And Every Man Has to Die rcc-4

by Frank Zafiro

  Pyotr nodded sadly, tears welling up in his eyes.

  “Don’t worry about the books,” Val instructed. “I’ll hire an accountant who will take care of everything. You just run the place, play the part of owner, and take care of your family. Is that acceptable?”

  Pyotr stared down at the table between them for a long while. Val waited patiently. He knew the man had no choice at this point. If he refused, the black gangs would squeeze him. Worse yet, he would face Val’s wrath, which would be a hundred times greater. If he accepted, he would have some financial security, but he would be surrendering his dream. And he wasn’t foolish enough not to know that Val would funnel dirty money through the business to launder it. If it ever came down to the police or the IRS poking around, he’d be on the hook.

  Val waited. He knew what the man’s answer would be.

  Eventually, Pyotr raised his eyes to Val’s and nodded. “Yes,” he said, swallowing thickly. “Thank you.”

  “You are a countryman,” Val said. “You do not need to thank me. Now, I want you to think of a price over the next few days. When we talk again, we’ll work out how much I will pay you for the business and what your salary will be. All right?”

  Pyotr nodded his head, then stood woodenly and walked away from the table. His slumping shoulders and shuffling gait were those of a broken man.

  Val stopped him after a few steps. “Pyotr?”

  The man turned to face him.

  “What is the name of the fat waitress?”

  “Olga,” he answered.

  “Fire her today,” Val said.

  Pyotr’s eyebrows shot up. “But she’s my sister-in-law.”

  “She’s a horrible waitress,” Val said. “Fire her today. I’ll send you a couple of girls who are young and beautiful. That will bring more customers in here.”

  “She’s my sister-in-law,” Pyotr repeated weakly.

  Val didn’t answer.

  After a moment, Pyotr sighed. He raised his hands questioningly. “Will these young girls know how to do this job?” he asked.

  “Anyone could do better than Olga,” Val said.

  Pyotr didn’t reply. He gave Val a resigned nod, turned, and headed to the back of the coffee shop.

  Val watched him go. He felt no remorse for the deal he’d just struck. The man had asked for it. Besides, Val had needed a good business to launder the earnings from the chop shops. Largely a cash business, a coffee shop could enjoy fluctuations in income without drawing any suspicion. It was perfect.

  Not so perfect for Pyotr the Georgian, Val mused. He’d keep his word on the man’s salary. In fact, he’d make sure it was a generous one. But he had no intention of buying the business from Pyotr. No, he’d take away the books and pay the man a stipend, but that’d be the end of it.

  He was pretty sure Pyotr knew it, too.

  Val had been prepared to leave the shop after his meeting with Dmitri and move on to his next duty. But now he took a few extra moments to sit in silence and look around. The coffee shop was dark but clean. Brighter lights and prettier girls would make a difference, he decided. All was quiet except for hushed voices in the back, followed by some sobbing. Val didn’t let those noises intrude upon his enjoyment as he sat in his new business and planned.

  1243 hours

  Detective Tower took a huge bite of his sandwich and chewed appreciatively. Browning watched him attack the sub and resisted the urge to sigh and shake his head. He thought about warning Tower that he wasn’t always going to be able to eat like that, but he wasn’t sure if his motivation was for Tower’s well-being or his own envy of Tower’s metabolism. Despite an obviously voracious appetite, Tower remained slender and appeared as hard as whipcord.

  He probably doesn’t even work out, Browning mused.

  Tower glanced up at him as if he’d heard the older man’s thoughts. “What?” He shrugged. “I’m hungry.”

  “Apparently.”

  Tower motioned toward Browning’s half sub, still untouched. “Eat your alfalfa sprouts and tofu. You’ll feel better.”

  Browning narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to bluff Tower into thinking he’d struck a chord with him. But the younger detective just flashed him a grin and took another huge bite.

  Arson Investigator Art Hoagland looked up from his meatball sandwich. “Uh, you guys have some kind of a food issue or something?”

  “Not me,” Tower said, taking another bite.

  Browning let out the sigh he’d been holding in. “No issue, Art. Thanks for buying.”

  “Yeah,” Tower said through a mouthful of food. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. It’s the least I could do to pick your brain.”

  “What’s on your mind?” Browning asked.

  Hoagland set his sandwich down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Well, being an investigator is a completely different gig,” he said. “And it’s got my head spinning a little bit. Especially on this most recent case.”

  “How so?” Browning asked. “Trouble interpreting the evidence?”

  “No. That’s not a problem. Fire leaves very distinct evidence. And I know fire.”

  “What’s that evidence tell you?”

  “That there was faulty wiring, which started the fire.”

  “No evidence to the contrary?”

  Hoagland shook his head. “None that I could see.”

  “And the size of the fire supports that? The way it developed?”

  “Yes. All of the physical evidence at the scene points directly to old electrical wiring being the cause. The burn pattern from that point on is consistent. There’s nothing suspicious.”

  “But we’re here,” Tower observed, putting the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. “Eating on your dime.”

  Hoagland nodded but said nothing.

  “Was this an older house, Art?” Browning asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Original wiring?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it makes sense?”

  “The fire makes sense,” Hoagland admitted. “It just doesn’t feel right.”

  “How so?”

  Hoagland leaned forward. “I guess my problem is the people end of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A dead woman,” Hoagland said. “And two dead kids. Burnt up.”

  Browning nodded knowingly. “It’s always tough to see the victims in the crimes that we investigate. And burning is a horrible way to die. But for me, all of that becomes a stronger motivation to do right by those victims. To solve the case, no matter what.”

  “I understand that,” Hoagland said. “But that’s not my point. My point is, who was missing?”

  Browning cocked his head. “What’s that?”

  “Who wasn’t there?” Hoagland repeated.

  “The husband,” Tower said. “The man of the house.”

  Browning’s eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. “There’s a husband? And he lives there?”

  Hoagland nodded. “Yeah, though it wasn’t easy to verify. None of the Russian neighbors would confirm it.”

  “We sometimes have that problem, too. That entire community is reluctant to talk to the police. I think it’s a holdover from the old country. It’ll change with time.”

  “We hope,” Tower added.

  Hoagland went on. “The neighbors further up the street weren’t sure if there was a husband who lived there or not. I guess that’s a result of our neighborhoods not being as tight-knit as they used to be. But the little old lady across the street was certain.”

  “So you got a solid witness.”

  “Not really. She was also certain that this was 1983 and that Richard Nixon was president.”

  “Oh.” Browning considered for a moment, then asked, “Was it a rental?”

  “No.” Hoagland shook his head. “Owned. And in the wife’s name.”

  Browning and Tower exchanged a glance.

  Hoagland looked from one to the other, then asked, “Wha
t? What’s that mean?”

  Tower pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. “Give me the address of your fire,” he said.

  “1409 West Grace,” Hoagland told him.

  Tower scratched out the address on a napkin, then rose and walked to the counter.

  “What’s he doing?” Hoagland asked.

  “Checking something,” Browning told him.

  “Checking what?”

  “Maybe nothing. We’ll see in a minute.”

  Hoagland gave Browning a look of exasperation.

  Browning smiled slightly and leaned forward. “Listen, Art,” he said. “Russian society is still very patriarchal. Not to an extreme, but it is still a major component in the social order. I’m sure that’ll break down as they acclimate to American life, but for now, that’s the way it is.”

  “You mean, the father rules with an iron fist.”

  “Probably not that extreme, but along those lines. There’s a long history of this for the Russian people. Even their middle names are a variation of their father’s first name, regardless of whether the child is a son or daughter.”

  “I understand, but how does this fit in with my arson?”

  “It fits like this,” Browning said. “If there was a husband, he’d be the head of the family. The mother would be the center, but he’d be the head. So if they owned a house, not only would it be in his name, it would most likely be only in his name. The wife’s name wouldn’t even be on the paperwork at all.”

  “So you’re saying there probably wasn’t a husband.”

  “Maybe not,” Browning said. “But there’s another possibility.”

  “Which is?”

  “Let me put it to you this way. When we first started encountering California gangs up here in River City, we rarely found guns or drugs on the older, ranking gang members. You know who had the guns and the dope?”

  “Who?”

  “The juveniles in the gang. See, they all knew that a fifteen-year-old risked a significantly lighter sentence in Juvenile Court for having a gun or drugs, as opposed to a twenty-three-year-old.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “You know who else held for the gangsters? Particularly their guns?”

  Hoagland shook his head. “No.”

  “Their girlfriends. Because they knew the females were less likely to be searched and probably wouldn’t be searched as thoroughly by male officers.”

  “Okay, I can see why they’d think that, but-”

  “Do you know how the Italian Mafia used to hide assets?”

  Hoagland held up his hands. “Enough questions, Ray,” he said. “I asked you for your advice.”

  Browning smiled. “Art, the best thing one investigator can do for another is ask a lot of questions. Maybe one of the questions will get you thinking about something you overlooked or thinking about some piece of evidence in a different light.”

  Hoagland considered, then shrugged. “All right. I see your point. Sorry. It’s just that this is my first major case. And people have died.”

  “I understand,” Browning said. “Believe me.”

  Hoagland picked up his drink and took a pull from the straw. “Okay, go on. You were saying something about the Godfather?”

  “Sort of. The Italian Mafia used to put property in the name of their wives or parents, even their children. Some of the California gangs have done it, too.”

  “Why?”

  “It helps hide the gangster from the IRS, for one. Plus, it makes the paper trail harder for law enforcement if a RICO case ever comes down. They also figure that if they get busted, there’ll be something there to take care of the family.”

  “That’s noble enough, I suppose. I mean, for a crook.”

  “There might be some nobility in it somewhere,” Browning said, “but mostly it was about covering their own backsides.”

  Hoagland nodded. Both men remained silent for a moment. Then realization crept into Hoagland’s eyes. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that the husband might be a gangster?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “And we have a Russian gang problem here?”

  Browning smiled. “Last I heard, we had ten or fifteen thousand Russian, Ukrainian, and Georgian immigrants here in River City. Now, unless they are an extraordinarily virtuous people, there are going to be a hundred or more criminals in a population that size. And if that many criminals are operating in a city like ours, some of them are going to get very organized.”

  “But that’s all theory, right?”

  Browning shrugged. “We don’t have anything solid, no. But we’re pretty sure there’s an organized group operating here in River City.”

  “Why would you think this husband, if he exists, is one of them?”

  “I don’t,” Browning said. “Not necessarily. But follow the logic. One possibility is that there is no husband. But if there is a husband, why wouldn’t his name be on the deed? Especially in such a patriarchal culture?”

  Hoagland pursed his lips in thought, but said nothing.

  “You see,” Browning continued, “our role as investigators is to read the evidence, imagine probabilities, and then eliminate them. If there’s no husband, you’ve reached the end of that particular road. If there is…” He trailed off.

  “If there is,” Hoagland finished, “then I’ve got some more digging to do.”

  “Exactly.” Browning picked up his sandwich and took a bite.

  Tower returned to the table and sat down. He pushed the napkin across the table toward Hoagland. “Oleg Tretiak,” he announced.

  Hoagland looked down at the name, then up at Tower. “Who’s he?”

  “According to the Department of Licensing computer, he’s a guy who calls 1409 West Grace home,” Tower said, his tone slightly smug. “And I’ll bet that Tretiak is the same last name as your other three victims, right?”

  Hoagland nodded.

  Browning swallowed his food and gave Hoagland a long look. “So now you’ve got yourself a little mystery, don’t you?”

  Hoagland nodded again, his eyes glazed over in thought. “I need to find out who Oleg Tretiak is.”

  Tower shook his head. “No, you know who he is. You need to find out where he is.”

  Hoagland sighed heavily. “And how am I supposed to do that? I mean, I know I can check for him in our computer system, but-”

  “Already done,” Tower announced.

  Both Browning and Hoagland turned their eyes toward him. Browning waited while Tower let Hoagland squirm a little. Then the younger detective smiled and said, “He’s flagged with a 629 code.”

  Hoagland let his chin flop forward onto his chest. “Please. In English. Cop talk is about as foreign to the fireman here as Russian.”

  “It’s an FBI flag,” Browning explained. “It means that anyone who comes into contact with this person has to report it to the FBI immediately.”

  “So if I find the guy, I have to call the FBI?”

  Browning nodded. “Yes. But if this guy is in the wind, it might be worth giving the local office a call anyway. Just to touch base. Maybe they know something that will help you out.”

  “Yeah,” Tower said sarcastically. “They’re really good about sharing information.”

  Browning chuckled. “Touche. But you never know. It’s worth a phone call.”

  Hoagland nodded. “All right. I will. In fact, I’ll go do that now.” He rose from his chair and extended his hand to Tower. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Anytime,” Tower said, and shook it.

  Hoagland reached for Browning’s hand. Browning gave him a firm shake. “You’ve got a good gut for this, Art,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “The physical evidence told you this was accidental. Maybe it was. But something on the people side didn’t add up, so you’re following out the lead.” Browning smiled. “That’s what a good investigator does. So keep it up.”

  “Thanks.” Hoagland gave Browning’s hand one f
inal, short pump, then released it. “See you later.” He turned on his heel and left the sandwich shop.

  Tower watched him go. “Not bad for a hose hauler,” he admitted.

  Browning nodded. “Not bad at all.”

  2212 hours

  Officer Katie MacLeod sat on her couch with her leg propped up on pillows. She stared at the television, watching a hospital drama but not really paying attention. She wondered if the writers took as much dramatic license with the medical profession as they did with hers. Mostly she didn’t care.

  She glanced at the clock. Twelve minutes after ten.

  What she cared about, mostly, was that her platoon mates were already out on the street, patrolling River City. Which is where she belonged. Not sitting on her couch, half doped-up on pain meds and with an ankle the size of a volleyball.

  “This sucks,” she said.

  She wasn’t surprised that she missed being at work. What did surprise her was how much she missed it. She missed the feel and smell of her wool uniform and the leather of her belt. She missed the reassuring weight of her gear on her waist. The anticipation of the possibilities that awaited her on each shift. The opportunity to make a difference. The uncertainty. The chance for action.

  More than that, she missed the camaraderie of roll call. Saylor’s confident leadership. Chisolm’s steady presence. The twins cracking wise in their terrible accents. Matt Westboard’s quiet diligence. Hell, she even missed Kahn’s gruffness.

  She looked down at her swollen, discolored foot. Six to eight weeks, minimum. That’s what the doctor told her. And that was if they didn’t have to operate. If she didn’t need a pin or two to hold things together.

  Katie frowned. She didn’t belong on the couch. She belonged in a police cruiser.

  On the television, a crew of doctors and nurses rushed to the bedside of a dying patient. They worked feverishly, the actors spouting jargon that Katie didn’t understand. But the sense of purpose and the unity of action that the entire team exhibited only made her feel worse.