by Wendy Tyson
He shrugged. “So what does that have to with me? With the landfill?”
“Her father works there. And so does her boyfriend’s father.”
“So?”
Mia pulled out the papers Jamie had given her on Scott Berger’s record. She handed them to Svengetti. “So something smells. The parents don’t want police involved, the boyfriend’s father has a mile-long record with minimal time spent in prison, and things keep leading back to the damn landfill.”
Svengetti raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about the landfill?”
“Its prior owner, Katerina Tarasoff, was my client once upon a time.”
He smiled, but his look was bitter, not happy. “Katerina.”
“A real bitch,” Mia said, and they both laughed. “So, I know of the family. I know that Katerina’s father was a Mob affiliate, and it makes me wonder what, if anything, this girl’s disappearance has to do with the Kremsburg landfill operation or the family’s business.”
“And someone gave you my name?”
She nodded. “Someone no longer connected to the family.”
“So you think.”
Svengetti stood. For a moment, Mia thought he would ask her to leave. Instead, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out two Michelobs. He opened both, came back into the living room, and handed one beer to Mia. The other he placed on the folding table. Mia thought it a girly choice of beer for a guy like Svengetti, but she decided to keep that particular opinion to herself.
With his back to Mia, he said, “You should stop asking questions, go home, and be done with this nonsense.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”
“Then you are either very brave or very stupid.” He turned back around. “But I am neither. So I need you to tell me three things about yourself that I can verify online using public records.”
Mia smiled. “First I need to strip, then I need to give you personal information?”
Not so much as a smirk. “You’re free to leave at any time.”
Mia glanced out the window, then back at Svengetti, deciding how far to go. “One, I own a fourteen acre farm in Sunnydale, Pennsylvania. The property was sold to me almost five years ago by Mark and Louise Birch. Two, I used to own an image consulting business on the Main Line. If you look, you will still find references. I sold it to Allison Campbell, my then-daughter-in-law, four years ago.”
“And three?” Hard eyes bored into Mia’s. Unconsciously, she brought her hand to her neck. “My daughter died in a car accident almost five years ago. She was with her father, Edward Campbell. He was drunk. You’ll find news articles. It was a human interest story.” The last words burned like bile.
“Stay there. But understand I can see you.”
Svengetti disappeared into a rear room and came back seconds later with a laptop. He placed it on the dining room table. After a few minutes of painful silence and constant keyboard tapping, he snapped the computer shut.
“You sold the business almost five years ago, not four. Otherwise, you check out.” He sat back down on the recliner, looking a hair more relaxed. Mia’s eyes strayed to an old dog cushion, wedged behind the recliner, against the wall.
Svengetti followed the direction of her stare. “I had a German Shepherd. Rocky. Big, smart dog. He stayed with me at night, but during the day it was everything I could do to keep the damn dog inside. He had an independent spirit. Liked to roam.”
Svengetti rubbed his face with one beefy hand. “Rocky’s dead, ma’am. He was poisoned. Convulsed to death right outside my house, where that woodpile is.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I. Rocky was my third dog. All poisoned. I have no neighbors for a mile in any direction, no businesses nearby, no factories or streams that would have run-off. How have three of my dogs been poisoned?”
Mia wasn’t sure he expected a response. She stayed quiet.
“But that was nothing compared to my Emily. She died three years ago. Car accident. Hit and run. The perp was never found. Know why?”
Mia shook her head.
“Because it was the same fuckers who killed my dogs. Them. The Russians.”
“The Russian Mafia?”
He nodded, eyes clouded with grief. Mia said softly, “Were you a police investigator?”
“Retired from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Organized Crime Strike Force.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I can’t. I can tell you this, the Russian Mob continues to operate in Northeastern Pennsylvania. Don’t believe the official bullshit—excuse my French—that the Mafia has been eradicated from the area. The Mob may be keeping a lower profile these days, but they’re still around.”
“Gretchkos?”
“Gretchkos and any number of others. The landfill is still a money laundering hot spot, I’m sure. It’s one of the things the Russians do well, even better than the Italians.”
“If the Gretchkos or others are still operating in the region, why is the official bullshit, as you say, that they’re gone.”
“Because if there is no crime, Ms. Campbell, then there are no criminals to go after.”
“And no one wants to mess with the Russians?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Then how simple is it?”
Svengetti stood. His tall, broad frame strode across the room, toward the picture window. He kept his back to her. “There was a big clean-up operation years ago. Tarasoff was arrested, his men jailed. After Tarasoff died, his widow and daughter swore that connections to the Russian Mob in New York were finished. Nevertheless, the daughter, Katerina, had married Andrei Gretchko, a wealthy businessman with ties to mobsters in Russia, some of whom go back to the old Soviet Union hierarchy. Since Tarasoff’s death, they’ve kept their noses cleaner. But that just means they’ve gone further underground.”
“In what way?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out.”
“I thought you were retired.”
Svengetti walked toward the rear of the living room and disappeared into what Mia assumed was his bedroom. During this short conversation, he’d dropped the hick façade and she was now talking to a learned and sharp federal employee. But she smelled desperation. And anger. And she was well aware of what a dangerous combination that could be.
He returned a minute later with a stack of file folders. While he sorted through them, he said, “Used to be just the Italian Mob. Now we have others—Asian, African, Balkan, Russian, Middle Eastern, even youth gangs. Everyone wants in on the action. The Russians often launder for other Mafia groups. The Italians, for one. It’s my hunch that Gretchko is still dirty, but he’s covered their dealings so well that they’re virtually impossible to unearth.”
“Is it possible the Gretchko family has gone straight?” Mia asked.
Svengetti snorted. “As likely as the Pope converting to Buddhism.”
“Then why aren’t the Feds on it?”
“Maybe they are. Maybe there is some tacit agreement to publicly say the Mob is dead in this area so that the Gretchko family and their henchmen will get lazy, soft.” He shrugged. “I’m not part of that world anymore, so I don’t really know.”
Mia pointed to the files. “But you’ve been busy gathering information.”
Svengetti stared at Mia for a moment. His eyes narrowed. “Know what separates the Italian Mafia from the Russians?”
Mia shook her head no.
“Boundaries. Believe it or not, the Mafioso has respect for boundaries, for honor. Generally, they don’t go after journalists or prosecutors. There is usually some regard for conventional societal structure.”
“Not so with the Russian Mafia?”
“They make the Italians look like nuns. My wife, my dogs? Retribution for my role in putting Tarasoff away. They waited until I
was retired, until there didn’t seem to be a direct correlation between what was happening to me and my role in the investigation.”
“Were others targeted?”
Svengetti shifted his eyes. “Maybe. They’re smart. It’s hard to know what was an accident and what was connected.”
Mia looked at the files, thought about the time that must have gone into researching and following the Mob’s activity. She looked around at the tiny trailer, and the simple way Svengetti lived. Looked like Svengetti had a vendetta of his own.
“So, if the Feds have cooled their investigation, and if the Russian Mafia is so cruel and vindictive, why are you still after them?”
Svengetti smiled. His eyes took on a manic glaze. “I have nothing left to lose, Ms. Campbell. Nothing.” He held up the files. “When I go, my last act will be to bring those fuckers down with me.”
Twenty-Six
At one-thirty that afternoon, Vaughn received the call they knew was inevitable. They were on their way to the Benini factory where Maria had been killed the day before in the hopes that someone would talk to them. About a mile from the plant, Vaughn’s mobile rang. Detective Butch Razinski. He wanted to meet with Vaughn and Allison as soon as possible.
“He’s up here, in Ithaca. He suggested a coffee shop a few doors from Moosewood, that vegetarian restaurant. We’re meeting at three.”
“Did he say anything specific?” Allison asked. Although the look on Vaughn’s face said the detective had said enough.
“Nothing that bears repeating.” Vaughn glanced at her from across the BMW’s interior. He shrugged. “Maybe the police are as stumped as we are.”
Or maybe they’re not, Allison thought. She gave her friend a reassuring smile. She wished she could do more.
Mia was on a roll. She’d left Thomas Svengetti’s house with potential contacts. After an email to Jamie with her whereabouts and a call to a neighbor who agreed to feed the chickens and sheep and let Buddy out of the house, she pulled onto Route 380 and headed west, into Scranton.
First stop was Brian Frist, former IRS agent. A call from Svengetti had secured a thirty minute interview. With a head shake, he’d warned her that the man was surly on a good day. She’d said “thank you” and hugged Svengetti good-bye, surprising herself as much as him. But he’d hugged her back. Two veterans of heartbreak.
Mia found Frist at his office on Wyoming in downtown Scranton. Now a part-time accountant, Frist lived his days quietly helping taxpayers recognize the loopholes in the laws that he’d once enforced. But Frist and Svengetti had worked together on the Tarasoff case, and, according to Svengetti, no one knew more about the family’s financial dealings outside of their own accountant.
The second she laid eyes on Frist, Mia knew Svengetti was right. Not a people person. The man mumbled a hello without meeting her eyes. He was a stoop-shouldered fifty-something with a ring of white hair that horse-shoed around a reddened, bald pate. Green checkered pants had been paired with a pressed white button down shirt and a brown tie. A rust-colored mustache hid a thin upper lip.
“Thanks so much for your time, Mr. Frist.” Mia held a hand out but was rebuffed. Instead, Frist sat down at his desk. He didn’t offer for Mia to sit in the chair across from him, but Mia sat anyway. Frist watched her, his expression taciturn.
“I promised Svengetti I’d give you a half hour of my time. I didn’t promise I’d tell you anything.”
“Then why bother to meet with me?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Getting down to business already?”
“Half hour, I told you.”
Mia smiled. “Wow, once IRS, always IRS.”
He stared at her. “What do you want to know?” he asked again.
Mia sighed. “Andrei Gretchko.”
Arched eyebrows. Mia thought she saw a flicker of emotion cross those dead eyes. “What about him?”
“If, hypothetically, he still maintained connections to the Russian Mafia, what might Gretchko be doing?”
“Doing?”
“Hypothetically speaking, what could Gretchko—and the landfill—offer the Russian Mafia?”
“I have no idea.”
“Svengetti thought you might.”
“Svengetti’s wrong.”
“We’re talking hypothetically, Mr. Frist. Where might the Gretchkos fit in the Russian Mob hierarchy?”
Frist sat back, sighed. He examined the precisely-trimmed nails on soft, smallish hands. Finally, he said, “The Russians aren’t like the Italians. They don’t have a family hierarchical structure, with a boss, underboss, soldiers, etc. It’s a much looser structure. This means each unit profits and has a degree of autonomy that the Italian middle men might not enjoy.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that the Gretchko family could be working autonomously. They don’t need to be acting on orders from a higher power.”
“Assuming they are still involved in the Mob business. They could have gone straight, right?”
Frist shook his head. “Hypothetically? It’s not that easy to walk away.”
Mia considered this. If the Gretchkos were still involved in Mob business, what did this have to do with Tammy Edwards? With the Benini family?
“Does the name Benini ring a bell?” Mia asked. “Benini Enterprises?”
Frist frowned. “No, should it?”
“A family-owned business out of New York State. Ithaca.”
He shook his head, glanced at his watch.
“How about the name Edwards? Anthony Edwards?”
“Not sure. Don’t think so.”
Mia tried to remember the name of Tammy Edwards’ boyfriend. It started with a K. Ken, Kris, Kyle...Kai. That was it. Kai Berger. “How about Berger? Scott or Kai Berger.”
“That name I know. Scott Berger was one of Tarasoff’s messengers. Started when he was just a kid. Took the fall for Andrei and Nicholas a few times, too, early on. Petty stuff. They set him up with a business. Feds were convinced that he was laundering. Probably is. But he’s been playing it clean for the last couple of years.”
“Laundering?”
“You must be familiar with the concept, Ms. Campbell.”
“With the concept, yes. With the practice, no.”
Frist spoke in a rote, mechanical fashion when he said, “It can take a lot of forms, but the end goal is always the same: converting dirty money into legitimate, clean assets. Organized crime is particularly adept at this. Sometimes mobsters use underground banking, crooked political regimes, or financial institutions. Often, though, they look for legitimate businesses. Or, if they can, they make cash transactions or real estate deals.” Frist shrugged. “This has all been made easier by the advent of the electronic age. Transfer of funds across borders happens much more quickly. And once the Feds discover one technique, the bad guys have moved on to another.”
“So Scott Berger’s bar is a laundering operation?”
“Could be.”
“Mr. Frist, a girl is missing. She’s eighteen, and the girlfriend of Scott Berger’s son, Kai.” Mia paused, allowing Frist to follow the change in direction. “What would they want with a young girl?”
For the first time, Frist looked taken off-guard. “Kai Berger’s girlfriend?”
Mia nodded. “She disappeared late last week. Friday. Her parents think she ran away, but that doesn’t make sense. The girl is a singer, recently scored a spot on America’s Next Pop Star. Why run away now?”
Frist stood up. He walked over to a bank of filing cabinets, reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He opened the bottom drawer of the farthest cabinet, and, squatting, sorted through folders and binders until he found what he was looking for. He pulled a red binder out of the drawer and stood.
Still standing, he read through the binder, stopped, and marked
his place with his right pointer finger. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered. He looked at Mia. “Last year, Kai was arrested. He was caught dumping toxic chemicals into a local creek. Caught red-handed by a cop watching for speeders nearby.”
It was Mia’s turn to be surprised. “Where did he get the chemicals?”
“Good question. He claims someone paid him to dump them, some unknown guy he met on the street. Needed money so he agreed.”
“Not true?”
“I made a note of it, not because I give a special damn about the environment, but because it sounds like someone did pay him to do it. Maybe someone who can make some money disposing of illegal waste.”
“By dumping it in local streams?” The idea horrified Mia.
Frist shrugged. “Why not? Compliance with regulations can be expensive. If companies, especially small companies, can get rid of waste cheaper, some will do it. And where there’s a market—”
“There’s a buyer and a seller.”
Frist nodded. “Exactly. You asked what the Gretchkos might be up to. Who the hell knows? When I was with the Service, the Tarasoff family was big into laundering, plus drug trafficking. We ultimately got Tarasoff for tax fraud. That’s what landed him in prison.”
“But the family could have diversified.”
Frist smiled, the first smile Mia had seen since they began this discussion. “Good way to put it.” He flipped through the red binder. Without looking up, he said, “But that doesn’t explain your missing girl.”
“You said you weren’t sure if you recognized the Edwards’ name. Is there a possibility you have records on Tony Edwards?”
“Nah, don’t think so. I’d recall if that were the case.” He raised one finger. “But you said this girl is a singer? With Hollywood connections?”
“Yes,” Mia said. “America’s Next Pop Star.”
Frist looked up. He bit his lip, thinking. “Maybe she’s worth something on the black market.”
Alarmed at the awful implication, Mia said, “Trafficking?”
Frist shook his head, looking pensive. “Forget it. The Gretchkos are bad news, but selling the child of an employee—and that would be their most likely use for an eighteen-year-old girl, if she just disappeared like that—would seem low, even for them. And I never saw anything hinting at trafficking. Although it’s not outside the realm of possibilities.”