Brant handed the iPad back to the younger detective.
``She was already onto the story,’’ he said by way of a defense. He’d meant to make good with her, but she and Ritchie had both slipped his mind.
Malloy’s glare intensified as she returned to the iPad.
``What’d you want me to do?’’
No answer. A wound to be nursed. He’d have to work on it. Malloy would be a good cop, a valuable member of the team. His team? Maybe. But it all depended on Jolly and whether he’d keep them together or assign them to different units.
Yes, a wound needing attention and time to heal. But for now, he had one more stop. Two more, actually. First to the evidence lockers, then a trip downtown.
Chinatown. He parked behind a tour bus on Beach Street.
Sergei Volodin was in the Golden Palace, sipping tea and reading the newspaper. Muscles and Hungry sat by the door, glowering in Brant’s direction.
``You believe this guy Luceno?’’ Volodin asked as Brant took a seat across the table. ``Says here he has half the council in his pocket.’’
A young woman wearing a black Chinese dress approached with a teapot and an extra cup. Volodin eyed the girl as she poured.
``You’re a hypocrite, Volodin.’’
``What are you suggesting, lieutenant?’’
Volodin smiled broadly. He folded the newspaper, placing it to one side of the empty plate in front of him. The waitress returned and he ordered.
``The lieutenant won’t be eating,’’ Volodin said, pointing his chin in Brant’s direction. The waitress nodded, bowed and left.
``Make sure you don’t choke on any chicken balls. I’d hate to see you have an accident.’’
Brant took a sip of his drink. The tea had a bitter bite to it. Not inappropriate given the circumstances, he thought.
``Do you have something for me?’’
``Yes, some advice. You may want to start looking for another bodyguard.’’
Volodin paused, momentarily perplexed.
Brant reached into his pocket. Muscles and Hungry watched intently from the nearby table, their hooded eyes trained on his hands. The room tensed, but Volodin waved the two brothers away, telling them with the flick of his finger to remain calm.
Brant placed an evidence bag on the table. It had been sealed and tagged. Writing scrawled onto the outside provided a history, date of collection, a description of the evidence, the chain of custody.
``What is this?’’ Volodin asked, taking the bag and inspecting the contents through transparent plastic.
The bag contained a fragment of bullet. Its tip had exploded into a grotesque flower of twisted lead and copper alloy.
``Careful, you don’t want to cut yourself.’’
Volodin’s face turned dark. ``Your point?’’
``That’s the bullet we pulled from Allison Carswell,’’ Brant said matter of factly. ``Take a close look.’’
Volodin held the evidence bag to the light. The bullet fragment shifted slightly.
``I don’t see,’’ Volodin said, his voice laced with menace.
``Our guys at the forensics lab have been doing some testing with ordnance gel. Just so happens that the fragment you’re holding is an exact match if it were to have been fired from a Sig Sauer 9 mm at a range of about five yards.’’
``Again, I’m missing something.’’
``See the flowering of the bullet’s tip?’’
``I see it.’’
Volodin place the evidence bag on the table with a shrug.
``Pretty, right?’’
``Please get to the point.’’
Brant retrieved the evidence bag.
``Pyotr over there. He carries a Sig Sauer. I know because I saw the business end of it when he beat the crap out of me back at Genepro. Now I’m going to make a bet and I’m going to say that the fragment we have here came from that piece carried so lovingly in his waistband.’’
``I can’t control the actions of others,’’ Volodin said. The menace was still there, but tempered.
``Then there’s the issue of the gun we found in Carswell’s apartment. And the roommate.’’
Volodin frowned.
``The roommate.’’
``Susan Chua. She can testify that Pyotr was the last to see Allison before she disappeared.’’
``Circumstantial. Besides, Ms. Chua’s testimony doesn’t exactly come without baggage.’’
It was Brant’s turn to shrug.
``A jury might have a hard time accepting her testimony, but the DA’ll take it once I get Pyotr’s Sig tested. Plus there’s the matter of who was paying for the apartment Susan and Allison were living in.’’
``Please get to the point. My lunch is getting cold.’’
Volodin smiled as the waitress set a plate of rice and noodles on the table.
``Pyotr killed Allison Carswell. You pushed them together at first. Probably so that you could keep an eye on Carswell while she was researching whatever it was she was working on. The thing is, she and Pyotr grew close. Very close. But Carswell grew bored and she started seeing someone named Franz Eichel. Your thug didn’t like it. He shot her out of anger and jealousy and little else. Just a stupid, senseless death, but one put indirectly into motion by you. How am I doing, Pyotr?’’
Brant looked over at the brothers. Pyotr Dimitri sat, slack faced and straining to overhear. He’d caught enough of the conversation to show concern and something more.
Volodin shrugged. So casual. So cold. Brant wanted nothing more than to knife the bastard. If it was to be through Pyotr’s arrest, then so be it. At least it was a start.
``I assume you can prove this theory.’’
``It’s more than a theory,’’ Brant said, forcing himself not to sound smug.
He could prove it and he knew it. The CCTV footage, homeless Ray’s eyewitness account, the gun. They’d take samples of Pyotr’s DNA, compare it with the skin cells found under Allison Carswell’s nails. All of it pointed to Pyotr.
``Why don’t you arrest Mr. Dimitri then? What do I care?’’
``We need to finish our business first.’’
``Ah, yes. Our business.’’
Brant rose to leave but before doing so reached into his pocket to retrieve the USB stick with the software program Carswell had helped design. He threw the stick onto the table.
``Take your pound of flesh.’’
Volodin picked up the USB dongle.
``I’m going to be quite angry if this isn’t what I expect, yes?’’
``It’s your software, or your million-dollar molecule or whatever else it is they were cooking up out there in the woods. I can’t tell you how it works, but I can tell you that Carswell and Eichel died because of it.’’
Volodin pulled out a laptop and plugged in the flash drive. He tapped at the keyboard, his face breaking into a broad smile as he scanned the screen and the data spilling out.
``This is very good.’’
``So we’re done?’’
Volodin closed the laptop.
``For now our business is concluded.’’
The waitress returned, placing an overflowing plate of food on the table. Breaded chicken balls swam in a viscous lake of red sweet and sour sauce.
``Thank you for this.’’
Volodin nodded toward the laptop as he picked up a pair of chopsticks and speared a chicken ball.
"About my son.''
"A very precocious child. I hope you know how lucky you are.''
Brant fumed. Volodin was playing him much as a cat would taunt a wounded bird.
"If you ever come near us again, I'll..."
Volodin cut him off in mid sentence, a self-satisfied look on his fleshy features. He knew he had the advantage and wasn't afraid to show it.
"The thing is,'' Volodin said as he stuffed his mouth, "one must have friends. It's good to call on others from time to time. We help each other, yes?''
Brant resisted the urge to reach for Volodin'
s throat. The Dimitris tensed on cue. Pyotr Dimitri flinched as he reached for the Sig tucked into his military kakis. Brant shot him a venal look of warning.
"I'll deal with you soon enough. As for you, Volodin, I'm going to enjoy visiting you in prison.''
Volodin sat back as he pushed his plate aside and wiped his mouth with the cuff of his shirt. The waitress reappeared and handed him a small lacquered tray on top of which sat a wet towel. Volodin smiled as he took the towel and wiped his face.
"Don't forget, you followed Carswell's trail to Eichel on your own volition. I had nothing to do with it.''
"You set the trap, Volodin. And you almost got me killed.''
Volodin shrugged. "Which would have been a shame. For that I would have eternal regrets. I'm glad to see you made it back in one piece, by the way. A little rough looking around the edges, but intact all the same.''
"I sincerely hope this is the end of our business.'' Brant fumed. "I won't think twice about putting a bullet through your brains the next time you threaten me.''
Volodin chuckled as his face reddened. "Did you hear that, boys?'' The big Russian turned in his seat to face the Dimitris. ``I’ve been threatened.’’
"It's not a threat, Volodin,'' Brant said. ”Trust me.''
"And I thought we were going to be friends,’’ Volodin said, his face momentarily turning pensive. "A man needs all the friends he can get, no?''
"What are you talking about?''
Volodin furrowed his brow in deeper thought.
"Before you make me some kind of crusade, ask yourself how it was that I knew you were investigating Ms. Carswell's death.''
Brant pursed his lips. "What are you saying?''
Volodin smiled. "You have more than me to worry about. You have enemies at the department. And that's no threat.''
Brant turned to leave. He moved for the door, stopped and thought, the anger building in stages from deep within. Damn Volodin. Far from the stupid, ponderous thug he appeared, he had orchestrated and manipulated to perfection. Would he pay, would he atone? Not likely this time. With the threat to Benji and protections from somewhere within the department, Volodin seemed untouchable for now.
Silently, Brant continued to fume. Then unthinking, reflexively, he spun and lunged, directing his fury at Volodin’s throat. A chokehold at first. The Dimitris jumped to their feet and rushed him, their hands quickly reaching for their guns.
``I’ll kill him!’’ Brant spat. He could feel the adrenaline flood his body, filling him with a heightened awareness and lethal aggression. ``I swear I’ll kill him.’’
The Dimitri brothers froze. Was Brant serious? Would they wager a guess? The brothers looked at each other then stepped back, acknowledging the new power dynamic.
Dumbstruck, Volodin flailed as his eyes grew larger and bile rose in his throat. He clawed desperately at Brant’s violent embrace. Words, half formed, spilled out as grunts and gasps.
``What’s that? I can’t hear you!’’
Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, Brant tightened his grip. Trancelike, he could envision Volodin’s windpipe collapsing, oxygen cut off, his life-force diminishing. Uselessly, the gangster continued to claw and struggle, then gradually, his movements became slower, burdensome.
Just as suddenly, Brant released. Volodin slumped indelicately to the restaurant floor, his head lolling uselessly to one side as he crashed to the ground. Chairs flew in different directions, dishes splintered. The waitress fled for safety, a string of high-pitched Mandarin spilling forth.
Brant straightened as he took stock. The effort hadn’t been without cost. A sharp pain cloaked the left side of his head. He gulped for breath, ragged and frenzied.
Volodin was on his back, his hands reaching for his throat. His eyes were closed, the look of dumb, stuporous surprise at Brant’s sudden outburst replaced with the beginnings of a sly smile.
``Ty pokoynik.’’ Volodin’s smile turned evil.
You’re dead.
Volodin's words reverberated long after they'd been spoken.
Enemies. Even in his department. Close to home and watching his every move.
What was the saying? Keep friends close, but keep your enemies closer? He'd have to find out who they were first.
Volodin's words and the self-satisfied grin lingered as the most ephemeral of clouds hanging over his head. At his back, Brant could feel the stares and the hostility, the coiled anger and the resentments.
His phone chirped before he'd reached the car.
An incoming text. He stared at the screen, confused at the sender's identity. The avatar: a frowning clown.
"Thank you for stopping by,'' the text read. "I'm sending you an email with the details.''
Volodin. Brant frowned in confusion. Moments later, another ping as an email hit his inbox. He tapped his phone's screen.
No surprise or doubt this time. Volodin's email address displayed prominently at the top of the message. Brant scrolled down, cursing into the silence as he read:
Jonas,
Thank you for your help in securing the data and the files Miss Carswell took from the Genepro labs in the days before her untimely death. We still grieve. Her murder is a dark tragedy that has befallen us all. I take some comfort in the thought that her murderer will some day be brought to justice and will face the full wrath of the law. As to the conditions discussed prior to your trip, I have arranged for payment in the amount of $60,000 in cash to be wired electronically into your Citibank account. I trust this meets with satisfaction.
Sincerely,
Sergei Volodin
He stared at the screen long after he'd committed the message to memory. He could delete it, wipe it from his phone, pretend he'd never read it. But what good would that do? The message had hit the cloud. A paper trail. Volodin had him and there was little he could do. They were tied inextricably. Even if he'd wanted to put the man under, he did so at great risk. Push hard enough and Volodin would scream dirty cop. Of that he had little doubt.
What to do with the money? He could spend it, pay down the mortgage, maybe put Ben into a better daycare. Or he could leave it, let it sit, and hope the day never came when he had to explain where it'd come from.
That day would come soon.
U.S. law dictated that any deposit over a certain amount be reported to the Feds, meaning the IRS and the FBI would be on to him before the end of the week. The requirement was known as Form 8300. Passed in 2001 as part of the Patriot Act, it meant any payment of $10,000 or more in a single transaction had to be reported. The form was part of the laws enacted to help trace funds used for terrorism, but could also be used to track large cash payments being laundered from illegal activities. Volodin would have known this, which meant the transaction and the amount had been intended to draw the attention of the Feds, to entangle Brant in a money-laundering investigation. A form of entrapment. Nice and clean.
But why involve himself? Didn’t Volodin’s plan mean that he’d also be investigated? There was little doubt where the money had come from. Little doubt the Russian gangster would also have to answer to the Feds.
A sign, perhaps. A signal. A message so brazen, so bold there could be only one reading. Volodin didn’t care. He was above the law. The Feds could investigate, but they wouldn’t find anything on the gangster. Whatever the outcome, Brant had been set up as the fall guy, the rube who’d blundered into the trap. He’d be able to explain the money away, of course, but the damage would be done, the question of Jonas’s integrity would be left to linger. Regardless of the investigation’s outcome, doubts would always persist. Not a good outcome in a post-911 world where all were suspect, all were guilty.
So, if the FBI was to be involved, shouldn’t he reach out first, explain the situation? Shit. Nothing was palatable. He was sitting on a bomb and he knew it. Volodin knew it, too, which infuriated him all the more.
He'd have to call Jolly and explain, hope that reason would prevail and that they'd be able to undo whatever sch
emes Volodin had orchestrated. Not a call that he wanted to make. A conversation he could do without having. But one that he'd have to have all the same. Another day.
The sky was gray, the air chilly when he arrived home. Volodin had gotten his prize. Brant had gotten his, too, in a way. Pyotr Dimitri had been arrested and the Sig tested.
``The striations on the fragment are an exact match,’’ Clatterback said. He was calling from the bowels of the forensics lab. ``His DNA matches the skin found under her fingernails.’’
``Volodin?’’
``Nowhere to be found. There’s something else.’’
``Yes?’’
``Remember Meredith Financial?’’
``What about it?’’
``I got a buddy who works at a company called Kroll to do a forensic investigation on Meredith and the paper trail using the documents Chua gave us.’’
``And you found something?’’
``You’ll never guess who the trail leads to.’’
``Volodin?’’
``Even better.’’
``I’m waiting,’’ Brant said, intrigued but irritated by Clatterback’s spoon-feeding.
``Matty Luceno.’’
``Luceno?’’
``The one and only.’’
Brant smacked his lips at the revelation. Sheila Ritchie would love this one. He couldn’t wait to tell her, couldn’t wait to see Luceno’s name plastered again on the front pages. The story would play for days. Maybe he’d be able to find some leverage with Volodin after all. Dig deep enough and there was a good chance the two men were connected.
``Do me a favor,’’ Brant said finally as he switched his handset from one ear to the other. ``Take Malloy out for dinner. Send me the bill.’’
``You’re not going to celebrate with us?’’
Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller Page 36