many times when questioning recalcitrant people: getting her to cooperate in such a small way might subconsciously lower her resistance to his questions.
Eugenia complied.
He leaned forward. “I’m sorry to have to ask about this, but we really could use your help. Do you have any idea why someone would have done this to your husband?”
She shook her head, but he thought he noticed a slight hesitation. He could have been wrong, but he had spent a long career honing his interview skills—“Do you know why Daniel was in Coney Island that night?” Though the two neighborhoods were right next to each other, he knew that residents of Brighton Beach tended to stay close to home, among others who spoke their language.
Eugenia shook her head.
“The shooting happened late—did he say anything about where he was going?”
She shrugged. “He sayed he must have meeting with business client.”
“Do you know who it was?”
She shook her head.
“He stayed out late?”
She nodded. “This is not unusual. You know: men, drinking …”
He thought for a moment. “Was there anybody at work he was having problems with?” In the hospital, Daniel had mentioned his import-export business. As it turned out, the man had not imported knickknacks at all, but something quite different: fish. The business had sounded mundane until Daniel explained that he wasn’t talking fish sticks; he dealt mostly in sushi-grade product. He boasted that his company was becoming involved in the new global markets. Black cod caught off the U.S. West Coast might end up in Tokyo, he’d said. Pollack served as fish-and-chips might come from the Bering Sea. He said a single high-quality bluefin tuna could weigh six hundred pounds and cost tens of thousands of dollars, making it the most valuable fish in the world.
Now Jack thought about all that money. And he thought about the crude, macho world where the fish were sold: the Fulton Street market, next to Manhattan’s South Street Seaport. The place had long been notorious for Mafia involvement. A D.A. task force had supposedly driven the mob away, but he wondered how complete the eradication had been. …
He leaned toward Eugenia. “Was Daniel having any trouble with competitors?”
Her face remained opaque. “Dany does not tell to me his business.”
He sighed. “We’re trying to help you, Mrs. Lelo. It would be great if you could help us too. Any little thing might be useful—a phone call or letter that might have upset your husband, somebody he might have mentioned …”
She bowed her head; it took Jack a moment to realize that she was crying. All of a sudden she didn’t look so tough. “What you want from me? My husband is dead.” She curled up, sobbing.
Jack considered putting an arm around her, but didn’t think she would accept any comfort from him. After a moment, he stood up. “I’m going to go now. I’m very sorry about your loss.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her his card. “If you think of anything that might be useful, please call me. At any time.” He started to leave but turned back to the young widow. “I want you to know that I’ll do everything in my power to catch whoever did this to your husband. That’s a promise.”
OUT ON THE STREET, he called Linda Vargas.
“The wife said that just before the murder, Lelo was having a meeting or drinks with some business client. Did you find the guy?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Witnesses saw them having what looked like a very friendly drink in a sports bar in Coney Island, and then Lelo left, alone. The client stayed in the bar for a couple of hours after he left. He said they had just met for the first time that evening.”
Jack frowned. “Okay, thanks.”
As he walked back to his car, he wasn’t thinking about this apparently innocuous client; he was musing about his interview with Daniel’s wife. There had definitely been a little flicker of oddness about the exchange. Something the woman was holding back … He would definitely have to pay her another visit.
He flushed, despite himself.
The thought of seeing her again was not displeasing.