“Keep an eye on him,” Alexei Rugov said.
“Of course,” Vasily Lukin said.
Barent was a cop. Cops had a certain degree of immunity to retribution. Even the most hardened mobster would hesitate to deliberately and in cold blood murder a cop. Kurtz was not a cop, exactly, but he was a police surgeon, which might or not be enough in the mind of a Russian mobster to provide him with the same nebulous protection.
There was nothing to tie Donna Ryan to Arnie Figueroa, except the fact that both had something to do with Russians, and there was certainly nothing to tie either of these individuals to the murders of Mitchell Price, Steven Hayward or his wife, and now, Alejandro Gonzales and Andrew Fox. Still, the fact that Vasily Lukin, and possibly Alexei Rugov had displayed an interest in Donna Ryan was at least, potentially, a clue.
The offices of Hotchkiss and Phelps occupied the twenty-fourth floor of a skyscraper in Midtown. The carpet was thick, the artwork on the walls looked expensive, full of flowing lines and bright colors. Barent was hardly an expert on abstract art but he liked the paintings. The splotches of color looked lively, like good things happening. Donna Ryan’s office was large, with a glass and aluminum desk, comfortable chairs and a corner alcove with a couch, a coffee table and a bookshelf. Donna Ryan herself seemed dwarfed behind the desk, particularly with the large glass wall behind her looking down on the city.
Donna Ryan nodded as Barent walked into the room. “Detective,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
Her face was thin and pale, her eyes shadowed. Nevertheless, Donna Ryan was a beautiful woman.
“A few days ago, Richard Kurtz and Lenore Brinkman paid you a visit,” Barent said.
She nodded. “Yes?”
“Yesterday, a man named Vasily Lukin warned Richard Kurtz to stay away from you.”
Donna Ryan winced. “That idiot,” she muttered.
Barent said nothing. After a moment, Donna Ryan shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Vasily Lukin is my cousin. Did you know that?”
“I did.”
“I have never been close to Vasily. He’s quite a bit older than me and we had little to do with each other, growing up. I am close to his brother, Arkady. Arkady has always been protective of me. I would think that Vasily is acting on his brother’s behalf.”
“What do you mean by that, exactly?”
“Probably not what you think. There was never anything at all romantic between Arkady and myself, though at one point, the family seemed to think that there might be. We had similar outlooks on life, similar taste in books and movies and art. We talked to each other. We were good friends.”
“What did you and Richard Kurtz talk about?” Barent had already gotten Kurtz’ side of the conversation. He was curious to hear what Donna Ryan might have to say.
“Nothing very significant. He was curious about the Rugov Corporation. He asked about my family.”
“And after he and Lenore left, who did you talk to about his visit?”
“I mentioned it to Arkady. There seemed no reason not to.”
“Anybody else?”
She shrugged. “Only my mother.”
Barent sat back in his seat. “Richard Kurtz is a police surgeon. He’s also a friend of mine. He has on occasion displayed an interest in things that are none of his business.”
Donna Ryan cracked a smile. “I know Richard. His wife and I are old friends. I’ll speak with Arkady. I’m not quite the fragile flower that he seems to think me.”
Barent nodded. “Not to change the subject, but the Rugov organization has a rather sinister reputation.”
“So, I’ve heard. Beyond the fact that they’re a holding company, I know nothing at all about the Rugov organization.”
“And yet Arkady Lukin, your cousin, to whom you are close, works for them, and presumably so does Vasily.”
Donna Ryan shrugged. “I know nothing about the Rugov organization,” she repeated. “My cousins have never discussed it with me. I imagine that this is deliberate.”
“Does it bother you, that they work for a man who is said to be a mobster?”
“Frankly, yes, but they’re grown men and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“I understand that your parents escaped from the Soviet Union. I would imagine that the politics of the old country must have been a routine topic of conversation in your family.”
“Absolutely. My parents did escape. My aunts and uncles as well. The borders were actually rather porous at that time. Many people took vacations and simply walked away. They had to be willing to leave everything that they had behind, but since nobody in the Soviet Union had much of anything, this wasn’t that much of a sacrifice.” Donna Ryan nodded. “They did discuss it. They talked about it constantly. Every family get together, every dinner.” She grinned. “Sometimes the discussions grew heated. I remember my Uncle Ivan pounding on the table and shaking his fist in my father’s face.”
Barent blinked. “What was this heated discussion about?”
“I have no idea, other than the words ‘Stalin,’ ‘Andropov,’ ‘Yeltsin’ and then, a few years later, ‘Putin.’ Among themselves, they spoke only Russian.”
“And you never learned the language?”
“No. It was deliberate. My parents didn’t want the younger generation to learn Russian. The United States was a new country and we were living a new life. They loved Russia. They were passionate about it, but they had no expectation of ever going back. They wanted us to grow up and become good little Americans.” She smiled. “Vasily and Arkady’s parents felt differently. They learned the language from an early age. Their parents wanted them to feel that they were Russian. I imagine that this was one of the things that my parents disagreed with.”
“And now Arkady and Vasily Lukin have supposedly become members of a Russian criminal gang.”
Donna Ryan sighed. “That is the rumor. I hope that the rumor isn’t true but as I said, they’re grown men and there’s nothing that I can do about it.” She hesitated. “I’ll speak to Arkady. I wouldn’t want Dr. Kurtz to come to any harm.”
“Thanks,” Barent said. “Neither would I.”
Chapter 18
“Fucking clowns,” Kurtz muttered.
What the hell did they think they were doing? Kurtz liked to run in Central Park. It wasn’t hard to spot people who just happened to be running along behind him, day after day. It had taken him only a little longer to spot the blue Toyota that followed him to work and the red Volvo that followed him back home.
“We’re being followed,” Kurtz said. Lenore often ran with him in the Park, particularly if the day was sunny and the skies clear. They had just passed the one-mile mark.
Lenore blinked. “Are we?”
“Two guys. Big, white, casual dress. They’re annoying me.”
Lenore gave him a worried look.
Lenore’s presence concerned him. He had no desire to drag Lenore into anything that might turn violent.
“Don’t be annoyed,” Lenore said.
Kurtz grunted.
“Maybe we should go home,” Lenore said.
“Sure.” They turned. The two men turned with them. They were making no effort to get closer. They followed at a leisurely pace behind. A few minutes later, they were out of the Park and soon after, they entered the lobby of their building.
“Call Lew,” Lenore said.
Kurtz nodded. “Yeah.”
“I was afraid of this,” Barent said.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“We’ll follow the followers. What else?”
Something inside Kurtz unclenched. He had toyed with the idea of doing something…drastic. Like turn around and beat the two guys to a pulp, but that might have been a bit immature of him. Also, of course, maybe they would have beaten him to a pulp, instead. No. Much better to let the forces of law and order protect and serve. “Good,” Kurtz said. “Where and when?”
“Follow your routine. We’ll take
it from there.”
The next day, Kurtz donned his sweats and his running shoes and set out for the Park. By mutual agreement, Lenore stayed behind. He jogged an easy mile. Sure enough, two large, white men picked him up at the half-mile mark. He turned down a trail and picked up the pace. They followed. Behind them, four other men, two white, one black, one Asian, turned onto the trail and began to run.
Kurtz slowed. Ahead of him, around a bend, stood a bench. He stopped and sat down on the bench, apparently winded. The two men also slowed. One looked at the other, who ignored him, his eyes fixed on Kurtz.
The four men behind them trotted up. “Excuse me,” the black guy said.
The two looked at them, their faces hard.
The black guy smiled. Suddenly, the two white guys were surrounded. “We’re police. We’ve been told that you’re harassing this man.” Kurtz smiled and gave the white guys a little wave.
One of the white guys cleared his throat. “This is untrue,” he said. “We do not know this man. We are running in the park. Running in the park is allowed.” He had an accent that might have been Russian.
“Harassing people isn’t,” the black cop said. “Can we see some identification?”
The white guy who might have been Russian gave Kurtz a level look. Something in his gaze spelled trouble. Kurtz smiled back.
“Certainly,” the white guy said. He reached into a back pocket, pulled out a wallet and produced a card, apparently a driver’s license. The black cop took it, turned it over and examined both sides. “Joseph Smith,” he said. He turned to the second guy, who silently produced a similar card.
The cop frowned at it. “Jonathan Jones.” The cop sighed. “Okay,” he said, “let’s go downtown.”
“What is the reason?” the white guy said. “We have done nothing.”
The cop shrugged. “Harassment is a crime. Also, we have to check out your ID’s. It’s possible that these are false names.” He gave the white guy a toothy grin.
The white guy frowned but said nothing. The cop turned to Kurtz and winked one eye. Kurtz gave him a little nod. “Don’t beat them too badly,” Kurtz said. “No permanent damage. Who knows? They might be innocent.”
The cop snorted. “Fat chance.”
Once they arrived at the station house, the two white guys were allowed their one phone call. They were locked in a cell. Nobody approached them. Nobody spoke to them. An hour later, a lawyer showed up. His name was Abner Goodell. He was slim and balding. His dark blue suit appeared slightly rumpled. He asked for a room to discuss things with his clients and after a half hour, announced that they were ready to be interviewed. The interview was short.
Abby Blake was the Assistant District Attorney assigned to the case, such as it was. She was only one year out of law school but was not, Ted Weiss had grudgingly conceded at her first performance review, incompetent. “We’re looking at charges of criminal harassment, stalking and attempted assault,” she said.
Abner Goodell blinked. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“They were running in the park. People run in the park all the time. They never came near this guy…what’s his name?” Abner Goodell looked down at his notepad. “Kurtz.”
“Doctor Kurtz is a member of the New York City Police Department. He is a respected physician and surgeon.”
“So?”
“They were harassing him.”
“Says Kurtz. They say differently.”
The two white guys, whose names may or may not have been Joseph Smith and Jonathan Jones, sat at the table, trying to look innocent. Abby Blake glanced at them. “Their ID’s are phony. We have no idea who they are.”
“There is no legal requirement in this supposedly free country to carry any identification whatsoever, despite the wishes of a government that is increasingly fascist in both its outlook and procedures.”
“True,” Abby Blake said. “There is no legal requirement to carry identification. There is, however, a very definite legal requirement that official documents, in this case two licenses supposedly issued by the State of New York allowing the holder to operate a moving vehicle, be legitimately issued. Their licenses are phony. According to New York Penal Law 170.30, criminal possession of a forged instrument in the First Degree is a ‘C’ class felony and may be punishable by up to fifteen years in jail.”
The two white guys frowned. The frowns did not go unnoticed by either Abby Blake or Abner Goodell. “She’s full of shit,” Abner Goodell said. “First Degree Criminal Possession is possession of a false document in association with grand larceny, forgery, criminal possession of stolen property or outright theft. The charge is ridiculous.”
“We could be looking at a RICO case here,” Abby Blake said thoughtfully.
Abner Goodell gave her a long look. “Possession of a phony driver’s license in association with no other crime is an ‘A’ class misdemeanor.”
Abby Blake clicked her tongue between her teeth. “Even an ‘A’ class misdemeanor can still bring up to one year in jail. At Riker’s Island. Not the most pleasant place to spend a year.”
“A first offense,” Abner Goodell said, “typically involves probation and a small fine.”
“You’re forgetting the harassment charge.” Abby Blake gave a long-suffering sigh. “Okay, I’ll concede that a ‘C’ class felony is probably reaching. Possession plus harassment is Second Degree. That’s ‘D’ class.” Abby Blake gave the two white guys a shark-like smile. “That’s seven years in jail.”
Abner Goodell gave her an incredulous look. “Okay,” he said. “Enough with the BS. Let’s deal.”
In the end, the false driver’s licenses were confiscated. Instead of being charged under Penal Law 170, the two men would instead plead guilty to a violation of Section 509(6) of New York’s Vehicle and Traffic Law and pay a fine of three hundred dollars each. In return, the two gave their real names, which turned out to be Ilya and Dimitri Fedorov. They were brothers. They worked for a bakery that specialized in Russian pastries, owned by their aunt, Masha Fedorov.
A few phone calls verified that they were telling the truth, at least about the aunt and the bakery. As to the charges of harassment, they would admit nothing. They were running in the park. Running in the park was not a crime.
They each had a few teenage arrests on their record, ranging from petty vandalism to assault. Nothing in the past five years, which could mean that they had repented of their youthful misbehavior or perhaps had learned how to conceal their crimes. In any case, the police had no real evidence of intent to commit harm. Running in the park was not a crime. Neither was running behind Richard Kurtz.
“They sent a message,” Barent said to Kurtz, later in the day. “We sent a message back.”
“Do you think the message was received?”
“Let’s hope.”
“Yeah,” Lenore said, and frowned, first at Kurtz, then at Barent. “Let’s hope.”
“This man Kurtz could be a problem,” Alexei Rugov said.
Vasily Lukin said nothing.
“He is intelligent. He acted decisively.”
Vasily Lukin cleared his throat. “It took little intelligence to contact his colleagues among the police.”
“Really? We deliberately allowed our people and their actions to be seen. A warning. He deliberately responded in a manner that was appropriate but did nothing to escalate the situation. He understands that we know who he is and that he can be reached. We understand that he has the protection of the authorities.” Alexei Rugov shrugged. “It is a stalemate.”
“For now,” Vasily Lukin said.
“For now. Dr. Kurtz could possibly be an annoyance but he is peripheral to our plans. Unless he interferes in a much more serious way, we will not bother him again.”
“Very well,” Vasily Lukin said.
Alexei Rugov smiled. “You sound not entirely happy. For every action, there is a reaction. If Dr. Kurtz does decide to be an
annoyance, we can always re-visit this decision.”
Arnie Figueroa had made steady progress. His left hand was still a bit clumsy and definitely weaker than the right, but it was getting there. Feeling had returned to his leg. The limp was almost gone. He was aware that his days as an undercover cop were most likely behind him, even if his physical condition might allow it (still doubtful). Getting shot in the head and all the ensuing publicity had quite dramatically blown his cover. The newspapers had printed his name and his face.
Arnie Figueroa was looking forward to a desk job and frankly, at this point the prospect did not dismay him.
He had taken a cab back to his old haunting grounds. Arnie had lost weight. He wore contact lenses that changed the color of his eyes and he wore a wig, a blazer and a button down shirt. Nobody would recognize him, or even look at him twice. He sauntered up and down the street, circling the block, trying to remember…
“So, tell me,” Kurtz said, “what was Steve Ryan doing the night he decided to commit suicide?”
Barent stared at him. Moran gave a long, slow smile. “Thinking again?” Moran said.
“It occurred to me to wonder.”
Moran shook his head, still smiling.
It was Thursday afternoon. Kurtz had called first, to make certain that Barent and Moran would both be available, then had dropped by Barent’s office.
“A family dinner,” Barent said.
“Both sides of the family?”
“The wife’s. Steve Ryan has one grown sister. She and her husband live in Seattle. His parents retired and moved to Florida about five years ago. None of his family is left in New York.”
“The wife’s…” Kurtz repeated. “I’ve been told that she has a rather large family. How many of them were there?”
Barent sighed. “Give me a second.” He hit a few buttons on his computer, stared at the screen. “A lot of them,” he said.
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