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I tried to quietly slip out of the task force office, ready to tell anyone who asked that I was just going to lunch. It would take a while to drive out to Brighton Beach, the Brooklyn neighborhood with a high population of Russian immigrants. But I doubted anyone would miss me, especially Agent Dan Santos.
As I hustled down the corridor away from the office, I heard someone behind me. I turned to see Darya Kuznetsova with a smile on her face.
She said, “Going somewhere?”
“Yeah, I’m going to do my job.” Then, for no real reason, I said, “I’m going to visit some Russian mobsters. Do you want to come?”
She didn’t say a word but just kept following me.
“Why didn’t we talk to these Russians yesterday when we talked to your other informants?”
“Because Russian mobsters are in a different class. They could help us, or they could try to find Marat themselves for a reward.”
Darya said, “Do you think every Russian living in the US is a mobster?”
“That’s ridiculous. Not everyone can be a mobster. Some Russians work in support roles.” I waited until she turned and stared at me, then laughed and said, “I’m just kidding. But if you think no Russians are involved in organized crime, you’re just as wrong. I know a couple of them. I know they won’t be happy about the attack. So why don’t we use that?”
That seemed to satisfy Darya and she stayed quiet, but alert, all the way through Brighton Beach. I pulled off Neptune Avenue a few blocks from our destination.
I parked away from the apartment we were headed to. No sense in alerting everyone by driving an NYPD Impala, whether it was marked or not, into one of the tightest, most isolated communities in New York.
Darya said, “What are you hoping to find out?”
“I just want to see if anyone knows anything about Marat. These guys won’t have any loyalty to a terrorist. Terror attacks hurt their bottom line. They’ll listen for information if we tell them what to listen for.”
We walked up to the second-floor apartment, which offered a glimpse of the Atlantic if you angled your gaze just right.
I told Darya, “This guy we’re going to see goes by different names. I’ll wait until we see him to tell you what his name is now.”
A wiry man with a disturbingly dark tan and a cigarette dangling from his mouth answered the door and just stared at us for a moment. He was about forty but looked older. He said, “What a surprise. I have no idea why you are visiting me now. I’ve been a very good boy lately.” He ushered us inside. It was a surprisingly comfortable apartment, even if it did stink of cigarette smoke and beer. He plopped down in an oversize recliner while Darya and I eased onto a leather couch.
I said, “It’s nice to see you too, Mr.…”
“Vineyard. Lewis Vineyard. Good name, eh?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
The Russian said in accented English, “I like it. I figure I work on my English, no one will ever suspect who or what I am.”
I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Except for the fact that you live in Brighton Beach, work at a Russian, mob-run bar, and sell drugs and guns to Russian mobsters, I doubt anyone would ever suspect you of being a Russian criminal. I’m sure everyone will assume you’re Swiss.”
He gave me a smile and said, “That’s my hope.” Then he turned his attention to Darya. “And who’s this lovely creature you brought to my home? If you’re looking for a place for her to live, I agree. She can even have my bedroom.”
Darya didn’t say a word and I immediately realized she didn’t want this guy knowing she was Russian as well. It was also useful for people to not realize she spoke their language.
He held up his arms to show off his tan and said, “You’d love it, baby. I sit on the beach every single day. You would, too, if you were raised in a place like Moscow.” He gazed into her face and said, “With soft, white skin like that, you could be a Russian beauty yourself.”
I said, “This is my colleague. And we’re here about something serious.”
“I’m listening.” Then he threw in, “And what’s in it for me?”
“We’re working with the feds on this, so there could be some decent reward money.”
He clapped his rough hands together and rubbed them. “Sounds good to me.” He stubbed out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.
I said, “It’s about the attack on the parade Thursday. I’m looking for any information about a Russian-speaking suspect. If there’s anyone unusual in the area. If there’ve been strange requests for guns or explosives. Anything you can think of.”
Lewis Vineyard said, “I deal mostly with people I know already. But I’ll keep my ears open. No one wants to see shit like that happen. There were little kids killed.”
