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I said, “It’s interesting he has family in New Jersey. That’s nothing I had heard.”
The old man said, “There are lots of Russians trying to live the right way. Many of us fled terrible conditions and appreciate all the advantages we have here in United States. Most Russians are perfectly respectable. It might not seem like it in your line of work, where everyone is a potential suspect. But this isn’t Russia. You can’t think that way.”
“I don’t generally think that way about any group. Nevertheless, I am a cop and I have to follow up on leads. Can you narrow down where his family might live in New Jersey?”
“A little community called Weequahic, in Newark. The name you’re looking for is Konstantin Nislev.”
“Do you want to give me some details about the person who gave you this information?”
“No. No, I don’t.” Then the phone went dead.
If nothing else, it gave me another excuse to get out of the Federal Building for a few hours. With Manhattan’s usual Saturday traffic, I knew I could be in the car for a while.
A little work in Google and in the New Jersey public records database gave me an address for a Konstantin Nislev, right where the old man said he’d be.
Traffic wasn’t as bad as I feared, and I was cruising past neat row houses in the Newark community of Weequahic. I found a parking spot just across from where I was going. I sat there for a minute, checking out the situation.
It was a well-kept row house, and an old oak tree rose up from the front yard and sent branches toward the house like a giant monster. Other than that, the yard was immaculate. Just a few short strips of grass and a lot of decorative stones. It looked like a comfortable home.
I stepped out of the car and tried to look casual as I walked up toward the front door. But I didn’t feel casual. If this lead was accurate, it was a big deal. A giant deal. So big I might have a hard time explaining to the FBI how I managed to get the lead, not file it in the proper system, not tell anyone where I was going, and then question the suspect’s family.
It was probably nothing.
I rang the bell and heard soft chimes on the inside of the house. A moment later, a man who looked about sixty, with thinning hair, wearing heavy-framed glasses, answered the front door.
He smiled and had a noticeable accent when he said, “May I help you?”
I held up my badge and said, “Konstantin Nislev?”
The man said, “I wondered how long it would take the authorities to find us.”
Chapter 21
I SAT ON a couch with an uncomfortable wooden frame on the back. I took the tea that Konstantin’s wife, Vera, offered as we all chatted in a small living room almost overwhelmed with photographs.
Temir Marat’s aunt and uncle had heard through the Russian grapevine that he was a suspect in the attack on Thanksgiving. The older couple didn’t deny the relation, or that they were worried about their nephew.
I gave them a few minutes to settle down and we chatted about other things before I got to the serious questions on my mind.
I said, “You have a lot of photos of Seton Hall.”
Konstantin said, “I have been the facilities manager there for five years. I was an engineer in Russia, and it fit in perfectly with the needs of the university when I started to look for a job here.”
“How long have you been in the US?”
“We moved here about six years ago. I had lived in the US before for extended periods, while I worked on different projects for a construction company based in Switzerland. My children and the rest of the family came over four years ago.”
“And your nephew, Temir?”
Vera answered that one. “We were hoping he would come with his cousins four years ago, but he had a wife who was pregnant, and already had o
ne young child at home.”
“Where was he living?”
“Moscow.” I just nodded and let the story continue.
“Temir had a decent job doing something for either the city or the Russian government. He had a nice apartment and a little bit of money. He speaks English so I thought he might want to come. But he decided to stay.”
