“See, I told you so,” the Boss said to Jackson.
“Here are the important things you need to know: Everybody outside Queens considers it a lesser borough. Everybody inside Queens considers it the greatest borough. Without question it has some of the best food in New York—you’ll want to go to Flushing for Asian cuisine, Astoria for Greek food, Jackson Heights for Indian or Latino, and Forest Hills for good bagels, and you’ll want to hit the bars in Woodside.”
“Honestly, Fingers,” the Boss broke in. “This isn’t a vacation.”
“Yeah, I get it, but I’m a huge fan of Queens. Especially because it’s a big center of both jazz and African American culture. Did you know that in the 1940s Charlie Parker, Louis Armstrong, and Ella Fitzgerald all lived there to avoid the segregation they were forced to endure in the rest of New York?”
“No, I didn’t,” the Boss said. “But I think that’s extraordinary.”
“It’s fucking rad,” Jackson piped up. “And hang a sec, Lady Fingers. Did you say there’s a place called Jackson Heights?”
“I did indeed. Cool place, too.”
“Well, now I know this is my town.”
“Enough, Jackson,” the Boss cut in. “Now, what info can you give us about the specific location?”
“Right,” she said, typing away again. “Woodside. Charming place. There’s an Irish community there, and a bunch of bars, but there’s also a Hispanic community, wonderful restaurants, and some Old World immigrants who have been there for decades. That’s the place you’re looking at.”
“Give us more,” said the Boss, leaning farther across the divider.
“So the intel—the coordinates—they point to an area, not a specific location. One of the houses on that block is owned by an old Polish couple who run a deli nearby; you want to go talk to them and see what you find? I figured since they’ve lived there for the last forty years, they’ll know a bunch about their neighbors.”
“Sounds perfect,” the Boss said.
“Okay,” AJ continued. “I’ve already uploaded all this info to your server, including the specific address this couple lives at. Ronald and Myra Kipiniak, both in their seventies, own a nearby twenty-four-hour place called the Last Stop Deli. Looks like it has the usual fare . . . sandwiches, some fruits and vegetables, some toiletries and convenience items. And a couple of Polish specialties like pierogies and such. Also, big heads-up: they used to have a listing on Airbnb. If you can find a way in, might be a good place to hang your hats.”
“Roger that, Fingers,” the Boss replied. “Sounds perfect. We’ll see what we can dig up. And we’ll have Legs contact you if we need anything more. In the meantime, thanks so much for all this. Invoice me with your consulting fee.”
“Already uploaded to the server,” AJ said with a chuckle. “And I’ll have you know you’re getting my friends-and-family discount.”
“It’ll still be astronomical,” Susannah said knowingly.
“I’ll take care of it,” the Boss said. “I got one heck of a bonus from the FBI. Kind of like winning the lottery. Except I’ve got the scars to prove I worked for it.”
“That goes for us all, Bossman.” AJ sighed. “Keep me posted.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks, hon,” Susannah said. “Can I owe you a fine glass of wine?”
“Done and done,” AJ said, and hung up.
‡‡‡
“Well, at least we know where we’re heading,” Susannah said. “That’s good news.”
“True,” the Boss replied. “And with Jackson driving we know we’ll make record time.”
Susannah thought for a moment, then said, “Jackson? What did Mahmoud think we could do, exactly?”
“Not sure, Legs,” Jackson called from the driver’s seat. “He just told me to check it out, and that it was part of the old case. And to keep it on the DL from everyone, including the FBI.”
“But hang on,” Lisa Bee piped up, “did Mahmoud say anything more specific about what to look for?”
“That’s the thing, Bee,” Jackson said. “I couldn’t get him on the phone. It’s not like him, and I’m worried. When he says to call he waits till I do.”
“Maybe his phone died?”
“I can see that my texts have been delivered.”
“Well,” the Boss said, “maybe he’s investigating something else that came up. Let’s use the info from Fingers and see what we find.”
All were agreed on this point. Susannah was quiet, thinking about how much she missed Chas, and how aggravating it was that they were working two different angles of this thing. But them’s the breaks, she thought. It’s going to be a huge part of our life together.
Lisa Bee sighed loudly, put her hair back in a clip, and took a sip of water. “Jackie, honey? I gotta pee. Can we stop?”
“Sure thing, next rest stop. Need gas, too.”
“And the coffee’s on me, gang,” the Boss jumped in.
“I think I’m gonna like Queens,” Jackson said with a smile, and made his way over to the right-hand lane to exit. “Bagels, whiskey, tacos, and dim sum are the four most important food groups.”
“Agreed,” Lisa Bee said. “And pizza.”
“Yes!” the Boss exclaimed, uncharacteristically emotive. “I dream of New York pizza like some men dream of sex.”
“Do you want me to respond to that?” Jackson asked, pulling off at the entrance to the rest stop.
“Save it till I’ve had my second cup of coffee.”
“Roger that, Bossman.”
‡‡‡
It was nine a.m. in Palermo, and Tyka had had a very restless night. She was used to reporting to Gabriella, and was uncomfortable being completely on her own.
In addition, Mahmoud hadn’t returned her text, which pissed her off, and then saddened her, and then pissed her off more because she was saddened by it. She hated that he’d meant something to her, hated that he’d gotten under her skin, and hated that he’d decided to just break off contact with her. Was she worth nothing to him? Though she was trying hard to blame this on his cocky and pretentious ways, she knew it was all her fault. Once again, she’d fucked up and lost the only person who meant anything to her.
The knock at the door meant breakfast had arrived. Thank goodness—she needed her croissant and cup of coffee each morning or she’d find herself in a murderous rage. Sometimes it was all she ate, which was fine with her, as long as the day started out that way. She had found a café next door famous for its French pastries, and she had asked them to come every morning for a week, not sure how long she’d be staying.
It was then that a man’s voice called out, “Signora? Colazione è pronta!” She stopped in her tracks. Something didn’t feel right. Drawing the small revolver she always slept with, she crept to the door. Standing beside it, she waited till he knocked again. As he did so, she took a quick peek through the peephole to see a large man, his gun pointed at the door. Shit. Without a second thought she shot him through the door, flung it open, and shot another man running down the hallway. Idiots, she thought. That wasn’t even a challenge. And it could hardly be called a good time, either.
She quickly packed up her few belongings in her backpack and left five hundred euro on the table for damages. Then she made her way out. She grabbed the men’s phones and the croissant . . . the deliveryman had been shot with a silencer, the coffee had been spilled, both of which pissed her off. But at least now she knew why Mahmoud hadn’t responded, and figured she’d have to track him. Perhaps the phones could help. Silently she made her way out of the apartment building and down the cobblestone streets. She’d grab a cup of coffee and find Mahmoud. And judging by how her morning had started, she’d better find him as soon as humanly possible.
‡‡‡
The Bod Squad had arrived at the Last Stop Deli on Queens Boulevard a
nd were all ready for breakfast, more coffee, and a good night’s rest, not necessarily in that order. When they entered, the deli seemed empty. Then they heard voices shouting from the back.
“Why are you constantly challenging me on this?” said an older female voice, tinged with an accent.
“I’m not challenging you,” replied an older man, gravel and melody in his voice. “Surely after all these years, I know better than that.”
“Then why do you always argue with me?”
“Because I think you’re wrong.”
“We can’t keep charging the same prices we did twenty years ago!”
“I know that, Myra. I just think charging a dollar per pierogi is really highway robbery.”
“This from the man who wants to charge less than twenty dollars per pound for whitefish salad!”
“I just feel that no one can afford that.”
“Yes, Ronnie, yes, but neither can we!”
“There must be some way.”
“You want to fish for it yourself?”
“Whitefish isn’t one fish. It’s a bunch of fishes.”
“It is not! How can you argue over something you know so little about?”
“Well, it’s not like I’m arguing about the salmon.”
“How could you be? We sell the best smoked salmon anywhere except Brooklyn. Or maybe the Lower East Side.”
At this the Boss rang the bell near the cash register. All the members of the Bod Squad looked considerably uncomfortable at having walked into an argument. The two owners shuffled out together. Myra was short and thin with wispy blond hair; she wore a flowered housedress and slippers. Ronald was also thin but with a large bowling ball of a stomach; his hair was thinning and he wore a plaid shirt, paint-splattered pants, and slippers. And he had an astoundingly outrageous brown mustache. They both looked like they’d just stepped out of bed.
“What can I get for you?” Myra asked. “We have some fantastic pierogi, and they’re only a dollar apiece,” she added, glancing at her husband, who sighed and mumbled something under his breath.
“Thanks,” the Boss said, “We’ll take a few pierogi, but we all need coffee. And can you do some egg sandwiches?”
“Can I do egg sandwiches?” Ronald responded. “Best in Queens. Who wants cheese? Bacon?”
“Extra bacon on mine,” Jackson jumped in, “and jalapeños if you got ’em.”
The Boss looked chagrined. “Really, Jackson? First thing in the morning?”
Jackson smiled. “I like it hot.”
“And that’s no joke,” Lisa Bee said with a wink. They all ordered their egg sandwiches from Ronald, and their coffees from Myra, and had a bit of small talk with their hosts. As the Boss was paying, he decided to use the intel they’d gotten from Fingers.
“Thank you, Myra,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure these will be the best pierogies I’ve ever had. Worth every penny.”
Myra shot an unsubtle look at her husband, then said, “They are the best in Queens, that’s for sure.”
“Well, we’re new to Queens—we’re here just for a day or so, and wondered if you could recommend an inn? Or perhaps a bed and breakfast we could stay at? All the hotels are booked because of some kind of convention.”
“Inn?” Ronald laughed. “You must’ve missed the exit for Connecticut!”
“Yes,” the Boss replied, “we were so hoping to find somewhere to stay locally. The friends we were going to visit just had a bit of an emergency and had to take off. Family issues, they said. We were going to go back home but figured we’d just enjoy a bit of time here—we’d love to be able to see them when they get back. Ah, well, I guess we’ll just have to hit the road.”
On his cue, the others looked forlorn. “That’s too bad,” Lisa Bee said. “I was so hoping to try some more pierogies.”
“That,” Jackson said wistfully, “or some really authentic whitefish salad.”
“Well,” Myra said, puffing up like an excited pigeon, “we sell the best anywhere.”
“Right,” the Boss said. “Too bad we need to leave.”
“Now, wait just one minute,” Myra said. “Surely we can help you out. Gimme a second.”
When she grabbed Ronald and shoved him into the back, the Boss said, sotto voce, “Nicely done, Bee. You too, Jackson.”
“When in Rome,” Jackson said with a grin. “I dig this place. ’Sides which, being so near Jackson Heights, I feel like this should be my hood.”
“God,” Lisa Bee exclaimed, “now we’ll never get his head to shrink.”
When Jackson opened his mouth to reply, Susannah jumped in. “Please, Jackson. I can only imagine your response. Wait till my third cup of coffee, for fuck’s sake!”
They all had a good laugh at that until Myra returned, Ronald at her side, huge smiles on both their faces. “How would you like to rent from us?” Myra asked. “We have a basement apartment that our son used to live in . . . It’s a bit of a mess, and still has some of his stuff in it, but we used to put it up on that site—whaddayacallit . . . I don’t know anything about computers . . .”
“Air TNT,” Ronald said.
“Right, that’s it! Air TNT.”
“I think you mean Airbnb, right?” the Boss asked with a grin. “Though I do like the sound of yours better.”
“Oh, of course!” Myra said with a laugh. “How ridiculous! Anyway, whaddaya think?”
“Well, we’d hate to put you out,” the Boss gushed. “I just don’t know what to say. What do you think, gang?” At their enthusiastic nods, the Boss said, “Myra, we’d love it. What a treat! And what a great way to see our friends upon their return. What should we pay you?”
“Well, because you’re new to the area, I’ll give you a discount. How about two hundred dollars a night? And all the pierogis you can eat!”
The Boss looked at the others sideways. He knew they were being taken, but it was a drop in the bucket compared to what he’d paid for leads in the past.
“Sounds great, Myra,” he said, extending his hand. “We’re all in.”
11
It took Tyka until eleven a.m. to find a nice cup of coffee and hack into the password-protected phones she’d taken off the goons. Once she did, she had to translate texts from Italian, one of her least fluent languages. It took her some time to get even a hint of a lead. There were multiple messages indicating that they met at a restaurant to talk over various pieces of business. But still, that could be anywhere. Tyka was not good at asking for help; she did it rarely, and only under duress. Biting her lower lip, she put in a call to a hacker she’d had an affair with who worked for the French Agence Nationale. She and he had gotten quite close while they were partnered on Covert Operation JCON that involved hunting down a terrorist who rigged bombs in department stores while dressed like Batman. She had killed the terrorist with Parson’s help, and they’d spent a sexy week in the French Alps to celebrate. Now he worked for the team investigating branches of the Sicilian crime families, and she’d used him often in the past. He’d been after her since their affair, and she didn’t hesitate to use her powers of seduction when useful.
“ ’Allo? Tyka?” Philippe Parson answered on the first ring. “To what do I owe ze pleasure?”
“Do you need a reason?” she asked with a smile, knowing she had to work fast but flirting all the same. He laughed, and when the ice was broken, she filled him in on what information she had and what had happened that morning. She’d guessed who these men were from the glance she’d gotten of them in front of her apartment; she figured the attack was a counterhit for the work she and Mahmoud had done to take out those who had assassinated Gabriella. Time was of the essence. But she knew Parson would get her what she needed.
She read him the texts she had found, and it took him about fifteen minutes to figure out a possible location. The nickname P
esca was used often, and Rocco Bellini was known for frequenting a Trattoria del Pescatore. Tyka thanked him, and told him in no uncertain terms that she’d spend the night with him soon. It was after she hung up that she realized she felt something she’d never felt before . . . guilt. Like she was cheating on Mahmoud. Strange. With no time to lose, she brushed off the feeling, gulped the rest of her coffee, put out her cigarette, and hailed a cab.
About ten minutes later, dressed in her customary black and carrying her backpack, she walked around to the back of the restaurant and affixed the silencer to the gun in her waistband. She had another gun in a holster under her arm and a third, her favorite pink pistol, tucked into her boot. She had several other weapons in the backpack, but she was pretty sure she wouldn’t need those. She kicked in the door and shot almost everyone inside.
And then she saw Mahmoud. He was certainly the worse for wear, but was very much alive. Even in his compromised state he still had strength and ferocity coming off him in waves. She only had a moment to take him in before her eyes focused on the only other person she hadn’t shot, the man who sat across from Mahmoud. Eating a plate of pasta, he held his fork frozen halfway to his mouth.
“Chi cazzo sei?” he asked.
“Your worst fucking nightmare,” she replied, and shot him as well. Then she went to Mahmoud, who had clearly been beaten, and was tied to a chair.
She removed his restraints and cupped her hand to his face. He could barely open one eye, and there was blood all over him, running down his cheeks and hardening upon his shirt, which was ripped down the middle. “Mahmoud,” she said gently, planting a soft kiss on his lips. “Are you okay?”
He took a moment to reply, and his voice was hoarse. “I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my life. I thought I was done for.”
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