“I wouldn’t be in business long if I did. Like I said, Tatiana was different. She was like a lost little puppy finally starting to make her way. And when I did front her some cash, she always caught up.”
“Did she have any friends? Family?”
“Now
“What about a boyfriend? A customer who might have shown a little more than the usual interest?”
“Guys like that, they get taken in by the dancers – some girl who gives them a little extra knee time in the back rooms. The waitresses are just eye candy. There was this one guy, though. Not our usual type. Real straightlaced. Like an accountant. He’d come in by himself, but didn’t come off as lonely, you know? And he never sat near the stage. Always toward the back. I only saw him in here a few times, but every time I did, he was talking to Tatiana. Come to think of it, I don’t recall seeing him since what happened.”
Taylor Gottman had described the man lurking near Amy Davis’s apartment as tall and dark-haired. Ellie wondered if it was the same man who came to mingle with Tatiana. “Do you remember anything else about him? Age? Height? Hair color?”
“Nah. Could be you for all I know,” Seth said, gesturing to Jess. “Okay, maybe not you. You, I can tell, aren’t straightlaced. But I can’t give you any details. I only remember the guy because I told the cops about it back then, the night she was killed.”
Another piece of information that failed to make it into Becker’s reports.
“What about that night? Do you remember anything unusual?”
He chuckled. “Unusual? Every night at this place is unusual. But, no, nothing stood out about that night. Just like I told the cops then, Tatiana seemed fine. Worked her shift, served her drinks, and left. Next thing I know, a couple of guys come running in, yelling for 911.”
“These are the members of the bachelor party?”
“One of the bachelor parties, yeah. That sounds right.”
“What about them? Did you notice any of them paying special attention to Tatiana? Or acting strangely afterward?”
“Are you kidding? Those guys? Totally harmless. Now, you tell me a girl gets grabbed a little, maybe roughed up – I’ve learned by now a lot of guys you’d never suspect, they’ve got it in them. But a gun? No way were these guys packing.”
Becker and his partner had had the same instincts.
“I’m about to see Tatiana’s sister, Zoya. Her married name’s Rostov. She lives in Bensonhurst. You don’t happen to know anything about her, huh?”
He shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t get personal. But send her my way if she’s looking for work. If I had more girls as good looking and reliable as Tatiana-”
Ellie thanked Seth for his time, and then Jess spoke up for the first time.
“Hey, I don’t suppose you’re hiring any guys, are you? Bar work, no dancing,” he said with a smile. “No drugs, no convictions.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
Jess wasn’t kidding. He made Ellie wait while he filled out an application.
21
ELLIE RODE THE SUBWAY TO BENSONHURST ALONE. NOT literally – as she shared a seven o’clock train with the crowds of nannies, housekeepers, and other workers finally making their way home from Manhattan – but she was unaccompanied.
She had tried to persuade Jess to come along, but he had two reasons for passing, each of which he insisted was sufficient justification. He, unlike Ellie, had a personal life. He was supposed to have a drink with a woman he met at his last gig. He used the opportunity to remind Ellie that she should get around to meeting someone too. Ellie found his second reason equally frustrating. Whenever he had a Manhattan crash pad, he didn’t “do the bridge and tunnel thing.” So even though that crash pad was Ellie’s, she was going solo to Bensonhurst.
There was a time when Bensonhurst was strictly Italian, famous – infamous some would say – for its mafia settlements. Ellie was in junior high when a crowd of local boys beat sixteen-year-old Yusef Hawkins to death for being a black boy looking to buy a used car in the wrong neighborhood. As hard as they’d tried to resist the inevitable ethnic changes, this was no longer the same Bensonhurst. Italians moved to the suburbs of Staten Island and Nassau County, leaving African Americans behind and making way for a melting pot of new immigrants from Eastern Europe and Asia.
She passed a Chinese dollar store, a Russian deli, and a Turkish fast food stand as she made her way to Zoya Rostov’s address. Nearing the narrow brick walk-up, she spotted a familiar face heading toward her under a street lamp. The face spread into a smile, and Ed Becker offered a firm handshake.
“Detective Hatcher. I wonder which of us is more surprised. You got O.T. approved on a cold case?”
Ellie was pretty sure she topped Becker on the surprise meter. “I’m doing a little background work in my spare time. What are you doing here, Ed?”
“I guess you could say I’m doing the same. I’ve been wracking my brain and shook out a recollection that Chekova had a sister. I thought I remembered where she lived, so I figured I’d check it out.”
Ellie recalled McIlroy’s concerns about precisely this situation. “We didn’t mean to call you out of retirement.”
Becker laughed. “No chance of that. Let’s just say I didn’t feel particularly helpful the other day. I thought I’d check the mailboxes to see if she still lives here, then give you a call. I wasn’t going to talk to her. I mean, what would I say, right?
“It’s Rostov. And she’s in 4F.”
Becker nodded as if he should have remembered, then pulled a set of keys from his pocket. Ellie watched as he headed toward a blue Buick Regal parked two doors down. She’d allowed Flann’s comments about Becker to get to her, and now she’d made the man feel small. She took another look at Zoya Rostov’s apartment building.
“You feel like coming up? It might help break the ice if she sees a familiar face.”
As Ed Becker returned his keys to his coat, Ellie thought she saw a look of purpose that hadn’t been there before.
THE WAIL OF an unhappy baby grew louder as they climbed the hallway steps of the narrow apartment building. Immediately outside the door to Zoya Rostov’s apartment, they also heard the delighted squeals of another child inside, joined by a man’s voice, yelling something in Russian, when they knocked on the door.
“Yes. Who is it?” a woman asked.
“Police,” Ellie replied. “I hate to bother you, ma’am, but it’s about your sister. It’s about Tatiana.”
The woman who opened the door was striking. She had full, peach-tinted lips and eyes the size of quarters, which peered out at Ellie and Ed through wisps of short brown hair. She gently jiggled the crying baby she held against her hip.
“I’m sorry. Who are you?” With a delicate Russian accent, she appeared to direct the question to Ellie. Ed jumped in to answer.
“You might remember me from when I worked your sister’s case back then. I’m retired now, but this is Detective Ellie Hatcher. She’d like to talk to you about some recent developments.”
The man’s voice rang out, again in Russian, and Zoya answered. “It is police, Vitya.”
“The police?”
“The man from before. And a woman is with him.”
Zoya opened the door wider. A handsome man, who looked to be in his early forties, with short blond hair, sat on the floor amid a fantasy farmland of miniature people and animals. Next to him, a white-haired toddler laughed,
