I laughed. “Looks like you’ve got it under control.”
“It’s an illusion, I assure you. We’re always one step from meltdown. Right, Gabby?” He leaned down and placed a kiss on her hair as he shoved another mouthful of something purple into Daniel’s open maw. “They’re kinda like baby birds.”
“But they’ll be fed and in their jammies when you and your aunt arrive,” Magda said.
A beeping sound caused Spider to pause in the feeding and check his Apple watch. “Driveway alarm. The guys just arrived,” he said. “Sorry, querida. Gotta get going.” He handed Magda the spoon and she slipped into the chair and continued the ritual without missing a beat.
Chapter 35
Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.
Oscar Wilde
Bobbie and Bram entered the house, with greetings for Spider, Magda, and me, hugs for Joey, and waves to the little ones, after which Spider led the way to his ultrasecure office upstairs. We settled on chairs and he began.
“I accessed some restricted databases. Don’t ask. Here’s what I got.” With a click, records appeared on the giant-screen TV that served as one of his monitors. “Swanson was born Mikhail Entoni Lebedev, in a village near Saint Petersburg. Age forty-two at time of death. Last name means ‘swan.’ It’s not uncommon for Russians to have surnames related to birds.”
“Huh,” said Bobbie. “I guess we do the same. There’s Sparrow, Nightingale, Crow, Crane…”
“Right,” Spider said, obviously wanting to move ahead with his narrative. “Now here’s where things begin to get interesting.”
My ears perked up.
“I have a… source in Moscow,” he continued, “a guy who owes me from my service days. I called in his marker. He was able to locate information about Mikhail Lebedev’s early life. Seems Mick’s grandparents on his mother’s side were dirt poor. But their son got involved in oil drilling in the Volga-Urals basin after World War Two, and his family prospered. Not so with their daughter, Mick’s mother. Didn’t marry well and Mick’s family never had much. Then, about the time Mick turned ten, his parents suddenly came into money. Nothing big, mind you, but enough to buy meat twice a week and keep Mikhail in school, according to an old man in the village.” He shrugged, his eyebrows moving in sync with his shoulders. “No information about the origins of the funds.”
Maybe the uncle helped them out, I thought.
“The villager told my source that Mikhail was conscripted into the army at eighteen, like every other young man without influence or money to exempt him. Seems he wasn’t an ideal soldier though. He did time in military prison for two counts of what they call a privileged murder—exceeding a reasonable level of self-defense. Got early release the second time, when they shipped him off to Chechnya in what was termed a composite regiment. Basically, untrained men who’d never served together.”
“That fits,” I told the team. “He left a bequest in his will to continue supporting an orphanage in Chechnya after his death. He must have served there. The Russians made a lot of children orphans, from what I’ve read.”
Spider shuffled papers and faced me. “Here’s what makes no sense. His two convictions were ironclad—DNA blood evidence. I mean, there’d be a family connection, but even identical twins don’t have identical DNA as adults. Has something to do with how environment changes the genetic structure. Requires extra testing to figure out which twin committed a crime, but cousins are nowhere near that close. First cousins, on average, only share twelve percent of their DNA. The blood at those two crime scenes couldn’t be Artur’s. So why did Mick assert that it would exonerate him?”
I had no response.
“Okay,” Spider continued, “next we see him, he’s surfaced in 2009, in Erzurum in northeast Turkey, where there’s a write-up in an art catalog about the blacksmith—slash—metal artist.”
Puzzled, I asked, “Any idea of how he made his way there?”
“None I could find,” Spider told me.
Bram commented. “Smithing would be a prosperous profession, especially in a rural area. Was he following in his father’s footsteps?”
”No again,” said Spider. “His father was a peasant farmer.”
“So how’d he get to the States?” Bobbie asked.
Spider looked over the papers. “Took a little work to figure that out. He tried to cover his tracks, but his minor success in the art world made it easy to follow his movements. From Turkey, he lived in Boulogne-sur-Mer in northern France for a couple years. Thriving art community there. Then he applied for a US visa in 2013. No black marks against him, other than lack of background on his early life. That wasn’t too odd, given he claimed to be a gypsy. They often avoid registering births. So he got a visa and came here via Florida. Not your usual point of entry from France.”
With a quiet knock, Magda eased the door open and peeked in. “Refreshments are outside the door. The twins are sleeping down the hall.”
Spider went to her and gave her cheek a smooch, as Aunt Terry calls a sweet kiss. “Thanks, querida. We won’t wake the sleeping dragons, I promise.” He lifted a tray from the floor and placed it on a worktable in the office. “Goodies,” he whispered as he closed the door. Then in a normal voice, he added, “Help yourselves.”
Spotting the cookies on the table, Bram murmured, “Homemade,” in a reverent tone and placed three on a small plate. The rest of us followed suit, and we munched and drank coffee in contentment for several minutes.
“You guys keep on,” Spider told us when his plate was clean. “There’s not much more to Mick’s story, sorry to say. He bounced around the US for several years, supposedly supporting himself from a family inheritance. No links to the Chicago area. In ‘15, he settled in Milwaukee and bought the arts gallery. Opened his shop that year. From bank accounts that I’ve been able to access, the business has been self-sustaining since the first year. His personal life is a cipher. No known friends. No family.”
“The inheritance?” I asked. “Is there any evidence of wrongdoing to account for the money?”
“Nope,” Spider said. “But his earnings in Turkey and France weren’t that substantial.”
Looking around the room, I asked, “What about Artur Hunter? Did you find anything on him, Spider?”
He quirked one twitchy eyebrow. “Guess the name of the wealthy side of the family.”
“Hunter,” I blurted out as sudden realization overtook me.
“Got it in one,” Spider said. “Mick’s cousin—Arthur Hunter, in English— was the only son of Mick’s wealthy uncle and his wife.”
My mind rushed to connect the dots. “And what happened to Artur?”
“Again, it gets fuzzy,” Spider said. “My contact confirmed that he served in the Second Chechen War. Held the rank of what we’d call a captain. There’s no record of him after Russia withdrew. Nothing to place him back in the homeland at least.”
I looked from Spider to Bram and Bobbie. “Mick didn’t make up the story about Artur,” I stated emphatically.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Bram agreed, “but what we know still doesn’t prove that Artur is the killer.”
I turned to Spider. “I don’t suppose your source provided any actual confirming documents I could take to Wukowski.”
“Nah, that’s not how these things work,” Spider told me.
“I was afraid of that,” I said. “Still, with your permission, I want to share what you learned.”
“Fine by me,” Spider said, “as long as I never need to testify about it. Could put a decent man’s life in jeopardy.”
“I understand.” Knowing Bobbie’s uncanny ability to view things from another angle, I turned to him and asked, “What’s your take on all this?”
He hesitated before saying,“Nothing new is turning up, Ange. I know you want to see Mick avenged, his killer brought to justice, but I have to agree with Wukowski. Even if the story about Artur and
Mick is true, Mick’s not necessarily innocent. Maybe it’s time for us bow out of this one.”
Spider’s eyebrows twitched furiously. “You, Debbie and Franken are still in the killer’s sights, Angie, far as we know. Before we wash our hands of this case, I want to dig online into the Chicago branch of Bratva. And I’ll give Mad Man a call later. Find out who’s running the show there and what they’ve been up to.”
Mad Man Malone did not fit his nickname. He was so very average—in height and weight and in his nondescript features and bland expression. But he wore his pants loose to accommodate very muscular thighs, and his knit shirts did nothing to conceal impressive biceps.
“Agreed,” said Bram. “I’ll set up a detail once Debby’s ready to leave the police safe house.” He looked at me. “I think you need personal protection too.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I responded. “Whoever came after Mick and Rebecca Franken has no reason to think I’m involved. I’ll be extra watchful, and I’ll alert you if I feel concerned or alarmed in any way.”
“And you’ll keep your weapon on your person,” Bram directed me.
“I will, I promise.”
“Same goes for you, Bobbie,” he insisted
“Me? I haven’t even had contact with Hill or Franken.”
“You were with us when Swanson’s body was discovered,” Bram reminded him. “What if the killer was leavin’ Metal Works as we were goin’ in? He could’ve caught sight of us.”
Now that image made me shiver!
I handed Rebecca’s key ring to Spider, with a request that he assess the security there as soon as possible and provide her with a cost estimate to beef it up. Then, noting the door at the end of the hall, with a hanger on the knob that read “SH—BABIES SLEEPING,” I headed quietly downstairs to my car.
Chapter 36
Ill-gotten gains work evil.
Sophocles
Lounging on the deck of his multimillion-dollar penthouse, Artur enjoyed the cool fall air and sipped from his tumbler of icy Beluga Gold Line Noble vodka. A Cohiba Behike cigar, couriered from Cuba for his pleasure, lay smoking in a crystal dish beside him. The satisfaction of being able to buy anything he wanted, including women, pricey liquor, and cigars costing almost five hundred dollars each, brought a crooked smile to his lips.
Elena slept soundly in the master bedroom, but years of working when the criminals ruled had turned him into an inveterate night owl.
Pondering the details of Mikhail’s murder and its aftermath, he decided that his involvement with the assassination of that stupidly stubborn state representative posed no threat to his freedom. Sooner or later, the police would discover that the blood from Mikhail’s shop matched what he left on the killing floor of the politician's home.
Neither the will nor any of the other documents he obtained from the attorney’s computer led to him. That left only one loose end—the evidence Mikhail claimed to hold. Trusting no one to assist him on such an intensely private matter, he decided that he would tackle the search of his cousin’s property on Wednesday. If the police had not finished their own examination of the buildings by then, chances were good they believed it to be unnecessary.
The short delay in attending to this matter was unfortunate, but pressing business demanded his attention and he could not defer it. An entrepreneur’s reputation would be easily damaged if a valued and highly lucrative client became disillusioned with the service he provided.
But, he mused, it might be profitable to put a tail on Big Man, whom he now knew as Abraham York, thanks to a decades-old photo match on his sister’s Facebook page one Veterans Day. From the way he carried himself, Artur had already deduced he was military. Everything else about the man eluded him, and he wanted more data before deciding on next steps.
As for White Hair and Young Guy… thanks to a flurry of news about them over two years ago, he also had their names. Angelina Bonaparte and Bobbie Russell. Private investigators who came to public notice after uncovering a Bosnian War criminal. The woman concerned him more than Russell. She headed the agency, and her father’s ties to the Mafia gave Artur reason to consider carefully before acting against her. The long and relentless reach of Bratva’s rival in organized crime would never pull back if one of theirs was harmed.
For now, he would assign Leonid, the most-trusted boyevik in his crew, to get a look at her mail.
With a grunt, he stubbed out the cigar, drained the last of the vodka, and rose.
Chapter 37
Accusations fit on a bumper sticker; the truth takes longer.
Michael Hayden
Monday passed quietly until Wukowski called at two that afternoon. “Angie, I have some significant information that impacts Ms. Hill, concerning the Swanson case. The safe house team is bringing her to headquarters in an hour. She asked that you be present.”
“I’ll be there,” I said. “Have you located Hunter?”
“No.” His voice sounded tightly controlled. “It’s not good news. I’ll see you at three.” With that, he hung up.
My mind jumped from one possibility to another. Had Artur fled the country? Had he killed someone else? A quick call to Papa assured me that Rebecca and Aunt Terry were fine. What about the others at the Galleria? Or even Mick’s neighbors? I forced myself to stop catastrophizing and prepared for the meeting.
Wukowski and Debby were waiting for me in the Homicide conference room. Debby jumped up to give me a quick hug and whisper, “What’s this about?”
“No idea,” I told her.
We sat across the table from Wukowski, whose lips were compressed in a tight line.
“As I said, we’ve uncovered information concerning Michael Swanson.” He looked from Debby to me. “You won’t like this, but you need to know. We sent blood from the crime scene at Metal Works to forensics, hoping for a match to the killer, but only Swanson’s blood was present. His DNA turned up at a homicide in Illinois this summer, involving a local politician who campaigned on the promise of clearing Bratva—Russian organized crime—from his district. The Chicago PD has put a lot of heat on known members since that murder. An informer told them that Swanson’s death was a case of the mob tying up loose ends so the furor would die down. Kill the assassin, close the case.”
Debby’s hands covered her mouth as she gasped. “I… I can’t believe that. Mick was such a gentle man.”
“DNA doesn’t lie,” Wukowski asserted.
“But in the note to me,” I said, “Mick stated that his cousin, Artur, had framed him for crimes in Chechnya. Maybe that’s what happened in Illinois. Are you sure the lab got a good match? From what I’ve read, there are different levels of testing.”
“They’re sure, Angie. The blood was an exact match for Swanson’s, and they found no foreign traces in any of the samples. Our ME questioned them about first cousins. The most a cousin’s DNA can match is about twenty-five percent, and even that’s a statistical anomaly. There’s no way Swanson isn’t our man.” He met my eyes. “I know you’re disappointed to learn this, but there’s no getting around it.”
“Well, hell,” I murmured, staring down at the conference table. “I never saw that coming.” I looked up. “But Mick’s killer is still on the loose. The case isn’t closed.”
“Nope,” Wukowski agreed, “but it has been demoted in importance.”
“Wait a minute!” I objected. “That’s not right.”
“Look, Angie, department resources are strained. I’ll do my best to bring the perp to justice, you know that. But there are other cases that need attention, and gang-on-gang murder simply doesn’t get our highest priority.” He gave Debby and me a hard stare. “And if you repeat that, I’ll deny it.”
I drew in a deep breath and exhaled. Once my outrage calmed, I asked, “And Artur Hunter? Are you planning to pursue locating him? After all, Mick didn’t attack Rebecca Franken from the grave. Or kill the man in the parking garage.”
“I’ve made inquiries regarding Hunter, with
no results so far. But the truth is, we only have Swanson’s word on who was after him. It’s just as likely that he wanted to cast the blame for whatever happened in Chechnya onto someone else. After all, there’s no statute of limitations on war crimes.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of frustration that I recognized quite well. “Let’s face facts, Angie. Bratva needed to see the Illinois homicide case closed. They knew that the blood at Swanson’s crime scene would accomplish that by linking Swanson to the political assassination. So next they went after any other evidence that might point to them. Stephen Carmody—the man they found in the parking garage—and Rebecca Franken were collateral damage.”
As I opened my mouth to protest, he raised his palm. “That’s how they’d see it. These are ruthless bastards, Angie.” He leaned toward me. “At least you and Debby can breathe easier. I can’t think of any reason the Russian mob would continue to pursue Swanson’s associates.”
“Oh!” Debby exclaimed. “Does that mean I can go home today? And open up shop again?”
“Let’s reassess in a few days,” Wukowski told her. “I don’t want to be premature.”
“Well… I really need to be open this weekend. Saturday and Sunday are my biggest days.”
“That should be possible. I’ll let you know by Wednesday at the latest.” He took a sheaf of papers from the folder in front of him “The primary reason I wanted to talk to you in person, Ms. Hill, is to notify you that we’ve put a freeze on Swanson’s assets until we know if he profited from Bratva activity.” He slid the bundle to Debby. “You can have your attorney look these over and contact the forensic analysis team if you need more information.”
Under the table, Debby began her hand-wringing and then gave a sharp nod. “If Mick did do what you said, I want no part of his money. I’ll… I’ll sell everything and use the proceeds to make restitution to everyone he hurt.”
“I don’t think you’ll have that option, Ms. Hill. The Illinois authorities will most likely seize it.”
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