Manhunt (Michael Bennett 10.50)

And I wanted Temir Marat alive. I had questions to ask him before he was in FBI custody and no one got to talk to him again.

It was true, our last meeting had not gone the way I planned. He was tough and he had skills like no one I had seen in a long time. But I was determined. I had my Glock. And I had a backup revolver on my ankle.

I was as ready as I would ever be.

I exited the highway just before the tunnel that would loop me around to the East Side, parking illegally before I started running through the maze of parks and benches before the water. I scouted the area thoroughly, hoping to see Marat out in public. What the hell, it seemed to happen all the time—fugitives caught by someone who was keeping their eyes open. There had been a baseball hat in my car, left there after the last police league softball game of the season. I’d pulled it on as low as I could, since Marat would no doubt recognize me.

I didn’t see him, so as I approached the Pier A Harbor House, I slowed down to take it all in, peering into some of the windows that didn’t face the water. I finally stepped inside.

The heat inside the restaurant made me realize how strong the chill in the air was, which I hadn’t registered as I ran there. I scouted for other exits and windows while standing in the corner of the bar, noting that a long bar led to the dining room.

There was no one here I recognized. Lewis Vineyard had told me that one of the hitters who bought the guns from him was a well-built man about my height in his early forties, with a distinguishing characteristic of a purple birthmark on his cheek below his left eye. Lewis said the man worked with a tall female who had long black hair. There was no one that fit either of those descriptions that I could see.

I stepped farther into the restaurant, then saw someone I recognized. And frankly, it caught me by surprise. I might even say it shocked me. Sitting alone at a table by a window overlooking the river was Darya Kuznetsova.

What the hell?

I was about to get her attention when it hit me. This couldn’t be a coincidence. What was she doing here? Was she luring Marat to be killed by the Russian mob? Why? Why not do it with her own government people?

That line of questioning led me to wonder—why had she provided a photo of Marat if she just intended to kill him?

Then I understood. At least that part of it. She didn’t have a clue where Marat was hiding. The more people looking for him, the better.

She’s the one who spread the word in the Russian community. That’s how his aunt and uncle knew he was a suspect, why Konstantin said, “I wondered how long it would take the authorities to find us.”

Shit. I was a fool.

Chapter 27

Once I made up my mind, I didn’t dawdle. I stepped up, crossed the room, and sat down directly across from Darya Kuznetsova. I removed my hat like a gentleman, and smiled as if I were her date.

The look on her face and the way her eyes darted around the room told me she didn’t want me there and expected someone else.

Darya took a moment and sipped her water. Then she said, “Hello, Michael, what a surprise.”

I said, “Do you mind if I join you? Are you waiting for someone?”

She gave me a flat stare and said, “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. All cops are curious. I noticed you’re quite curious. Are you a cop in Russia? Or a spy? C’mon, you can trust me.”

“I’ve learned I can trust no one.”

I shrugged and said, “Too bad. Life’s a lot easier with friends.”

Darya said, “It’s longer if you don’t trust friends.” She paused. “You’re very sharp. I’m used to dealing with FBI bureaucrats. You’re not like them at all.”

“Flattery won’t help you now.”

Darya said, “I want this terrorist stopped as much as you do.”

“Dead or alive?”

“That’s how Russia views all terrorist hunts.”

“There’s a lot more to this than just hunting for a fugitive.” I waited while she seemed to ponder my question and consider whether she could trust me.

Finally, Darya said, “Are there factions within the NYPD?”