by M. K. Gilroy
She hates Conner—since the first day she set eyes on her—and KC is my one go-to when we move to LA.
72
“SO YOU ARE saying no one else in New York was involved with PathoGen?”
Reynolds was still in the room, but now as a spectator and maybe a prop, not the lead questioner. A senior interrogator was working Boyarov.
“No one,” Pasha answered. “I’ve told you that twenty times—at least twenty times. Ask twenty more if you wish, but I’ll answer the same each time. The messenger boy, Teplov, brought the deal to me.”
“Directly?”
“No. I told you already. He had his own messenger boy. Ruchkin.
“Why you? Why did Teplov and whoever he worked for pick you, Pasha Boyarov?”
“He said that Genken had turned it down. The Pakhan had a lot of power and freedom, but not that much power anymore. He couldn’t say no to Moscow—that simple.”
“When did the New York bratva start answering to Moscow?”
“Always. Never. I don’t know.”
“I thought you were Genken’s right-hand man?”
Pasha smiled. Did they think they could work him so easily?
“I was a brigadier, nothing more. I was never sovietnik. I didn’t have enough gray hair. I knew next to nothing about Moscow. Really, I knew nothing. That’s the way Genken wanted it.”
“But you think he worked with Moscow.”
“Things changed after the breakup of the USSR. Relationships were reconnected. But everyone in Moscow was still weak and poor. No one could order Genken to do anything. Ten years later, the oligarchs got half the country’s rubles and weren’t so weak and poor anymore.”
“Do you think this goes all the way up to the president?”
“Can I give you some advice?”
The interrogator didn’t answer.
“There is only one real Pakhan and one real bratva now. So sure. It goes all the up to the man himself. Putin. But here is my advice. You should ask me about New York. I moved from Russia when I was thirteen. I’ve never been back. All I know is New York and the way we are here. Now I know that will make you think I’m tricking you so I don’t have to tell you who is in charge in Russia. So ask all you want. I’ll make some things up for you if it will make Willingham happy. But I think you know more about Russia than I do. I know New York.”
Reynolds frowned to keep himself from smiling. Maybe Boyarov was going to work out better than he first thought.
“So the deal with PathoGen was all you?”
“Yes. I told no one else anything. Genken taught me that the fewer who know the better.”
“Not even Vladimir Zheglov?”
“No, not even Vlad. But you can ask him yourself.”
“Why do you think that, Pasha?” Reynolds interrupted.
“Because I handed him to you on a silver platter when I made the deal with you. He’s probably next door right now.”
The room was silent.
Boyarov began to smile and chuckle softly.
“Is something funny?” Reynolds asked.
“You didn’t get Vlad, did you?”
“Maybe we’ll let you ask him yourself,” Reynolds said.
“Tsk, tsk,” Pasha said. “Agent Reynolds, you need to let the real interrogators do the talking. You are much too obvious. But I like you, even though if it was only the two of us in this room, only one would walk out alive. Two trained killers? It would be interesting. Who would win Agent Reynolds?”
The two men stared at each other. This time Pasha broke it with a laugh.
“Here is more free advice from me,” he said, looking at the interrogator. “You need to tell Willingham to put his torpedo back in the field. If Vladimir Zheglov is loose, we all have problems. He is very good, you know? I would claim I taught him everything he knows— but he’s got some special tricks I don’t know. He’ll know how to stay alive and free—that’s obvious. And he’ll know how to reconnect with whoever the puppet masters are in all this. When he does, he will become the triggerman to solve any problems. I think I might be their number one problem.”
That’s one mystery solved, Reynolds thought. I think we have a pretty good idea who killed Teplov.
So where is Vlad now? Figuring out how to get to Boyarov? Teplov was dead. It had to be Zheglov who killed him. If so, the two men were together close to Dulles. Better have them run passenger manifests there and Reagan International.
I was going to save Nancy. She obviously doesn’t know what I am capable of. If I get out of this mess, I might kill her myself.
73
ZAWORSKI LOOKED LIKE he was going to ask me what the heck I was doing in the office but I think he did the math and figured he couldn’t run the department one man down—even if that one man is me, a mere woman—especially with new developments in the Keltto murder. It’s just five of us. Blackshear, Squires, and Sergeant Konkade round out the small group meeting.
The meeting started with Squires and Blackshear updating Zaworski that Leslie Levin’s alibi didn’t quite check out. Doesn’t mean he swung the shovel or crow bar or baseball bat or whatever. But it might mean Nancy didn’t. Then we hit my hospital conversation with Nancy Keltto. Zaworski and Konkade give each other a look of dread.
I quickly explain that she initiated the conversation and gave full permission for the interview and that I had it in writing, signed by her, me, and Agent Heather Torgerson as a witness. I provide a copy of the agreement. The original is safely locked in my case file.
“What do you think, Konkade?” Zaworski asks him, handing him the copy.
I don’t know if Konkade always moves his lips when he reads but I do know that the Sergeant smooths the hair on his bald dome when he is agitated.
“It’ll get challenged for not being done in legalese. It won’t help that Conner wrote it up on a yellow ruled sheet of paper. But my guess is it will hold. I’ll send it over to legal and the DA’s office so they can get it to her attorney. He’ll throw a tantrum but I think it will hold.”
“Okay, let’s assume it does,” Zaworski says. “What does it mean?”
Blackshear, now on loan to the Second until this case is done, runs through the new scenario we might be looking at: fourteen-year-old Bradley Starks killed Ed Keltto.
“The kid is anti-social and has shown violent tendencies—he put his principal in the hospital.”
“Assistant principal,” I correct.
Everyone gives me a funny look. I guess it wasn’t that big of a point.
“He’s also been treated for depression.” Blackshear continues. New information for me. “From everything we have seen he’s neglected by his mom. Mom and dad divorced when he was two and his dad moved to Florida a couple years later. It was noted in the juvie file that there is no relationship between them. So yeah, he has a lot going for him as a suspect. He is a viable option.”
A lot going for him? We get jaded in how we see and say things in this line of work.
“He’s a peeper?” Zaworski asks.
“That’s what Nancy said,” I add.
“Does that show up on the profiles for young killers?” Konkade asks.
“I think it fits within anti-social behavior,” Blackshear says. “We have a call in to our juvenile expert. I’ve got everything we got on the way over to her and we should get her evaluation back soon.”
“The sooner the better,” Zaworski snarls. “Put an expedite on it.” He looks at Konkade, “Get involved if that will help. I don’t want to leave an innocent kid in lockup. That has lawsuit written all over it. What’s next?”
“We’re working to get our next formal interview with Nancy Keltto today or tomorrow,” Squires says.
“Don’t count on it,” Zaworski harrumphs. “Not after that chat she had with Conner. The attorney will be able to delay it a couple days. What about the kid?”
“We’re working on that, too,” Blackshear answers.
“The mom has said no,” Konka
de interjects. “We’re going slow. Problem is the clock is ticking on the forty-eight hours we can hold him without any formal charges.”
“What’s the risk of cutting him loose until this is settled?” Zaworski asks.
Blackshear is quick to answer, “Big risk. If he’s a depressed, angry, anti-social killer, he might decide to do something dramatic, like shoot up his school. Heck, he whacked the one guy in the world trying to help him.”
“We don’t know that,” I jump in.
The conference room phone buzzes, interrupting us.
“That’ll be the commissioner,” Zaworski says. He hits the intercom button.
“Commissoner?”
“Yeah, this is Fergosi.”
“This is Zaworski. I’ve got Conner, Squires, Blackshear, and Konkade in the room with me.”
Police Commissioner Fergosi had called him on the way to work to say he wanted to talk to the team. He couldn’t be here in person but wanted everyone on the conference line.
“Okay, let me connect Doyle and Nelson.”
A couple of clicks and one false start later the two men acknowledge their presence. Paul Fergosi hits it fast.
“You all can appreciate what’s at stake with this Russian gang war in New York and maybe here.” He pauses. “Conner, you okay to be in the office?”
“Yes sir. Feeling great.”
That is eighty to ninety percent true. I fight the urge to scratch at my bandaged side. The itch is suddenly driving me crazy.
“Good. Don’t push it. We’re going to get through this.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I was on the phone with New York’s police commissioner, Gerald Kranich, last night and this morning. Looks like the worst of what they’ve been dealing with is over. Hopefully. No shootings for two days. Between the thirty who are dead and the two hundred arrested—plus those unaccounted for—there might not be anyone left on the street to shoot at each other. But they are quite confident a lot of guys have slipped through the nets. Some are just hiding under a rock. But others, we believe, have swum their way to safer waters in Miami, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and of course, Chicago. And other places. Doyle is working with the FBI and together they are pushing to hound Sadowsky’s gang here in the city as hard as they can legally. The hit attempt on Conner has given us some latitude with the court to be aggressive. But that’s never enough. Plus our new mayor keeps tugging on our leash to make sure we are protecting the rights of our upstanding criminals. If anyone repeats what I’m about to say, I’ll fire you. I don’t care what the mayor thinks. I need to know if there’s more we can do to keep New York’s problems there and not here.
“Nelson, you feel good about protecting Conner?”
“I’d feel better if she was on the sideline and under static protective care, sir. It’s hard to move security fast enough to keep up with her.”
Thanks, Frank.
“What is she working, Zaworski?”
I hold my breath waiting for what he has to say.
“She’s eyeball deep in a murder that happened in her old neighborhood, Paulie. It happened down the street from Mikey Conner’s place.”
Paulie? Mikey?
“Is Gracie okay?” Fergosi asks.
I’ve never heard my mom called that. Fergosi knew my dad. It warms my heart that he remembers my mom’s name. Of course he was at the funeral and handed her the flag.
“She’s doing good, sir,” I say.
“Give her my regards.”
“I will.”
“Doyle, you there?” Fergosi asks.
“Yes sir.”
“What do you think?”
“I wanted to call you directly before this conference call. I’ve been on the phone with Frank. We had a new development overnight that we’re just getting a handle on.”
Spencer Doyle has gone a different route than his uncle and great uncle, but he’s got the politician’s sense of timing. It was assumed his brother, Doyle the Third is how the press refers to him, would be next, but he got himself in trouble on an insider trading bust—it’s hard to get elected from a prison, even if it is of the country club minimum security variety. Spencer knows the power of a pause. I could learn from that. I too often fill in the empty space that gets others to open up a little bit more.
“Doyle, you going to enlighten us?” Fergosi asks.
“The Third Precinct got a call from a motel manager about four in the morning. It’s a little hole in the wall in Humboldt Park. A lot of the customers rent by the hour. A couple of them started complaining about a foul odor. That must be a regular occurrence there because the manager didn’t check on things right away. He finally opened the door on a guy who’s been staying there about a week and who had specifically asked not to be disturbed, not even by the cleaners. He got in the room and there was a body in a nasty state of decomposition. No ID, no nothing. The medical examiner got in there and found a bullet in the man’s chest—he doesn’t think that was cause of death by the way. There was enough skin left on him that he identified a tattoo. He thought it might be Russian lettering. He’s seen enough going on in national media with New York that he thought we should see it in the organized crime division. So he sent a picture over.
“No question on the tattoo. It’s Red Mafiya. One of our researchers thinks it is authentic to a Russian prison. We just got the slug sent to forensics. Conner, we’ve got someone on the way over to pick up your gun and ammo to test for a match. Body size and mass matches Nazar Kublanov. He did prison time in Moscow at Butryka—and the tattoo matches what was being done there. Once we positively ID him with prints, the threat to Conner might be over.”
“With all due respect,” Nelson breaks in, “last time we heard that we let our guard down.”
“I’m not saying to remove security from Conner,” Doyle shoots back. “I’m just saying we might be out of the woods.”
“Okay,” Fergosi jumps in. “Nothing changes on Conner for the time being. What about Sadowsky? You talked to him yet?”
“No one seemed to know where he was the last few days,” Doyle says. “Frankly, we began to wonder if he got taken out by whoever got Genken. But lo and behold, it seems that he decided it was time to visit his compound in Phoenix and get in a little golf. The weather was too cold here. That’s what his secretary told us this morning.”
“More like too hot,” Fergosi says. “What can we do to talk to him?”
“Nothing,” Doyle says, “but the FBI can. We notified Chicago and Phoenix offices right away. Phoenix is sending agents over as soon as they can get them briefed. Chicago might fly in a second wave. They might be on their way already.”
“We’ll get a full report?” Fergosi asks. “And soon?”
“They promised yes on both counts, but it doesn’t mean keeping us in the loop is at the top of their priority list.”
“Same old same old. Are your relations with local FBI good these days, Spencer?” Fergosi asks.
“Not always, Commish. But we’re all playing nice on this case. We have to. Everyone is desperate for information on the gang war so everyone is cooperating. Even the FBI.”
“Good. Let’s all stay on top of this and keep it from going anywhere.”
I think we’re done.
“Conner,” Fergosi says before we can hang up.
“Yes sir?”
“How is your relationship with the FBI these days?”
Is he talking about Reynolds and me or the whole bureau? Oh man.
“Not much contact, sir.”
“Glad you decided to stay with our happy family and not go Fed on us,” he says. I’m surprised he knows about the offer. “Listen Conner, if you do hear anything from our friends in the FBI—anything big or small—make sure you pass word to Doyle right away.”
“I doubt I’ll hear anything but if I do, I’ll get it to Doyle.”
“Thanks, Kristen,” Doyle interjects.
Now we’re done.
“What ab
out Conner?” Nelson blurts out quickly. “I think we need her out of circulation.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, sir,” I respond. “Sounds like the Bear has been put down.”
“What bear?” Fergosi asks.
“The Russian. Nazar. His nickname is Medved, the Bear. Plus, even if there is any more mistaken interest in me, it’s harder to hit a moving target.”
I look over at Don who is rolling his eyes. Maybe that wasn’t the right way to put it.
After a pause Fergosi says, “Keep working for now Conner. But be careful. If Doyle finds out anything new that says your part in all this isn’t over, we’ll pull you in like Frank wants. Everyone communicate. Let’s put this thing behind us. We got enough troubles with the local natives. You guys probably saw the stat sheet this morning. It’s too cold to go outside and domestic violence reports are spiking through the roof. We don’t need a Red Mafiya gang war in Chicago.”
The first murder in recorded history was Cain killing his brother Abel. Nothing much has changed. Random murder gets the headlines, but most murder comes at the hands of someone the victim knew. We maim and murder the ones we love.
I think of Bradley. Did Ed Keltto getting involved and trying to help the kid put him at risk?
I’m no social scientist, though I took my share of classes in my criminal justice undergrad degree at Northern Illinois. I know enough to know that when marriages fall apart the kids pay the price. Bradley’s parents split up. His dad headed for Florida. His mom is too busy to keep an eye on him. He and everyone around him seem to be suffering the consequences.
Maybe Vanessa is right about a career change for Don. If it’s good for the marriage it’s good for Devon and Veronika.
I think of my family. Klarissa went her way for a while. I was in my first years with a badge and working insane hours. Dad got shot. We could have fallen apart but we didn’t. I need to better appreciate what Mom—Gracie—and Kaylen did and do to hold us together. Of course Dad asked a lot from me, too.
74
“SO WHEN WERE you going to tell me Zheglov is at large, Robert?”