Dark Angel (Lassiter/Martinez Case Files #2)

by Joseph Badal

  Evan McCall had grown steadily more agitated as each hour passed and he hadn’t heard from his brother, Reese. Every minute that took him closer to his meeting with Orlov only made him more anxious and fearful.

  When 5 p.m. came and went, and he hadn’t heard from his brother, McCall had begun to suspect that something was terribly wrong. He went to his computer and checked Google for Farmington news once again. What he saw this time made him frantic: Unidentified Man Killed in Home Invasion. Local Couple Injured. McCall read the article and, although his brother wasn’t named, he knew that Reese was dead as soon as he read the Franchini name. But he was confused by the section of the article that dealt with who had killed the intruder. The shooter wasn’t identified either.

  McCall was certain of a few things. Once Reese’s picture was in the news, someone would recognize him and notify the cops. It would be a no-brainer for the cops to then identify next of kin. That would be him. At that point, there was a strong possibility Orlov would eliminate him.

  McCall quickly packed a suitcase and removed his cash, passport, and the coins from the Flagstaff caper from his wall safe. He checked his watch and saw it was 5:30. He had thirty minutes before Orlov showed up. Suitcase in one hand, he went to the front door to lock up before he went to the garage. As he raised his hand to turn the dead bolt, the doorbell rang. His heart, which already beat frenetically, suddenly seemed to hammer at the inside of his ribs as though it wanted to escape his body.

  “Oh dear God,” he rasped. “Orlov.”

  He knew he was done for. He opened the door. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a stranger there. “What do you want?”

  Race looked at the suitcase in the man’s hand. “Going somewhere?”

  “What the fuck business is that of yours?”

  Race shook his head, stepped forward, punched McCall in the center of his chest, and watched him drop the suitcase and fall backward to the floor. Race used a foot to push the suitcase against a wall. The man’s legs moved like pistons as he tried to push away from the door, but then his legs stopped moving, and he lay flat and gasped for breath. Race searched the man for weapons, but found none.

  “Why’d you have your brother murder my family?” Race demanded calmly.

  “Who are you? I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t—”

  “Oh, but you did. Your psycho brother and his friends tortured and killed dozens of men, women, and children, including my wife and daughters.”

  McCall still wheezed, but he tried to sit up. “They weren’t supposed to hurt anyone. I told him that over and over. He wouldn’t listen.”

  “But, even though you knew what kind of sick monster he was, you still sent him out on other jobs. Didn’t you?”

  “It wasn’t me. I swear. It was Vitaly Orlov. He wanted the coins Reese stole. He sells them all over the world to rich collectors. He forced me to do it.”

  “How did he force you?”

  The man babbled for a while, then said, “He threatened to kill me if I didn’t cooperate.”

  Race looked in the man’s eyes and knew he’d lied. He was suddenly dizzy. Every time he thought he’d reached the end of the vengeance game, another player popped up.

  “Who’s this Orlov?”

  “Russian Mafia. Owns clubs in Dallas. Got all sorts of other businesses, too. Please, Mister. I was just following orders. I never wanted anyone hurt. That’s the truth.”

  Race’s mouth went sour. I was just following orders. The defense of cowardly, immoral people. McCall screamed when Race kicked his left thigh.

  “Where can I find Orlov?”

  McCall’s face was twisted grotesquely as he rubbed his leg. “He’s supposed to be here at 6.” He actually smiled, as though he was about to be let off the hook.

  “Why?”

  “I have . . . coins I’m holding for him.”

  “What coins?”

  McCall gulped and his voice broke when he said, “From a robbery in Flagstaff, Arizona.”

  “William Brownell,” Race said in a voice tinged with sadness.

  “How’d . . . ? Who are you?”

  Race felt his whole body go hot with rage. His injured left arm burned with pain. But he forced himself to remain calm. “You hired your brother and his crew to steal coins, then he sent the coins to you, and you passed them on to Orlov. That’s when he paid you, right?”

  McCall nodded.

  “How’d you know where to send your brother?”

  “From Orlov.”

  “And how’d he know?”

  “An inside guy at—”

  “The appraisal company,” Race mumbled under his breath.

  “What?” McCall said.

  “The appraisal company,” he repeated.

  “I don’t know anything about an appraisal company. I once overheard a phone conversation Orlov had with a guy at some insurance company. I think that’s where his information comes from.” McCall paused a beat. “I can’t be certain.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Race muttered. It wasn’t the appraiser, Sylvan Tauber, who’d fed information to this nest of rattlesnakes. It was someone in an insurance company who had access to policy information.

  “Did Orlov ever mention the name of the insurance company?”

  McCall chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “Maybe he said the name once.” He squinted and added, “Surety something or other . . . I think.”

  Surety Collectors Insurance, Race thought. The company I used. The top insurer of coin collections, worldwide.

  “Did Orlov mention the name of the person at the insurance company?”

  McCall shook his head as though he would never stop. “No, he never did.”

  Race pulled out his gun and pointed it at McCall, who threw out his hands as though to protect himself. “Get your suitcase and bring it here.”

  McCall did as Race had ordered and limped to the foyer. He collected his suitcase and placed it on the coffee table in the living room.

  “Sit down,” Race ordered.

  McCall moved to a wing-backed chair and sat.

  “You’re going to be a good boy and sit there quietly. When your friend, Orlov, arrives, you’ll open the door and invite him in. You give him any reason to suspect something’s wrong, I’ll shoot you.”

  McCall nodded.

  “Put the suitcase on the coffee table.”

  Again, McCall obeyed without hesitation.

  Race unzipped the suitcase. Inside were clothes on one side, a FedEx box in the middle, and piles of cash on the other side. He looked up and glared at McCall. “Are the Brownell coins in the shipping box?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were about to run off with the coins, weren’t you? Skipping out on Orlov.”

  McCall briefly shook his head, but then looked down at the floor.

  After he removed the FedEx box from the suitcase and placed it on the coffee table, Race closed the suitcase and dropped it behind a chair in a far corner. He sat on a straight-backed chair opposite McCall. “Tell me about Orlov.”

  McCall raised his head and looked at Race. His eyes bugged out. “He’s a very bad dude. He and his people have taken over a lot of the rackets in Dallas. The Mexicans, the Asians, all the gangs pay him tribute. They do business only if he allows them to.”

  “Why did he get into rare coins?”

  “It’s not just coins. He’s figured out that he can fence extremely valuable items, including coins, gems, paintings, and antique books.”

  “And, unlike drugs,” Race said, “he’s got no product costs except what he pays the people who steal the stuff. Plus, about all the cops and the Feds care about today is drugs and terrorists.”

  “If he tried to steal drugs from dealers, they’d shoot back. Private citizens are easy targets.”

  “Also, the people who buy the stolen goods from him aren’t about to brag about how they got them, and they don’t ask questions about where the goods came from.”

  “You got that right,” M
cCall said. He chuckled, seemingly now relaxed in Race’s presence, despite the pistol. “What Orlov told me was that coins and gems are his favorites because a small number of them can be worth a lot, and they’re easy to hide and ship.”

  “Will he show up here alone?”

  “No way. He always has a couple gorillas with him. Big, no-neck, steroid freaks. They scare the crap out of me.”

  Race looked at his watch: 5:53. “You stay there until Orlov shows up. Then you go to the door and let him in. Bring him here into the living room and get him to sit. Show him the box with the coins.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You’re making a mistake messing with—”

  A series of loud knocks on the front door interrupted McCall.

  Race stood. “Stand up,” he ordered. “Go to the door.”

  Race followed McCall toward the front door, then peeled away into the kitchen, which was across the foyer from the living room. The curved wall that screened the kitchen from the foyer extended ten feet from the front door. Race stood behind that wall and peeked around it at McCall.

  There was another loud series of knocks. McCall swayed as he stepped forward and stopped two feet from the door. “Shit,” he muttered as he turned toward Race.

  Race could tell from McCall’s flushed face and eyes—which bounced around like ping pong balls—that the man’s performance might fall short of Academy Award standards. He lost sight of McCall when he backed up around the end of the curved wall. He held his breath when the man opened the front door. If he warned Orlov, there was a good chance the house would become a bloody battlefield.

  “Hel . . . hello, Mr. Orlov,” McCall stammered. “Please come in.”

  “Vhat’s the matter, McCall, you sound nervous?” a man asked in a Slavic accent.

  “No, no. I’m just . . . there’s a lot going on.”

  “You are complaining?” the Slavic accent said.

  “Of course not, Mr. Orlov. I just don’t want anything to fall through the cracks.”

  Surprisingly, McCall’s voice now sounded fairly steady. Then he reappeared and limped into the living room, followed by a tall, slender man dressed in what appeared to be a very expensive silk suit. Then the broad backs of two men. Also in suits, the men looked as though they had been stuffed into their clothes.

  “Something wrong with your leg?” the slender man asked.

  “I bumped into a dresser,” McCall explained.

  Race figured the bodyguards would search the house to make certain there were no threats against their boss. Before they could turn around, he moved from behind the wall and shouted, “You two, down on the floor.”

  Both bodyguards reached under their jackets as they spun around.

  Race moved his weapon back and forth between the two men. “Show me your hands. Down on the floor.”

  “Vat is this?” Orlov shouted, his Slavic accent even more pronounced. He gave McCall a menacing look.

  “Shut up,” Race said.

  The bodyguard on the left removed his hand from under his jacket and bent as though to follow Race’s instructions, to get on the floor. The other man jerked his right hand from under his jacket. Race saw the hand was full of a very large pistol and shot the bodyguard in the knee. The man fell to the floor, dropped his weapon, and grabbed his leg. He bellowed a continuous stream of what sounded like Slavic curses until Race rapped him on the side of his head with his gun. It didn’t knock him out, but, other than groans, it shut him up.

  Pain erupted in Race’s left arm when he extended to pick up the man’s weapon. He straightened and kicked the gun down the hall. He then stood behind the other bodyguard, placed the muzzle of his pistol against the man’s forehead, and barked, “Remove your weapon and toss it away.”

  The man did as Race had ordered.

  To both men, he said, “Pull up your pants legs. I want to see your ankles.”

  When he saw that neither man wore an ankle rig, Race side-stepped into the living room and stood where he could watch all four men.

  “You’re in big trouble,” Orlov said, his voice full of arrogance and menace.

  Race gave the Russian a sour look. “I told you to shut up.” He waggled his gun at the Russian and pointed it toward a chair in the living room. “Sit down.”

  Orlov opened his mouth as though he was about to say something, but he clamped it shut, moved to the chair, and sat. He again looked at McCall, this time with as much venom in his look as Race had ever seen on any man’s face.

  Race walked behind Orlov and patted him to check for weapons. He removed a cell phone from Orlov’s shirt pocket. A bulge in an inside jacket pocket proved to be a small, leather-bound, spiral notebook. Race stuffed the phone and notebook in a pants pocket as he walked back to a spot where he could watch the other men, too.

  “Orlov, I’ve got one question for you.”

  The Russian turned to look at him.

  “Who’s your contact at the insurance company? The person who tells you about the coin collections.”

  Orlov jerked a look at McCall. “You told him?”

  McCall was flushed and his eyes did the ping-pong thing again. He hunched his shoulders. “He had a gun on me. What was I supposed to do?”

  When Orlov looked back at Race, his expression was completely absent emotion. “Go fuck yourself,” he spat.

  Race kept one eye on the bodyguards while he took three steps toward Orlov. The Russian glared up at him; not an ounce of fear showed in his features or body language.

  “Is that your final answer?”

  Orlov blurted a loud laugh. Then he smiled. “You’re a dead man.”

  Race threw a side-kick into Orlov’s chin. A loud crack sounded and Orlov’s head bounced off the back of his chair. He sagged as though his bones had turned to dust and slid down in the chair.

  Race pointed his weapon at McCall. “Come here.”

  McCall obeyed.

  “Get down on your knees.”

  McCall whimpered. “Please don’t. I’m sorry about your family. I—”

  “Get down. NOW.”

  McCall knelt in front of Race, his head bowed, his arms tightly folded.

  “There’s a knife in my right jacket pocket. Take it out and use it to cut the draw cords off the blinds. Then tie up that asshole.” Race tapped the automatic against the top of McCall’s head. “Look at me.”

  McCall raised his head and met Race’s gaze.

  “If you even look like you’re thinking about trying something, I’ll pull this trigger without a moment’s hesitation. You understand?”

  McCall nodded.

  McCall took out the knife, stood, and moved to a bank of windows that faced the street. He unsheathed the knife, cut the blinds cords, and brought them to where Orlov slouched in the chair. After he resheathed the knife and put it on the coffee table, he propped up Orlov, pinned his arms behind his back, and tied his wrists together.

  “Now do his ankles,” Race ordered.

  McCall used another cord to secure the Russian’s ankles. When he finished with Orlov, Race ordered him to bind the bodyguards’ hands behind their backs. McCall frenetically scurried around, seemingly wanting to please Race. After he finished with the bodyguards, Race ordered McCall to return to his chair.

  When Orlov regained consciousness, he shifted his jaw from side-to-side, moaned, and then mumbled as though he had a mouth full of pebbles, “You broke my jaw, you prick.”

  “One more time; who’s your contact at the insurance company?”

  Orlov grunted.

  Race walked to the foyer and looked down at the bodyguard he’d shot. The man lay on his stomach. Blood had pooled on the floor by his wounded leg. “Do you know if your boss has a friend at an insurance company?”

  The guy groaned.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” Orlov mumbled.

  “So, you do know. What’s his name?”

  Orlov mumbled something un
intelligible.

  Race guessed, from their physical appearances, that the bodyguards were obsessed with physical fitness and body-building. Race decided to push that button.

  “How long do you think it’ll take to get that knee back in shape?”

  This time, the man whined.

  “I already know the name of the company. If you don’t tell me the contact’s name, I’ll shoot you in your other knee.”

  “No, don’t,” the wounded man pleaded.

  “Then talk.”

  “Orlov will kill me.”

  “Not if he’s dead.”

  “I overheard him mention a name. Karl Swenson.”

  Orlov made a noise that sounded like a growl.

  Race returned to the living room and touched Orlov’s jaw with the 9 millimeter. The Russian groaned, then growled again. Then to Race’s amazement, the man laughed. Between his Slavic accent and broken jaw, Race had a difficult time understanding all that Orlov said. But he caught enough of it to get the gist of his words: “McCall here said he vas sorry about your family. Did his killers murder them?”

  Race glared at the mobster.

  “Probably tortured them, didn’t they?”

  “Shut your damned mouth,” Race shouted.

  “I vish I’d been there,” Orlov said. “Vould have enjoyed myself.”

  Race pointed his pistol at the center of Orlov’s forehead. “I told you to shut up.”

  Orlov looked at McCall. “Vat job vas this?” he asked. “Vat did newspapers say your men did to them?”

  McCall looked as though he might collapse. He turned pale and his eyes were like saucers.

  Orlov shot a look at Race that seemed to be pure evil. “Come on; tell me vat happened to your family. How many people were at your home?”

  Race’s eyes seemed to lose focus. Then, as though a red filter had been inserted into his corneas, the room suddenly looked awash in blood. His head ached and he felt dizzy. The pain in his left arm was now excruciating. Orlov’s thick lips, bushy eyebrows, and lopsided grin seemed grotesque. Race stepped forward and shoved the barrel of the gun against the mobster’s forehead. He closed his eyes for just a moment to clear his vision. When he opened them again, the grin was still on Orlov’s face. He felt a wave of immense satisfaction course through him, as though his nightmares, rage, and despair of the past three years were about to lessen. He had the man behind all the pain and suffering in his gun sight.