by M. K. Gilroy
It might be time to blast my way in. Shoot her and run. I can dump the car and get my truck. I should have packed earlier. Either way, I can be in St. Louis in five hours—unless roads are still icy. I’ll stop and sleep for a week.
He looked at the Springfield in his right hand. One in the chamber and thirteen in the clip. That’s why Pasha had most of them switch to the model. A second magazine with thirteen more rounds was in his pocket. The 45-caliber bullet would blow a hole the size of a Kennedy half-dollar through flesh or wood. Wouldn’t take more than four or five rounds to get inside, depending on the make of the lock.
But she was a detective and would have a handgun. She might already have it locked and loaded. There was a reason she wasn’t answering the door. He would have to move fast and blast anything that moved and then get to the stairwell. If any nosy neighbors poked a head out the door to get a look at him . . . well that was bad luck for them.
I could just leave. I’m leaving too big of a trail. Now others have seen me, including Sadowsky. He won’t talk to police but he will report to whoever the new Pakhan is in New York. But with Pasha in custody will I matter enough to pursue?
He reached in his left pocket, pulled out the bottle of vodka, and took a big swig. One drink for courage even if it is only a skinny girl I have to kill.
He felt the warmth all over. She has no chance against me.
Just do it. He pocketed the bottle and lifted the gun from his side to the lock on the door.
46
BLACKSHEAR WAS ABOUT to go crazy. He had just spent the day at his in-laws for a big family gathering to celebrate his niece’s christening. Nothing more important than family, he thought, but we still have leftovers from all the holiday get-togethers. He’d missed too many family occasions as a cop and knew his wife would sulk for a week. Had to go. But after getting bumped back to lieutenant after the Durham case, he needed a quick victory.
He wanted to get over to the district attorney’s office with the case in the morning. He’d stay up late putting the case on paper. We have motive and means with the wife alone. We might have the weapon too. The crowbar hanging neatly on a pegboard inside the Keltto’s garage door had been wiped down. Had to be the crowbar.
The kid witnessing Leslie Levin’s car on the street that morning sewed things up tighter that Nancy and Leslie were in it together. He’d love to deliver the pair of them to the DA.
If Leslie had been there and lied about it, they would put the screws to him. One of the two would flip on the other. We just need to confirm Levin’s car wasn’t sitting in a parking space at O’Hare at the same time. I need to know if I’m giving him to the DA as a conspirator or direct accomplice.
He looked at his watch and wondered if it was too soon to call Conner. He hated that she lost her Sunday afternoon doing his work. I’ve got to fire Alyson. But that would be messy and won’t help me get back on the path to promotion. Maybe I just talk her up and get someone to take her off my hands in a transfer.
His phone rang. It was dispatch. He listened for a minute and whistled before confirming he was on the way. He hoped Squires and Conner didn’t want to watch TV tonight.
Nancy Keltto slit her wrists in the bathtub. Levin stopped by— contravening a written agreement he signed. Levin probably went there to make sure they got their story straight, he thought cynically. Stupid move if you are a murder suspect.
But Levin found Nancy Keltto in time to save her life. She was in ER at Advocate Christ Medical Center in Oak Lawn. Those two are thicker than blood and guilty as hell.
47
“OKAY, I GO to Chicago and kill Medved. What about the Detective?”
“Sadowsky provided the Bear with everything he needs to do the job. It might be done before you get there. That would be unfortunate. It’s never good to kill cops. Much cheaper to keep them on your side. All our informants say she saw nothing. She is not a threat. We also lose our bear bait if she’s dead. Anasenko just sent a crew to intercept the Bear and keep her alive.”
“So why send me?”
“We’re just speculating he’s still after the detective. If he is, things are easier. Sadowsky’s men will treat her like bear bait. When they see him coming they put him down. But maybe he’s taking his time. Two of Sadowsky’s men have seen the Bear once. You know him better. So that’s why we want you there.”
“Pasha always said Sadowsky was good,” Vlad said. “How’d he lose track of Medved?”
“He didn’t have him followed because they had a transmitter on the car. But the Bear found the transmitter and put it on a pickup truck heading to Indianapolis. That wasted some time.”
Vladimir shook his head. “Medved surprises me. He’s doing the right things. He must be sober.”
“So why did Pasha use a drunk to screw up the deal?”
Vladimir would love to know more about the deal but didn’t ask. Keep your mouth shut and your ears open. Most people can’t handle silence. Teplov looks like a talker.
“Pasha wanted to get rid of Med for a long time. Med used to be okay, which kept him alive longer than he deserved. But he was never right in the head after Riker Island. Pasha would have killed him when he brought the man to the warehouse.”
“Pasha or you?”
“No matter. Same thing.”
“Good point,” Teplov said. “Loyalty is everything. We are one.”
“Med was okay. Riker broke him.”
Teplov nodded understandingly—maybe a bit condescendingly. “The real issues is we put too much confidence in Pasha Boyarov.”
Vladimir said nothing. He didn’t like this guy and he didn’t like him talking Pasha down. Pasha had broken the vows of the vory v zakone, but he had been one of the best soldiers the American bratva would ever know. He would kill Pasha himself for his betrayal. But the man sitting across from him had seduced Boyarov to do wrong. He was no better. He didn’t have the right to speak against Pasha.
“So it’s understood?” Teplov asked.
“Simple enough. I am to kill the Bear. When do I leave?”
“In the morning but not from here. Even with your remarkable change in appearance, we don’t want to risk you flying from a New York airport. You and I will drive to Dulles together tonight. I’ve done all I can to calm things here. Everything will soon be settled here. Order restored. No more killings.”
“Who will be Pakhan?”
“You might as well be one of the first to know. It’s Ishutin. We need a steady hand at the helm.”
“Where do I go after I’ve done the Bear?”
“I’ll wait for you in D.C. I’ll have a new name and passport ready for you and you’ll fly to Switzerland to lay low. Plus there’s a man in Geneva we need to talk to—you can help.”
Ishutin as Pakhan? No way. Everyone knew he was too old. With Pasha out of the picture, it would have to be Luytov. And send me to Switzerland? I don’t trust this guy as far as I can throw him. He’s stringing me along until whoever is in charge knows that they want to do with me.
48
THIS IS SO unacceptable. Dr. Van Guten has missed two of our last three meetings. Just when I started opening up to her. It is human nature to pursue what you cannot have and then disregard it once you think it is yours. This is not about her. It’s about me. I need her full attention. I won’t speak to her next time she comes to see me. That will get her attention. She’s confused as to who is in charge of our talks.
The attorney. What do I think of Joseph Abrams? He’s full of himself. He didn’t like it when I called him Joey and asked me to call him Mr. Abrams. Yet he claims to be a man for the people. Hypocrisy has no boundaries.
But he’s smart. I believe he has identified the one thing that could free me. Detective Kristen Conner did not have permission to enter a private residence, no matter what I might be doing there. Not without a warrant. Not without more than a hunch of where I might be.
The law is another revealer of human nature. People love boundari
es that protect their freedom but don’t mind if someone else’s rights are trampled.
Fortunately for me, our poorly dressed detective trampled all over mine. How inconsiderate.
It’s not the right time to bring it up with Joey, but I plan to sue her for the violence she inflicted on me. I doubt she has much to lose so I will include the Chicago Police Department and the entire Chicago city government. They are broke from what I read, but as long as you can raise taxes, you can pay off your damages. I need to ask Joey about suing the FBI as well.
Leslie Van Guten is playing a game with me. She thinks she is pulling strings to make me talk to her. It’s time she learns that I make the rules.
49
I CREEP TO the side of the door and lift the compact to the level of the peephole. The trick works. Inconceivable. Somebody’s there! I see his eyes lower in the direction of the doorknob.
I crouch into a shooting stance.
Boom.
The world explodes and I feel a blazing pain sear my side.
I’m hit. I fall backward and almost drop my gun. Boom. Boom. The door is splintering and a man as big as a mountain is pushing his way through.
I get the Sig up and fire a first shot. He jumps back and crouches to the side. I start blasting holes at the door until the clip is empty. How bad am I hurt? Is he coming in? Can I defend myself?
Boom. Boom. Two more gun blasts ring in my head and then I hear a thud of steps receding down the hallway. Neither of the last two shots was aimed at me. Did I scare him off? I pray so. I am breathing. I just might be alive.
I breathe heavily, in and out, in and out. My mind won’t slow down. I have an appointment with Dr. Andrews tomorrow that I suspect I will miss. I’ll bet I have to make it up. I bet they add more sessions after what just happened.
I touch my side tenderly and it feels like I’ve stabbed myself with a hot poker. And then twisted it. I look at my hand. Bright red goo is dripping. I need help.
My hand jabs at the ground looking for my phone. I get it in my hand and swipe the screen to turn it on. Now the screen is a red gooey mess and isn’t detecting my finger motion—or it’s grossed out by what it sees.
I rub the screen against the pajama shorts I’m wearing. They will soon join the new outdoor gear I got for Christmas in an evidence bag. Years from now someone might try to donate them to Goodwill but I doubt Goodwill will accept anything stained blood red. I dry my finger on my sweatshirt. Oh man, I am going to lose my faithful friend that everyone has been telling me to throw away for years.
I feel light-headed. I’ve got to call 911. My phone vibrates and chirps first. Klarissa. I jab the red button to refuse the call and it chirps again. Squires. I’ve got to get an EMT over here soon. I pick up his call.
“Don! I’ve been shot. Get an ambulance over to Klarissa’s ASAP.”
He laughs. Do I joke around that much? No time to convince him. I hit the red button and call 911 on my own. The operator is extremely quick and helpful because he’s already been dispatching police and emergency crews to my location.
I’m feeling loopy. Squires’ name pops back up on my screen. I hit green but can’t say anything.
“Conner? Kristen? KC? Tell me you’re joking.”
“Don’t sweat it, Don,” I rasp out. “I got hold of 911 myself. They’re sending an ambulance.”
“You better not be joking! What is going on?”
I really am going to stop kidding so much. No one knows when to take me seriously and it’s going to kill me. Literally.
“Kristen?” I hear Don yelling.
I want to answer but my head is reeling.
I drop the phone. The only thing I want in the world right now is to sleep and wake up alive.
50
HOW DID SADOWSKY find me? Spotting the car he loaned me would be like finding a needle in the haystack. Med scowled and smacked his head. The detective. He knew I was hitting the detective.
Medved was carefully driving the speed limit. If he got pulled over he was done. Even if an officer didn’t see the bright red circle on the front of his coat, he would undoubtedly smell the alcohol. He poured some of it on his wound and some of it down his throat. Some people drink vodka because they claim no one smells it on your breath. That’s more than a little exaggeration he thought. Even if the officer didn’t see the blood or smell the alcohol he might notice two handguns on the passenger seat and a sniper rifle on the backseat.
He had been parking Sadowsky’s car in the back lot of a motel a mile from his. He didn’t mind walking in the cold. He grew up north of Moscow. This was child’s play. But now he had a bullet lodged in his chest.
Do I risk parking closer or do I walk?
He looked at the near empty bottle beside him. Maybe one big swallow left.
That will be enough to keep me warm. That and the memory of shooting one of Sadowsky’s bulls between the eyes. One shot from fifty feet—with a bullet in my chest—that’s impressive. Best shot ever.
How in the world did I let that skinny detective shoot me? It had to be the vodka.
Time to get back to the motel room and dress his wound. Unless it was within an inch of the surface, he would probably leave the bullet in to be removed later. It might not have to come out ever. He had an uncle who left a bullet lodged in his head as a souvenir of getting out of Afghanistan alive.
One small stop for supplies. He pulled into the parking lot of a Walgreens. It was impossible to be discreet at 6’ 7” and 350 pounds. Med did the best he could, keeping his head down and making eye contact with no one. He looked at the aisle signs and headed for the first aid section. He scooped up two bottles of rubbing alcohol, a brown bottle of peroxide, a packet of rubber gloves, a disinfecting soap, antibacterial ointment, gauze, and tape. He went back for two bottles of iodine and some tweezers, just in case.
The kid working the cash register didn’t even look at him—or at least pretended not to. Good thing I bought a dark coat at Dollar General. Makes it harder to see the blood.
Sadowsky took the call at Minsky’s, expecting to hear that the Bear was dead. No one looked at him when he talked on a special line that had so many relays and cutouts it was next to impossible to know its actual location. If any of the men huddled in small groups, drinking and talking quietly, had been watching, never a good idea, they would have seen a first. Sadowsky’s teeth clenched shut and his pasty white face turned red with rage.
The Bear was alive. One of his men was shot dead. Another was taken into custody.
What is going on in New York? Everyone kept telling him all would be settled and fine within days. So why is their smoke and fire blowing into my city?
51
GRACE CONNER LOOKED up from her crossword puzzle. Who could be at the door at this time of night? She checked her memory. Yes, she turned the knob on the door handle and both deadbolts. You can never be too careful living in the big city. Murder might be down significantly in the United States, but not in Chicago. It just happened on my street.
She picked up her cell phone. They say you’re not supposed to put 911 on speed dial. She put her finger on the seven button. They say a lot of things you shouldn’t listen to.
She looked through the peephole. Two uniformed officers were on the front stoop. Their faces were different—somehow younger—but they looked just as solemn as they did five years ago. The night her Michael was shot. The night that changed everything.
Tears were already streaming down her face as she fumbled at the locks and pulled the door open.
No. Not Kristen. Dear God, no. Not Kristen. Not my baby. But she knew in her heart of hearts they were here because of her daughter.
Before the officer could say anything she had sunk to her knees sobbing as a wail from some part of her she didn’t know existed pierced the night.
The call to Jimmy came late, even for a pastor. He got up quickly from the table where he, Kaylen, Kendra, and James were munching on pizza. The baby was asleep upstairs.
Kaylen looked up when he reentered the kitchen. His eyes were welling with tears.
“Kaylen . . . we need to call a neighbor to watch the kids.”
“What . . . what’s going on?” she asked as her heart sank. “Not Kristen.”
“What daddy?” Kendra asked, wide-eyed. “Did something happen to Aunt Kristen?”
“Aunt Kristen is hurt, Kendra. Maybe not very bad. Mommy and daddy need to go find out.”
Don’t cry in front of the kids, Kaylen told herself, as she burst into sobs.
Six-year-old James just stared, frozen in place.
“Austin, I know you don’t want to hear what I have to say.”
“Then don’t say it, Leslie. I’m just a hammer and I probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. I don’t have an IQ that Stanford-Binet calls very advanced.”
“IQ has never been your problem, Austin.”
“That’s good to know even if you’re reminding me of my myriad of other problems.”
“Don’t be so surly, Austin. I’m actually thinking of you and your good, which I admit I didn’t do a good job of in our marriage.”
Reynolds wanted to nail Van Guten with a quick quip but held his tongue in check. It would only get her going on explaining the deficiencies of him and everyone else who wasn’t Leslie Van Guten, PhD, MD, and whatever new initials she’d acquired. They were cruising at thirty-five thousand feet in a Gulfstream the FBI kept on call for bigwigs, which in this case, despite his relationship with Willingham, was not him.
“I know you, Austin. I can see it unfolding. Things didn’t work out between us so you are in a compensation mode. You are bonding with someone who is my diametric opposite.”
“You mean someone with a heart? Or just not very smart?”