by T V Scribner
"I'm not sure, but it won't hurt to investigate him a little more…he's not very fond of Kamorov, that's for sure!” Disappointed at Yury’s inability to shed any light on the murder, she wasn't convinced he’d told them everything he knew.
Back at the precinct, they went their separate ways. Boone entered his office and sat down at his desk. He opened a file when his phone rang, and he swiveled his chair, as he picked up and answered, "Boone, here."
"Boone, this is Officer Barnes, I'm notifying you that the warrants you requested, arrived. Now you can open Kamorov's locker, at Ben's Burgers."
Paisley barely entered her office, before Boone came in holding up an envelope, and said, "Okay—are you up for another trip?"
"Where are we going?"
“This envelope has the warrants…we can open Kamorov's locker now!"
"Perfect! I sure hope his computer is there!"
Twenty minutes later, they walked into Ben's Burgers. Ben greeted them, and they followed him through the kitchen into the hallway, to the room containing a couple of employee lockers, and cupboards.
"May I?" Boone asked, glancing at Ben, and gesturing with his hand towards the lockers. “These are the warrants," and he handed them to Ben.
Ben nodded his head and folded his arms, "Gregore's locker is number 8B—on the bottom—over there," he pointed. "Not all employees use them, but they're available if needed, as long as they bring their own lock."
Boone, armed with heavy-duty, bolt-cutters, retrieved from the trunk of his car, had no problem snapping the lock. Once the locker opened, it revealed a Ben's Burgers, navy-blue, wind-breaker, hanging to one side, some shabby spiral notebooks and a laptop computer. each item was put in its own plastic bag, then sealed.
"Now that the evidence is removed,” Boone said, “I’ll close and lock it with a new lock, until the men from forensics, can give it a going-over, and hopefully that will be, as soon as possible."
"Do you have any leads yet?" Ben inquired.
"Nothing substantial so far Ben, but we're working hard on the case," Paisley said, “and we'll let you know, as soon as we find something."
They drove silently back to the precinct, while Boone kept his eyes on the rear view mirror and side mirrors, looking for cars that might be following them. Paisley, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the back of her seat. He glanced at her several times. What a resilient person, he thought, in light of everything that has happened, over the last few of days.
No one is stopping this lady. He’d seen determination in her eyes. Pondering this latest event, he wondered about the relevance of the break-in, and dead dog. Is it connected to the murder we're investigating? I hope it isn't the case, but I can't rule it out. Did someone discover my identity, putting us both in danger?
By the time, Boone arrived at the station, she had awakened from her short nap, and he parked the car, and they entered the precinct. She had the bag with the computer and the bag with the jacket, and said, “I’ll drop the jacket off at the evidence room.”
“Wait!” Boone donned a glove, grabbed the jacket from the bag, and checked the pockets, pulling out a small, folded piece of paper. He unfolded it, revealing a hastily written phone number, then holding the note with his gloved hand, he handed her the pouch with the jacket.”
See you later," she said, “…and let's keep each other in the loop." They parted ways, and he smiled and gave her a thumbs-up, then headed to his office to write a report, from the Yury Panuken, interview notes.
She headed to the lab with the bagged computer, for fingerprinting, and handed off the bagged jacket. She reminded the techs to call her, as soon as they finished with the computer. She was anxious to get it back, to see what information it held.
An hour or so later, Boone met Paisley in the garage, He had persuaded her to stay for one more night, or at least until it was safe to return to the farm. She tried to put up a struggle, but he would have none of it. Her mind was changed when he promised to make his famous Italian meatball and spaghetti dinner, with Parmesan, garlic-herbed French bread, from a recipe passed down for several generations, from his Italian great-grandmother.
"Okay! I guess you've made me an offer I can't refuse." Paisley chuckled.
"We'll get an early start tomorrow morning."
"All right, I can't resist--especially the spaghetti dinner part." She looked towards him, and they smiled, at each other. Hmmm, she thought, who knew he could cook, too?
Brainerd That same afternoon, across town in Brainerd, Lenny Starko's phone rang. After fumbling with it for a moment, he realized he didn’t recognize the number, but answered anyway. "Hello?" He was surprised to hear Zolotov’s voice, on the other end.
"Hey Boss? Did you changed your number,” Lenny asked casually, as he reclined again on his couch.
"I told you, never call me Boss!" Zolotov shot back.
Uh, oh! This sounds bad, Lenny thought. “So, what can I do for you, Boss—I mean Mr. Z?"
Zolotov discovered his thumb drive was gone, when conducting a frantic search of his house, after the detectives’ visit, concerning Kamorov’s death. It didn't take a rocket scientist to connect the dots! Zolotov surmised, Kamorov, was the one who snatched it, as that sort of thing was right up his alley!
"Lenny," he growled menacingly, "my thumb drive has been stolen, and I know Gregore did it. I demand that you find my thumb drive and get it back to me! Do you understand?”
"I do, Mr. Z,” he tried to say with sympathy, although he couldn't care less.
"Listen carefully," Zolotov warned, “it must be returned. Do whatever it takes! Locate and return it to me, or else!" he threatened, and hung up.
Surprised, Lenny also, wondered who had it? He’d already searched the burger place, tried the precinct, and searched the cop's farm house, but turned up nothing! Lenny was as frustrated as Zolotov. He thought for a while, and the only other person he could think of, who ‘might’ have the thumb drive, was Ivan Belenski! “Yes, of course! He's a cheat—I bet it’s him!”
He remembered Kamorov talking to him the other night at the bar. Maybe I should pay Belenski a visit? Maybe Kamorov gave it to him? I know Ivan works for Zolotov in some capacity, so I can’t ask Zolotov for Ivan's residence information. I’ll find it myself—yes— it’s a great idea! I bet that Russkie gave it to Belenski! If he did, I'll make him cut me in on the money, or better yet—I’ll take it from him!
Lenny set out to track down Belenski's address, using his own resources. Later that evening, Lenny nosed around a few of the seedy bars frequented by Ivan, on his nights off, and it wasn't long before a bartender at one of Ivan's hangouts, The Loco-Motive Saloon, gave him the number of someone, who might know where he lived.
He called the man immediately, and before long, had Belenski's address. With Ivan’s address in hand, Lenny decided it was time to pay him a visit. I’ll coerce him to turn over the drive, and then I will have it, plus all the information about it, which Kamorov divulged the night he was so totally drunk, when I drove him home.
Lenny smiled at the thought. Once I have it, I’ll be the one to sell it for some outrageous price. If the info it contains is as valuable as Kamorov described, then I'll sell it to the highest bidder, like Gregore planned to do, then take the money and run! He chuckled to himself.
An hour later, walking in the chilly night air, Lenny approached a rundown apartment building on the south-east side of town. After threading his way past a half dozen beat-up webbed, aluminum chairs carelessly arranged on the parkway, he found himself in front of Ivan’s building.
CHAPTER 22
As luck would have it, one of the less-than-reputable people emerged from the entrance to the building, and Lenny asked, "I'm looking for a friend. By chance, does a man named Ivan, live here?"
The man replied dully, "Dunno," and held the security door open for Lenny to enter, before shambling down the cracked walkway, and disappearing into the inky night.
Lenny was in! The entry area had
poor lighting, making it difficult, for Lenny to examine the faded names on the mailboxes. Some of the names were missing altogether, or written on top of the last occupant's label. While puzzling over these, a rickety elevator landed with a thump at the far end of the tiny lobby, and another denizen of the apartment building, emerged.
This time, an older lady with a paper bag in her arms filled with who-knew-what, emerged with several plastic bags, also stuffed full, dangling from her arms. As she headed from the elevator towards the door, her appearance even took Lenny aback for a second. Her crinkled, leathery face, was framed by frizzy, unkempt gray hair. She appeared to be dazed, with unfocused eyes, and her attire consisted of baggy, faded jeans and a filthy, faded-pink, extra-large sweatshirt, which hung to her knees.
In his most manipulative voice, Lenny said, "Pardon me ma'am, but does a man named Ivan, live here? He's my cousin, and I'm trying to locate him."
"Seven!" she yelled at the top of her lungs, and without even looking at him, limped out the door and down the steps. Her response irritated him, and if there had been more time, he would have enjoyed putting this worthless old crone, out of her misery.
However, he scratched that idea, deciding instead, to take the stairs, and climbed stealthily to the second floor, without encountering other residents. Apartment number seven, was at the end of the hall, and he knocked on the door. Although he heard the faint sound of a radio drifting through the thin walls, there was no response.
He knocked a little harder, waited a moment and called, "Ivan? Anybody home?"
After a moment or two, he was about to knock again, when the door opened a crack, through which, an eyeball peered at him. He presumed it, to be Ivan's.
The eyeball spoke in low tones and said, "Who are you?"
"Hey Ivan! It's Lenny, you know—Kamorov's friend?" He continued in his most amiable voice. "Sorry to hear about his death, but he and I were pretty tight. We met a couple of times, a while back. Can I come in so we can talk?"
Ivan eyed him a minute more, and slowly, but suspiciously, opened the door to stick his head out enough to look up and down the hallway, then moved to allow Lenny's entrance. Lenny sauntered in, glancing around the place as he stepped toward a metal folding chair being offered to him.
He sat down, and took a good look at Ivan, who looked pretty much as he remembered him—disheveled, slicked-back black hair, squinty eyes under heavy eyebrows, and a weak mouth drooping at the corners.
Ivan stared at Lenny for a moment, "Want a beer?"
"No, thanks."
Ivan slouched over to a small fridge and got one for himself, popped the top and took a long swig with Lenny watching, and checking out the empty beer cans strewn on top of the cracked tile, kitchen counter.
Ivan pulled a chair up to a table, centered in the middle of the small room, and said, "So why are you here, Lenny?"
Lenny attempted to put Ivan at ease, and after a little back-and-forth concerning Kamorov, he broached the subject of the thumb drive, saying, "So, were you the one that Kamorov gave the thumb drive to, before he died?"
"What thumb drive, what are you talking about? Why are you here, anyway?"
"Come on, don't play games with me Ivan," Lenny said in his fake, honied voice, "I told you already. You know I'm a friend of Gregore's, and he told me all about the thumb drive, he gave you."
"What are you talking about," he said, and confused, by Lenny's assertion, he said, “it's a lie—he lied!"
"Oh, so you do know what I'm talking about! So, he did give it to you!" Lenny said, in an accusatory voice.
"No, he didn't!" Ivan said, with a bit of an attitude, at feeling accused.
"And, you killed him, and retrieved it!”
Ivan jumped out of his chair, "Who sent you? How dare you accuse me?"
Ivan approached Lenny, who sat calmly, one arm draped casually over the back of the chair, wheels turning in his brain, as he was in the process of hatching a plan, to cover his own crime.
"We have it on good authority from some of your unreliable drinking buddies, that you bragged about how you’d lift the thumb drive from Kamorov—even if you had to kill him to do it. And, you were seen with him earlier in the evening on the night of his murder. Your buddies assumed you were just blowing off steam, but we don't think so!"
"Who in the devil is we, and why should I even talk to you—get out now!"
Lenny stood up, knocking the chair over as he did so, and walked menacingly towards Ivan, "Does the name Zolotov ring a bell? You, happen to be on his payroll!"
This startled Ivan. "What has Zolotov got to do with this? How do you know him?"
"You're not the only one on his payroll. Ha! I came to get the thumb drive from you, so why don't we just get this over with. You get the drive, and give it to me, and I'll run along," Lenny said in a syrupy tone.
"I don't have it, so why don't you just go ahead and run along!"
"If you say you don't have it, then tell me where it is."
"I don't know that either, and if I did have it, why should I tell you?" Ivan replied, with a surly attitude, as he began walking towards his nearby desk.
Lenny commanded him to stop and pulled out a handgun, which had been tucked into the back of his pants and concealed by his sweatshirt, "Don't take another step," he menaced. “C’mon over to this chair and sit down."
With an astonished look on his face, Ivan answered nervously, "Okay man, calm down, put the gun away, we can work this thing out!"
He raised his hands in the air and sat down. In a flash, Lenny jumped forward and cracked Ivan on the head with the butt of the gun, knocking him out, and catching him, as he fell to the side. He propped Ivan up in the chair, and with a roll of duct tape, hidden in his sweatshirt pocket, for just such an occasion, he taped Ivan's hands, and feet. Over at the sink, he filled an empty beer can with water, to throw in Ivan's face.
Ivan coughed and sputtered as he came to, only to find himself bound to the chair, "What's going on?" he sputtered, shaking his head to clear it.
"I don't think you understand how serious this is," Lenny said coolly. "Zolotov wants that thumb drive, and he wants it now. I'm here to retrieve it."
Another short discussion ensued, about the thumb drive, then Lenny said, "Hey, if you give me the thumb drive, I'll even share the proceeds with you."
"I'm telling you the truth, I don't have it," Ivan whined.
"I guess I have no choice," Lenny said, as he grabbed a rag from the sink’s counter, stuffed it in Ivan's mouth, and slapped a piece a of duct tape over it. After being tied up and gagged, and with a little persuasion from a very sharp knife, Ivan was more than happy to tell everything he knew about the drive.
He nodded his head that he wouldn't yell if the gag was removed, so Lenny removed it. Scared to death, Ivan was ready to divulge everything.
Ivan was crying, ”Okay, okay, I did plan to steal the thumb drive from Gregore, and turn it over to the Russian mafia for the really big money."
“I knew it!" Lenny cackled.
Piece by piece, the story came out. Ivan said, "Kamorov didn't want to give it up, he wanted the reward for himself.” Blood trickled down the side of Ivan's face from a cut, opened by the blow inflicted by Lenny’s gun.
Ivan continued, "When I confronted him earlier in the week, after he bragged about it, to me after work one day, I said we could share, but he said never, because he already contacted a person from the government who would pay him for the thumb drive! It surprised me!"
Lenny looked at him suspiciously, and said, "You'd better not be lying to me." He scowled at Ivan.
"Kamorov told me to go away!" Ivan said, his voice quivering with fear. "He went to the phone, and started dialing 911. What could I do? I said okay, okay, put the phone down! I'll leave, and I did! I really didn't want any trouble. When he put down the phone, I apologized and left."
Lenny was quiet for a moment, but his rage was building. "I don't believe you!" he shouted. "No one walks out
on an opportunity like that!”
Lenny immediately rushed over to Ivan and taped the rag back in his mouth. "I'll search your place myself, since you won't tell me."
Lenny was irate, his uncontrollable temper taking over, as he proceeded to tear the apartment apart. Not finding the thumb drive anywhere, he pivoted towards Ivan, who was sniveling and crying with tears streaming down his cheeks, onto the duct tape.
Ivan saw the look in Lenny's eyes, and it was then he knew, he was going to die. Lenny paced back and forth in front of him, running his hands through his hair, never taking his eyes from Ivan's, like some jungle cat getting ready to pounce on his prey and finish him off.
Ivan's eyes pleaded with Lenny's, as the tears continued to drip down his cheeks, which were flushed with panic. Besides the tears, he began trembling, as he continued to look at the dead, black eyes of Lenny, who by now, was finally convinced Ivan didn't possess the thumb drive.
He stepped up to Ivan, drew his knife with its sharpened twelve-inch blade, and with one quick move, thrust the knife between Ivan's ribs and into his heart. It was quicker and much quieter than a gunshot. Unfortunately for Ivan, he began to bleed out, as he slumped in the kitchen chair, still tied and gagged.
Lenny wiped his fingerprints off of the few things he’d touched, and left the apartment—as-is. He peeked into the hallway to make sure it was empty, then closed and locked the door behind him, with no worries. Familiar with this section of town, it would be days before Ivan's body was discovered.
The locals in the vicinity kept to themselves, as most were into nefarious businesses of their own. It would probably be the strange odor of something decaying, he mused, that would cause neighbors to complain and eventually goad the superintendent into investigating the source.
Looking both ways, to make sure the street was empty, he exited the run-down apartment building. Once outside, he pulled the hood of his jacket over his head and walked away into the night, disappearing into the shadows, which enveloped him like a heavy cloak. Ducking into a nearby alley, he wove his way through the back streets to his vehicle, unnoticed by the transients he passed along the way.