Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery)

by Michael Koryta

  Two men sat inside, and neither looked particularly friendly. They opened the doors and stepped out of the vehicle, watching me carefully. The driver was a few inches shorter than me but thick, with dark hair, pale skin, and a jutting jaw. He had a heavy blue jacket on, and as he walked around the Navigator he pulled the zipper down, allowing him to reach inside the coat if he wanted to. The passenger was taller, with very broad shoulders and blond hair. His nose was large and slightly hooked, and his cheekbones and jaw were clearly defined and solid, giving a quality of strength to his face.

  I remained on the porch, a smile fixed on my face, but I didn't speak. They approached slowly, then walked up the steps and stood in front of me, spaced so they blocked the steps completely.

  "Children are dying," I said.

  They exchanged a glance. Confused. The shorter one said, "What do you talk about?" His accent was thick.

  "AIDS," I said casually. "Children are dying, now, gentlemen. Not just adults. Children. Think about that. Then think about what you've done to help the problem." I watched them as they stared at me. "It's okay, gentlemen. Not many of us are doing our share to combat the disease. That doesn't mean it's too late to step in and do your part, though."

  The taller, blond one spoke now. "You want money?" His accent wasn't nearly as heavy as his companion's, but he spoke in a clipped, careful voice that made it clear English was his second language.

  I shook my head. "We don't want money. We want a cure."

  He nodded. "What group are you for?"

  I cleared my throat. "I, uh, represent EAT."

  He frowned. "Eat?"

  "That's right. E-A-T. It stands for Eliminate AIDS Today. That's what our goal is, gentlemen. Surely you agree that it's an important one."

  He studied me, and his eyes narrowed. "You have some literature for your group? A brochure, perhaps?" His careful, stilted pronunciation reminded me of a computerized answering machine.

  I shook my head. "I don't come to you with a sales pitch, I come to you with a cause. Are you unaware of AIDS, sir? Do you really need a paper filled with statistics to make the danger real?" I tried to make my tone somewhat hostile, to put him back on his heels and keep him from getting too inquisitive.

  He looked at me with cold, calculating eyes, like a man studying cuts of meat in a butcher shop. I met his stare, and as I did I was sure he didn't believe a word of my story.

  "I'm harmless," I said.

  "You want money?" he repeated.

  I smiled. "If you'd be willing to give, we'd be willing to accept. Each dollar is a small step toward a cure. Each small step toward a cure is another life saved. Possibly another child's life."

  He reached into the back pocket of his black slacks and withdrew a thick wad of bills held in place by a gold money clip. The clip bore a military insignia, but his hand kept me from seeing it clearly. He slipped a twenty from the roll of bills and handed it to me.

  "Twenty small steps, then," he said, and the short man laughed.

  "Thank you, sir," I said. "You couldn't do anything better with your money."

  "Sure," he said, then moved out of the way to let me pass. I walked down the steps and back up the sidewalk, whistling and trying not to look back, trying not to appear aware of the way they stood on the porch and watched until I was out of sight.

  Joe's Taurus was gone. I kept walking up the street, toward the corner. They were probably wondering why I wasn't approaching other homes. Maybe they were coming after me now to ask me about it. Or break my legs.

  A car slowed behind me. Joe. I stepped off the sidewalk and pulled open the passenger door, then dropped into the seat and said, "Drive."

  He turned onto Clark Avenue, and I looked in the rearview mirror. The Russians' house was out of sight now, but at least they weren't watching from the sidewalk.

  "Great timing I've got," I said. "We sat in the car for, what, two hours and they didn't come home? Then I'm on the porch for twenty seconds and they pull in."

  "I thought about using the horn, but I decided it was pointless," Joe said. "You wouldn't have had time to get out of sight anyhow, and it would've attracted attention to me." He pulled into a gas station parking lot and stopped the car. "So, what happened?"

  I told him, and when I was finished he was laughing so hard he was resting his red face on the steering wheel.

  "You took twenty dollars from them," he said, struggling for breath. "That's amazing, LP. Children are dying? That's the first thing you can think of to say?"

  I shrugged. "Hey, it worked."

  "I guess."

  "I don't think the big guy believed me, though." I thought about it, remembered those calculating, flat eyes, and shook my head. "I'm sure he didn't. He knew I was lying, but he didn't know why, so he let it go."

  "Wasn't he the one that gave you the twenty?"

  "Yeah, but I still don't think he was fooled."

  Joe wiped at his eyes and took a deep breath. "What a stunt," he said. "I was afraid you'd confront them about Ambrose's car and I'd have to rescue your ass. Instead you give them a speech about dying children and fleece them for a twenty." He laughed again, then started the car and drove us back to the same street. "I've got something to show you," he said. "I wanted to hear your story first, and I thought it would probably be a good idea to get you out of sight, but you'll be interested in this."

  He made a left onto the Russians' street and drove down it slowly. "Check out the green Oldsmobile on your side." He drove past it, and I kept my eyes straight ahead but got a good look at the car in the side-view mirror. Joe turned the corner and started to circle the block again.

  "You see him?"

  I nodded. "Guy sitting in the front, looked like he was watching the same house we've been watching."

  "You got it. He came in with the Russians but was hanging back a little. He circled the block once and picked a parking spot with a good view of the house, just like we did. Apparently we're not their only secret admirers."

  "You get a plate number?"

  He gave me a sour look. "Did I get a plate number? Who do you think you're talking to? I got the plate number, and I took about six photographs of the car itself, as well as the Navigator the Russians drove."

  "My mistake."

  "Uh-huh. Well, we've got two of the Russians, and one car for them. Who are we missing?"

  "Malaknik, I think. Amy said he lives on the east side."

  "Want to go have a look at him, or should we stay and watch these boys a little longer? Apparently, it's a better show than we thought, because we're not the only audience."

  I looked at the clock and saw it was approaching five. "You said you got photographs of the Navigator?" He nodded. "Well, let's get back to the office, then. I want to e-mail that photograph to Amy and see if it's the same car she saw. Then we can run out to Brecksville and check with the neighbors. We'll worry about Malaknik tomorrow."

  Back at the office Joe uploaded the photographs from his digital camera to the computer. They were pretty decent shots, showing a good angle of the cars as well as shots with a tight zoom on each license plate. The green Oldsmobile had a South Carolina plate.

  "He's come a long way to watch the Russians," I said to Joe. "Must be about something important."

  "The car's come a long way," Joe said. "Doesn't mean the driver came with it."

  Once the photographs had been uploaded, I e-mailed them to Amy, and Joe printed out a few copies. Then we returned to Brecksville.

  We spent half an hour combing houses. Everyone regarded us with suspicion, and everyone denied having seen the Navigator. After the fourth house, Joe began showing them photographs of the green Oldsmobile, too.

  "Why not?" he told me. "As long as we've got the photographs, it doesn't hurt to ask."

  It didn't hurt. Five houses later, a woman who lived opposite the Westons and a few houses down nodded her head as soon as she saw the Oldsmobile.

  "Well, sure," she said. "He's a police officer."<
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  "A police officer?" Joe said.

  She smiled. "Yes. He came around yesterday, asking about the same type of questions as you. Wanted to know what cars we'd noticed, all that type of thing. We really didn't have anything to tell him, though." She looked at us sadly. "It's so tragic. The little girl was so sweet."

  "This officer," I said, "did he give you his name?"

  She squinted, trying to remember. "Davis, maybe? Davidson? Something like that. He had a badge, though. He showed it to me."

  We thanked her and walked back down the driveway. Joe kicked at a few pebbles in the street, and we stood with our backs to the house.

  "No Cleveland cops are driving little Oldsmobiles," he said. "It's an Alero, for crying out loud. That's not a department-issued car. No antennas on it, even."

  "You know of any detective named Davis or Davidson?"

  "Nope."

  "Me neither. Looks like we've got a fake."

  He nodded and gazed back across the street, at the Westons' house. "What we've got is an unknown third party," he said. "Could be significant."

  We finished up the block and talked to two more neighbors who'd been visited by "Detective Davis" the previous day. They'd all seen a badge, but he hadn't been in uniform, and he hadn't been one of the cops they'd talked to in the early days of the investigation.

  It was dark by the time we left. Joe wanted dinner, but I made him drive back to the office first. I wanted to call Amy and ask if she'd seen the photographs. It was late, but Amy typically went to work late in the morning and stayed until the early evening hours. I caught her at her desk.

  "That's the SUV," she said immediately.

  "You're sure?"

  "Absolutely. Those fancy alloy wheels stand out." I could hear keys clicking on her keyboard as she typed furiously. "You have any idea what their tie to Weston is yet?"

  "No, but I do have another favor to ask."

  "I don't know, Lincoln. My car's still in the body shop from the last favor I did you."

  "Okay," I said casually. "That's fine. I don't blame you. Well, I'd better be going, but thanks for checking the photographs."

  "Wait, wait, wait," she said, and I grinned. "I was just giving you a hard time, Perry, don't freak out about it. What do you need me to do?"

  "You know who Jeremiah Hubbard is?" I asked.

  "Of course."

  "Good. I want to know everything he's been up to in the last six months. He's in the paper pretty regularly, but I want to know why, when, and who he was involved with."

  The typing on her end of the line stopped. "You think Hubbard's got something to do with Weston?"

  "He might."

  "Lincoln," she said, "you've got to give me this story."

  I sighed. "Amy, we've been over this a thousand times. It would be very bad for business if I kept turning confidential cases over to you. I know you want a good story, but I can't do that."

  "Bastard. Oh, well. As long as you keep me updated." The typing resumed again. "I'll check it out and get back to you."

  As I hung up someone rapped loudly on the glass panel of the door with his knuckles, a sound like hail on a window. Joe and I looked at each other and frowned. We weren't used to receiving drop-in clients, and it was late in the day.

  "Come in," Joe said. The door opened and Detectives Swanders and Kraus stepped inside, accompanied by a third man I didn't recognize. He was of average height, with a slim build and neat, carefully parted hair that looked like he spent a lot of time on it. His clothes were well tailored and unwrinkled. It was all I needed to see to know he wasn't a cop. The briefcase in his left hand confirmed it.

  "Fellas," Swanders said, nodding at us. He was one of those rare guys who could say "fellas" as a greeting without making you wince.

  "Swanders," Joe said, nodding back at him. "Kraus. How you boys doing?"

  "Doing fine," Kraus said, dropping onto one of the stadium seats without waiting for an invitation to sit. Swanders joined him, but the stranger stayed on his feet, crossing the office with a purposeful stride that made me think he was used to being the dominant force in most rooms. He reached in his pocket as he neared the desk, withdrew a slim leather case, snapped it open, and held it out for us to see. There was a badge on the left side and an identification card encased in plastic on the right. Joe pushed himself up on his elbows to get a better look but kept his feet on the desk.

  "FBI," he said. "Heavens. We're way out of our league now."

  The stranger tilted the badge in my direction, and I looked at the name on the identification card. THADDEUS CODY, it read, SPECIAL AGENT, FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.

  "Thaddeus," I said. "No shit? I bet you resent the hell out of your parents, don't you?"

  He gave a tight smile. "Call me Thad," he said. "Or Agent Cody."

  He put the leather case back in his pocket and looked from Joe to me as if expecting further reaction. A look at our faces told him he wasn't going to get it, so he nodded and sat down.

  "You gentlemen been in business long?" he asked, crossing his legs at the ankles after smoothing the crease in his slacks.

  "Same office for nineteen years," Joe said.

  Cody raised one eyebrow. "Really?"

  "Uh-huh."

  Cody glanced at Swanders and then said, "What's the point of lying to me, Mr. Pritchard? You're not exactly getting off to a great start."

  Joe dropped his feet to the floor and pulled his chair up to the desk. "What's the point of asking questions you already know the answers to, Agent Cody? And I don't give much of a damn what kind of start we get off to, considering you weren't asked to come here. If you've got something to talk to us about, why don't you start talking? Otherwise, I'll be on my way to get some dinner. It's late, and I'm a grumpy old man who likes his food."

  Swanders snorted and turned to Cody. "Told you."

  "Told him what?" I asked.

  "Told him you fellas might be difficult just because you feel like it."

  I grinned at him. "That's the beauty of being self-employed."

  Cody cleared his throat and gave us a pained expression, as if maybe he'd picked up a splinter from the stadium seat.

  "I apologize, gentlemen." He nodded at Joe. "There was no need for me to start off by asking questions I already know the answers to. And, yes, I've got something to talk to you about."

  "Our rates are pretty reasonable," I said. "But if you're wanting us to crack a challenging case that has you FBI boys stumped, the retainer fee is going to be sizable. We run the risk of damaging our reputation by hanging out with Bureau boneheads."

  Cody pointed his index finger at me and opened his mouth to snap off a quick retort but then stopped himself. He tucked the finger back into his fist and dropped his hand to his lap, then turned his head to the ceiling and exhaled heavily, like he was releasing tension and coming to peace with himself before assuming a yoga position. I thought for a minute he might roll right onto the floor, stand on his head, maybe, or strike a swan pose. He kept his eyes on the ceiling for a few seconds and then rolled his head back down, smiling now.

  "I'll tell you what," he said. "How about we put a spotlight on you two, give you ten, maybe fifteen minutes for the comedy routines? You can take shots at my employer, my wife, my mother, whatever. When you've completed the first act, I'll applaud real politely, and then maybe we can get down to business."

  Kraus laughed, and Joe shrugged. "Let's just get down to business, Cody."

  He nodded, then leaned down and opened his briefcase. He withdrew a manila folder and took four eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs from it. He spread them on the desk, facing us. I immediately recognized two of the men in the pictures; they were Rakic and Krashakov, the Russians I'd spoken with earlier in the day. The other two I didn't know. One was a heavyset man with a thick mustache, fleshy chin, and small dark eyes. The other was younger, with dark hair, a goatee, and a nasty scar across his left temple.

  "Recognize them?" Cody asked.


  I nodded. "These two," I said, pointing at Rakic and Krashakov. "I don't know the others, though."

  Cody leaned back in his chair and studied us. "How did you two connect those men to Wayne Weston?"

  "Who says we did?" I said.

  He sighed. "Gentlemen, I thought we were past this stage."

  I looked at Joe, and he nodded, indicating that I was free to talk. We were being paid to bring the case to a conclusion, and the FBI had resources that could help us do that. There was no sense in stonewalling them or acting like we were competing with them.

  "April Sortigan," I said, looking at Kraus. "She turned out not to be such a dead end after all. Sortigan told me Weston had asked her to do background checks on three men. She gave me the names, and we started to check them out ourselves. From what I've gathered so far, they're foot soldiers for the Russian mob."

  "Who told you that?" Cody said.

  "We're investigators," I answered. "We investigated. Now, do you want to tell us what this is all about?"

  He nodded. "The Russian mafia in this city--and in the rest of the country--is growing," he said. "It's the most powerful organized crime syndicate in the world; nothing else even comes close. They have ties to eighty percent of the banks in Russia, so money laundering is no problem, and now they're spreading their claws across the globe. Cleveland is one of those new destinations."

  He jabbed his finger at the man with the fleshy face and the mustache. "That is Dainius Belov. He's the don of the Russian mob in this city, and it doesn't pay to underestimate his power. He's got more weight than any of the Italian gangsters in this city ever dreamed of." He pointed at the photograph of Krashakov. "Alexei Krashakov is one of Belov's lieutenants. Rakic and Malaknik work closely with him. They're a little too wild for Belov's liking, so their power is limited, but they're busy boys. They've got ties to heroin, cocaine, insurance scams, prostitution, illegal weapons trafficking--you name it, they're involved." Cody's voice had taken on a haggard, weary tone, and I thought he'd probably spent too many hours poring over photographs of these guys, looking for a way to bring them down.