Mallory's Hunt

by Jory Strong

  He'd known men who prayed before every battle, who kissed their dog tags for luck, who were never without something from home, convinced it would make the difference between returning to the States whole or in a casket.

  He'd never been one of them, and despite the instincts and intuition that'd given him a rep for having spidey-senses, he'd never been superstitious, never given any credence to the woo-woo bullshit people believed in, but this case, this case might damn well make him a believer.

  "Gotta be careful of that one, mon," the bartender said when the woman left the bar, his Jamaican accent far stronger.

  "I plan to steer clear of her."

  "Easier said than done."

  Caleb finished the beer and got another one, settling in to watch, to wait for the moment to make a move.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 6

  Iosif stood across from the police station, his mouth dry and his flesh tight on his body. America, seven days of being here and he craved a drink more than he had at any point in the last ninety-one.

  So intense was the craving that he shook with it when he saw the homeless clutching their paper bags and lifting them to their mouths. Twice the sweat had poured down his neck in the grocery store as he passed the shelves with their bottles of vodka.

  He licked his lips, aware of the way his heart pounded like a hundred jackboots against concrete. He felt trapped, afraid to return to the rooming house.

  A man had come looking for him. Oleg, a Russian like him, but this one bad, mafia, though he had no proof.

  The rustle of plastic had Iosif glancing at hands that trembled, vibrating the grocery sacks full of DVDs.

  Desperate urgency gripped him, joined now by a sense of impending failure and hopelessness that made it harder and harder to ignore the siren promise of peace offered by the vodka.

  Stubble covered his cheeks. He should have bought a razor and shaved in the public bathroom where he'd done his best to wash after a night spent sleeping in an alley.

  His clothes smelled of sweat. His skin was sticky.

  In Moscow, he would never have approached a policeman or entered a station house.

  I must do this.

  But he couldn't force himself away from the bus stop.

  I must do this, for Zinaida and Kseniya.

  He set the plastic bags at his feet, pulled a photograph from his shirt pocket and held it between hands that trembled, tears coming to his eyes at the sight of his daughters.

  Learning Viktoriya had brought them to America had enabled him to say no to first one glass of vodka. Then to another, and another. To slowly escape the fog of drink.

  If they were safe and happy, he would return to Russia alone. If not, he would convince Zina and Kseniya that he was no longer the failure of a father they had known for most of their lives. He would take them home.

  As he'd done a thousand times since losing them, he carried the photograph to his lips, first kissing Kseniya, whose blue eyes already held some of the fiery determination of her mother's, and then Zina, the daughter who was truly of his heart.

  His throat closed with thoughts of the quiet, soft child who'd continued to greet him with warm hugs and kisses after Viktoriya had thrown his belongings into the hallway and refused to allow him back into the apartment.

  For a while he'd pretended the girls were better off without him. A year had passed, followed by a second, lost to a haze marked only by just enough sobriety to earn money for food, a room, and most importantly, the drink that had been more important than anything else.

  Turning his head, he wiped tears on first one faded shirt sleeve and then the other. He looked once again at the photograph, fingers tightening, his hands shaking as he put it away. Picking up the plastic grocery bags, he took the first step toward the police station.

  He had no money for bribes. No political connections. But he had hope, that in America things were different than in Russia.

  His breath came in short pants by the time he reached the door. The need for a drink accompanied dry mouth and constricted throat.

  Sweat rolled down his sides despite the rise of goose bumps on his arms as he stepped into the cold air of the lobby. From behind a clear partition, a black woman with hair cut close to her scalp glanced up, then down.

  Her disinterest eased his breathing, but his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth when he stood in front of her and she once again noted his presence. For a moment his English deserted him.

  Panic rushed in when she reached over, as if to push some button that would summon men with guns and nightsticks.

  Instead she picked up a piece of paper and added it to the small stack in front of her. "May I help you?"

  He wet his lips. He did not know who to ask for.

  Would they take him seriously if he mentioned the mafia? Would they ask him how he knew? Would they arrest him for breaking and entering and stealing if he admitted what he'd done?

  Would they help if Viktoriya wasn't on one of the DVDs? If Zinaida and Kseniya weren't either?

  It would kill him if they were.

  Again the woman asked, "May I help you?"

  He dropped his gaze, eye contact too hard.

  Hope returned, strengthened at seeing a flier on the desk offering a reward for help in finding an old man who had wandered from home.

  "I need to speak with someone about missing persons."

  "Your name?"

  "Iosif Gruzinsky."

  "Do you want to file a report?"

  He nearly fled.

  Tremors coursed through him. He managed a small head shake.

  The woman saw his panic and took mercy on him. Or she merely wanted to pass him off to another so she could continue her work.

  She spoke into a headset. "There's an Iosif Gruzinsky in the lobby. He wants to talk about someone missing."

  To him she said, "Detective Davidson will be up for you in just a few minutes. Go ahead and take a seat."

  Iosif sat, grateful for the order. It gave him a chance to collect himself and his thoughts. Though by the time the door opened, and a small, olive-skinned man in a suit stepped into the lobby, the sense of impending failure and hopelessness had again become a yoke he bore across his shoulders.

  Iosif struggled to his feet as the man approached.

  "Iosif Gruzinsky?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm Detective Davidson. What can I do for you?"

  "I need to find my daughters."

  "How long have they been missing?"

  There was sympathy in the detective's expression, a calm that inspired confidence. But Iosif hesitated, not wanting to plead his case in a public place.

  In Moscow, he would not have been so bold, but the detective's manner suggested it would be acceptable to ask, "Can we go somewhere else to talk?"

  "Come with me."

  Detective Davidson led him to a room partitioned into cubicles, indicating a seat next to a desk stacked with folders.

  Iosif sat, once again placing the grocery bags at his feet. He retrieved the photograph, offering it to the policeman. "My daughters, Zinaida and Kseniya. They are why I am here."

  The detective's eyebrows drew together. Hope leapt up Iosif's throat, nearly choking him. "You've seen them?"

  "No." The policeman's gaze strayed to something on his desk.

  Iosif's followed, seeing the picture of a runaway girl, one who had the same hair and eye color as his daughters, whose features were similar.

  "This is a current picture?" Detective Davidson asked.

  It shamed Iosif to admit the truth, to acknowledge his absence from their lives. "The picture is three years old."

  Detective Davidson studied the photograph more closely. "They're ten now? Eleven?"

  "Zinaida is eleven. Kseniya is ten."

  "They can pass for twins."

  "Yes."

  "And the woman in the picture with them? Their mother?"

  "Yes."

  "Your wife?"

 
Iosif felt the sweat gather on his palms. "No. We lived together. She is Viktoriya Evanoff." He did not add that from the beginning it had been off and on, turbulent.

  "When is the last time you saw your daughters?"

  "Six months ago." Another wave of shame washed through him. Drifting in the dark despondency of alcoholism, it was only when they were completely lost to him that the desire to know they were okay gave him the will to set aside the bottle with its liquid escape.

  "They were here in L.A.?"

  "No. In Moscow. Their mother brought them to the United States, to Los Angeles, only three months ago."

  He saw in the detective's expression that coming here would be a dead end too, but neither of them rose from their seats.

  "Mr. Gruzinsky, is there any reason to believe your daughters are in danger?"

  Iosif rubbed damp palms against the rough denim of his jeans. His heart beat as if it lived in his ears, and the sound of it had his tongue once again clinging to the roof of his mouth. How much did he dare tell the policeman? In Russia, the authorities were owned by the mafia.

  But if the same was not true in America?

  The sweat on his skin chilled like the phantom touch of death.

  Anything he said could lead to trouble but he must take the chance, for the daughters whose lives and freedom might depend on him. Pulling a photograph from his pocket, he unfolded it to reveal a man's face, now well-creased from all the times it had been studied.

  "They came to America for this man. He was supposed to want a Russian bride. But when I went to the address he gave them, it wasn't his home."

  The policeman took the offered picture. "Do you have a name?"

  "Kent Beck."

  "Your former girlfriend gave you the picture and the address?"

  "No. A friend of hers did, after they were gone."

  The words tasted bitter in his mouth. Anja Suvorin was no friend.

  He'd broken into her apartment in Moscow and found stacks of photographs, many with numbers written on the back indicating how much she'd been paid. He did not know whether the money came from the men seeking brides or the women paying to be introduced to possible American husbands or worse, from men paying Anja to trick others into becoming slaves.

  He'd watched as some of those women came and went to use her computer or for her to take pictures of them. He'd seen printouts on her desks, e-mails from the men, and in a folder with Viktoriya's name on it, he'd found the picture of the American and his address.

  Anguish rose like vomit in his throat at imagining what might have happened to his daughters and Viktoriya. He wondered if any of the American men wanting brides were real.

  Detective Davidson turned in his seat and now worked at his keyboard. Hope flared again but was just as quickly doused when the policeman faced him and said, "Kent Beck isn't in the system, at least not as someone who has been arrested. Can you call the friend in Moscow to verify the name and address?"

  Was there suspicion in the detective's manner? A question that maybe Viktoriya didn't want to be found by the father of her children and had lied about who she was with and where she was going?

  Iosif's mouth dried again. "I can't reach Anja."

  He looked down, at hands that rubbed against denim as if they were separate things. At his feet were the DVDs, stolen from the Russian he thought must be Oleg, the one who'd come to the rooming house after he had gone to the office where Brides From Russia did its business.

  Forcing his gaze upward, he said, "Anja works with a match-making company. They arranged everything. Viktoriya was told the man paid for her to come to the United States, and to bring Zina and Kseniya with her."

  He didn't know if what he said was true or not. But it brought the desired response. Detective Davidson frowned. "But you're afraid Kent Beck isn't real. You think maybe they were trafficked by organized crime and have been forced into prostitution?"

  His chest seized in a spasm of pain. "Yes."

  "What's the name of the bride company?"

  He licked his lips. "Brides From Russia. They do their business on the Internet."

  "Most of them do anymore. Do you have evidence? Anything linking them to organized crime?"

  Would there be evidence on the DVDs? What if there wasn't? There was no law forbidding the recording of sex acts.

  If he surrendered them, he would never know what was on them. Worse, they may sit on a desk somewhere, unwatched.

  Sweat gathered where his thighs touched the chair. Panic surged through him, followed by howling despair. Unless he had evidence that would lead the police to act immediately, telling Detective Davidson might result in Viktoriya and Zina and Kseniya being killed or sent somewhere they could never be found.

  "No," he said, shaking with the renewed need for a drink. Just one. "I have no proof Brides From Russia is run by the mafia."

  Detective Davidson stood. "Let me make a few calls. I'll be right back."

  Iosif retrieved the two photographs from where they lay on the desk. He slipped them into his pocket.

  Three times the pressure built inside him and he almost bolted. Three times he stood then forced himself to sit.

  Detective Davidson returned and it was there in his expression, that he'd done all he could and had learned nothing. The policeman opened a drawer and removed a small card. "I can't promise Mallory will take this on, but she's your best bet and on something like this, she won't ask for more than you can afford to pay."

  Iosif took the card.

  The policeman surprised him by removing a phone from his own pocket and offering the use of it.

  With hands that trembled, Iosif called the number on the card.

  A woman answered, her voice strong. In the background he heard the sound of cars honking.

  "I am Iosif. I am looking for my missing daughters and their mother. Detective Davidson said you might help me find them."

  "You have my card?"

  "Yes."

  "I can be at the address on it within an hour. Can you meet me there?"

  "Yes. I will come to you now."

  Iosif returned the phone with a thanks to the policeman. He gathered the grocery sacks and stood, his heart lifted as it hadn't in seven days.

  * * * * *

  Vadim Korotkin swiveled the chair and leaned back, the soft leather molding to his torso. Sometimes he made the whores crawl beneath the desk to service him, but now his thoughts were too full of dreams.

  In a few hours he'd be attending a party on the famous Mulholland Drive. Him, the son of a drunken butcher.

  His sources assured him Linden Spiller would be there. It angered him that the agent had turned down his requests for a meeting, but it was not an anger he would let rule. Some goals were better achieved by methodical planning and cold reason than brute force or intimidation.

  He was a wealthy man, a very wealthy man. The prostitution, the porn, the strip clubs, the trafficking of women, girls and the occasional young boy from the former Soviet states, were all lucrative. From them he had risen far beyond the crushing poverty of his youth.

  Life was good in America.

  As long as he maintained control of the organization he'd built around him, he would never hunger again for either the barest of necessities or the luxury he now possessed.

  Nyet. Never again.

  He'd made his place in this country. To those who didn't know him well, he even appeared legitimate. And soon he would have what he wanted, what he had craved almost from the day of his arrival in Los Angeles.

  He would mingle with the Hollywood crowd, not as an outsider but as a man whose money and connections created stars, whose acumen was envied and applauded. Tonight would be the night he would look back on and say, "There, that is where my dream began coming true."

  A knock sounded, light enough so he knew it was Lana and not Oleg. "Come," he ordered.

  She entered, allowing the pounding music of the strip club to burst into the office until muted by the closed d
oor. His gaze settled briefly on pink-capped breasts then dropped to the G-string covered pussy.

  He didn't bother ordering it removed. Her body held no more interest to him than an abstract painting did. Placing his hands behind his head, he opened his thighs and tilted his head back, closing his eyes.

  She had no place to hide a weapon. And he'd sent for her often enough that no fight remained.

  When he wanted resistance, he chose one of the women just arrived to Los Angeles. They came believing they'd work in the homes of the Hollywood rich or in one of the businesses serving them, or that they'd been brought to America by an American man intent on marrying them.

  They quickly learned otherwise.

  Once they paid off their debt, they were free to go, to pursue their dreams, as long as they remained silent. He had no desire to end up with a collection of old and worn-out whores. The secondary markets could only absorb so many of them.

  Most brought to this country accepted the way of things quickly enough, but some continued to resist, and those…

  He hardened thinking about the last one who'd fought him like a mother bear protecting her cubs. It was bad business to kill the merchandise after going to the trouble and expense of importing it. But there were times, when frustrations built, that it was good to work them out, and such a thing also reminded his men that he was not afraid of getting his hands bloody, that he was no stranger to violence.

  The smell of perfume preceded the sound and feel of his zipper sliding downward. Often he watched, enjoying the sight of his cock being tongued and sucked. Tonight he let the pleasure of wet lips and hot mouth feed the fantasy playing out in his mind, of waiting for the Oscar ceremony to begin while surrounded by those who'd starred in and directed the movies he'd financed.

  Satisfaction swelled, bubbling upward like champagne and bursting over him as he came in the whore's mouth. Tonight he would present his baited hook to Linden Spiller, and finally meet with success.

  The whore continued to suck until he grunted, a signal he'd had enough. He heard her stand and move across the room, going into the bathroom and wetting a wash cloth, returning to clean his cock then dry and tuck it into his trousers.