by Eskens,Allen
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I return to my project, lowering the auger back into hole-number five. I shouldn’t have gotten mad. I should have held my tongue, let him continue to deny his crimes. His lies make it easier for me. There’s some truth to the notion that a person who is truly sorry for what they’ve done shouldn’t suffer the same fate as the unrepentant. But that’s a bridge I don’t have to cross as long as he sticks to his script.
Mikhail’s eyes study me for a while, trying to work out what I might know and how I know it, piecing together what he can and trying to figure out what he can get away with. We saw each other in his club. He has to know he can’t deny that. He knows I left there with Ana. What did she tell me? I know his real name. What else did I know? What can he still deny?
Then he says, “I own a gentlemen’s club. There’s nothing illegal about that. I don’t let my employees screw the clients. There’s no prostitution. You’re making assumptions. It’s a strip club. Nothing more.”
“I call you a murderer and a pimp, and it’s the pimp part you want to argue about?”
“I want to argue about all of it. I am none of those things, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar.”
“I suppose you have no ties to the Belarussian underworld either?”
“Do you hear yourself, Detective? You sound like a crazy man. Now, I’m a mobster from Russia—”
“Belarus—not Russia. Don’t play games, Mikhail.”
“My name is Michael.”
“Keep it up, Mikhail. Keep stalling. Let’s see where that gets you.”
“I don’t know what you think you know, Detective, but you’re wrong.”
Water bubbles up and out of the fifth hole and the auger blade slips below the bottom edge of the ice, getting caught there for a few seconds. My motor coordination is fading, and I jerk on the handle until the auger is free and pops out of the hole.
As I pause to catch my breath before starting the sixth hole, I look at Mikhail and see in his eyes that our game has changed. Like a man discarding his checkers and resetting the board with chess pieces, he’s calculating his moves with a whole new set of rules. He’s upping his game, and I’m ready for him.
Chapter 32: Minneapolis—Yesterday
Chapter 32
Minneapolis—Yesterday
Snow was coming down in earnest when I headed for my car. Ana had argued to come with me to meet Reece, and I shut her down. In my pocket, I carried a copy of the digital recording of Whitton talking to Kroll. Whitton would answer for the recording—that I knew. How he would answer remained obscure in my mind. He would be waiting for me, but did he have any idea why? He saw me drag his wife out of the club. He knew I was investigating ruble symbols and tattoos, but did he have a clue as to how close I was to the truth? I doubt it. But then again, maybe that’s exactly why he wanted to meet on the top of that parking ramp. Maybe, he sees a way out.
I was familiar with the LaSalle Court Ramp, one of those where you drive up the sloping floors but exit through a corkscrew. I remembered, from an investigation I’d done some years ago, that LaSalle had cameras at the entrances, exits, in the elevators, and in the vestibules outside the elevators. I also remembered that it had an opening in its side where the dumpsters were stored, and that opening had no camera.
I parked on Eighth Avenue, behind the ramp and out of sight should anyone be peering down from the top. A narrow alley cut down the side of the ramp, and halfway down that alley stood the dumpsters. An eight-foot-tall chain-link fence protected the opening. That was easy enough to scale. I peeked into the guts of the parking ramp to see that I was past the entrance cameras. Thirty feet ahead of me was a security office. The lights were on, but it was unmanned. Beyond that was the corkscrew exit.
I walked casually across the two lanes for entering the ramp and started my trek up the corkscrew. As I neared the top, I slowed, inching my way up until I could see the darkness of the night sky where the corkscrew opened onto the eighth floor. Whitton would be waiting for me out there. Would he be alone? If it were me—if I knew that a man was coming to confront me about his wife’s death, I’d be smart enough not to come alone. If I had the chance, I’d set up a trap.
I drew my gun out of its holster and eased to the mouth of the corkscrew entrance. A curtain of falling snow put a lacy white veil in front of me, but I could see Whitton’s unmarked Dodge Charger about thirty feet out, facing down the ramp, waiting for my car to come around that last bend. His lights and engine were both off.
I scan the shadows and edges, looking for an accomplice and see no one through the darkness and thick snow. If I couldn’t see them, then maybe they couldn’t see me either. I dropped to my belly and low-crawled onto the parking ramp, the snow building up in piles against my forearms. His car was thirty feet out. He must have been lowering and raising the windows to keep them cleared of snow because I could see inside the cab. A green dashboard light glowed bright enough that I could see Whitton’s head in the driver’s seat. No passengers. I chambered a round in my gun and continued on my belly.
Once behind his car, I slid up into a sitting position, leaning against the back bumper. I waited and listened. No radio. No talking. I again scanned the perimeter and saw no movement. I could see Whitton’s tire tracks in the snow. The hazy lights on that top floor of the ramp gave off enough illumination to see that there were no footprints anywhere around the Charger. Whitton came alone.
I considered my next step. Frankly, I hadn’t expected to make it this far without a throw-down. I could point my Glock in his face and demand he step out. But Whitton might already have his gun drawn and where would that leave me? If he didn’t comply, would I shoot him? I didn’t know.
Another alternative—I rush the door, yank him out, and hope the element of surprise tips things in my favor. I drove the same model of Dodge Charger, so I knew that the door would have unlocked when he put the car in park. That seemed like the better of my options.
I holstered my gun and slid to the edge of the bumper, where I took a breath to steady my nerves. Three . . . two . . . one. I jumped from my hiding spot, my feet digging to find purchase as I turned the corner, flung the door open and grabbed Whitton by the coat. He looked up at me as if I were a banshee from his worst childhood nightmare, come to steal his soul.
I pulled him out of his seat and sent him sprawling across the snow-covered concrete. It was then that I saw the gun. He must have been holding it on his lap because it fell to the ground as I yanked him out of the car. I kicked the gun and it slid under the Charger.
“What the hell?” Whitton yelled as he rose up onto his elbows.
I kicked him in the ribs and he rolled twice over, ending on his backside. He started to scramble to his feet, getting to his hands and knees before he saw me pointing my gun at his head. “Don’t,” was all I said.
He sat back on his heels and held his arms out to the side. “What are you going to do, Max? Shoot me? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“Why’d you do it?” I yelled.
“What?” He looked honestly confused.
“Tell me why you did it, Whitton.”
“Why I did what? What are you talking about?”
“I will shoot you. You have to know that.”
“Shoot me? Have you lost your mind? I see you dragging my wife out of a club and now you want to shoot me?”
“I’m giving you a chance to buy your life, Reece. Don’t throw that away.”
“Buy my life? Why would . . .”
A dark shift in his expression revealed that some new level of recognition had taken hold, and I watched as a tiny spark of understanding unlock behind his eyes. He knew; I could tell, and I saw fear dig into the lines on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t say that, Reece! Don’t you fucking say that.” I took a step closer, the barrel of my gun just out of his reach.
He turned his face away and crossed his hands in
front of the muzzle. “Stop, Max. Whatever you’re mad about . . . I don’t know what you think I did.”
“Tell me why you killed her.”
“Kill who? I didn’t kill anyone. For God’s sake, I don’t know.”
I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out the recorder, held it out in front of me, and hit play.
Hello?
Yeah, it’s me.
The boss said you’d be calling. What’s up?
We have a job. I need you to lift a car. Keep it clean. No fingerprints. No DNA. Wear gloves.
I know what I’m doing.
We have to deal with someone right away.
Send a message?
No. Extreme prejudice. Hit-and-run.
Great. Another drop of blood and we do all the work.
This is serious. It’s a cop’s wife.
A what?
You heard me. She stumbled onto something she shouldn’t have. If we don’t move fast, we’ll all be fucked. I don’t like this any more than you do.
When?
Today. 3:00.
Where?
Hennepin County Medical Center. There’s a parking garage on the corner of Eighth and Chicago. Meet me on the top floor. I’ll fill you in there. I’m not sure if they have cameras at the entrance, so cover your face when you drive in.
I stopped the playback.
Defeat pressed down on his shoulders. He can’t deny his own voice. “I just want to know why, Reece.”
Whitton’s hands slowly lower to his sides. He fixed his gaze on some meaningless scuff of snow near my feet, no longer concerned about the gun pointed at his face. “Where’d you find that?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. I guess not.” Then he shook his head and to himself, he muttered, “I should have known better.” Then to me he said, “I have money, Max. Lots of it. And—”
“I don’t want your fucking money.”
“You can have Anastasia? She’s—”
I stepped in and whipped the barrel of my gun across his face, sending him tumbling back into the snow. He curled as he rolled, mumbling curses at me, holding the side of his jaw. He maneuvered onto his hands and knees again and when he spoke this time, the sound came through a broken jaw. “Christ, Max. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Why, Reece? Why’d you kill Jenni?”
“What do you want, Max? I can’t change anything. I wish I could. I really do. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve put my own gun in my mouth over that one.”
He began looking around as if searching for his gun. The kick must have disoriented him because he didn’t think to look under his car. When he couldn’t find it, he dropped his head and asked, “What’re you going to do with that recording?”
“You’re not getting out of this, Reece.”
Reece put his hand on his thighs, and shook his fallen head. “I had to do it, Max. I had no choice. I . . . I fucked up.”
“We all have choices, Reece.”
“I didn’t. Just like I don’t have a choice now.” Reece slowly rose to his feet.
He stood up.
“Don’t move. I will shoot you.”
He held out his arms, “Please. Go ahead. Get it over with.”
I tensed my finger against the trigger.
“You think I’m scared of your gun? I’d welcome a bullet. Come on, Rupert. Shoot me!” He walked toward me, his chest open and ready to take a bullet. When he got too close, I hit him in the head with my gun again. He fell to the ground, blood trickling down his cheek and neck. “That’s what I thought. You don’t have the balls to shoot me.”
“I’m just not ready to shoot you yet,” I said.
“Does Vang know about the tape?”
I thought about his reason for asking that question. I think he wanted to know how widely dispersed his crime had become. Was there a chance of stopping the spread—maybe by killing me and Niki?
“Niki knows,” I said. Whitton wouldn’t have believed me if I said otherwise. “So does Chief Murphy, the county attorney and a couple of folks in the City Attorney’s Office.” I added to the list to protect Niki, just in case things went south for me in the next few minutes.
“Damn,” he said. He rose to his feet again and brushed the snow from his pants. “Well, that’s that, I guess.” Whitton turned and walked away from me, shuffling his feet in a slow dirge until he reached the wall on the outer edge of the parking ramp.
“Don’t do it, Reece. God dammit, don’t you do it.”
The wall had two parts, a concrete stub about waist high and a two-foot metal rail anchored atop the concrete. Whitton stopped at the wall, his chin resting on top of the rail. “I’m not going to prison, Max. That’s all there is to that. And I’m not going to stick around to watch this all play out on the evening news.”
Whitton climbed onto the wall, slipping one leg over the metal rail.
I put my gun away. “Reece, wait!” Now it was me with my hands out. I stepped closer to him. Reece had one leg on either side of the wall. “At least tell me why you killed her,” I begged.
He looked over the wall, at the alley eight stories below. Through the snow I could see tears trickling down his cheeks. “I have parents,” Whitton said. “I’m their only son and they think the world of me. I know you don’t care, and I don’t blame you, but when I’m gone, you have no reason to tell anyone about this. For their sake, please don’t . . .”
“Reece, come down off there. We can talk.”
Reece lifted his chin into the slight breeze and stared at nothing. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. He paused and closed his eyes. I thought about rushing him, pulling him back from the precipice, but then he sat up and smiled at me and said, “You know, Max. I never did like you.” With that, he leaned into the nothingness and disappeared from my view. I heard the pop of his body hitting the ground. I didn’t need to look over the wall to know that Reece Whitton was dead.
Before walking back down the corkscrew exit, I retrieved Whitton’s gun from under the car and laid it on the seat, making sure that a round was chambered. The snow was already starting to hide the evidence of our scuffle. With any luck the investigation would conclude that Whitton went there to commit suicide, choosing to jump instead of shooting himself.
As I walked back down the corkscrew, I replayed those lasts few seconds of Whitton’s life. I could have grabbed him, pulled him back to safety. I could have shot him to disable him. I could have told him that I wouldn’t send the recording anywhere. I had all of those options in my head as I watched him climb onto that wall. There could have been a different outcome. But in the deepest recesses of my conscience, I didn’t want any other outcome.
I left the parking ramp, climbing over that same chain-link fence by the dumpster, and entered the alley only a few feet away from Whitton’s shattered body.
Chapter 33
Chapter 33
It was strange to find Ana still sitting on my couch when I came home. Before I walked in, I peeked in through a small window pane on my back door. I could see that she was going through my investigation file on Zoya. She held the picture of her dead sister in her hand, pressing it against her lips. At the sound of the door opening, Ana put the photograph down and sat up, her attention focused sharply on me.
Neither of us spoke at first. She appeared to be reading my face, trying to ascertain what had happened at the parking ramp. I was stalling because I didn’t know how I would tell her about Whitton’s death.
It was Ana who broke the silence.
“You met with my husband?” she said in a flat tone.
“I did.”
“And did he tell you what you wanted to hear?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but the words did not come out. I sat down on the couch next to her. If she had been lying to me about her hatred for Whitton, this moment would bring that lie to the surface.
“Ana, I have some bad news.”
I paused, looking for a reaction. Her fac
ial expression did not change.
“Reece is dead,” I said.
She inhaled a small gasp. Then she closed her eyes and sighed, a slight smile edging up in the corners of her mouth. “How did he die?” she asked.
“He . . . jumped off the roof of the parking ramp. It was an eight story fall.”
“He jumped? You did not push him?”
I was taken aback by the question. This woman does not mince words. “No, I didn’t push him.”
“I would not have been upset if you had,” she said. “Did he tell you anything about Zoya’s death before he . . . jumped?”
“He didn’t tell me all that much. I’m afraid our conversation took a bad turn right away. You think he killed Zoya?”
“Mikhail is the one responsible for Zoya’s death. Not Reece.”
“How do you know?”
Ana looked at the photo in her hand. “Nothing happens to one of Mikhail’s girls without Mikhail’s permission. She was not even supposed to be in this country. He promised me. We had struck a bargain. I kept my end of the bargain. He did not.”
I need to know everything you can tell me about Mikhail. I need to go to him tonight, before he finds out that Reece is dead.”
Ana cast her eyes down and shook her head. “You will not find him tonight. He is gone. When he saw me in the club—and he saw you pull me out—he knows. He sent Reece to meet with you. They want to know what you know. They want to see how close you are to the truth about Zoya. By now, Mikhail is on his way to Canada.”
“I don’t think anyone knows that Reece is dead. They probably haven’t even found his body yet. Mikhail can’t know already.”
“He will not wait to tempt fate. If there is a threat, he will run.” Ana reached into her bag and pulled out a cell phone. She hit two buttons and laid it on the coffee table in front of her. It rang twice before someone on the other end answered.