by Jared Paul
“They have both agreed to cooperate with the police. You’re going to have to get that family out of that warehouse, along with everything else you’ve got there. The feds will be crawling all over it by this time tomorrow.”
Exhaling sadly, Shirokov signaled that it would be done. With some effort Shirokov got up from the divan. He picked up his brush and palette, then slowly clopped his way back to the enormous painting, as of yet untitled. From behind him the lawyer asked with no small bit of trepidation what he planned to do about the Prokorovs.
“You disappoint me counselor.”
“How? What did I do?”
“After all our time together. No matter how many times I have told you. And still you ask questions you do not wish to know the answer too. Leave them to me.”
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry.”
Avi Solomon gathered up the papers into his briefcase and bowed his way out of the studio. When the lawyer was gone, Shirokov dipped his brush into the burgundy and made two swift, precision strokes on the canvas.
…
Deputy Sheriff Larry Pembroke of Morris County was cruising his patrol car up Benton Avenue when he saw the perpetrator. He was a big man in a white tank-top leaning up against a black Lincoln Continental, slurping from a star in a cup of iced coffee. Chains of gold draped down around his neck, their pendants obscured just beneath the neck of his shirt.
The Lincoln was parked illegally by a fire hydrant right in front of Mrs. Orsini’s bakery. She was the one who called the Sheriff’s office to tell them. Old Mrs. Orsini made a habit of calling them whenever she suspected that “troublemakers” were around, or whenever she saw something “just a little bit fishy” in or around her shop. When the call came in over the radio the Deputy was idling comfortably in his vehicle, waiting at a speed trap behind the billboard just off the highway exit.
The dispatch told Pembroke that a “weird stranger” was lurking out front of the bakery and that his car was parked in front of the fire hydrant. He laughed at the description when it came in and the deputy had half a mind to ignore the call entirely, but it had been a slow day at the speed trap and he had nothing better to do, so he radioed an affirmative and drove over right away.
Now that he was pulling up outside the bakery, Deputy Pembroke could see why anybody would have been disturbed by the giant man’s presence, let alone fussy old Mrs. Orsini. He was easily over six feet tall and just as wide across. His face looked surly, and despite being clean-shaven there was something dirty, possibly foreign about his appearance.
Deputy Pembroke hung his walkie talkie in its place on the dashboard and got out of the car. Even though the Sheriff’s car was parked right behind his the giant man didn’t even seem to register his presence. Rather than confront him immediately, the Deputy straightened the bill of his hat and marched into the bakery.
“Oh my lord! Thank goodness you’re here,” is how Mrs. Orsini greeted him when he came in through the front door.
“Good afternoon, Marie. Something smells absolutely delightful. What’s in the oven?”
The worried look on the baker’s face disappeared momentarily and she smiled back at the deputy from behind the counter.
“That would be my apple tart. They’re almost done, if you’d care for a bite.”
“Thank you Marie, I may take you up on that. So what’s the story here?”
He gestured outside to the Lincoln and the big ape leaning against it like he didn’t have a single care in the world. Marie Corsini crossed herself and whispered over the counter.
“That man has been out there for an hour now. He just stands there, not moving or talking to anybody, sipping that drink of his.”
“So he’s just standing there. Hasn’t threatened anybody or done anything hostile?”
“No. He hasn’t. But I tell you, I just don’t like the look of him. My nana used to tell me, rest her soul, she told me that you could always tell by a person’s face. And that man out there is no good. I’ll bet my macarons on it.”
Deputy Pembroke chuckled and straightened his hat again.
“That’s quite a bet. Well, thanks for letting us know. So long as he hasn’t hurt anybody I’ll get him moving along and out of your hair.”
He turned to go and Mrs. Corsini followed him out to the door, telling him to be careful. When he was outside again she latched the hook on the frame. The Deputy walked out into the street, strolling around the back bumper of the Lincoln. After coming to a stop in front of the colossus dark-haired man he cleared his throat.
“Excuse me sir. I don’t know if you noticed but your vehicle is parked illegally.”
The towering brute turned his head and looked at the Lincoln like it was the first time he had ever laid eyes on it, then he shrugged and took a slurp from his drink. He neither said anything to the Deputy nor acknowledged his presence beyond that.
“Look sir, it’s a hot day so I’m going to let you off with a warning. I think you’d better get back in your car and move along. What do you say?”
In response the big ape in the tank top just stood there, impassive as a stone monument. The Deputy put a hand on the pair of handcuffs linked to his belt and shifted his weight so as to appear more assertive. It did not work.
“I gave you a real nice chance to just get on out of here but if you want to play the hardass we can do that too. Last chance now. Get in your vehicle and go.”
Bending his head down, the giant man put his lips to the straw and sucked up a mouthful of iced coffee, then spit it out in the Deputy’s face. Larry Pembroke flustered and wiped the cold, sweet liquid out of his eyes and then reached back to his belt to pull the cuffs out. But before he could get them loose the big man dropped the drink and grabbed him by the throat. Back inside the bakery, Mrs. Corsini shrieked and picked up the phone to dial 911.
The enormous hands were clasped tight over his throat, but the Deputy still managed to squeak out a few words.
“You… are… under…. arrest… you have… the right… to remain...”
Larry Pembroke was unable to finish reading the perpetrator his Miranda Rights. He lost his wind and blacked out, then drooped forward unconscious. The big ape pulled the Deputy’s head back and then pushed forward, slamming his face onto the roof of the Lincoln. He let the Deputy fall down and lie prostrate on the pavement. Mrs. Corsini was frantic, describing the scene as it unfolded. When Deputy Pembroke went down face-first to the ground she become nearly hysterical and begged for the operator to get a SWAT team and call out the National Guard. The operator promised that help was on the way. After she hung up Mrs. Corsini’s hands went scouring through the shelf of cheese Danishes. She ate one fast and then grabbed another one.
Instead of running away or driving off like a sensible person, the giant violent just leaned his weight against the Lincoln.
Backup arrived less than a minute later. Mrs. Corsini watched two officers get out of the car and point their weapons at the assailant. They told him to put his hands in the air and get down on his knees. When he refused they shot him with the taser and he collapsed, jittering and flopping like a fish on a riverbank.
The Montville Police department cuffed the assailant and forced him into the back of a squad car with some effort. At the station when they were processing him he refused to speak in his defense, or even give them so much as his name. The intake officer finally had to reach into his pocket and take out his wallet. She found the man’s New York state driver’s license and set it down next to the keyboard. She had been working at the Montville station for many years and her eyesight was starting to desert her. Squinting at the name, she hunted for the right key and pecked them one at a time with her index finger.
Under the heading identification she typed:
I-D-2-0-9-4-4-7-2-9-7
Then she read the name printed on the license and entered it into the system:
L-E-O-N-I-D- SPACE -Y-E-N-O-T-I-N.
…
&
nbsp; Detective Bollier was in bed when she got the page.
Hours earlier the waitress from Stacey’s had fallen asleep, and was lying on her side facing away, curled up in the sheets. After the aerobics Bollier had tried to go to sleep herself but failed. Instead she lay awake and stared at the ceiling as her mind raced.
Wide awake, Bollier stared at the ceiling fan and listened to it cutting the warm air, or she turned and watched the waitress sleep. The waitress’ back was bare and rising and falling gently with her breathing. The longer she watched her the more envious she became. Several times in the night Bollier almost got up to fix herself a cup of tea, or fiddle around the bedroom, but she resisted these impulses. She was a miserable insomniac but waking the girl just to have someone to talk too seemed unspeakably selfish. So, Bollier lay awake, restless and feeling like her eyes were going to bleed.
It was almost three in the morning when the call came in. Her experience as a detective taught her that nothing good came at that hour, but Bollier welcomed the distraction. Anything to occupy her mind. She got up and left the bedroom as quietly as she could. Bollier pulled the door closed as she left and she snuck a peek at the bed. The waitress was stirring.
Clad in a thin nightgown, Bollier ambled through the shadows and stepped out onto the balcony. Twelve floors below, the city emitted a low, steady hum of activity like a beehive. She called the number from the page and a woman with an unmistakable Jersey accent picked up.
“Montville Police Department.”
“Yes, this is Detective Leslie Bollier with the NYPD. I got a page?”
“Okay, one moment. Let me connect you.”
A recording of Bruce Springsteen’s Blinded by the Light played while her call was transferred. As she listened to the song Bollier sensed movement in the apartment. The waitress was up and moving about. Wanting no interruption, Bollier reached out with her toes and slid the balcony door shut. The song was almost finished when a man’s voice came through.
“This is Irving.”
“Yes hello, Irving. This is Leslie Bollier. We met a few nights ago when you brought in the Prokorov brothers.”
“Ah. Uh huh. Yeah.”
Bollier was not encouraged by the tone of his response.
“You paged me. What’s going on?”
Sergeant Irving talked for a couple of minutes and told detective Bollier what had become of Alexei and Timur Prokorov. When he was through he apologized a dozen times. Bollier should have been angry, but she instead told him not to blame himself and then thanked him for taking the time to call and then hung up.
The waitress was lounging in the loveseat, wearing nothing but one of Bollier’s white collar shirts for work. Bollier left the balcony open as she came back into the apartment. A gentle summer breeze blew in from 8th Avenue, sending the detective’s nightgown into motion like a flag caught in a full gale of wind. For a moment Bollier let her eyes wander up the waitress’ legs, then the folds of the shirt until she met the girl’s expectant eyes.
“That was work,” she said. The waitress blinked.
“You should probably go.”
Chapter Five
Agent Clemons had just returned from lunch when he found the Director in his office, sitting in his chair reading through a file on the recently deceased Prokorov brothers. The Director had never visited his corner of the building before and Agent Clemons wasn’t sure how to proceed, so he knocked on the door to his own office.
“Come in.”
“Yes sir.”
Agent Clemons obeyed but there were no other chairs in his office so he remained standing at attention, hands folded together behind his back.
The Director’s hand brushed at his moustache and his eyes narrowed at the page in front of him. It was the autopsy report for the younger brother, Timur. Without having to see Agent Clemons knew that the Director was reading the part about the six broken vertebrae at the top of Prokorov’s back and neck.
He took his time. Like all of the men of position that Agent Clemons had come across in his days, the Director seemed to relish in forcing other people to wait on them. They never hurried. Hurry was a habit of lesser men.
Once he finally reached the end of the page the Director closed the file and tossed it into the slush pile around Agent Clemons’ desk. Agent Clemons grimaced. It may not have looked like it, but the mess was ordered in its own way, and the delicate balanced had been upset. He desperately wanted to return the Prokorov brothers file to its rightful place, three inches to the left of where the Director had carelessly threw it, but he resisted this impulse. The Director affixed him with his infamous analytical gaze.
“Hell of a mess isn’t it, Clemons?”
It sounded like a question but the agent knew better. Of course it was a mess. The entire situation was a clusterfuck of cataclysmic proportions, or else the Director wouldn’t have said anything, and definitely wouldn’t be in his office while everyone else was out to lunch.
“Sir.”
“Do we know what happened?”
“We’re still working on that in conjunction with Newark, but I believe that one of Shirokov’s men got himself arrested on purpose in Montville. They put him in the same building as the Prokorovs. First time they were in the yard together, boom.”
“That would be Leonid Yenotin.”
Another statement disguised as a question. Part of the reason that the Director seemed to like Agent Clemons is that he was able to tell the difference, whereas so many agents jumped at them like fish to tackle, eager to please and prove how smart they were.
“Tell me about him.”
“Leonid is one of Shirokov’s main two bodyguards, along with Vitaly. They almost never leave his side. The fact that he used him I think shows that he’s growing desperate.”
“How so?”
“Well he had to know that once the deed was done Yenotin would never see the light of day as a free man again. Either he had no one else he could trust to get it done or…”
The Director waited for his protégé to finish the thought.
“... or he’s got a terminal case of irrational self-confidence.”
“So which is it?”
“I don’t know sir.”
This was not an answer that was likely to please the Director, but it was the correct one. Going off on half-baked theories was the sort of thing that got witnesses and innocent people killed, although there seemed to be plenty of that going on already. Agent Clemons felt a churning in his esophagus. His chicken burrito was winning the war against his gastric system but he managed to keep the belch down. Almost another full minute passed before the Director finally got around to the reason for his visit.
“Shirokov’s trial will resume tomorrow. Closing arguments won’t be long off. How do you think it will play out?”
Agent Clemons started to answer but then the Director suddenly decided he wasn’t interested in his protégé’s opinion and cut him off. He had reached his own conclusions.
“I’d give it fifty-fifty odds for a conviction myself. Although I’m not a gambling man. Are you a gambling man, Clemons?”
He wasn’t sure if the Director wanted him to actually answer or if he was just playing one of his games. Agent Clemons stammered.
“I uh. I play poker every other Saturday with my neighbors.”
“That’s good. I presume then that you’re familiar with the concept of pot odds.”
Poker was more of a hobby than anything to Agent Clemons. He had never taken the elaborate strategies or philosophies about it seriously. Some of Saturday night friends did, though. They were the ones who usually ended up winning. Pot odds sounded familiar but Agent Clemons thought it would be best not to open his mouth and prove himself wrong. The Director explained for him.
“The cards only matter so much, probably less than any other part of the equation. The position matters. The man matters, his habits, his instincts, his tells. But the pot odds are what should determine any real player’s dec
isions. Take a pot that’s ten dollars. There’s still one card to see. Guy to your right bets twelve dollars. You’ve got a pair of Aces and don’t know what he has. What do you do?”
Agent Clemons thought about it a moment before answering.
“Fold.”
“That’s right. Because who the hell wants to bet twelve dollars to win ten regardless of what you have? Now. Same play. Guy to your right bets three dollars.”
“Depends on the guy, but I’d probably call.”
“You get the idea. You don’t waste resources on little battles. Let the mouth breathers in the hats and sunglasses fight it out for the little pots. I’m interested in the big picture. How about yourself, Clemons?”