The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  Janos was lying atop a bed on wheels when he took the call, trying the bed out for comfort while the salesman was away taking Janos’ bottom line offer to the dealership manager.

  Rather than rent or purchase a car, Janos decided, after several stops pricing cars, that a home on wheels would be appropriate. He and Mariya had traveled in a camper van during the initial stages of their investigation into the human trafficking case leading to the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone. The camper van had worked well in Ukraine, allowing them to move about covertly. He felt this would also work well in the US.

  Unfortunately, camper vans were expensive in the US, with larger motor homes plentiful and cheaper because of the cost of gasoline. The sizeable motor home Janos lay in when Mariya called was supposedly a Class C as opposed to the even large Class A motor homes. He was at an RV rental dealer in Linden, New Jersey, that was trying to sell off used units.

  Janos had dealt with salesmen in Ukraine. It was the same here. After hanging up with Mariya, he walked to the front of the Class C and slid into the driver’s seat. When the salesman smiled, waving a sheet of paper, Janos knew the so-called lowball offer had either been accepted, or he’d soon hear a story about how the salesman didn’t know where the manager’s thoughts were that day, or the manager had countered with an offer so close to Janos’ offer, certainly he’d make the deal. As the sign at the entrance to the dealership said, “Ready to deal today.”

  Chapter 18

  A Hitchcock moment, scene of the crime idiom in mind as Guzzo stood at the balcony sliding door. Same room in Detroit’s Greektown Casino Hotel. Looking down at the roof of the building from which he’d thrown Gianakos. Staring down, Guzzo conjured up another fall. The daughter in the stairwell, lighting terrible, especially the second floor landing where the single bulb is burned out. She retrieves a replacement but needs a stepladder. Barely enough room for the stepladder on the landing. Two bulbs and holding onto the ladder a juggling act. One ladder leg slips over the edge. Ladder plummets down the stairs. She’s found with her neck broken.

  When hotel housekeeping knocked that afternoon, Guzzo tried to tell the young woman to leave. Young, blonde, her accent either Ukrainian or Russian, perhaps lured by traffickers and escaped. He held the do not disturb sign up to get rid of her.

  Back at the sliding door, Guzzo focused his spotting scope on the black Ford Fusion parked across the street from the Gianakos building. The male driver still there, looking toward the side entrance leading to a maintenance room and the stairway. Light bulbs and ladder would be in the maintenance room. If it weren’t for him, Guzzo could have finished by now. The man watching the entrance meant there could be another, perhaps here in the hotel with his or her own spotting scope.

  Last evening Guzzo used the remote listening device trying to hear something in the woman’s apartment. He heard pots and pans in the kitchen and Greek background music. He considered visiting the restaurant and installing a transmitter to the ceiling of the men’s room. But the apartment was up another floor. After dark he moved the listening device to the balcony. The man in the Fusion had his cell phone speaker on.

  “You can leave in the morning.”

  “Back to Lansing?”

  “Yeah, maybe we’ll catch a congressman with his pants down.”

  “Isn’t that their default?” No answer. “So, what you doing tonight?”

  “That bar north of the capital.”

  “Have one for me.”

  “See you tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Late afternoon. I’ll need to stop for a nap on my way back.”

  Guzzo listened a little longer, heard only a fart, took off the earphones, and packed the parabolic microphone away. Knowing the Fusion man was alone made things easier. In the morning, as soon as the Fusion left, he’d finish. For now, he’d rest.

  In another hotel room, two men sat watching a rerun of The Godfather. Both were beefy, one wearing a sleeveless tee shirt, the other a Chicago Cubs tee shirt.

  “To bad they didn’t have a Charger at Midway,” said the man in the Cubs tee shirt.

  “Short notice,” said the man in the sleeveless, fiddling with his iPhone.

  “Our mark gets his Camry and we end up with a Lincoln.”

  “Camry’s popular, good resale. This one was like knew underneath when I was down in the garage hanging the GPS.”

  The man in the Cubs tee shirt continued staring at the television during commercials. “Think our mark’s here to do the Greek’s daughter?”

  “All we’re supposed to do is watch for names.”

  “Yeah, I got the list memorized. Cavallo, Polenkaya, Zolotarev, Weizman. Put your damn phone down. It’s the scene with the horse’s head.”

  Outside the window of the Greektown Casino Hotel it was dark and quiet.

  Morning. Niki gathering baggage for her journey. A family album had shots of baby Damon in her mother’s lap. Her mother gone ten years from breast cancer, her brother murdered two years ago. Damon had gotten curious about Dad’s CCC stint, visited the CCC museum at Higgins Lake, and gone out for a few beers only to be stabbed by a local drunk.

  Niki’s original plan was to limit herself to computer, notes, and a few changes of clothes. But maybe after meeting with Lazlo Horvath she’d take a road trip west, visit the Green River Historical Society to meet the woman she spoke with on the phone. After everything was stacked near the door, after recalling the deaths of her husband, father, mother, and Damon, she decided packing the photo album might be a sign it was time to let go, move away from Greektown.

  Armed with several water bottles and her keys, Niki unlocked the apartment door. On her way down the stairs to retrieve her van from the garage she heard pots and pans in the first floor kitchen. The restaurant morning crew. Theo, the buxom day shift supervisor, would be in charge. In the corner of the first floor landing, she saw a light bulb box. She kicked it, thinking it was empty. When it flipped she saw a bulb inside. Theo providing an energy efficient bulb to replace the dull one in the ceiling. It would be brighter, making is safer on the stairs.

  As Niki turned to step off for the final flight, a door flew open, banging against the wall. With water bottles under one arm, she grabbed the railing with her free hand.

  The black Ford Fusion parked in view of the building’s side entrance was running, telltale steam from its exhaust. The man inside on the phone. The new trainee dishwasher, a brash African American young man hired by Theo the morning before, eyed the Fusion coming back from the dumpster. He told his trainer, a Greek boy from the neighborhood, the Fusion driven by the “poe” would look “cramazing” with a good set of wheels.

  “What the hell’s poe mean?”

  “Fuzz, man. Plain clothes.”

  “You wanna work here? Learn English.”

  The trainee pushed through the door with garbage bags. “Hell should I learn English?”

  A water bottle tumbled down the stairs. The woman up the stairs was whiter than Theo the manager.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you, lady. New here. Takin’ out trash.”

  He pushed through the side door with the bags and held it open for her. She retrieved the water bottle, thanked him, and hurried toward a garage across the alley. On his way back from the dumpster the dishwasher saw the Fusion pull out and drive away.

  The previous night the side entrance was so dark Guzzo knew the Fusion agent hadn’t seen him. The dumpster near the door helped. He’d placed the new bulb on the first landing and confirmed the maintenance room was unlocked with the rickety stepladder inside. At dawn he was ready, wearing gray workman coveralls and lightweight tactical boots. When the Fusion pulled away he left his room, taking the guest elevator to the basement, then the service elevator back to the main floor and the Casino Hotel’s back exit.

  The Caravan was at the side entrance, sliding side door open and seats folded in
to the floor. As Niki began her second trip down the stairs, she heard a door slam. When she turned the corner she expected to see the African American boy, but he was neither in the stairwell nor outside at the dumpster. She unloaded her things into the van and turned in time to see Theo come out the side entrance. Theo held the door open for her.

  “What’s the maintenance man for?” asked Theo, adjusting a bra strap.

  “What maintenance man?”

  “He was in the stairwell. I ask what he wants and he smiles. I ask again and he says you called him. Something about the furnace.”

  “I didn’t call about the furnace. Where’d he go?”

  Theo shrugged and adjusted her other bra strap. “I don’t know. He was right here a minute ago, smiling like hell.”

  Niki glanced up the stairwell. “Theo, did you get new light bulbs for the stairwell?”

  “The stairwell? We’ve got enough work in the kitchen. You should come see the mess they left last night.” Theo headed for the door to the kitchen.

  “Wait, Theo.”

  “What?”

  “Can you wait here a minute? I’ve got to carry another load down and you could open the door for me.”

  “You want that new kid to help? I’ll send him out.”

  “Sure, okay. I could use help so I don’t have to make more trips.”

  “Or risk falling down stairs that aren’t up to code.”

  When the African American boy followed her up the stairs she had a momentary thought, him watching her ass in jeans. After they’d retrieved the remaining boxes and got back to the van she felt guilty for having thought the boy was watching her ass because he was so damn polite, commenting on her “cool van” when she hit the automatic sliding door button.

  She buckled her seat belt, thought about the light bulb on the stair landing again, and turned the rearview mirror lower so she could see the entire van floor. Nothing except the detritus of her life. She turned into the street and heard the van’s automatic door lock click.

  Back at the side entrance, the African American boy came out with his final load of garbage bags. Rather than the door slamming as it usually did, another door inside slammed and the tall muscular man in coveralls peeked out. When the man seemed satisfied the boy was hidden from view behind the lifted dumpster lid, he hurried out toward the street and around the corner where the red Dodge Caravan was making a right turn two blocks away.

  The morning after the phone call with Niki Gianakos, Janos called. Their flight had arrived and they’d stay where they were at least two days. Janos and Mariya in New York, doing their own investigating before coming his way. New phone numbers. After the call Lazlo programmed both into his phone.

  At noon Lazlo went out to his Civic parked down the street. He started it and let it run a while. As he sat there, another old man from the neighborhood pulled alongside and motioned to him, the man searching for a parking spot. Lazlo shook his head to let the man know he wasn’t leaving. After the old man a new black SUV passed slowly. The windows darkly tinted, maybe a local young man with money to burn. He expected the window to lower, another inquiry about his parking spot. But the SUV continued down the street, turning the corner at the end of the block. The SUV must not have been running long judging by steam out its tailpipe. After it turned the corner Lazlo could not see the SUV but could see its steam. Perhaps it was something, perhaps not. Lazlo knew he was overly suspicious, especially at times like this when someone else is involved. Niki Gianakos, he liked the name.

  At three in the afternoon Lazlo realized he’d skipped lunch and munched on cheese and crackers. At 4:30, a half-hour after Niki said she’d call, he decided he’d go to the Lincoln Oasis. He opened his closet, pulled down his gun case, took his keys out and opened the case. Inside was his .38 revolver. Last time he used it was at the range. He stared at it a moment, checked to see it was loaded, then locked it back in its case and returned it to the shelf. He made sure his cell phone ringer was set on high, and went down to his car.

  Rush hour traffic, no black SUV, and no other vehicle following his meandering route. Lincoln Oasis west bound, 6:30, an hour and a half after Niki was to have called. He went in, used the men’s room, then sat in the open food court sipping a Starbucks coffee.

  Time dragged, large trucks passing beneath the oasis overpass rumbled from below. Caffeine made his heart race. He purchased a large bottle of water and sipped that. He watched people parade in and out of the oasis, almost everyone stopping at restrooms before moving on to the food court. Men, women, and children of all shapes and nationalities. Lazlo thought this is how society finishes, everyone on the move, escaping something, searching for something. He couldn’t help thinking of this woman named Niki. The sound of her voice played over and over.

  This morning he’d showered and put on a freshly laundered red shirt and blue jeans. Perhaps he should have worn a green tie. Yes, that would be appropriate for a Gypsy. Blue jeans, red shirt, green tie, and his blue jacket. Fool.

  Because of all the coffee, he needed the men’s room again. The phone rang while he stood at the urinal. He finished up, fumbled for the phone, stood at the row of sinks, the men his age on either side eyeing him.

  “Yes, it’s Lazlo.”

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the oasis. It’s a long story. I’m not sure what I should do.”

  “Can we meet this evening?”

  “Yes, give me an address. Perhaps a restaurant near you.”

  “We can meet right now.” The men who’d been at the sinks were at the wall-mounted hand dryers that sounded like jets on takeoff. They eyed him in the mirror on their way out. When the dryers stopped, he said, “I’m sorry, the noise. I’m in the men’s room.”

  “Well, I have to draw the line somewhere. I’m not coming into the men’s room.”

  There are moments in life in tune with the universe. Moments when God—if he or she or some sort of essence exists—reaches out to adjust brain synapses exactly so. Such moments can occur any time or place—a quiet hideaway, lights turned low, or pushing through the door of a brightly lit tollway oasis men’s room, serenaded by an extremely loud toilet flush.

  Because Niki also wore blue jeans, red blouse, a blue jacket, and had white hair—but mostly because of her eyes—this became one of those moments. She reminded Lazlo of Olympia Dukakis in Moonstruck. Was the bedazzled look on her face because of their wardrobe match, or something else? A coffee grinder whined at Starbucks, a kid took an order at Sbarros, another flush blasted out as a young woman exited the women’s room across from the men’s room.

  They sat at a small food court table in front of the Sbarro kiosk. Rather than carrying a purse, Niki carried an oblong green wallet stuffed with dog-eared notes. She placed her phone atop her wallet on the table. The top two buttons of her red blouse were unbuttoned, revealing a sliver of smooth skin below her neck, lips, nose, and dark blue eyes. Those eyes, staring at him, took him momentarily away from the Lincoln Oasis with long haul diesels rumbling below. They were on a journey, perhaps a Mediterranean cruise, sitting in a restaurant. Soon they’d dock in Niki’s homeland. Although her given name was Angela, she said to call her Niki. Not long ago she was only a voice, now she was here, sitting across from Lazlo, the moonstruck fool.

  “I drove here because I was worried when you didn’t call.”

  “There was a new boy at the restaurant,” said Niki. “He acted like he needed to protect me even though we’d never met. I kept thinking I was being followed. I exited the interstate several times. When I stopped for lunch I thought a man was watching. He left the restaurant at the same time and got on the interstate behind me. I drove slowly until he passed. I was also nervous about coming here. Roadblocks trying to investigate my father’s death and speaking with Jacobson have changed my life. What about you? How did you co
me to this investigation?”

  Lazlo told about Janos and Mariya, what they’d gone through during the Chernobyl trafficking investigation. He told about Doctor Marta Adamivna Voronko and Janos’ sister Sonia being Doctor Marta’s lover. He summarized Doctor Marta’s research concerning the death of her father, Bela Voronko, and her grandfather with the same name.

  “Doctor Marta and I shared emails.” Niki paused, glanced around the food court. “Dad was happy. He was on the committee responsible for reviving Greektown. He owned a restaurant, hired a wonderful manager, and life was good. He loved doing odd jobs. For him to fall off the roof was simply impossible.

  “After the funeral I began investigating. I dragged out everything my mother packed away before she died. Among the boxes was one containing letters and papers from Dad’s CCC days. I have a Pictorial Review booklet of Camp Manila. All the men in camp at the time were listed. I tried contacting the ones from Dad’s barracks. I remember him bringing up guys in the barracks when he was being feisty. In the early days of the restaurant when a hood wanted payola, he’d mention the guys from Barracks Three.

  “Anyway, when I tried contacting the men, a pattern emerged. Doctor Marta Voronko in Ukraine was also searching for information about the deaths of CCC men and relatives. Not simply that men and relatives died, but that the ones who died in recent years had so-called accidents, or suicides, something violent. The last one was a man named Paul Fontaine in Sun City, outside Phoenix. In his nineties and he hangs himself from a balcony after knifing his wife. I spoke with a daughter and son. Both said it made no sense. Their dad would never do such a thing. Just like my dad would never go up on the roof to lay down some tar and accidentally fall.”