Polanski swallowed his last mouthful of champagne from his flute and shivered as the cold crept in across his face. He laid his empty flute down on the black marble bar, took a breath and stepped out onto the snow. The limousine’s suspension sighed with relief when his incredible bulk left its body.
His driver held the umbrella over the car door as he stepped out, then handed him the umbrella before closing the door behind him and quickly ducking back down the side of the limousine and climbing inside to escape the thrashing wrath of the snow.
Polanski held the umbrella over his head to shield himself from the snow and took a deep, cold breath, then exhaled a warm white cloud of air and made his way inside. The snow crunched under the outsoles of his shoes with each swaggering step he took.
On the other side of mirrored glass entrance door was a vestibule. It was wide and open, and it had a high ceiling above. On the right of the vestibule was an unmanned black marble welcome desk that stretched wall to wall, running fifteen feet to the far end. At the far end, there was a standalone wall in the middle of the floor. It was a vibrant pink color and it featured the name of the nightclub on a warm white backlit etched glass sign that was fixed to the middle. 'Amaranth.' The dance floor and bar area was beyond it, accessible through pink lit open walkways either side of the wall. The club was quiet and empty. But filled with the haunting feeling of a sinister presence. It felt eerie.
Polanski lowered the umbrella by his side and closed it, droplets of water falling to the floor, then left it on the black marble counter and walked through an unmarked black door on the left wall from the entrance. He continued down a dark, narrow corridor to another black unmarked door at the far end, an area of the nightclub that was the exact opposite to the flamboyance of what customers get to see, while thinking about what he was going to say to the man who disrespected him and his organization with the actions the night before at Angel’s Salon.
Finally, he stepped through the unmarked door into a sound-proofed room. A room deep in the bowels of the nightclub off to left of the building. A room not many people see the inside of or make it back out from.
The interrogation room.
It was dimly-lit and virtually free from any furnishings. The only piece was the oxblood leather chesterfield sofa that occupied a space on the other side of the hard marley floor. The same hard marley floor the Heaton family ended up in a beaten mess on the night before. A man sat zip tied to an old, rickety wooden dining chair in the middle of it, his back to the door, a spotlight shining down on him from the rafters. He was big and tall and had short dark hair. He was wearing a pair of dark boots, dark pants, a dark woolen coat and a black snood around his neck.
Four men were standing around him. Arshavin, Salenko, Zurawski, and Adamczuk. They had sinister grins across their faces and ferocious looks in their eyes. The all acknowledged Polanski's presence with a collective nod.
"This him?" Polanski snarled.
Zurawski nodded. "Yes, Boss. This is the guy, David Maus."
Polanski stepped around the side of the guy and the chair to see his face.
It looked like it had been through a lifetime of suffering. His eyes were big and beaten. They were puffy and yellow and black. The skin around them had swollen up like golf balls and they were practically closed over. His nose was smashed and bloodied. The blood had ran from his nose down his upper lip like two red Viper stripes. It was congealed along his lips and hardened into two thin stripes that ran down his jaw from the corners of his mouth. His mouth was moving, but only to allow him to gargle and drool. The men had beaten him senseless.
Polanski saw some of his teeth lying on the floor by his feet alongside clumps of bloody, tender pink gum flesh and thick drops of blood.
"So, you're the one?" he asked him, venom in his voice.
David Maus gurgled.
"You know how many times I've spoke to men sitting in that very chair exactly as you're sitting right now?"
David Maus said nothing. He moved his head back and forth and side to side in a beaten daze.
"I asked you a question," Polanski thundered. "You know how many men have ever been brought in here?"
Maus gurgled, again, then said, "Ten?" His voice was soft and frail and weak. He sounded tired and broken.
"Ten?" Polanski asked, then laughed, loudly, incredulous. "Ten." He turned and looked at the four men. "This asshole thinks there's been ten men to walk the streets of Detroit who've got the balls enough to disrespect me. I think he's just disrespected me, again. Wouldn't you agree?"
The men nodded and muttered agreeable groans.
"Salenko," Polanski said. "Show him what happens to people who disrespect me."
"With pleasure, Boss," he said and stepped forward and balled his right hand into a rock-like fist, then swung his arm back and hooked it forth with savage intensity.
Squinting through his swollen left eye, David Maus saw Salenko's massive shadow step toward him under the spotlight light overhead, his fist closed, swinging his arm backward and, then, forward. The next thing he knew, Salenko's fist smashed the left of his face. It felt like a blow from a sledgehammer. His head jolted rightward and a burst of saliva and blood rifled from his long numb mouth, along with two more teeth that had just dislodged from his gums. The pain was immense. It howled through his jaw and cheeks, up to the top of his skull and down his neck.
Salenko stepped back, a wicked grin on his face as he opened and closed his fist, trying to relieve the pressure that shot up his hand. Then, he balled it again and moved to hit him once more, but Polanski raised his hand across his chest. "Take it easy," he said. "He's got an apology to give before we do any more damage."
Salenko nodded and let his fist ease to a harmless open-palmed hand.
"Behind the Chesterfield, there's a bat. Bring it to me," Polanski said to him.
Salenko nodded and did as Polanski asked. He stepped back toward the sofa, walked around the side and lifted the baseball bat. It was wooden and covered in scratches and smeared with blood, the Heaton family's the topcoat on the grain.
Arshavin, Zurawski and Adamczuk smiled when they saw it.
Salenko grinned and handed it to Polanski, then stepped backward and rejoined the other three men standing around him.
Polanski wrapped his palm around the bat's grip and flicked his eyes along its barrel to the tip and grinned. He placed tip of the bat under David Maus's chin and used it to raise his head. He looked at his puffy beaten face, a wicked gleam in his eyes, and asked, "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Maus moved to speak, but no words came out. He just groaned.
Polanski shook his head. "Wrong answer," he said and pulled the bat away. "Adamczuk?"
Adamczuk stepped forward.
Polanski nodded toward Maus. It was an ominous gesture, instructing him to take a swing.
Adamczuk nodded back and balled a fist, then planted an uppercut square on the point of David Maus's chin. The force was incredible, almost like every ounce of Adamczuk’s body was concentrated into his hand. David Maus’s head snapped backward and a few more of his teeth flew into the air from his mouth, along with another spattering of saliva and blood.
"What a hit," Polanski called, then gestured him to step back into position.
Adamczuk stepped backward.
Polanski waited until Maus had steadied his head, then he placed the tip of the bat on their chair between his legs. "What do you have to say for yourself?" he asked him, again.
"Nothing," Maus whimpered.
"Nothing?"
"Why are you doing this?" Maus asked, breathing heavily, puffing and panting and sore, barely able to get the words out, his mouth and face and body in so much pain.
"You know fine well. This is about Last night," Polanski thundered and yanked the bat backward from the chair. He swung it high in the air, then whipped it forward. It came to smashing halt against David Maus's ribs.
The blow was loud and sore. It sounded like a lou
d crack. A combination of splintering wood and shattering bone.
Maus yelped in pain and slumped forward and coughed up some blood.
"As you already know, three of my men, here, were making a collection from a salon on Woodward Avenue," Polanski said. "A collection that didn't go as planned. Thanks to you."
"What collection?" Maus coughed. He spat more blood and groaned. "I don't know anything about a collection. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit," Polanski screamed. "You were there. You were the one who stopped it. You told my men you were security. You raised your hand to Zurawski, here." Polanski raised the baseball bat toward Zurawski, gesturing at his battered, yellow and blue face. “Look what you did,” he snarled.
"No. I didn't. That wasn't me," Maus cried.
"Bullshit," Polanski said and cracked his ribs with another hard shot from the bat.
The second blow was worse than the first. The pain shot through Maus's body, howling down his legs, screaming around to his spine and storming up to the top of his skull. His rib cage felt like jelly. He yelped in pain and flopped forward, hyperventilating. A long, agonizing moment passed by before he was able to even move or speak.
"I swear to you,” he groaned, still slumped forward in his chair, his ribs shattered, unable to move. “I wasn't there. It wasn't me. I swear on my kids' lives."
"Not good enough," Polanski said, shaking his head and used the bat to push Maus backward to sit upright in the chair.
He screamed in agony.
Polanski sniggered and swung the baseball bat back for the third time. This time, backward up over his head, bringing it down on David Maus's groin like a judge's hammer smashing against the gavel.
Maus screamed in pain, again. Even though every breath he took and every sound he made expanded his lungs and felt agonizing on his broken ribs.
"Now, I'll tell you one more time," Polanski said to him. "You were there. You were the asshole that stopped my men from collecting my four thousand dollars. Which means I want an apology for your blatant disrespect."
"Please," Maus wheezed, agony on ravaged face his face and tears running from his eyes. "I didn’t do this. It wasn’t me. This is all a mistake. Please."
Polanski shook his head, disappointed. He had already broken the guy's ribs and his manhood. There wasn’t much else he could do. He tossed the bat to the ground. It clanked against the marley floor. Then, he turned his head and looked around the four men. "One of you hand me a knife."
Zurawski was quick to volunteer his. He drew his knife from his jacket like his life depended on it, eager to be the one who helped finish this asshole off, and handed it to Polanski, handle-first.
Polanski took it and flicked his eyes along its seven inch blade and smiled. Then, glanced at David Maus and said, "Last chance."
Beaten, broken and uninformed about the whole situation, Maus simply shook his head.
Polanski sighed and stepped forward and used the knife to slice the snood from his neck. He watched it fall to Maus's lap, then flicked his eyes back up his body to his neck and raised the knife to his throat. But paused. His eyes widened and his face having turned white like a ghost's.
"Boss?" Zurawski inquired, after seeing him pause and noticing the change in his demeanor. "Something wrong?"
Polanski flicked his eyes along every inch of the Maus's neck and shook his head. There was no scar on the left side. Even though Zurawski had been very clear in describing one as being there.
"He's been telling the truth," he said and stepped backward. "He's not the guy."
"Boss?" Arshavin asked, confused.
"Look at his damned neck,” Polanski sneered, pointing the knife at Maus's neck. “There’s no scar there.”
Salenko looked at Arshavin, who in turn looked at Zurawski.
Adamczuk stepped forward and looked. Polanski was right. There was no scar.
"Now, tell me what you see," Polanski snarled, venom in his voice.
Zurawski gulped.
"Nothing," Adamczuk answered.
"Precisely," Polanski said and looked at Arshavin, Salenko and Zurawski. "You said the guy had a scar. On the left of his neck. You said it was there. That it looked like had been made by some sort of blade."
Arshavin looked at Zurawski, again, who looked at Salenko, who looked back at Arshavin. They each had questions in their eyes and a serving of guilt on their shoulders. They were so convinced it was him, neither man had thought to actually check him for the scar.
"Well, did he or didn't he?" Polanski demanded.
"He did," Arshavin said, quietly. "But, Boss, we worked from the file you sent. We thought it was him. He looks exactly like the guy. Same height, roughly the same weight, same face. American. Private eye."
"But no scar!" Polanski yelled, the veins in his forehead pulsating beneath his skin and his eyes seething with rage.
Arshavin swallowed, hard.
Polanski looked at Adamczuk. "None of this is your fault. I want you to check his cell phone. If he really is the guy, there should be a message on there with a room number for the Ambassador Inn."
Arshavin looked at Zurawski and Salenko wondering how Polanski would possibly have known that.
They both shook their heads, slowly, and in a way that was meant to be as undetected as possible.
Adamczuk nodded and stepped forward and rummaged Maus's pockets. He found his cell phone in the left pocket of his pants. It was an old black clamshell flip phone that didn't require a pin number to unlock. He opened it and checked the messages, then looked at Polanski and shook his head. "No message, Boss."
"Which means, he's not the guy," Polanski thundered and launched the knife across the room. It landed across the other end with a hard smack against the marley floor. "Which means, the real asshole who disrespected me is still out there," he continued and glared at Arshavin, Salenko and Zurawski.
They averted his gaze and said nothing.
Polanski fumed. He drew his iPhone from the pocket of his suit jacket and called Malenko.
He answered immediately. "Chief Mal..."
"The number you mentioned Naomi Hefter had sent the message to," Polanski said, abruptly, cutting him off. "I need you to trace it. And I need it like yesterday."
"I thought that was all in hand?" Malenko asked.
"The situation has changed. The man we have isn't the one that we want."
"How? What?"
"Just trace the number and get me his location," Polanski said and ended the call.
"What do you want done with this guy?" Adamczuk asked him.
Polanski glanced at Maus, flicking his eye up and down the man's broken, ravaged body. He started from his toes, then looked up at his knees, then flicked his eyes from his hips to his chest, then up to his shoulders and neck, and, finally, settled them on his face, looking at his beaten, swollen eyes. "Kill him. And dump his body" he said, his face poker-straight and walked off out of the room.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Kanchelskis and Kuznetsov pulled into the parking lot of the Ambassador Inn in a black Nissan Altima at about one-fifty in the afternoon. Its tires crunched over the snow and its brakes squealed as it came to a halt in a spot outside room twenty-one.
Kanchelskis killed the Altima's engine and they sat in silence, watching the window of the room through the windshield. The white net curtain undulated slowly under the tremor of the air.
"You think she's in there?" Kuznetsov asked, staring straight ahead, looking for shadows and signs of movement.
"Boss says so. But there's only one way to know for sure," Kanchelskis answered and nodded toward the room's taupe wooden door. "Let's go find out."
Kuznetsov nodded his agreement and unclipped his belt, then opened the door and stepped out to the cold. His boots crunched on the snow.
Kanchelskis did the same. He closed the car door and stuffed the keys into his pocket, then looked left and right and made sure there was nobody around to witness what was about to
happen. Then, he made his way to the door of room twenty-one.
Kuznetsov followed about two paces behind, his hands stuffed into the front pockets of his jacket, exhaling white clouds of breath in the freezing cold air.
Kanchelskis reached for the circular brass knobbed handle. He wrapped the palm of his right hand around it and twisted it left and right.
The handle squeaked and shook under the force of his grip, but the door didn't budge. It was locked.
He glanced at Kuznetsov.
Kuznetsov stepped backward to the left and peered in through the window, looking for signs of movement on the other side of the thin curtain. He glanced at Kanchelskis and shook his head, an unsure look on his face.
"Let's go in," Kanchelskis said and turned side on, his right side to the door, his left side to the hood of the Altima. With a swift back and forth step of his feet, he pushed the weight of his big, burly frame back onto his left foot, then thrust it forward with his right and brought his thick right shoulder crashing against the door like a battering ram.
The wood splintered around the lock and the door broke free from the frame. It clicked open and swung back into the room.
Kanchelskis pushed the door open the rest of the way with his right forearm and they both stepped in.
They caught a whiff of Naomi's perfume. It smelled light and floral. They saw a heavy silver television sitting on an old chipped mahogany table on left. A bed and two dated pine bedside cabinets on the right, one either side of the bed. The bed had a light yellow duvet with thin white pillows. The duvet was marked with old black cigarette burns and impressed with creases in the shape of a person's body, as if somebody had lay there for a while and only recently got up.
Kanchelskis looked at Kuznetsov. There was no sign of her in the main part of the motel room, but the bathroom door was closed over up ahead. It was white and wooden and maybe eight-foot-high. A sliver of light shone out through the gap underneath it, the light on inside.
Kuznetsov nodded and walked over and closed the motel room door to contain any screams. Then, he drew a knife from his pocket and stood across the door, blocking the only way out.
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