depending on proximity. Their instructions were to shuttle between addresses and watch each location for activity consistent with a kidnapping situation. Whatever the hell that meant. Boland apologized, saying he had been led to believe they intended to be more aggressive.
"Let me ask you this," Boland said, adjusting the volume on the police radio. "Lukin ever tap you for bodyguard duty?"
"Occasionally. I was mostly just a courier. I picked up and dropped off packages."
"And you have no idea what was inside those packages."
"I made it a point not to know. Put me on the lie detector."
"Just breaking your balls, Eddie. He ever talk business when you were around?"
"Probably. But he did it in Russian."
Almost twenty-four hours since they'd snatched Kate, and still no ransom call. A cold fear lingered in the back of Eddie's mind. Would this massive police presence force the kidnappers to make Borodenko's problem disappear? The Russians knew a thousand ways to make that happen. Eddie's stomach churned with the realization that he'd put his trust in people more worried about legal niceties than about his daughter. He began making notations, his own priorities. The identity of Borodenko's hatchet man Sergei Zhukov would stay with him for now.
Boland said, "Whatta you figure's Lukin's main source of income?"
"Pump-and-dump scams on Wall Street. Then Medicare, and other insurance scams, staged accidents. Crimes dealing with paper."
"I heard the score on the gasoline-tax scam alone was over a hundred million."
"That was before I worked for him," Eddie said.
He gave Boland a brief rundown on Lukin's rise to criminal power in Brooklyn. Shortly after his arrival in the seventies, Lukin began working for the brutal crime boss Evesi Volshin, who ran gambling, loan-sharking, and extortion rackets in Brighton Beach. Volshin's victims were almost exclusively his own people. When
Lukin arrived, he introduced Volshin to paper scams, including the lucrative gasoline-tax scam. As the money poured in, Volshin became more and more convinced he was invincible. Not a single Russian tear was shed when Volshin was shot to death in a crowded restaurant in 1984, the third time he'd been shot that year. Lukin took over and the focus shifted entirely to paper crimes.
"Tell me how he rips off Medicare," Boland said.
"Easiest way to become a millionaire, according to Lukin. All you need is a doctor's Medicare number and a post office box. He started with fake clinics, generating millions in phony claims. Toward the end, he didn't even bother with the clinic. He just shuffled paper."
"Nobody checks that shit?"
"By the time they get around to checking, he's a few million ahead. All the investigators find is an abandoned post office box."
"What happens if they get lucky and grab someone picking up the checks?"
"That person makes bail, then disappears to the mother country."
Boland picked at the warm loaf of caraway bread Eddie had bought from the bakery on Brighton Beach Avenue. In his left hand, he held a container of coffee, which he balanced on the dashboard. A circle of steam formed on the windshield.
"What do you figure Lukin did with all his money?" Boland said. "Guys like him squeeze a nickel until the buffalo squeals. My guess is he'd be happy just to dump it in a big pit and roll around in it like Scrooge McDuck."
"Yeah, that's probably what he does."
"The word on the street is that he's got a pile of cash hidden somewhere."
"He doesn't pile cash, Matty. His office shelves are lined with about a dozen black binders filled with the paperwork on dummy corporations. It's going to take the government accountants years to figure out where he's hidden it."
The surf pounded steadily behind them. It was just the two of them in the confiscated limo. Boland sipped his coffee as he waited for Lukin to reach the corner. His job was to follow Lukin from his home to the subway, then alert the next segment of the tail. Thanks to Eddie, they
"Let me ask you this," Boland said, adjusting the volume on the police radio. "Lukin ever tap you for bodyguard duty?"
"Occasionally. I was mostly just a courier. I picked up and dropped off packages."
"And you have no idea what was inside those packages."
"I made it a point not to know. Put me on the lie detector."
"Just breaking your balls, Eddie. He ever talk business when you were around?"
"Probably. But he did it in Russian."
Almost twenty-four hours since they'd snatched Kate, and still no ransom call. A cold fear lingered in the back of Eddie's mind. Would this massive police presence force the kidnappers to make Borodenko's problem disappear? The Russians knew a thousand ways to make that happen. Eddie's stomach churned with the realization that he'd put his trust in people more worried about legal niceties than about his daughter. He began making notations, his own priorities. The identity of Borodenko's hatchet man Sergei Zhukov would stay with him for now.
Boland said, "Whatta you figure's Lukin's main source of income?"
"Pump-and-dump scams on Wall Street. Then Medicare, and other insurance scams, staged accidents. Crimes dealing with paper."
"I heard the score on the gasoline-tax scam alone was over a hundred million."
"That was before I worked for him," Eddie said.
He gave Boland a brief rundown on Lukin's rise to criminal power in Brooklyn. Shortly after his arrival in the seventies, Lukin began working for the brutal crime boss Evesi Volshin, who ran gambling, loan-sharking, and extortion rackets in Brighton Beach. Volshin's victims were almost exclusively his own people. When
Lukin arrived, he introduced Volshin to paper scams, including the lucrative gasoline-tax scam. As the money poured in, Volshin became more and more convinced he was invincible. Not a single Russian tear was shed when Volshin was shot to death in a crowded restaurant in 1984, the third time he'd been shot that year. Lukin took over and the focus shifted entirely to paper crimes.
"Tell me how he rips off Medicare," Boland said.
"Easiest way to become a millionaire, according to Lukin. All you need is a doctor's Medicare number and a post office box. He started with fake clinics, generating millions in phony claims. Toward the end, he didn't even bother with the clinic. He just shuffled paper."
"Nobody checks that shit?"
"By the time they get around to checking, he's a few million ahead. All the investigators find is an abandoned post office box."
"What happens if they get lucky and grab someone picking up the checks?"
"That person makes bail, then disappears to the mother country."
Boland picked at the warm loaf of caraway bread Eddie had bought from the bakery on Brighton Beach Avenue. In his left hand, he held a container of coffee, which he balanced on the dashboard. A circle of steam formed on the windshield.
"What do you figure Lukin did with all his money?" Boland said. "Guys like him squeeze a nickel until the buffalo squeals. My guess is he'd be happy just to dump it in a big pit and roll around in it like Scrooge McDuck."
"Yeah, that's probably what he does."
"The word on the street is that he's got a pile of cash hidden somewhere."
"He doesn't pile cash, Matty. His office shelves are lined with about a dozen black binders filled with the paperwork on dummy corporations. It's going to take the government accountants years to figure out where he's hidden it."
The surf pounded steadily behind them. It was just the two of them in the confiscated limo. Boland sipped his coffee as he waited for Lukin to reach the corner. His job was to follow Lukin from his home to the subway, then alert the next segment of the tail. Thanks to Eddie, they
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