by M. K. Gilroy
28
“NANCY IS BACK home. I saw her pick up the newspaper up off the front sidewalk this morning. Is she out of trouble?”
Just how close of an eye is mom keeping on the neighborhood?
“It’s not my case and I don’t know anything past last night, Mom. But even if I did, you know I can’t tell you. Besides, I’m guessing you already know more than I do.”
She gives a little snort and rolls her eyes.
I’m thirty, living at home—even if only for a few days—and eating tuna casserole with my mom. They write articles in the New York Times about what’s wrong with America when they describe my current profile. I’ve got to find a new apartment. I’m not going to live in Klarissa’s place. I’m mad at her. It would feel dishonest to turn around and accept a sweetheart deal from her. Kind of like I feel driving her GTR.
Mom added canned peas to the tuna casserole, something I protested vigorously as a kid, to no avail. I still don’t love the mushy texture but at least she covered them up in a lot of gooey cheese. Other than the peas I’m not complaining about dinner.
“I feel terrible,” she says. “I feel responsible because I told you about the man who was spending time with her.”
“You aren’t responsible for anything good or bad in Nancy Keltto’s life, Mom. You did the right thing. You were a good citizen who supplied an important tip in a homicide.”
“So she is in trouble . . . and I’m responsible.”
“You can’t look at it that way. People are responsible for their own actions. That’s how you and dad raised me. You just reported what you saw. You weren’t involved.”
“I know. It’s just so surreal. I can’t believe Eddy is dead. The thought that his wife . . . that Nancy was involved is almost overwhelming.”
I’ve got to find my own place. I love my mom. But if this is what we are going to talk about every night I am going to go crazy. Plus she does have a habit of adding canned vegetables to otherwise delicious recipes.
“You’ve not talked about your visit with Austin and his parents. How did that go?”
Talking about Nancy Keltto as a murder suspect is suddenly quite appealing.
“Let me ask you this Mom, what do you think of Austin?”
She gets an amused expression on her face. “Are you asking your mom for advice?”
“I always appreciate your thoughts, Mom.”
She laughs. I can’t help myself. I have to laugh too. I suddenly feel better. Good endorphins can do that. It won’t last long. I saw my sister with the guy I was dating. I’m not officially cleared for active duty until Dr. Andrews says so—hopefully tomorrow. An evil guy I put in jail is trying to get out on a technical error in the investigation, an error that is being pinned on me.
I chew thoughtfully. I’ve been trying to pick my bites carefully to even out the number of peas. They overwhelmed the noodles and tuna on this one and I grimace.
“Am I really that difficult Mom?”
Mom pauses. Is that an answer?
“I love all three of my daughters. Exactly the same amount.”
Of course. What else can a parent say?
“But you three couldn’t be more different. Of the three of you, you were born determined and ready for action. You had your own mind and were going to do things your way. You couldn’t sit still. Kaylen and Klarissa would sit on my lap and I could read a storybook to them for an hour before bedtime. You wanted to look at the pictures and would turn the pages before I could finish the first sentence. Then you were off to climb on the kitchen counter or get into something you weren’t supposed to.”
“So does that mean I’ve always been difficult?”
“No, honey. Different. You’ve always been who God made you.”
Last time I heard Jimmy preach he said God has a sense of humor. I might be living proof of that.
Maybe I should have been a counselor. People accuse me of answering questions with questions of my own. Andrews is obviously the Ph.D. on that tactic.
I had a lot of questions for Andrews. Her answers were pretty consistent: “What do you think, Kristen? How does that make you feel, Kristen?”
At one point I told her that when my dad’s case was moved to the back burner it made me angry . . . really angry with CPD and particularly Commander Czaka. She asked me how that made me feel. Uh . . . angry.
I guess the point is I’m supposed to dig deep and get in touch with what I think about seeing people get killed and personally being in harm’s way and pulling a trigger. But what if there is nothing deeper inside of me than what I’ve already said?
I would really have liked to talk to Dr. Andrews about Klarissa and Austin—not just my feelings—I know I’m pissed off—but what to do about them. It would be nice to know if there are some tricks of the trade where I can confront my sister for sneaking behind my back without destroying the relationship forever. A month or two of mad would be fine.
Heck, that brings me back to where I started with Andrews. I’m a church girl. I know the right answers spiritually even if it takes a while to apply them. I’m going to have to forgive her . . . at some point.
So how does that make you feel, Kristen?
29
I GO OUT for an early walk. My mom said I was crazy as I stepped outside and got hit by a blast of wind. The temperature is still in single digits. Last time someone said I was crazy for going out on a bitterly cold morning it didn’t turn out well. What can happen in my old neighborhood? Besides murder, of course.
I get to the end of the block, trying not to look at the Keltto house. How sad. I want to call Blackshear and ask what’s going on. Zaworski has made it clear I need to keep my nose out of anything and everything that has to do with police business until cleared for active duty. Hopefully that changes this afternoon when Andrews sends her report to our HR people.
There’s a young teenager standing on the corner. That’s a blast from the past. My old school bus stop.
“How’s it going?” I ask as I walk up.
“Not bad,” he mumbles.
“Which house you live in?”
“Over there,” he says with a jerk of his head, which I think is pointing to the house next door to the Kelttos.
“Too bad what happened on Monday,” I say.
“Yeah. Ed was a nice guy.”
“Did you know him well?”
“I guess. He was my scout leader when I was a kid. We started doing some projects this year.”
“What kind of projects?”
“I’d go over there and do woodworking stuff in the garage. He was teaching me how to use all the tools he’s got.”
“Even in the winter?”
“He puts the car in driveway and turns on a kerosene heater he’s got. It gave us room to work and the cold wasn’t too bad.”
“Very nice. You build anything cool?”
“I don’t know,” he answers. “I guess some of it was getting okay. I made my mom a couple bird houses and a stepladder for the pantry. Just little stuff. Nothing big.”
“Sounds big to me.”
He just nods with a shrug.
“I’m gonna keep walking,” I say. “Hope your bus gets here soon. You can freeze standing around out here.”
He nods. On cue, I can hear the brakes on his bus squeal about a block away. As I turn he asks, “Are you the lady cop that grew up down the street?”
Lady cop?
“I am.”
“You working on finding who killed Ed?”
“It’s not my case.”
“Do you know whose it is? Who is looking for the killer?”
“Yes. A friend of mine is in charge. Detective Blackshear.”
“Is that a guy cop?”
“Ah . . . yes . . . Blackshear is a guy cop. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Bradley.”
“I’m Kristen.”
He nods. I want to ask his last name but the bus pulls up and the door hisses open. He puts
a foot on the first step, pauses, and looks at me. “You need to tell him, the guy detective, it wasn’t Mrs. Keltto. It was her boyfriend.”
He hustles up the last two steps and into the warmth of the bus. After giving me a suspicious scowl for possibly trying to corrupt America’s youth, the driver pulls the lever to shut the door with another hiss. I stand there and watch as he releases the brakes, shifts into gear, and rounds the corner.
Did Blackshear’s team talk to the kid? I’m sure they did. I wish I’d got his last name. I want to call Bob right now but there are two problems. My hands are frozen and I’m not sure I can work my phone. Second, I think I just put my nose in police business, even if by accident. Better wait until I am officially cleared for duty this afternoon. See, I’m following the rules.
Nothing is going to happen in the next six or seven hours. Whatever the kid might know, which might be nothing, can wait until then.
30
“WHAT YOU HAULING? Wait. Don’t tell me. Rock salt.”
Med wanted to tell the guy fueling his big SUV at the next pump aisle to mind his own business but that wouldn’t be fitting in. Fitting in was important if he wanted to stay out of a cage.
“Nothing now. Heading over to Chicago for a job.”
“Chicago is in a deep freeze. Not much work there. What do they have you doing? Has to be the salt.”
“You got it. They can’t keep up with it.”
“That wasn’t really a guess. I am in construction up in Chicago. About the only thing getting hauled and dumped is salt.”
“That’s why they called. They’re paying good.”
“Make sure you get your check up front. The city’s broke.”
“Good advice.”
Why is this man so curious? Do I look like I want to talk? And why does he have to be from Chicago?
The Bear had slept in a cheap motel in Gary, Indiana, last night. He wasn’t on a set deadline, so he pulled off early so he could catch up on the news. The Russian Mafiya war in New York City—CNN was calling it Red Storm Rising—was getting nonstop coverage. There were five more murders and an explosion the day before. The Mayor had ordered a citywide curfew and called for federal help. The next story was an outbreak of flu. He switched stations, looking for more news.
A pretty blonde was reporting:
Day two of hostilities have raised the tally of dead to at least twenty-six known members of organized crime, in what is called the American bratva. That is the largest total of homicides in a two-day period in New York City’s history. The number of arrests will not be confirmed by the New York Police Department or the FBI, but there are independent reports that the number now tops one hundred and is rising every hour.
There is much speculation as to what the catalyst was for this outbreak of violence that is pitting different factions of the American bratva against itself.
In an exclusive WolfNews interview, the director of the New York FBI station had this to say.
Blah blah, Med had thought as the man droned on. I want to see the pretty blonde. Fortunately the man in the dark suit and red tie didn’t take long to say nothing. Then she was back:
The man who is considered priority number one in a manhunt by the police and FBI alike is named Pasha Boyarov. He was widely believed to be the heir apparent to Aleksei Genken, who was killed two nights ago in an attack on his home that police describe as an unprecedented use of heavy weapons on American soil. When we return from a commercial break we will provide an in-depth profile of a man who is reputed to be one of the most ruthless killers in the American bratva—and reasons why he may have turned on his boss.
Could Lady Udacha be smiling on him yet again? Pasha out of the picture?
When the commercials ended, Med was disappointed on what the blonde and her interviewees had to say about Pasha. They obviously knew little about Boyarov. Most of the talk was of Genken. Then the network showed pictures of the twenty-six dead—Med knew some of them by face and a few of them on a first name basis. The first twenty on the list looked like an even split between Genken’s personal army and Pasha’s gang. The last six were Ishutin’s men. Unfortunately, Vladimir Zheglov, the angel of death, was not pictured.
So the other brigadiers went to war with Pasha. That meant he was fighting the NYPD, FBI, and other brigadiers. Pasha was lethal and dangerous, but no way could he win against those odds.
But the shooting hadn’t stopped so he was still fighting. If Vladimir Zheglov was still alive and at large, he would be at Pasha’s side and those two men would not go down easily.
The one thing the news people got right, maybe by accident, was that Pasha was the mastermind behind the coup on Genken.
As long as Boyarov was alive, Med would never be safe. But what could Pasha do now? Unless he seized control of the bratva, Pasha’s days were numbered. Could I get so lucky? The thought of delivering gravel in Phoenix or San Antonio or Dallas warmed his heart.
The gas nozzle shut off with a clump. He had prepaid three hundred in cash. It was going to take some time to get the truck legally registered in his name so he had to watch his funds. The Western Star was great but it was a gas-guzzler.
He climbed in the cab, started the engine, shifted into first, and rolled it over to the parking lot next door. He might as well start the day with a big breakfast. He’d find a cheap motel in Chicago and figure out how best to hit Detective Conner over the next few days.
Shoot her, hope Pasha and Vlad get gunned down, and you are a free man.
“What’s up, Pasha?”
“Just waiting another ten minutes to use the phone again. I’m going to send Yuri to hit Ishutin’s grandson—I know where the kid hides his mistress. If Ishutin thinks I’m going to roll over, he’s going to learn the hard way not to mess with Pasha.”
“Good,” Vlad said. “Make them think hard about how far they want to take this.”
“Exactly,” Pasha responded.
Pasha did know where Ishutin’s grandson kept his mistress and he would send Yuri to kill him. But it was show. If Vladimir only knew what he had really been working on it would get ugly. The deed was done. Basic terms were agreed upon and being reviewed by attorneys from the US Justice Department. He, Pasha Boyarov, would voluntarily walk into custody sometime late afternoon. It wouldn’t look voluntary—couldn’t look voluntary. That was part of the deal. To get what he wanted, Pasha had to offer up his lifelong friend, Vladimir Zheglov.
It was in everyone’s best interest if he and Vlad went down together. Vlad would be okay in prison. He was a ferocious killer. He would be left alone or people would die. He had to maneuver him carefully in the next few hours.
“Vlad, I think we need to move hotels again.”
“We moved this morning, Pasha.”
“Something doesn’t feel right here.”
Vlad shrugged and asked, “When?”
“Let me think about that after I send Yuri.”
That was fast. They weren’t supposed to arrest Nancy. It’s her own fault. She panicked. I’ve got to save her—and myself. I guess if it comes down to her or me, it’ll have to be her. But there should be something I can do to send this investigation a different direction.
Problem is, there wasn’t supposed to be an investigation. Why couldn’t the police take the situation at face value? The guy slipped on ice and hit his head.
In the few months we’ve sort of been seeing each other, Reynolds and I go days without talking. It’s the nature of our profession. I’m not sure all Agent Reynolds does for the FBI, but he does disappear for days and even weeks at a time.
He’s calling again. I’m not sure what to say, but I better answer.
“Conner.”
“Reynolds,” he says, matching my tone. Then he laughs and says, “with everything you’ve got going on and everything I’ve got going on, I wasn’t sure when we were going to get a chance to talk again. Without a committee present.”
How do I play this? I decide aloof and
cool.
“I am absolutely buried. What do you need?”
Okay, that might have been abrupt and semi-rude.
“Why do I get the feeling that something I don’t understand is going on in that lovely mind of yours?”
“Get in line to fathom the depths of how my brain works,” I answer.
“Am I in trouble for not checking on you? If so, I promise it was not by choice or design.”
“You are not in trouble for not checking up on me,” I answer him more warmly than I feel.
He misses the implication, which is good, since I’m not ready to confront things with him and Klarissa.
“Listen, we need to talk,” he says. “But right now I’m catching a flight to New York and will be out of pocket for a day or two.”
I’m relieved.
“But I wanted to be the one who gives you some good news.”
“Good news is always welcome here.”
“You’re going to like this—and no applause necessary—just throw kisses until I can see you in person. Then you don’t have to throw them. You ready for this?”
“I’m on the edge of my seat with bated breath.”
“Is that for the news or the kisses?”
“Austin! Spill it.”
I wasn’t going to call him by his first name.
“It’s official. You are no longer a target. We confirmed it was Genken that ordered the hit on you. The shooter we picked up finally talked, knowing that his boss is dead.”
“So this is over?”
“We believe so. And the good news keeps coming.”
“Yeah?”
“Pasha Boyarov, the man who started this internecine war within the Red Mafiya, is turning himself in. He’s struck a deal to roll over on his comrades and then disappear into Witness Protection.”
“So he gets off?”
“Yes, which is unfortunate. But we will get the information to shut down or at least severely disrupt operations that include extortion, prostitution, and drugs.”