by P. A. Brown
162 P.A. Brown
Instead of going next door to the diner, he found the nearest drugstore and bought a large bottle of Advil and a six-pack of beer. If he couldn’t think straight, then at least maybe he could dull the pain enough that he couldn’t think at all.
But sleep eluded him even after he finished the six-pack and downed several pain pills. When he finally dragged himself out of bed the next morning at five, he threw himself under a hot shower, scalding his skin and scrubbing his body so hard he left it red. He didn’t bother shaving. It seemed like too much effort.
Throwing his jacket on, he found his Rolex in the pocket and held it up to the light. He didn’t need to actually see it to know the inscription Chris had had engraved on it for his fortieth birthday. To David, with all my love, Chris. He stared down at the watch for several heartbeats, then he slipped it on his wrist and shrugged the jacket on.
Jairo did a double take when he walked into the squad room later that morning.
“Whoa, man. What chewed on your ass?” He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. “Jesus, you spend half the night boozing it up? Should have called me, I’d have kept you company.”
“Shut up, Jairo. Talk to me when you got your reports done and not before. Hear me?”
“I hear you. Loud and clear.”
They both fell into a dark silence that neither felt like breaking. David spent the time on his subpoena for the doctor’s records. After nearly two hours, he sent the job to the printer and put it in a folder, along with the LUDs from the cell phone.
Now that he had more than one tangible connection going on he didn’t think they’d have any trouble convincing the sitting judge to sign their subpoeana duces tecum, or the warrant for the doctor’s patient records. Then they’d be in business.
Given what they’d already found out, the judge was only too happy to sign the papers. David picked up Konstatinov and they headed out to Hollywood.
L.A. BONEYARD 163
This time they lucked out. Dr. Sevchuk was seeing patients today. David badged the receptionist, and waited while she made a hushed phone call. Minutes later a short, stoop-shouldered man of about fifty emerged from the back room.
“Can I ask what is about this?” His accent was heavy and his English slow. David figured most, if not all, of his patients must be Ukrainian. “I’m with a patient—”
“I’m sure she can wait,” David said. He handed the warrant to the stunned man and signaled Konstatinov to step forward.
“Introduce yourself. Tell him he needs to answer some questions and this,” he waved the warrant languidly, “gives us the right to search his office. Which we intend to do very shortly.”
Konstatinov launched into a barrage of Ukrainian. The doctor’s eyes widened and fear pinched his face. He stammered back in Ukrainian. Konstatinov translated.
“He wants us to go into his office. He fears others might overhear what we’re saying. He also said he doesn’t understand.
What could you want of him? He’s just a simple doctor. His patients are all women...”
“That’s part of why we’re here.” David and Konstatinov followed the doctor into his office, a simply decorated room of blond wood and Aubuson area rugs. “Ask him if he knows Halyna Stakchinko, or Zuzanna Konjenko.”
Before Konstatinov could translate, Sevchuk grew confused.
“Halyna and Zuzanna? What want you with those two?”
“Are you saying Zuzanna Konjenko is also a patient of yours?”
“Yes, she was living with Halyna. Both were pregnant. What do you want from me?’“
“To find out when you last saw them,” David said. “Why are you speaking of them in the past tense?” He leaned forward.
“Do you know something you want to tell us?”
Sevchuk stammered, “I do not know anything. Halyna was nearly five months pregnant when I see her last. Zuzanna about four. Why, what this is about?”
164 P.A. Brown
“I’m sorry to tell you that Halyna is dead, the victim of foul play. Zuzanna appears to be missing.”
“Missing?” Sevchuk sank into his leather chair and stared blankly at David, licking his lips. “I do not understand. I was told—” Abruptly he fell silent.
“What, Doctor? What were you told?” David leaned forward. On the other side so did Konstatinov, hemming the much shorter doctor between the two.
“Nothing. Yes, both women were my patients. That is all I will say.”
“No, Doctor. That isn’t all. If you know something, you will tell me.”
“I know nothing.”
“We’re in the process of determining the identity of two Jane Does discovered in Griffith Park,” David kept his tone casual. No bombshells here. “You know anything about that?”
“Bodies,” Sevchuk’s eyes darted right then left, before finally settling on Konstatinov, a good half a foot shorter than David.
“I heard, of course. It was on all the news stations a few days ago. You think one of those bodies is Zuzanna? And who else?”
“You tell us. Any other pregnant women fail to show up for appointments in the last few weeks. Anyone who knew Zuzanna or Halyna?”
“I don’t... I’m not...”
David held up the search warrant again, in case the man had forgotten it. “We need access to all your patient records. The only ones we’ll touch will be those of Halyna and Zuzanna, unless you can supply another name to us.”
“You will not bother yourself with other patients?”
“No, they’re not our concern. We’re trying to build a case around missing women, not pregnant women who are still around.”
Sevchuk began speaking rapidly in Ukrainian, Konstatinov spoke too, at length. Finally he stopped and glanced at David.
“Women do not come in all the time. They make appointments L.A. BONEYARD 165
and do not keep them. He wants to know what case we mean and why do you think he’s involved. I wasn’t sure how much to tell him.”
“Tell him the fact that two girls were his pregnant patients and that at least one is dead for sure, the other one missing, that we need to examine all of his connections with the victims. Tell him I know he’s lying. Oh, and ask him if he knows Valerian Mikalenko, or Mickey.”
This time there was no mistaking Sevchuk’s fear. He swallowed convulsively and ran his finger inside the collar of his shirt as though it had suddenly grown constrictive.
David’s voice grew gentle, trying to calm the terrified man.
“Tell us about him, Doctor. Anything at all. Is he the one who told you Zuzanna was not coming back?”
“I-I can’t. He will kill me.”
“We’ll protect you,” David said, knowing the gesture was largely empty, since the LAPD had no money to spend on protecting witnesses. But they needed Sevchuk’s testimony and information to go on with their case, and he suspected the man knew something incriminating, else why be scared? “Talk to me, Doctor.”
“He is from the old country. I do not know when he come to this country. Many years ago.” Suddenly Sevchuk lapsed into Ukrainian. Konstatinov took over. David recited his questions; Konstatinov relayed them.
“Ask if he knows when Mikalenko came here. Or when he first showed up here. Did he come alone?”
Sevchuk responded. Konstatinov said, “He insists he does not know when Mikalenko left Ukraine. But he does know he came from Kiev.”
“Where Zuzanna came from. That’s where she met Mickey.
Recruitment drive? Wonder if he met anybody else in Kiev?”
Konstatinov put the question to Sevchuk, who nodded rapidly, clearly excited. “He says the two girls came from the same place. And there was a third woman. She also was his 166 P.A. Brown
patient. Now that he thinks of it, she missed her last two appointments.”
“Bingo. Was she pregnant too?”
“He is surprised. How did you know that?”
“No one but a pregnant woman would n
eed to see an OB/GYN on a regular basis. Tell him we want to see her records too.” It wasn’t exactly on the up and up, since they had little probable cause, but if they could cop a name they could do other records checks and see if they could ID the second, more skeletonized corpse in the grave. It was a long shot, but worth the risk of a little above and beyond.
Sevchuk went to the door and called his receptionist over.
They spoke in rapid Ukrainian, which Konstatinov was unable to hear well enough to translate. Minutes later the receptionist knocked on the office door and handed Sevchuk several green folders.
Sevchuk handed the top three to David, who flipped each one open in turn. There were the names that had become so familiar to him. Zuzanna Konjenko. Halyna Stakchinko and a third name: Natalya Lapchuk, six months pregnant at her last visit, on September fifteenth. The skeletonized corpse had been dated at two to three months dead. If she was six months pregnant at the time, then she was impregnated sometime last June or July. So she was the first? Had she roomed with Halyna? Before or after Zuzanna moved in? Or had all three been roommates? Was that the link between them?
He let Konstatinov finish his questioning of Sevchuk, coming up with nothing new. But they had their connection and it was a good start. And they might have an ID on their third victim. David thanked Sevchuk and he and Konstatinov returned to the car with the records.
“We need to talk to the landlord again.”
“You think this third woman, Natalya, might have known them?”
“Or lived with them. Maybe Mikalenko wanted to keep his party together so he could keep an eye on his stable.”
L.A. BONEYARD 167
“He did not keep a very good eye on them, if that is the case.”
“Unless he’s the reason they’re dead.”
“You still think he is the father?”
“No proof one way or the other. But we do know he knows the three women. Now we have to confirm the ID of the two in the Griffith Park grave, and find Mikalenko. This should be fun.”
“Does he know we are looking for him?”
“Depends how guilty he is. If he killed them or knows who did, then yeah, he knows. As soon as he realized he’d lost his cell phone, he knew. Especially if he knew where he lost it and couldn’t go back for fear of discovery.”
David looked up the number for the landlord and arranged to meet him at Leland Way at two. He then called Jairo and told him about the meeting. “Be there by two if you want in on this.
We may be able to ID our two Jane Does.”
“I’ll be there,” Jairo said and hung up without another word.
With a sigh of relief, David disconnected. Briefly he considered calling Chris, but figured it was all too raw yet. He needed to give Chris time to calm down and realize what was being thrown out here. Then David had to figure out how to let Chris know how much he loved him, and hope that it made the difference.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Monday, 1:45 PM, Leland Way, Hollywood Jairo pulled his unmarked behind David’s on Leland Way, under a spreading jacaranda tree that was just starting to bloom.
The brilliant lavender blossoms hadn’t yet started falling all over everything, turning the ground into a purple stew that stained shoes and pant hems. There was still tattered barrier tape strung around the front porch along with a notice on the door that the site was sealed and off limits to all but LAPD and forensics people.
Earlier he had called Larson to tell them they were going in one more time. The landlord had not been happy.
“Any idea when I can get the place back? I still have to make a living in this city.”
“We’ll let you know, Mr. Larson. In the meantime it’s still a crime scene, so I’d advise you to stay clear of it.”
“What are you looking for this time? More information on the two girls?”
“Yes, and a possible third woman. Are you familiar with Natalya Lapchuk?”
“Natty? I knew her. She stayed here with the girls about a month right around Thanksgiving. Then she left and I never saw her again. I didn’t put up a fuss, since I just assumed she was visiting from wherever they came from. All they did was chatter away in that lingo they spoke.”
“Ukrainian,” David said.
“Whatever.”
Thanksgiving. And the skeletonized body in Griffith Park was found in February, two and a half months.
“Was she a looker, too?” David asked.
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The look Larson gave him said it clearly. “What’s that got to do with anything?” he muttered. “This is Hollywood, they’re all good looking.”
“We think the women were targeted because they were all very good looking. A certain type. Blonde, Slavic, that sort of thing. It’s just theory we’re looking at.”
“Oh, okay. Yeah, I remember her. She was built like Dolly Parton, if you know what I mean. And very blond, though I guess that coulda come out of a bottle, right?”
“Yes, it could have. Thank you, Mr. Larson.”
David and Jairo went back through the house, looking for signs that might point to a third girl in residence, no matter how short lived. There wasn’t anything.
“If we can get SID to genotype that blood maybe we’ll find more than two types.” David held Jairo’s eyes briefly. “You can follow up with them when we get back. I’m going to take a look at missing persons between Thanksgiving and Christmas. See if I can locate any dental records. Right now I want to check out the backyard again.”
He prowled the backyard, trying to imagine what it had been like. At least one person had died in the house. Had it been the same one who had left the forensics behind in the dirt under the house? And if so, which one?
There was an increased flurry of interest in the case when the morning Times had an above the fold, front page spread, when both victim identities were leaked, as well as their condition. It didn’t do any good for the Lieutenant in charge of handling the press to make it plain the IDs were tentative at best, the press ran with it. Pregnant women caught up in a prostitution ring. They spun a fine, sordid story, too bad very little of it was based on anything but the wildest speculation.
It also brought a rush of phone calls from ‘witnesses.’ And a few confessions.
Jairo took one call, listened for about two minutes then held his hand over the mouth piece. “Woman says she’s a psychic.
L.A. BONEYARD 171
Wants to talk to the officer in charge. She’s calling from Hollywood.”
“She ask for me?” David asked. This was the fifth psychic of the day. Was there a convention in town?
“Ah, no, just the officer in charge. Why?”
“She’s so psychic, why doesn’t she know my name? And it’s not officer, it’s Detective.”
“You want me to tell her that?” Jairo took his hand away from the phone.
David grabbed the phone out of his hand. “You want the PSB rats or some ACLU lawyer down on us for insulting some helpful citizen?” David cleared his throat and spoke to the psychic. “Yes, ma’am. This is Detective David Eric Laine. What can I do for you?”
He spent the next twenty minutes listening to her tell him how she saw the bodies of the two women and their heavenly children playing in a field someplace with sunflowers and poppies. David began to think the woman had been smoking a few poppies herself before she called.
“If you find that field, officer, you’ll find those two women.
And their darling children.”
He felt like asking her if she saw any Eucalyptus trees in her visions—maybe he could find a psychic-sympathizing judge who would sign a warrant based on a vision—but instead all he said was, “Yes, thank you, ma’am. I’ll be sure to get someone on it right away.”
He hung up the phone, shaking his head. “Is it a full moon out there? Some national druid festival no one told me about?”
Six rolled around. Jairo left, David didn’t. He made a fresh pot of coffee and sat at his
desk browsing criminal records, trying to find more on Mikalenko and Sevchuk. Sevchuk looked clean, though for all David knew he had a record back in the old country. No way he’d ever get those records, though, even if the Ukrainian police were cooperative. The state department would never go for it. So they had to assume that the doctor had come into the country clean and remained clean. But 172 P.A. Brown
Mikalenko was another matter all together. He had an impressive record of soliciting, smuggling, trafficking across state lines, which was a federal beef, and even a couple of liquor violations. It seemed Mickey ran two clubs in Little Russia and used them as undercover ops for assorted vice beefs.
The liquor licenses implied more pull inside some government agency. First he doesn’t get deported, then he doesn’t lose his liquor licenses, though with a felony rap, and an illegal alien status, he should have been turfed out years ago.
When had he started smuggling women into the country?
And how many of them were dead? And why was he killing his golden geese?
David kept working until the third watch came on. Finally he grabbed his jacket and went out to get his car. On the drive back to the hotel, he stopped at a florist and bought a huge bouquet of Chris’s favorite flowers, orchids and daisies, a combination he always said showed his dual nature. Pampered prima donna and down to earth sensualist. He sent them to Cove Avenue.
He didn’t include a card. Chris would know who they were from.
He went back to the hotel and watched grainy TV until exhaustion forced him into bed.