Restitution

by Lee Vance

  The more she tells me, the more frightening she reveals herself to be.

  “You’ve been planning this since Katya first went to work for William?” I ask, still grappling with the extent of her duplicity.

  “You misunderstand. It took years to prepare the bait, but the exact nature of the trap only suggested itself at the last moment. Much of what I’ve done was improvisation. I hadn’t intended to involve Katya or Andrei. Only after Andrei told me he was sick, and explained what he wanted to accomplish before he died, did I see the possibility.”

  “Andrei wouldn’t have approved of murder,” I say, feeling a need to speak for him.

  “Certainly not,” she admits. “It was difficult enough to persuade him to take the steps that he did. Andrei was always reluctant to let the ends justify the means. I encouraged him to think of William’s money as his rightful inheritance—an inheritance better spent on the sick and impoverished than on a new wing for the Metropolitan Museum. The one blessing of his illness is that he never learned of your wife’s death. The guilt would have crushed him.”

  “You subverted his good intentions to serve your revenge.”

  “No,” she says emphatically. “I’ve served us both faithfully.”

  “Would Andrei agree?”

  “Tolstoy or someone of his ilk could probably write a great fat book on the morality of my behavior. I’ve done what I thought best for my children and for Professor von Stern’s legacy. I’ve done terrible things—worse even than you know—to promote their interests, and to revenge Bon Papa. I lost my innocence the evening that William raped me, and compromised my scruples the day that I begged him for his help. He and I may spend eternity together in hell, but I regret nothing.”

  I regret nothing: “Je Ne Regrette Rien,” the title of an old Edith Piaf song my father used to sing when my mother reproached him for his absences or his infidelities as we ate dinner. He’d begin softly, singing in an exaggerated accent while tapping time on the table, gradually increasing in volume until his voice drowned out her accusations, and the thumping of his fist sent dishes crashing to the floor. I knew he was wrong to taunt her, but I never had the courage to say so. She’d flee to their bedroom, weeping, and he’d tell me to put the telescope in the car. Those were the nights we’d stay out till dawn, my father sipping whiskey from his flask and offering me the occasional pull as we took turns howling at the sky. I’m thankful that it was Jenna’s voice and not his that came to me when I was standing over Lyman. For the first time ever, I’m glad I’m not like him.

  “You regret nothing,” I say, feeling a renewed determination to hold Mrs. Zhilina accountable. “Not even hiding Andrei from Katya while he’s been dying?”

  “I’ve accepted that God will punish me,” Mrs. Zhilina says levelly.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Katya had to work with William. I couldn’t risk making her party to a conspiracy against him. I had no choice but to keep Andrei and Katya apart.”

  “The ends justifying the means again. Your revenge was more important to you than their need for each other, and their peace of mind.”

  “I chose between evils,” she says angrily. “Everything I did was for their benefit.”

  “Katya won’t think so. She’ll never forgive you for keeping Andrei from her.”

  “Love demands sacrifice. A conviction you don’t seem to share.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Fondation l’Etoile is the means to both Andrei’s legacy and Katya’s professional happiness. If Andrei and Katya are your friends—if you love them—you’ll accept the role I’m offering you, regardless of your feelings about what I’ve done. I’m prepared to resign from the board. You and Emily will become l’Etoile’s codirectors.”

  “Tell me something,” I say, my mind whirling. “How did you know about me and Katya?”

  “I saw an e-mail that she wrote to Andrei,” Mrs. Zhilina says, no hint of remorse in her voice. “He was already in hospital, and I’d begun looking after his affairs. Katya was distraught at your treatment of her, and racked with guilt for betraying your wife.”

  “And yet you want me to take on this responsibility, despite knowing how much I hurt her.”

  “What I want isn’t achievable. My son is dying, and my daughter despises me. We’ve established my willingness to compromise. I’ll settle for your cooperation.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say slowly. “The answer’s still no. I don’t want to be part of this.”

  “You don’t believe that I’ll give you a free hand,” she says shrewdly.

  “Not for a second.”

  “Discuss it with Emily,” she suggests. “You might see things differently in a few days.”

  I shrug, unwilling to indulge her with an answer.

  “One more thing,” she says, reaching over to touch a cold finger to the back of my hand. “The package Andrei sent your wife. Vladimir recovered it. Would you like it?”

  “What is it?” I ask, trembling.

  “A book,” she says.

  A book. My eyes tear at this final confirmation that Jenna died for nothing.

  “I’ll get it for you,” Mrs. Zhilina says. “It’s upstairs.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No,” she says, getting to her feet. “I need to have a private word with Emily. Vladimir will help me on the stairs. I’ll be down in a few minutes. You can wait here, or in the kitchen, as you prefer.”

  I rock quietly on the cold porch after Mrs. Zhilina leaves, worn-out from grief and shock. The moon’s higher now, and the surf rougher, a diaphanous spray shimmering over the breakers. Katya will be here soon. I lean my head back against the chair and close my eyes, trying to pull myself together. Tonight’s going to be terrible for her.

  The kitchen door opens sometime later, startling me from a light doze. It’s Emily, Vladimir standing behind her.

  “Do you mind coming in here, Peter?” she says, her voice strangely muted.

  “What is it?” I ask, stepping into the kitchen.

  Emily takes my hands. There are tears shining in her eyes.

  “Andrei’s gone. Just now. Peacefully.”

  “Did Mrs. Zhilina …”

  “Yes,” she says, embracing me. “It was time.”

  Anger overwhelms my grief: Mrs. Zhilina’s deprived Katya of the opportunity to see her brother one last time, to make her farewell.

  “I want to talk to her,” I say.

  “Who?” Emily asks, leaning back to look up at me.

  “Mrs. Zhilina.”

  “She is leaving this for you,” Vladimir says, holding out a book.

  I release Emily and take the slim volume from him. It’s an English translation of Tolstoy’s “Confession.” A sheet of paper is tucked between the pages. I unfold it and see a note written in an antique copperplate:

  Peter:

  I am an old woman, and the time has come for me to make my final sacrifice. Yesterday, after we spoke at the museum, I signed away control of Fondation l’Etoile to you and Emily. Vladimir has the papers. I pray you’ll honor Andrei’s wishes. If nothing else, please be kind to Katya.

  Oksana Zhilina

  “Where is she?” I ask, looking up at Vladimir. I’m damned if I’ll let her present me with a fait accompli.

  “Come,” he says. He opens the sliding door to the deck and leads me outside, pointing over the dunes. “There.”

  “Where?” I ask. There’s no one on the beach. He gestures again, and I shift my gaze higher. There’s someone in the water, fifty yards offshore, swimming toward the horizon. I start forward instinctively, but Vladimir checks me.

  “No,” he says. “Is better.”

  We watch together as the figure becomes more distant. For the life of me, I don’t know how I feel. An outsize swell rolls over the swimmer, moonlight rippling from the crest. It passes and the ocean’s empty.

  SPRING

  50

  THE ADDRESS I’M LOOKING FOR turns
out to be a moldering brick apartment building on the outskirts of White Plains, overlooking the Bronx River Parkway. There’s a faded sign out front advertising studios and one-bedroom apartments for rent, and a pair of battered wooden planters on either side of the door, sporting a few lonely daffodils. The street’s deserted at 6:30 on a Sunday morning, the newly risen sun glinting off the rough concrete sidewalk. I take my phone out, dial a number, and hesitate with my thumb over the send button, wondering if I’m asking for trouble. Maybe, but it’s the right thing to do. Pressing the button, I put the phone to my ear. It’s answered on the fourth ring.

  “Grace Tilling,” she says, sounding half-awake.

  “Peter Tyler.”

  She clears her throat and coughs, the phone turned away from her mouth.

  “As I live and breathe,” she says. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “You’ve been trying to get hold of me.”

  “Only for about three fucking months.”

  “I’ve been thinking. I want to talk.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Where?” she asks. I can hear the bed groan as she sits up.

  “You decide. I’m downstairs, in front of your building.”

  “I don’t like this,” she says more alertly. “How’d you get my address?”

  “Does it matter?” I ask, half-hoping she’ll tell me to get lost.

  “There’s a park at the end of the block,” she says. “Wait there. I’ll meet you in ten minutes.”

  “I’m not interested in Ellis or anyone else joining us.”

  “You and me,” she says. “Ten minutes.”

  The park’s a patch of concrete with a rusted swing set, the ground littered with green and brown shards of glass. I wait on the one bench that hasn’t been vandalized. Grace walks toward me wearing gray sweatpants that say FORDHAM LAW on the leg, and a blue nylon windbreaker with a police badge silk-screened on the breast. She has a Yankees cap pulled low on her forehead. Her eyes flick over my body as she stops in front of me, taking in my new jeans and blue blazer. I’ve put some weight back on, but I’m still a lot lighter than I was six months ago.

  “You look good,” she says. “You’re tan. Keisha told me you were in Brazil.”

  “Business. We’re working on a proposal to build a pharmaceutical plant down there in partnership with the government.”

  “Your buddy, Robert Meyer …”

  “Tigger.”

  “Right. Tigger and I spent some time together. He told me all about this foundation you guys are running. No wonder you had trouble getting back to me. You’re a busy outfit. You’re doing all kinds of good stuff.”

  “Thanks,” I say, ignoring the tinge of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Personally,” she says, putting one foot up on the bench next to me and leaning forward, “I don’t give a fuck how many good deeds you do. If it had been up to me, I would have arrested you on the gun charge and threatened you with a couple of years upstate unless you cooperated with us. You promised to help us nail the guys who hired Lyman and Franco, and whoever murdered Rommy. You said there were a lot of levels to this thing, and that you were still asking questions. Only instead of telling us what you learned, you let someone buy you off with this fancy foundation job. Ellis and I trusted you, and you fucked us.”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’m here now,” I say. “To keep my promise.”

  She tips the brim of her cap up, crow’s-feet surrounding her eyes. A cynical smile spreads across her face as she looks at me.

  “Let me guess,” she says. “You want to talk off the record. That’s why you showed up unannounced and said it had to be just you and me.”

  “I’m not going to testify to anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “But you’ll tell me what happened,” she says, nodding slowly. “Why?”

  “I made a promise,” I say, shrugging.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s half of it,” I say, looking up into her careworn face. “When we spoke in the parking lot at Jenna’s funeral, I got the feeling that you weren’t just doing a job.”

  “I made a promise also,” Grace says. “The same promise I make to every victim. I’m still working for Jennifer and I don’t give a damn about anything else.”

  “That’s what I thought. That’s why I’ve decided to tell you the truth.”

  The deli across the street opens while we’re talking, a sleepy-looking girl hand-cranking an old-fashioned metal security gate open. Grace buys coffee for both of us, and I reciprocate when our cups are empty. We sit side by side on the bench as I tell her about Katya, Andrei, Emily, William, and Zeitz, and about Mrs. Zhilina. She interrupts repeatedly, pressing for details. The only fact I withhold is that Vladimir and his gang used to work at Emily’s clinic.

  “So you don’t know this Vladimir character’s last name, or anything else about him?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry, Peter,” she says, shaking her head. “I’d keep you out of it if I could, but you’re the one who saw Vladimir murder Lyman. You’re going to have to testify to the grand jury so I can get a warrant.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ll subpoena you.”

  “I’ll perjure myself.”

  “Don’t you understand?” she demands angrily. “There isn’t any other way to break this thing open.”

  “I realize that.”

  She stares at me incredulously.

  “This Vladimir guy brutally murdered two people. One of those people used to be my partner.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t condone what Vladimir did, but seeing him punished is less important to me than the work I’m doing now. I won’t jeopardize Fondation l’Etoile’s reputation or anything else by spouting wild stories about Russian killers who won’t ever be caught or convicted.”

  “Zeitz is guilty of conspiracy, at a minimum. You’re willing to let them buy you off with this drug?”

  “If you want to look at it that way. I prefer to think of the lives we’re saving. I’ve given it a lot of thought, Grace. This is what Jenna would have wanted. I’m content to let things lie.”

  “You’re content,” she says furiously, flinging her empty coffee cup at a nearby trash can. “You’re content because everything’s worked out for you. Hasn’t it?”

  “My wife and my best friend are dead,” I say, touching her arm to soften the reproach.

  “Don’t try to guilt me,” she snaps, jerking away. “You know what I mean.”

  Her hat’s pulled low again, concealing her face, but she’s clearly livid. I’d leave now if I weren’t going to have to recount this entire conversation to Tigger later.

  “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Pray tell,” she says sarcastically.

  “I got your address from the same private investigator who dug up the dirt on Rommy before Jenna’s funeral. He’s an ex-cop, a guy who’s still pretty plugged in to your department. He told me that things haven’t been going so well for you at work.”

  “There’s a hot news flash. What would you expect? My former partner and I caught a high-profile murder. The DA put out a warrant on the wrong guy, we didn’t find the right guys until one of them turned up dead, the dead guy was murdered by my ex-partner, and then persons unknown took out my ex-partner and the other killer. The only arrest I made was an ex-FBI agent who was driving around Long Island with a couple of machine guns in the trunk of his car, and that was in another county.”

  “I don’t see why you took the heat.”

  “Don’t you?” she asks, shaking her head. “Shit flows downhill. The DA’s political and the chief’s superstitious. She thinks I’ve got a bad smell and he thinks I’m unlucky. It works out to the same thing.”

  “That first time we met, in my office, Rommy mentioned that you were going to law school,” I say. “I hear
you’re almost done.”

  She tilts her head sideways to make eye contact and extends a hand to touch my arm, mirroring the gesture I made a moment ago.

  “Stay the fuck out of my life,” she says softly. “You got that?”

  What was it Tigger’d said? “The worst she can do is walk away.” I take a deep breath.

  “L’Etoile’s going to do business in some dicey places. We could use a lawyer with a strong public-safety background.”

  She laughs, her eyes never wavering from mine.

  “One of the bad things about being a cop is that I can’t punch some asshole like you in the side of the head without feeling like I’m hiding behind my badge.”

  “It’s just an offer,” I say, not having expected anything different.

  She reaches toward me, not quite touching my chest with her finger.

  “It sounded like something different.”

  “It was Tigger’s idea,” I say, shrugging. “He likes you. So does Keisha. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  “I suppose I should say thanks, but etiquette’s never been my strong suit.”

  “The offer’s open,” I say, getting up. “Call me if you want to talk.”

  “Wait,” she says. “We’re not done yet.”

  I sink back down onto the bench, tucking a leg beneath me so I can face her. She’s got one hand covering her face. I wonder what she’s thinking.

  “I saw a picture of you on the back page of the New York Sun,” she says. “At the opening of that kids’ center in Hell’s Kitchen you sponsored. Katya Zhilina was standing next to you. Are the two of you spending much time together these days?”

  “Some,” I say, surprised by the change of topic. “We’re trying to figure things out.”

  She drops her hand to her lap and stares off toward the Bronx River Parkway below us. Traffic’s heavier now, the discrete rush of solitary cars having built to an unalleviated background whine.