“Your father was a brother to me,” Aleks said. “A vennaskond. Do you know what this means?”

Kolya nodded, but Aleks believed the young man did not fully understand the bond. Young American men like Kolya, men on the fringes of criminal society, gauged their belief of “gang” life and its fragile loyalties on what they saw in the movies and on television, on what they heard on the radio. His father and Aleks had been tested in battle. He continued.

“I am going to treat you with trust, with respect,” Aleks said. “But I will not put my life in your hands. Do you understand this?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I understand.”

“And if you cross me, just once, you will not see me coming, nor will you see another dawn.”

Kolya tried to hold his gaze, but failed. He looked away. When he looked back, Aleks had the money out.

“I need the following things,” he said. “Do not write them down.” He then dictated a list, a list that included a fast laptop computer, a high-megapixel DSLR camera, a portable color printer, photo-quality paper, and a half dozen prepaid cellphones.

“You can buy these things now?” Aleks asked.

“Hell yeah.”

“Do you have a driving license?”

“Sure.”

“May I see it?”

Kolya hesitated, apparently not used to producing ID on demand. He then took out a bulky wallet, a scuffed leather billfold attached to a chain. He extracted his license. Before leaving Tallinn, Aleks had looked up New York licenses on the Web, had studied a JPEG of the document. Kolya’s permit looked genuine.

“Can you get me a license like this?”

“No problem,” Kolya said. “What’s the name and address?”

“I don’t know yet,” Aleks said. “When you come back we will take the picture. Then we will begin.”

As Kolya walked across the garage, he motioned to Omar, who emerged from the office. Moments later, the two men left the shop.

ONE HOUR LATER Kolya returned, four large bags in hand. While Kolya was gone, Aleks looked through every drawer and file cabinet in the office. He had all the information he needed on the young man – his home address, phone numbers, cell numbers, social security number, bank accounts. He had them all memorized. Although his recall was not quite photographic, he had an eidetic talent for recollection. His greatest faculty was thoroughness. He kept both his enemies and friends at hand. In his experience, one had the potential to become the other at a moment’s notice. Often, with no notice at all.

“Any problems?” Aleks asked.

Kolya shook his head. “Cash talks, bro.”

After unpacking the bags and boxes inside, Aleks booted the laptop. He got through all the opening screens, launched the web browser, and began to surf the Internet for what he needed.

He soon found the official documents he needed online, hooked up the printer, and printed them.

While the laptop battery charged, he unpacked the DSLR camera, a Nikon D60. He slipped in a high-capacity SD memory card and, when the battery held sufficient charge to take a few images, he had Kolya render five close-up photographs of him standing in front of a white wall. He hooked the camera up to the laptop, launched the image program, and printed off the photographs on high-quality, semi-gloss paper.

An hour later he was ready. He gave Kolya the trimmed photographs. “At some time today I will have the name and address I need for this driving license.”

Kolya nodded. “I’ll have Omar take this to my man and he’ll get it set up. All we have to do is call with the info and he’ll get right on it. We could have it within the hour.”

“Do you trust this man? This forger?”

“He did a lot of work for my father.”

This was good enough for Aleks. “Do you still have enough money to cover this?”

Aleks saw the slight hesitation in Kolya’s response. There was no question that there was enough money left over from what Aleks had earlier given the young man, but they were all thieves in this room. The hesitation spoke to instinct, more than reason. Perhaps involuntarily, Kolya’s eyes dipped to Aleks’s tattoos, and what they meant.

“I’m good,” Kolya said.

“Good,” Aleks replied. He slipped on his coat. “Are you ready to do this?”

Kolya shot to his feet. He held up a set of keys. “We’ll take the H2. Go to Queens in style, yo.”

Aleks unplugged the fully charged laptop, slipped it into its carrying case. “We need to make one more stop first. Are there places near here that sell hardware? Tools? We will need these things.” Aleks handed Kolya a list. Kolya scanned it.

“Home Depot,” Kolya said, handing it back.

Aleks took the list back, burned it in an ashtray. “Will they have all these things in one store?”

Kolya laughed. “Bro,” he said. “This is America.”

EIGHT

The Austin Ale House was famous for many things, not the least of which was its propensity to welcome any number of members of the Queens district attorney’s office in the front door, and discreetly help them out the back door a few hours later. Many times, when a major case was won, the DA’s office celebrated the victory in the bar/restaurant/Off Track Betting parlor on Austin Street.

The site was also famous – or more accurately infamous – for being the site of the 1964 Kitty Genovese murder, and subsequent legend. Kitty Genovese was a young woman who was stabbed to death in the parking lot, and cried for help as she crawled across the frozen asphalt toward her apartment. According to numerous reports, neighbors who heard her pleas failed to respond, although over the years this notion has come into question. Regardless, the syndrome had become part of the justice system lexicon, dubbed the “bystander effect” or, if you lived in Queens, the Genovese Syndrome.

None of this was ever far from the minds of the prosecutors, cops, and support personnel who elbowed the mahogany at the Austin. Over the interceding years, many a glass had been raised in the name and legend and memory of Catherine Susan Genovese.

Michael had driven Falynn Harris to her foster parent’s home in Jackson Heights. They had talked for nearly two hours. During that time Michael walked her carefully through the case, twice, and she had proven himself remarkably perceptive and bright, far beyond her fourteen years. Michael knew that if she had half the poise and strength on the stand, the defense would not shake a single branch.

But it was on the drive back to her foster home that something remarkable happened. Michael told Falynn about the murder of his own parents. It just seemed to come out in one long sentence. Except for Abby, he had never told another living soul the whole story; about his fears, his unrelenting grief, his anger.

Was this wrong? Had he crossed the line? There was little doubt in his mind that he had. But he knew why he had done it. He had one chance of putting Patrick Ghegan away for life, and that chance was Falynn Harris. He needed her to be not only intellectually engaged, but emotionally engaged.

When he finished his story, Falynn just stared at him. She dabbed her eyes while he was telling the tale, but now her eyes – although a bit red – were dry. She almost looked a bit matronly.

“What does that saying mean?” she asked.

“Which one?”

“The one your mom said to you right before, you know . . .”

Michael had told her about this, then instantly regretted it. It was something planted deeply in the garden of his soul, and he did not let many people in. “Zhivy budem, ne pomryom,” he said. “If we will be alive, we will not die.”

Falynn looked out the passenger window for a few moments. It had begun to rain. She looked back at Michael. “What do you think that means really?”

“I have a few ideas,” Michael said. “What do you think it means?”

Falynn gave him a beguiling smile. “I’ll tell you when this is all over.”