Bad, Bad Seymour Brown E-Book

Susan Isaacs

• Herausgeber: Grove Press UK
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 702

Beschreibung

'Both witty and gripping, this is ultra-sleek storytelling, with two delightful investigators' Daily Mail When Corie Geller asked her parents to move from their apartment into the suburban McMansion she shares with her husband and teenage daughter, she assumed they'd fit right in with the placid life she'd opted for when she left the FBI. But then her retired NYPD detective father gets a call from academic April Brown - one of the victims of a case he was never able to solve. When April was five, she emerged unscathed from the arson that killed her parents. Now, two decades later, someone has made an attempt on her life. It takes only a nanosecond for Corie and her dad to launch a full-fledged investigation. If they don't move fast, whoever attacked April is sure to strike again. But while her late father, Seymour Brown, was the go-to money launderer for the Russian mob, April Brown has no enemies. Well-liked by her students, admired by her colleagues, who would want her dead now? And who set that horrific fire, all those years ago? The stakes have never been higher. Yet as Corie and her dad are realizing, they still live for the chase. Savvy and surprising, witty and gripping, Bad, Bad Seymour Brown is another standout hit from the beloved Susan Isaacs.

Leseprobe

Also by Susan Isaacs

Compromising Positions

Close Relations

Almost Paradise

Shining Through

Magic Hour

After All These Years

Lily White

Red, White and Blue

Brave Dames and Wimpettes

Long Time No See

Any Place I Hang My Hat

Past Perfect

As Husbands Go

Goldberg Variations

A Hint of Strangeness

Takes One to Know One

First published in the United States of America in 2023 by Grove Atlantic

This paperback edition first published in Great Britain in 2024 by Grove Press UK, an imprint of Grove Atlantic

Copyright © Susan Isaacs, 2023

The moral right of Susan Isaacs to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

The events, characters and incidents depicted in this novel are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual incidents, is purely coincidental.

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN 978 1 80471 015 9

E-book ISBN 978 1 80471 014 2

Printed in Great Britain

Grove Press UK

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London WC1N 3JZ

www.groveatlantic.com

To my daughter, Elizabeth Picciuto,my mentor and maven,with gratitude and love

CHAPTER ONE

In the universe of 1990s Brooklyn bad guys, Seymour Brown, CPA, had risen way above most of the goons and gangsters. Not to the pinnacle, but close. He probably would have moved up even further, but he and his wife, Kim, were killed when their house was burned to the ground. Unquestionably arson, unquestionably murder—but the crime remained unsolved. For my dad, who was assigned to the investigation back when he was a second-grade NYPD detective, it was the coldest of his cold cases.

When Seymour and Kim Brown—along with their surviving daughter, April—came roaring back into my dad’s life and mine, my parents were living with us. During Covid, they had moved in and never left: a mutually agreeable decision. That night, we were having an early dinner in the backyard, around six thirty, that lovely half-hour hiatus between flies and mosquitoes. My parents were gathered with my husband, Josh Geller, our sixteen-year-old daughter, Eliza, and me at one end of an enormous picnic table.

Oh, the table: it had been purchased by Dawn, Eliza’s first mother and Josh’s first wife. Perhaps she anticipated delightful Tuscan-style lunches al fresco, with twenty friends, all the women wearing gauzy white blouses and laughing as they raised overfilled glasses of Brunello. But before she could complete her set of Italian ceramic plates and bowls by finding a truly wondrous soup tureen, she died suddenly from an undiagnosed cardiovascular quirk during Pilates class. Eliza was only five when it happened. Devastating. I adopted Eliza five years later, soon after I’d married Josh.

Our meal, though, wasn’t Tuscan as much as pan-Mediterranean-via-Long Island: shish kebab that Josh had grilled with scientific precision, as well as Turkish roasted veggies and an orzo salad I’d made. A family meal, not an idyllic, wine-drenched salut to la dolce vita. My mom was busy sneaking bits of shish kebab to our dog, Lulu; my dad was brushing his ear with the back of his hand in a failed attempt to discourage a bee from assessing his aftershave. I spilled about a quarter of my wine making a grand gesture as I opined on Criminal Minds post–Mandy Patinkin; Eliza gazed longingly at her phone, which we had insisted she place facedown during the meal even as it vibrated with near-constant notifications; and there was no way to stop Josh from explicating on his new, foolproof method of slow-roasting the kebabs.

Having my parents live at our house was more comforting than I would have thought. Blessedly, Josh’s parents had been fine during the pandemic in their own oversize place; (also blessedly) they had inherited enough money to stay put. They were attended by a housekeeper named Roswitha; though reluctant to disturb any dust, she was a whiz at turning out strudel. My in-laws were totally content with their daily routine, which began with fresh-squeezed orange juice and ended with half a bottle of Rémy Martin cognac.

My mom and dad, however, were neither rolling in money nor catered to by a live-in strudelmeister. Their place in Forest Hills—the same apartment in which I’d grown up—was nice enough by city standards. Two bedrooms, so my dad, fifteen years into his retirement, could lean back on the giant recliner in his den (my ex-bedroom), watch his ginormous TV, and critique cop shows. He missed work so much that the cops on Netflix and Amazon Prime became his buddies. My mom said the only time he wasn’t listless was when he was worrying about his favorite characters: Would hefty Andri Ólafsson have a heart attack trudging through the snow after killers in Siglufjörður and Reykjavík? Would Bosch deliberately walk into a bullet?

Pre-pandemic, my mom had spent many of her days auditioning, seeing her theater friends, going to shows, now and then acting in a commercial or uttering two weepy lines on Law and Order. Earlier in her career she’d played Mrs. Alving in Ghosts off-off-Broadway and Tinsley Bancroft for half a season on Days of Our Lives. But as the virus spread, she told me in her entre nous voice that if it weren’t for her iPad (alternating between reading e-books and watching free Shakespeare on YouTube), she would have gone “utterly mad.”

When the lockdowns began, Josh, Eliza, and I had held a family conference around pizza at the kitchen table about whether we should invite them to join us in our house. The discussion didn’t take long. By the time Eliza nabbed the last bit of mozzarella from the bottom of the pizza box, the notion of my parents staying with us had moved from suggestion to strong agreement. Well, they were the Most Popular Older Couple in our lives, though that was hardly a contest.

There was plenty of room for all of us to have our own space, since our house was larger than even the average Long Island McMansion—unfortunately, it was also just as stylish. Josh had clearly found many qualities to adore in Dawn, but exquisite selection of home furnishings couldn’t have been one of them. The grand entrance foyer had pinkish-white marble floors, the living room and our bedroom were dominated by grand, rosy mantels, and several of the bathrooms looked as if they’d been made from the same slab of blush marble with unfortunate red spider veins.

My parents moved into the guest suite—a massive bedroom along with a reading nook the size of the average studio apartment. My dad claimed half the nook for a recliner and his dream TV and ceded the other half to my mom as her library. He sweetened the deal by buying Bluetooth headphones so he could watch Luther while she read the latest definitive biography of Andy Warhol.

Before Covid, I’d primarily worked as a freelance literary scout. My specialty was seeking out contemporary fiction—and occasional nonfiction as well—that could be translated from Arabic and appeal to Englishspeaking readers. But during the pandemic the demand for books in my niche of Arabic fiction shrank to the size of an olive pit. That left me without the job I admittedly didn’t want.

I hadn’t always been such a homebody. Before I married Josh and adopted Eliza, I had spent more than a decade as a special agent in the FBI. Even now I still did some contract work for them—mostly interrogating Arabic speakers unlucky enough to have attracted the attention of the Bureau. (Back at Queens College, the class in Russian that I’d wanted was closed, so I took Arabic and wound up majoring in it. I sometimes wondered what would have happened if someone who was enrolled in that Russian class had dropped the course right before I went to register. I might not have followed my father’s and grandfather’s footsteps into law enforcement—nor met Josh.)

Lately I had been reluctant to take on more than the occasional FBI contract job. I still had PTSD symptoms from the last case I investigated, in which a killer, who realized I was onto him, kidnapped me. I was held for three days, tied up in a pitch-black attic, before I could escape—all while he described in grisly detail how my imminent death would go down. I finally got out, injured but able to move, by drawing him close enough to upend him with a couple of Krav Maga moves, then smashing his head against the floor, which stopped him just long enough. I’d been practicing Krav Maga, the Israeli martial art, since I was a kid, and at this crucial moment its aggressive street fighting techniques had saved my life.

Even after we were all vaccinated, I didn’t want my parents to go back home. Having them in the house comforted me in the way the presence of mommy and daddy soothes a distressed little girl. Ironic, as I’d probably lost a millimeter of enamel during adolescence by grinding my teeth whenever they spoke.

But having them around meant I was less isolated. I had yet to become part of any scintillating group of friends in our Long Island town of Shorehaven. Or even a non-scintillating group. Well, I did meet up with a Wednesday lunch crew of locals who worked from home; it was a chance to get out of the house. I hadn’t exactly reveled in discussions of wireless mesh networks, but during lockdown I missed their congenial blandness.

Only after my parents came to stay did it hit me how lonely I still was in the suburbs. Sure, I’d gotten to know a couple of great people in town, but I still felt I didn’t belong in this land of lawns and money. With my mom and dad around, conversation brightened. Maybe it was because they brought some Queens to Nassau County.

Their stay in our house wasn’t officially permanent. They still had their apartment. But when they’d begun dropping remarks like “We should probably think about getting back to our place,” Josh astounded me one morning by replying to them, “Why not think about staying?” In a family that felt free to offer contrary opinions on the most minor subject, there were only nods and smiles of agreement.

I was refilling my wineglass and urging some orzo salad on my mom when my dad’s phone chimed. Unlike Eliza, he received texts infrequently enough so that he didn’t mute his notifications for meals. He read, his brow creasing.

“Excuse me. Got to make a quick call,” he said, getting up and walking about twenty feet away under a sycamore—or maybe it was an elm, I still hadn’t lived in the suburbs long enough to remember the difference. My mom and I kept sneaking glances at his end of an inaudible conversation. When he spotted me trying to read his lips, he turned so that all I got was his back. I guessed he wasn’t actually hearing something supersecret, but wanted to preserve the opportunity to present the information to us in his own way.

He ended the call and walked back far more briskly than was lately his style, which rarely rated above a “meander.”

“You’ll never guess who that was!” he proudly announced.

“Who?” my mom breathed, leaning forward, hand on her chest. Compassion, curiosity: I could see how my dad, who generally had zero tolerance for anything that even vaguely resembled bullshit, had fallen in love with—and stayed in love with—her drama.

“Gabriel Salazar. He’s a kid I knew from the precinct. Hell, he’s not a kid anymore. Must be over forty by now. Heard he’s done well. Anyway, he said that they got a call from the New Brunswick PD. They told him April Brown is trying to get in touch with me. Apparently she wound up in Jersey. I told him fine, go ahead and give her my cell.”

“Who’s April Brown?” I asked.

“Do you remember the case—I must have told you about it—Seymour Brown, who laundered money for the Russian mob? He and his wife were asleep one night and someone set their house on fire. Ultimately barely anything left, of them or the house. Some bone fragments here and there, a diamond from her engagement ring, which was in perfect shape. The fire was so hot, though, that the gold band melted and then actually evaporated. But the couple’s little girl—she was only five years old—managed to jump out of her window. Barely a scratch on her. That’s April.”

I did remember.

“It looked like everyone there was . . . not shocked, but surprised. Definitely expected a better class of funeral,” my dad had explained to my mom and teenage me over a far, far smaller dinner table in our kitchen in Queens the night of Seymour and Kim’s service, more than two decades earlier. His unit had just been assigned to investigate the double murder. “Mob-wise,” he went on, “the top bosses get very high-class send-offs. A Mass with a monsignor swinging that gold thing with the incense.”

“Catholics have a deep understanding of stagecraft,” my mom observed, offering one of her highest compliments.

“And for Nicky Clark’s eulogy, they got what they call a presiding elder of the AME Church. That’s a very big deal. And I once saw—at Big Max Pinsky’s funeral—the family had this woman rabbi flown in from LA. A beauty, I have to say. She had strawberry blonde hair. And a reputation as a serious scholar. Anyway, she sang the Twenty-Third Psalm and I swear, I felt like God was right next to me.”

“Marvelous how God shows up for strawberry blondes,” my mom murmured.

My dad seemed irritated by the digression even though he’d started it. He refocused. “The main thing is, Seymour Brown’s funeral wasn’t like any of those. Nothing fancy. Not even quiet simplicity, with big shots paying their respects. Just a sad half hour. Not boo-hoo sad. Crappy sad.”

He went on: The ceremony had been held in a small nondenominational funeral home in Flatlands, a Brooklyn neighborhood that, ever since 1680, had been called “not as bad as it once was.” No ornate coffins. Plain metal urns at the front of the room held the few remaining bits of Seymour and Kim. He’d overheard an attendee whisper that in the ladies’ rooms, the paper hand towel dispensers were unfilled. Not just that, the memorial service was awkwardly brief. “No one from either of their families there—and him being such a successful accountant?” my dad added. “If he’d been alive, he would have died of embarrassment. The whole thing . . . pathetic. Especially considering he should have at least gotten a few curiosity seekers who show up for a funeral after a horrible murder.”

My mom shuddered, then nodded and turned her attention back to her plate. She carefully cut a single string bean into three parts, then spent a few seconds deciding which to choose. Since I’d gotten to my mid-teens, her slo-mo eating stopped being an innocuous quirk and started driving me insane.

When teenage me wasn’t loathing both my parents, I found their eagerness to converse in front of me pathetic; they seemed in the grip of an irrational belief that their lives were compelling. “Dinner table conversation,” they called their talking, as if it were less stultifying than what they said to each other at breakfast.

My dad resumed. “Seymour Brown wasn’t in the mob, not technically. But he was definitely involved with them—laundering money for the worst of the worst. He was supposed to be brilliant at it. But beyond financial fraud, there were at least a couple of felony assaults on his sheet. Vicious stuff. Charges dropped, so obviously he knew someone who knew someone.” He shook his head. “Sickening.”

“I’ve never heard of a violent accountant before,” my mom observed. “At worst, they’re a little pissy.”

“When you looked at him, Seymour didn’t come off like a scumbag. He’d wear these understated custom suits. I heard he had a Swiss watch that cost a fortune. He looked like he was enjoying life, being important in his world. The refined Mr. Seymour Brown—except when he beat the crap out of some maître d’ who gave away his table. Guy spent weeks in the hospital. Seymour was a big shot in life. But in death”—he waved his hand as if to indicate the near-empty funeral—“no one gave a shit. He had no family, no friends, just a schlocky funeral home with plug-in air fresheners.”

“What was the wife like?” my mom prompted. In her right hand, she still held her fork with its inch of string bean, but she used her left to fluff back the deliberately uneven bangs of her new, pixieish hairstyle, which she thought, correctly, made her look both adorable and brainy.

“No one really knew the wife,” he said. “When we did our prelim house-to-house, a few people said she was either quiet or shy. But polite. She was from out of town. Basically, neighbors said she was nice. The closest thing to a negative we heard was the manager of the supermarket where she went. He said, ‘Dumb as a rock.’”

“Attractive?”

My dad shrugged. “We’re working on figuring out what she looked like. Family pictures would have gone up in flames. The perpetrator used a high-temp accelerant.” My dad disdained the cop slang that had made it into the common culture, so “perp” was a rarity. “The neighbors said she was pretty. Beautiful eyes, good figure. The rest sounded okay. Light brown or dark blond hair, a lot of makeup even when she went to pick up a dozen eggs. All we have is a blurry headshot on file at the DMV from her license.”

My mom nodded. “The DMV isn’t known for its luminous photography.” She pronounced the word “lyuuu-minous.” If I hadn’t had baked potato in my mouth, I might have retched. “Did they have children?”

“One. A little girl. Five years old. Her bedroom was on the first floor, and she managed to open her window and jump out! Amazing,” my dad said. “Hardly even a scratch, just a burn where her hand touched the hot doorknob when she tried to leave her room through the door.” He glanced at me for an instant, and then I understood why this case had apparently made a more vivid impression on him than the usual homicide. Like me, the daughter was an only child. Like me also, presumably strong-minded and practical. But unlike me, she was a little kid who had lost everything.

It made an impression on me too. I was more intrigued by my dad’s case than I ever would have admitted, even to myself.

My mom changed the subject, lifting a finger to acknowledge the frivolity of interrupting a sad story of the orphaned little girl, but to set the scene in her mind, she needed to know how big the audience at the funeral home was.

“Thirty, tops,” he told her.

As he was trying to get back on his train of thought, I spoke: “If this Seymour guy’s job was hiding his clients’ dirty money . . .” It was my first contribution to the dinnertime discussion. My parents both turned to me eagerly, shocked but thrilled to find me willingly participating in dinner table conversation. “And if his clients were mainly Russian mob guys, they’d stay away from his funeral, not come out in public to say goodbye. The whole point of money laundering is hiding stuff from the cops or Feds. Right? So why would a criminal show up?” My dad stabbed his finger in my direction: You earned yourself a point there, kiddo.

In the years since, I hadn’t thought much about the sad, empty double funeral of the outwardly successful but ultimately isolated Russian Mafiya–affiliated CPA and his wife with too much makeup. Not even about the orphaned little girl. But my dad had mentioned them regretfully a few times over the years, and I understood that while some cold cases die from neglect, he couldn’t let go of this particular unsolved homicide.

“No offense, but I’m surprised she remembers you,” I commented. “How old was she when that happened?”

“She was only five.” He took an ill-timed bite of shish kebab, sequestered it in his cheek, and continued talking. “We bonded, I guess, when I interviewed her. She really didn’t have anyone. We finally tracked down a relative in Kentucky who took her in. But there was no one in New York, so I sent her holiday and birthday cards, just so she’d know someone cared about that part of her life.” He swallowed, smiling fondly. “She reminded me of you. She always sent me a Christmas card, too, even as a little kid. It was something! The first time, she couldn’t even write yet, so she drew a butterfly. Someone in the family addressed the envelope. After that, every so often she’d send me an update on her life, a letter to the precinct. She did well. Became a professor, I think.”

“What’s money laundering?” Eliza asked, far less contemptuous than I’d been at her age. She liked listening to my dad’s NYPD stories and often got teary when he talked about his partner, Mickey Soong, who was killed on 9/11. Even though she’d joined the high school drama club, Eliza was less enamored of my mom’s Delightful Show Business Anecdotes. She was herself a good enough performer, though, to make my mom feel as charming and witty as she believed herself to be.

“Money laundering doesn’t involve detergent.” My dad laughed and started to explain. I felt Josh wanting to jump in and give a more scholarly explanation from his perspective as a federal judge, but I put my hand on his arm to keep him quiet.

My dad had started a slide into depression on 9/11, and it only accelerated after he retired. He’d come out of it somewhat when he helped me investigate my own case two years earlier, although my getting kidnapped probably hadn’t been a boon to his mental state any more than it had been to mine. Now, as he talked to Eliza about crime, he was more animated than I’d seen him in a while. I wanted him to have his moment.

“If you get a lot of money from committing a crime,” he explained, “you can’t just put it in the bank. Or start buying really expensive stuff. People will ask questions, and they might know you committed a crime. A money launderer moves the money from place to place until it’s so far removed from the crime that criminal earnings look like legal money.” Eliza nodded thoughtfully with furrowed brow.

Later, over blueberry pie, I noticed Josh looking over at me, his head tilted forward with concern. It was only then I realized that I’d pulled out the tiny LED flashlight I always wore as a pendant—or really, an amulet—on a chain long enough so that most of the time it was hidden in my cleavage. Click-click, click-click. My fear of the dark hadn’t diminished since the kidnapping.

The flashlight was the suggestion of Dr. Greenblatt, the cognitive-behavioral therapist I was consulting for PTSD. I’d been initially offended at the suggestion that I get some help. After all, I’d survived. What had happened to me warranted praise, not therapy. “But you were genuinely tortured,” Dr. Greenblatt assured me with unnerving earnestness. Besides therapy and medication, he gave me assorted tips and tricks to begin resuming the life I had chosen over the FBI: underemployed suburban wife and mother.

The little flashlight was meant to put me in control; I got to choose whether I was in the light or the dark. It wound up being more something I could fiddle with—and I clearly needed to fiddle.

My dad’s text notification sound went off again. He peered at his phone. “It’s April,” he said. “She wants to know if I’d have a Zoom call with her.”

“Does she say why?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

He read aloud: “Hi Detective Schottland. This is April Brown. I’m glad I could reach you. I want to set up a time to meet with you over Zoom, if that’s okay. I’ve gotten a little involved in a criminal matter, and I’d love to talk to someone who knows about police procedure, someone I’m sure I can trust.”

“A little involved in a criminal matter?” Josh repeated, more curious than suspicious.

My dad shrugged. “You know what I know,” he told him. “I’m guessing she means she’s a victim, not a perpetrator, or the New Brunswick police would have been the ones to contact me.” He caught my eye. He was mostly worried, but perhaps a tiny bit thrilled.

CHAPTER TWO

My parents were still in the kitchen when Josh and I came in hauling the dinner leftovers and plates. Dad was at the kitchen table with Lulu on his lap. He was mindlessly scratching her chest while she gazed up at him with poignant devotion that dissipated the instant Eliza emerged with her leash, ready for their evening walk. My mom was putting food away, at that moment swaddling three individual spears of asparagus, each in its own blanket of Saran Wrap. She was usually aware of environmental impact, at least for a Boomer, but she had always seemed possessed by some Leftovers Incubus that compelled her to seal up all food in an impenetrable vault, then throw it out two days later anyway since she was sure it had gone bad.

Josh had his own kitchen demons. His system of dishwasher loading had rigorous rules apparent only to him. I sometimes found him correcting my loading after I’d done it, though the dishes seemed to come out no cleaner.

In the first few months of our marriage, it didn’t hit me that he was mildly nuts. Mostly what I did was gaze at him, whatever he was doing, in an awestruck way. How did such a wonder of a man choose me? Or why? It wasn’t a low opinion of myself as much as an exaltation of him. He had the academic distinctions, the decency, the devotion to his daughter. And who could ignore his OMG looks? Golden skin, dark brown hair, and green eyes—not emerald, which would have been too showy, but a subtler jade.

Fifteen minutes earlier, while we were the only two left outside cleaning up, Josh had pressed up against me and whispered what he’d like to do to me, and I’d run my hand down his side and replied huskily, “Soon,” even though we’d done an extended director’s cut version the night before. Now I turned away before any spark of lust could be extinguished by watching him scrape off dishes with his beloved wide yellow spatula—discolored from years of marinara sauce and curry—that he’d dedicated solely to his preloading sacrament.

My dad and I were more alike: methodical when it came to investigatory work, but looser when it came to the rest of life. “Looser” meant anything from indifferent to chaotic. Each of us was content to defer to a spouse who had intense feelings about how to clean sink drain covers.

I sat down next to my dad. “Was it a total shock to you, hearing from April after all these years?” I asked.

He tilted his head and gave it a couple of seconds of thought. “Yes. And no,” he finally said. “Like I said, we weren’t completely out of touch.”

“They found some relatives who took her in?” I rested my chin on the backs of my hands and leaned in, the way I sometimes did when I conducted FBI interviews and the moment came when there was a chance I’d finally hear the whole story. I just had to pause long enough so the witness would want to fill the empty space. And sometimes they did, a terabyte of random observations spilling out. (Although a hardened few just let the silence expand until part of me wanted to cover my ears to deny how overpowering it was.) My dad would have been a tough interviewee. He had no problem letting awkward silences grow.

“So April had relatives . . .” I prodded.

“She did. It took two or three months, but they were able to find Kim Brown’s family—Kim was April’s mother—in Fort Mitchell, a part of Northern Kentucky that’s basically suburban Cincinnati. Never found anyone, not even a fourth cousin, for Seymour. But these people were shocked to see how Kim turned out. She’d run away from home when she was seventeen.”

“Troubled kid?”

His head moved down to his left shoulder, then to his right—repeat, and add a shrug, a Jewish New York cop’s way of saying not really. “No arrests. Mostly a loner, so no gang, bad crowd. She liked older guys with a few bucks who could show her a good time.”

“Any signs of any abuse at home?”

“No. We checked. She was just a kid who was a little on the wild side. Sounded like she was born into the wrong family—they were Massevery-day Irish Catholics, straightlaced. Nice enough people. Lucky we found them. Otherwise they’d have had to put April up for adoption or into foster care.”

I decided to pitch in with the cleanup, but all that was left was the trash. I got up, and as I started to tie the bag handles, I heard my mom telling Josh, “. . . The Tempest, and Helen Mirren played Prospera with such authority,” and he responded with “She was great in Prime Suspect.”

I called out to my dad, “Are you going to reply to her text?”

He walked through the garage with me to the bins outside and lifted the lid. “I did. I mean, how could I not? I’m hoping we can set something up for tomorrow.” Back inside, he leaned against the pantry door and looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to jog his memory. “I just wish I had the case files with me so I could look at them before talking to her.”

My mom, of course, overheard him. “Could that young detective—” she began.

“Gabriel Salazar,” he interrupted.

“Right, Gabriel Salazar. Could he get you the files tomorrow?”

“Possibly,” he answered, then paused to look at his phone, which had just made its loud text noise. “But it looks like I’m talking to her tomorrow. Eleven a.m. Won’t have time to get them from Gabriel.” Josh shot my dad a sympathetic Yeesh, that’s too bad look before turning back to the dishes. My dad added cautiously, “I do have copies of some stuff from cold case files back in the apartment.”

“Really? You’re allowed to bring that stuff home?” I asked.

“Sure!” he answered a bit too buoyantly.

My own training and the skeptical look that passed over Josh’s face—Josh, a federal judge and former prosecutor, could easily spot an iffy law enforcement move from across a kitchen—told me otherwise, but I decided not to push it. My dad seemed to be hinting for a ride to his apartment to pick up the files. Though he had never said it directly, he’d clearly been reluctant to drive at night for a while now. I couldn’t even remember the last time he wanted to do something after dinner other than fall asleep watching TV.

“I could take you over to your place tonight, if you want. That way, you could tell me what you do remember about the case.”

My dad lit up.

I gave Josh a sheepish glance at the implicit cancellation of our evening plans. He pushed off from the center island with a vague air of regret. However, by the time he passed the microwave, I could see his shoulders square, his spirits start to soar—probably he recalled that the treatise on public utility regulation he’d ordered from the Harvard Coop Law School Bookstore had finally arrived.

My mom tilted her head with a small smile, taking the measure of my dad and me. I could tell she was glad to see him excited about something again. Then it hit me that she was also gratified to see me excited about something again, and I wondered just how apparent my PTSD was to everyone around me. With that glance of hers, relieved and benevolent, I understood: very apparent.

Well, we all had lived a three-day nightmare. I’d been terrorized. My family at the time knew something terrible had happened to me, but not what it was. To them, I was just gone.

When I first joined that weekly lunch group of people who worked from home, I told myself, Hey, fun for someone other than me to make my lunch, and while I was at it, I could get to know some of my fellow suburbanites. They were all freelancers, like me: garden planner, political speechwriter, product designer, photo retoucher. We were all looking for professional—and social—connection. But after many tedious salades Niçoises at the local French bistro, La Cuisine Délicieuse, one of the members piqued my curiosity. Something wasn’t right about him. Check it out? Why not? I’d knock back any antidote to boredom. So I investigated him. He found me out and kidnapped me, tying me to a post in a blackened space. He was my captor, and I had to listen to him tell me in harrowing detail about my upcoming death and decomposition. I managed to escape. He wound up behind bars, I wound up with PTSD and a flashlight necklace.

“Corie, if you have an extra moment while you’re there, could you please bring back some books? There are some I’ve been aching to read.”

I waited impatiently as my mom wrote the titles down as if she were doing the calligraphy for a royal wedding invitation.

When we got into the car, my dad turned on the radio. I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping he would be focused on the Mets for the next twenty-five minutes. Unfortunately, he wasn’t. He had never been great at being a passenger. He pointed out tractor trailers and offered advice on my route until we finally merged onto the Grand Central Parkway, which took us close to his apartment. Only then did he sit back and let me drive.

“So, yeah,” he said suddenly after five solid minutes of silence, as we drove past the border from Nassau County into Queens. “Burnt to a crisp.” Homicide cops weren’t famed for their delicacy of expression. “Even the springs in their mattress melted. Believe me, the Bureau of Fire Investigation, a couple of techs from the ME’s office, and our people all sifted through the rubble. Just a diamond and some bone fragments. No DNA could even be extracted.”

“Do you think they could get any if they looked at it now?”

“Almost definitely not. When a fire burns intensely and for a long time, it can even destroy any detectable DNA. There will be nothing to test, even in bones and teeth. You remember that was an issue in 9/11, where they couldn’t identify a good number of the remains? And that horrible fire in London—that apartment building, just a few years ago. What was it called again?”

“Grenfell Tower,” I answered, and he pointed at me, as if to say, That’s the one. “So how did you know Seymour and Kim were both killed? Because they weren’t there anymore?”

“Yes, and April—the little girl—told us that both her parents were home. Her parents kissed her good night. She heard them going upstairs.”

“It’s technically possible that one or both of them escaped, then.”

“Yeah, technically, though if the wife escaped, there was no reason for her not to come forward. Even if she were scared that someone would try again to hurt her, she’d be at least as worried about her daughter and would want to claim her. We considered whether Seymour faked his own death. But he not only left his kid—and everyone we spoke to said he really loved her—he left behind a good chunk of money and jewelry in a safe-deposit box. It would have been easy enough for him to withdraw it and set it up for a new life, if that’s what he was doing. A guy like him doesn’t leave millions for no reason.”

I nodded. A minute later I asked, “Who did you suspect, then?” (Yes, I knew it was “whom,” but self-consciously proper grammar was a class issue for my dad, a nudge by the uppers to remind him not to inhale too much of their purified air.)

“Well, you know. Seymour was mobbed up. He wasn’t officially in the Russian Mafiya—the Vory, that’s what they call themselves. Sometimes Bratva.”

“Vory,” I repeated. I’d heard that term during my FBI days, though I hadn’t dealt with them directly.

“He was, well, a professional. A CPA. The kind of guy you keep on retainer or consult,” he said. “A freelancer.”

“Like me!” I said cheerfully.

“Slightly different,” he said with a rueful sideways grin.

“He would have fit right in at our Wednesday freelancers’ lunch. Criminal background was no obstacle.”

My dad’s face darkened a bit. “As much of a putz as Seymour Brown was—and he was absolutely a putz—he doesn’t compare to the asshole who hurt you.” As if on cue, my leg started to hurt. I’d injured it during the kidnapping and had gotten a nasty infection. Skin grafts and plastic surgery helped. At this point, a year later, the pain was less frequent, although my prospects as a catcher in the majors were fucked, as was my sleek-skinned allure in a bathing suit.

We drove on, both quiet for a while. “Anyway,” I said to get him back on track.

“Anyway,” he repeated, trying to refocus.

“He worked for the Russians, right? Not the Colombians or the Italians.”

“Mostly just Russians, who had really come into their own in the US at that point. Especially in Brooklyn.”

“Did he do any legitimate work?” I asked.

“He hadn’t in a while. Working for the Russians got him a nice life, nice house, nice part of Brooklyn. Everything was nice. Or it seemed that way until someone decided he had to be killed. And, you know, if they wanted to, they could have just given him a clean shot to the medulla. But this was no ordinary hit. Someone wanted him to die horribly, and he did. Fucking arson. They didn’t even care that his wife and child would go. Maybe they were collateral damage. Or possibly a part of a message: Screw us over and not only are you dead, but so is your family.”

“Were the killers definitely aware of Kim’s and April’s existence?”

“No way to know for sure,” he said.

I leaned back against the headrest, then glanced over at my dad. He’d closed his eyes as if he were falling asleep, but then he opened them. “I remember checking with the Brooklyn Department of Buildings to see if anyone had come in and asked about the architectural plans for that address. I first asked them to look up the name, but it turns out the house wasn’t even in their name—it was bought by a shell company. It was an old place, built in the twenties. Before they moved in, they had some construction done. Totally rewired, new oil burner. Made a master bathroom, bedroom, walk-in closets upstairs—that wasn’t so common back then. The plans showed the kid’s room downstairs, but like lawyers say, it was moot. Nobody had asked to see the plans since they were filed.”

“You said his name was Brown. Doesn’t sound Russian.”

“Who knows what he was. It was like he came out of nowhere. We never found any relatives, where he grew up, where he went to school—anything. Used to tell people his motto was ‘obscurity is security.’ But it’s not like he followed that to the letter. Once, when a driver leaned on a car horn too long, Seymour got out of his own car, reached through the other guy’s open window, and smashed his head against the steering wheel. Why? There was no money in it. No power, cracking some nobody’s head.” My dad rubbed his temples. “Another time he got arrested. They found this young guy naked and crying near one of the offices Seymour used. The guy swore up and down that Seymour had falsely accused him of sneaking into the office and had stripped him and beat the shit out of him. But the grand jury declined to indict.”

I gave him a side-eye to indicate Are you fucking kidding me? and he said, “I know, I know. Anyway, not Mr. Good Guy. ‘A total piece of shit, but a great dresser.’ That’s what one of his clients said in an interview.”

“So you suspected the Mafiya? The Vory?”

“How could we not? They’re vicious, and he was one of the major guys in charge of hiding their money. So we suspected them from the getgo. Even though we never came up with solid evidence against any of the clients, we could never rule any of these bastards out completely.”

I was no Vory expert, though I’d come across some US Russian mobsters selling weapons to Jemaah Islamiyah, al-Shabaab, and al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. Guys in the Russian mob were beyond vicious: they’d think burning down someone’s home with them in it should be classified as a misdemeanor. The Russians weren’t like the Italian Mafia, structured around families, and not like Colombian and Mexican gangs. They were more individual entrepreneurs, each with a small pack of employees. They’d hook up with others for a big job but then go their own way. Some terror cells I’d investigated in my years at the FBI operated on the same model.

“In the end, they weren’t our primary suspects,” my dad said. “There was a good amount of money the Vory couldn’t get back, because Seymour had it hidden in all these shell companies or whatever. Fortunes were lost by him dying. I heard they even changed their accounting procedures to make sure it couldn’t happen again.”

“Like any responsible enterprise,” I muttered.

“Well, yeah,” my dad agreed. “It’s not like they aren’t sophisticated businessmen. Our main suspect was Seymour’s assistant, or partner, or whatever he was. Guy named Hosea Williams. Very smart guy, no education, came from Appalachia or something. West Virginia? Lots of mountains, no money. But he taught himself everything. Taught himself Spanish when he was living in Chicago so he could deal with the Mexican cartels; then, when he got to New York, he learned Russian—which Seymour never managed to do. Seymour taught him accounting, and it seemed like he picked it up real quick.”

Pointing out the window, he said, “Oho! Look at that!” as if he’d just won the lottery. There was, miraculously, an open parking space directly in front of my parents’ building. I parallel parked, and he grinned rapturously at the thought that he wouldn’t have to walk an extra couple of blocks. As we walked to the front door, he started patting his pockets, looking for his keys. I was ready to strangle him if it turned out that he left them at home, but he victoriously fished them out of his shirt pocket and jingled them in front of me. As he let us in the building, I asked, “So why did you suspect this guy? The language guy?”

“Hosea,” my dad answered, jabbing at the elevator button. “Apparently he’d made a big scene in a restaurant not long before the murder. He was screaming at Seymour, saying that he was hiding money and not giving Hosea his fair cut. It was a fancy place. People had their wives with them. That just isn’t done, even in those circles. Hosea told us that he and Seymour had made up, though who knows if that’s true. We never found anything else in the way of actual evidence.”

“If Seymour was hiding money from Hosea, he might have been hiding money from the Vory, too,” I observed.

“Yeah, that’s one reason we never entirely ruled out the Vory,” he said.

As we stepped into the elevator together with one big simultaneous stride, the same way we always had since I was a kid, I asked, “Anyone else?”

He hummed and screwed up his face a bit. “Trying to remember.” I was already impressed with his recall of the case, which was better than mine for cases I’d worked on only a few years earlier. “There was a chauffeur, a driver, whatever. He’d stopped showing up for work a few days before the murders. So that was weird. But I think he had an alibi.”

As we entered the apartment, I was relieved that my mother had decided to stay back. There was a funky smell—if you gave it a couple more weeks, it would be a stench. Dad and I wouldn’t have been able to leave until she’d scrubbed the entire place with bleach. But I wasn’t even sure my dad noticed. I made a mental note to call for a cleaning service to visit. Meanwhile, as we walked around the place, I hoped my father wouldn’t get homesick and decide he needed to move back.

Having my parents live with us had given Josh something important, too. He’d grown up in a family that believed geniality was a pleasing quality and enjoyed watching others laugh. Josh never doubted that his parents loved him. But they believed “I love you” should be saved for birthdays and ICU visits. Effusive Jews like my parents embarrassed them. Also, those whose pretentions were a tad too obvious made their skin crawl. I noted my mother-in-law’s poorly suppressed wince when my mom said “I cahn’t abide . . .” Josh found himself enjoying being part of a more gregarious and affectionate family, even if half the time he watched us like we were a spectator sport.

And Eliza, who had lost her mom so young, was buttressed by the support system my parents provided. She listened with surprising patience to my mom’s Naughty Anecdotes about “the Woody Harrelson I knew.” The two of them also continued the collaboration they’d started during the pandemic, baking two recipes a week from a cookbook called Pastry Love. Eliza and my dad bonded when they spent days in the garage sawing off, sanding, and restaining the posts on her bed and making a new headboard.

Other than the mustiness, my parents’ apartment looked as lovely as it always had, and I was taken aback by the pang of wistfulness I felt. Though on a budget, my mother had scoured flea markets and estate sales to make this small apartment in Forest Hills a beautiful home. She intuited the appeal of clean mid-century modern well before every millennial couple on home redecorating shows avowed their love for the look, but she’d managed to give it a homey appeal as well. In our Long Island house I had no neighbors blasting TV late at night, more closet space than I knew what to do with, a yard, a kitchen stove with six burners. I didn’t have to collect quarters and go to the basement to do my laundry. I had not only a master suite, but a living room separate from the TV room. Josh and I each had our own office. Yet part of me yearned for the old apartment in Queens, even for the radiators that clanged like sledgehammers every couple of hours; that sound meant a cold winter night as much as icicles sparkling on tree branches in Shorehaven.

While my dad looked for the files, I started searching for my mom’s books. It took forever, as she had a ton of them, and though they were neatly placed on the shelves, they were in no discernible order. “Fuck!” I heard my dad yell from the front hall, and I popped my head around to see him precariously balanced on a step stool, trying to pull down a large, heavy-looking banker’s box directly overhead.

“Here, let me . . .” I said, stepping into the closet, but he shooed me away. I saw him glance toward an ancient Bonwit Teller hatbox on the shelf near the banker’s box. He didn’t seem to have a clue, but I had known since I was thirteen that inside the hatbox was a locked metal box, and my mom had admitted, after much badgering, that it contained a gun. Despite the smallness of the apartment, I never did find where he kept the ammo.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” he said, but to his annoyance, I stayed watching him until he had gotten the banker’s box down safely. It was labeled 1990–2001. He slipped off the top and almost immediately pulled out a hanging file labeled BROWN, SEYMOUR AND KIM.

He opened it, saying, “It doesn’t have everything, just a few items I wanted to remember in case I ever decided to reexamine the case.” I saw him flip through some floor plans, photos that looked like they’d been printed out from a computer on regular paper, a folder labeled INTERVIEW WITH HOSEA WILLIAMS. He pulled out another folder, INTERVIEW WITH APRIL BROWN.

“This is what I wanted to read before I talk to her tomorrow.”

The musty smell of the apartment was getting to me. Plus it was past my dad’s usual bedtime. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s take it home and we’ll read it first thing in the morning.” We gathered the books, the banker’s box, and the hanging file and went out into the night.