Denouement

by E. H. Reinhard

  “Nah. We were just talking about a few things,” Bostok said.

  “Oh, because it looked like—”

  Bostok waved away my comment. “It’s fine. What’s going on?”

  “Faust dropped off banking and phone records. He said he went through everyone involved the day Azarov somehow got away. It looks like Iler, from our marine unit, was involved. We have questionable bank deposits and phone records of him communicating with an Azarov associate,” I said.

  Bostok’s face turned red. He was quiet for a moment. He spoke through a clenched jaw. “Get his ass in here.”

  “That’s the thing. If we bring him in, we can’t do anything with him for a couple days. He’ll have to be stashed away somewhere. Faust thinks he may contact Ray and blow the whole thing up.”

  “Get him and bring him in. I’ll lock the piece of shit in my bathroom if I have to,” Bostok said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Is he on today?” Bostok asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Just find his ass. Let me know when you do.”

  I nodded and turned, and Hank followed. We stepped into the elevator to go back down to the third floor.

  “Call over to the marine unit and see who is on today. Don’t ask for Iler specifically,” I said.

  “If he’s out on the water?” Hank asked.

  “Just see if he’s there first. I’m going to pull up his home address from my office. I’ll meet you at your desk in a few minutes.”

  The elevator doors opened and let us out on the third floor. I walked into my office, sat at my desk, and pulled up Iler’s home address. I jotted down his address in my notepad and went to meet Hank at his desk.

  He stood. “Not in today.”

  “Let’s go to his house and knock on his door.”

  “Where does he live?” Hank asked.

  “Just on the outskirts of Carrollwood. I have his address written down.”

  Hank and I took an unmarked Charger from the station’s parking structure and headed out. We picked up a tail before we got out of the station’s lot. While Iler’s house was just under ten miles away, with traffic, it took us the better part of a half hour to get there. Hodges, in his government-issued sedan, never strayed too far behind. We pulled up to the curb in front of Iler’s house. A new, black, convertible Mustang sat in the driveway with the top down.

  “Looks like someone is here. What’s the plan?” Hank asked.

  “Bring him back to the station for questioning.”

  “If he doesn’t feel like cooperating?”

  I smirked. “Let’s hope he doesn’t feel like cooperating.” I pulled the door handle and stepped out onto the street while Hank exited the passenger side. I looked back down the block and saw Hodges parked at the corner. I shook my head.

  “What?” Hank asked.

  “FBI babysitter.” I jerked my chin toward Hodges’s car.

  “They put someone on watching you?” Hank asked.

  “Yeah, a five-foot, hundred-pound bodyguard.”

  “Does he need to know what we’re doing?”

  I shook my head and pointed up at the house. “Nope.”

  We walked up the oil-stained driveway toward the house. The single-story home looked to have been built in the late nineties. The house was beige with a darker-brown trim around the windows, front door, and garage. The grass was mostly dead, the landscaping and shrubbery overgrown.

  “It doesn’t look like Iler is one for yard maintenance,” Hank said.

  I grunted a response and continued into the covered entry. Hank followed a few feet behind.

  I reached out and thumbed the doorbell. The sound of footsteps came from inside. The door’s peephole flashed, letting me know someone inside was looking out. I heard footsteps again, fast that time.

  “Shit, he’s running,” I said.

  Hank disappeared around the side of the house toward the back. I retreated to the street and pulled my weapon. From the vantage point of the street, I could see the front and both sides of the house. I saw no movement anywhere.

  A moment later, Hank’s voice called from the back. He had Iler. I walked up the driveway and along the side of the house toward the backyard. I broke the corner with eyes on the yard as my head went to the left. On the patio, Hank had Iler on the ground with a knee in his back. Hank was clicking cuffs around his wrists.

  I walked over.

  “What the hell?” Iler asked.

  “I caught him trying to run out the back there.” Hank nodded toward the patio door. He looked down at Iler beneath him. “What are you running for, Iler? We just wanted to talk.”

  Iler flipped his head to the side but didn’t respond.

  Hank pulled him to his feet. The front of Iler’s black T-shirt was covered in sand. The gray basketball shorts he wore were ripped. His knees were bloodied and his round face red.

  I stood before Iler. “Nice car out front. Did you spend some of your Azarov money on that?”

  Iler shook his head, shedding some dirt from his short blond hair. “I didn’t do anything. This is some kind of a mistake.”

  Simmering anger built inside of me. He was lying to my face. I balled up the chest of his shirt in my fist.

  “Kane,” Hank said.

  I let his shirt go and shook my head in disgust. “You’re going to talk. One way or the other.”

  I helped Hank escort him around the house and out to the car. We placed him in the back.

  Hodges pulled down the street toward us. He stopped next to our car and dropped his passenger window. “Is that him?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Remember, no calls and no contact with the outside of any kind,” Hodges said.

  I got in our car without responding, and we drove back toward the station.

  Chapter 3

  Ray’s car was parked in the grass on the shoulder of a road, just beyond a stop sign half a block down from a 1920s bungalow. He sat inside, the motor running, the air conditioning turned on high. Ray brought binoculars to his eyes and watched the front door of the house.

  “Come on,” Ray said.

  He dropped the binoculars to his lap and checked the time on his Rolex—a couple minutes past nine in the morning.

  Ray waited. He looked into the rearview mirror, catching his reflection. Pink skin covered one side of his face. Ray swatted at the mirror and bent it toward the roof of the car.

  Another ten minutes passed before he saw a little girl prancing from the front of the house toward the minivan parked in the long skinny driveway running alongside the home. Ray brought the binoculars back to his eyes. A brunette in her thirties followed a few steps behind the girl. Ray looked toward the front door. Don Brumfeld stood in the doorway, his long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, tattoos on his hands. He wore a bathrobe and held a cup of coffee, seeing his family off.

  Ray shook his head. “Say goodbye for the last time, asshole. If you only knew what was about to happen,” he said.

  He continued watching the woman load the girl into a child seat in the back, buckle her up, and take her place behind the wheel. Ray focused the binoculars back on the front door. Brumfeld gave them a wave and walked back into the house. The front door closed. The car pulled from the driveway and drove the opposite direction up the street.

  Ray tossed the binoculars on the passenger seat of his dark four-door Toyota sedan. Ray grabbed the baseball hat from the dash and snugged it down on his head. He reached over to the glove box, grabbed the pair of brass knuckles, and dropped them into the front pockets of his suit jacket. Ray reached inside his jacket for the gold-plated Desert Eagle in his shoulder holster and thumbed the safety off. He pulled the handle on the car door and stepped out. Ray walked along the grass, through the intersection and past the empty lot next to Brumfeld’s house. He glanced left, right, and up the street, looking for any neighbors. The block was free of anyone outside.

  Ray made his way up the driveway. Bru
mfeld’s home was a light shade of yellow with a small porch at the front. Ray glanced down at the flower gardens sitting to the left and right of the L-shaped red-brick sidewalk leading up to the door. He dug his hands into his pockets and slid his fingers into the holes of the brass knuckles. Ray climbed the two stairs up the porch and reached out for the burgundy front door’s knob. He twisted it, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

  “What the hell are you doing in my house!” Brumfeld shouted.

  Ray closed the door at his back. His eyes lifted to meet Brumfeld’s, staring at him from the kitchen.

  “Oh shit!” Brumfeld said. He dropped the coffee he held and scrambled around the kitchen island.

  Ray took five lunging steps through the living room toward Brumfeld and caught him just as he was turning the corner of the hallway. Ray grabbed him by the back of the bathrobe with his left hand and delivered a looping right fist to the back of Brumfeld’s head. Brumfeld fell to the floor.

  Ray reached down, turned him over, and delivered another brass-wrapped right fist between Brumfeld’s eyes. The strike rendered Brumfeld unconscious and opened a gaping wound across his face. Ray cracked his neck to one side, grabbed Brumfeld by the arm, and dragged him back to the kitchen. He let the brass knuckles fall from his hands onto the kitchen table.

  Ray rummaged the kitchen drawers. He looked under the sink. He looked in the pantry, but found nothing to tie him up with. Ray headed out to the garage and found a pair of jumper cables hanging on a peg on the wall. He pulled them off and walked back to the kitchen. Ray tied Brumfeld to the chair and pulled another chair up in front of him. Ray sat down and slapped Brumfeld.

  “Wake up,” Ray said.

  Brumfeld didn’t respond.

  Ray reached back and slapped him again. Again, Brumfeld didn’t move. Ray stood, walked to the kitchen, and filled a glass with water. He dumped it over Brumfeld’s head.

  “Wake up, pig!” Ray shouted. He gave Brumfeld’s face another swat.

  Brumfeld groaned and began to come to.

  “There we go,” Ray said. He retook the seat in front of Brumfeld. Ray pulled the Desert Eagle from its holster and placed it on the kitchen table next to him. He turned the barrel toward Brumfeld and rested one hand on it. “Nice little family you have there, Agent Brumfeld. I’m thinking now that I should have done this before they left.”

  Brumfeld squinted. “What… What do you want?”

  “We’ll get to that. So I’m right in assuming that your title is Agent, correct?”

  Brumfeld said nothing.

  “That’s what I thought. Do you want to know what gave you guys away?”

  Brumfeld didn’t respond. He looked down.

  “First, it was your partner’s fake Rolex. Anyone offering up a million dollars doesn’t wear fake shit. And then we have this,” Ray reached out, grabbed Agent Brumfeld’s hand, and turned it, “the reaper tattoo on your hand. You’re kind of a legend. Lots of guys have been busted shortly after meeting with the long-haired biker with the reaper tattoo on his hand.”

  Brumfeld looked up at Ray.

  “Yeah, we criminals are a tight bunch. We talk. We share information,” Ray said.

  Agent Brumfeld faced Ray. He flicked his head up and to the side to get his long hair from his face. “What the hell do you want? How the hell did you find me?” Brumfeld asked.

  “I followed you the other night. You’d think you guys would be a little smarter in that regard. You leave from a meeting with me and go straight home? I check your mail the next day, and the name Brumfeld is on everything, though you said your name was Cole. The reaper tattoo and long hair, a different name, the little family in a nice part of town. Stinks like a fed to me.”

  “You won’t get away with this. I’m supposed to be in the office any time now. When I don’t show, someone will come looking for me.”

  “Sure,” Ray said. “That’s why you’re still in your bathrobe. Save the bullshit for someone who will buy it.” Ray curled his finger under his chin in thought. “Tell me, do you know who I am?”

  Brumfeld didn’t respond.

  “Come on,” Ray said. “I know who you are. Do you know who I am?”

  “We know who you are.”

  “You know who I told you I was, or who I really am?”

  “Andrei Azarov. You’re wanted for multiple counts of murder on top of a pile of other things. You were thought dead.”

  Ray nodded. “Okay, there we go. Honesty. Since we are being honest, how many other people know that I’m alive?”

  “Enough.”

  Ray smirked. “You want to play hard ass, huh? I’m telling you, this gets a lot worse if you take that route. Who is your boss?”

  Brumfeld said nothing.

  In an instant, Ray threw a left jab into Brumfeld’s nose, breaking it. The fed’s head snapped back. Blood spilled from his nostrils. His eyes welled up with tears.

  “Boss?” Ray asked again.

  “If you’re going to kill me, get on with it. I’m not giving you any names.”

  “Sure you will. I figure I’ll keep beating on you until you do. After that, I’ll start breaking bones and then start cutting things off. Who knows? If it takes all day, maybe we can get your wife and daughter in on it.”

  “If you touch them—”

  Ray laughed, cutting off the agent’s cliché threat. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be dead long before they get home. Now, who is your boss?”

  “No,” Brumfeld said.

  Ray stood and tagged Brumfeld with two quick lefts and a right cross that sent him and the chair careening to the ground. Ray grabbed Brumfeld by the hair and pulled him and the chair back up. Brumfeld screamed the words: Jack Faust.

  “Okay. Jack Faust.” Ray closed his eyes, trying to commit the name to memory. “Who is the guy that was with you when you met with me? The one going by Hoyer?”

  Brumfeld shook his head.

  “You’re not understanding how this works yet, apparently.” Ray delivered two right hooks to the agent’s left kidney. Then he took a palm and pressed it hard against the agent’s broken nose. He grabbed the nose with his fingers and pulled it to one side.

  Brumfeld wailed in pain but didn’t give up a name.

  “You’re just making this harder on yourself,” Ray said. “Give me the damn name. We both know you’re going to.” Ray grabbed Brumfeld by the back of the hair and brought his face down into the kitchen table. “Name!” Ray shouted. He grabbed Brumfeld by the hair and punched him in the gut. Brumfeld’s midsection sank under Ray’s massive fist.

  The agent coughed and tried to get his breath. “Dupold. Agent Brian Dupold.”

  “Geez.” Ray shook his head. “They must not teach you guys to keep your mouth shut over at the FBI. I’ve had women that held out longer.”

  The agent didn’t respond to Ray’s comment.

  “Okay, so now we know that you’re a squealer. Let’s make this easy from here on out. Does Dupold have the money he was going to give me?”

  “There was never any money. We were going to take you into custody before you ever got paid.”

  “You’re going to give me whatever money you have in the house.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “You’re not a quick learner are you?” Ray pulled his fist back and planted it into the side of Brumfeld’s jaw.

  Teeth and blood fell from his mouth.

  “I’m going to put the brass knuckles back on soon, and then we’ll see how many more bullshit responses you can muster before I beat you to death. Now, where’s the money?” Ray grabbed him by the front of his bathrobe and cocked his fist again.

  “Wait,” Brumfeld said.

  Ray relaxed his fist.

  “In the master bedroom. There’s a safe in the closet. I have a couple grand inside.”

  Ray shrugged. “Look, we’ve already established that you’re a talker. It’s not that I mind beating on you—I mean, I do actually kind of enjo
y it—but geez, save yourself the agony and just answer my questions,” Ray said. “Combination or key?”

  “Combination. Ten, twelve, twenty-four.”

  “Let’s go have a look.” He picked up the agent, still bound to the chair, and muscled him from the kitchen, down the hall, and into the master bedroom. He sat him back down inside the bedroom and walked to the open closet, where he spotted the safe.

  “Ten, twelve, twenty-four?” Ray asked.

  “Yeah,” Brumfeld said through a mouthful of blood.

  Ray knelt, spun the dial, and opened the door. He reached in and grabbed the stack of money from inside. Ray fanned it out before his eyes. “Looks like about three grand. Thanks.” Ray’s eyes went back to the interior of the safe. “Ah, you have a little pea-shooter in here as well.” Ray pulled the revolver from inside the safe and tucked it into his back waistline. “Now, your other fed buddy, Dupold. Where does he live?”

  “You’re going to kill me anyway. I’m not giving you his address.”

  Ray smiled and looked him in the eyes. He shook his head. “It’s almost like you enjoy getting the shit beat out of you. Let’s try a different approach. I’m going to give you ten seconds to answer me.” Ray took the agent’s revolver from his waistline and pressed it against Brumfeld’s forehead. “If you don’t, I’m putting a bullet in your brain and waiting for your family to return. I’ll spend some quality time with them before I kill them. Understand what I’m saying?”

  Brumfeld rattled off the address before Ray could even begin counting.

  “Good,” Ray said. “Now does he live alone or have a family there?”

  “Alone.”

  Ray squeezed the trigger, brought the barrel of the gun down and squeezed again. He kicked Brumfeld’s body over, still bound to the chair. Brumfeld fell to the floor at the foot of the bed, dead.

  Chapter 4

  We dumped Iler in interview box one and went to find the captain. He was sitting at his office desk, plugging away at something on his computer. I gave his door a knock, and Hank and I entered.

  “We have Iler in the box,” I said.

  “How did it go?”