Читать книгу A Dangerous Game - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 14

CHAPTER FIVE

“Hey, what do you think? Maybe we should have gotten some surfboards, eh?” Mike asked Craig.

There were a few boards leaning against the wall in the Cranky Crab. The place was something of a tiki hut, large and sprawling, up on wooden pilings, and actually on the beach. It was large, with a seating capacity of about four hundred.

“Maybe we should have,” Craig said.

“I was being a wiseass.”

“So was I.”

The clientele of the restaurant was intriguing and included young women with cover-ups over scanty bikinis that didn’t really cover up much accompanying muscle-bound young males, all the way up to older folks, some of the men with traditional Hasidic locks and facial hair and some of the women in wigs or scarves and long black dresses that concealed them almost entirely. And there was every mode of apparel in between, as well. And still, the place advertised very importantly that it was completely kosher.

Mike was glad that the two of them hadn’t gotten carried away. They were in board shorts and T-shirts, just a couple of guys out to catch one of the first days of nice warm spring sun. It was that time of year when the weather could come and go quickly...winter not so far past that it didn’t whisper now and then about a return to cold and ice. They ordered light beers and a house specialty—borscht—and kept their conversation to sports. How about those Jets? And what was going on with the Yankees and the Mets? Of course, then, well, hell, they could talk about the Giants...

Mike went passionately into hockey as their food arrived. It was about then that Craig saw Jacob bussing a table and knew Jacob had seen them, as well. He headed over to their table, clearly ready to join the passionate hockey discussion. If they were noted by others in the restaurant, they were quickly dismissed.

Before Jacob walked away—after vociferously agreeing with every word Mike had to say about hockey, but quietly imparting plans—they knew to meet in an hour in a safe house about two blocks away.

They rose to leave; Craig thanked their pleasant waitress.

“Spasiba,” Mike said. “Do svidaniya.”

He actually sounded damned good. Almost as if he had an edge on the accent.

She smiled and returned his words.

“Thank you and goodbye,” Craig said. “A little Russian, huh?”

“It never pays to give away everything you know—haven’t I taught you that, kid?” Mike teased.

“A good lesson to remember,” Craig assured him.

They wandered the streets for a bit, and as they did so, Craig thought about the city and realized that he was a New Yorker through and through—passionate about his home. Prejudice had probably existed since Homo sapiens had first met another tribe of Homo sapiens. And it had seldom been easy for the different nationalities that had poured into New York, nor was it easy now. So many different nationalities and ethnicities came, and they often came in great waves. At the moment, one of the largest influxes comprised various Asian countries, but that didn’t mean that many others weren’t coming at tremendous rates, including those from Eastern Europe and many war-ravaged areas of the Middle East.

“Land of dreams and nightmares,” Craig murmured under his breath.

“Pardon?” Mike said.

“I keep thinking—I love this city. I love our country. We’re a work in progress, always, and we’re where you come to escape poverty, war, persecution, and so on. But I have friends working down in the Florida area who in their work have witnessed the tragedy of refugees drowning in the Florida Straits trying to get to the States on rafts made out of anything they can find. Other friends in Texas tell me about Mexicans and other Central Americans and South Americans who are taken for everything they’ve got by scammers charging impossible fees to get them into the country—and then deserting them.

“And then there are those who manage other rackets—as in selling beautiful brides to American men. Some of the guys are just desperate dudes. Some of them are sick as shit and happy to take in a foreign bride with no papers so that if something bad happens to her, well, she never existed.”

“Yeah,” Craig agreed. “There’s that.”

“Life—and dreams—for sale.”

“Okay, is it possible that we’re dealing with something that has to do with immigration, and God knows, maybe human trafficking or illegal adoption? No one has come forward,” Craig pointed out. “What happened has been in the news, on every screen in the city. A woman is dead—and a beautiful baby girl has just been abandoned.”

“So people are afraid to speak out. I think that we’re on the right track,” Mike agreed.

“Okay. So going with that, here’s a theory. Someone is trafficking young women. God knows—probably more than one ‘someone’ in a city the size of New York. Maybe they discovered the baby market on the side. Even good people—desperate for a child—might be willing to go the illegal adoption route.”

“But, no one has come for the baby,” Craig said.

“Well, not yet, anyway,” Mike agreed. “They can’t—if they try to claim the baby, there are a million questions. You think the mother is dead?”

“Possibly. I think that the woman who handed the baby to Kieran was trying to save it—and maybe because she believed she could somehow save the mother, as well? I don’t know. Maybe it was her way to stop everything that was going on. Hopefully our friend Jacob knows something that can help,” Craig said.

Mike shrugged. “I guess we have to start somewhere. But there are a lot of factors to consider, you know.”

“As you just said, we have to start somewhere,” Craig said. “And Jacob is damned good at his job—he’s taken down members of the Russian mob repeatedly without ever being caught. He has his eye on anything coming from Eastern Europe. And—through other contacts—he seems to have a handle on Asian crime and Central and South America, as well. He’s definitely our best help for some kind of help on this.”

Craig’s phone was ringing. He pulled it from his pocket and winced. Kieran. He hadn’t talked to her yet. “Hey,” he said into the phone.

Mike waved a hand at him dismissively and walked a few steps ahead.

“Sorry—I couldn’t wait anymore. I have to know—you’re at least on it, right?”

“We’re in,” Craig said. “I just...well, at this moment, we’ve still got nothing. No, not nothing. The autopsy did give us information. The dental records suggested that the woman grew up in Eastern Europe, probably the former Soviet Union.”

“See! That’s something already.”

“Yes, it gives us a direction, but we need to move along carefully with open minds. Theories are great. But we can’t put on blinders to other ideas—we need a great deal more.”

“That’s fine. You’re in. That’s the most major step.”

“Yes, so...what are you doing? Not going crazy? Not obsessing?”

“Not at all. I promise. I helped Mary Kathleen out at her soup kitchen, ran some lines with Kevin, and then worked the bar for a while. I’m heading home, though. I’ll see you there, okay?”

He didn’t answer her right away; she sounded far too easy with what was going on.

“Craig? See you at home—that okay with you? Oh, if you and Mike are working...did you want me to hang out at the pub and wait for you?” she asked.