Dark Sundays
Page 18
“Following the signs? You’re sure that’s what she said?”
The woman thought about it for a moment. “Well, I don’t remember the exact way she put it, but I’m pretty sure that was it. Following the signs.”
Catherine nodded. “Thank you.”
As they descend once more toward the floor of hell, Bannister takes Theria’s hand. “You heard what she said. We’ve done it. You can rest now.”
“Yes. At last, I can rest.”
“You’re sure of the place?”
“I am. It calls to me. Ever since we first laid eyes on it.” It was like a gift from Lucifer himself, the sight of it far below beckoning to them as they stared out the window.
Bannister nods. He feels an exhausted sense of accomplishment, but also a deep sadness. Theria will finally be able to rest, but he will not. He will stay here, in hell, and wait. The tickets in his pocket represent the tiniest fragment of hope that they might be able to leave this place, but in order to prove his commitment to that hope, he has to be physically present for whatever farce passes for a draw. He suspects the actual date will be postponed, then postponed again; a brighter tomorrow always just out of reach, in a future constantly receding.
20
NICK AND GREG took the casino chip they’d found in the elevator shaft back to the lab. Nick collected the blood and took samples to both Mandy and Hodges, while Greg examined the chip itself.
Casinos used a variety of methods to protect themselves from fake tokens. Chips were made out of metal or compression-molded clay, but other elements—such as sand or chalk—were added to increase their durability. The process used to make them was a closely guarded trade secret, though it was generally acknowledged to be both time-consuming and expensive enough to discourage most would-be counterfeiters.
Greg was examining the chip under a microscope when Nick came back. “Hodges has gone back to thinking this is all part of some elaborate scheme to make him look ridiculous.”
Greg looked up from the eyepiece. “Did you tell him he was doing just fine without any help?”
Nick grinned and shook his head. “Seemed a little too easy. I just laughed mysteriously and walked away.”
“That’s cruel.”
“That’s Hodges.”
“True. Well, I’ve already found something else interesting about this casino chip. Take a look.”
Nick peered into the eyepiece. “What am I looking at?”
“That’s the line between the edge spots and the main body of the chip. In a regular chip, the two are made from different colors of clay; the alternating edge sections are actually inserted into the chip afterward.”
“Not here, though,” said Nick. “At this magnification, we should be able to see that line between the two pieces as clearly as the gutter in a bowling alley. These spots have just been painted on.”
“Fake clowns, fake killer bears, and now fake casino chips. I’m starting to wonder exactly what about this case is real.”
Nick looked up from the eyepiece. “How about the kind of money you could make from exchanging counterfeit chips for real cash?”
Sara met Brass in the hall outside the interview room. “How’d it go?”
“Oh, it was messy. He broke down in tears, practically begged me to take him into protective custody. I guess I just have a trustworthy face.”
“Yeah, that must be it. You think we’ll get anything useful from him?”
“Already have.” Brass handed her a piece of paper. “He didn’t know a whole lot—not high enough on the totem pole. But he did give up a few names.”
She scanned the paper, then folded it and stuck it into her pocket. “I’ll compare notes with Nick and Greg. Maybe we can find a connection between one of these guys and our case.”
“All right. You need me for anything else?”
“No, I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
“No problem.”
As she walked away, Brass muttered, “I just hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into, Sara.”
“Congratulations,” said Hodges, handing the printout of the GC mass-spec results to Greg. “It’s a match.”
Greg took the sheet and studied it, leaning back against the counter in the trace lab. “This is from the counterfeit chip?”
“Yes. Exactly the same composition as the powder you found in the hotel room—calcium carbonate, silica, sodium, magnesium, and iron. In the same ratio, too.”
Greg grinned. “Thanks, Hodges.”
“See how helpful I can be when I’m allowed a little me time?”
Greg took the printout to the conference room, where Nick and Sara were already waiting. “Okay,” said Greg, taking a seat. “I’ve got something. I don’t know if it’ll break the case, but it’s starting to crack.”
“Give,” said Sara.
Greg told them about the powder matching the chip. “I don’t know what it means exactly, but it ties that room to an illegal activity.”
Nick nodded. “Yeah, and the first reason we’ve found for anyone to go to all this trouble. Counterfeit chips could mean big money.”
“Big money, big motive,” said Sara. “But making counterfeit chips isn’t easy. You need major resources, insider knowledge, and plenty of lead time.”
Greg put his elbows on the table. “In other words, the kind of thing only professional criminals would touch.”
“Which brings me to my news,” said Sara. “Brass just busted a fake credit-card scam being run out of a storefront on Fremont. Guess who was bankrolling it?”
Greg put up his hand. “Someone who has the extended version of Dr. Zhivago on DVD?”
“Exactly. I also ran into a rather large gentleman who does Russian mob tattoos.”
“How large?” asked Nick.
“In the same range as our bandage-wrapped two-wheeled suspect. Claims he was working during the party, but I haven’t verified that yet.”
Nick leaned back and crossed his arms. “Phony cards, phony tokens. Two kinds of surrogate currency, one source?”
“Maybe,” said Sara. She handed both of them photocopies of the report Brass had given her. “The guy cranking out the plastic gave up a few names. Any of them look familiar?”
“Actually, yes,” said Nick. “Dr. Nikolai Villaruba. Not the most Russian of surnames, but his first name fits. He’s the vet for the bears out at the ranch—and someone who doesn’t seem to know all that much about bears.”
“Well, according to this,” said Sara, “he’s also one of the sources the operation uses to get credit information. After all, who’s more trustworthy than the man who makes little Fido or Fluffy all better?”
“Sounds like we need to have another talk with the good doctor,” said Nick.
Dr. Villaruba looked just as unsettled as he had the first time Nick had interviewed him; his gaze kept moving around the interview room, never staying on any one thing for more than a few seconds.
Nick studied him for a moment before speaking. “Well, Dr. Villaruba, I have a few more questions for you.”
“About what? I told you all I know about the bear attack, which isn’t much—”
“That’s true. But then, you don’t really know that much about bears, do you?”
Villaruba frowned. “I am a trained veterinarian. My hands-on experience may not be that high, but I’m a qualified professional—”
“How’s your credit rating, Doctor?”
“I—what?”
“I took a look at your finances. Your little clinic isn’t doing too well, is it? You maybe go out on a limb, borrow a little cash from a friend? Maybe somebody you know through a family connection?”
Oddly, Villaruba’s reaction was almost exactly the opposite of how most people would respond to pressure; he calmed down. His eyes stopped roaming around the room and settled on Nick. His shoulders went back, ever so slightly, and when he replied, his voice was mild. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s a serious charge. Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I think I’m done talking to you. Any further questions you have can be directed to my lawyer.”
“Well, that was a bust,” said Nick. He leaned back in his chair at the conference table and stared first at Greg, then at Sara. Neither of them looked hopeful. “All we have is hearsay, and that’s not enough to put any kind of pressure on him. He’s not going to buckle the way Brass’s guy did—not without any charges hanging over his head, and he lawyered up in a heartbeat. Everybody knows what happens when you cross the Russian mob.”
Sara looked thoughtful. “Maybe applying pressure is the wrong way to go.”
“So what are we gonna do?” asked Greg. “Have them over for drinks?”
“I was thinking more of an informal conversation—and not with the animal doctor,” said Sara. “Every Mafia type I’ve ever dealt with—Red or not—has a certain amount of inherent arrogance; the higher the position, the bigger the ego. Grigori Dyalov is at the top of the food chain here in Vegas, and if I talked to him on his own turf, he might let something slip.”
Nick shook his head. “I don’t know. The few things I’ve heard about Dyalov make him sound about as friendly as a blizzard, and not nearly as warm.”
“So I’ll dress for winter,” said Sara. “It’s not like we have anything to lose.”
Nick and Greg looked at each other. Greg shrugged. “I don’t have a better idea, do you?”
Nick sighed. “Than poking a grizzly in his own den? Wish I could say yes, but—”
“Hey, it’s just another interview,” said Sara. “What could go wrong?”
According to Jim Brass, the place Grigori Dyalov could most often be found was the Summerville Country Club, an exclusive gated community that featured eighty luxury homes, two golf courses, a dozen tennis courts, and its own Olympic-sized pool facility. The club itself was the centerpiece, a mansion housing a private library, a fitness center, two restaurants, and a luxury spa.
Sara admired the view as she drove up to the security gates. The ochre cliffs of Red Rock Canyon were visible in the distance, but the property itself was dominated by green: trees, grass, carefully tended shrubs and hedges. All on the other side of the chain-link fence, of course; you could see the lushness, but to experience it fully required getting past the armed security guard on duty twenty-four hours a day. Fortunately, her CSI identification was all she needed to be waved through.
No sign of an economic downturn here; if any of the sprawling mansions she drove by had been foreclosed on, you wouldn’t know it from the outside. Of course, living right next to a golf course had its advantages—never any shortage of groundskeepers, for one. She wondered about stray golf balls, though. Did windows ever get broken? If so, was it covered by your house insurance? Did you have to return the ball?
Ah, the problems of the rich. She shook her head as she parked beside the clubhouse. How did they cope?
The clubhouse featured a pro shop, a dining room, and a bar with no name; Sara supposed that if you found yourself there, there was a pretty good chance you knew where you were. It was decorated in that old-school, stuffy way that decorators the world over seemed to think was synonymous with being rich: everything that wasn’t made out of ancient, highly polished oak was made out of ancient, highly polished brass. Despite this, the place was open and airy, with one entire wall of glass displaying a panoramic version of the view she’d been admiring before.
Grigori Dyalov was a short, broad-shouldered man in his late sixties, almost square in outline; his head had the same contours, with a chin like a block and a brow like an overhanging cliff. A nasty scar started at his cheekbone, curved around to just miss the corner of his right eye, bisected his eyebrow, and faded out of view in the snow-white, bristly field of his crew cut. His face looked as if you hit it with a hammer, the hammer would break.
He was standing at the far end of the room, his suit jacket off and draped over a nearby chair, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up past the elbow. Tattoos covered his muscular arms. He was playing darts, holding three of them between two fingers of his left hand and aiming carefully with his right.
Two large men, clearly bodyguards, sat hunched over beers at a table a few feet away. They both got to their feet as Sara walked up, though none of the other people in the bar—mostly men in their fifties or older—reacted with anything more than an appraising glance.
Sara stopped a respectful distance away. Dyalov lined up his shot, then threw. The dart thunked into the board. Triple twenty.
“Nice toss,” said Sara.
“Thank you.” Dyalov turned to look at her, then waved his bodyguards back to their seats. “And you are?”
“Sara Sidle, Las Vegas Crime Lab.” She pulled out her ID. “I was hoping to get your perspective on a few recent events.”
Dyalov’s face gave away nothing. “You want to question me?”
“Nothing like that. You’re not a suspect; I’m just gathering information. I was hoping to draw on your experience.”
Sara had found that older men usually responded well to that particular approach—some better than others. Dyalov didn’t disappoint her.
“I doubt that I could be of much use to you, but if there’s anything a broken-down old warhorse like myself can do to help, I’ll do my best. I warn you, though—once you get me telling stories, it’s hard to shut me up.”
His voice was at odds with his appearance. It was the voice of a cultured man, charming and sincere, with just a tiny amount of amusement. That voice sounded completely at home in this environment, its light Russian accent giving it a touch of the exotic without seeming coarse.
“Please,” he said, motioning with one hand to a nearby table. “Let’s sit and talk.”
She took a seat, but Dyalov remained on his feet. He turned back to the dartboard, lined up another shot. “Now. What concerns you?”
“Well, I’m investigating a case, and the names that keep turning up all have something in common. One of them led me in your direction.”
“Ah. Russian names, you mean? I’m no genealogist, but I am fairly well connected to the local. . . families. What name in particular?”
Sara smiled. “The name itself isn’t important. I’m more concerned with the fact that it appeared on a fake credit card.”
He threw another dart. Another triple twenty. “I don’t understand. Fake credit card, fake name, no? I don’t see how I could help with that. You want an expert in made-up names, you should talk to a novelist. Not a retired soldier.”
“Some soldiers are a little better versed in fake IDs than others.”
He turned back toward her and smiled. “I suppose that’s true. Especially in the intelligence community, though my own expertise is sadly outdated. Technology makes antiques of us all.”
“Maybe.” She smiled back. “But old habits die hard. Someone in your profession must still have a lot of contacts.”
He chuckled. “In Moscow, yes. Even in Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Chechnya. But here, I’m just an old bull put out to pasture.”
She glanced around the room. “Pretty nice pasture.”
“I have no complaints.”
“I wasn’t aware the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti had such a generous pension plan.”
His smile widened. “Very good. Did you memorize that before coming here?”
“I know a little about Russian history.”
“Do you?” He turned back to the dartboard, lifted the third dart but didn’t throw it. He held it up, then rolled it back and forth between his index finger and thumb as if admiring a fine cigar. “I’m sorry,
I don’t mean to sound skeptical. Since the Wall fell and the Internet rose, so much that was hidden is now in plain sight; I’m sure you know things that in my youth would have been considered state secrets. Still, there are some things up here”—he tapped his head with the flights of the dart—“that will never be known by the rest of the world.” His emphasis on the word never was light but unmistakable.
“State secrets aren’t usually my department—and the ones I’m interested in have less to do with assassinations and more to do with tigers balancing on giant balls.”
“Oh, I see. The circus. That’s what you wanted to ask me about?”
She studied him carefully, but he seemed genuinely curious, as well as a little surprised. “Yes. The case I’m working on involves a crime that required quite a bit of organization—but the organization involved seems to be one that’s fond of tightropes, trained bears, and clowns.”
“I see. Not just a circus but a Russian circus. You’re sure?”
“That seems to be the direction the investigation is headed.”
“Credit-card fraud perpetrated by circus performers. What do they do, apply for accounts in the names of the elephants?”
“It’s a little more serious than that. I was hoping that if you knew of any connections between the Russian circus and. . . other organizations, you might let me know.”
“Other organizations.” He sounded amused. He held the dart up, holding it between two fingers by the point, like a knife thrower preparing to launch possible death at an assistant strapped to a bull’s-eye. “You are talking about the Bratva, yes? The Brotherhood, the so-called Red Mob?”
“I was speaking hypothetically.”
“That’s good. Because, in fact, the vory v zakone are exactly that, a hypothetical organization.”