by M. K. Gilroy
“Is there something that can be done? With the psych people?”
“Of course there is. Follow the rules. When you get back, you will present yourself to my office. Once we cover some other messes that need to be cleaned up, you will head directly to your first counseling appointment. I had you scheduled for ten tomorrow. I need to know when you’re going to find your way back home so I can reschedule for you.”
Ugh. I was hoping they had forgotten about the counseling. Does it make me a bad person to not want to beat a dead horse to death by spilling my guts over things I’ve experienced? What’s wrong with moving on?
“Conner, I didn’t return to active duty to be your scheduling secretary. Get things figured out there and call me back immediately.”
“Yes sir. Any other mess I should know about ahead of time?”
“Probably. But it’s more than I’m going to put on you at the moment.”
Huh? I’d rather know. My stomach balls into a knot.
Barnes pokes his head out a conference room down the hall from where I’m on the phone with Zaworski. He whistles and jabs his head sideways. No doubt, Tommy-boy is a charmer.
I realize I haven’t been able to get back to my partner, Don Squires. I have to call him next, even if he’s not the new boss.
I sign off with Zaworski and hustle toward where we are going to meet on the murder of Frank Nelson.
More than I’m going to put on you at the moment? What does that mean?
11
WHERE WAS THE Bear, Pasha wondered through clenched teeth. Time to put some of his troops on the ground and look for him. The problem was with the PathoGen deal falling apart, he was going to need every soldier he had to fight what was coming his way. Medved could have amounted to something if he hadn’t lost his mind in prison and given in to the bottle. Every good Russian was supposed to love his vodka, but Med had drowned in it.
Pasha looked at the bloodied face of Ilsa and made a slashing motion across his throat. Vladimir Zheglov arched his eyebrows in response. Pasha glared and Vlad nodded, then cut the woman’s throat. Too bad, Pasha thought. Ilsa wasn’t half-bad looking. How did she end up with an idiot like the Bear?
“Get rid of the body and get the place cleaned up,” Pasha growled to the other man in the room.
Nazar. Medved. Bear. Why did I call you of all people? Why did I put my life in your hands? You’re a drunk. I curse you and you will die by my own hands if it is the last thing I do.
“Vlad do you know what has happened? Do you understand?”
Vladimir met Pasha’s gaze. The problem was he did know what just happened and it was bad. Life as a soldier in the bratva taught Vlad it was almost always better to say too little than too much. One had to be especially careful when Pasha was mad. The two men were lifelong friends but that meant nothing when Pasha went into a rage. Vlad could read Pasha very well. He was about to explode.
“You’re not saying anything Vlad. Tell me.”
“You seized on an opportunity, Pasha,” he answered carefully.
“No. That’s not quite right. Tell me. Make me hear it.”
“You saw an opportunity and were bold, Pasha,” Vlad said calmly but carefully.
“You still aren’t answering me, Vlad,” Pasha said as he spit. “What just happened? What happened?!”
Vlad didn’t answer. Pasha looked at Georgie, busy putting Ilsa in a body bag.
“Georgie!” Pasha yelled.
The man looked up, scared.
“Tell Vlad what happened.”
“I don’t know nothing, Pasha.”
Pasha walked over to him.
“Tell him, Georgie.”
“I think things went bad. Very bad.”
“You are right, Georgie. Now tell Vlad whose fault it was.”
“Medved’s,” Georgie answered quickly. “The Bear messed it up.”
“Don’t tell me. Tell Vlad.”
“Med made a mess of things, Vlad,” Georgie said, doing his best to remain calm, his eyes darting between the two men.
“But I gave him the job, Georgie. Doesn’t that make it my fault?” Pasha asked.
Georgie shifted from foot to foot, nervously. Don’t answer, Vlad thought.
“I guess it is your fault then.”
Pasha sprang forward and got his hands on Georgie’s throat as quick as a cobra hitting a rat before it darts out of reach. Vlad watched impassively as Pasha choked the man’s life from him, his eyes clouding and then shutting tight.
“No need to clean up, Vlad. We won’t be coming back here,” Pasha said. “Get me the can of gasoline from the garage.”
“Conner, could you pick him out of a lineup?”
Ten sets of eyes are bearing down on me.
“I was too far away. No chance. Not if everyone in the line was the same relative size. Like I said, all I can confirm is I saw a large person, I assume a man, lumber up the incline that leads to Columbus Circle.”
The guy asking questions is the NYPD’s version of Zaworski. White hair cut close. Thin—almost gaunt. He also looks very unhappy with me.
“Let us know if you think of anything else,” he says with an exasperated sigh. “You’ve got Barnes’ contact info?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Work through Tommy. We appreciate your help and what you tried to do for the vic. Best to cut you loose so you can get cleaned up.”
That’s it? I’m done. I wait for something else. No one says anything. That’s my answer. I get up, knock the guy next to me’s coffee cup off the table, and make my typical awkward departure.
I can’t believe I’m done. I wanted to hear about the whale.
Vladimir Zheglov exited the room, relieved and concerned. Pasha had to get his mind right because he knew exactly what happened. He had witnessed it with his own eyes. He tromped down the stairs, thinking. It was Frank Nelson, the Swiss intermediary, Heinrich Hiller, Pasha, and him in the room at the Dexter.
There were only a few details to be ironed out between Pasha and Nelson but it took longer than expected. Once done, Hiller took off his headphones that were playing classical music, opened his computer, and inputted a series of commands and instructions. This kind of deal wasn’t based on trust. That’s why Hiller was there.
It is a new world, Vlad thought, scratching the stubble on his chin as he looked for the large can of gas. He couldn’t follow Hiller’s explanation of how he provided a two-factor exchange server. But he understood too well that both men were required to login and punch in individual codes within a set time—less than twenty-four hours from now—for either to get what they wanted. If both security codes weren’t activated by the prearranged time, the deal was off.
So Pasha provided Hiller with the account numbers that would fund a wire transfer of $25 million to Nelson. Then he burned the numbers in the bathroom sink. Nelson was to provide a single document with detailed schematics on a pathogen along with instructions on shipping five small vials from an undisclosed location to a drop box—also unknown—Pasha had supplied. He read off detailed instructions on how to download the document and initiate the shipment.
Hiller explained again that the transaction would not go through until both parties went to the hidden website and supplied codes. Once the locked system verified that both parties had supplied their part of the bargain, it would insure and initiate the deliverables.
Vlad kicked a crate out of the way, picked up the gasoline can, and shook his head. How could a man as smart as Frank Nelson be so stupid? He could see what happened next in his mind in slow motion. Apparently this scientist and businessman could not memorize the series of numbers and letters for his code so he wrote them down. In front of everyone. Vlad watched Hiller turn his head. He knew what was happening but wanted to maintain his deniability. Vlad didn’t have to look over to know what Pasha was thinking. If he had the man’s code he could get the files and vials—and keep the money that the man from Moscow had given him to buy them.
&
nbsp; This would be a huge coup. It was a typical bold and brilliant move by Pasha, except then Boyarov stepped out of the room and called the Bear. It made sense to pull someone else in to snatch Nelson. They couldn’t let Hiller see them grab Nelson or, technically, it was his duty to scuttle the exchange. Plus they needed to get out of the area and on the move as soon as possible. Pasha suspected they were being monitored. They had stayed in one location too long. But why call the Bear? Bad mistake. Sure Med was close—and expendable—but the Bear simply wasn’t reliable. He’d been okay to work with before Riker, but not since.
Where was the Bear now? Did he have Nelson’s code? If he did, he wouldn’t have a clue how much power he had in his hands. Pasha needed to settle down and work out a deal with Med. The Bear might not be bright but he knew what awaited him if he showed up in Pasha’s presence. Georgie got off easy in comparison.
Things were so bad that Pasha was about to torch his own office. Where did that leave him?
In between calls to the Bear, Pasha had made inquiries through his NYPD contacts. No wallet had been found on Frank Nelson. That meant the Bear had it. Had to have it. That meant there was a glimmer of hope Pasha could salvage the deal. It would have helped to have Ilsa alive.
Vlad walked through the door to the office carefully, a hand on his Glock. If it was just him and Pasha, no weapons, who would walk out alive? Hard to say. It could go either way. If Pasha’s blood lust wasn’t sated on Georgie, he didn’t intend to find out. They had been friends since childhood and always fought on the same side. But when Pasha was crazy, who knows?
He looked at Pasha who just nodded at him. He might be okay. Now was the time to say it.
“Pasha. Reach out to Med. Give him a way to leave the numbers for you. Promise him something—Ilsa, the money, anything he wants. You can find and kill him later. He’s easy to spot.”
“I’ve been trying. No answer. I overestimated his ability to do a simple muscle job, but maybe I underestimated his ability to think through where he stood with me. He was smart not to come home.”
He handed a small box of files to Vlad.
“This is all we need from here. Go ahead and warm up the car.”
Once out of striking distance, Vlad said, “Keep trying, Pasha. It is the only way.”
Pasha nodded and started pouring the gasoline on the two dead bodies and then all around the office.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Why haven’t you answered?” Mom says with that accusing tone—just a hint of hysteria mixed in—that drives me crazy. Do I tell her about trying to hold a severed windpipe together?
“Sorry Mom, something came up.”
“Something always comes up when I call.”
“Well something really did come up that was life and death.”
“You always say that, Kristen.”
I’m about to blow a gasket.
“What’s going on Mom? Is everything okay there?”
“No, everything is not okay, Kristen. Something awful happened.”
She sounds like she’s about to start crying. My stomach does a somersault as I think of my sister Kaylen and her husband Jimmy and the three kids.
“Is the baby okay? Is Kaylen alright?”
“Your sister and Baby Kelsey are fine. It’s the neighborhood. We’ve had a murder.”
“What?!”
“You remember the Kelttos.”
Yeah. I remember the Kelttos. Mom’s struggling to continue.
“Did something happen to her? I can’t remember her first name.”
“Nancy. No, Nancy is fine. It’s Eddy. Such a nice man. He’s cleared my sidewalk twice this winter. Someone killed him.”
Ed Keltto? She’s right. He is a nice guy . . . was a nice guy. Mr. Keltto always reminded me a little of the neighbor on the Simpsons. Ned something-or-other. They looked a little alike and Ed rhymes with Ned. Ed, Mr. Keltto, was old school gosh and golly. He is . . . or he was a grade school teacher.
“What happened Mom? Was it a break-in?”
She’s crying and I’ll have to wait. Give her a second to pull it together.
I grew up on the near west side in West Lawn, a Chicago neighborhood near Midway Airport that was a mix of blue and white collar. Our house was small and definitely in the blue collar section of the village. I never thought of it as dangerous. It helped that my dad was a cop, which meant the rougher kids knew better than to mess with the Conner sisters. With Mom alone, I’ve begun to wonder if it’s time for her to move. She’s a librarian, which doesn’t necessarily make her helpless, but I still worry. All three of us have brought up to her that it might be time to move. She’s been very adamant she is staying in her house.
“I don’t think it was a break-in,” she says, clearing her throat. “It happened outside.”
Maybe this is why Squires has been calling—for sure it’s why Kaylen called.
“But you’re okay, right, Mom?”
“I’m not hurt, if that’s what you mean. But my heart keeps racing and my mind is going a million directions.”
“Does this make you think about moving?” I ask hopefully.
“Of course not,” she answers quickly. “Your daddy and I got this house right after we got married. I could never leave our home.”
I have no answer for that. It’s sweet. Not many people left who put down such deep roots.
“What’s got my mind racing,” she continues, “is I’m afraid the police are going to treat Eddy’s murder as an accident.”
Okay. What’s going on? If Mr. Keltto was murdered, why would CPD treat it as an accident?
“Who’s working the scene, Mom?”
“Someone you’ve worked with. Detective Blackshear.”
“Blackshear is top drawer, Mom. You have no worries. He’ll get it right.”
“But I only got to talk to him for a second. He didn’t interview me. He came by and introduced himself, told me he knew you, and then left a couple kids to take my statement.”
“Kids?”
“You know what I mean Kristen. They’re all so young now. Even you.”
Even me? I’m only thirty but I sometimes feel like a grizzled veteran—whatever grizzled means.
“Listen Mom, Blackshear is good. If he says it’s an accident it’s an accident.”
“But he doesn’t know everything going on at the Keltto house.”
“And you do?”
“I know something.”
“Did you tell the uniforms?”
“I tried to, but I don’t think they were listening. One of them kept closing his book before I’d finish a sentence. He said they had a lot of people to talk to and would stop back if they had more questions. I’m not sure he meant it.”
This is getting stranger by the minute.
“What’d you tell them Mom? What weren’t they listening to?”
“Something I’ve seen a couple of times.”
Is my mom going to make me put her in an interrogation room and sweat this out of her? No wonder the uniforms weren’t listening. They did have a lot of people to talk to and needed to keep moving.
“What’d you see Mom?”
“I hate to say it out loud. Maybe it’s nothing. I was going to talk to Jimmy about what I should do anyway. Then this happened.”
I’m a cop. Jimmy is a preacher. And she was going to sort it out with him?
“Mom, what did you see? And by the way, how did Mr. Keltto actually die?”
“It looks like he slipped on ice and hit the back of his head on the ground.”
“Maybe that’s what happened, Mom.”
“I’m not so sure after what I’ve been seeing.”
She leaves that hanging. Her dramatic pause is pushing my impatient button, which doesn’t require too much pressure to ignite.
I got booted out of the meeting after thirty minutes by the group of NYPD officers and FBI agents who wanted to confirm what I told Tommy Barnes. I hated getting kicked to the curb but it
did give me a glimmer of hope that I can get back to Chicago tonight—and possibly get a hot shower to clean off the gooey mess that still hasn’t completely dried on my clothes and skin. I need to get off the call with Mom if that’s going to happen. Actually, that’s not quite fair to her. I’m hanging around the precinct because Austin Reynolds called to say he’s close and wants to see me before I take off.
But I need to work the phone. I’ve got to book another flight. Then I’ve got to get packed. I’ve got callbacks to make. I need Mom to pick up the pace. But I’m not asking her what she saw again. I’ll wait her out because she’s not going to be pushed. I let her gather her thoughts.
“Ed leaves for work earlier than Nancy and gets home later most days.”
Yes? I wait.
“I get home from the library after she’s already home but before he gets home.”
And? The silence is deafening.
“The same car has been parked on our street a couple times now.”
“In front of their house?”
“No. About four doors down. In front of the Yaconelli’s house.”
“So what does that have to do with the Kelttos?”
“I’ve seen the same man walk from Nancy’s side yard and go straight to the car. He always takes a look around and then walks fast. I thought it looked suspicious.”
“Are you watching her house?”
A slight pause and Mom answers, “Maybe a little bit the last couple weeks. But it didn’t start that way. I’d get home, go inside the back door, and then come out the front door to get mail and the newspaper off the front steps. I didn’t think anything about seeing him the first or second time. The third time, I started thinking something wasn’t quite right. I’m not surveying their house or whatever the word for it is.”
“Surveillance.”
“Right. I’m not doing that. But I do take a look out the front window about the same time every day now. It’s not every day he’s there. But it’s pretty regular that he leaves her backyard and walks down the street to get his car by the Yaconelli’s. Does that not sound suspicious to you?”