Even in the gloaming, the name on the stern was clear. Odessa.
The three men in Langley continued to observe without speaking. Without any sound it was eerie as the minutes ticked by, infrared lighting allowing them to follow the images of the group climbing onto the large yacht as the two men near the jetty remained perfectly still. Suddenly there was a brief flash from where the two figures were positioned behind the rocks. Then, an instant later, the head of one of the men boarding the yacht jerked violently, and he fell backward into the sea.
It was over.
Sandor took a deep breath, then turned away with a mixed sense of satisfaction and sadness, knowing that he had kept his promise to Farrar and a silent pledge to Lilli.
EPILOGUE
Two days later Sandor telephoned Bill Sternlich to say he was back home. Sternlich offered to meet him for a drink, but Sandor declined.
“Not today, Bill. I have something to take care of. Some other time.” Sandor took a cab crosstown to Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The building was a classic four-story tenement, no doorman, no elevator. Old-school New York. He had called in advance, spoken with the building superintendent and explained his business. He met the man out front, a squat, dark-skinned Hispanic wearing a tired expression and a stained gray T-shirt. The man did not seem all that impressed when Sandor flashed his federal ID, but he did give his full attention to the green and beige picture of Benjamin Franklin he was handed.
The super held out the key. Sandor took it and said, “She’s not coming back.”
The short man blinked. “That right?”
“I’ll have someone send the landlord a formal notice. Then you can clean out the apartment.” Sandor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We haven’t been able to locate a next of kin. You ever see her with anyone?”
The super shook his head. “Some different guys, you know how it goes with a good-looking girl in this town.”
“Nothing steady?”
“Nah. Nice girl, though. Always friendly.” He shook his head. “Gone, eh?”
Sandor nodded.
“Sorry to hear it,” the man said, but he did not ask how or why.
“Sorry to have to tell you,” Sandor replied. He turned from the super and climbed the front stairs, entered the building, and headed up three flights to apartment 3E. He paused there, key in hand, then unlocked the door.
The apartment was small, the sort of place he figured Lilli Mindlovitch would have lived in. The foyer was just large enough to accommodate both Sandor and the open door. The area that passed for a living room could barely contain a modern-looking love seat, a round-backed chair, and an étagère that held a television, some books, and an assortment of photographs.
Sandor had a look at the pictures. Lilli with friends, Lilli as a young girl, and Lilli with an attractive older woman he assumed was her mother. For a moment he thought of his own mother, then decided to let that go.
He turned away and checked the kitchen, which was so tight he could hardly move without bumping into a wall or a cabinet. The refrigerator was emptier than his, which was saying something. The bathroom was even smaller than the kitchen, but it was neat and clean and full of shelves holding every sort of cream, cosmetic and lotion.
He went back to the living room and picked up one of the photos. It was unmistakably Lilli as a teenager, which was not all that long ago. She was standing on a beach someplace with a big smile that was framed by her long, windblown hair.
There was no reason for her to die, Sandor told himself. Too many people die for the wrong reasons. Some, like Lilli, die for no reason at all. He had another look at the photo, then carefully replaced the picture on the shelf, as if it were important that it be placed in the same spot he found it.
He stood there for a moment, looking around one last time, bearing witness to all that remained of the existence of Lilli Mindlovitch. Then he knew there was nothing more for him to do, that it was time to leave. He headed for the door but stopped and went back to the living room. He picked up one of the more recent photographs, deciding he would keep that one, telling himself it would be fine. There was no one left who would care.
As he turned to leave with the photograph in hand, he pulled out his cell and dialed Sternlich. “Hey Bill,” he said. “Let’s go get that drink.”
ABOUT JEFFREY S. STEPHENS
JEFFREY S. STEPHENS is the author of the revered Jordan Sandor thrillers, Targets of Deception and Targets of Opportunity. A native New Yorker who began his career as a novelist while working in private practice as a lawyer, he lives in Greenwich, Connecticut, with his wife, Nancy. They have two sons. Visit him at jeffreystephens.com.