Brighton Beach

by Robert I. Katz

  “You know how they make it?”

  “Yes, I do, and I prefer not to think about it.”

  “They let it marinate in its own pancreatic enzymes before they pickle it in wine.”

  Kurtz winced. “You just had to say that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did. I make it a point to steer clear of so-called food that marinates in its own pancreatic enzymes. It’s a personal rule.”

  “Let’s get back to the murders,” Kurtz said. “A much more pleasant topic.”

  “Okay. Fine.” Barent shrugged. “Drug gangs go after the competition all the time. It may have been two different gangs whacking each other.”

  Kurtz considered this, stolidly chewing on a piece of herring that had been marinated in its own pancreatic enzymes. Jackass. “If that was the case, I would have expected more killing by now. None of these guys are known for their restraint, or so you’ve always told me.”

  “Yeah, well, it may have been two different gangs playing tit-for-tat but it’s just as likely to be one gang selling two different narcotics that’s getting hit by a second gang. The clients don’t care, and generally don’t even know what particular drug they’re putting in their bodies. They’re just happy to get high.”

  “Huh,” Kurtz said.

  “But why assume a gang war? It could even be some Batman wannabe that’s going after the bad guys, trying to keep Gotham safe from the forces of evil.”

  “That seems even more unlikely,” Kurtz said.

  “I’m just throwing it out there. It doesn’t matter that it’s unlikely.” Barent shrugged. “One gang, two gangs, some lunatic crackpot…at this point, we just don’t know.”

  “Lucky us,” Kurtz said.

  “Us?” Barent paused with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “There is no ‘us.’ This is not your investigation and it’s none of your business. Remember?”

  Kurtz cracked a smile. “How can I forget, when you keep reminding me?”

  “Vasily Lukin was born in Russia, but so far as we are aware, he has not been back since coming to this country,” Javier Garcia said. “He has most certainly never been incarcerated in a Russian prison. Where would he acquire such tattoos?”

  “It seems that the American born members of the organization have adopted this custom,” Esteban Martinez said. “There are many tattoo artists in New York City. These are, without doubt, Vasily Lukin’s tattoos.”

  Javier Garcia puffed out his breath. “Alexei Rugov’s principal lieutenant. This is disappointing.”

  “But not surprising. Rugov was not happy that we have ended our association.”

  Javier Garcia sipped his coffee, put down the cup and sighed. “And so it begins.”

  Esteban Martinez very diplomatically said nothing. Garcia smiled. “The prospect does not excite you?”

  “We are both too old to pretend.” Esteban Martinez drew a deep sigh. “No, the prospect of war does not excite me. We have much to lose and nothing at all to gain. At best, the status quo will be maintained. Unfortunately, war with Alexei Rugov has already begun. It began when he chose, for whatever reason, to attack us. Now, we must respond. It is the way of the world.”

  “Yes,” Javier Garcia said. “Yes, it is.”

  Chapter 24

  At the moment, Alexei Rugov had two favorite mistresses, one blonde, whose name was Irina, the other brunette, named Natasha. The two mistresses despised each other but existed in an uneasy and superficially cordial truce.

  Alexei Rugov was smart, wily and tough. A survivor. He avoided using his own products. He utilized the equipment in his own private gym on a regular basis. A personal physician visited his compound every three months and conducted a thorough exam. Alexei Rugov expected discipline and efficiency, from his employees and from himself. Discipline and efficiency, however, did not require that he avoid life’s simple pleasures.

  Rank has its privileges, after all, and Alexei Rugov had worked very hard in order to achieve his current rank.

  Czarina, the restaurant of Dimitri Petrovich, served excellent food. Every few months, Dimitri Petrovich offered what he called a “special dinner,” a banquet consisting of a dozen small courses, each with its own carefully chosen wine or specialty vodka. The price for these dinners was high but well worth it. Alexei Rugov rarely missed one.

  Dimitri Petrovich was well known in the Russian community, a man who had defied the Soviet authorities and escaped the prison that was the Soviet Union, a man who deserved respect. His establishment, as much a club as a restaurant, was considered neutral ground, a place where an enterprising member of the underworld could relax with a favorite mistress or two and be safe from challenge.

  The limousine pulled into the spacious parking lot, preceded by one armored car and followed by another. Vasily Lukin emerged from the first car, inspected the lot and finding nothing suspicious, handed the keys to a valet. Three other men emerged and scattered to the corners of the lot, where they would remain throughout the evening. Vasily Lukin walked over to Alexei Rugov’s limousine and opened the door. Irina emerged first, followed by Natasha and then Alexei Rugov.

  The doors to the restaurant opened. Dimitri Petrovich emerged from the front entrance, smiling widely. He walked to the curb and bowed. “Welcome, welcome,” he said. “Always a pleasure to see you again.” His eyes flicked to Natasha and Irina, who ignored him.

  “Thank you,” Alexei Rugov said. “I am looking forward to a delightful evening. Please lead on.”

  “Impressive place,” Kurtz said.

  The Chef’s Table, it turned out, was not simply a table. Kurtz and Lenore were seated in a smaller room next to the main dining room. The main dining room glittered. The lights were turned down. There were candles and white linen on every table. The seats were solid wood covered in leather.

  This room was even more opulent, with crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling and oil paintings hanging on the walls. The paintings looked old, scenes of men on horseback, mostly, one of three women and two men sitting in a rose garden. Another depicted a Wedgewood vase in exquisite, shimmering detail, surrounded by a wine glass, an apple and a pear. Another was a portrait of an elderly man with white hair and sideburns wearing an Imperial Russian military uniform.

  Two other tables were occupied, both by middle aged couples, the men in business suits, the women wearing dresses. A man, accompanied by two women, both very beautiful, one blonde, one brunette, walked into the room, preceded by Dimitri Petrovich.

  These three were shown to a table near Kurtz and Lenore. Dimitri Petrovich gave Kurtz a nod and a smile, then bowed his way out. A waiter dressed in a tuxedo immediately walked up to the newcomers. He handed them all menus and said, “Wine, sir?”

  The man scanned the menu. “Cristal will be served with the first course. We’ll wait for that.” He had an accent, probably Russian, Kurtz thought.

  “Very good, sir,” the waiter said.

  Kurtz and Lenore had already finished with their first two courses: Osetra caviar with ice cold champagne, followed by cured herring with a type of vodka that Kurtz had never heard of. The food and champagne had been excellent. The vodka tasted like any other vodka, but Kurtz imagined that vodka lovers would be impressed.

  “This herring is very good,” Kurtz said, “but it’s not as good as the Maatjes herring at Sarge’s deli.”

  “Maatjes herring?” Lenore wrinkled her nose and delicately shuddered. “You know how that stuff is made? It’s marinated in its own pancreatic enzymes.”

  Kurtz frowned at her. “Yes, I do know that,” he said. “Let’s not discuss it.”

  A young man appeared at Kurtz’ side. He had coal black hair and brown eyes and looked vaguely Asian. Kurtz remembered what Harry Moran had said about Genghis Khan and the Mongol hordes raping their way across the steppes. The young man placed their third course in front of them, pheasant and wild mushrooms with a dill-cream sauce, wrapped in a blini, then poured the wine that accompanied the dish, a Louis Jadot P
uligny-Montrachet.

  So far, Kurtz estimated, the accumulated price of the first three courses on a normal restaurant menu would have been over three hundred bucks. Good that he wasn’t paying for it.

  The Asian looking waiter re-appeared a minute or so later with the first course for the nearby table. He placed the caviar in front of each diner, then displayed the label on the champagne to the male diner, who nodded. The waiter popped the cork and poured a small amount of sparkling wine into a fluted glass. He waited until the man sipped from the glass and indicated approval, then the waiter filled all three glasses. He placed the bottle in an ice bucket near the table and left the room. All three diners drained their glasses.

  Approximately thirty seconds later, the male diner stood up. He appeared to be swaying. His eyes stared into space. The blonde said something to him. He ignored her. The brunette frowned. He took a step forward, clutched at the tablecloth, stumbled to his knees and crashed to the ground, knives, forks, plates and glassware clattering to the floor, the tablecloth fluttering around him.

  “Oh, fuck me!” Kurtz said, and rose to his feet.

  Kurtz knew the drill. He had been through it many times before. He pumped on the man’s chest. The gorgeous brunette, who seemed to be proficient in CPR, gave mouth-to-mouth. Diners and waitstaff clustered around, murmuring. A tall guy who Kurtz vaguely recognized as Vasily Lukin hovered over them all.

  “An ambulance is on its way,” Dimitri Petrovich said.

  Kurtz nodded, stopped pumping and felt for the carotid pulse. It was weak but palpable. “Stop for a second,” Kurtz said. The brunette blinked at him, then stopped. The man’s heart continued to beat but he still wasn’t breathing. “Go ahead,” Kurtz said. The brunette grimaced but did as she was told. Kurtz kept a finger on the pulse. Distant. The man’s blood pressure was low but his heart at least was working.

  The brunette, in the midst of exhaling through the victim’s open mouth, suddenly raised her head. She squinted, blinked once, twice, then slid bonelessly to the floor, not breathing.

  Kurtz stared. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

  Just then, the ambulance crew walked into the room. Two paramedics looked down at the scene, bewildered. “What is going on?” the head paramedic asked.

  “Do you have intubation equipment?” Kurtz said.

  The paramedic’s eyes snapped toward Kurtz. “Of course,” he said.

  “Then intubate them,” Kurtz said. “And don’t touch them without gloves. They’ve both been poisoned.”

  “So, you prick, let’s go over this again.”

  Bad luck that the lead cop was Bert Armstrong. Bert Amstrong did not like him.

  “We’ve gone over it three times already,” Kurtz said.

  “And we’re going to go over it as many times as I say. You understand that?”

  “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” Kurtz said equably.

  Bert Armstrong’s face grew red. Armstrong’s partner, a chubby little guy with short, black hair, named Jerry Conlon, looked worried. “Bert,” he said.

  Armstrong turned toward his partner, his breath coming faster, then he seemed to deflate. His fists clenched. He almost snarled. “Get out of here,” he said to Kurtz.

  Kurtz smiled. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me not to leave town?”

  They were sitting in a small private office, presumably belonging to Dimitri Petrovich or one of his staff. Armstrong turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. Jerry Conlon frowned. “He’s not a bad cop. He’s been under a lot of pressure, lately,” he said. “His wife is divorcing him.”

  Kurtz shrugged. “Your problem. Not mine.”

  “Yeah.” Conlon sighed. “Anyway, thanks for your help. Those two wouldn’t have made it without you.”

  By now, the two patients had been trundled into ambulances and taken to the nearest hospital. Their hearts were beating but they still weren’t breathing without assistance. The room had been closed off. The CSI boys and girls, dressed in hazmat suits, were working the scene. The Asian looking waiter, the one who had delivered the champagne to Alexei Rugov’s table, had vanished. Kurtz had been stunned to discover the identity of his impromptu patient.

  Vasily Lukin and the rest of Alexei Rugov’s party had been sequestered in another room, reserved for private functions, no doubt being questioned. Kurtz knew that there was no chance whatsoever of his being allowed inside, and truthfully, all he wanted at this point was to get the hell out of here.

  Lenore, along with Dimitri Petrovich, was waiting for him outside the office. “Never a dull moment, huh?” she said.

  Kurtz looked at Dimitri Petrovich. “Alexei Rugov?” he said.

  “He has been a valued customer for many years.” Dimitri Petrovich looked grim. Not surprising. It did bad things to a restaurant’s reputation when the customers wound up poisoned. Dimitri Petrovich reluctantly smiled. “I thank you most sincerely. This unfortunate incident could have been much, much worse. Please know that you will always be an honored guest in my establishment.”

  The place served great food in an opulent setting. Aside from the little unpleasantness they had all just experienced, it had been an excellent meal and would have been an enjoyable evening.

  Dimitri nodded toward Lenore. “Mrs. Kurtz feels that you would prefer to go home. I understand completely. I have had the remainder of your meal packed up for you, along with a few additional items that you might enjoy.”

  At the moment, Kurtz was no longer hungry but this would no doubt change by the end of the evening. “That’s great,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Dimitri Petrovich gave a formal bow. “My pleasure.”

  The next afternoon, Lew Barent walked into Kurtz’ office. Mrs. Schapiro, who by now knew Barent well, smiled at him. “He’s with a patient,” she said. “He should be free shortly.”

  “So,” Barent said a few minutes later. “You just couldn’t help yourself.”

  “I’m not the one who poisoned him,” Kurtz said.

  Barent cracked a smile. “Bert Armstrong seems unconvinced of that.”

  “Bert Armstrong is a flaming asshole.”

  “Yeah, well…” Barent shrugged. “I thought you might like to know the results of the tox screen on Alexei Rugov and the young lady. Her name is Natasha, by the way. Natasha Baranov. Russian. She’s one of Alexei Rugov’s favorite girlfriends.”

  “Who was the blonde?”

  “Irina Zharkov, also one of Alexei Rugov’s favorite girlfriends. Also, Russian.”

  “It’s good to have friends. So, what were the results of the tox screen?”

  Barent smiled. “Carfentanil, almost pure.”

  No surprise there. Kurtz clicked his tongue against his teeth. “What happened to the waiter?”

  “Disappeared.”

  Also, no surprise. “So, who was he?”

  The papers that he filed with the restaurant list his name as Timur Beshimov, from Vladivostok, in Siberia. He came to the States five years ago. He’s been working at the restaurant for three months.” Barent shrugged. “The bottle of wine wasn’t touched. The puddle of wine on the floor had enough carfentanil in it to kill a hundred men. The glasses were shattered and most of the pieces were sitting in the spilled wine, so it wasn’t easy to tell, but most of the pieces outside of the puddle were clean. Some weren’t.”

  “And neither Irina nor Natasha were drugged until Natasha gave Rugov mouth-to-mouth.”

  “Right. So, presumably, only Rugov’s glass had the stuff in it.”

  “What does Irina have to say?”

  “Nothing. She didn’t see anything. She doesn’t know anything.” Barent smiled. “She’s worried about Rugov. I don’t think she likes Natasha.”

  Kurtz shrugged. “Vasily Lukin? Rugov’s men?”

  “Pissed off.”

  “So where is Timur Beshimov, now?”

  “No idea.”

  Kurtz nodded. “Perhaps you should try to find him.”

  “Thank you, Sherl
ock,” Barent said. “The forces of law and order will do their very best to carry out your suggestions.”

  Chapter 25

  “The plan did not work as expected,” Esteban Martinez said.

  “No,” said Ilya Sokolov. “It is unfortunate. Sergei will not be pleased.”

  Timur Beshimov, whose name was not actually Timur Beshimov, had been given a new identity and a large sum of money and been re-located to Calgary, far away from the New York authorities.

  Timur Beshimov had done as requested. The plan’s failure was no fault of his. It was simply bad luck. One did not punish good men for bad luck.

  Ilya Sokolov cleared his throat. “So, what now?” he asked.

  Esteban Martinez shook his head. “We had hoped that our conflict with Alexei Rugov could be resolved quickly, and with a minimum of bloodshed. Now…?” He held his hands out to the sides and let them fall. “More drastic measures will be required.”

  “And what of this man Kurtz? The surgeon?”

  “A bystander,” Esteban Martinez said. “Nothing more.”

  Ilya Sokolov sat back and considered this statement. “I am not so certain of this,” he said. “Our sources within the department of police consider him to be dangerous.”

  Esteban Martinez shrugged. “Let me discuss the situation with Javier.”

  “Please do so, and please inform me before you take any action.”

  “Of course,” Esteban Martinez said.

  Albert Morelli was lazy but he wasn’t stupid. The jig, as they say, was definitely up. Internal Affairs had sniffed around him before but this time…he sighed. Albert Morelli had made a conscious decision, years before, to take advantage of his opportunities. Albert Morelli was not the only dirty cop on the force. Far from it. None of that mattered. He was the one they had caught.

  “I have nothing to say,” Albert Morelli said.

  His union rep, a hard eyed fellow cop named Alice Boyer, plus his lawyer, a thin guy in a dark gray suit, named Eric Cantrell, sat next to him. Across the table sat Jason Blair, two other officers from IA, Ted Weiss and Abby Blake.