“The guy on my right who forgot to wash his face is Simon. Just Simon. No last name. He’s not gonna talk too much. I think he just came for the sausage and eggs. The other guy across the table is Leonid Karloff.”
“David told me about him,” Ethan said. “Do they know who I am?”
“They know,” Lloyd said.
“And that I work for The Weekly Reporter?”
“We’ve been talking about your show ever since we got here.”
Ethan turned to David who flashed him a thumbs-up about shooting the interview as he worked on the camera settings. Then he faced the two junkies. “Would you guys like to tell me a little about yourselves before we get started?”
Simon kept eating.
But Leonid put his fork down. There were deep circles under his eyes, and his skin was pallid, his long brown hair unkempt, his expression sad, almost despondent. “You know, I used to live in a nice apartment in a good neighborhood. I had a wife and kids and a job—kinda like a normal person—but now that’s all gone. I just can’t kick the smack. It’s got me hooked by the balls.” He picked up his fork and pushed the eggs around on his plate, his gaze vacant.
“You wanna tell me anything?” Ethan said, peering at Simon. He waited patiently, but the junkie continued staring into the distance, ghostlike.
“Simon’s pretty stoned,” Howard said. “He shot up just before we got here, but Leonid’s coming down off his high. So he’s pretty together and definitely wants to tell you what he knows. We discussed your camera, and they’re both okay with you recording whatever they say—at least at the moment.”
“Are you gonna pay me for my information?” Leonid said, picking at a piece of sausage stuck in his teeth, his hand trembling. “I need to score bad. My fix is wearin’ off.”
“I can’t pay you,” Ethan said apologetically. “We don’t work that way. I can buy your breakfast, maybe a little food for later, but that’s it.”
Leonid scratched the two-day growth on his chin and looked at the private investigator. “I told you that’s how the press works,” Howard said. “They don’t pay like the cops. But I take good care of you, don’t I? And if you want that to continue, I suggest you answer Mr. Benson’s questions.”
Leonid nodded. “Okay. I got it. No money.”
Ethan waved over to David. “Go ahead and start rolling. Concentrate on Leonid—the guy on Howard’s left. He’s gonna do most of the talking. Give me a series of tight shots. Lots of cutaways of their faces and hands and the food so we can put together a sequence in the editing room.”
David began making a sweeping wide shot of the room, then knelt down on the floor and began shooting insert shots around the table. When he finished, he focused the lens on Karloff and motioned that he was ready to record the interview.
Ethan asked his first question.
“How do you know Pavel Feodor?”
“Shit, man, I’ve known him since I was kid,” Leonid said. “He lived down the street from me in Brighton Beach, and we went to school together until he was busted and went off to juvy.”
“Were you friends?”
“You could say that.”
“And what was he like?”
“He was a fucking wild man. He liked to beat up on everybody. The whole neighborhood was scared of him. I was too.” Leonid took a bite of toast, a sprinkle of crumbs falling on his shirt.
Ethan locked eyes with David. “Are you getting this?”
His researcher nodded and zoomed into Leonid’s face. His lips looked dry and cracked, his brow was sweating.
“Are you still friends with Pavel?” Ethan said, trying to keep the conversation moving as Leonid began to nod out.
The junkie looked up. “I ain’t seen him in almost two years. He’s in jail, remember? You think I’m dumb or somethin’?”
“No. No. You’re right,” Ethan said, realizing he had to be more circumspect with his questions. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Right before I got hooked on the heroin. When we first started doing small jobs for the Kolkov crime syndicate.”
“When was that?” Ethan said.
“A couple of months before the deputy mayor’s daughter got herself murdered,” Leonid said, his nose running as his withdrawal symptoms began spiraling out of control.
“And were you still part of the Mob when Cynthia Jameson was murdered?”
“No, man, they’d kicked me out by then. I was already hooked, and they didn’t trust me anymore. Does anybody have a tissue?”
Ethan pulled a package of Kleenex from his pocket, handed it to Karloff, and asked his next question. “And what about Pavel, was he still working for Kolkov?”
Leonid peered over at the private investigator.
“Go ahead and answer Mr. Benson’s question. Tell him what you told me,” Howard said, urging him on.
“Yeah, he still worked for the number two guy, Nikolai Stanislov. The guy with that big scar running down his face.”
Ethan held his breath, hoping he was about to hit pay dirt. “And was Stanislov involved in the heroin deal that night in the Meatpacking District?”
“That was his deal with the Mexicans,” Leonid said. “Everybody knows that. We all thought some really good shit was about to hit the street.”
“Was Feodor with him?” Ethan said.
“Fuck yes. And so was a whole bunch of other guys.”
“And did Feodor fire the weapon that killed the deputy mayor’s daughter?”
“How should I fucking know that? I wasn’t there that night. But that’s what everybody says—including the cops.”
Ethan turned to David. “I hope you’re recording this.”
“I got it.”
“Are you still tight on his face? I wanna see his expression.”
“I’m tight. You can see every pore on his skin.”
Ethan turned back to Karloff. “Do the cops know about Feodor and Stanislov?”
“Sure as shit. I told the cops Nikolai Stanislov was at the shootout and that Pavel was with him.”
“Are you sure that’s what you told the police?” Ethan said, pressing the point.
“Yeah. That’s what I told that detective, Edward Jenkins.”
“The lead detective on the Feodor case?”
“That’s the guy.”
Simon looked up from his plate, saliva running down his chin. “And I told him the same thing. Stanislov and Feodor were both there that night the girl got killed. Lots of junkies gave Jenkins that information.” Simon’s eyes fogged over, and he looked back down at his plate.
Ethan paused. So Edward Jenkins knew about the Russians. Did he know before he interrogated Feodor? Did he pass it up the chain of command? Did he tell Nancy McGregor? The cover-up was deepening. “And both of you have no doubts the Russian Mob was involved in that drug deal?” Ethan said, wanting to make sure it was clear on the videotape.
“Why would we make up a story like that?” Leonid said. “Stanislov works for Alexey Kolkov who controls the illegal drug trade in Brooklyn. And I’m positive it was the Mob that tried to pull off that heroin deal the night of the murder. They always used Fernelli’s to do business. Always. And still do.” He started to spasm, his entire body beginning to twitch. “Are we almost done? I gotta get a fix.”
“One more question,” Ethan said. “Are you 100 percent sure you told all of this to Detective Jenkins? This is important, Leonid.”
“I told that cop everything I just told you. And he paid me good money for the information. Are you sure you can’t pay me something? Just a little?” He gestured with his fingers, his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“I can’t give you any money to feed your drug habit,” Ethan said softly. “I can’t do it, Leonid.”
“Okay, okay. I just thought I’d ask one more time.”
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” Ethan said beseechingly.
Leonid shook his head no.
So did Simo
n.
Ethan turned to David. “Are we good? Anything else you need to shoot? Any more cutaways?”
“No, I’ve got everything we need.”
“Then I think we’re done,” Ethan said, facing the two junkies. “Thanks, guys, I have no more questions.”
Leonid fidgeted with his shirt collar, then stood up, nodded good-bye, and headed for the door, Simon stumbling along right behind him. David continued rolling, shooting a wide shot of the two addicts crossing the street and disappearing around the corner. Then he spot-checked the images in the camera’s LCD screen and sat down at the table.
“How’d they look through the lens?” Ethan said, anticipating the worst.
“Like junkies,” David said.
“Can we use the interview? I’m worried they won’t seem believable on camera.”
“Simon won’t work. He’s way too blown out,” David said without hesitating. “But Karloff should be okay as long as you ID him as an addict and a paid informant for the cops. I’m pretty sure the audience will buy his story.”
“So now we have a second source linking Pavel Feodor to the Russians and telling us that Detective Jenkins knew all about it.” Ethan turned to Howard. “Have you found out anything about Jenkins from your sources at the NYPD?”
“Just that he’s a tough son-of-a-bitch and on the take. Nobody’s given me any proof, but that’s what I’m hearing from my friends on the force.”
“So he could’ve taken money under the table to corrupt the chain of evidence on the Feodor case,” Ethan said thoughtfully.
“That’s very possible,” Lloyd said.
“Now we just have to figure out if and who he was working for. Look, Lloyd, have you decided to do the interview with Sampson? I need you on camera. I’m not sure the suits at GBS are gonna let me rely just on Karloff.”
“I’ll do it as long as you shoot me in shadow and don’t reveal my identity—just as you suggested.”
“Deal,” Ethan said, relieved. “One more question before we go. Do you have any idea how to find this guy, Nikolai Stanislov?”
Howard smiled. “He’s got a law office in Brighton Beach under the El when he’s not cracking heads for his Mob boss.”
“Can you take me there? I’d love to get a look at him.”
“Just pick a day.”
“Sometime next week. I’ll let you know when.” Ethan pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. “Let’s get the hell out of here. I’m beat.” Then he pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to the cook. “I’d be in your debt forever if you don’t tell anybody we were here tonight.”
The cook nodded and pocketed the money, then continued moving grease around on the grill as they walked out of the restaurant.
“How’re you guys getting home?” Howard said.
“We’re taking the subway,” Ethan said.
Howard looked at him as if he were cross-eyed. “The trains only run every hour at this time of the night. Come on, I’m parked around the corner. I’ll drive you back to Manhattan.”
CHAPTER 18
NIKOLAI STANISLOV SAT IN his Lincoln Navigator under a large oak tree. The temperature was hovering in the mid-90s, the heat scorching, the sun blinding. Massive thunderheads darkened the western sky, sending lightning bolts across the horizon and peals of thunder through the thick, humid air. Nikolai couldn’t wait for the rain. He hated the summer and longed for the cool, dry temperatures of the fall. Maybe the storm would bring some relief. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief and stared at his cell phone, dreading the call he was about to make. Then he punched in the Pakhan’s private number. “Alexey, it’s me.”
“Are you calling from a secure telephone?”
“I’m using a burner. I’ll get rid of it as soon as we hang up.”
“What’s happening with Benson? Is Anatoly following him?”
“He’s got men tailing him around the clock.”
“Does he know we’re watching?”
“Not yet. Anatoly’s waiting for the right moment to scare the shit out of him.”
“What’s Benson been doing?”
Nikolai opened the window and lit a cigarette. He’d forego the air conditioning for a hit of nicotine. “Nothing unusual. Going to work. Going home. Drinking his scotch. Fucking his wife. The normal stuff.”
“Cut the crap, Nikolai. This isn’t a joke.” Alexey’s voice boomed through the telephone. “Who’s Benson been talking to? Who’s he been seeing? That’s all I want to know.”
“Just his anchorman, Peter Sampson, and the team of people he’s working with. Nobody else we need to worry about.” He thought about telling the Pakhan that the hit man had lost him for over six hours after he got on the subway the night before, but decided there was nothing anybody could do about it now. Better to keep his mouth shut.
“And what about Pavel?”
“Our mole stops by and sees him every day. Harasses him just for good measure.”
“When are you meeting the mole?”
“In about an hour,” Nikolai said, nervously flicking an ash off the cuff of his white shirt.
“Good,” Alexey said aggressively. “I want you to call me as soon as you’re done, and Nikolai, I’m hearing disturbing news from Jenkins and some of the other cops on our payroll at the Sixth Precinct. Ethan Benson is asking lots of questions. Jenkins thinks he can link us to Fernelli’s and that Sampson is going to say in their story we were involved in Cynthia Jameson’s murder.”
Nikolai took a long drag on his cigarette, too stunned to speak.
“Are you listening, Nikolai?”
“Yes, Alexey.”
“Good. So don’t fuck with me. The last thing I want is for that television show to find out from Pavel that the rumors they’re hearing are true. Do you understand?”
“I’ll talk to the mole,” Stanislov said, the threat ringing home loud and clear. “We’ll stop the interview.”
“Good, Nikolai. You know what I want the mole to do.” An uneasy silence. “Offer him enough money and make it worth his while.”
“You’re sure that’s what you want, Alexey?”
“Are you questioning my decision? You should know me better than that. Just do it, Nikolai.”
The Pakhan cut the connection.
Nikolai clenched the burner, his face red with anger, then suddenly wheeled around and smashed the phone into the car door, cutting his hand on a sliver of plastic. A trickle of blood dripped down his fingers as he looked up at his bodyguard in the front seat. “Yuri, I need a new phone.”
Yuri pulled a burner out of the glove compartment and tossed it to him.
“Now drive me to the boardwalk,” Nikolai said, checking the time. “I wanna pick up a sandwich and a beer at Ttankov’s Grill and eat my lunch on a bench across from the restaurant. That’s where I told that little asshole to find me.” He looked out the window and up at the sky. It was getting darker, the clouds creeping closer. Maybe the rain would hold off a bit longer—just until he finished his meeting with the mole.
• • • • •
A half hour passed before he spotted the prison guard slowly making his way down the boardwalk. Jimmy Benito was late. He was always late. And Nikolai was tired of always waiting for him. Maybe it was time to find somebody new on the inside at Rikers Island. Somebody more reliable. After glancing around to make sure they were alone, he motioned for the prison guard to come over.
The mole was dressed in worn blue jeans, a torn work shirt, an old wrinkled blazer, and cheap sneakers. He was carrying a brown paper bag with a bottle of Irish whiskey, and after taking a long pull, approached Nikolai, wobbling from side to side, before plopping down on the bench.
“Jimmy, are you drunk?” Nikolai said, repulsed.
“No. I just have a pleasant buzz,” he replied, his voice heavy as he slurred his words. “It’s my day off. I’m allowed to have a good time.”
“Change of plans. I don’t want to talk to you out
here. You’re making a spectacle of yourself. Let’s go into Ttankov’s. There’s a room in the back where we can meet in private.”
They got up and walked over to the restaurant, Yuri trailing, hovering just out of sight. When they reached the reservations desk, Nikolai handed the maitre d’ a hundred-dollar bill, and they were escorted through a side door, down a long corridor, and into a small, windowless room with a single table.
“Sit, Jimmy,” Nikolai said, pointing to a chair facing the back of the room.
The prison guard finished his whiskey and dropped the bottle on the table, knocking over a wine glass. Turning to the maitre d’, he said, “Bring me a can of Bud.”
“No more drinking,” Nikolai said fiercely. “Get him some food and a black coffee. I need to sober him up so he understands what I’m about to tell him.”
The maitre d’ picked up the empty bottle and scurried out of the room, closing the door as he left.
“Okay, Jimmy, fill me in. What’s going on with Pavel?”
“Nothin’s changed. I stop and see him every day. Give him his three meals, harass him like I always do—waving my nightstick, threatening to beat him—but he ain’t scared of me. He’s a tough little shit.”
The maitre d’ put a sandwich and a cup of coffee on the table, then walked back out as quickly as he’d walked in.
“Drink it, Jimmy. It’ll help you think straight.”
Benito took a long gulp, burning his mouth.
“Who’s Pavel been seeing?” Nikolai said, trying to cut through the cobwebs.
“Nobody, really. He spends most of his time lying on his bed, smoking one cigarette after another, doin’ nothing.” Benito’s eyes fluttered. “The warden won’t let him out of his cell. Says it’s too dangerous for him to mingle with the other inmates, especially the blacks. They all hate him. He calls them niggers and curses them. He wouldn’t last more than five minutes in the general population. He’d end up on a slab in the morgue.”
Nikolai listened quietly, but Benito wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. “How’s his mood, Jimmy?”
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