White Russian

by Steven Henry

  “Evening, Corky,” she said.

  James Corcoran, handsome, charming, womanizer, scoundrel, happiest man in the Irish mob, beamed at her. “Where have you been, love? And why haven't you called? We had such a grand time on our last date.”

  “That wasn't a date, Corky,” she said. “We were disarming a bomb. That's business, not social. I hate to disappoint you, but it's business tonight, too.”

  “I'm wounded, Erin,” he said, clapping a hand over his heart. “After all we've shared? At least give me a kiss, for old time's sake.”

  She smiled. “The times weren't that old.” Despite knowing who and what he was, she couldn't help a little flutter of pleasure at seeing him again. “I think I need some more time to forget.”

  “If you say so, love,” he said. “But time's running away from us, and we'll not be young forever.”

  “You gotta grow up before you can grow old,” she said. “Anyway, I’m here to see Carlyle.”

  Corky cocked his head toward the end of the bar. “Usual place, love,” he said. “I'll be here when you're done, nursing a drink and carrying a torch.”

  Shaking her head, Erin walked over to Carlyle. “Evening, Carlyle,” she said.

  “Evening, Erin,” he said, nodding a greeting. “I see you escaped from Corky with your virtue intact.”

  “Barely,” she said, taking the stool beside him that always seemed to be available. “You have something for me?”

  “What are you drinking?”

  “I don't drink on duty.”

  “And I don't work for coppers,” Carlyle said. “So you can hardly be on duty, can you?”

  “Fine,” she said, signaling Danny. “White Russian.”

  “Fine choice,” Carlyle said. “Glen D for me, Danny, there's a good lad.”

  He didn't say anything more until their drinks were on the bar. Then he picked up his whiskey and clinked the glass against hers. “Cheers, darling.”

  “Cheers,” she said and took a sip. “So, you talked to your guy?”

  “I've made inquiries,” he said. “And it's disquieting. These are some very unpleasant lads, Erin.”

  “Good,” she said. “I'm looking for guys who did unpleasant things.”

  “There's a lad that's been mentioned more than once,” he said. “He's Russian, and word is that he employs young immigrant women. He's the sort who takes unkindly to folk nosing into his business.”

  “What's his name?” Erin asked, leaning in closer. It was strange. They were having a sensitive conversation in a very busy pub, surrounded by dozens of people. The background noise gave them a surprising amount of privacy.

  Carlyle took a slow, deliberate sip of whiskey. He leaned in close, putting his face just a couple of inches from hers. “Peter Vlasov,” he said quietly.

  “Where's he hang out?”

  “There's a restaurant, Matrushka's, in Brighton Beach. Vlasov's family owns it.”

  “How do you know he's the guy we're looking for?”

  Carlyle set his drink down. “I don't know anything of the sort,” he said. “I'm no detective. You asked me to inquire about Russians engaged in unsavory enterprises involving young women.”

  “But there must be lots of guys in that line of business,” Erin said. “There's thousands of hookers in New York. Why are you telling me about this one?”

  “You're not looking for a pimp,” Carlyle said. “You're looking for a killer, and he wasn't looking to set an example for his other girls.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A pimp will beat one of his girls, or cut her if she runs,” he said. “He'll make it personal.”

  “Like a serial killer,” she said.

  “Just so,” he said. “Why bullets? And why kill the man with her as well?”

  “She was shot in the head,” Erin said. “After she was already dying. They were trying to silence her.”

  Carlyle nodded. “Your killer treated her as a threat. And he was prepared to use automatic weapons to eliminate that threat. There aren't a great many lads in this town who'd do such a thing. Vlasov's one of them. I've not met the man in person, but from what I gather, he'll do absolutely anything to protect his interests.”

  “Okay,” Erin said. “We'll check him out. But we need evidence.”

  “I can't swear to anything he's done,” Carlyle said. “And I’ll not testify in court. You'll have to find your evidence elsewhere. But if Vlasov was willing to kill twice on suspicion, he's the paranoid sort.”

  “That'll make it hard,” she muttered, taking a sip of her drink.

  “On the contrary,” Carlyle said. He smiled. “Paranoid folk are predictable. They're easy to rattle. Make them think you're close on their trail and they'll panic.”

  “And they'll make mistakes,” Erin said, returning the smile. “Thanks, Carlyle.” She stood up.

  “Your glass is still half-full,” he said. “Sit down, Erin.”

  She hesitated. “I've got to get on this guy.”

  “He'll still be there,” Carlyle said. “Drink with me.”

  Erin was impatient to be moving, but she sat down again and took another sip. “It's a shame to waste good alcohol. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. “And how's the family, then?”

  She tried not to flinch. “My dad wouldn't want me discussing that with you. Hell, he wouldn't want me talking to you at all.”

  Carlyle chuckled. “You know, most would say I did him a favor.”

  “That's the problem,” she said. “He doesn't believe in trading favors.”

  He hid his smile behind his whiskey glass. “Belief is a luxury. The world doesn't care what we believe, Erin. It just keeps turning.”

  “That's a funny thing for you to say,” Erin said. “What'd you believe when you joined the IRA?”

  He sighed. “I was scarce more than a lad. That was a great many years ago.”

  “What do you believe now?”

  “I believe a man will do what he can, and what he can get away with. He'll take care of the ones he loves, and to hell with the rest. What did you believe when you put on the shield?”

  “I believed I was making a difference,” Erin said, meeting his eyes. “I believed my father was a good man, doing good work, and I wanted to do it too. I believed in catching the guys who thought they could do whatever they wanted, the ones who thought they'd get away with it. And you know what? I still believe it.”

  Carlyle was smiling again, but it was a softer smile than before, less amused. “God love you, Erin, you're still an idealist. I don't know how you hold onto it, but see that you do.” His jaw tightened. “I know what you think of me, of what I am. But a man who'd murder a pregnant girl is a blight on this city. Take him down.”

  “I will,” she promised. She drained the last of her drink. “Now I really do need to get moving.”

  “Of course you do,” he said. He stood when she did. “Thank you for stopping by, Erin. You're always welcome here.”

  “You take it easy, Carlyle,” she said. “Stay out of trouble.”

  “You too, Erin. Watch your step.”

  As she walked out of the Corner, Erin found herself wondering about one thing Carlyle had said. She didn't know how he could know what she thought of him, because she wasn't sure of that herself.

  Erin called Vic as soon as she was out the door of the Corner. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Neshenko.”

  “Hey, Vic? You still sober?”

  “Sober as I ever am. What's up?”

  “I got a lead on the Russians.”

  “Start talking.”

  She filled him in as she walked quickly to her apartment. “So, you want to go back down to Little Odessa?” she finished.

  “Tonight?”

  “Why wait? I want to rattle Vlasov, see what shakes loose.”

  “Just the two of us?”

  “And Rolf.”

  “Okay. I'll meet you at the precinct in twenty. I'll call
the Lieutenant, tell him what's going down.”

  Rolf had thought they were done for the night, so he was excited to be on another car ride. Erin buckled on her vest, fastened Rolf into his own armor, and pocketed an extra mag for her Glock, just in case.

  Vic was waiting curbside at the precinct. He climbed into the passenger seat, a little awkwardly. He was wearing his vest, too, and it kept his bulky frame from bending easily.

  “How good is your info?” he asked.

  “I think it's solid,” she said. “My guy's not totally sure Vlasov's our man, but he's definitely in the right line of business.”

  “We're rushing this a little,” Vic said. He turned the keyboard of her car's computer toward himself and started typing. “We haven't done a full background on Vlasov. I called Jones. She's looking him up now, and she'll call us with whatever she comes up with.” He paused, reading the screen. “Okay, we've got a whole bunch of priors here. A couple weapons charges, aggravated assault, pandering, compelling prostitution, sex trafficking... yeah, sounds like our guy all right.”

  “All that? Jesus. How long did we have this son of a bitch locked up?” she demanded.

  “Most of it didn't stick,” he said. “He did eighteen months on the assault charge, took probation for the weapon beefs. The rest of the charges were dropped. No witnesses. Looks like... shit, the sex trafficking charges were dismissed when they lost track of the girls.”

  “Lost track, as in they skipped town, or...?”

  “They fished one of them out of the Lower Bay,” Vic said. “Two others just vanished. Vlasov walked.”

  She gritted her teeth. “He threw them away.”

  “It's what happens when you treat people like things,” he said with a shrug. “Once you cross that line, all sorts of possibilities open up.”

  They had a missed call from Jones when they exited the tunnel under the East River and got their cell reception back. Vic called her and put her on speaker.

  “Peter Vlasov, born Pyotr,” Jones said. “Age forty-five. Immigrated from Russia ten years back. His file's flagged by Interpol. He's got a few Russian prison tattoos, and he certainly did some time over there, but I can't get into the Russian files. I submitted a request, but knowing the way they work over there, we won't hear back for three to six.”

  “Days?” Erin asked hopefully.

  “Months,” Jones corrected.

  “Assuming they get back to us at all,” Vic said.

  “We know about the stuff in his New York jacket,” Erin said. “And we've got his mugshot. Anything else you can tell us?”

  “Not much of a file on him,” Jones said. “Otherwise we'd at least have deported him by now. I've got no associates, no operating area. Sorry, guys. All we have is a couple busts and a lot of circumstantial bullshit outside the assault rap.”

  “Okay,” Vic said. “No big deal. We'll just act like we know more than we do. We drop Ludmila's name, that'll get his attention. I'll take the lead.”

  “Why you?” Erin asked. “I got the name.”

  “You think a guy like this listens to a woman?” Vic replied. “If we're trying to intimidate him, it makes more sense to have the big thug talking.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “The LT's in touch with Brooklyn,” Jones said. “They'll have a couple blue-and-whites standing by, in case you need backup.”

  “He's not gonna start anything in his own restaurant,” Erin said.

  “You wanna bet your life on that?” Vic asked.

  “I'm wearing the vest,” she retorted. “We should be so lucky.”

  Chapter 12

  Matrushka's restaurant didn't look like much from the outside. It was a refurbished brick building, heavy curtains blocking the windows. It was only quarter past seven, so the place was still open. Vic and Erin double-checked their weapons. Then they walked up to the door.

  The interior was black, dark red, and dark-finished wood that made it look dimmer than the lights really were. The dining area was small, with high-backed booths that formed little alcoves. It was impossible to tell how many people were in the room.

  “This is a tactical nightmare,” Vic muttered.

  A maître d' was in the entryway, a stout, balding man in a tux. He gave them a flat, unfriendly look, glaring at Rolf. “Good evening,” he said in a thick Russian accent, but he didn't mean it. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “Yeah, right here,” Vic said and flashed his shield.

  The man's eyes went flat and cold. He stood perfectly still, not saying a word.

  “We're here to talk to Peter Vlasov,” Vic said.

  The maître d' pretended not to hear him.

  Vic said it again, in Russian this time. He stepped forward, towering over the other guy. He added something else, also in Russian. Erin didn't understand, but it sounded pretty unfriendly. The man nodded stiffly, then turned and walked quickly through a door at the back of the room.

  “What'd you say?” Erin whispered out of the side of her mouth.

  “I told him it'd be in Vlasov's best interests if he talked to us,” Vic said.

  “That's not what it sounded like.”

  “I may have said it a little less polite than that,” he admitted.

  The wait felt long, but it was really just five minutes before the door opened again. A young blonde, barely more than a girl, came to meet them. She was wearing fishnet stockings, very high heels, a low-cut blouse, and a skirt that reached mid-thigh. “Please, follow me,” she said. She laid a hand on Vic's forearm. He shook her loose and nodded to Erin.

  They followed the girl through the door and down a back hallway into a private dining room, hung with red velvet and gold-braided rope. At the table sat a tall, gaunt man with dark hair and a hungry, wolfish look. Two big bruisers, so much alike that Erin was sure they were brothers, stood on either side of the man's chair. They were blond, blue-eyed, and muscular, their hands clasped in front of their belts. Their knuckles had tattoos all over them, and Erin bet if she got a look under their suit coats, they'd have more ink on their arms and chests.

  “Dobryy vecher,” the man at the table said. “Or in English, if you rather. Good evening. Come, sit. Have a drink.” He gestured to the table, where a vodka bottle and three glasses waited.

  Vic remained standing, so Erin did, too. “Peter Vlasov?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the skinny guy said. “And your names?”

  “Neshenko and O'Reilly, NYPD Major Crimes,” Vic said. “We need to ask you some questions.”

  Vlasov spread his hands on the tabletop. “Whatever I can do to help,” he said. “But I doubt I can be of much service.”

  “We won't take too much of your time,” Vic said. “We just need to know when you last saw Ludmila Petrovna.”

  “I do not know this name,” Vlasov said, but Erin saw the flicker in his eyes.

  So did Vic. “You know, that's a beginner's mistake,” he said. “I thought you were more of a professional than that. Your experienced liar, he tells the truth till he's got no choice. See, now when I find out you do know Ludmila, and I know you do, then I'm wondering why you lied right off the bat. You've got something to hide.”

  “Your English is very good, Officer Neshenko,” Vlasov said. “It is hard for me to understand all your words. But you are Russian, yes?”

  “Da,” Vic said dryly. “And so are you. But this is America, buddy. I know how you guys operate on the other side of the water, but this isn't your town. So, why'd you kill Ludmila?”

  Erin was watching the hands of the big guys behind Vlasov. The one on the left unclasped his fingers and started moving one hand toward his jacket. She dropped a hand to her Glock and got ready to send Rolf into action, but the other big guy was already making a small gesture. The first guy reversed his motion, his hands still empty.

  Vlasov's stare was flat and hard. “I told you, I do not know this person.”

  “Let me jog your memory,” Vic said. “You and your guys took out her
and Gregory Markov. Filled a Super 8 with MAC-10 bullets.”

  “Help me to understand,” Vlasov said. “Are you arresting me?”

  “Should I?”

  “Since this is America, not Russia, I think I must call my lawyer,” Vlasov said. “In this country, you have laws, so whatever you say, you must prove it in the courts. Otherwise, you are just exercising your jaws.”

  “I'll exercise my foot in your ass,” Vic growled. “You listen to me, jerkoff. This is a courtesy call. We're giving you a chance to come clean. You give up the rest of the guys who did this, maybe you get out in ten to fifteen. You wanna be a hardass, that's on you. You go down for both of them, for the rest of your damn life.”

  Vlasov's eyes got even colder. “You are rude, Officer Neshenko. Uncultured. I would like you to leave now. I will remember you.”

  In answer, Vic forked his first two fingers at his own eyes, then pointed them at Vlasov and his two goons, one after the other. “We're done here,” he said.

  “That could have gone smoother,” Erin said, once they were back in the car.

  “You kidding?” Vic replied. “I thought it went great.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him and started the engine, not wanting to sit around liked a big target in a stationary car.

  “He's our guy,” Vic said. “When I dropped Ludmila's name, he practically had a heart attack. Right now he's sweating bullets. I wish we had enough for a wiretap. I bet there's some interesting conversations going on in there right now.”

  “How's that going to help us?” she asked.

  “He's going to assume we're watching his whole network,” Vic said. “A smart guy would go quiet for a while, just have everyone lie low. But not our boy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he's a bully,” Vic said. “A goddamn slave trader. Those two goons with him, he keeps them there because he's nothing without people to boss around. Guy like that, he has to show he's not afraid of us. Otherwise he loses respect. So he'll do something. We just need to keep our eyes open and move when he does.”

  “I don't like being reactive,” Erin said. “Why didn't we slap the cuffs on him?”