The Fedorovich File: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book Three

by Ross H. Spencer

  Barney was saying, “I didn’t hit Mr. Addison all that hard.”

  Lockington said, “Well, that may be true, but there ain’t no way you’re gonna prove it by Mr. Addison.”

  “Would you believe that Mr. Addison has the same kind of revolver that Joe Pilgrim carries—a Smith & Wesson?” Barney had changed the subject, scrambling back to Joe Pilgrim like a rabbit to a briar patch, and Lockington didn’t bother to get in his way—he could see no advantage in whipping a dead horse. Barney said, “Only time Joe Pilgrim didn’t wrap things up with his Smith & Wesson was in the last couple chapters of Death on Pocahontas Street. That was the time he used his Martin’s Ferry Elite.”

  Lockington frowned. “I’ve never heard of a Martin’s Ferry Elite.”

  Barney was in his own ballpark now, discussing things that he knew how to discuss. “A Martin’s Ferry Elite is a deadly accurate .303 rifle with an infrared scope. Joe Pilgrim was trying to stop a sniper who was picking off pedestrians from the roof of the Pickwick Hotel on Pocahontas Street in Sin City.”

  “I’ll bet Joe nailed that sucker.”

  “Oh, sure, it was no contest! He took his Martin’s Ferry Elite to the seventh floor of an office building across the street from the Pickwick Hotel, and he shot the sniper right through his medulla oblongata.”

  Lockington said, “Which probably didn’t improve that sniper’s sex life a great deal.”

  “Got him between the eyes!”

  “Oh.”

  Barney snapped his fingers, making a gesture of finality. “When you get shot through your medulla oblongata with a Martin’s Ferry Elite, you’re outta here! By the way, the sniper turned out to be a bellhop at the Pickwick Hotel. He was pissed-off at the mayor of Sin City—the mayor was shacking up with the bellhop’s grandmother at the Pickwick—Room 457.”

  “Yeah, those bellhops are a bad bunch—back in Chicago I knew one who booked horses!”

  “Besides that, the mayor was a bum tipper.”

  Lockington said, “One question—why was this bellhop shooting pedestrians—why didn’t he just blast the mayor and get it over with?”

  Barney said, “Y’know, Joe Pilgrim was wondering about the very same thing.”

  Lockington nodded. “Good old Joe.”

  29

  Natasha wasn’t waiting at the door when he came in. She was at their kitchen table, drawing eight-spoked wheels, filling the spoke gaps with letters, jotting numerals around the wheel rims. Lockington dropped a rose on the table and Natasha tossed her ballpoint pen to one side, glancing up at him. “Thank you, sir!”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am!”

  She reached for his hand, pressing the back of it to her lips. She said, “Hello, Lacey!”

  Lockington said, “Well, by God, the lady remembers me—that’s a step in the right direction!”

  Natasha picked up the rose, slipping it into her hairdo. “Lacey, I know that I’ve been preoccupied recently—try not to be angry with me.”

  “I hadn’t noticed any difference.” The hell he hadn’t. He said, “What’s with all the wheels?”

  Natasha’s shrug was discouraged. “I’m trying to be helpful.”

  “To whom?”

  “To you, of course.”

  “In what way?”

  “In finding General Fedorovich—I’ve been playing a longshot.”

  “Longshot players die broke.” He studied the stack of paper on the table. “What do the wheels have to do with Fedorovich?”

  Natasha was fixing vodka martinis. “You’re home a couple of hours early.”

  “The Kozlowski kid’s watching the office, I’ve given him a key—if anything pops he’ll call me. What about the wheels?”

  She picked up her papers, arranging them, pushing him into the living room. “Get out of here—you’re cluttering up my kitchen.”

  Lockington sat on the sofa, lighting a cigarette, wondering about everything in general and nothing in particular, watching Natasha bring the martinis. She sat across from him in the overstuffed chair. She crossed her legs. She was wearing a short navy blue skirt. Lockington enjoyed watching Natasha cross her legs in a short skirt whether it was navy blue or not, especially when she sat facing him. She raised her martini glass to him. “Did you see something that appeals to you?”

  “It appeals to me if I see it or if I don’t—that’s quality. Tell me about the wheels, and the numbers and the letters. Are we into cryptography?”

  She was lighting a cigarette, squinting against the smoke. She said, “It’s probably a bad hunch, but when I was a girl in Odessa, my brother and I used to play a game. In Odessa there isn’t much to do on winter evenings, so we’d amuse ourselves with it. It was my father’s idea—he told us that it’d stimulate our thinking processes, but we suspected that it was to keep us quiet so he could read. My father read a great deal…” Her voice trailed off, a pensive smile of recollection twitching a corner of her mouth.

  Lockington said, “This game—wheels were involved?”

  “Yes, wheels and numerals and letters—it’s best adapted to the English language, and my father said that English would eventually become the global tongue. He insisted that we use it as often as possible.”

  “How does the game apply here—how is it played?”

  “It’s relatively simple—I mean its basis is simple—it’s finding the key that’s difficult.”

  “The key?”

  “The triggering device—with its discovery, a ten-year-old can handle the problem with ease.”

  “I’m not sure that I’m with you.”

  “It wasn’t so much a game as it was a puzzle, but my brother and I played it competitively, and that made it a game. In the winter we played it almost every evening.”

  “And you won every time.”

  “Not always, but usually. We believed that my father had invented the pastime.”

  “But he hadn’t?”

  “I rather doubt it—it was probably a common enough time-killer—you know the Russian penchant for chess and games that require patience, but at that time we attributed its creation to him.” She stared at the carpeting for a few moments. Then she said, “When we’re young and impressionable we tend to embrace the improbable—then, when we grow up, we learn better.”

  Lockington scowled. “You’re trying to tell me that there ain’t no Santa Claus?”

  Lockington loved her lopsided smile. She said, “In my case, there never was—Santa doesn’t exist in the Soviet Union. Now, looking back, I feel cheated—but perhaps he’ll get there someday.”

  “Back to this game, or puzzle, or whatever—you’re into it up to your ears.”

  “Well, you see, I’d forgotten it—the wheels on the dust jacket of General Fedorovich’s book returned it to mind. It comes under the heading of coincidence, it would appear.”

  “What did you think it would concern, if it concerned anything?”

  “It occurred to me that it might have something to do with General Fedorovich—his location, possibly. That was a wild goose, I suppose.”

  “Much ado about nothing?”

  “In all probability, yes.” She got up to mix more martinis. When she came back she said, “Why don’t we go out for dinner tonight?”

  “To get away from the wheels?”

  “Not necessarily—I’m in the mood for spaghetti. Could we do that?”

  They drove south on Raccoon Road to a small Italian restaurant Lockington had discovered during his earlier visit to Youngstown. They took a red-covered candlelighted table in a dim corner of the place. When Natasha was seated Lockington checked the jukebox, finding a few numbers, pumping coins into the slot. He returned to their table amid the strains of “Sunrise Serenade,” winking at Natasha. “Remember that one?”

  Natasha listened, her brow wrinkling. “Should I?”

  “Why, certainly—it’s ‘Natasha’s Eyes,’ written by Leonid Gruschev, a noted Russian composer—appropriately named, I think—it’s
gently moody, but it has a certain sparkle.”

  Natasha was staring at him. “Lacey, are you trying to get me into bed?”

  Lockington shrugged. “Well, quite frankly, that thought has crossed my mind.”

  Natasha placed her elbows on the red tablecloth, leaning in Lockington’s direction. “You chawrtuh, that’s ‘Sunrise Serenade,’ composed by an American pianist named Frankie Carle!” She accepted Lockington’s proffered cigarette and a light. She leaned back, inhaling deeply, blowing smoke in Lockington’s direction. “But I’ll go to bed with you, anyway.”

  Lockington said, “The end justifies the means.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “In this case, yes.”

  “In this case, so do I.”

  Their waitress came and they ordered a chilled bottle of Chianti wine. When they’d finished it they ordered another, and then one more, making occasional small talk, listening to the soft throb of the jukebox, “Moonlight Mood,” and “Melancholy Baby,” and “I Only Have Eyes for You.” Lacey Lockington was so deeply in love that he didn’t know whether he was on foot or on horseback.

  30

  A yellow dishpan-size moon rode high in a black velvet October sky. Lockington drove slowly north on Raccoon Road, singing “Cecilia.” Lockington liked “Cecilia.” He sang it again. Natasha interrupted the second chorus. “I wonder if there was a Cecilia—a Cecilia who inspired the song.”

  Lockington said, “I knew a Cecilia in Chicago—Cecilia Zoop—Sheridan Road hooker, fifty, maybe fifty-five, peroxide blonde, brown-eyed, heavy in the vest, ass like a forty dollar cow—thirty bucks, but she’d take five, your place or hers. She—”

  “Lacey, will you shut up, for God’s sake?”

  “For God’s sake? Communists don’t believe in God.”

  “Some do, some don’t,” Natasha said. “By the way, the spaghetti was excellent.”

  Lockington said, “I guess it all depends on how you look at it.”

  Natasha said, “At what—spaghetti or Communists?”

  “Damn right!”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “I know it. So are you.”

  “Just a little, maybe. Should we have a nightcap before we go to bed?”

  Lockington said, “I knew a guy who drank nothing but nightcaps. What do they put in those things?”

  Natasha said, “You’d better have one—you’re going to need it.”

  “Was that a threat?”

  “No, it was a promise.”

  They pulled into the drive of the little white house on North Dunlap Avenue, getting out of the Mercedes, pausing to study the heavens. There were a million stars up there and the moon was drifting behind a frothy screen of tattered white clouds. Natasha took his hand. She said, “Just think, that very same moon is shining on Odessa.”

  “No, it ain’t—different time zones.”

  “Why split hairs?”

  “Hairs? You’re talking thousands of miles!”

  Natasha said, “Well, excuse me!”

  Lockington said, “Okay.”

  She slipped an arm around his waist, squeezing hard. She was very strong. She said, “Lacey, I love you.”

  Lockington tilted her chin, making wordless response by kissing her.

  They went into the house and down the stairs to the little basement bar. Natasha perched on a stool, rapping briskly. She snapped, “Service, please!

  Lockington poured a short glass of vodka, then cognac. They toasted each other. Lockington turned on the eleven o’clock local news. The announcer was saying that a Youngstown fireman, Kevin O’Malley, had taken full responsibility for the rash of false fire alarms that had resulted in the systematic near-destruction of the Youngstown Board of Education building. Fireman Kevin O’Malley appeared on the screen accompanied by two large men in white coats. Kevin O’Malley’s hair was in his eyes and he was waving his arms. He said that he’d taken great pleasure in getting into that bleeping Board of Education building and kicking the bleeping bleep out of the joint. He mentioned that Christ would return to earth, probably within a week, and he announced that the Philadelphia Phillies would win the 1989 National League pennant.

  Natasha looked at Lockington. She said, “He’s insane.”

  “Obviously! The Phils don’t have a prayer!”

  Natasha didn’t say a word.

  Lockington was sorry for Fireman Kevin O’Malley. He told Natasha about this.

  Natasha said, “So am I.” She let it go at that.

  Lockington raised his cognac glass, holding it above his head. “I do now propose a toast to Fireman Kevin O’Malley.”

  O’Malley was still talking. He was saying that when the roll was called up yonder he’d be there. He added that stars would be falling on Alabama one of these nights.

  They toasted Fireman Kevin O’Malley.

  Lockington put his hand on Natasha’s knee. He said, “You are a lady of good will and great compassion.”

  Natasha said, “I am aware of that. I am also a stem-winding, ring-tailed bitch-kitty in bed.”

  Fireman Kevin O’Malley had departed the television screen. The news announcer said that a prominent Youngstown psychiatrist, Dr. Luman J. Griswold had been consulted regarding his case. The scene shifted to Dr. Luman J. Griswold’s office in downtown Youngstown where he was shown stroking his beard. Dr. Griswold didn’t mince words. He said that Fireman Kevin O’Malley’s time in Youngstown’s public schools was undoubtedly responsible for his pitiful condition. He opined that O’Malley was harboring a grudge and a desire to avenge an injustice real or imagined, perhaps a detention period undeserved or an embarrassment at the hands of an insensitive faculty member. He said that this had probably brought about a deep-rooted resentment over which O’Malley had no control whatsoever, that he may have had no vivid recollection of the provoking incident, but that his anger had not yet subsided. Dr. Griswold noted that his knowledge of such cases stemmed from personal experience, that he’d had a fifth grade teacher named Miss LaVerne Pastor who’d made him stand in a corner until he’d urinated in his pants. Dr. Griswold’s hands were twitching and his eyes had taken on a rather dangerous glint. He stated that the Atlanta Braves would win the 1989 National League pennant going away. He sang a chorus of “Down Among the Sheltering Palms.”

  Lockington turned to Natasha. “Do they get many false fire alarms at the Kremlin?”

  “I can’t say. I’ve never been to the Kremlin.”

  “Now there’s a coincidence—neither have I!”

  Natasha nodded acknowledgment of the fact that Lockington had never been to the Kremlin.

  Lockington proposed a toast to Dr. Luman J. Griswold.

  They drank.

  The news announcer said that a fifty-year-old woman, a Candice Hoffman, had been found bludgeoned to death in her home at 24 North Brockway Avenue on Youngstown’s West Side, and that the possibility of foul play was being given serious consideration.

  Lockington lurched to his feet, suddenly stone-sober. He turned off the television set. He said, “Candice Hoffman knew where to find Olga Karelinko!”

  Natasha was nibbling on her lower lip. She said, “Tell me about this business, tell me all about it—I mean all.”

  Lockington did that, starting with the moment Gordon Kilbuck had stepped into his office, bringing it up to the present, every move, every contact, every word, as he remembered them.

  Natasha listened, nodding occasionally but asking no questions, making no comment, and when he was finished she said nothing. Nothing at all.

  31

  Usually, Natasha rolled out of bed at 7:30 sharp, Lockington a few minutes later, but on that Friday morning he stirred shortly before 7:00, reaching for Natasha, and finding no Natasha. He slipped into his robe and went thumping barefoot through the hallway and into the living room. Natasha was at the kitchen table, frowning perplexedly. Gen. Alexi Fedorovich’s book was in front of her and she was paging rapidly through it, jotting notes
on a legal pad. She glanced up. “Coffee’s ready.”

  Lockington poured a cup before seating himself across from her. “Back to the wheels? Why?”

  “Why not? What do we stand to lose?”

  “What do we stand to gain?”

  “Probably nothing, but there’s always a chance.”

  “You think Fedorovich’s life’s at stake?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “You’re worried about the KGB?”

  “If you’re Russian you worry about the KGB—even the KGB worries about the KGB, or about Mawlniyuh, which is a branch of the KGB.”

  Lockington said, “I don’t speak Russian.”

  “Mawlniyuh translates to ‘Lightning’—it’s the equivalent of an American police department’s internal affairs investigative unit.”

  “The KGB’s KGB.”

  “Right.”

  “How does it function?”

  “Quietly and efficiently. If you’re KGB you don’t know who’s working for Mawlniyuh and who isn’t.”

  Lockington nodded. “If Mawlniyuh comes across a bad apple in the barrel, he’s reprimanded and kicked out of service.”

  Natasha said, “Well-l-l, yes, which is to say he’s shot in the back of the head.”

  “Summarily?”

  “Certainly. Mawlniyuh is a brass-tacks organization.”

  “It concentrates on corruption?”

  “Earlier, that was its principal service, but recently it’s become concerned with a KGB faction that’s intent upon doing things its own way—the old way.”

  “Hard-line?”

  “Yes, very. In his third chapter, General Fedorovich states his belief that Mikhail Gorbachev will be ousted from power within the next two or three years—probably by assassination, and if it’s assassination, the general is of the firm opinion that it’ll be implemented by Krahsny Lentuh.”

  “I still don’t speak Russian.”