Chapter 14

The cab let Irena out on Fifth Avenue. As usual a doorman rushed over to usher the elegant older lady into the prestigious Art Deco building. Irena was able to bypass the concierge when he offered to call  Bernie, explaining that she had the key to the twelfth floor apartment.

Vika had given her the key and she often used it since Bernie was rarely at home during the day and she wanted to sit in Vika’s boudoir — as Vika called the small sunlit room off her bedroom where she felt the most at ease. Vika, as well as Irena, often lounged on the cushioned day bed that faced the window that faced Central Park. Beside her was an antique side table with just enough room for her favorite gardenia plant and her cocktail. The only other furniture was a small French desk where Vika would arrange her appointments and write in her journal.

Irena was worried. A mother knows. She feels it in her bones. Sure Irena had received short texts from Vika saying she was enjoying Riga, but this did not satisfy her. What was she enjoying? Vika had not described any of the beauty spots—had not mentioned the Opera House nor historic Old Riga with its cobblestones and architectural splendor. Now she regretted that she had not gone along with Vika. Leaving her to her own devices could be dangerous. Vika was foolhardy. Had been since birth. Just throwing herself into every adventure which came her way. For someone like her daughter there would be so many ways to get into trouble. She wondered if she should tell Bernie that she had changed her mind about going to Latvia.

* * *

The soundless elevator opened directly into a foyer up high on the twelfth floor. Irena paused before going further, startled by the sound of Bernie’s voice. It was unusual for him to be home at this time of the day. She wondered if she should just turn around and leave. But some instinct told her that something was going on that she should know about. Bernie’s voice was rough and very loud. He sounded like a gangster, his speech clipped and fast like a wise guy. She had only heard his smooth talk—false and ingratiating as it was. She had never trusted that voice. Never trusted him.

Bernie was raging—shouting at someone about a Svetlana. It seemed that he was on the phone with a Juris – clearly a Latvian name. She was baffled. And intrigued. Could he be talking to someone in Latvia?

Something must have alerted Bernie of her presence. He pulled open the door of his study and gave Irena a menacing stare.

“What?”

How crude and unwelcoming! Irena felt a chill. She lowered her head in a submissive posture. “I just wanted to sit in Vika’s sunroom. I miss her. It gets lonely for me and I haven’t heard from her today.”

The look Bernie gave her could have stopped a bullet. A fleeting thought crossed her mind. Has he ever killed anyone? She hated the thought but couldn’t help wondering. Still, Irena knew what worked best with Bernie: she had to appear docile and subservient.

“I’m sorry, Bernie. I know I should have phoned. But I was so worried…”

Bernie’s lips stretched in a half smile. He didn’t want to antagonize the old lady. But he had to get rid of her. He needed to call Juris back. What a fuckup!

“Irena, there is nothing to worry about. Our Vika is having herself a grand time. She’s booked into one of Riga’s best hotels and she has Latvian friends.”

“Latvian friends? You mean strangers she met on Facebook?”

“Vika’s a smart cookie,” he humored Irena. “No way would she friend some Charles Manson types. Just stop worrying. Please!”

The “please” from this stocky bully sounded like an order. It quivered in the air like a threat. And Irena couldn’t quell the panicky feeling gnawing at the pit of her stomach. For the first time ever, she was  afraid of her son-in-law.

Irena turned to leave. And Bernie, like an aggressive bulldog, was at her heels, ushering her to the front door.

* * *

Irena lived in a brownstone on a quiet street lined with trees and garbage cans.  New York was chaotic.  An old city. But she felt peaceful and safe in her condo.

Back home again, Irena drew a deep breath. She just had to reach Vika. She’d call and text until there was a response – if that’s all she’d do that day. Maybe Vika knows a Juris or a Svetlana. What else could Irena do? Contact the American Embassy? She really had no one to advise her.

She had never approved of Bernie. There had never been an ounce of romance in him. She knew he had come from humble beginnings. From owning a Chick’nKing franchise in the Bronx to working his way up to taxi medallions in Manhattan. Then the money poured in. His businesses became secretive and international. At around this time he met Vika.

Vika had never been in love with the crude businessman but she loved what he could give her. She loved their fabulous apartment overlooking the most prestigious neighborhood in New York and Central Park. She loved decorating. She had the large apartment decorated tastefully. It was contemporary with some exquisite antiques and a few art pieces.  The color scheme was a mix of white, ivory and soft rose.  She had some friends, but Bernie was controlling and warned her not to get too close to anyone. People are not to be trusted.

So, little by little, her active and popular daughter had become a recluse. Spending hours in her boudoir. Only going out when she had to be on Bernie’s arm during one of his business functions. Irena didn’t know that her daughter had something to hold over Bernie’s head. Vika had never told her mother about her secret international missions. Nor about her private bank account.

By now it was evening and she still hadn’t heard from Vika. She thought back to Bernie talking to a Juris. They had no Latvian friends in New York. Was he talking to someone in Latvia? And could this somehow have something to do with not being able to reach Vika. Was Vika in danger? And had she herself overheard too much? Was she in danger as well — a sitting duck in her own apartment?

She went back to her front door to double check that the deadbolt was locked.