Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

techniques at this point in her life. He sometimes thought his father’s overindulgence in his wife’s excellent cheese and potato pierogi had contributed to his fatal heart attack — but in his darker moments, Aleks felt that his father had died of a broken heart.
    As if reading his mind, his mother said, “I dreamed about her last night, Sasha.” He gazed down at his soup, which was so thick that the croutons didn’t so much float as perch on top of the viscous mass of dark green liquid.
    “She came to me as I slept, Sasha — she looked just as she did that last day of her life.”
    He continued to stare at his soup. Ten years had passed since his sister, Sofia, had been killed by a hit-and-run driver, and yet the rage shivered within him like a wind that would not be stilled. His father had never been the same afterward. When the police failed to make an arrest or even come up with a viable suspect, he began to wither like an unwatered houseplant, until finally his heart gave out. Aleks coped with the loss by drinking too much, and his mother … well, she had her physical ailments to keep her company.
    Ignoring his silence, she rattled on, as if helpless to stop. “When she comes to me like that, I know something is going to happen. Mark my words, Sasha, something will happen — something big.”
    “Yes, Mama,” he said. He was too troubled by the events of the day to pay much attention to his mother’s words. The last thing he needed was to think about his sister; it only made him angry. He refused a second bowl of soup and rose from the table. The cat lurked nearby, hoping for scraps of cheese.
    “Are you going out tonight, Sasha?” his mother asked, slipping the cat a piece of cheese under the table.
    “Just for a while,” he replied, putting on his coat. “I told Lee Campbell I’d meet him at McSorley’s for a drink.”
    “That handsome policeman friend of yours?” she asked, all smiles.
    “He works for the police department, but he’s a psychologist, not a cop.”
    “As you say, Sasha — but he is good-looking, you have to admit.”
    “Yes, Mama. Thanks for the soup — it was delicious.”
    “Don’t be too late, Sasha. You’re looking a little peaked.”
    “I won’t — don’t worry.”
    “And you won’t have too many, will you, Sasha?”
    “You know I’ve cut back lately, Mama.”
    “Promise?”
    “I promise.”
    He kissed her and slipped out, locking the door behind him. Outside, the evening was crisp and sharp, the late days of April hugging the streets in a feathery embrace. It was the time of year when trees blossomed overnight and flower beds came alive with riotous bursts of yellow.
    Inside the bar, Lee Campbell was sitting at a window table with four beers in front of him. Beer at McSorley’s came two at a time, in heavy glass mugs wielded by stocky, red-cheeked waiters — fresh off the boat, if they were young, and former policemen if they were older. Their waiter was a retired cop Aleks had seen numerous times here, a burly man with the heavy shoulders and head of a mastiff. He nodded at the priest, which made Aleks unaccountably nervous.
    Aleks slid into a seat across from his friend, resting his elbows on the ancient, scarred oak table. McSorley’s Old Ale House was the oldest pub in continuous operation in the city, dating back to 1854. It hadn’t changed much since then: the floors were still covered with sawdust, and the potbellied woodstove in the front room still huffed out heat during the cold winter months. Decades of dust lay on strands of abandoned spiderwebs hanging from ancient knickknacks over the bar. There was hardly an inch of bare space on the walls, which were crammed with photos, paintings, and mementos.
    “Sorry I’m late,” Aleks said, reaching for the icy mug of ale that Lee pushed across the table.
    “I got us one of each,” Campbell said, nodding at the twin mugs, one dark and one amber. Only a single beverage was available at McSorley’s: ale. You could order it dark or amber, but either way you got two mugs of it.
    “Thanks,” Aleks said, drinking deeply. “The next one’s on me.”
    “It’s a deal,” Lee said. “I have a head start on you already.”
    The two men had met at St. Vincent’s in the dark days following 9/11. Aleks had had a series of anxiety attacks, something he’d never experienced before, and by the time he showed up at the hospital for psychiatric treatment, he needed very much to talk to anyone