Russian Roulette (Hannibal Jones Mysteries)

by Austin S. Camacho

  He parked across the street from Raisa’s house and got out of his car with one thought at the top of his mind. No one he had met on this case was stupid, and even the women seemed well practiced in duplicity and capable of anything.

  A tap at the door yielded silence for a good thirty seconds. When he heard movement, it was a shuffling gait, not the energetic steps he expected. When she opened the door, Raisa was in heels and a tasteful gown. He assumed she had not changed from what she wore to the Russia House that morning.

  Invited into the house for the first time, Hannibal was struck by how much the décor reminded him of the Russia House. Not just the paintings but the frames too gave the impression that this woman longed to go back in time and live in tsarist Russia. She seated him at the kitchen table and poured for them both from a china teapot. After taking a long drink, she looked at Hannibal as if anticipating an inquisition and not really caring to avoid it. At that moment, Hannibal had no desire to play the game.

  “Mrs. Petrova, are you all right?”

  “I am fine,” she said into her teacup. “It is just that, well, she’s gone.”

  “Viktoriya?” Hannibal asked. When she gave a sullen nod, he asked, “Gone where?”

  “Gone with Dani. Gone from my life.”

  Raisa Petrova had the furnace running and kept the house quite warm. That didn’t stop Hannibal from feeling a chill run down his spine. Had she expected them to stay there with her? Was she counting on Gana’s money to support her, or was she simply missing her little girl?

  “Never mind,” Raisa said, waving her hand to brush the subject, or perhaps her daughter, away. “You have spoken to Yakov, I suppose, and now have more questions of me about Dani. Well, go ahead and ask them.”

  Hannibal nodded and pulled out the same photo he had shown the Sidorovs. He laid it on the table between them and watched Raisa’s face. She brightened for a moment, and slowly reached down to stroke her finger over Nikita’s smiling face.

  “This was taken in the Russia House, years ago,” she said. “Where did you find this? How did you get it?”

  “I’m a detective,” Hannibal replied.

  That earned a genuine smile, and Raisa reverted to the woman he first met. “Yes, of course. You have your sources and all that. Well, thank you for showing me this photo. It takes me back. But why are you showing it to me?”

  Cindy’s safety and Hannibal’s privacy depended on his exploring how long Raisa had known Dani Gana and what his relationship was to the others in the room that night. But when he went to point to the photo, his finger moved of its own accord like the pointer on a Ouija board to the central figure. He had to follow his instincts.

  “Can you tell me who this fellow is?”

  “The big man with the little round belly and almost no hair left?” Raisa said. “That’s Boris Tolstaya.” There was now an edge on her voice, slicing at Tolstaya’s memory.

  “I take it you knew him.”

  “He was a friend of Nikita’s from the army,” she said, shaking her head. “Big gambler, and investor for the Red Mafyia. Like Nikita, he was one of Yakov’s patients.”

  “A tight little group,” Hannibal said, surprised at how casually she was talking about her husband’s mob connections. “A couple of war vets, both tended by the same doctor. And if this Tolstaya was handling mob money, I can see how he was able to support your husband in his efforts to keep things running smoothly.”

  “Support him?” Raisa slammed her empty cup down on the table hard enough for Hannibal to fear it would break. “He destroyed my poor Nikita. Between them, those two paved the path to his destruction.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hannibal said. He looked at the picture again, hunting for any sign that these men were anything but friends.

  “Tolstaya was a gambler,” Raisa said. “One of those jovial men who make you laugh all the time. But he was a gambler who got my poor Nikita hooked on that hateful habit. He pretended to be a friend while he took everything we had, one hand of cards at a time.” Her breathing became halting. Hannibal reached out across the table with a gloved hand and spoke in a very soft, even tone.

  “The debt.”

  “Yes,” she said, looking up in surprise. “How did you...oh. That’s right. You are a detective.” She had no way to know he had spoken to Rissik, but she seemed ready to trust him. She wrapped a hand around his.

  “So Tolstaya took all of your husband’s money,” Hannibal said. She nodded. “But you said the two of them destroyed him. How was Dr. Sidorov involved?”

  Her face fell in on itself and Hannibal could see tears in there trying to get out, yet she hesitated. She stared into Hannibal’s face, so he slid off his sunglasses. Her head snapped back in surprise. After a moment, she seemed to relax and a small smile emerged.

  “They are so blue,” she said. “Like fine porcelain.”

  “Not always,” Hannibal said. “But you were going to tell me how Dr. Sidorov contributed to your husband’s downfall.”

  “Not him,” she said, shaking her head. “But he introduced the downfall of our marriage. He never found out that I knew, but I found it just two weeks before the end.”

  “Found it?” Hannibal asked. She was rocking in her chair now, clinging tightly to his hand as the tears began to flow at last.

  “The letter. The love note he wrote to Anastasiya Sidorov.”

  The ring of Hannibal’s cell phone split the air like a lightning bolt, charging the air in the kitchen. Raisa turned with a napkin to her face, and Hannibal pulled his phone out to stop the noise as quickly as he could. It was a new phone that did a lot more than Hannibal needed it to, but the one thing he could do with confidence was to push the right button to answer a call. When he said hello, he heard an unexpected voice.

  “Jones. I have something for you,” Anthony Ronzini said.

  “I’m with Mrs. Petrova right now,” Hannibal said.

  “Well, you sure don’t want to have this conversation in front of her.”

  -17-

  It was difficult for Hannibal to pull away from Raisa Petrova, but he knew that this call could hold the final piece of the puzzle that would free Cindy from potential danger. He apologized for his haste, got to his car, and got on the road toward home. Then he pushed the button on his cell phone to dial the number returning the last incoming call. Ronzini answered.

  “Jones?”

  “Yes.”

  “Delete this number from your phone. I’ll wait.”

  Hannibal wasn’t sure what to think, but he complied right away.

  “OK,” Hannibal said. “It’s gone.” Was this a way of saying he didn’t trust Hannibal to have his private phone number. Probably. But to take his word for it that he had in fact deleted the number was also an expression of trust.

  “Good. I must say this little exercise has been fun. I begin to see why you found this Dani Gana character so interesting.”

  “Is he really rich?”

  “Could be,” Ronzini said. “My man at the Provident Bank says he opened his account with $256,000 from an account in Morocco.”

  “Morocco?” Hannibal swerved to avoid a little Mini whose driver was in a great hurry to get up on the ramp to I-395. “I suppose an Algerian might keep his money there. Of course, so might a Russian mobster. I wonder if we can find out where the money was transferred from to get into the Moroccan account.”

  “Not likely,” Ronzini said. “They’re a lot like the Swiss. The Arab Bank of Morocco holds a lot of oil money and a lot of sheik money. And they are very big. Whereas some banks boast of half a billion dollars in assets, the Arab Bank paid a half billion dollars in interest over the last nine months.”

  Hannibal nodded. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, that tells me where his money came from.”

  “Good, because it would take you weeks or months to get any more. And it’s too late for my man at Provident to get anything else.”

  “Too late?” Hannibal asked. He stopped
at a light behind three other cars. “I don’t understand.”

  “The account is closed,” Ronzini said. “Gana withdrew the entire balance, in cash, just before the close of business yesterday afternoon.”

  * * * * *

  Hannibal explained his latest discoveries to Ivanovich in his office over a pot of fresh coffee. He had hung up his jacket, pulled off his tie, sunglasses and gloves, and rolled up his white shirt sleeves. Ivanovich moved to the visitor’s chair, leaving the desk chair for its actual owner. Hannibal could only hope that agreeable attitude would hold as he shared all he had learned that day. Once he had filled two big mugs with his Kenyan blend he turned down the booming heavy metal Ivanovich had started and gave him a thorough report. Ivanovich sat quietly.

  “So, that’s it then,” Ivanovich said at last. “He has married her and taken her off to some mysterious place. It doesn’t sound as if he has made contact with any of his old friends and from what you’ve told me, even Mrs. Petrova has no idea where they’ve gone.”

  “That’s about it,” Hannibal said. “He didn’t give us much time to investigate.” He watched Ivanovich shrink a little bit. He sat with his elbows on his thighs and his head dropped forward as he stared at the floor. To maintain perspective, Hannibal tried to imagine how many people this man had killed in his criminal career. It didn’t help. Without a gun in his hand, he no longer looked like a killer. All Hannibal could see was a man in despair. But that was Ivanovich’s problem. Hannibal had his own.

  “Listen, Aleksandr, I think I have done all that you asked of me that first night. I feel like I’ve kept my part of the deal. How about calling your dogs off Cindy?”

  Ivanovich looked up and Hannibal returned his gaze in the most nonthreatening way he could. In the sudden stillness, the speeding guitars seemed to kick into a higher gear. He didn’t know what was going on in the mind of this very dangerous man, but he knew he couldn’t push the subject.

  “There is another bottle of vodka under the desk,” Ivanovich said. Hannibal rolled his eyes and reached for the bottle. When he thumped it on the desk, Ivanovich added, “You will want to celebrate.” He pulled a very slim cell phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, and pressed a button. When someone answered, he said something Hannibal could not hope to understand. Ivanovich nodded a couple of times, said a couple more words, and then closed the phone and put it away.

  “I have told them that it is finished.”

  “Thank you,” Hannibal said. He understood what Ivanovich had just given up. Now he was powerless. Hannibal poured into their two glasses, stood up, and handed one to the man who was now his guest instead of his captor. Ivanovich accepted the glass and took a small sip.

  “Now, unless we are to have an Old West gunfight, I must ask you for a favor instead of making demands. It will be easier for me if I can stay just a little longer, until the sun is down.”

  “I can live with that,” Hannibal said, grabbing his glass from the desk. He held it up. Ivanovich stood and tapped his glass against Hannibal’s. Then both men upended their glasses, draining the liquid down their throats. Hannibal clenched his eyes tight as it went down.

  “Aleksandr, I want you to know that I understand why you did what you did,” Hannibal said. “In your spot I might have tried to blackmail someone the same way. And I really am sorry that I couldn’t get enough evidence of Gana’s game, whatever it is, to maybe take it to Mrs. Petrova before he disappeared with the girl. But now you need to let it go and get back to your life.”

  “My life?” Ivanovich said it with a smirk. “What life? I am a hired killer. Everyone fears me. No one...” He didn’t finish the sentence, just dropped back in the chair, looking past Hannibal. “Do you know how far this has gone? Just how damaged have I become?”

  Hannibal didn’t have the answer to that one, but he could see that the scars on this man’s soul ran very deep.

  “Hey listen, Aleksandr, why don’t I get something in here for us to have for dinner, one more time?” When Ivanovich smiled back at him he said, “Good. I’ll order something form the Chinese place, but first, there is one other call I have to make.”

  Hannibal wasn’t sure what he intended to tell Cindy, but he knew he had to let her know that there was a reason he had gone two days with hardly any contact with her. He thought he also wanted to ask a few questions about that real estate agent with whom she had been traveling the city. He might even want to invite her over to meet the man who caused all that grief.

  But as he reached for the telephone, it rang.

  “Hannibal? It’s Orson Rissik.”

  “Orson?” Hannibal said. “You calling to find out what I learned today? It wasn’t much that can help you.”

  “That’s not it,” Rissik said. He seemed to be speaking more slowly than usual. “Did you speak to Mrs. Petrova today?”

  “Chatted with her in her kitchen this afternoon,” Hannibal said.

  “Well, I hope you got everything you were hoping for from her.”

  Hannibal’s eyes narrowed and the hair rose on the back of his neck. “Why?”

  “You just might be the last person to see her alive,” Rissik said. “Except of course for whoever shot her.”

  -18-

  Hannibal quickly suited up for business again. While he was tying his tie, Ivanovich went into the next room and returned in a nondescript sport coat.

  “It was Dani Gana,” Ivanovich said while Hannibal pulled on his gloves. “He realized that he could not take Viktoriya away and leave a loose end like her mother to hunt him down one day.”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Hannibal said. “My police contact says I’ll be allowed to survey the crime scene because I could tell if anything was stolen. While I’m there, I might find a clue that would help me find out where Gana took off to.”

  Ivanovich put a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. “Why are you doing this? I have released you from any obligation.”

  “That’s right,” Hannibal said, sliding his Oakleys into place. “And that means this is no longer about you. Now it’s about the girl. If you’re right and Gana had anything to do with this, she’s in danger. If it was a near-miss by one of his enemies, she may be in even greater danger. Either way, she probably doesn’t know her mother is dead. I need to find him and tell her what I know so she can make an informed decision about whether she wants to stay with this guy.”

  “Then I’m going with you.”

  Hannibal shook his head. “Bad idea, Aleksandr. Not only will the place be crawling with police, but anybody who really thinks you killed Nikita Petrova will be out for blood now that Raisa has been murdered. Whoever your enemies are, they’ll all be out tonight. Just let me go find out what I can.”

  * * * * *

  When Hannibal pulled up across the street from the Petrova residence that evening, every light in the house was on, including lights on the front and back porch. The front door and upstairs windows glowed like the eyes and mouth of some ghastly jack-o’-lantern. Neighbors probably thought there was a party going on inside, but he knew the opposite was true. As he pushed the fob button that locked the doors, he made a conscious decision to leave his guilt out in the car. Yes, he had stirred up some old stories that might better have been left alone. And yes, he might have inadvertently fingered Mrs. Petrova if someone was looking for her, or if someone thought she knew something that should not be shared. Of course, he didn’t know any of that. The suspect pool was running over. Both of the Sidorovs appeared to have motives. Russian mobsters may have decided to silence her before she said the wrong thing to Hannibal. Or, for all he knew, Ivanovich’s theory was correct.

  The walk up the steps to the door seemed twice as long as it had before. When he arrived, Rissik was there to meet him. They nodded, then Hannibal got to the matter at hand.

  “Where is she?”

  “Backyard, just past the patio,” Rissik said. “Neighbor kid found her when he was cutting across the yards to visit his gir
lfriend.”

  Hannibal digested that information and considered all it might imply. He really didn’t want to see her dead, but he supposed it was necessary. After a deep breath, Hannibal stepped toward the house. Rissik took his arm to stop him.

  “Local people have done a lot of looking and collected forensic evidence. The body is still in place, but the medical examiner will be here soon to pick it up. This is not my case, Jones. I’m only allowed to be here as a courtesy, because of the connections to the husband’s death. You are here as a favor to me.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “You can look around the house for anything that might be significant, based on what you know. Do not touch the body. Understand? Do not take anything out of the house. And do not discuss what you might see with any member of the press.”

  “I won’t embarrass you,” Hannibal said. Rissik nodded. Hannibal opened the door and went inside.

  The house was as he had left it, a little cluttered, ornately decorated, warm and friendly with hardwood floors and a great room serving as both living room and dining room, separated by beautiful pocket doors just like the ones that separated the rooms in his own apartment and office. A small squad of detectives scurried around the four finished levels.

  As he entered the kitchen, the smell told him she had been preparing dinner. A look at the stove and the bowls beside it told him why the smell was so strong. Cabbage rolls were already prepared and mushroom soup was in process. Someone had interrupted her. Red spatter on the counter between the stove and the door told him where the crime took place. Two drops on the floor between the stove and the door implied she had moved pretty quickly afterward.

  Crickets made the backyard garden sound like a Hollywood jungle. Hannibal walked down a narrow cement path toward the flashlight in a patrolman’s hand. The boy in the uniform looked as if he would start shaving any day now. He kept his light on the body, maybe hoping it would keep the bugs away until the city’s angels of death arrived to spirit her off to the city’s purgatory where she would wait in a drawer until others moved her to her final resting place.