by Mark Terry
I told him about the connection to Chet Reynolds. "I need you to do some digging. Connections between Ivan Sabitov and Chet Reynolds, connections between Ivan Sabitov and his brother's business interests. You'll probably have to go talk to Wendy again." Wendy Tittaglia was with the CPD Bureau of Organized Crime. We'd talked to her about Ivan Sabitov at the start of the investigation.
"Will do, Sandy. Making progress?"
"I'm halfway through a Long Island."
"Sandy—"
"Find me something I can use to pry this case apart, Orv."
#
"I'd like to show you something," I said to Sasha Sabitov. Dipping into my briefcase, I handed him sheets from an article Orville found in Crain's Chicago Business magazine. It was a small news piece, really only two paragraphs, mentioning that Pinnacle Gaming, Chet Reynold's casino enterprises, was in the midst of negotiations with a Maryland firm, S&S Electronics, for an entire new line of modern electronic games. The article speculated that the contract could be worth over $300 million over a five-year period.
Sabitov glanced at it. "So?"
"Is it true?"
"We're still in negotiations."
"But you just told me that you didn't have a business relationship with Chet Reynolds."
Sabitov shrugged. "We don't. No contract has been signed."
“How much involvement do you have with S&S Electronics?”
“It’s one of my many companies. I don’t have any day-to-day involvement with it. I’m more involved with strategic direction.”
"I see." I handed him another article. It was from the Chicago Tribune. Quite recently, the article reported, "an obscure panel of lawmakers unexpectedly shot down video gambling reforms Tuesday, leaving regulators grasping to close loopholes in the lucrative business."
It was a tasty little piece of reporting by Joseph Ryan, a Trib reporter. Basically, a state representative from Skokie, and a State of Illinois political committee called The Joint Committee on Administrative Rules, during a closed-door hearing, shot down regulations the Illinois Gaming Board was trying to implement that would have further regulated contracts between bar owners and companies that run video gambling machines. It also would have created a blacklist of people who would be banned from doing business with video gambling companies.
"This has nothing to do with me," he said. The phone rang. He apologized, walked behind his desk and answered it. He spoke harshly in Russian for a few moments, then hung up. But he didn't sit down and he didn't return to his chair.
"I'm afraid this interview is over, Lieutenant. Doctor." He waved toward the door. "It went quite a bit further beyond an investigation of my brother's murder. If you wish to communicate further, we will do so with my attorneys present."
"One more question," I said, getting to my feet. Sabitov looked impatient, but shrugged.
"Are you familiar with Firehouse Gaming?"
"Out," Sabitov said, voice grinding like rusty gears. "Out. Now."
#
Senator Fred Duncan's offices weren't in the Capitol, but in the Hart Senate Office Building, an unimpressive glass and concrete sprawl on Constitution Avenue. After speaking with Austin Davis, I had spent some time on the phone with Orv and going through some of my case files with Derek. Then he'd driven me over to the Hart and after surrendering our guns at the front desk, we were directed to Senator Duncan's office suite on the second floor. After quite a bit of rigmarole, we were finally led into the Senator's office, which was large and luxurious, and decorated in Semi-Tasteful Modern Senator. There were a lot of photographs of politicians on the walls, a big maple desk, some vaguely Early American chairs for guests and a nice forest green leather armchair for the Senator, a model of a tall ship hanging on one wall, and a mustard-colored carpet that resembled dog vomit.
Senator Duncan was one of the Young Turks, or as I thought of them, Young Turds, who were coming into office in their thirties and forties after semi-successful business careers and the unlocking of their trust funds. His hair was black, his face was tan and so smooth I suspected he owned shares in a tanning booth manufacturer. His teeth were so straight, shiny and white that you could reflect moonlight off them.
"I spoke with you, yes?" he asked, shaking my hand and gesturing me to a seat before turning his attention to Derek.
"Yes."
We were joined by a young brunette, tall on heels, in an Anne Klein business suit, white silk blouse and flowered silk scarf she wore loose around her neck. I put her at about thirty. She was introduced as Duncan's new Chief of Staff, Cayla Nestor.
Shaking hands with Derek, she said, "And you are?"
"Providing support," he said.
"What kind?"
"Moral."
The senator and his Chief of Staff studied him for a moment, unsure how to respond. "You are a doctor?" Duncan asked.
"Yes, I have a couple PhDs."
"In?"
"Microbiology and biochemistry."
This seemed to puzzle the senator even more. "Do I know you? You seem familiar?"
"I don't believe we've met."
"And you're with Homeland Security?"
"Yes."
"Tom Ross. Good man."
Tom Ross was the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. Derek had described him to me earlier in the day as "a butt-licking political lapdog." Derek, showing great discretion, just nodded and sat down.
"So," Duncan said, flopping into his green leather armchair. "How is your investigation into poor Steve's murder progressing? Any suspects yet?"
"It's progressing," I said. "I asked you this during our phone call and you said you would have to check your records, but you haven't responded, so I'll ask it again. Why was Steve Wellton meeting with Ivan Sabitov in Chicago?"
"As I told you," Duncan responded. "I had no idea, but I would check. I have checked and we still don't know."
Derek, I saw, wasn't looking at the senator as he spoke, but watching Cayla Nestor. Before I could respond, Derek said, "How did you check?"
"Excuse me?"
Turning his attention briefly away from Nestor, Derek said, "How did you check?"
"I don't understand what you mean? Are you inferring something?"
"I'm being precise," Derek said. "How did you check?"
Nestor, in her silky smooth voice, said, "The senator asked me if I knew."
"Did you?" I asked.
"No. At that time I was Steve's deputy COS. I didn't know and I checked his calendar and his computer. He was going back to Chicago to check in with the office and staff there and meet with some of our constituents."
"Could I take a look at his computer?" Stillwater asked.
"I'm sorry?" Nestor asked, blinking. "I'm afraid I don't understand what your role is here? You're with Homeland Security?"
"Yes. Officially. But I'm not here officially. I'm here providing Lieutenant Beach and the Chicago Police Department support in an ongoing homicide investigation."
"So," said Senator Duncan, "you have no official jurisdiction here."
Derek cocked his head at the senator. "Correct."
"I'm afraid I can't allow you to do that, then," Nestor said.
"Why?" Stillwater asked.
"Because," Duncan said testily, "it's none of your business."
Nestor said, more calmly, "There is privileged information, political information, even national security information on the computer."
"Oh," Derek said. "Let me assure you, my national security clearance is high enough to view anything on any of your computers." He looked directly at Duncan this time. "Any of your computers."
I said, "Can I look at the computer? And the schedule book, if he had one?"
"He didn't," Nestor said. "It was all on his computer. And we've gotten rid of his computer."
Derek and I looked at each other.
What I wanted to do was call a judge and The Washington Post and get
a subpoena and drag Duncan's stupid white ass through the media mud. I might also give him a good kick in the balls while I was at it.
Instead, I said, "So you don't know if Wellton was going to meet with Ivan Sabitov?"
"Absolutely not."
"Were you aware he met with Illinois representative Wylie Zabini?"
"Of course. Wylie and I go way back. He's very involved with the Illinois Republican Committee."
"What did they discuss?"
Duncan splayed his hands in an I-don't-know gesture. Nestor said, "I believe they discussed some mutual campaign fundraisers."
"That on the computer?" Derek asked.
She ignored him, although I could tell it rattled her a little bit.
"Representative Zabini is on the State of Illinois' Joint Committee on Administrative Rules, isn't he?"
"He may be," Duncan said. "I don't follow the specifics of the State of Illinois' committee assignments. I'm at the federal level." He cocked his head. "I was under the impression this was informational, Lieutenant. Am I a suspect? Should I have my attorney present?"
"That's entirely up to you," I said.
"Am I a suspect?"
"No," I said. "Although, can you tell me where you were on Saturday, May 17th at 9:15 PM? Central Time?"
His gaze was as flat and emotionless as a Gila monster's. "I believe this interview is terminated."
"I have one question," Derek said. "What can you tell me about D&W Holdings?"
Something behind the lizard eyes flickered. Then Duncan was on his feet. "I have to go vote. Nice to meet you. Please keep us updated on your investigation. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more assistance."
And then Derek and I were picking up our handguns and leaving the Hart Building.
#
Two hours after meeting with Austin Davis, he called me directly and said he wanted to email me some records that he and his associate, BB, had dug up on Senator Duncan and the Sabitovs. I said, "Would I have found these if I went looking?"
"Maybe," Austin said. "Eventually. But let's just say that a significant part of my job depends on my ability to collect gossip, innuendo, and the dirty little secrets of 100 U.S. Senators and 441 Representatives, as well as various other members of government and their staffs. And we're very good at it and you probably should not ask how we get all our information."
"I'd love to see your database sometime."
Austin Davis laughed. "I've got a big hard drive. DLS's are on the way. Good luck."
DLS, I thought. Then: Dirty Little Secrets.
Once I pulled the files up on my laptop and showed them to Stillwater, he just shook his head. "I absolutely wonder who his sources are."
I did, too. "Do you think they're legal?"
"A little late for that."
Once we realized how extensive they were, Stillwater drove me to his boat docked in Baltimore, a 60-foot Criss Craft Constellation named The Salacious Sally.
We began sifting through the records, which displayed a web of business interests and connections between Senator Duncan, Steve Wellton, and Sasha and Ivan Sabitov. After an hour, I emailed them to Orv and told him to pull in anybody he needed to look through them.
“Oh, and Orv?”
He knew my tone of voice.
“Once we found things of interest—which includes most of this stuff—it would be a really good idea if we backtracked through the web and databases so if any prosecutor—or defense attorney—asked us how we found this information, we would be able to give them, er, legitimate sources.”
“I won’t ask.”
“Good idea.”
After another hour Derek excused himself and ran to the houseboat moored next door. He returned with a sixty-ish woman who looked about forty. She wore black booty shorts and a vivid red sports bra and looked about as fit as anyone her age could look.
"This is Misty Rivers," Derek said. "Before retiring and getting into CrossFit she was with the Treasury Department. I thought she might be able to make sense of this faster than I could."
And she did. She sat down at the laptop, started paging through records, muttered, "Hmmm," and "Huh," and "Get me some water, please, Derek honey," and "I don't want to know how you got THAT."
Finally she said, "House Ethics Committee wouldn't like this material, but that's not what you're on about, right?"
"It's a murder investigation." I explained. She listened closely, then went back to the computer and brought up several specific files.
"Okay," she said. "This, D&W Holdings. That's an offshore account, apparently held by Fred Duncan and Steve Wellton. It's basically a shell corporation that, uh, funnels money from a couple business interests."
"So Fred Duncan's hiding money?"
"Oh yes. Might be legal, too. It's fuzzy and the laws are complicated. Anyway, there are half a dozen businesses that actually make things, and a couple that appear to be venture capital firms, but I think what you're most interested in is this company, Firehouse Gaming."
"I noticed that one. It's a joint venture, right?"
Misty nodded. "Between Signify, Inc., which describes itself as a venture investments firm owned by a series of shells that eventually lead back to Ivan Sabitov, and DunWell Investing, which is owned by a series of shells owned by D&W Holdings."
"The bottom line, for those of us not fluent in business-speak?" Derek said.
"Oh. Well, Fred Duncan and Steve Wellton were in business together with Ivan Sabitov with this company, Firehouse Gaming."
"Hang on," I said. I called Orville. "Orv, can you dig into Firehouse Gaming and Chet Reynolds?"
"I've got Wendy right here." I heard buzzing in the background, then Wendy came on the line.
"Sandy," Wendy said, "Firehouse Gaming is competing for contracts against S&S Electronics with Chet Reynold's company for video slots and poker. We're still wading through all these files you sent. Where the hell did you get them anyway?"
"Don't ask. You probably can't use all of them, but at least we all know where to look now. Thanks. I'll get back to you soon."
I turned to Misty and Derek, who were waiting expectantly. It took me a few seconds to think it through.
"Okay," I said. "Senator Duncan and his Chief of Staff own a company through a series of shell companies that makes video poker and video slots. They're in business with the late Ivan Sabitov, a known Chicago organized crime figure. That company is called Firehouse Gaming."
Derek picked up. "And Ivan Sabitov and his brother, Sasha Sabitov, also jointly owned an electronic gaming company, S&S Electronics."
Misty said, “S&S Electronics looks like the oldest company. It’s the only one I see right off hand in which both Sasha and Ivan Sabitov clearly own it together. They own plenty of other companies jointly, from the looks of it, but usually their names aren’t on them directly, they’re participating through shell companies or cutouts. They also have their separate companies.”
“So what we’ve got,” I said, “in all its complicated ways, is two Russians, one clearly a mobster, and one who is supposedly a legitimate businessman, who nonetheless do a lot of business together, although for the most part it’s meant to be secret.”
“Yes, that’s accurate,” said Misty.
“And we’ve got,” Derek said, “a couple politicians who apparently have some business interests with the Sabitov brothers, although that’s complicated as well.”
“Yes.”
“I’m confused,” Derek said. “What am I missing?”
"Did you," Misty said, "say that both of these companies, S&S Electronics and Firehouse Gaming, were in competing negotiations with Chet Reynolds? Against each other? Brother versus brother?"
I nodded. "Brother versus brother."
“That’s what you’re missing, Derek.”
#
Leaving Sasha Sabitov's office and stepping into the elevator, Derek reached under his coat and drew out his .45, ki
cked off the safety and jacked a shell into the chamber.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Get out your gun. Did I ever tell you about my son?"
Reaching for my gun, I said, "You have a son?"
"Lev. He's Russian. Lives in Moscow with his mother. Long story. But the important part is that I'm learning Russian. On the phone Sasha told someone named Viktor that he and Nikki need to make us disappear. So—"
The elevator door opened into the underground parking garage. Happily, no one was waiting at the door.
Cautiously, we walked toward Derek's pickup truck. Still nothing. False alarm. Maybe Stillwater misunderstood.
We climbed into the truck and drove out of the building. "Where to now?" Derek asked. I noticed he had slipped his handgun into the door pocket on his left side.
We were turning onto North Scott Street when a black Suburban flashed through the intersection and skidded to a stop in front of us. Behind us an Envoy pulled up, boxing us in.
Derek slapped the truck into reverse and slammed it into the Envoy with a crunch of metal and bone-jarring impact, quickly dumped it into gear, the tires shrieking against pavement. We exploded forward into the side of the Suburban.
The rearview mirror on my side exploded. "Shit, shit, shit! They're shooting at us!"
"Shoot back!" Stillwater snapped, hitting the truck into reverse, spinning the wheel, and stomping the gas. The bed of the truck clipped the front of the Envoy, spinning it sideways. I saw a dark-haired man in a black leather jacket raising a TEK-9 toward me. I fired four shots.
His head exploded.
Swerving, tires screeching, Stillwater gunned the engine. "Hold on!"
The pickup crashed into the passenger side of the Suburban. I had just a glimpse of the driver's eyes grow wide before he disappeared from view.
Derek and I were out of the truck, guns raised, carefully approaching the Suburban.
Peering in behind his gun, Derek said, "He's out, but I think he's alive."
I sprinted around to the far side, yanked open the passenger side door and saw the driver, a brown-haired man in a brown leather jacket and jeans, lying dazed on the seat. Blood streamed down his face from a deep gash on the side of his head. His eyes were half-closed.
Reaching in I took the TEK-9 out of his limp hand, patted him down quickly and found a 9mm Beretta in a holster on his belt. A glance in the back showed several rolls of duct tape, and two large canvas duffel bags. Pressing my fingers to his carotid, I noted a steady pulse.