The Suitcase

by T V Scribner

  “Ahh, that makes sense. I want to get up to speed on the all the new facts," she said calmly, trying not to let her excitement show. "I'll run back to my office and grab my things and I'll be right back."

  Rolling back in his chair, he stood to see her out. She did an about face and walked out the door, while he called after her, ”Meet me in front of the station!”

  Grabbing his Glock from the drawer, he stuck it in his shoulder holster (which he rarely wore, but decided to follow protocol on this occasion), put on his leather jacket and headed towards the precinct's garage to get his car. When he pulled up to the front of the station she was already standing there waiting, so he leaned over the passenger seat and opened the door for her. "Hop in!"

  She stooped down, and got into the midnight-black, unmarked Crown Vic, then looked over at Boone, slid the sunglasses perched on top of her head, onto her nose, and said, "Okay—let's go!"

  CHAPTER 13

  Brainerd

  Boone, slightly amused by her order to take off, headed towards Highway 210, passing Ben's Burgers in the process, while Paisley made a mental note to stop there later, to pay Ben another visit concerning the flash drive.

  "Where is this place?" Paisley asked.

  "The house is somewhere over in East Brainerd. From what Ben told me, Gregore lived with a couple of roommates, and one was his sponsor/guardian, because of his being here on a work Visa, from Russia."

  "Interesting," she commented, and both said nothing, content to ride in a comfortable silence. Paisley gazed at the city sights as the car made its way across town. Twenty minutes later, they reached the section of town where the house was located.

  Boone made a left-hand turn off the main boulevard onto 5th Street, into the residential section, while Paisley glanced around and stated, "This is not a very well-maintained area."

  "You're right...areas like this exist in almost every city...pockets of low-income properties. From the looks of it, these houses were probably built in the 30s, 40s and 50s—maybe some even earlier—and certainly most of these places are rentals, or are owned, by the low-income sector."

  "Several houses look as if they've been remodeled," she said, "but most could at least use a coat of paint— it's depressing! I guess it's hard for people when the economy has been bad, the last few years. The porches are cluttered with old plastic garden chairs, and children's toys and other objects are strewn around, making it look unsightly.”

  Due to the warmer than usual spring, lawns needed maintenance, as the scraggly grass beginning to grow back, created bare spots. Weeds sprouted in selected areas of the cracked driveways, and sidewalks, while trash cans sat stacked haphazardly next to some of the houses. Some homes had junk cars parked in driveways, and on lawns.

  As they continued slowly down the street, it seemed as if the houses became even shabbier. Soon they came to Spruce Street and Boone turned right, “Start looking for the house number, 11053,” he said. “Looks like it’s a dead-end street.”

  "Over there," she said, as they drove slowly down the street. She pointed to the left, “I think it’s the drab olive-green house, with dark-brown trim. The house next to it has a For Sale sign."

  "I see it." He made a U-turn and parked at the curb, facing out, of the cul-de-sac.

  Paisley climbed out of the car, and cringed at the ugly fascia and porch railings, painted a dark mud-brown. Most of the paint was peeling, and hung with curled edges exposing a brownish-orange paint underneath. The house colors didn't match the dirty-gray, beat-up front door, or rickety shutters, one of which hung at a jaunty angle from a single nail, in its upper left edge.

  A small porch, with a rusted, wrought-iron rail, flanked the steps and extended along the front of the two-story house. Several battered folding chairs sat to the right of the porch, and an old crusty barbecue, stood at the other end, along with a clutter of assorted broken brooms and rakes, which leaned against the furthest porch post.

  Boone and Paisley could smell some sort of odor emanating from a near-by trash can. It was unpleasant, as they made their way down the cracked cement walkway. She glanced at an old birdbath, leaning precariously next to the battered trash can, looking like some miniature Tower of Pisa. Curtains were drawn on the front windows, and the screen on the front door curled away from the wood on its bottom corners.

  "Not a very cheery place," observed Paisley. "I wouldn't want to come here alone at night, that's for sure!"

  Boone glanced at her quizzically, but had no comment about what she said. They both walked quietly towards the steps, then heard a tinkling sound, caused by one of the rusty house numbers, loosely nailed on the porch post to the left. It bounced slightly, as the breeze rose and fell startling Paisley, with its ethereal sound. The house looked abandoned, as if it belonged in a ghost town…the only things missing, were tumble weeds blowing across the lawn and down the street. This is so creepy, she thought.

  Boone broke the silence. "I'll ask the initial questions, but feel free to jump in, if there's something you feel needs to be asked.”

  "Gotcha," she said.

  A faint creaking sound emanated from the worn-out steps, as they slowly mounted the worn out steps. Paisley couldn't help but be reminded of an old “Inner Sanctum”, classic radio show. Once on the landing, a threadbare ‘Welcome’ mat, met them—at least it's possible that's what the faded letters spelled. Boone pushed the doorbell. There was no audible confirmation that it worked, so pausing a beat, he knocked firmly on the door.

  "All we need is creepy incidental music!" she whispered.

  The so-called, curtains covering the windows on either side of the door, nixed any chance of peeking to see if anyone lived here. However, they began hearing careful footfalls from inside the house, so there was hope.

  Boone and Paisley, gave each other a knowing look, as a low gruff voice spoke. "Who's there?" said the deep voice.

  "Excuse me," Boone announced, "we're with the Pinecrest Police Department, and we’d like to speak with you."

  "What about?" came the surly reply.

  Boone, tiring of this game, sighed, "About Gregore Kamorov?"

  "What about him?" The voice, said.

  Paisley half-whispered, half-mouthed to Boone, “Sounds like a Russian accent!"

  "Please open up, so we can discuss this with you. I'm Detective Boone, with my assistant, Detective Ingles, and we need to ask you a couple of questions."

  There was a stillness, and then a clacking of chains against the door jamb, the sliding of metal on metal, followed by the clattering of locks turning. The door finally opened a crack, as the man peered at them for a second or two, before slowly opening the door a crack, and acknowledging their presence.

  "Come in," he said, and opening the door a little further, allowed them to pass, ushering them into a dimly lit room, painted a deep tan color, which accentuated the room’s gloomy ambiance. "Sit." The man motioned them to an undersized, yet overstuffed, settee, covered with a course gray fabric, which sat at a right angle to a threadbare sofa.

  "Thank you," Boone said, and they both took a seat.

  Several dingy brown chairs, one of which their host occupied, were positioned across from the settee, where they sat. Paisley’s eyes drifted around the sparsely decorated room, which included a small end table on the far wall, holding an old lamp, topped with a yellowed, parchment lamp shade.

  Two miss-matched easy chairs, with soiled arm rests, resembling freebies plucked from a curb, flanked an end table, near the settee where they sat. Paisley felt uncomfortable in this room, and thought of the shower she’d need to take, when they left. She saw part of the kitchen through the doorway, where several wooden chairs sat in front of a gray Formica table. The dining table/catchall, held stacks of old newspapers, a few crushed beer cans, and a wadded up jacket. She turned her attention back to the man in the chair.

  "Now, why you here about Kamorov?" he said.

  Boone responded, ”We've already introduced ourselves, so
first, I'd like to verify your name.”

  The man stared at Boone before speaking, "My name is Zolotov."

  Pulling out his little spiral notebook and pencil, Boone paused, looked up and asked, “What is your full name?"

  "Why is this important?" the man blurted out, but not wishing to appear uncooperative, added, "Last name is Zolotov, Pyotr, is first name, I am Pyotr Zolotov,” he said defiantly.

  "Well, Mr. Zolotov, if I may call you that," Boone continued, "I don't know if you've been listening to the news or seen the newspapers, but Gregore Kamorov was found dead, early Monday morning. This house is listed as his residence, so we are here to ask you a few routine questions."

  Zolotov's face displayed genuine astonishment, since it was the last thing he expected to hear. He assumed these people came because of Gregore's past or present escapades, but news of his death? He did not see this coming!

  "Please, what happens?"

  "Someone may have murdered Gregore Kamorov, the night before last. Although, it’s sill under investigation, we’re working to ascertain the exact cause of death." Boone watched the man's response to this, as did Paisley.

  Obviously shocked, Zolotov was almost rendered speechless. Many things ran through his head, not the least of which, the possibility that this could screw up everything! The last thing he needed, was attention focused in his direction, given the critical project he was working on. Yes, this is no time to have police here, snooping, and asking questions!

  Both Detectives noted his reaction. "I'm sorry to bring you this tragic news, but right now we’re working on the assumption, that it was murder. Therefore, we need more information, which will help us in the investigation. Also, we'd like to locate his next of kin." Boone said.

  "How does it happen?" Zolotov said, to avoid answering Boone’s question.

  Ignoring Zolotov’s question, Boone continued with his own, "Is Gregore Kamorov his full name?"

  "Yes,” Zolotov said, still not grasping the impact of Kamorov’s death, on his project. He sat in his chair as his lower jaw sagged open.

  "This is terrible," he said, with his thick Russian accent.

  As Boone continued his line of questioning, Paisley stared at Zolotov. What a frightening visage he had, she thought. His eyebrows were bushy, and his deeply lined face, bad teeth, glowering eyes and tousled head of tangled, unruly hair—not to mention his immense size—served to make him quite the intimidating character!

  “Again, do you have any information concerning his next of kin?" Boone asked.

  He shook his head. "Nyet, I know no relatives here, or Russia. Is why I take his sponsorship. How was he murdered? who does this?"

  At this point, Paisley made a request. "Excuse me, may I have a glass of water, please?"

  Boone and Zolotov, both looked at her with surprise. Why is she doing this, Boone wondered? "Yes, I get you water," and Zolotov lumbered into the kitchen.

  Meanwhile, Boone gave Paisley a strange look, which she ignored, and Zolotov returned to the room, handing her a glass of water.

  "Thank you," she said.

  Zolotov asked again, "Who does this to Gregore? How?"

  “I’ll tell you this, he was found in the freezer of the fast food restaurant where he worked, and as of this moment, we have no official cause of death." Deciding he didn't need to give more information, he changed the subject. "Would you to give us the names and phone numbers of his friends? Also, did Kamorov have a car? Is it one of the cars in front of your house?"

  Zolotov rose and shambled to the window, pulling back the curtain/bed-sheet, enough to give him a view of the street, then replied, "Nyet, car is not here. It must be at burger place.” He rubbed his hand across the top of his head, as sweat began to bead on his brow. He felt uncomfortable, this is not good, he thought.

  Paisley noticed the beads of perspiration and could see Zolotov’s demeanor changing, then based on his reactions, began making her own notes

  She chimed into the conversation, “We need a description of his car, including make and model, and also the name of the other roommates, and where they can be contacted?”

  Surprised, Zolotov looked her way, as if he'd forgotten about her, then described the car. "It's older model Ford. Rust on bottom, gray paint. I do not know license."

  Like Boone, Paisley jotted this down in her little spiral notebook, too. She was struck by how much Zolotov reminded her of Aunt Olga, with the staccato sentences, from his Russian accent. "Is there anything else you can remember about the car?" she asked.

  "It was beat up. Didn't work well...Gregore always riding with others."

  "Who are his friends?" she continued.

  "Only name I know is Nikita. Roommate is Antonov, Yury Antonov. More friends, I don't know them. We all live here. We are busy and mind our own business. We are friends...we do not visit…we share house."

  The more nervous Zolotov was, the worse his English became, Boone noticed. "And where is Yury?"

  "He comes home late," Zolotov explained. "Yury is student at Pinecrest College. Stays late, sometimes 5:30, sometimes later, at library."

  “And Nikita?" Boone added.

  "I only see him once, twice…he sees Gregore at work. Ask those people."

  "And what do you do for a living, Mr. Zolotov?" Ingles asked, injecting herself into the questioning again.

  CHAPTER 14

  Zolotov was beside himself now—this was beginning to feel like the Spanish Inquisition! Things were not going well.

  "I am logger at Crosby/Ironton area,” he said, trying to give them as little information about himself as he could, without seeming to be secretive.

  Looking up from her notes, Paisley changed the subject, ”Is there a chance we might see Gregore's room? We'd like to look around—if it's okay, that is. There might be something to help us find more information. Do you know of anyone who wanted to do him harm? Or anyone who threatened him?"

  “Nyet, I tell you, we live in same house, we do not talk much—I see Gregore sometimes in kitchen for food, before work. We each mind our business."

  There was that broken English again, and regardless of everything that Zolotov said, Boone detected an undercurrent of something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He didn’t think Zolotov lied, but instead, was hiding something. The question was, what did he have to hide?

  After dragging his feet for a moment, Zolotov agreed to take them upstairs, and stood up. He began plodding up the stairs, with Boone and Paisley trailing behind him, giving each other meaningful glances as they trudged up the steps.

  Paisley, casually asked Zolotov, "Where did you live in Russia, before moving to the US?"

  Thinking quickly, he said, “A city near Moscow," and hoped this answer would satisfy her.

  Apparently, it didn't, as she immediately asked, "Which city?"

  He answered with mild irritation in his voice. “The city is Nizhny.”

  Nothing more was said, although Paisley paused on the step, to write the info in her notebook. When Boone looked over as she did this, she glanced at him with a mischievous look in her eye, dabbed her pencil on her tongue and continued to write her note. Boone held back a snicker.

  Once on the landing, a bedroom door, opposite the steps, was partially open. A long hallway to the left, revealed two more doors further down, with a door at the very end of the dimly lit corridor, open far enough to expose a small bathroom. Zolotov, glanced over his shoulder at the two Detectives, while he led them down the hallway to the end, where there was a closed door on the left.

  Slowly opening the door, he peeked in, before ushering them in. Zolotov took a quick look around, mumbling, "Gregore's room."

  Boone stepped in first, and surveyed the meager furnishings before ambling over to the closet and pushing its sliding door to one side. Several shirts hung on the rack, and finding nothing else of interest, he turned and moved to a rather dilapidated dresser, and opened a couple of its drawers. All they contained were a bunch of unpaired d
irty socks, faded T-shirts and jeans. Meanwhile, Paisley looked with interest at the wooden desk, by the only window in the small room.

  Noticing a computer adapter on the floor, still plugged in, she turned to Zolotov. "A couple of people mentioned Kamorov, and called him quite the computer whiz. I see a router on the desk, a computer adapter on the floor and some gaming equipment, controllers, etc., but where's his computer?"

  Zolotov, was busy, keeping an eye on Boone, who sauntered around the room, but eyed Paisley, when he heard her question. He eyes shot to the desk, startled to see the computer was gone. He answered, "I don't know!" Zolotov couldn’t hide his surprise at the disappearance of Gregore's computer equipment.

  "Does he keep it with him?" But before he could answer, she continued, "There’re only two drawers in the desk, would you mind if I had a look?"

  "Go ahead," he answered again, all the time thinking he wanted to say, "Nyet!" As far as he knew, the computer had never been removed from the room.

  She opened the top drawer, "Hmmm...nothing here." She found no software or other media of any sort, which seemed strange. ”Usually,” she said, “somebody that techie, possesses all sorts of media with which to store information, or games of some sort—not just controllers and a computer cord! Is his computer in a different room?"

  "I will search in house." But from the minute she mentioned the word storage, Zolotov began sweating in earnest. His mind went to the thumb drive he'd been looking for, when the detectives arrived. Did Gregore find and take it? Was my hiding spot compromised? He could hardly concentrate on the rest of the questions, and wished these two would leave as soon as possible.

  "Yes, please see if you can find his computer," she said, interrupting his thoughts, "let us know when you find it. Meanwhile, we'll check to see if it's at Ben's Burgers.”

  Paisley pulled open the second desk drawer, retrieved a magnifying glass from her purse, and stooped close to the drawer, searching its insides. After examining it carefully, she took out her notepad and wrote something down. Putting the magnifying glass back in her purse, she closed the drawer, while Boone and Zolotov stared at her.