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He rewound and hit Pause and pointed.
“See here? The green mark on her left ankle. That’s a nakolki, a Russian jailhouse tattoo. These Mafia idiot types are gaga about their stupid tattoos. A cat wearing a hat like that one is Mafia from way back. What is she? A hooker?”
“We think she was involved with a robbery. A diamond heist today in SoHo around noon.”
“There was another diamond heist today? Like the other one downtown that was in the paper? That’s the case you’re working? That’s so cool!”
“Let me ask you, Yaakov. Do Serbians and Russians get along?”
“Actually, they do a little. They trace a common ancestry. At least, a lot of Serbians say so. Why?”
“There’s a group of Serbian crooks in Europe called the Pink Panther gang. They travel around the world knocking over jewelry stores. Japan, Paris, London. Do you think if Serbians came here they’d work with a woman from the Russian Mob?”
Yaakov shook his head.
“No, I don’t think so. Why go to all the trouble to come to the States and then use some woman you might not trust so much? Last time I checked, Serbian thugs had their own bitches to do shit for them. Why not bring one along with you?”
“Good point,” I said as I finally thumbed off my phone.
I tried to piece things together. I was having some trouble. So it wasn’t Serbians?
“Stolen diamonds, mysterious blondes,” Yaakov said, staring at my phone. “This is like Hitchcock, only for real, man. What a freaking awesome country this is!”
CHAPTER 71
INSTEAD OF ANOTHER ROUND of La Grenouille’s prix fixe, that night’s dinner consisted of stale vending-machine Oreos washed down with even staler vintage instant coffee. My repast was served cubicle-side in Major Crimes’ deserted squad room as I stayed late running down leads on my case’s potential new Russian connection.
With a blown-up printout of my mystery woman taped to the shade of the desk lamp beside my computer, I scoured the entire female Russian Mob suspect section of the electronic mug book from the NYPD’s Organized Crime Control Bureau. But even after two hours of clicking through the Russian female version of the mad, the bad, and the crooked, there was nothing even resembling a match.
My informant, Yaakov, had been right, I thought as I unsuccessfully tried to blow the cookie crumbs out of my keyboard. With the woman’s wig and big glasses, she could have been anyone at all.
My only luck came around eight-thirty when I took a stab in the dark and managed to get Sergeant Eileen Alexander, a sympathetic OCCB detective, on the phone to help me. The Organized Crime Control Bureau detectives were good to have on your side, since they worked with the FBI and had federal security clearances. After much cajoling and some downright begging, I managed to get Eileen to agree to run the photo through the feds’ more extensive Russian Mob databases.
“Not exactly a family portrait, huh?” the cop said skeptically after I e-mailed her the security camera still. “This is the best you got?”
C’mon, Eileen, I thought but didn’t say, since every Eileen I knew cringed whenever someone brought up that aggravating ’80s pop song.
“It’s all I got, Eileen,” I said.
“And I thought I was having a bad day,” the detective finally said. “I’ll be in touch if I get anything, but waiting by the phone might not be the smartest move for you.”
I decided to take her sage advice.
Twenty minutes later, I came over the threshold of my apartment to find Joseph, our faithful new Polish doorman, standing watch.
“Hey, Joseph, you’re here late. You change shifts or something?” I said.
“No, Mr. Bennett. Ralph call in sick,” he said forlornly. “Last minute, too. I had concert ticket. Bullet For My Valentine at Roseland. Girlfriend is pissed. Hundred fifty bucks gone. Wish day was just over, you know?”
“Joseph, I know all about it,” I murmured as I got into the elevator.
By the time I’d unlocked my apartment door, I’d whittled down my wants to two, a cold beer and a hot shower. I’d just decided on both at the same time when I spotted Mary Catherine on her cell phone in the kitchen. Mary Catherine on the phone, red-eyed. Crying?
I immediately panicked. Mary Catherine did a lot of things. She baked brownies, doled out Band-Aids, guided people through the perils of fifth-grade geometry, usually all at the same time. What she didn’t do was weep. And yet here she was, doing precisely that.
My first thought, of course, ran to Seamus and his recent stroke.
“Mary Catherine, what is it? Is it Seamus?” I said.
