by Earl Merkel
I understood a few things better now. Following me to the health club, leaving a message on my car, standing in a rainstorm to pass me the results of an investigation he knew he could not pursue himself—all had been acts of contrition. They were self-inflicted penances, a collective down payment against the punishment that, as a career police officer, he had to know was inevitable.
I spoke up. “You knew Nederlander was tanking the investigation. And you wondered why.”
Chaz turned his head, and his gaze was now steady.
“Yeah,” he said. “Then you and Cieloczki showed up. So I figured that as long as they wanted me to check on gasoline, I might just as well see what kind of mileage Nederlander gets with that goddam battleship of his. Everybody knows he hasn’t bought his own gas in twenty years, so I pulled his records for the fuel pump in back of the Muni Center.”
“That’s when you knew,” I said. It was not a question, though Chaz answered it as one.
“That’s when I knew,” he agreed, in a quiet voice. “That’s when I knew for sure.”
Chapter 33
In Chicago, the consulate of the Russian Federal Republic has its address on the city’s Gold Coast, on the Near North Side along Lake Michigan’s shoreline. It is an area of expensive office suites, exclusive condominiums and other high-priced, high-prestige real estate. Located on an upper floor of a modern twenty-story building, several of the larger offices boast an impressive view of the lake that is designed to stir the stoniest bureaucratic soul.
As with the consulate itself, the view was inherited from the old Soviet Union; as such, it retains much of the unique ambiance it gained when the hammer and sickle was bolted to the front door. That is to say, most informed visitors—particularly those who are also senior Russian officials—automatically assume their conversations are being monitored and recorded by security staffers.
Their own as well as those from their host government.
It was by the latter—an FBI microphone planted, ironically enough, in the frame of an acrylic by LeRoy Neiman and presented to Anotoli Tarinkoff by an Atlanta media tycoon—that the following conversation was recorded.
It was an odd exchange, decipherable only in the hindsight that I would later acquire.
Having for years served his government, first as a loyal communist and later as an equally dedicated (if less experienced) capitalist, Anotoli Tarinkoff had become an accomplished master of circumspection as a method of communication. He had even come to enjoy his talent at inflicting frustration on eavesdroppers, whether foreign or domestic.
Petra Natalia Valova had not. This, even though she possessed one credential as impressive as any of Tarinkoff’s: she had survived, even prospered, amid the maelstrom of Moscow’s ongoing transition to its own style of market economy. This was no meager accomplishment. Still, it privately irked her to waste so much time and energy shielding herself from the formalized structure of paranoia that was so ingrained in her culture.
The curator and the attaché sat across from each other, a low coffee table between them. Tarinkoff carefully filled two tall glasses with a liquid so brown it was almost black. He wrapped a linen napkin around one glass and, with a delicacy that was almost antique, handed it to Valova.
In public, she was his superior, if only unofficially. Here, in his office as elsewhere in private, they addressed other as equals—and even that, Valova understood, was but a courtesy proffered like a small gift. She was a senior official with her country’s foremost museum; still, she had the uncomfortable feeling Tarinkoff could, with a word, destroy her career, or worse. The thought did little to soothe an anxiety that was already close to consuming her.
“I hope you do not mind that we will have a late dinner this evening,” he said, gracious as always. “It is only another of the interminable charity events they have in this country. I agreed to attend as a courtesy. Then too, it is important that our country be seen in as favorable a light as possible. These small duties are vital if we are to keep Western funds flowing to Mother Russia.” He smiled condescendingly. “Perhaps you will find American opera of interest.”
“Perhaps,” she replied and heard her voice tremble.
To cover her feelings, she changed the subject.
“You have had word today from your…friends?” Valova asked, careful to sound casual.
Tarinkoff nodded. “In fact, a few minutes ago.” He tapped the pocket where he carried his small cellular telephone. “They now expect to secure, in the near future, the…minor pieces of art which you have discussed. You will, of course, need to personally verify the authenticity of these items.”
She thought for a moment. “Certainly. But I have little time before I must return to my duties in Moscow.”
“Yes,” he replied. “We are working on a number of different approaches to resolve this situation quickly.”
She studied his face, which she had learned to read fairly well.
“But there is a problem?” she probed, and even she heard the nervousness in her words. Not for the first time, she noted the way Tarinkoff looked at her carefully—measuring her, almost—before replying.
“A small one,” he acknowledged. “The American who took delivery died in an accident relatively recently. Apparently, there was a fire in his home.”
Valova turned suddenly pale. “The paintings? They escaped damage?”
Tarinkoff’s voice was calm and intended to reassure.
“We have information that they were removed prior to the fire,” he said.
“And?” Valova asked. She had not recovered from her fright at the thought that these priceless objects had been damaged.
Tarinkoff shrugged. “And they will be found. I have another resource who claims to have this knowledge.”
“I do not like dealing with these people,” Valova said, and Tarinkoff raised his eyebrows to remind her of other ears that might also hear.
“In a matter such as this,” he said, “they are an adequate resource. This way, we can ensure that their interests mirror ours.” He paused, decided to take the chance. “Or at least, to guarantee they are not in conflict with what must be our primary objective.”
Tarinkoff’s voice took on a tone that was reasonable, almost gentle.
“Petra Natalia, you must be aware of the circumstances. These are difficult times for the Russian Federation, and we all walk a fine line, no? There are those in this country who would politicize the very…existence of the artwork in question. Already, the American Congress is being pressured by certain elements to require a ‘more candid’ discussion of this issue. Can you imagine the subsequent uproar if this issue became no longer abstract, but real?”
He caught himself; it was unwise to reveal too much to the microphones.
“So,” Tarinkoff said, in a voice intended to sound lightly philosophical, “if we cannot obtain these paintings for…ah, our own collection—well, ‘these people,’ as you term them, are our best insurance that the items in question do not surface in the possession of anyone else.”
Valova stared at him, heart pounding.
She realized, suddenly and fully for the first time, that she had no allies.
Across the table from her, Anatoli Tarinkoff was careful to keep his own expression impassive as he watched the parade of emotions traverse the face of his companion.
“Have no concern,” he said, to any microphones as much as to his companion. “The matter is in quite capable hands. You will have your paintings to take home, as…souvenirs of your visit here. I, your cultural attaché, guarantee it.”
Tarinkoff raised his glass as if to toast the pledge. After a moment’s hesitation, Petra Natalia Valova followed suit. They drank the tea in unison.
Chapter 34
On the wall, the hands of the clock formed a steep uphill slope, a diagonal that indicated the time as a few minutes past eight. For the past half hour, I had been a trespasser on unfriendly ground, an unwelcome intruder on the side of the hallw
ay that belonged to the Lake Tower Police Department.
I sat at the desk assigned to Terry Posson as a parade of uniformed tactical officers, plainclothes and the occasional detective stalked past, their attitudes alternating between a pointed indifference and dark, challenging glares. No one spoke, but the generalized atmosphere of unrestrained hostility communicated volumes.
It had been a long day, and not a good one. Listening to Chaz detail the cesspool in which he had fallen left me feeling drained. I wanted to leave—to go home, or at least what passed for it now. I wanted to see Ellen, if only to determine how I had offended her once again. I wanted a drink, or several.
But more than all that, I wanted to close the circle; worse, I needed to, desperately. I had no doubt that Nederlander was deeply involved in the Levinstein case. He had graduated from insurance fraud to murder, and tracing the path he had taken would draw the ring closed around him. My inability to complete the process had built in me a frustration that was becoming increasingly physical, and which begged for release.
If her desk was any evidence, Terry was anything but a fastidious person. The numbing detritus of bureaucracy—forms, folders, reports, memoranda in a quantity that had constituted a death sentence for entire forests—slumped in untidy heaps covering every available surface of her workspace. A half-filled cup of coffee sat forgotten next to the telephone, a film of its oils shimmering on an inky surface long cold.
In total, the effect was one of an uncharted desktop wasteland, a trackless morass that dared any outsider to enter and promised only peril if he did. Salvation took the form of a ringing phone somewhere on the desk. I navigated by sound and touch until I found a heaped-up mound of paper that was firmer than the others.
I picked up the receiver, but before I could identify myself the caller began to talk.
“There’s procedure, Officer Posson, which you people seem to think you can bend just for fun,” an angry voice said in my ear. “Then there is the law. That’s supposed to be unbendable, from what I understand.”
“I’m not—”
“Look,” the voice said. “We want to cooperate. But you’re supposed to file a court order with us when you want cell phone records. Seeing as how this particular phone has been reported stolen, I’ll make an exception. Another exception, I ought to say. But can you please follow proper procedure hereafter?”
One reason I avoided cellular phones is a simple, though paranoid, fact: every time you use one, you leave a trail. Calls made, calls received—the cellular phone company charges for both and tracks those charges by computer. The potential for abuse, even by authorized law enforcement officers, is immense.
But only a fool ignores the gifts that fortune drops onto one’s lap.
“What do you have?”
“You’re welcome, I’m sure. The five calls you asked us to trace—three to your Chief Nederlander, two to the City Administration Department? Apparently, the caller wasn’t moving around all that much this afternoon. The calls were all made them all from approximately the same location, within two square blocks of our cellular repeater station at 2937 Lakeshore. That’s on the west side of Lake Tower, of course.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m looking at the screen right now, Officer Posson.” There was a pause. “In fact, you might want to know that the party has just placed another call to the Municipal Center. Are these bomb threats?”
Before I could answer, the telephone buzzed rather than rang, signaling a call from an internal line.
“Hold on a minute, please.” I pressed the button marked “intercom.”
“Officer Posson’s desk,” I said.
“Davey, I need you in my office—right now.” Gil Cieloczki’s voice crackled over the wire with an electric energy. “Sonnenberg’s on the line, and he wants to make a deal.”
• • •
As I entered his office, Gil was holding the handset to his ear, listening intently. He pointed to a chair in front of his desk and pressed the button that activated the speakerphone system. A low sound filled the air, somewhere between a hum and a hiss, as the circuit engaged in the middle of a sentence.
“…don’t have to trace the call. I’m on a cellular phone, but I’ll tell you where I am—I’ll cooperate right down the line, but I have to have some assurances from you. You help me and I—”
Sonnenberg’s voice was tinny, but it was more than the mediocre quality of the amplification that made it sound different from the last time I heard him speak. The confident timbre of a man who knew the score, who had perhaps even rigged the game, was gone. I was listening to a man who had just tugged nervously on his lifeline, only to feel it pull loose and fall in coils around his ankles. I looked at Gil with an unspoken inquiry, and the firefighter nodded his head, once.
“Did you hear how Katya died?” I asked, interrupting. “Listen up, Sonny—you might find this educational. After all, you know, the guy was looking for you.”
Sonnenberg had stopped speaking, and there was no sound from the telephone’s amplified receiver.
“It was an unusual kind of torture,” I continued, my voice conversational. “One of the Feds told me there’s a long tooth chipper of a name for it in Russian. It translates into a sort of rough slang for ‘deboning.’ You know—like you’d do a piece of chicken. Katya’s attacker took a knife and methodically started cutting through each of her muscles, right where they connect to the bone. The Soviets used it a lot after they invaded Afghanistan. It’s slow and very painful, and somebody who knows what he’s doing can make it last a long, long time. But I hear the subject almost always tells you what you want to know.”
I paused as if inviting comment. When Sonnenberg spoke again, his voice had a ragged quality, as if the air he was drawing in was scarcely sufficient to fuel speech.
“You shit,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.
“They say the worst part—I mean, aside from the pain itself—is that you can hear the knife as it saws through your flesh,” I continued. “Of course, you’ve got to be gagged, like Katya was, or the screams will drown it out.”
I listened to him breathe heavily at the other end of the line.
“You still with me, Sonny?” I asked, mock solicitousness in my voice. “In case you didn’t know, these people are back to looking for you now. That apartment where your mother lived? A couple of them were there last night, waiting for you to show up. We only got one of them. Sorry it wasn’t the guy with the knife. He’s still out there.”
I made my voice cold. “So you keep on telling us all the things you want, okay? Because when you’re done, I’m going to tell you how much I don’t give a damn.”
There was a silence from the speaker that stretched out for what seemed ages.
“You need me,” he said, finally. “You need what I know.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Sonny,” I said.
“The Levinstein place—I had a key,” Sonnenberg said. “I got there a little after five o’clock and cut the power to the alarm system, just to be on the safe side. Then I went in through the front door—just like I was told.”
“Told by who?” Gil asked.
“We’ll get to that, maybe. But there wasn’t anybody in the place, and there weren’t any paintings either. I left the way I got in, and that’s the truth.”
“I’m insulted, Sonny,” I said. “I had hoped you’d show enough respect to make up a better story.”
“Listen, goddamit!” he said. “It’s the truth. How do you think I felt when there weren’t any fuckin’ paintings in the damn house? I’m standing there with my butt hanging in the breeze— and nothing to show for it. So you can bet that I got the hell out of there, fast.”
“When we hang up this phone,” Gil said, “I’m going to get an arrest warrant issued, charging you with murder and arson.”
“Bullshit,” he said. “I’m not buying into any murder rap. I didn’t kill anybody.”
“That’s not th
e way it looks, Sonny,” I said. “Here’s the way I’m reading the script: sure, maybe you went in there thinking the place was empty. It wasn’t, and you shot Stanley and Kathleen.”
Sonnenberg tried to interrupt, but I rode roughshod over his objections.
“Stan Levinstein wasn’t the kind of man who’d just let you walk out, was he? Not with something that meant so much, had so much symbolism attached to it. What did he do, Sonny—try to grab the gun? Did he force you to shoot him? Amazing how things can go bad so quickly, isn’t it? So what can you do? What the hell—in for a dime, in for a dollar. You decide torching the place is the best way to make sure you covered your tracks. I only have one question: where are the paintings?”
Sonnenberg’s voice was almost frantic.
“Listen to me, goddamit! There weren’t any paintings in the place! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Somebody else must have got there first. And there wasn’t nobody in the house—not when I got there and not when I left!”
I could feel Sonny try to calm himself.
“Look, the whole idea was to keep everything cool,” Sonnenberg said. “I don’t do the strong-arm stuff. This was a pure B and E job. We cart out the stuff, call Levinstein and he uses the insurance money to buy it back. There was a plan, man! We knew when they were home and when they went out. Hell, we checked everything out. Ask me about it—you want to know how much the stuff was insured for?”
“Oh, we’ve got that pretty much locked,” I told him. “There wasn’t any insurance. No policy was ever issued for any art. That makes your story a lot harder for a jury to swallow, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, right.” Sonnenberg’s voice regained a measure of assurance, if only a shadow of its usual cockiness. “Now pull the other one. I saw the letter from the insurance company, okay? TransNational Mutual. Sound familiar? And the paintings were covered for seven-and-a-half-million bucks.”