The Girl In the Morgue

by D. D. VanDyke

  “Who the hell is this?” Sergei demanded sleepily.

  “It’s Cal. I’m outside. Open up and let me in. And the garage. I don’t want to leave Dad’s car on the street here.” A couple of the panhandlers had already attempted to wash her windows, until she’d unholstered her compact automatic and laid it on the dashboard.

  There was only silence for a reply. When Sergei finally spoke, he was able to speak to her civilly. “Cal? What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you. Open up, will you? I’m not doing this over the phone.”

  “You found something?”

  “I found a lot of somethings. Open up.”

  Sergei made a growling sound and slammed the receiver down. In a few minutes, the rolling steel garage door opened and she drove inside, where she took the last bit of space among three other cars.

  “Cal, you should still be in hospital,” Sergei said as she slowly got out in the dimness of the musty near-underground space. “What are you doing out?”

  “I needed to talk to you. Right now.”

  “You are not well. Come and sit down. I will pour you a drink.” He took her arm and led her to the empty barroom, lit only by the neon signs and the lights of the ancient jukebox filled with vinyl recordings of Russian music.

  Cal glanced around, sweating. She meant to resist him, but she was too weak to fight back against his grasp, and allowed him to guide her into a seat. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the room spin around her until she heard him plunk down a bottle and glasses on the table and slide in across from her.

  Then she opened them and stared at Sergei. “You’ve been hiding something from me.”

  “Hiding? Hiding about what?”

  “About Jenna. This whole time. You sent me on a wild goose chase. All along, you knew more than you let on.”

  “What is wild goose chase?” He poured vodka into the shot glasses and shoved one to her.

  “Or if not, then I was your stalking horse. Your catspaw. Your Judas goat.”

  “What is all this animal talk? Am I running a zoo here?” He hefted the glass.

  “Za vas.” He drank.

  She didn’t. “You speak English as well as any American if you want to. Don’t try to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about. I do not pretend.”

  “You knew that Jenna was involved in something dangerous.”

  He gave a shrug and shook his head. “I do not know this.”

  “You did. She was wearing chainmail to work! You didn’t think anyone would notice that?”

  “Chainmail? I did not know.” Sergei poured another shot and clinked it to her untouched one. “Drink, Solntse.” He drank.

  Angrily, Cal tossed off the shot, feeling the burn of the liquor crawl down her throat and explode in her empty stomach. “You know what chainmail is and you knew she was wearing it. Rostislav noticed, so you would too. You’re far from stupid, Dyadya Sergei. You had to know she was worried.”

  “Cal…I do not know who you talk to or what you have got in your head. You are still sick. How did I put Jenna in danger? She was my barmaid. I look after my girls. No one here in danger. Never.” He made a gesture that took in the bar room and the rest of the building around them. “So she was worried. Everybody got worries.” He filled her glass again.

  “What did she get into? Drug dealing? You knew she needed money. She needed it to get her son better therapies than the state provides. She was always behind, living one paycheck to the next, so you should have known she would go for it if someone offered her extra cash under the table.” Cal rubbed her eyes. “Look, I’m not saying it’s your fault, but how could you have ignored her need, or missed it? And, you didn’t give me all the info you knew when you hired me. You could have saved me a lot of running around. Maybe even saved me this pain.”

  Sergei didn’t move. He stared at her, his eyes dark hollows in the dimness of the bar, little of the sunlight outside wedging its way through the blinds and other crevices to brighten the room. “So I am at fault for helping her or not helping her. You hurt and wish someone to blame, that is all.” He patted her hand. “I know.”

  Cal sighed and relaxed a little. “You knew she had money troubles.”

  “What single mother does not have money troubles? Most of my girls do. I do what I can for them. But I give only one advance, and I don’t ask for anything dirty.”

  “So what does that mean, you do what you can for them?”

  “Give them extra hours. Leftover food to take home. Time off when they need, I cover, like when Jenna needed to care for her son. Sometimes I arrange legitimate outside extra work, like bartend a party, like that. What I can. No danger.” He waved a hand. “No more than usual in life. You should know, Cal. We cannot keep everyone safe. Sometimes not even ourselves.”

  “Yet she had extra money. Randy knew it. Cruiser knew it. Everyone knew it, even Rostislav.”

  “Rostislav?”

  “He came and talked to me in the hospital. We’re war buddies now, you know. The brotherhood of combat and all that.”

  “I do not own Rostya. He is good man, grown man. He makes own decisions.”

  “He knew more than you thought he did. Jenna had talked to him. Confided in him. Asked him what to do.”

  “About what?”

  “About her boss asking her to do something that was wrong.”

  She expected a reaction out of Sergei, but she got nothing. He just continued to look at her with that blank, heavy, Russian mask. “I never ask her to do anything that is wrong. She was my employee. She serve drinks. Food. Helps to clean up. This is why you accuse me, your godfather, who knows you from your birth? What Rostya remembers a troubled girl says? You believe her word over mine?”

  Cal lifted the fresh shot Sergei had poured her, but slipped and dropped it, spilling it on her sleeve front, and lap. “Crap.”

  He made as if to pour more, but she turned the shot glass upside down.

  When Sergei put it like that, it seemed to make sense. There was no real reason to believe her over him, especially as it was hearsay through a man born in Moscow and whose command of English was marginal. Yet, Jenna’s words seemed to ring true somehow.

  “Look, she was into something that was making her easy cash. I’ve heard tell of drugs. She got in too deep. She knew what she was doing was wrong, or dangerous, or there was something she refused to do, some line she wouldn’t cross, so she pushed back, hard. That got her shot. If it wasn’t you, her boss, who was it?”

  “You think I shot her?”

  “Not intentionally, and not personally. You know people who would, though, or you know guys who know guys, as they say. Hell, I know a guy who would, for the right reasons,” she said, thinking of Thomas with a flash of guilt. Who was she to be complaining about rough play, when she’d slept with a stone-cold killer and loved it?

  Liked it, anyway.

  Okay, loved it, if not him. Call it infatuation.

  Sure.

  Come on, Cal, your thoughts are wandering.

  “Whoever did it probably didn’t want it to go down that way. He—or she—wanted compliance, and was using threats against her and Alan as leverage, but Jenna didn’t bend. She took her shot—her stab—at the enforcer and ate eight bullets for it.”

  “Why call you if I had anything to do with it? If I know a guy who know a guy, as you say, then I will hear why this happen and have no need to call. Come on, Cal. Use head,” he tapped his own temple, “instead of that too-big, too-hot heart of yours. I love this about you, Caliya, your passion. It is very Russian, but today you need to be Japanese. Like your Baba.”

  “Japanese like my grandmother?”

  “Da. Keep your passion in check and look for the detail. Like the Sherlock Holmes.”

  “A Japanese Sherlock Holmes.” Cal had to admit Sergei was right. Her theory felt right, but it made no sense when applied to Sergei. Yet, dispas
sionately, she felt there was a connection, and there was something Sergei knew, even if he didn’t know he knew.

  In poker terms, she’d been pushing chips at Sergei, trying to get him to slip up and tip his hand, or fold and admit some responsibility for Jenna’s death. He’d done neither, simply calling her bets and standing pat, as if he knew he had her beat.

  As if he knew she was bluffing.

  She hated to do it, but she had to play her ace—something of an underhanded ace, from her sleeve, really. Maybe it would reveal something. As much as she loved him, Sergei had never told her much about his business, and she couldn’t make connections with him hiding things.

  So, she kept bluffing.

  “Whoever did it never thought they’d be found out, with Randy as the fall guy. They also didn’t expect you to hire me, but that was fine, because no one would suspect anyone connected to you,” she deliberately emphasized that word connected, “if you did.”

  Sergei rumbled, “But why you think this is someone I know? Why not your tame Fascist, or one of the other mafiya? Jenna maybe meet the wrong person, she make a bad deal, as you say, in too deep. You must find this out, Cal. I know you can. And this is not Russian. I already make the phone call I need to make and the Pakhan say no, Sergei, nobody of our people. That’s why I hire you. I do not hire you and expect you to fail.”

  Cal warmed at that. He was her Uncle Sergei. He believed in her. He had hired her because of her skill, not because he’d expected her to fail. But she couldn’t let herself be turned by his flattering words. She had to play her dirty ace, just to be sure.

  So she threw it down. “Are you supplying my mother with drugs?”

  For the first time, Sergei’s face displayed deception. His eyes shot to the side and up, a classic sign. Or toward where Starlight was sleeping upstairs? Was Starlight listening in, unbeknownst to either of them?

  “Are you?” she said harshly.

  Sergei gave an exaggerated shrug, lifting his hands in the air, palms up. “What does that have to do with anything? What if I give your mother a little pot she wants, that she always wants. That means I am involved with Jenna’s death? You cannot jump from one to the other.”

  “And what about Rostislav? What he said, about her boss?”

  “What about Rostislav? I do not know what he heard, or told you. He is good man, but not smart like you. But right now, you are not smart. You are hurt and sick, California. You should go home and sleep. You are not thinking right.”

  “Rostislav comes here for a drink. You don’t offer something to help with his pain? Something better than the pills the doctors give him?”

  “He knows where he can get such things. I have no need to offer.”

  “You sure? Drugs for Starlight. Drugs for Rostislav. Jenna had some drug connection. You sure it wasn’t you? Even unintentionally? Did any of your stash go missing?”

  “No. Nothing. I have no stash. I get no drugs for anybody. I give your mother money and drive her to the dispensary where she has medical marijuana card, all legal. She have anxiety. With me, I make her feel safe. You must admit, Caliya, you are not the safe kind of daughter. Not for her, so opposite from you. She need a man in her life.”

  Cal had expected more. A much bigger reaction. Threats. Anger. Dramatic denial. But Sergei just looked at her, his eyes glittering in the half-light of the bar, and told her no, like an innocent suspect under interrogation.

  They both sat there for a long time. Cal rubbed the back of her neck, which had been stiff ever since she woke up after the Golden Gate battle. The vodka hadn’t loosened it much.

  “How about you?” Sergei asked. “You want aspirin?”

  Cal laughed. Now he was offering her drugs. At a time when she really could have used something stronger, he offered her aspirin. Cal stopped rubbing her neck and massaged her temples and forehead, and thought about another drink. One was enough, though.

  “Sure, aspirin.” That was one problem with checking herself out of the hospital. No prescriptions for painkillers, not that mixing them with alcohol would have been a good idea. “Where do you think Jenna was getting her extra money, then?”

  Sergei rummaged under the bar and came up with a bottle of aspirin. He filled a glass with club soda and set both on the table in front of her, still standing. She tossed four tablets into her mouth and washed them down with the bubbly water.

  “I do not know,” Sergei said, sitting back down again. “She did not tell me where she was getting extra money.”

  “But you knew she was?”

  “Only that she was not asking for extra work, and only now that you mention. I do not keep track of everything like detective, Cal. She seem happier for a while. Not so stressed out. I did not know why. She did not talk to me about her life.”

  “And lately?”

  Sergei shook his head. “Lately, worries. Again, I do not know what. Problems with her son or boyfriend, maybe.”

  “Rostislav said she was wearing chainmail under her shirt while she was working.”

  Sergei’s brows furrowed. “You say this before. What is chainmail?”

  “Armor. Like she wore when she dressed up as a knight. To protect her from being stabbed.”

  “Like a vest?”

  “Yes. Made out of metal rings or links. Pretty heavy and uncomfortable.”

  “Ah, kol’chuga. There was no one here who was a danger to her. She never said anyone was bothering her.”

  Cal sighed. “So why wear it here, where she was supposed to be safe? That’s why I think—thought—maybe it’s someone you know.”

  “It could be customer, or friend. Sometimes friends come see her here, you know, like young people do. You find out anything else?” Sergei asked. “What happen at this fight in Golden Gate where you were hurt? I hear Polack Potoczek was killed, heh? Stabbed.”

  “You can’t say…oh, hell.” No point in lecturing someone as old-school as Sergei on ethnic slurs. “So you knew Peter Potoczek? I think he’s somebody in the drug trade. Was, since he’s on a slab in the morgue now.” That reminded her to call Stone when she had a chance. “I thought maybe there was something going on between you and him and Jenna got caught in the middle…”

  “I have heard his name. But I only run a bar. I don’t compete with Potoczek or any other hood, and they know I am Russian. I have brothers. The Polacks are not strong in the area.”

  “Okay. Well. There’s one less now.”

  “And you were injured. A dangerous kind of fun, this sword fighting.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be. And I took the M&Ms with me to watch my back.”

  “I think they did not do such a good job.”

  “I guess we could have been smarter about it. I never realized how…chaotic it would be. That we wouldn’t be able to stick together like I had planned.”

  “Who hurt you?”

  “I don’t know. They had on armor. Helmets. I never saw their faces.”

  “More than one?”

  “Yes.” Cal considered this, trying to sort through the images of that evening. She was still unable to put it into a proper timeline, and maybe she would never be able to. “There were different people. The one that hit me in the chest, and the one that hit me over the head. Maybe more than one, I don’t really remember. And…” She held up her splinted fingers.

  He nodded. They sat together for a little while in silence. Sergei shifted. Cal looked at the clock, remembering that for him, it was the middle of the night.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you up.”

  “We are family. Family can wake up.” Sergei’s dark eyes drilled into Cal. “Family also trust each other.”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m sorry. But when Jenna said that her boss wanted her to do something wrong, and I thought about all of the money she had all of a sudden, and the connections to Potoczek and whatever dirty business he was involved in…”

  “You have a concussion. You are not thinking clearly. I allow for this.�
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  But Cal thought she was thinking clearly. She might have jumped to the wrong conclusion, but perhaps she was on the right track. “Are you sure she didn’t work for anyone else? Someone she would have called her boss, not you? She wasn’t doing something else on the side?”

  “I would have noticed this. Jenna did a good job here. Not dishonest. She was good worker. No time to do much else.”

  “People make time for what’s important to them. I’ve known people working three jobs, eighteen hours a day.” Cal closed her eyes and rubbed her temples for a minute. She needed to backtrack. Potoczek may have taken his secrets to the grave with him, but someone still knew something. Someone knew what had been going on with Jenna and why she was so afraid of a knife in the back.

  Or the gut.

  Cal climbed back into Madge’s reupholstered leather bucket seat. Sergei had walked her down to the cramped garage and hovered over her as she and buckled herself in and started the engine.”

  “You are okay to drive, Caliya?”

  “It’s not far. Then I’ll lie down and get some more rest.”

  “You need to eat.” He kept his hand on the door of the car, looking down at her through the open window. “Your mother would never forgive me if something happen to you because I did not make you stay here or drive you home. You not look good.”

  “I know. It’s just the pain. That means I’ll stay alert for the drive home. You want me to call you when I get there?”

  She intended it as a joke, but he considered it. “You sure you are fine?”

  “I’m sure. It’s just a hop, skip, and a jump back home.”

  “You don’t look like you should jump.” He removed his hand from the door and patted the ragtop of the car. “Be careful, then. Drive slowly. Call me when you know more about Jenna.”

  “You still think I’ll figure it out?”

  “I know you. You will figure it out. Only, I think you should have your big friends with you when you start asking questions again, da?”

  She was relieved Sergei still had confidence in her, and didn’t hold her suspicions about him against her. She’d been starting to doubt herself and her own conclusions. Maybe that was just fatigue and injury talking.