The Doomsday Girl

by Dave Stanton

  “They’re inside,” I said, nodding toward the Red Square.

  “Why don’t we go in?”

  “All right.”

  She took my arm. “We’ll pretend to be a couple.”

  “I’m old enough to be your father.”

  “Just barely. And I look mature, so don’t worry about it.”

  We walked past the hostess and into the bar. Every seat in the room was taken, but a couple right at the entrance stood to leave as soon as we entered. “Here,” I said, and quickly sat at the small cocktail table. Abbey took the chair across from me. We had a view of the bar, where the two men stood, sipping what I assumed were shots of top shelf vodka.

  “What are they doing?” she asked.

  “Standing around like they own the place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s their demeanor. They might have a stake in the ownership.”

  “I’ll look into it.” She began poking at her phone.

  “I’m sending you a picture of the older man,” I said.

  “Should be easy enough to identify him,” she replied.

  “Here they come,” I said. They began toward us, but veered right, into a dark alcove where a waitress had just been. When they didn’t reappear after a minute, I said, “I think they’ve gone into the kitchen.”

  Abbey looked up just as a cocktail waitress approached.

  “Two Smirnoffs and two waters, please,” I said.

  “Got it,” she said, and hurried away.

  “I prefer my vodka with tonic,” Abbey said.

  “It’s not for you to drink. Pour it in your water glass.”

  “What a waste.”

  When I didn’t respond, Abbey said, “You think the Volkovs have an office in the back somewhere?”

  “I don’t know. But they definitely do at the Café Leonov.”

  “Well, they’ve got to know someone here.”

  “Either an associate, or someone they’re extorting,” I said.

  “You want to go back and see what we can find out?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m gonna follow them. It’ll probably be a late night. If you’re not up for it, I understand.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “You should stop frowning. Smile, look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  I sat back and let my face go slack, then I laughed as if she’d said something funny. “Good point,” I said.

  “My dad said you could be a little intense.”

  “Let’s talk,” I said. “About anything. Tell me about your school.” Filling the space with chatter would be less conspicuous than sitting in grim concentration, which I realized was my current state of mind.

  Abbey started talking, and I smiled and asked questions and tried to behave as if I were on a date. Her chatter was light and friendly, and after a while it struck me that despite her tough exterior, she was really just a young girl, barely out of her teens. Some of the things she said were silly in a teasing way, as if she was hoping I’d respond in kind. I began finding it hard to resist the temptation. Then the waitress brought our drinks, and I snatched her shot glass.

  “Hey!”

  I guzzled my water and discreetly poured both vodkas onto the ice cubes.

  “I thought you were the hard drinking P.I.”

  “Cody said that?”

  “He told me a few stories.”

  “Well, everything has its time and place.”

  Thirty minutes passed, and it became increasingly easy to chat with Abbey. She kept trying to mock me, but I found it entertaining rather than offensive. Her tone was flirtatious, but not seriously so.

  “So, just curious, how do you get your jobs?” she asked.

  “Mostly by referral.”

  “The family that hired you, they’re from Utah?”

  “No, San Jose.”

  “Is that where they are now?”

  “No. Melanie Jordan, the victim, is staying with her parents here in Vegas.”

  “Is that right? Could I meet her?”

  “Why?”

  “Well,” she said, clicking her nails on her water glass. “It’s a girl-girl thing. Maybe she would tell me things she wouldn’t tell you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “What have you got to lose?”

  I scratched my forearm. “I don’t want to muddle things.”

  “Where are they staying?”

  “A hotel near the airport,” I said.

  “Which hotel?”

  I shook my head. “Forget it, Abbey.”

  “Fine, be that way.”

  I ignored her comment, and said, “I’m hungry, and who knows how long we might wait for these guys. Let’s go get a bite and wait out front.”

  We stood and walked out of the restaurant. “Tell you what,” I said, handing her a twenty- dollar bill. “There’s a food court that way. Go get a couple sandwiches and meet me back here. If they show up, I’ll text you.”

  Abbey left me at a row of slots that provided a view of the Red Square entrance. The possibility that the Volkovs were involved with the Red Square management was not surprising. It also wasn’t particularly relevant unless it provided a link to child pornography. I couldn’t imagine how it could, unless they kept incriminating records on the premises, which I felt was unlikely. Smart mobsters only keep written records when absolutely necessary, and they keep them well hidden. Of course, not all mobsters were smart, and even some highly successful crooks were sometimes imprudent.

  Fifteen minutes later Abbey hadn’t returned, but the two Russians had. They’d been out of sight for almost an hour, and now they strode purposely across the casino, back toward the hotel lobby.

  I texted front exit to Abbey and fell in behind them. I didn’t know what was keeping her, but then she responded: had to go to coffee shop, just got food.

  When we reached the hotel lobby they walked straight out to the reception circle. I watched from behind the glass doors as they waited at the curb. Just as Abbey walked up, the limo came around, and the driver got out and opened the back door. The Russians disappeared into the interior, and the limo drove off into the night.

  “How’d we let that happen?” Abbey asked.

  “Let what happen?” I said.

  She looked at me with widened eyes. “We lost them!”

  “You have much to learn, child.”

  ******

  Once we got to my pickup, I handed Abbey my phone.

  “See the red arrow? That’s the limo.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “Tools of the trade. I’ll show you later if you behave yourself.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”

  “Navigate for me.”

  “They’re heading north. Turn left and get on the freeway.”

  I gunned the engine and covered five miles in a little over three minutes.

  “Take ninety-five east,” Abbey said. I swerved to the exit and took my phone from her hand.

  “They’re heading to the same place as last night,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “They just stopped. It’s a duplex where some of their whores live.”

  “You don’t have to call them that.”

  “Why not?” I said, blowing through a yellow light.

  “Because you don’t know what their circumstances are. They could be so desperate for money that it’s the only choice they have. Or, they could be victims of forced prostitution. Have you heard of those scams?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s very common in Southeast Asia and Eastern Europe. Poor girls without much hope for a decent life answer ads to come to the U.S. for real jobs, and maybe to find a husband. Then they get here, and the nightmare begins.”

  “You think the Volkovs are involved in that?”

  “I don’t think they’d hesitate if they could make a buck.”

  “Can’t argue t
hat,” I said, hitting a green light.

  “Turn here,” Abbey said.

  I entered the same decrepit neighborhood I’d visited the previous night and saw the limo parked in front of the same duplex where they’d dropped off the three women who’d been keeping them company at the Café Leonov. The limo’s driver’s seat was empty. I switched my lights off and parked a few units away on the opposite side of the street.

  “What now?”

  “We wait,” I said.

  Five minutes passed, and though the street was lined with parked cars, none drove past us. The night was dark and still.

  “You think there’s a chance that little girl is inside?” Abbey said.

  I rubbed the stubble on my jaw. “Anything’s possible.”

  We sat in silence for another few minutes until I said, “I’m gonna do a little recon. Text me if you see anything.”

  “What do you mean, recon?”

  “Just wait here.” I got out of my truck and walked behind it, then darted across the street. I moved past two duplexes before reaching the limo, then I crept to a wood slat fence aside the unit where the Russians had entered. I looked over the fence into an alley where two plastic garbage cans sat next to the stucco wall. Above one of the cans was a square of yellow light coming from a small bathroom window.

  I went through the gate and crouched below the window, then peeked in. Seeing the bathroom empty, I lifted the hinged top to one of the containers and used my cellphone to illuminate the contents. Brown paper bags overflowed with frozen food packaging, tissues, a shampoo bottle, and a broken wine bottle. I reached in and picked through the trash, looking for anything that might suggest a ten-year-old girl was being kept here. I was hoping to see a peanut butter jar, or maybe a fast food happy meal box, or, if I was really lucky, an article of children’s clothing. But I found nothing of the sort, and I gave up after my hand hit a reeking mess of rotted food.

  I eased the lid shut and was looking for something to wipe my hand on when I heard a sound from the bathroom. Then I heard a muted voice. I pressed my ear against the stucco, my head just aside the window.

  “It’s time to test your cranial ability,” a man said. His voice had a sharp pitch, deep but piercing. I could easily hear his thick Russian accent.

  The woman’s voice that replied was too quiet to discern. I heard some moving about, and when there was no conversation for a minute, I risked a glance inside.

  The young woman was sitting on the toilet, performing fellatio on the limo driver. Her head moved back and forth rapidly. He stared down at her, his pants bunched around his ankles.

  I ducked down and moved deeper into the alley. When I reached the corner of the building, I saw a concrete patio and a weed yard. The view into the duplex through the sliding glass door was obscured by vertical blinds. But there was light coming from around the imperfectly hung slats, and from my angle I could partially see into the room.

  Serj Volkov was sitting on a couch next to two women while his older partner stood speaking with an older woman wearing a red wig. She had been with the Russians the previous night and given her age I assumed she played the role of a madam. I watched the room for a few minutes and saw nothing to suggest a young girl was being held here. The duplex was probably leased by the Volkovs and used as an inexpensive home for their call girls. The madam would handle incoming calls and send the girls out for jobs. The Volkovs would come by to pick up cash on a nightly basis. Whether these girls worked for the Volkovs by choice or under duress, I couldn’t tell.

  If the Volkovs were holding Mia Jordan, it would have to be somewhere secure and secretive, with little traffic. I doubted this duplex fit the bill.

  On my way out, I took a quick look through the second garbage receptacle, and found nothing of interest. I eased the gate open, slid through, and jogged back to my truck.

  “What’s that smell?” Abbey said as soon as I sat.

  “I rooted through their garbage cans.”

  “That would explain it.”

  “I was looking for any sign a child was there.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  “Lexi the limo driver was sampling the wares.”

  “Huh?”

  “He was getting a blow job in the bathroom.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. Thanks for sharing.”

  “This place is just a nightly cash stop for the Volkovs.”

  “Those women in there, are they there on their own free will?”

  “Hard to say. They could probably just leave if they wanted to.”

  “That’s not how it works,” Abbey said. “The Volkovs could hold their passports, tell them they owe thousands of dollars until they pay off their debt, and threaten to harm their families back in Russia if the debt isn’t paid.”

  When I didn’t respond, Abbey said, “You think they should be allowed to get away with that?”

  “No,” I said. “But I’ve got other priorities.”

  Abbey shook her head. “You know, Cody said, at your core, you despise criminals. But I’m not really feeling that.”

  “Is that why you want to be a cop? Because you despise criminals?”

  “That’s part of it. Maybe a big part. What about you?”

  “I try to keep the emotion out of it,” I said.

  She blew her breath out. “Good luck with that. So, what now?”

  “We hope they take us somewhere meaningful.”

  “And what if they don’t?”

  I looked away from the duplex and Abbey’s eyes looked reptilian in the shadows.

  “Then I need to decide if this is a dead lead, or if there’s reason to take it up a notch.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. This surveillance stuff is like moving in slow motion. What have you got in mind?”

  “I could plant bugs, maybe in the limo, or maybe at the Café Leonov.”

  “The café would be easy. Probably be tough getting into the limo.”

  “Not really.”

  “You know what would be really cool? To get our hands on one of their cell phones, see who they’re calling, read their messages, listen to their voice mail.”

  “How would you do that?” I asked.

  “Get one of them alone, mug him. You’re a bad ass, no problem, right?”

  I shook my head. “If the Volkovs suspect they’re being watched, they’ll get ultra-cautious. We need to operate in the shadows. The goal is to not alert them.”

  “Right,” Abbey said, as the duplex front door opened. The three men came down the walkway and got into the limo.

  “Let’s hope they go somewhere interesting,” Abbey said.

  “Patience,” I replied.

  The limo drove away, and I had to wait until it reached the corner before pulling from the curb. Then I gunned it, lights off, and regained sight as they turned onto Decatur Boulevard. I suspected they’d head to the southbound freeway and go back toward The Strip, but they turned north. I tailed them at a distance for two miles until they took the on-ramp for 215 east.

  “Not much out this way,” Abbey said. “Nellis Air Force Base, and that’s about it.”

  To the left of the freeway was a barren stretch of desert, and to the right there were only sporadic lights. We were approaching the junction for Interstate 15 when the limo slowed and exited on North Lamb. The road was dark and there was no traffic. I again turned off my headlights.

  We drove for half a mile and there was nothing on either side of the road, no buildings, no lights, no turn-offs. I fell back and gave them plenty of room. When they finally reached an intersection they turned right, and I accelerated and saw they had turned onto the gravel shoulder. They were stopped at a chain-link gate, illuminated by their headlights. Lexi got out, pulled free a padlocked chain, pushed the gate open, then returned to the limo and drove it through. After he stopped and re-locked the gate, the limo rounded a bend behind a single story st
ructure and was no longer visible.

  I drove forward and looked for a concealed place to park. Finding nothing suitable, I hung a U-turn and stopped near the gate.

  “What is this place?” Abbey asked.

  “There’s a sign over there. Wait here,” I said, then left my truck and jogged over to where a plywood sign rose slightly above the fencing. The wood was rotted, the paint dim. I shined my cell light at it and read the faded lettering.

  “Towne Auto Salvage,” I said when I returned to my truck.

  “That’s the junkyard they took over. They didn’t even bother changing the name. Chris Towne was the student Serj Volkov sent to the hospital.”

  “They’re probably using it to launder money.”

  “Why are they here at ten p.m.? A little late for cooking the books, isn’t it?”

  “They keep late hours.”

  We sat staring at the front gate. “Look at this place,” Abbey said. “All fenced off and remote. How much you want to bet there’re dead bodies buried in there?”

  “Are there any unresolved killings they’re suspected of?”

  “I already told you Lexi skated on two murder charges. One of the bodies was never found.”

  “What do you want to do, get a warrant, dig up the place?”

  Abbey looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “Not if there’s an easier way. Any ideas?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “If Mia Jordan is being held captive, this could be the place.”

  “So what do we do about it? I’d need probable cause to get a warrant.”

  “That’s the advantage of being a P.I.,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t need probable cause. At least not the legal version.”

  ******

  It wasn’t until around midnight that the Russians left the junkyard. They drove back across town to the Cafe Leonov, then an hour later headed to a high-end Vegas strip club. Apparently that revved them up, for at 2:30 a.m. they drove back to Mandalay Bay and picked up the three call girls they’d talked to earlier in the evening. They herded the ladies into the limo and took them to the Café Leonov.

  Abbey fell asleep in my passenger seat as I sat watching the café from the parking lot across the street. I finally called it a night at 3:30 and drove Abbey to her apartment near the college.