“We can get all of this on the History Channel,”
Roger said, still pissed that his Lincoln Avenue trade hadn’t worked.
“I was really on a roll in those days,” Bimini continued. “More and more agents were taking my deal. Then, one night in August of ‘eighty-five, there was a roundup. Stanislov picked up all of my Russian double agents in the middle of the night and took them to Lubianka Prison in Moscow. Lubianka was a shooting prison. People would go in there and never be heard from again. All of my doubles were interrogated, and then summarily executed. That fat bastard gave the order. They were all shot in the back of the head.”
“With a five point four-five millimeter automatic,” Broadway said.
“That was how they did it back then,” she concurred. “I was devastated. I couldn’t conceive of how Stanislov could have learned about every single one of my assets. I had spread out the case info, distributed their encrypted files to a lot of different service computers. NSA, FBI, CIA … It shouldn’t have all leaked. It became pretty damn obvious that somebody far up in our own system had sold us out. Some embassy official with high security clearance was giving up these Russian double agents. We investigated diligently but couldn’t find out who it was. It came to be known on station as the ‘Eighty-five Problem.”
“And you never caught the guy?” I asked.
“A few years later, R. A. Virtue got a phone tip at the FBI in Washington, giving him the name of one of our ex-CIA Moscow agents. After a lengthy investigation, Virtue and some other D. C. counterintelligence types finally turned up a man named Edward Lee Howard. He’d been passed over for promotion and had gone into business with Stanislov to help beef up his CIA retirement fund. We searched his records, and found out that he had probably given up some of my double agents. But the more we studied him, the more it became obvious that he didn’t know anywhere near all of it. And then before we could bust him, he shook his tail and got out of the U. S. and back to Russia. But I know there was still another traitor out there.”
“You were in charge of the investigation?” Roger asked.
“It was my op. But it was Virtue who really made his bones on the ‘Eighty-five Problem.” Bimini took a deep breath. “In February of ‘ninety-four, Virtue caught another anonymous tip. A CIA officer named Aldrich Ames was eventually arrested for treason. He too had been selling the identities of Russian double agents back to the KGB. But again, when we checked his exposure to the names, there was no way he could have known about all of them either. By then Virtue was a rising star in the FBI, and was put in charge of large aspects of the case. We all knew there was still another traitor involved. With the arrest of FBI agent Robert Philip Hanssen in two thousand one in Virginia, it finally seemed that we had uncovered the last of them. But as we debriefed Hanssen, we realized that we still couldn’t account for all of the lost KGB doubles. That’s when we knew there had to be a fourth man. Somebody with connections high up in our operation, who also had damn good contacts inside the KGB. In effect, a double-double. Covert Intel I’m not willing to give you, leads me to believe the fourth man is hiding in L. A. It’s why I’m stationed here today.”
The air-conditioning unit switched on again, and this time Bimini’s nerves must have been getting to her, because she flinched.
“Stanislov was probably the one who recruited Howard, Ames, and Hansen, just like you recruited his double agents,” I said.
“That’s right,” Bimini replied. “When you boil it down, he had the exact same problem as I did. The fourth man was selling assets to both sides. Stanislov Bambarak’s trying to find him, same as Virtue and me. Bambarak would do anything to get even. Both sides were losing their doubles. We arrested our traitors. Stanislov, asshole that he is, executed his.” She took a breath. “I’m still looking for my last traitor. Hopefully, I’ll beat him to it this time. That’s all I can tell you. The rest is classified.”
Chapter 45
It was almost 2 A. M. when I finally flopped down on my bed in the sparsely furnished safe house. I closed my eyes, but my mind wouldn’t shut down, so I lay on top of the covers, picking at an array of troubling self-doubts. When I’m in these self-analytical moods, attempting to dissect my confusing life journey, I often start with my police academy graduation, the most fulfilling day of my life to that point. I stood at attention in Elysian Park and received my badge, full of pride and a sense of accomplishment. But as the years passed, my pride dissolved in a brutal mixture of street violence and bad rationalizations. As my pride left, the sense of accomplishment I’d won disappeared with it. Then came the drinking.
But in the beginning, right after graduation, I felt very righteous in my new uniform, armored by its ironed blue fabric and the LAPD badge. It gave me a stature I’d never had before, and I was comforted by the ballsy sound of my own gun leather creaking. I rode the front seat of a department A-car, secure in the belief that my turbulent upbringing had taught me how to survive. I also knew that loners rarely got double-crossed, so I affected a carefully orchestrated isolation. If I didn’t depend on anyone, even my partner, I reasoned, then I was in complete control of my environment. But the obvious flaw in this thinking was since I didn’t depend on anybody, nobody depended on me. I told myself that I treasured that. I was a lone gunman.
What I had really become was an afterthought on the job. Underneath my strutting arrogance were hidden doubts and a lurking suspicion that I had chosen to isolate myself because I never really mattered to anyone and couldn’t figure out how to change that. I thought if I just didn’t look inward, I wouldn’t have to deal with the insecurities and could believe in that uniformed power image that looked back at me from my mirror each morning. But I was wrong.
As I stared up at the exposed beams in my borrowed bedroom, I realized that in the last four years I had made a complete transformation. Now I depended almost too much on others.
I had Alexa and Chooch to share my feelings with. Broadway and Perry were becoming more than just case-mates. I could bask in their banter. It felt good, but I had sacrificed control. This all happened because I opened myself up; made myself vulnerable to others. But just when I finally reached the point where I was maturing into someone I could actually respect, I found myself miles from my wife and son. I was back where I’d started. It surprised me that my new, hard-won sense of self lay behind such a transparent veil of doubts.
At that moment, my cell phone buzzed. I looked over at the bedside table, watching it pulsate every two seconds doing a little vibration dance. I didn’t give this number out, and Alexa would use the SAT phone, not my cell, so I knew who it was. The phone just kept taunting me, moving stupidly to its right, every time it buzzed.
There’s a difference between being cautious and just being a pussy, I thought. So I rolled over, opened it, and put the cell up to my ear.
“Shane,” I said, and waited for Zack to reply. “We need to talk, Bubba.”
His voice sounded tight.
“Turn yourself in, Zack. Then we’ll talk.”
“You need to meet with me, just us, face to face.” “I’m not meeting with you.”
“I know what you think. That’s why I jumped you. I had to get outta there.” Then there was a long pause before he said, “I didn’t kill Vaughn Rolaine. You owe it to me to listen. You’ve got to hear my side. I know how it looks. You’re my last chance.”
I took a deep breath and decided to press him hard and see what happened. “I’ve been wondering about something, Zack. You were getting into a lot of shootouts back when we were in the Valley. How many perils did you light up? Three or four in twelve months? Wyatt Earp didn’t drop that many guys in Dodge City.”
“We had big problems in that division. IAD investigated. You know they wouldn’t rate them clean kills ‘less they were.”
“Were you covering my ass because you were trying to help me, or because you wanted to keep me on the street ‘cause you needed a partner who was too out of it to hurt
you at any of those shooting review boards?”
His pause seemed a fraction too long.
“Come on,” he finally said. “Whatta you talking about? That’s nuts.” Then he lowered his voice. “You gotta help me. I can’t explain how Vaughn Rolaine ended up in both my cases. It makes me look bad. You gotta help me come up with something.”
“I’ll meet you in Jeb Calloway’s office anytime you pick,” I said.
“Get serious. I ain’t goin’ nowhere near Mighty Mouse till I got some answers. I’m not some drooling monster. How can you think that?”
“It’s there, or nowhere.” Another long silence stretched between us. “Turn yourself in, Zack. If you’re straight on this, then it’s gonna all come out fine.
Nobody is out to sink you, not Alexa, not Jeb, and especially not me.”
“Yeah, right. Fuck you very much, asshole.”
Then he was gone and I was listening to a dial tone. I closed the phone and turned it off.
I got up, went out onto the deck, and sat on one of the canvas chairs under a three-quarter moon. When I looked out at the beautiful canyon, I noticed a pair of feral yellow eyes turned up at me from the sagebrush. They glinted gold in the moonlight for a flash, before disappearing.
Probably a mountain lion or a coyote. But I’d been on the street long enough to recognize a killer’s eyes. There was predatory hunger in that crafty yellow stare.
Then a strange thought hit me. When that beast looked up at me, what did he see in my eyes? Was there nobility and honor, or did he see another killer?
Chapter 46
The next morning I called Texaco. After sitting on hold for almost five minutes, a stern woman came on the line and identified herself as franchise manager. She sighed loudly after I explained my time-wasting errand.
“We don’t generally give out the names of our franchisees,” she snipped. “Wait one moment.”
More recorded music followed as I dealt with the corporate ego of Chevron Texaco.
“Okay,” she said. “I guess we can supply that.” “Thank you.”
“Where was our station located again?”
“The corner of Melrose and Fairfax in Los Angeles.” “One moment.”
This time she didn’t put me on hold, but came right back on the line.
“You’re mistaken. We have no franchise located there.”
“This was back in ‘ninety-five. It’s not there anymore. I told that to the first woman I spoke to.”
“But you didn’t tell me, did you?” Frigid. Finally, I heard computer keys clicking.
“Okay, ‘ninety-five. That station was actually not on a corner, but one up from the intersection with a Melrose Avenue address.”
“Thank you, ma’am, I’ll make a note of that. Could you tell me who owned the franchise?”
“Yes.”
More silence.
“Would you mind telling me now?”
“I’m trying to pull it up, if you’ll please give me a second.”
We definitely weren’t hitting it off.
“From ‘eighty-three to ‘ninety-five, that station was owned by Boris Litvenko. Then it was sold to Patriot Petroleum.”
“Excuse me. Litvenko? Did you say Litvenko?” “L-I-T-V-E-N-K-0.” She spelled it.
My heart was beating faster now. Boris must have been Marianna’s husband and Martin Kobb’s uncle.
“Do you happen to have the ownership names for Patriot Petroleum?”
“No, we wouldn’t have . That.”
“Thank you, ma’am. If I have any more questions, I might need to talk to you again.”
“I’ll be right here,” she chirped, not sounding too happy about it, either.
I found Emdee and Roger eating prefab waffles at the kitchen table. They put two in the microwave, zapped them up for me, and handed me the butter and syrup.
“Anything?” Broadway asked.
“We’re in business. Marianna Litvenko sold the station in ‘ninety-five to an outfit named Patriot Petroleum. No surnames on the paperwork.”
“Whatta ya wanta bet there’s no patriots employed at Patriot Petroleum?” Perry said.
“So, like you said, Marty Kobb wasn’t at the market. He was over visiting his Uncle Boris’s gas station when he was killed,” Broadway said.
“Why didn’t Marianna Litvenko or anyone else mention that they owned a gas station right next to the market, and that Marty was there right before getting shot? When Blackman and Otto talked to her in ‘ninety-five she never mentioned it.”
“That ought to be our first question once we find her,” Emdee said.
We spent the rest of the morning looking for Boris’s widow. She wasn’t listed in the phone book. Maybe she was listed under another name or had remarried. I thumbed through my shorthand of Blackman’s and Otto’s notes looking for the Bellagio address. I found it, picked up the phone, and ran it through the LAPD reverse phone directory. No Marianna Litvenko. The directory listed the people who owned the house at that address as Steve and Linda Goodstein. I called the number and Mrs. Goodstein said the house had sold twice since ‘95. She had never heard of the Litvenkos.
Emdee Perry finally found Marianna in the LAPD traffic computer. She had three unpaid tickets for driving with an expired license from three years earlier.
We agreed that since I’d turned this angle, I would run the interview on Mrs. Litvenko. Roger and Emdee would be there for backup. The address was way out in the Valley, in Thousand Oaks.
“Wonder why she sold the nice place on Bellagio?” I said as I unlocked my sun-hot car and we piled in.
Roger shrugged and took shotgun. Perry stretched out sideways in the back. We headed down Coldwater, onto the 101. Just after two o’clock we pulled up to a slightly weathered, not-too-well-landscaped, low-roofed complex of cottages in the far West Valley.
When we parked in the lot, my question was answered. There was a large sign out front:
WEST OAKS RETIREMENT CENTER AN ASSISTED LIVING COMMUNITY
Chapter 47
As we walked up the stone path to the lobby building, I glanced over at Emdee. “Don’t you think since you speak Russian, you’d be better equipped to handle this?”
“You get in a crack, I’ll help ya out. But I don’t put out a good Granny vibe. I look like I skin goats for a living, so old ladies mostly hate me on sight.”
“Listen to the man. He knows his shortcomings,” Broadway said.
We entered a linoleum-floored waiting room furnished with several green Naugahyde couches, bad art, and a long vinyl-topped reception desk. An old man with a turkey neck and twoinch thick glasses peered at us over the counter as we approached.
“Ain’t seen you folks before,” he announced, loudly. “Means you’re either guests, undertakers, or family of our next resident victim.” Then he smiled. He had most of his lowers, but not much going the other way.
“We’re here to see Marianna Litvenko,” I said.
“Ever met her before?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“Then get ready to be disappointed. Whistler’s mother with more wrinkles than a Tijuana laundry. And to make it worse, the woman is a communist.”
He picked up the phone and started stabbing at numbers, made a mistake, and started over.
“Can’t see shit anymore,” he growled.
“Are you employed here?” I asked, a little surprised at his demeanor.
“Hell, no. Volunteer. I’m Alex Caloka of the Fresno Calokas. Not to be confused with the San Francisco Calokas who were all fakers and whores.”
He finally got the phone to work. “Folks to see Russian Mary,” he bellowed into the receiver. Then he waited while somebody spoke. “I ain’t shouting!” he said, and listened for a minute before hanging up.
“Unit B-twelve, like the vitamin. Off to the right there. She’s getting massage therapy. If they got her clothes off and ya don’t wanta puke, cover your eyes.”
We walked out onto the brow
n lawn that fronted the paint-peeled cottages and turned right. The single-story, shake roof bungalows were arranged in a horseshoe. A few frail-looking, old people with blankets on their laps, sat in wheelchairs taking the sun.
“Be sure and sign me up for this place after I retire,” Emdee told Roger.
B 12 was identical to the other units. The only difference was the color of the dying carnations in the flowerbed out front. We went to the door and knocked.
“Just a minute, not quite finished,” a young-sounding woman’s voice called out.
We waited for about three minutes, listening to occasional hacking coughs, which floated across the lawn from the row of parked wheelchairs. Finally, the door opened and a thirty-year-old blonde goddess in gym shorts and a sports bra came down the steps carrying a canvas therapy bag.
“You’re her guests?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Broadway and Perry answered in unison, both of them almost swallowing their tongues.
“You’re lucky. She’s having one of her good days.”
Then the goddess swung off down the walk using more hip action than a West Hollywood chorus line, and headed toward another cottage.
“As long as we’re here, maybe I oughta see if I can get that painful crick worked outta my dick,” Perry said, admiring her long, athletic stride.
We stepped inside the darkened room and stood in the small, musty space for a moment waiting for our eyes to adjust. Then I saw her sitting in a club chair parked under an oil portrait of a stern-looking baldheaded man.
Suddenly, she leaned forward and pointed a bony finger at Emdee Perry. “Dis is man who stole my dog,” she shouted, loudly.
“I’m sorry?” Emdee said, taking a step back. “Took Chernozhopyi. Right out of yard.”
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