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  Balakutis opened the file and turned it around so his visitors could see. “All licenses. Very correct.”

  Vargas didn’t even look down. “Semyon,” she said. “Is that Russian for ‘Simon’?”

  The man just shrugged, like he couldn’t be bothered to answer.

  Vargas didn’t react, just glanced around the office. “Nice business you have here. I guess you must get all the free doughnuts and ice cream you want.”

  Jack watched carefully. His partner would make small talk for a minute so they could see how the man dealt with innocuous queries. Then they could compare how he reacted to the real business at hand.

  Balakutis smiled, but no warmth reached his eyes.

  “Good coffee,” Vargas said. “Starbucks must be worried.”

  Balakutis kept silent; just smirked. Tough guy. He crossed his arms and his biceps stretched the sleeves of his polo shirt. Jack found something almost chemically unpleasant about the man. He had the sour cockiness of a playground bully—something Jack, as the son of immigrants and as a child who had been small for his age, had known about all too well. It seemed amazing that such a physical impression could matter, when they were all adults here. But playground bullies grew up, and sometimes their threats turned into action; they kept the homicide squad in business. Movies tended to glamorize such thugs, to present them as clever or even admirable, but they made Jack’s skin crawl. They fed off one essential, deeply ugly proposition: that it was okay to forcefully rob someone else of their hard-earned money or their health or their sense of safety in the world. Such people were not clever, not even slightly admirable; they were lazy and selfish, and what they did was profoundly unfair, and it needed to be stopped.

  “How long ago did you open this store?” Vargas asked.

  Jack watched carefully. He tended to rely on intuition, but Vargas was big on scientific interview techniques. She had just asked a question requiring simple recall. When answering such questions, suspects had to access their brains’ memory centers, and their eyes tended to move toward the right.

  And Balakutis’s eyes did so as he prepared to answer. “Six months.”

  “Is it fun owning a doughnut shop?” This question required cognitive thought; the eyes tended to move up or to the left.

  Balakutis’s eyes drifted briefly left. “It is a good business.”

  Vargas looked on with satisfaction, and Jack had to give her credit. When she asked for the man’s alibi on the night of Daniel’s murder, she would watch carefully to see if the answer seemed to require memory or a more creative thought process.

  Balakutis shifted impatiently in his seat and picked up his folder again. “As I say, all licenses are correct.”

  “That’s very nice, but we’re not with the licensing department.” Vargas waited a moment to increase the pressure. “We’re with Homicide.”

  “Homicide?” For the first time, the man’s composure slipped. “What is this to do with me? I am businessmen.”

  Vargas pulled her chair closer, crowding the man’s space. “Why don’t you tell us what you were up to on Thursday.” The day of Daniel’s murder.

  Balakutis scowled. He started to pull a calendar out from under a pile of papers, but Vargas put out a hand and stopped him. “Just remember.” She didn’t want him reeling off some written alibi.

  Balakutis’s eyes suddenly moved right, but that—unfortunately—was because his office man had just stuck his head inside the door. Jack knew that his partner was silently cursing the interloper.

  “Excuse me,” the man said. “I need some tens for the register.”

  Balakutis was not happy with the interruption. He snarled something Russian, and the guy got even paler. He darted into the office, opened a drawer, grabbed the bills, and scuttled out.

  When the detectives looked back at Balakutis, the man’s claws had retracted, and he had replaced his scowl with a benign look. “On Thursday morning I was here in office.” His eyes moved right—remembering. “In afternoon, I was talking with contractor for new store, and then—”

  Vargas held up a hand. “Tell you what: why don’t you start with the end of the night, and then go back in time.”

  Jack enjoyed watching her work. She had just pulled another arrow out of the new investigative quiver: studies showed that experienced liars liked to list alibi events in neat chronological order, but the challenge of working backward could throw their smooth preparation out of whack.

  Balakutis’s eyes shifted hard left. Time for a little creative improvisation? His hand drifted up and over his hair. Jack glanced at his partner. Grooming behavior—along with fidgeting or licking the lips—was another possible indicator of deception.

  Balakutis leaned back and affected an air of casual curiosity. “If you tell me why you are asking this questions, perheps I can help you more.”

  Vargas ignored him. “Late at night Thursday. Start there.”

  Balakutis shrugged, but his eyes shifted right. “I was in my house. Sleeping.”

  “Is there someone who could testify to that?”

  He nodded. “My wife.”

  “And before that?”

  He licked his lips. “We had dinner.”

  “Where?”

  “At my home.” Balakutis ran his hand over his hair again.

  “Before that?”

  “I telled you. I talk to contractor.”

  Jack stood up and then sat down on a corner of the man’s desk, crowding him further. “You didn’t happen to visit Coney Island that night, did you?”

  Balakutis looked confused—or did an excellent job of feigning it. He shook his head.

  “How long have you known Daniel Lelo?” Vargas asked.

  The man’s eyes shifted back to the other detective. “Who? I do not know this name.”

  Vargas chuckled. “You sure about that?”

  Balakutis nodded.

  “That’s funny,” Vargas said. She made a show of consulting her notebook. “We have a witness who saw you talking to him. Very reliable.”

  Jack restrained a wince. His partner had not mentioned Zhenya’s name, but he wished she had said less.

  Vargas took out a photo of Daniel and held it up. “Does this refresh your memory?”

  Balakutis suddenly reached for the top drawer of his desk.

  Jack held up a warning hand. “Easy, now.”

  Balakutis frowned. “I need my glasses.”

  Jack and Vargas exchanged looks, then nodded, watching the man carefully. He pulled open the drawer and took out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. He put them on, then nodded. “Ah yes, now I recognize. …” He shrugged and raised his hands in insincere apology. “You must forgive me. I am businessmen; I speak with many people.”

  “You had a conversation with Lelo recently. On the boardwalk on Brighton Beach.”

  Jack winced. He wished he’d told his partner to protect Zhenya’s identity more strenuously, but he had not wanted to seem too personally involved.

  Balakutis shrugged. “Is possible. Like I say, I speak with many, many people.”

  “And you argued with him?”

  Balakutis glanced toward the door.

  “Look at me,” Vargas commanded. “Did you have an argument with him?”

  Balakutis leaned back and crossed his arms again. “I do not remember.”

  Jack and his colleague exchanged looks. Vargas shrugged very slightly.

  Both detectives stood up.

  Vargas leaned over the desk. “We’ll do a little checking into your story. I really hope you haven’t told us anything we might find out is untrue.”

  Balakutis, off the hook for the time being, regained his confidence. He smiled another insincere smile. “I am always happy to assist police.” As the detectives moved toward the door, he called out. “Perheps I can offer you some doughnuts? On the house.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  ON THE WAY HOME, Jack remembered that he was out of milk and toilet paper, so he swung by his l
ocal deli. He picked up his items, made small talk with the friendly Pakistani guy at the register, stepped out onto Avenue J, and took a hammer to the heart.

  Across the avenue, a flash of silky black hair, a familiar red dress. A woman striding away.

  He stood stock-still for a moment, then rushed impulsively out into the throng of pedestrians crowding the sidewalk. He bumped shoulders with a heavyset, bearded man, who cursed him loudly, but he jogged on. He was ten yards behind the woman and couldn’t see her face, but he recognized her walk. Michelle. What could she possibly be doing here, in Midwood, Brooklyn, unless she had come to see him? His heart raced: did she want to come back? They had spoken just once after that terrible moment in the restaurant, after she had told him about the affair. She had called to say that she wanted to come by and pick up her things. He’d been tempted to hang up and toss them all out in the street, but he had managed a brief, strangled conversation: he arranged a time when he would be out, as far away from home as possible. After, he had come back to find her dresses vanished from the closet, her underwear disappeared from the drawers he had made available in his dresser, her cosmetics gone from the medicine cabinet.

  He threaded through the sidewalk shoppers as if tailing some dangerous suspect, not wanting to draw attention to himself in case she looked back, but not wanting to lose her. She stopped with several other pedestrians at a corner, waiting for a light to change, and he caught sight of her face.

  It wasn’t her. Not even close. He deflated, embarrassed; it took a solid minute before his heart slowed to normal.

  He knew it was only a matter of time, though. New York was a city of eight million people, but you still bumped into people you knew. One of these days he was going to round a corner or descend the stairs into a subway station, and, boom, there she’d be. And what was he gonna say? He imagined just walking past, ignoring her completely. He imagined stopping to mumble a tense hello. He imagined spitting in her face, though he immediately felt guilty for the thought. He sighed. He’d see her when he saw her, and he’d behave the way he would behave. There was no point worrying about it now.

  At home, he stowed his purchases neatly away, then went in his front room and lay down on the couch, disgusted with himself. He was free and clear. He could work as late as he wanted without taking any grief. He didn’t have anyone checking up on him, nagging him about bills, yammering away about insignificant bullshit, distracting him from his cases. Hell, he could watch TV in his boxer shorts, drink milk right from the container, stay out all night partying—at least, he could have, if any of those things had suited his personality. (They didn’t, unfortunately, which seemed a bit of a waste.) But he definitely didn’t have to deal with any expectations or criticisms, as he had with his ex-wife, didn’t have to live weighed down by her not-so-subtly expressed belief that life would be much better if only he were someone different. He was footloose and fancy-free. He should have been enjoying life. Christ, there were plenty of married guys who would have given a nut to be in his shoes.

  After he ate dinner, he went up and watched TV for a couple of hours with Mr. Gardner. Two lone bachelors, keeping each other company.

  Downstairs again, later, he saw that his kitchen counters were looking a bit grubby, so he took out a sponge and gave them a good wipe-down. So what if his private life wasn’t so exciting? Maybe he wasn’t rolling in love and sex, but at least things were on an even keel.

  His cell phone rang. He wiped his hands on a dish towel and dug the thing out of his pants pocket.

  “Zhack?”

  A woman’s voice. It took him a second to place it, and then his heart was jolted all over again.

  “Is this bad time?” Zhenya said. “I am sorry.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “It’s fine. I was just—” He looked around his kitchen, embarrassed to admit that she had caught him indulging in his penchant for neatness. “I was just going over some work papers.” He glanced at the clock: it was after eleven. Why was she calling at this hour? “Are you all right?”

  “Do you … do you talk to him?”

  Her voice sounded strained. Jack wondered if it was fear or alcohol—or both. “What happened? Did something happen?”

  She went silent for a moment.

  “Are you at home?” he said. “Stay there.”

  A SAD-FACED SECURITY GUARD sitting behind a desk called out to him as he walked into the lobby, with its plastic rubber plants and late-sixties chrome and mirrors. When Jack said where he was going, he thought the guard’s eyebrows went up a touch, but the man picked up a phone, spoke briefly in Russian, then waved him on. The elevator was air-conditioned, but as it rose he wiped some sweat from his upper lip.

  Zhenya met him at the front door but turned away again without a word. Again, he followed her through the dark apartment, out onto the balcony. And there—again—sat the bottle of whiskey. He noticed that she had set out an extra glass. She wore some beat-up jeans this time and a large man’s dress shirt. (Daniel’s, no doubt …) No attempts at fashion tonight; he could imagine her lying on her sofa in this outfit, reading or watching TV.

  “What’s going on?” he said. “Are you okay?” Without asking, she poured him a stiff drink, then curled up in her chair and wrapped her arms around herself. She looked as if she might have been crying, but she was not crying now.

  She frowned. “Do you talk to him?”

  He sat down but shifted uncomfortably. “Balakutis?”

  “You telled me you will not say my name.”

  He stared at her. “We didn’t. Why? Did he call you? Did he come here?” He thought of Vargas’s comments during the interview, a bit too specific in regard to witnesses.

  Zhenya chewed her lip. “I am afraid.” Jack’s face tightened. “Did he threaten you?”

  She grimaced but didn’t answer.

  Jack thought of the bully’s face and imagined planting his fist square in it. He had never gone in for violence on the job, preferring to let his investigative abilities get results, but that didn’t mean he never had an urge. He would visit the man again tomorrow, let him know that messing with the NYPD was not like giving a hard time to some poor immigrant shop owner. “I promise you,” he said. “He’s not going to bother you. You have my word on it.”

  She turned away, as if to say I know what that’s worth—promises from a cop.

  They sat in silence. There was a soft breeze, and the night air was cooler out here near the water, and ordinarily Jack would have been content to sit and drink and let some of the tension of the day seep out of his bones, but he was acutely conscious of the woman sitting just three feet away. He wanted to reach out and touch her slim shoulder, tell her that everything was going to be all right. Instead, he stood up and walked over to the railing, gazed out past the huge condo building, a crossword puzzle of warm orange and yellow lights, out to the dark beach and even darker sea. He breathed in the moist salt air.

  He heard her chair scrape back, and then she joined him at the rail. He looked down at the boardwalk; a few couples were out strolling, even at this hour. He thought of Daniel, thought of saying something about Daniel, but he didn’t. He snuck a glance at her and saw a small, wet trail glistening down her cheek. And then—he couldn’t say later who moved first—he was holding her in his arms. I’m just comforting her, he said to himself, just helping a woman in distress, but then she closed her eyes and tilted her face up. The kiss was brief, but it was like tasting a perfect raspberry, exquisite and firm. It was so sweet and so charged that it created an instant craving for more.

  Jack pulled back, troubled to find himself trembling. His desire for this woman was not just a potential professional problem, and it wasn’t just the fact that she was Daniel’s wife. After Michelle’s shocking departure, he had struggled to get his life back. Maybe it had grown boring and predictable, but at least it was secure. This sudden, unexpected new rush of feeling was threatening to swamp the boat.

  Throat dry, he swallowed. �
�I think I better go.”

  Zhenya drew a ragged breath. Her face contorted and he thought she might cry again. “Po’zhaluista,” she said quietly.

  It was part of the meager store of Russian words he knew from his childhood. Please. She wanted him to stay.

  “I have to go,” he said again, regretting it deeply before he was even gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE NIGHT WAS STILL dark, though the western sky was beginning to glow—at least what Jack could see of it, above the surrounding tall buildings. He could smell the fish from blocks away. Very incongruous: here on Fulton Street the only other pedestrians were a few business-suited financial traders, hurrying to the New York Stock Exchange through the narrow, canyonlike streets, seeking an early edge on the competition. Jack continued on toward the Manhattan waterfront. After only five hours of sleep he should have been more tired, but he was still jazzed, with excitement at the memory of Zhenya’s kiss, with anger as he pictured the sour face of Semyon Balakutis. In a few hours, he would pay another visit to the thug and warn him off, but Zhenya seemed safe for now—if the man had already given her a warning, he had no reason to repeat it in the middle of the night.

  The Fulton Fish Market occupied a big open space next to the South Street Seaport, a tourist trap of nautical-themed restaurants and catalogue stores. By the time those stores opened, the fish market would have already shut down—its business day reached its peak before dawn. On its western edge, a number of open storefronts lined a cobbled street, but the real activity seemed to be taking place on the sidewalk, where stacks of Styrofoam boxes held the catches of the day, identified by the thick New Yawk accents of the sellers: Dover sole, razor clams, red mullet … The smell was intense, and Jack was thankful that the night was relatively cool; he would hate to be here in the middle of a heat wave.

  Across the street more rows of boxes covered a brightly lit asphalt lot under the elevated FDR highway, which rocketed overhead along the eastern edge of Manhattan. Jack stepped out into a lane between the boxes, dodging beeping forklifts and busy workers. The vendors wore galoshes, low-slung work pants, and stained T-shirts. They carried big metal hooks, casually slung around their necks or hanging from greasy back pockets. The hook was evidently an all-purpose tool, good for prying open boxes and for lifting out heavy fish. Or burying in someone’s head, Jack thought, glancing around warily.