“It’s on the second page. Lemme show you.”
As David reached for his briefcase, a tall, gangly man with a thick black beard walked up to the table. He was trim and muscular and was wearing torn blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a worn-out leather vest. “Are either one of you David Livingston?” he said, his eyes darting back and forth.
“I’m David, and this is my producer, Ethan Benson. You must be Lloyd Howard.”
“That’s me.” He pushed into the booth next to David and ordered a cup of coffee.
“Would you like some lunch?” Ethan said.
“I ate already.” He turned to David. “Do you have my money?”
“It’s right here.” He pulled out an envelope and handed it to the PI.
Howard counted the fifty crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and slipped them into a zippered compartment of a shoulder bag he was holding.
“I also have an employment contract you need to sign for our business office,” David said eagerly.
Howard put on a pair of drugstore reading glasses, carefully scanned the paperwork, then signed and dated the bottom line on the last page. “I guess I’m now an employee of The Weekly Reporter. Never done anything like this before.” He looked at Ethan. “So where do you wanna begin?”
“You tell me. What do you know about the Feodor murder that’ll help me with my story?”
“Just that almost everything you’ve read is a lie.”
“What do you mean?” Ethan said, bewildered.
“First off, Fernelli’s Beef and Poultry isn’t your run-of-the-mill wholesale meat distributor. It’s a front for the Russian Mob.”
“I thought it was owned by Zurich Foods,” Ethan said, astonished. “The SEC told us they had nothing on them.”
“They don’t. But Fernelli’s is managed by a guy named Nikolai Stanislov, a part-time lawyer out of Brighton Beach and full-time underboss in the Kolkov crime family.”
“That’s a pretty damning allegation,” Ethan said skeptically. “How do you know that’s true?”
“I’ve been tracking this guy and his ties to organized crime for years,” Howard said. “He works for Alexey Kolkov—the Pakhan, the syndicate boss who controls most of the heroin, cocaine, crack, crystal meth, grass, and hashish that flows in and out of Brooklyn. Kolkov moves millions of dollars of illicit drugs through a vast business network each month and has no competition. His goons strong-arm anyone who tries to move in on his territory. And he’s ruthless. The cops find bodies stuffed in garbage cans, floating in the Gowanus Canal, and dumped in abandoned buildings all the time.”
Ethan motioned to the Goth waitress to bring another pot of coffee. “How’d you find out about Kolkov?”
“I heard about him when I worked undercover. Many of the pushers were part of his organization, and it was common knowledge on the street that the drugs came from him.”
“Did you ever meet him or any of his lieutenants?” Ethan said.
“I never got far enough up the food chain,” Howard said casually. “The closest I ever came to the brain trust was when we busted Jose Sanchez.” He glanced at David. “Did you tell Ethan about Sanchez?”
“Just told him,” David said.
Howard continued. “We confiscated about five million dollars of heroin and a half million in cash. We arrested Sanchez and most of his gang. They’re all serving long jail sentences.”
“And what was Sanchez’s link to the Russians?” Ethan said, still trying to figure out where this was heading.
“Sanchez bought all his drugs from Nikolai Stanislov,” Howard said. “He was the point person.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Once again, from the pushers. They all knew Stanislov was the go-to guy and that he worked for Kolkov,” Howard said, pausing and sipping his coffee. “And they were all terrified of him too. Said, just like Kolkov, he’d kill his own mother if she got in the way of a deal.”
“Why didn’t you bust Stanislov or Kolkov when you took down Sanchez?” Ethan said thoughtfully.
“We didn’t have enough proof. The Russians don’t leave loose ends. So we passed all our information on to the Feds, and the DEA has been watching Stanislov and Kolkov ever since. But they can’t make a case either. So Alexey Kolkov still has a monopoly on the illegal drug trade in Brooklyn, and Nikolai Stanislov is still his top deal maker.”
“Are you sure?” Ethan said.
“Positive,” Howard said. “I may not be a cop anymore, but I still have my sources.”
Ethan thought a moment, trying to process all the information Howard had just told him. “So how does Pavel Feodor fit into this?”
“Feodor worked for the Russians. Rumor on the streets is that Stanislov was in charge of the drug deal the night Cynthia Jameson was murdered, brought Feodor along as part of his crew, and that they all were involved in the shootout.”
“And you’re 100 percent sure of this?” Ethan said, flabbergasted.
“Absolutely,” Howard said. “I heard it from several people I trust.”
“And your sources say the Russian Mob was behind the heroin deal with the Mexican cartel?”
“Yup.”
“And that Pavel Feodor was part of the crew and one of the shooters?”
“Yup.”
“I’ve read the transcript of his confession,” Ethan said, still skeptical. “Feodor never once mentioned Nikolai Stanislov or Alexey Kolkov or the Russians. So are you saying he was lying during the police interrogation?”
Howard pulled on his beard and grinned. “That’s one way you can look at it, but I have my own theory. The Russian Mob has a long reach, and if Pavel Feodor had ratted on them, he’d probably be dead already. So I’d say he’s been trying to save his own skin.”
Ethan processed everything he’d just learned, but still didn’t see how the Russians’ involvement changed anything about Cynthia’s murder. He needed to flush out the lead. “Can you put me in touch with any of the people who told you about this?” he said. “I’ve got a bunch of questions I’d like to ask them.”
“Lemme see what I can do, but remember, my sources are street people. They aren’t your model citizens.”
“Are they reliable?” David said, jumping into the conversation.
“All of them are informants for the police.”
“And have they told the police any of this?” David said.
“All of it,” Howard said without hesitating.
“So why didn’t the cops run with it?” Ethan said.
“That’s a good question. I have no idea.”
Ethan motioned for a check, wondering if Detective Jenkins knew about the Russians and if he was sitting on the connection. But why would he do that? It didn’t make any sense. Or did it? “How fast can you set up a meeting, Lloyd? I’d like to talk to your sources as soon as possible.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“And are you willing to go on camera and tell all this to my anchorman, Peter Sampson?” Ethan said, realizing Howard had new evidence never reported in the press.
“I don’t know, Ethan. That’ll blow my cover. I could end up a marked man.”
“What if we shoot you in shadow and distort your voice?” Ethan said, hoping to ease Howard’s fears. “Then we’d hide your identity.”
Howard paused, stroking his beard again. “That might work, but I still need to mull it over.”
“Fair enough,” Ethan said. “Let me know what you decide.”
• • • • •
A hard-looking man in a black Lincoln Navigator watched as Lloyd Howard hurried down the street and Ethan and some guy he’d never seen before hailed a taxi in front of the diner. He lit a cigarette and punched a number into his cell phone. “Nikolai, it’s me, Anatoly,” the man said with a heavy Russian accent. “I follow Benson to restaurant in Williamsburg. Like you tell me. He in there a long time meeting two guys. One I don’t know. The other that private investigator, Lloyd Howard.”
“S
hit. What the fuck was Howard doing there?” Nikolai said. “Are you sure it was him?”
“Positive. I’d know scumbag anywhere.”
“Do you think he told them about us?” Nikolai said.
“Maybe,” Anatoly said, watching Ethan and David getting soaked to the bone. “I no hear—how you say in English—too much as they stand on corner making good-byes. All that noise. The rain—tap, tap, tap, tap—pounding on roof of car. How much does wiseass PI know about us?”
“Plenty,” Stanislov said, a smidgen of fear in his voice. “All about me and Feodor.”
“Nikolai, not my business to make decision, but Benson just got into taxi with new guy. Want me to follow? Maybe make disappear?”
“Not yet. Alexey needs to make that decision. You need to tell him everything you just told me. He’s gonna want to know about Howard and Benson. It complicates things. So come right back.”
The connection went dead.
Anatoly stubbed out his cigarette and jammed his foot on the accelerator, pulling away from the curb and cutting off traffic as he sped off to Brighton Beach to meet with Nikolai and the Pakhan. Then he smiled and kissed his handgun. Fun and games, he thought. All part of day’s work.
CHAPTER 14
NIKOLAI STANISLOV PACED around his office, back and forth, then exploded in a fit of rage, raking an arm across his desk, knocking everything to the floor. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That fucking Benson doesn’t stop. He’s gonna figure it out. About me. About Pavel. About what happened that night. I can’t let that happen. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t!” He nervously ran his finger over his scar, then pounded his fist on the wall. “I gotta stop him,” he said, screaming to the empty room. “And I gotta stop Pavel. I can’t let him talk, not to The Weekly Reporter, not to anyone.” He began laughing hysterically, then grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door.
As he pushed out onto the sidewalk, a subway train rumbled by on an elevated track, screeching to a halt in the station. A wave of Russian immigrants piled out, like a swarm of bees leaving their hive, and flooded the street. Nikolai peered into their faces, one by one, making sure he hadn’t been recognized, then made his way past a row of ethnic food stores. He bought a bunch of grapes from a street peddler and popped one into his mouth as he crossed Brighton Beach Avenue at the Saint Petersburg Bookstore, looked over his shoulder one last time, then ducked into a seedy bar and grill called Sasha’s Café.
The restaurant was almost empty, a handful of gangbangers drinking at the bar, a few old men playing poker at a rickety table near the window. Nikolai ordered a shot of vodka and made his way to the back of the room. Sitting alone in front of a computer was the Pakhan, Alexey Kolkov. Stanislov sat down across from him and downed his drink, then snapped his fingers and ordered another. “Anatoly should be here any minute, Alexey. We need to talk about Pavel.”
The Pakhan turned off his computer, looked up, and said in nearly perfect English, “So, Nikolai, what’s so important it can’t wait? I’m a busy man, and you know how I hate being interrupted when I’m going through the financials.” A bear of a man with a short, thick neck, big hands, and stubby fingers, Alexey Kolkov was wearing a white open-collared knit shirt, neatly pressed gray slacks, and expensive Bally loafers. There were tufts of brown hair sprouting on his chest, gold chains hanging around his neck, and a big diamond ring on his pinky finger. He was fifty-five and a business tycoon who owned a string of legitimate companies in construction, waste management, and trucking, where he laundered the profits from his gambling, prostitution, and drug operations. He was rich, powerful, and despotic—an underworld oligarch—somebody to be avoided at all costs.
Another train rumbled by on the elevated tracks, the sound deafening, the vibrations sending shock waves through the restaurant. Kolkov sipped his vodka and waited for the train to pull out of the station, then peered contemptuously at Stanislov. “Nikolai, Nikolai, my friend, how long have we known each other?”
“A long time, Alexey.”
“And how long have you been my number two? Ten years? Twelve years? Maybe more?”
“Since we closed the deal with Zurich Foods and took over the management of Fernelli’s,” Nikolai said, averting his eyes.
Kolkov took a long drag on a Cuban Cohiba and blew a thick stream of smoke out his nose. He peered around the restaurant. “All of you, out,” he shouted, flicking an ash on the floor. “I want to talk to Nikolai alone.” Everybody stood up and left, except for his bodyguard.
“Petrov, bring me more Stolichnaya. And bring it now.” The bartender, with a white dish towel draped over his arm, quickly poured two drinks and placed the bottle on the table. “To your health, Nikolai, drink up. Na zdorovie.”
They drained their glasses.
Alexey poured himself another drink, then stared at Nikolai, unwavering. “Is Pavel going to be a problem? Is he going to do the interview with Peter Sampson?”
“Yes, Alexey. Next week,” Nikolai said pensively.
“And you’ve tried to stop him?”
“Yes, Alexey.”
“And you’ve been working with that public defender friend of yours, the guy you bribed?”
“I’ve been leaning on Frankie O’Malley.”
“And what does he say? Can he stop Pavel?” Kolkov said, never taking his eyes off his underboss.
“No, but he’s been trying.”
“And more money’s not gonna work, is it?” Kolkov said dryly.
“Pavel has no use for money anymore now that he’s been convicted. We can’t buy him off. O’Malley says he wants to cut a deal with the district attorney and thinks the interview is his ticket to get talk of the death penalty taken off the table.”
The Pakhan glared at Stanislov piercingly. “Drink up, Nikolai, you’re gonna need sustenance to soften our conversation.” Kolkov poured him another Stolichnaya. “And what about our mole at Rikers Island? Is he watching Pavel?”
“Every day.” Kolkov downed the shot.
“Can the mole do anything to stop him?”
“I don’t know, Alexey. Maybe,” Nikolai said, his lower lip trembling.
“Find out,” Kolkov said, vexed. “You should have put a bullet in Pavel’s head in that fucking parking lot. What were you thinking? You just left him there.”
“I thought he was dead. We all thought he was dead. We had no idea the doctors would bring him back to life.”
“But they did. And he’s about to talk. Now you have to clean up your mess!” Kolkov pounded the table. “And what about this television producer you told me about, Ethan Benson? Is he gonna be a problem too? Who else has he been talking to besides Pavel?” Kolkov said, picking a piece of tobacco off his tongue.
Before Nikolai could answer, the front door opened and Anatoly Gennadi pushed into the bar. He motioned to the bartender to bring him a glass, then made his way to the back of the room and sat down next to Nikolai.
Anatoly Gennadi was a hit man, violent and ill tempered, standing six foot four and weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, with broad shoulders and bulging muscles. He was wearing a neatly pressed blue blazer, a yellow button-down shirt, black jeans, and perfectly polished black shoes. Packed in a shoulder holster under his left arm was his weapon of death—a fully loaded Ruger .357 Magnum.
“Anatoly knows more about Benson than I do,” Nikolai said, turning to the hit man. “Tell the Pakhan everything you just told me on the telephone.”
Anatoly poured a glass of vodka. “I follow Benson for a couple of days. Tail him to Meatpacking District where he meet detective showing him Fernelli’s. I follow to O’Malley’s office and to Rikers Island where he visit Pavel. Then this afternoon, he goes to Williamsburg and meets with private investigator, Lloyd Howard.” Kolkov turned to Nikolai. “Is that the guy who can link you to Feodor?”
“That’s the guy, Alexey.”
“So this producer, Ethan Benson, probably knows about us,” the Pakhan said, frustration spilling across his face. “He’s defini
tely gonna be a problem.” He spun around and faced the hit man. “Do you know where Benson lives?”
“I already watch apartment. He’s got little kid and pretty wife. How Americans say it? A real piece a ass—long blonde hair, nice boobs. Every day he goes work, goes bar, gets drunk, goes home, walks pretty yellow dog, goes bed.”
“So you know his routine?” Kolkov said, smiling.
“I got it down, just like Nikolai tells me,” Gennadi said.
“And he hasn’t seen you, Anatoly, has he?”
“Nyet, Mr. Kolkov. I not give self away. I careful, but the guy’s got big smarts. He figure out pretty soon he being followed.”
“Nikolai, when did you say Feodor’s doing the interview?” Kolkov said, no longer smiling, now cold and calculating.
“The end of next week,” Nikolai said.
The Pakhan poured another vodka. “Anatoly, I want you on Benson like a blanket, twenty-four hours a day. Use as many men as you need. I want to know everything he does and everybody he sees. Crank up the heat a little. Let him see you.”
“I take good care of Benson, Mr. Kolkov. You no worry.”
“And check in with Nikolai. Use a burner, a new one every day, and make sure to destroy the old one. I don’t want your calls traced.”
“I use new phone. Watch Benson. Go right now.” Anatoly stood, toasted the Pakhan, then left the bar.
Alexey turned to Nikolai, rolling his Cohiba in his fingers. “Nikolai, during all our years together, I’ve never doubted you. But you misjudged Pavel, badly. You should have gotten rid of him long before that heroin deal. He was too wild. Too unpredictable. And I told you that. If he links us to the murder, it’ll bring the Feds down on us—all of us, including me. So while Anatoly is watching Benson, I want you to see the mole. Tell him to crank up the heat on Feodor.”
“I’ll set up a meeting right away.”
“Good,” Alexey said. “We’re running out of time.”
“Don’t worry, Alexey, the guy’s not gonna talk,” Nikolai said reassuringly.
“He better not, and if he does, well, you probably have a good idea of what I’ll do to you.”
Live to Air Page 12