Indicted

by Tom Saric

  “American?” Braun said.

  She smiled. “What gave it away?”

  “Your Croatian accent is just a bit off.” He held his fingers apart a pinch, which made her laugh. “And you’re just a bit too beautiful to be local.”

  “And you’re just a bit too forward to be taken seriously.”

  “I’ve never met a person who didn’t appreciate a compliment.”

  “Oh, I appreciate it. Thank you,” she said sarcastically.

  Braun chuckled and fanned his collar a few times. The air was thick and heavy. There wasn’t enough of a breeze to make a hair on her head flutter.

  “Where are you from?” she said. “You’re too uptight to be Croatian.”

  “Too uptight?”

  “Well, look at you: it’s eighty degrees out here and you’re in a suit and leather boots. You sit up so straight that it looks uncomfortable, and you’re so cleanly shaven that I wonder if you have facial hair at all.”

  “Anything else?”

  “And you have an accent.”

  “Why don’t you tell me where I’m from, then?”

  “Well, judging from your attire—a nice suit, which could make you Italian, but your collar is buttoned all the way to the top—you have to be Northern European.”

  Braun nodded, impressed.

  “But your glasses—thick-framed, square, yet slightly rounded—that has to be a Germanic thing.”

  He chuckled.

  “And then your accent sounds German but softer, so there must be some French in that as well.”

  “So?”

  “I’d have to go with Swiss.”

  Braun crinkled his nose.

  “Liechtensteiner?”

  “Luxembourgish.”

  She snapped her fingers. “I knew it.”

  “Impressive,” he said. “Are you traveling through Europe?”

  “I’m a reporter.”

  “Travel?”

  “Investigative.”

  Braun raised his eyebrows, impressed. “What are you investigating?”

  “I’m not allowed to talk about it,” she said. “What about you?”

  “I’m an investigator too. But I’m not allowed to talk about it either.”

  “So we understand each other, then.” She smiled.

  “We do. Perhaps this evening, if we’re both on the island, we could meet and not talk about what it is we do. Over tea.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But over coffee.”

  She stood up and pointed to the approaching ferry, the engine roaring as it slid in along the dock. The waiting people squeezed into a semi-line behind the metal fencing. Ferries were frequently oversold, so if he didn’t manage to get on this one, he would have to wait for the next ferry. Braun followed the girl, who wound through the crowd, apologizing to each person she cut, until they were at the front. As they waited for the people on the ferry to disembark, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He looked at the caller ID. Nicole. He let it go to voicemail.

  “I’m Abbey, by the way.” The woman turned to him.

  “Robert.”

  He turned and saw the trickle of people coming off the ferry. Two middle-aged men stepped off the ramp and walked past him. The first one had a thick beard and dark sunglasses covering most of his face. The second one, two steps back, was Luka. Braun had looked at his picture hundreds of times, casting the image into his memory so that not even the clean shave, sunglasses, or straw fedora could disguise him. The person with him, he assumed, was Nikola Pavić.

  The brothers walked through the crowd towards The Riva.

  “Robert, are you coming?” Abbey had already given her ticket to the old man checking boarding passes and stepped through the gates.

  Braun looked back towards Pavić, who was getting further away, then turned to Abbey. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  Abbey pouted, then reached into her purse and produced a business card: Abbey Rhodes, Freelance Journalist. “If you make it out later, you can reach me there.”

  “For coffee?”

  “Or tea, if you prefer.”

  He stepped out of the line, resisting the urge to look back at Abbey, and followed the Pavić brothers.

  He thought of calling Nicole back. He thought of notifying local police that he had found Luka Pavić.

  But he didn’t do either of those things.

  There were too many unanswered questions. Braun couldn’t help but entertain the idea that this case was more complex than he had thought. He would watch. See who they were meeting.

  He followed them, staying a hundred paces back.

  Luka walked beside his older brother along the harbor’s edge, past dozens of tied-up boats. The afternoon sun shimmered on the pavement.

  The tint of his sunglasses muted the oranges, stark whites, and forest greens of the scenery. He’d walked this harbor many times. When the tide went out at night, he’d played futsal on the mucky harbor floor, the game lit by the sodium lights of the outdoor cafés. He’d emptied countless bottles of beer sitting on The Riva.

  Yet, it felt unfamiliar.

  The café umbrellas that had dotted the main street were gone, replaced by sleek modern canopies. Pigeons no longer flocked here. The palms looked older. At the end of the promenade, a Croatian flag was wrapped limply against a pole.

  Nikola turned before they reached the main promenade and walked towards a single-story building. Awnings stretched out around the perimeter, with signs for a car rental, travel agency, and several cafés. The parking lot was full of Mercedes, BMWs, and Alfa Romeos.

  They stopped in front of a door marked Pizzeria Mario. A barrier of potted cedar trees obscured the restaurant windows. Through the bushes, Luka saw a few people sitting around a table on the outdoor terrace. He heard the clink of utensils against dinnerware and the low murmur of men’s voices.

  Beside the entrance stood a barrel-chested man in a leather jacket, his tattooed forearms crossed. “Lookin’ for something?”

  “We’re meeting Boško,” Nikola said.

  “Oh yeah?” he said, showing a gold tooth.

  “He’s expecting us.”

  The man looked them up and down. “Hands up.”

  They raised their arms, and he frisked them. He asked Luka to take his hat off and patted the inside of it before tilting his head towards the tinted glass door.

  They stepped inside.

  A bartender was hunched behind the bar, loading glass mugs into a dishwasher. The television above played a handball match between Zagreb and Split. Tables were set, napkins crisply folded on top of plates, window blinds drawn, candles flickering in the empty room. An older man sat in the shadows against the back wall.

  Nikola hesitated about ten feet from the table. The man looked to be about sixty, clean-shaven, in a beige linen suit over a pink shirt with the top buttons left open, showing a thick gold chain. He punched numbers into an accounting calculator, stopping every few seconds to examine the curl of paper in his hand. He seemed to sense their presence and looked at them over his reading glasses.

  “Nikola, you made it.” He propped his glasses onto his head and stood up, hands out, welcoming Nikola like an old friend. A bright smile spread across the man’s face, showing bleached white teeth. A diamond-encrusted gold watch slid a couple of inches down his wrist as he extended his hand to Nikola.

  “Boško, this is my brother, Luka.”

  He stopped at that. “I thought you two don’t talk.”

  “We’re working out our differences.”

  Boško extended his hand, still smiling, but Luka sensed a stutter of hesitation in it. Luka took his hand confidently, staring right into Boško’s eyes. There was something vaguely recognizable about this man, and he could sense that Boško was trying to get a read on him too. An exchange of glances that held on a moment too long.

  It didn’t matter much that Nikola had said they could trust Boško. He was thirty-eight when the war broke out. By forty, he was a millionaire
. Now, he oozed money. Boško had managed to develop a chain of clothing stores in a socialist economy. Nikola had explained that Boško’s business went from turning a profit to garnering him a fortune when he realized that his customers couldn’t tell the difference between Italian fabric and tailoring and clothes made by children in a Romanian factory. Overnight, he quadrupled his earnings. During the war, he sold Serbian secrets to the Croatians and probably Croatian secrets to the Serbs. The man’s only allegiance was to money.

  And Luka had a bounty on his head.

  “A drink?” Boško motioned to the bartender, but both Nikola and Luka declined.

  Boško led them to the table and motioned for them to sit. Nikola plopped himself down as Boško pushed the accounting calculator to the side and sat across from him.

  Luka paused, standing at the edge of the table, unsure whether to proceed. He turned his head towards the door. The bald man in the leather jacket stood guard with his back to the door, facing the parking lot.

  Nikola pushed Luka’s chair back, pointing for him to sit.

  Obediently, he stepped forward and lowered himself into the chair. The leather popped as he adjusted himself.

  Boško sat attentively, fingers interlaced. “How long has it been, Nikola?”

  “Two years, I’d say.”

  “Well, you look healthy, although you could use a shave.”

  “We can’t all afford facelifts like you.” Nikola and Boško both laughed. Luka shifted uncomfortably as they shared war stories about close calls they’d had.

  “Yes, it’s been a long time for good friends not to see each other.” Boško nodded and then looked at them quizzically. “Yet I can’t help but think that you’re not here for a simple chat.”

  Nikola leaned forward. “No, we’re here for help.”

  “Of course you are. Why else would you come?” Boško’s smile vanished and he leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “And you bring me this.” He pointed sharply at Luka without looking over, then reached beside him and threw a copy of the newspaper with Luka’s picture onto the table. “A wanted criminal, on my doorstep. And you expect me to take you in, help you? You know what the courts call that? ‘Aiding and abetting.’ That gets me five years.”

  Boško stood up, pushing the chair back, and motioned towards the door. Luka turned around. The guard hadn’t seen him, and the bartender had moved into the kitchen.

  “Boško, calm down.” Nikola stood up, pleading. “We just need to know a couple of things and then we’ll be on our way.”

  Boško shook his head and started walking towards the front door.

  Luka shot up, grabbing Boško by the collar. He pulled back and twisted the fabric around Boško’s neck, then swung him face down onto the table before pressing his knee into the small of his back. Boško’s face was red. The veins on his neck popped out.

  Luka felt Nikola pulling his shoulders back, yelling for him to stop. Luka shrugged him off and tightened his grip on the collar. An airless squeak escaped Boško.

  Luka leaned in. “Listen carefully. I don’t want to kill you. I need you.” Boško thrashed again, but Luka pressed him harder against the table. “I need you to answer all of my questions. If you don’t, you’re no use to me, and I’ll kill you before your man can stop me.”

  Boško nodded. His face was turning purple.

  “No games.”

  He nodded again.

  Luka released him. The man gasped several times, wheezing as he exhaled. He fell to his knees, rubbing his throat.

  Luka sat in a chair against the wall and motioned for Nikola to sit beside him. From this vantage point, they could see the guard, whose back was still turned to them.

  Boško clicked his jaw a few times, rubbing the feeling back into his face. He glared at Luka, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. Luka pointed at the chair across from him.

  “I can get Radovan to take care of you now,” Boško said, his voice as rough as sandpaper.

  “You won’t get halfway to him before I catch you.”

  Boško readjusted his collar and jacket, then ran his hands through his hair.

  “We want to hear everything you know about a man named Saša Tadić.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Nikola was about to speak up when Luka leaned forward. “The man who was investigating you during the war. He threatened to expose all of your shipping channels. Not the legitimate ones—the ones that earned you that fancy suit.”

  Boško grimaced. He blinked several times and looked over his shoulder towards the door, but only saw Radovan’s back.

  “What is your interest in Saša Tadić?” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter what—”

  “Actually, it does. Just because you threatened to kill me doesn’t mean you hold the cards. You’re asking me for something. I can choose to give it to you or not. You see, I have all the power here. So, tell me, why are you concerning yourself with dead men?”

  “Because someone is trying to keep the dead men’s story buried.”

  Boško turned his head to the side, listening. Luka realized he had bought himself time, but Radovan would turn around soon.

  27

  Robert Braun watched the front door. The security guard stood in front of the café’s tinted glass doors, arms crossed, elbows pointed out, feet planted in a wide stance. He stared at Braun unflinchingly, cocking his head to the side several times, motioning for Braun to move along.

  But Braun wasn’t moving.

  He looked at his watch. Seventeen minutes had passed. Luka and Nikola Pavić were still inside the café, past the brute with the tattoo sleeves. Call for backup, Braun told himself. Bring him in.

  The guard glared at him. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He looked around and then moved from his post, walking directly towards Braun.

  “We’re closed.”

  “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Not here.”

  He grabbed Braun’s left elbow and tried to pull him along. When Braun resisted, the guard tightened his grip, grabbing Braun’s wrist with his other hand. He pressed it behind Braun’s back and pushed him towards the parking lot.

  At the edge of the curb, Braun half turned towards the guard and uncoiled, twisting to the right, his elbow cocked. The point of his elbow connected with the bridge of the guard’s nose. He felt a gritty crunch. The guard doubled over, groaning, but kept hold of Braun’s wrist. Braun threw two more elbows, connecting with the man’s cheek and temple.

  The guard released Braun’s arm and crumpled to his knees. Blood flowed from his nose, pooling on the pavement.

  Braun bent down and wrapped his arm around the guard’s head. He pulled the guard to his feet, tightening his grip around the other man’s head and neck. The guard swung his fists wildly behind him, but Braun dodged the punches. The thrashing petered out as Braun squeezed and the man fell to his knees, unconscious. Braun laid him down between two cars.

  A few people stood at the end of the parking lot, staring. Braun looked away and adjusted his jacket and cuffs.

  “And you think Tadić is a link?”

  Luka noticed Boško’s posture—leaning forward on his elbows, attentive, absorbing the story. Was he interested, or simply playing the role?

  “I have some proof that three of the men in the home, Tadić included, were working clandestinely for the Croatian government during the war. Nikola says that Tadić was investigating smuggling during the war and was causing your trade some problems.”

  Boško leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. He turned around, glancing at the glass door. He did a double-take when he saw that the guard was gone.

  “He’s been gone for about two minutes,” Luka said.

  Boško turned back around and sat for a moment, staring at the two of them. Nothing on his face suggested that he was going to speak, or that he knew anything. There was no doubt, no hesitation. Luka began wondering if this visit had been a waste of time.

 
; “The man who came to your church, the assassin,” Boško said. “Do you have a photo?”

  Luka paused. Had he mentioned meeting Jurica at the church? He tried to grasp what he had said, but the memory slipped away. He may have. He must have.

  Luka unzipped his hip sack and pushed Jurica’s passport across the table.

  Boško put on his reading glasses and flipped to the passport’s photo. He took a quick look and then glanced at Luka.

  “You recognize him,” Luka said.

  Boško nodded cautiously.

  “Who is he?”

  “Dragoslav Gavrić. I’m not sure what his real name is. I don’t think anyone knows.”

  “Who did he work for?”

  “He’s a contract worker, a hitman. He works for anyone with money, but…” Boško’s voice became shaky. He glanced at the bartender.

  “But what?”

  “We shouldn’t talk about this here.”

  “There’s no one around.”

  “I have a secure place we can talk.”

  “You will tell us now,” Luka said firmly, clenching his fist on the table.

  Boško just shook his head. Luka was about to stand, but hesitated. Boško’s face showed fear, which meant he knew something. And that something was important enough to rattle a slick, unflappable businessman. But it was clear he refused to go into any further details in the café.

  “How do we get there?” Luka asked.

  “I can have cars for us in fifteen minutes. I just need to make a phone call. You two will go in one car, I’ll go in the other. I’ll have a driver pick you up in front of the pharmacy on Trpimirova.”

  Nothing prevented Boško from calling the police during the fifteen-minute wait—that was his out. Yet he was their only link to Jurica. He could have lied and said that he didn’t recognize Jurica or had no further information on Tadić. But he didn’t.

  Luka looked over at Nikola, who shrugged, apparently struggling with the same question: could they trust Boško?

  Boško stood up, as though reading their minds.

  “You’ll want to hear what I have to say.”