the blessing of their families, they married.
When Desiree was just three days shy of her sixteenth birthday, Lucien was gunned down in a Kingston back alley, the victim of a police vendetta. The Acid, they were called, the brutal arm of the police force. Lucien was shot four times – one in the throat, one in the stomach, one in each shoulder. The sign of the cross.
Lucien had been a hard-working young man, a brick mason by trade, but he had flirted with the fringes of the bandulu life, the criminal existence so common to the Jamaican way. They say the last thing Lucien said was “Tell Des I did not hear the bullet coming.”
Six months later, Desiree’s father moved the family to New York. Her father, already widowed himself, brought them to the Jamaica section of Queens, having no idea the area had nothing to do with the Caribbean island of his birth. Instead, her father would one day learn, the neighborhood acquired its name in 1666 or so by the British, taken from jameco, the Algonquian Indian word for beaver. The locale, although now home to many Jamaicans, was a diverse, struggling section of the borough, just a mile or so from JFK Airport.
In her shearing grief, Desiree thrust herself into study, and in just over three years earned her BA in criminal justice from CUNY.
She’d taken her share of lovers over the years, always on her timetable and terms, made the mistake of seeing a married lieutenant from Brooklyn South in her mid-thirties, her loneliness overruling her good sense. But that was a long time ago. These days she had the job, her two alley cats Luther and Vandross, her three inches of Wild Turkey – no more, certainly no less – every night before Tivo and bed. But mostly she had the job.
The front door of Harkov’s apartment had a recently installed deadbolt, the windows were all closed and latched with clasp-locks, and were also fitted with a vertical steel window bar, which prevented the double-hung- style windows from being lifted. The door and windows were all secure, except for one. The window in the bathroom.
Why?
Powell instructed the CSU team to print the bathroom window sill and glass, paying particular attention to the locking clasp and hardware. As the two CSU officers went about their business, processing Viktor Harkov’s apartment for trace evidence, and Marco Fontova did a canvass of the other tenants in the building, Desiree Powell examined the area around the window. There was no broken glass, no fresh chips out of the enamel-painted casing, which might have indicated a forced entry.
So why was the window wide open? There was no screen on it, and a fire escape just beyond. Anyone could easily break into the apartment. It wasn’t as if there were a lot of high-ticket items in the apartment, but still. Nobody left their windows open in Queens.
Had someone been in the apartment and gone out the window?
And why was the computer unplugged?
Powell returned to the desk in the living room. She had put her hand on the monitor, and found it still warm. Which meant that it was probably only recently unplugged. Powell had plugged the computer and the monitor back in, and watched as the computer went through its cycle, informing the user that it had been improperly shut down. If Joseph Harkov was some kind of paranoid regarding fire, or figured on saving a few pennies on electricity when the computer was not in use, why not shut it down properly? Powell wondered.
Fontova returned, gloved up, and began to poke unenthusiastically around Harkov’s bedroom. “Remind me never to go to law school,” he said. “This place is wicked fucking bad.”
Fontova rolled his eyes, pulled a thin roll of bills out of his pants pocket, peeled a dollar, handed it to Powell. She took it without a word. They had a running contest during Lent. Whoever said the f-word owed the other a dollar. After about a month they were about even.
“This guy was a street lawyer,” Powell said. “And probably not a good one. It’s almost impossible to make this little money.”
Fontova grunted, continued opening drawers, closets, lifting sheets and emptying pockets, as anxious as Powell was to get in and out of this grim place.
They would take Harkov’s old computer, as well as any files, documents, and paperwork. Whoever did this had a vendetta, a deeply planted hatred, and that doesn’t just happen overnight. There was a connection here somewhere. They would find it.
TWENTY-FIVE
Something was wrong. The two green lights on the right side were dark. Abby tapped out the panic code anyway. Twice. Nothing happened. She banged on the panel. The sound seemed to resonate throughout the house.
Nothing. No flashing lights. No response of any kind.
“I am disappointed,” came the voice from behind her. She spun around. Aleks was standing just a few feet away. She had not heard him come down the stairs.
Aleks descended fully into the foyer. He opened his shoulder bag, pulled out rope and duct tape.
“Unfortunately,” Aleks said, “many of the American home-security systems run on telephone lines. If there is a large storm, or for any other reason the telephone service is interrupted, so too is the connection to the security firm’s center.” He held up a pair of clippers. It seems he had cut the phone line before they had entered. “I told you no harm would come to you or family if you did exactly what I said. I am a man who does not like to repeat himself.”
He crossed the foyer in a blur, lifted Abby in the air, as if she were weightless. He carried her across the foyer, down the stairs, into the basement. He placed her onto an old metal folding chair. His physical strength was terrifying.
“No,” Abby said. She did not fight him. “You don’t have to do this. I’m sorry.”
In moments Aleks had her arms and legs bound to the chair.
Abby did not struggle. She tried to fight the tears.
She lost.
Aleks watched the girls through the basement window. His face was unreadable, but Abby scanned his pale- blue eyes as he followed Charlotte and Emily swing on the swing set. His expression seemed to be one of deep longing.
His friend – his accomplice, Abby reminded herself – had left. The girls seemed to be okay, but every so often they would glance at the house. They were bright, intuitive children, wise far beyond their years, and Abby was certain that they knew something was wrong, despite her assurances that the men called Aleks and Kolya were friends of the family.
They are my daughters.
Abby’s stomach turned at the thought. As she stared at the man’s profile, there was no doubt in her mind that it was true. This man was Charlotte and Emily’s biological father. She didn’t want to believe it, but it was undoubtedly true.
She found herself wishing it was all about something else, that it was some sort of a home-invasion robbery, and that these men were there seeking ransom, or jewels, or cash. These things she understood, and was willing to relinquish in a second if it meant keeping her family safe.
But one question loomed large. How did this man know where they lived and who they were? How had he found them?
Abby’s worst nightmare was rapidly becoming a reality. He wasn’t here to see his daughters. He wasn’t here to merely establish contact, or a bond.
He was here to take them back.
Aleks leaned close to her ear. When he leaned over, Abby saw something sparkle, catching the light, something hanging on a chain around his neck. On the chain were three small crystal vials. One of them held what appeared to be blood, with small bits of what might be flesh suspended in the deep-red liquid. The other two were empty. The dark possibilities made Abby sick.
Aleks whispered: “If you disobey me one more time, I will kill you in front of the girls.”
Abby struggled against the ropes and duct tape. She could not move. Her tears coursed down her
