The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4)

by Suzanne Steele

  “Are you going on gut instinct with that assumption?”

  “No, I’m going on the governor’s gut with this. As much as I hate to admit it, I think he’s right. It takes a certain kind of temperament to kill a cop -- balls of steel, baby. This guy killed up close and personal. Anyone with that kind of confidence has more than a passing knowledge of the logistics of law enforcement. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a cop, but he’s probably got ties to the force.”

  I check inside the coat closet and don’t see anything of interest until I root around behind the coats. Fucking contractors, they’ll cut corners wherever they can to save a few bucks. Whoever built this place couldn’t even be bothered to tack down the linoleum in this space. I know it’s just a closet, it’s not like anyone’s going to ever see this section of the floor anyway, but I despise professionals who gloss over details and can’t be bothered to do a job well.

  I can’t resist kneeling down and pressing the corner of the flooring down, intending to tuck it underneath the baseboard. I scowl when my fingertips encounter empty space and not the usual wooden subflooring. Curious, I peel back the vinyl. The subflooring appears to have been cut away, leaving a small space, just big enough to fit the 12”x18” lock box that’s hidden there. Bingo.

  “Hey, I found something, come check this out,” I call out urgently. Natasha peers over my shoulder, her eyes widening as she takes in the sight of the lock box nestled in the hole in the floor.

  “Whoa,” she whispers reverently. “You sure you don’t want to embrace a life of crime, baby? Because you definitely have the instincts for it. I think you might be wasting your talents as an attorney.”

  “Very funny. Scoot back, let’s see what we’ve got here. Up for picking another lock?” I ask as I lift the box out of its hiding place and set it in on the floor just beyond the closet door.

  “Absolutely,” Natasha chuckles as she starts working the box’s lock mechanism. It’s a matter of seconds before she’s lifting the lid to reveal a stack of notebooks.

  “Well, damn,” I mutter, disappointed. “I thought we were on to something.”

  “Oh, we are,” she declares as she starts flipping through the notebooks. “These appear to be somebody’s diaries. I say we take them with us. Who knows, they could be the break we’ve been waiting for in this case.”

  “Works for me,” I reply with a grunt as I lean over and put the linoleum back in position. I stand and join Natasha as she walks over to the answering machine.

  “Hmm,” she says quietly. “No new messages but it looks like there’s one saved message. The fact that the answering machine is still here tells me the local PD missed this little detail. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  This place is proving to have a wealth of potential evidence that detectives appear to have missed when they searched it after the murder. I’m not surprised. Since this would be considered a secondary location of interest in the case and not the primary crime scene, the search would have been delegated to some lowly uniformed cops.

  She presses the ‘Play’ button and we wait expectantly.

  “Hey, I’m here. Sorry. It’s really me, just ignore the answering machine. What’s up--”

  “I need your help, Karen. He’s going to kill me this time and no one believes me, no one will help me.”

  “It isn’t that no one believes you, they do. That isn’t why people are steering clear of this. Were you able to get the restraining order?”

  “I can’t get a judge to sign off on it. They’re all in his damned pocket.”

  “Listen, maybe you need to think about leaving the area. You can always get a job, someplace that has nothing to do with law enforcement. Just disappear.”

  “I shouldn’t have to move, damn it! And I wouldn’t have to if you people would help me!”

  “You know Linda and I wish we could help, but it’s just not that easy right now. I’m up for a promotion and--”

  “I’m so glad you’ve got your priorities straight, wouldn’t want to interfere with your career,” the caller says in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe I’m not the one who needs to disappear. Fuck it. You know what? Forget it, just forget I even asked. Just remember, what goes around, comes around.”

  The line goes dead with no clue of the caller’s identity. The machine beeps and announces that the message was saved a little over six months ago. The only reason we were even lucky enough to listen to the conversation is because Karen picked up the phone after the answering machine had picked up, so it recorded the whole conversation. If she saved it, she must have thought it was important. And if it was important to her, then it’s important to me.

  “Who the hell is so powerful that a judge wouldn’t sign off on a restraining order against them?” Natasha asks.

  “A cop, that’s who. You know how that shit works.”

  “Enough said. Let’s grab the answering machine, the lock box, and her computer. Sometimes people will write down what they won’t say. It’s the one time they open their soul and bleed. Pen and paper never lie. I’m pretty sure you found a goldmine today.”

  “Oh, really? Have you got a diary I should know about?”

  “I’ll never tell.”

  “I’ll find it. You aren’t supposed to be keeping secrets from me.”

  “Chill out, you have all the dirt on me.”

  “I am your dirt, baby.”

  “Yeah, you’re a dirty bastard, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll show you just how dirty I am later.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  We continue to banter as we finish our search of the place and come away with an impressive amount of evidence to go through. As we speed through the streets of Louisville on our way back to the Glazov compound, Natasha breaks the silence.

  “It’ll be interesting to see what color of ink this woman bleeds with her innermost thoughts. We all bleed when we pour our heart out on paper. But no matter the color, there’s always an element of truth.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cop Killer

  Things are working out quite well. Better than I expected, really. It takes time to set the stage for a killing. Much like a theater production, everything must be perfectly timed, perfectly prepared.

  My victim being in the proper state of mind is as important to me as the actual kill. In this case, I’m feeding off of her paranoia and self-doubt. Officer Linda Ramsey suspects that something’s wrong, she’s just not sure what it is. People really should listen to their gut more. Deep down, she knows I’m coming for her and yet she chooses to believe it’s just her imagination. The things people do to maintain their false sense of security truly baffle me.

  I finger the duplicate house key in my pocket. A surge of adrenaline courses through me as I consider how to kill this one. Perhaps a bullet in her skull. Maybe a knife to her throat, like the other one.

  Or I could hang her upside down and gut her…like an animal.

  It will fuck with the profilers’ heads if every kill is different. They’re all obsessed with establishing my ‘signature’, my modus operandi, and I’d hate to let them down. So no worries, I’ll be sure to leave my signature for them—in blood.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nikita

  We manage to bring everything into the mansion without attracting any attention: the victim’s laptop, answering machine tape, and the lock box – enough stuff to fill one of those cardboard boxes with a lid – the kind law enforcement used ‘way back when’ to file cold case evidence. Not a bad haul, all things considered.

  “Lock the door, baby,” I urge Natasha as I lower myself to the floor in the center of the bedroom and attempt to organize the notebooks. I know it’s a long shot but there might be something in these notebooks that will give us some clues. Even in the digital age, many Louisville cops still carry notepads around so they can write shit down. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky. She joins me on the floor as I reach into the box and pull out t
he journal at the top of the stack.

  “Start reading already!” Natasha says happily when she notices the title written in black sharpie marker on the notebook. Behind the Badge, is written on the front cover and we immediately wonder if she was working on a book before she was killed. I flip the notebook open and begin to read from a random page:

  We saw her today. She walked into the little Italian restaurant where the three of us had agreed to meet for lunch.

  She crossed the room with all the poise of a woman who had learned the hard way to exude grace at all times. It was a lesson learned, eventually, by all women in the public eye, the ability to convince the world that everything was okay -- whether it was or not. She reached our table and I got a closer look at her face, then exchanged a knowing glance with my companion.

  The woman sat down, ordered a water with lemon, and smiled at the waiter. He hurried away to get our salads and beverages, blissfully unaware of our real reason for being here.

  What the dark sunglasses don’t hide, the thick pancake makeup did. She had learned over time how to cover the bruises, though I doubted she’d ever recover from the psychological injuries her husband’s brand of long-term abuse had surely left. We listened intently while she talked, reliving every sordid, gruesome detail of the latest episode of abuse. Her words shocked me to my core.

  ‘I thought last night was gonna be it—the night I died. I waited for him to put my head through the plate glass window. I’m not even sure what set him off this time. I never know what’s going to set him off.

  ‘His eyes looked like something from the pits of hell, intent on killing me, like he was a predator and I was his prey. Of course, it hasn’t always been like this. In the beginning, we were good together, everybody said so. At least, that’s what I thought they were saying. Looking back, his friends kept telling me how good I was for him. I just thought they meant that I made him happy. But I see now that wasn’t what they meant. They meant he was a kinder, nicer person now that he was with me. And I was stupid enough to be flattered. But over time, he changed. Hell, we both did. Now he’s just this…this monster and I’m a fucking victim.

  ‘There isn’t anything I can do to him, you know. With his connections, he’s Mr. Un-fucking-touchable. You and I know I can’t press charges or file for divorce. He’s got too many connections. No one’s going to help me, you know it’s true,’ she said when we tried to interrupt, wished we could disagree. ‘He's too powerful. So this will be the last time I see you. I’m going away. I have no choice.’

  She leaned in to emphasize her next words. ‘Everyone who has ever refused to help me has left me with no choice. But you know what? I’m nobody’s fucking victim. Not. Anymore.’

  It would be the last time I saw her. Her husband filed a missing person’s report soon after. I assume she was successful in going underground and starting a new life somewhere else. Somewhere safe, away from the abuse. Away from everyone who had let her down…

  The sound of Glazov’s voice over the intercom speaker sends us scrambling.

  “Both of you, in my office. Now!”

  “Shit, you don’t think he saw us bringing stuff in on the security tape, do you?” Natasha gasps as she grabs my forearm in a tight grip.

  It’s amazing how the sound of my father’s voice can cause adults to quickly revert back to being naughty children. My father’s enemies don’t have a monopoly on having the shit scared out of them by Alexander Glazov.

  “I don’t want to bring Dad into our case research until we know more. I won’t waste his time with guesswork. But you know he’s a fucking mind reader, so just go in there with me like nothing is going on. Use that poker face you were born with.”

  When we approach the door to my father’s office, he acknowledges our presence before I even have the chance to knock.

  “Enter.”

  His eyes study me as they always do when he’s getting a read on me. I walk around his desk, kissing his cheek before I turn and acknowledge Novak, who has draped himself over a chair off to the side.

  “Novak. Good to see you.” His only answer is a smirk and a sardonic nod of his head. What the hell is going on?

  “No suit today,” my father notes with an arched brow. Well, shit.

  “No, Dad. We’re working on that cop killer case. I find casual attire makes it easier to blend in.”

  “I see. And how’s that coming along?”

  “Right now it’s just a lot of research, most of it online.”

  That seems to satisfy him and he moves on to the next topic of conversation. I try not to look relieved.

  “I’ve been thinking, son, that it’s time I pursue more conventionally accepted business ventures.”

  “He wants to go legit, can you believe it?” Novak drawls. “That’s why he called you in, the only kid he’s got who isn’t ass-deep in all of his other ‘less conventional’ business pursuits,” he says, raising his hands to make air quotes. “You know, illegal shit.”

  The muscle ticking in my father’s jaw is the only indication that he is aware that Novak has spoken. He’s cutting his cousin some slack, but that only goes so far and Novak knows it.

  “I think it’s a great idea, Dad. Diversification is always a good call.”

  “Of course you do, Golden Boy.”

  “Fuck you, Novak,” I hiss, starting to stand until a warning glance from my father stops me, and I lower myself back into my chair. Dad makes a point of never letting me drop my professional façade, even in private. My momentary lapse is not lost on Novak, though, much to my chagrin.

  “Now, there’s the undercover gangster,” he laughs cuttingly, “I knew he was in there somewhere.” Though his comment is directed at me, Novak looks over at Natasha. “He doesn’t like to admit it, but he knows it’s true. You can dress a gangster up in a designer suit but that shit’s in his blood. He’s. Just. Like. His. Daddy.”

  When I snarl in his direction like a rabid dog, he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “Ahh, music to my fucking ears.”

  “Enough!” my father bellows. “Shut the fuck up, Novak.” He turns his glare on Novak for a long, chilling moment before continuing. “As I was saying, Nikita, I’m intrigued by the idea of a legit business. I tossed around the notion of the liquor business; I may have even mentioned it to you in passing. But after considerable research, I’ve found something far more lucrative—diamonds. With all the concerns about ‘blood diamonds’, buyers are eager to obtain diamonds with more…ethical origins.”

  Novak is unable to contain his ire and continues his rant in all its Bratva fury.

  “Are you shitting me? It is not possible to be an upstanding mobster!”

  “Watch your mouth,” Dad cautions grimly, “or I’ll have your ass in Russian sub-zero weather digging diamonds out of my mines.”

  Novak’s face is solemn as he and my father exchange a long look. Finally, his tone grave, he murmurs, “Brat, you know this as well as I do.”

  Novak is not one to throw terms of endearment around loosely. For him to call Glazov ‘brother’ is a big deal, and everyone in the room knows it. Another long silence as the two men communicate without words, as is often their way. Eventually, they must come to some understanding because Novak gives his Pakhan an almost imperceptible nod of acquiescence and waits for him to continue

  My father is pensive as he leans back in his chair, resting his elbows on the chair’s arms as he steeples his fingers under his chin. “The average wages for diamond mine workers are twice that of the average Russian salary. This way, we can do something to help our homeland. Nikita, I would like to leave a legacy that would stand up to scrutiny, something my children and grandchildren could be proud of. I’d also like to think I did something for our people that would continue to benefit them after I’m dead and gone.

  “Times are changing, son. What with all the gangs and street thugs going for fast money as they spill each other’s blood on the streets, the old ways are dying out. I
don’t want to think I left you with no way to support my grandchildren. Speaking of which,” he says, straightening in his chair and leveling his steely gaze first at Natasha and then at me, “you two will sit down with your mother and finalize your wedding plans. Include Roksana and Katrina. I need some grandchildren. Now, go find that fucker who’s killing cops.”

  “Yeah, go get your cape and do some crime solving,” Novak quips.

  “Fuck you,” I growl as I grab Natasha’s hand and head out of the office.

  Novak is a smart ass. He loves stirring shit up. But he also wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet between somebody’s eyes to protect a Glazov and our Bratva way of life. Novak likes nothing better than to give me shit on a regular basis. But when the chips are down and it really counts? He’s alright.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cop Killer

  I tread cautiously along the side of the house. I’m wearing men’s shoes that are three sizes too big – all the better to throw off the cops. I am probably the least likely person they’d ever expect to abandon society’s rules and expectations like this. But that’s okay because by the time I’m finished here tonight, there will be no denying the truth: there’s a cop killer on the loose in Louisville.

  My copy of Linda’s house key works perfectly. I open the front door and cross the foyer to the hallway, repeating the choreography I perfected during my last visit so as to avoid any creaky floorboards. I know every inch of this house. I do a cursory search of the living room and kitchen, with no success. But that’s okay. After I complete the task at hand, I’ll be free to search more thoroughly for the lock box I entrusted to her all those months ago.

  Only she and Karen ever knew of the box’s existence and they never did know its contents. It wasn’t safe to keep the manuscript and journals with me in my former life so I gave them to Linda for safekeeping. I had no privacy back then, only relentless thoughts and fears swirling around in my brain. Writing them down was the only way to quiet my mind. I’m baffled and more than a little frustrated that I haven’t been able to find my notebooks – no way is Linda clever enough to hide them from me. She must have hidden them somewhere else, dammit. But those are my thoughts and feelings laid bare on those pages. I’m in control now, and I’m taking back what’s mine.