“I don’t allow bags in the courtroom,” Victor said. “Everyone must follow that rule, I’m afraid.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have an X-ray scanner or a metal detector.”
Lauren waited for him to laugh, chuckle or grin to show he was kidding. He didn’t do any of those things. Instead he stared at her bag and waited. Lauren lifted her wallet and computer out of her bag.
“The wallet, yes,” Victor said. “The computer, I’m afraid not. No cell phones, no electronic devices of any kind. I can assure you your computer will be safe inside this kitchen. There are only my nephews here. I trust them with my life.”
No phones or electronic devices, Lauren thought. The parties to this dispute were starting to pique her interest. Lauren slipped the computer back in the bag.
Victor eyed the purse. “If you give me your word there is no weapon or tape recorder, I won’t insult you by asking to look inside.”
She was the one who chuckled. Popped the purse open and unzipped the change compartment. Tilted it toward Victor so he could see inside.
He grimaced, as though mortified she was being subjected to such scrutiny, and threw his right hand up in disgust for good measure. But he still snuck a look inside.
“This way to the courtroom,” he said.
He turned and headed up a narrow flight of L-shaped stairs. Lauren followed. Victor’s earlier words resonated. He called the two parties to the dispute “enterprising types.” His obsession about recording devices suggested something sensitive was going to be discussed. His concern about security meant the visitors to his courtroom could get violent. Probably had been violent in the past.
What if by “enterprising types” he meant criminals? What if she was walking into a mock courtroom where mob disputes were resolved? Obon said that Victor Bodnar made his fortune in the food business. He didn’t look like any baker, farmer, or grocery store operator she’d ever seen. What was she walking into?
Not a nice little story. A great story, Lauren thought. One that could catapult her out of the sports section and onto the front page.
The stairs opened up to a second floor with a narrow corridor and three doors. She followed Victor into what she guessed was originally a bedroom. It contained a rectangular wooden table with two empty chairs on one side, and three chairs on the other. The parties to the dispute sat on the latter side with an empty chair between them. It looked like an imaginary boundary, a buffer to prevent an accidental elbow that might lead to fisticuffs.
Except the parties to the dispute were grandmothers in Sunday dresses. One wore white gloves, the other a black hat to match her dress. The one with the white gloves held a cane. The other wore a hearing aide. At first Lauren wondered if it was a joke. But then she studied the expressions on the women’s faces and she knew that for them, it was no joke at all.
One of the nephews marched into the room. He stood beside Victor, who turned to Lauren.
“We must speak Ukrainian. But my nephew will translate for you.”
Victor gave a speech. His nephew bent down on one knee and translated into Lauren’s ear.
“We’re here to settle an argument. One person has been harmed. The other person is accused. The wronged party is demanding compensation from the other for lost income. This is a courtroom. Verdicts are final. There is no appeal. Punishment if you don’t follow the court’s verdict will be quick and severe. Do both of you agree to be bound by this courtroom? The verdict and the sentencing?”
Both women nodded.
“Very well,” Victor said. He stood up, moved to the other side of the table, and sat down in the empty chair between the two women facing Lauren. He grasped one woman’s hand with his left, the other’s with his right. “You both grew up in the same village in Ukraine. Together you’ve served the best hunter’s stew in town in your little restaurant for over twenty years. How did it come this far?”
“She’s a philistine,” one said. “She wants to use cabbage instead of beetroot and add lemon to the borscht.”
The other one bristled. “We get a customer asking for this every week.”
“Who cares what the customer asks for? If he asked for turpentine in a glass, would you serve it? Only Russians use nothing but cabbage. Only Russians add lemon to their borscht. I will not serve Russian dishes in my restaurant.”
And so it went on for ten minutes. Eventually Victor persuaded them to compromise on adding the Russian version of borscht to their specials.
“A good host is a humble host,” Victor said. “He puts his guests’ desires above his own. And a Ukrainian restaurant should maintain its purity. There’s enough confusion about Ukraine and Russia.”
Victor’s nephew escorted the women out.
Lauren followed Victor back to the kitchen. She returned her wallet to her bag, which was exactly where she left it.
“That wasn’t what I expected,” she said. “Why the concern about security and electronic devices to resolve a dispute between two cooks?”
“Disputes in my courtroom involve all sorts of people. I found it best to keep a consistent set of rules and apply them to everyone. That way there’s no risk of an unpleasant surprise. People aren’t always who they seem to be. Now, what was this boy’s name again? The one you asked Obon about?”
“Bobby Kungenook.”
A light came on in his eyes. “Ah, yes. Bobby Kungenook. I remember that name.”
“You know him?”
“No. My daughter does. She runs a bakery in Brighton Beach. Her protégé, a girl named Iryna, is dating him. Or was, at least. You know how kids are. And now that the boy’s in jail—I must have mentioned it to Obon the next day.”
“What is your daughter’s name? Where exactly is her bakery?”
Lauren got the address for Tara’s bakery.
“Have you seen his guardian, Nadia Tesla, recently?” Lauren said.
Victor frowned. “Who?”
Lauren studied him. He appeared genuinely confused. “Nadia Tesla.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve never met anyone by that name.”
Lauren grabbed her bag and thanked Victor for his hospitality and help.
Victor bowed. “Good luck.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”
“No. I meant with your conscience.”
Lauren smiled and tried to ignore the comment. She didn’t have time to wrestle with the past.
As she climbed down the steps to the street, the contents of her bag shifted to one side. She paused at the base of the stairs to adjust the position of her computer. When she reached in and grabbed it, the metal felt hot to her touch.
That made no sense, she thought. It hadn’t been sitting in the sun and she hadn’t used it for two hours. But it was hot.
Someone else must have turned it on.
Victor’s other nephew. The one who’d been reading the men’s magazine. He must have snuck in and turned it on.
Lauren raced to the Starbucks on Second Avenue. She bolted inside and booted up her computer. There was a way to check if someone had logged on recently. There had to be. But she had no idea how to do it.
Lauren logged in. She asked herself why anyone would want to hack into her computer. Her address book, she thought. It contained passwords for certain websites but they were coded in a manner only she would understand. Is that what Victor Bodnar was after? Were the nephews identity thieves? She had nothing else valuable on her computer. Nothing of any great personal meaning. Nothing of any professional interest to anyone—
Except for the video.
She searched for the video clip of the first time she saw Bobby Kungenook play hockey. It started when an opponent checked him hard into the boards. Bobby fell. But instead of getting up and rushing back to prevent a goal, he paused to pick something up off the ice. A locket tied to a necklace that had come loose from around his neck. Right away Lauren was certain there was something special about that locket.