Patrick watched her drive up the street until she disappeared around the corner.
He wasn’t sure just what had brought her down here. Maybe she felt guilty that she’d been unable to help his dad. Maybe just that she had been at the scene. On the job he’d encountered dozens of situations where witnesses would come back to the spot where a tragedy occurred. Or leave flowers when someone died, just to feel connected to it. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that she was holding something back. Whatever her reasons. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
The whirring of a chain saw inside stole back his attention. He took the cups and went to head back inside when someone called from the street. “Lootenant . . .”
Patrick turned, instantly knowing who it was from the gruff voice and familiar accent, his gaze falling on the black Range Rover that must have come up while he was talking to Hilary. Then on the large-shouldered man in the black leather jacket who stepped out of the passenger seat. Someone Patrick was not happy to see, and especially not here.
“No time for me?” Yuri asked, extending his upturned palms in a questioning manner. “And I come such long way.”
Patrick went down to the street, his blood simmering. He didn’t want him on the property. He didn’t want him anywhere in the entire neighborhood. He didn’t want to be seen with him, a Russian Vors as clear as any in the movies, on a collection call. Everyone within six square blocks knew Patrick worked for the NYPD. And you didn’t have to be a detective in organized crime to figure out who Yuri worked for.
“Girlfriend?” Yuri nodded with an approving roll of the eyes. “Very nice. Little too thin, perhaps. More to grab, more to love. You know that saying? I think you have here too, right?”
“Why the hell are you here?” Patrick went up to him.
“Why I am here?” The Ukrainian bunched his thick lips. “I want to take trip on the Staten Island Ferry. Boris has never seen Statue of Liberty. Why you think I am here? Another week. Not even dime. I told you last time, clock is ticking. Tick, tock. Tick, tock . . .”
“And I told you then there are claims in the works and you’ll be paid. Maybe you heard that Congress just appropriated relief funds. When I get paid, you’ll be paid. I promise, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Government, eh?” Yuri grunted cynically. “At home we say little thieves are hanged, but great ones go into government. In a week, will be over hundred thousand dollars. You borrow from yourself? So tell me, Lieutenant, with what will you rebuild your house?”
“That’s my worry. Your worry is to back off and leave. You’ll be repaid.”
“No, that is not your big worry,” the Ukrainian said. “Big worry is that clock runs out and only way for you to repay is to make a call and poof, a particular case file disappears. Or maybe gun in evidence closet is no longer there. Or else, all hard work to rebuild house here and house goes up in ball of flames. Poof!” He snapped his fingers. “Know what I mean? That would be my worry, Patrick Kelty, if I were you.”
“I want you the hell out of here now.”
“Or what? You want to pick fight with me, Mr. Police Official? You want whole neighborhood to watch like on Showtime? Listen, we all know this debt is something you take on yourself. That it isn’t even your own. But now you own it, you understand? Now it’s yours, as much as if you went to Brighton Beach and set it up with Sergei Lukov yourself. And until is paid, I walk up those stairs and shit on living room carpet if that’s what I want to do. You understand me? I don’t see badge anywhere . . .” Yuri snorted. “Just hockey jersey. So right now, you are simply loan like anyone else. Loan no one is paying.”
They stood there for a moment, eye to eye. Yuri was right, the last thing Patrick needed was for people to see him here. Some of the volunteers on the street were cops, firemen. Explaining why this Vors from the old country with sleeves of tattoos up and down his arms was here threatening him would only bring on questions he didn’t need to answer.
And the Ukrainian was right on something else too. The last thing Patrick wanted was for them to settle the loan in “trade.” There was no badge on him right now. The NYPD was a million miles away.
“I hear you loud and clear,” Patrick said. “Now I just need you to get back in your car and drive out of here. Please . . .”
The Ukrainian looked at him. There was a spark of softening in his dull, heavy-lidded eyes. But not so much that he probably wouldn’t carry out everything he had said he would. He probably already had, as easily as having breakfast.
“You made me almost forget real reason I came. Sergei Lukov has heard that your father has died recently. Is this so?”
Patrick nodded. “Yes.”
“He was old man?”
“No.” Patrick shook his head. “Car accident.”
“Accident?” Yuri grunted wistfully. “You know saying, death always answers before it is asked? Very common in my work. Anyway, Sergei says no interest charged this week. A man in mourning should not have his mind on someone else’s debt.”
Patrick looked at Yuri. “Tell Sergei thank you,” he said.
Yuri swatted him on the shoulder. It fell with the weight of a diesel.
“You ever stop with the sayings?” Patrick asked as the mobster headed back to his SUV.
“Ha!” Yuri turned at the car door. “Here’s one more. Just because you not look at clock, doesn’t mean it stop ticking. You know what I mean? Next Thursday, clock starts up again. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick . . .
“I wish you and your family best.” He squeezed into the front seat. “But if I were you,” he said, snapping his fingers, “I would make sure those thieves in government work fast, Patrick Kelty.”