The Alamo - John Milton #11 (John Milton Thrillers) Read online

  “You think one of the others is the other man he saw?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “What about us?” Manny said. “What do we do?”

  “Nothing,” Milton said. “Whatever you would have done if this hadn’t happened. Freddy’s not going to school?”

  “I’ve said he’s sick,” Manny said.

  “But I’m not,” Freddy protested.

  “I don’t want you out of my sight until we figure out what to do,” his father said firmly. He turned to Milton. “You agree?”

  “Actually, I think school might not be a bad idea. If he feels up to it—”

  “I do,” Freddy interrupted.

  “—then it might help keep his mind off what happened.”

  Milton walked over to the door and gave a gentle incline of his head. Manny noticed the gesture and followed him. “And I’m not sure it’s clever to make it look like he’s frightened,” Milton said in a low voice. “It might make someone think that he has something to hide.”

  “I don’t know,” Manny said.

  “You’re his father,” Milton said. “I’m just telling you what I’d do. But it’s your call.”

  “I’d rather walk him to school myself when he goes back,” Manny said. He looked at his watch. “I was going to go to a meeting this morning and then I’ve got to get to work.”

  “You want me to take him?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I don’t have anything else to do,” Milton said.

  Manny paused, considering it. “You wanna go in?” he called over to his son.

  “I told you I did.”

  “Get your things. John says he’ll take you.”

  61

  Freddy went to Grover Cleveland High School. It was in Ridgewood, Queens, a bus ride to the northwest. The boy led Milton up to the corner of Etna and Crescent. There was a bus stop there; Freddy turned and saw the B13 bus rumbling toward them, so they bolted for the stop and flagged it down just in time.

  They took empty seats next to each other and caught their breath as the driver pulled away from the stop.

  “How long does the bus take?” Milton asked.

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “You don’t have a closer school?”

  “There was Franklin K. Lane, but they closed it down. They had a shooting there. And I don’t mind the bus. I usually read or listen to music.”

  They sat in silence for a minute as the bus swung hard left onto Jamaica Avenue and then right onto Cypress Hills Street, passing through the middle of the park. They went by an enormous cemetery, with white headstones lined up in neat lines for hundreds of feet, nestled beneath the sheltering boughs of ancient oak trees.

  “You think my dad is gonna be okay?” Freddy asked him.

  “I can’t say that,” Milton said. “But he’s trying as hard as he can.”

  “What about you?”

  Milton smiled. “What about me?”

  “How do you do it? You seem like you’ve got it together.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “But you don’t go out and drink.”

  “No,” Milton said. “Not for a long time. But it’s not easy. It takes hard work. And I go to a lot of meetings.”

  “Do you have anyone to help you?”

  “No,” Milton said. “It’s just me.”

  “You don’t have any children?”

  “No,” Milton said. “No one.”

  “You don’t get lonely?”

  Milton shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  Freddy didn’t hear him. He stared out at the sign for Machpelah Cemetery and the fresh rows of headstones that came into view. “I’m gonna help my dad,” Freddy said. “I know he’s trying. I’m gonna do everything I can to make it easier for him.”

  “He’s lucky to have you,” Milton said.

  Grover Cleveland High School was a huge building. Milton waited at the gates on Himrod Street and watched as Freddy made his way along the path that led to the main entrance. The boy looked a little smaller and a little younger as he disappeared inside and Milton found, again, that he was impressed by how he was handling a frightening episode. Milton rededicated himself to helping him and his father find their way out of the mess that they had been unfortunate enough to find themselves in: he would get to the bottom of what had happened, and he would make it right.

  62

  Milton took a taxi back to Danforth Street, collected his bike, and set off to Union Garage, a motorcycle store in Cobble Hill. It was accommodated within an old industrial space and had a mural of an American eagle painted above the door. Milton went inside and waited for the clerk.

  “I’m looking for a tracker,” he said. “Something robust.”

  “Waterproof?”

  “Yes,” Milton said.

  “Follow me, sir.”

  The clerk led the way deeper into the shop until they reached an aisle that was set aside for accessories. He took a box from the shelf and handed it to Milton. The front of the box had a clear window, and Milton looked inside to see a small black device, around two and a half inches by two inches.

  “That’s a Spot Trace,” the clerk said. “You get advanced theft-alert tracking for whatever you stick it on. Cars, bikes, boats—whatever you like.”

  “How does it work?”

  “You get a text or an email if it moves. Or you can follow them on Google Maps in real-time.”

  “Does it store data?”

  “Sure does. The website records movement for the previous month. Hundred and twenty bucks apiece.”

  “I’ll take two,” Milton said.

  Milton headed back to the station house on Sutter Avenue once more. He parked in the same spot as yesterday evening, made his way into the derelict building and back up to the window where he could surveil the precinct house. It was midday when he took up his position again. He had stopped in a 7-Eleven to pick up a sandwich and a bottle of water and to use the restroom. He was ready to stay up here and watch for as long as it took.

  He had been waiting for four hours when he saw the officer who had driven the black man home and then returned to the precinct last night. He arrived at the precinct in the same Ford F-150, backing the big truck into the narrow lot so that it was perpendicular to the building and aligned with the other cars that were already there. Milton watched as the cop got out of the truck and disappeared into the building, and then settled back down to wait a little longer.

  Another five minutes passed. Two more cars pulled up and parked. The second, a grey Ford Fusion, backed into the spot next to the first cop’s car. Milton watched and saw a younger man with a shock of bright blond hair step out, lock the car and then make his way into the precinct. He recognised him, too: it was the officer who had been in the patrol car with the first man.

  He reached into his pocket and took out the GPS trackers. He took out the industrial-strength double-sided tape that had come with the units, tore off the backing strips and stuck a piece on each one. He switched the trackers on, went to the back of the room and climbed down into the yard. He jumped down the last few feet and hurried around the block to Sutter Avenue.

  He idled for a moment, waiting for a female cop to lock her car and head into the building. Milton looked up and down the street and, satisfied that he was alone, walked toward the Ford truck. He took out the first tracker, peeled off the backing from the adhesive tape on the back of the case and, with a final check that he wasn’t being observed, reached down beneath the rear fender and pressed the device against the chassis.

  Milton went to the Fusion. He checked up and down the street again and, still satisfied that he was not being watched, secured the second tracker.

  He continued walking away from the cars and the buildings.

  He had been quick: setting the trackers had taken less than thirty seconds.

  Milton went back to his vantage point. He took out his phone and navigated to the website of the company
that manufactured the trackers. He set up an account and entered the serial numbers of the two units; within moments, he saw a map of East New York with two overlapping blue dots outside the precinct house on Sutter Avenue.

  He saw the two cops from last night go out on patrol together at ten minutes past four, but the older man—the drunk—did not show again. He surveilled the station for another two hours, until his phone showed six and the leaden clouds above had grown darker in the fading light. He was cold and he had an appointment to keep. Content that the two trackers were functioning, he climbed down into the yard and went back to his bike.

  63

  He went home and found a clean shirt for dinner. He washed and changed, then looked out of the window: it was dark, the moon and stars hidden by the cloud banks that had moved in off the ocean. He collected his camera bag, locked up and descended the stairs to the street.

  It was a cold night, with the promise of snow in the air, and he zipped his leather jacket all the way up to his chin to ward away the chill. He made his way south and then turned to the east, passing on the other side of the same landmarks that he saw every morning during his run. They looked different at night; the Wonder Wheel and the Parachute Jump loomed high overhead, their struts and joists like skeletal silhouettes against the light from the neighbouring streets that bled up into the darkness.

  He reached Brighton Beach Avenue, the main drag that was closed in by the elevated tracks of the subway overhead. The signs of the businesses that he passed changed from English to Cyrillic. There were restaurants and stores that offered counterfeit goods at knock-down prices, fake electronics and racks of designer frames from optometrists. The young men displayed their masculinity by wearing thin jackets that would have offered minimal protection from the cold, but their elders—grizzled men and haughty women—wore fur and wool coats, fur-lined ushankas on their heads and solid boots. They knew that the storm was coming, and they were ready for it.

  Milton slowed to look around. This was Little Odessa, the New York home for an expatriate community of Russians who had fled their homeland through fear of the regime or in hope of finding better circumstances in the land of the free. Milton continued along the road, passing shuttered stands that would normally have offered fruits and vegetables, and plate-glass windows through which Milton could see empty racks with stained ice beds that would be replenished with fish in the morning.

  He turned onto 4th Street, passing between Roksolana Wholesale and a deli. He parked the bike, bought a pack of cigarettes and then continued down to the boardwalk, the narrow road crowded by large brick apartment buildings on either side. He climbed the stairs to the boardwalk. Café Valentin was on the corner, accommodated in the ground floor of the last of the apartment buildings and equipped with a wide awning that would have allowed for al fresco dining were the weather to be amenable.

  Milton checked his watch: he was five minutes early. He took out a cigarette, smoked it, checked his watch again, and made his way to the entrance. He pushed open the doors and went inside.

  The restaurant was pleasant. It lacked the utilitarian efficiency of chain outlets and the glitz and sparkle of the establishments that might have been found in a more well-to-do area, but it did not suffer for that. It was warm and cosy, and busy despite the fact that it was cold and inhospitable outside.

  Alexei Fedorov was drying wine glasses behind the bar. There was a bell above the door and it tinkled as Milton came inside. Fedorov put the glasses down on the counter, raised his hand in greeting and made his way across the room.

  “Mr. Smith,” he said.

  “John—please.”

  “Then, John, it is good to see you. May I take your coat and your bag?”

  Milton removed his coat. Fedorov hung it on a hat stand in the corner of the room and gave the camera bag to a waiter to store in a cupboard behind the bar.

  “It is cold,” he said, his arm on Milton’s elbow as he guided him into the room.

  “Very,” Milton responded.

  “It will be colder tonight. The snow is coming.”

  Milton looked around as he was led to a table with a dozen people sitting around it.

  “My family,” Fedorov said, indicating the table with a broad sweep of his arm.

  The party comprised all ages. Fedorov introduced them all. The man and woman at the far end were very elderly and introduced as Fedorov’s parents; the two men and two women of similar age to him were his brothers and sisters; and then the four kids, their ages ranging from perhaps ten to their late teens, were his children. Milton recognised one of them: a girl, in her mid-teens, looking at him shyly. It was Alexei’s daughter, the one he had rescued from the sea.

  A woman near to the head of the table stood and smiled at Milton. “Musafir,” she said, bowing her head.

  “I’m sorry,” Milton said. “I don’t understand.”

  Fedorov stepped forward. “Musafir means guest. It means you are welcome here.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Are you Mrs. Fedorov?”

  “I am,” she said. “My name is Svetlana.”

  Milton returned her warm smile and bowed his own head. “It is very kind of you to invite me.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said. “For our daughter.”

  She turned to the table and gestured to the girl Milton recognised. She stood, a little bashful, and came around so that she was close enough to offer her hand.

  “Thank you for what you did,” she said.

  “My pleasure,” he said, giving her a smile that he hoped might be reassuring. “How are you feeling?”

  “My pride is hurt,” she said, her English a little more natural than her parents’. “But I am fine. I wanted to thank you. You saved my life.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said.

  Fedorov nodded solemnly. “You’re never going to swim there again, are you?”

  “She says it was strong current,” said Svetlana, defending her daughter from the edge of her husband’s tongue.

  “It was,” Milton said. “It was difficult to see and very powerful. It was difficult for me to get back again, and I’m a strong swimmer. I wouldn’t blame yourself.”

  “It is not about blame,” Fedorov said. “She did what I told her not to do. And she is lucky to be alive because of it. This is a lesson.”

  “Hush, Alexei,” said his wife. “She knows she was wrong. You don’t need to tell her again.”

  Fedorov looked as if he was caught between rebuking his wife for chastening him or laughing at the spectacle of the family’s drama being played out in front of the dour newcomer. He chose the latter, his face breaking into a wide grin as he came closer to Milton and clapped him heartily on the shoulder.

  “Come,” he said. “We will eat and drink. We have a lot to thank you for.”

  Milton sat with Alexei on his left and Fedorov’s mother on his right.

  A waiter appeared with a tray of empty shot glasses and a bottle. The man worked his way around the table, distributing the glasses and then reaching down to fill them.

  “Samohon,” Fedorov said. “Home-brewed vodka. It is distilled from wheat or rye. We add chili peppers to give it more kick. We start with a toast.”

  Milton winced awkwardly.

  Fedorov noticed. “What is it?”

  “I don’t drink,” Milton said.

  The man reached Milton, reached down and filled his glass.

  “You do not?” Fedorov said, as if the suggestion was the most preposterous thing he had heard all day.

  “No,” Milton said. “I don’t.”

  Fedorov looked as if he was about to protest, but his wife shushed him. “Would you prefer cranberry juice? Orange juice?”

  “Cranberry would be fine,” he said. “Thank you.”

  The menus were handed around. Milton glanced at his.

  “You speak Russian?” the old lady asked.

  “No,” Milton said.

  The old lady laid her finger against the menu.
“The menu is Russian, but this is not Russian food. The Russians never had any food. They steal it from us, the Lithuanians, the Estonians, the others.”

  “Us? Crimeans?”

  She nodded. “Have you eaten our food before?”

  “Never,” he said. “What would you recommend?”

  She took the menu from him and ran her finger down the long list of items. “Artem,” she called out to the waiter, who was evidently another member of the family. “Mr. John will have the cheburek.”

  “Mother,” Fedorov chided her.

  “It’s fine,” Milton said. “I need all the help I can get.”

  He had been operational in mainland Ukraine before and had half-expected the menu to include the warming varenyky and borscht that he had enjoyed in Kiev, but the food that was brought out for them was not familiar to him. The Black Sea peninsula was temperate, and the food represented that: there were sweet and sour pastries, flatbreads, grilled and stewed meats, stuffed nightshade vegetables, all redolent of the spices and flavours that might have been expected from Turkish cuisine.

  Milton’s dish turned out to be the specialty of the house. The cheburek was a slender, deep-fried pocket of meat and mushrooms. It was large, filling his generously proportioned plate, and the edges were decorated with a neat crimp that had clearly required a skilful hand.

  “You like?” the old woman asked.

  “I do,” Milton said. “It’s delicious.”

  “It is almost the national dish for the Tatars,” Fedorov explained. “It reminds us of home. How much do you know of our people?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.”

  “We have a thousand years of history in Eastern Europe,” he said, with evident pride. “But we are a minority. When Putin stole our land, many of us feared what might happen next. We came here, and now we see it as our duty to preserve our culture. That is what we do here, at the Valentin. We speak Tatar. We serve Tatar food. During Ramadan, we do not serve alcohol. We have Tatar musicians here three times a week. And we welcome our guests—our musafi—with the hospitality that our people have always cherished.”