by P. A. Brown
David left the two other women with soft drinks and a quiet word, and joined Konstatinov and Irinka in interview room one.
“You ready?” David asked the younger man.
“What should I ask?”
“I’ll feed you lines, you just translate.”
“Yes, Detective.”
“First, for the record, ask her if we can record? Then get her full name, social, place of birth and employer if she has one.”
Irinka was clearly uneasy about recording her interview but Konstatinov soothed her rattled nerves and got her to agree.
The rest was easy. They already knew most of it. Then, “Ask her when she first met Mikalenko. Was it here in the US or was it in Ukraine?”
“Ukraine. In Kiev. That was over two years ago.”
“Did he have other women with him at the time?”
L.A. BONEYARD 183
“No, he was alone. Later there were women, but she’s not sure where they came from. Irinka only knew their first names.
Halyna and Zuzanna. That was maybe two years ago.”
“What did Mikalenko offer them?”
“She is not sure what you mean by offer.”
“Did he promise the girls anything? Jobs? Money? Visas for the US?”
Irinka was nodding vigorously. “He told them they would get good jobs in America. That they would be well paid and he also said they would get good husbands. American husbands. It is like marrying a prince to them. Happily ever after.”
“It’s a wonder he didn’t tell them he’d make them movie stars,” David snorted. “What’s one more impossible dream to shoot for. Was she ever pregnant?”
Irinka bolted upright at the question, her already pale face going parchment white. “She wants to know how you knew?
Have you seen her baby? Mickey told her it was dead, that it was born dead. She was never quite sure she believed him. She felt him move when he was born. She thinks she heard him cry.”
Tears were leaking down Irinka’s face now. She flinched when Konstatinov used a Kleenex to wipe her face dry.
“What about the other women? Any of them have babies too?”
“All of them. Natalya was last. She had her baby only last month.”
There had been no babies in the small bungalow. “Natalya?
Does she mean Natalya Lapchuk?”
Konstatinov shook his head. “She does not know her last name. Only Natalya.”
“What happened to the babies?” David asked.
“She does not know, but she is beginning to fear that the answer to that question is terrible. Mikalenko was present at all of the births and he said they all died. But how do three babies die, boom, boom, boom? It is not like they did not see a doctor.
184 P.A. Brown
Mikalenko took them to see a nice Ukrainian doctor several times during their pregnancies. He always seemed to care. So what did he do with them? If the other three were also pregnant, then Mikalenko wanted it that way. He wanted those babies. Why kill them all? Talk about cooking the golden cow.”
“Black market for blond white babies is huge. The sky’s the limit for some rich couple who can’t have their own. They don’t ask too many embarrassing questions. Babies get into the system, they disappear just like that.”
“I am very confused,” Konstatinov said. “Why are the three women dead then? It does not make sense.”
“I don’t know.” David frowned. “You’re right, it doesn’t make any sense. He could have kept the three of them immobile for a few more weeks, induced labor and he’d have had three more very marketable babies to sell. So what went wrong?”
“She seems genuinely confused. She does not see that he might have done harm to them. He was so good to her and her friends. He did not do what he said he was going to do, they never got jobs and the visas they came with were never used.
She never even saw them again. Mikalenko took them and told them it was for ‘safe keeping.’ But he did bring men around.
And there was talk of marriage.” She gave a delicate shudder.
“Some of the men were not nice. Some smelled bad and they were rough.”
“A marriage scam? I’ve heard about them.” David wished Chris was still talking to him. He could get Chris to run down all the information that was available on Internet marriage scams. David never paid a lot of attention to that world, though he knew there were cops who did nothing but work Internet crimes, mostly kiddie porn and identity theft, but something like this might tweak their interest. But he couldn’t go to Chris, could he?
“Did she hear Mikalenko ever talk about money changing hands? For any reason?”
Irinka talked long, waving her arms around to emphasize some points, curling her hands in her lap at other times. Finally L.A. BONEYARD 185
she stopped and sat looking at Konstatinov, who said something soothing to her.
He turned to David. “She says no, then qualifies it. He did want them to be extra pretty for the men and more than once she saw the other men give Mikalenko ‘stuff,’ she’s not sure it was money, but it could have been. She did not like what it implied so she never asked. Whatever it was, none of them ever saw any. Mikalenko bought food, but he expected them to cook it themselves, and keep the house clean. He got very angry when it was not cleaned properly.”
“Did he hit them? Beat them when they did something that made them mad?”
“At first she said no, then she admitted he did—once or twice. Not much. I get the impression they pretty well thought that was par for the course. All men hit women. It is their nature.”
“Did he claim room and board from them?” Off his puzzled look David explained. “If we go to him with a complaint that he didn’t pay his ‘workers’ he’ll claim they were working for room and board. Still not legal, but it might be enough to let him slide out from under.”
Konstatinov posed a question and Irinka answered. “Ah, he expected them to pay him. That is why they were supposed to be nice to the men he brought over. If they weren’t nice, he told them he would put them out on the street and they would be picked up by immigration.”
“Bingo,” David said softly. “Now let him try to tell us he was just helping out some fellow country women. How much?
How much did he charge them?”
“It depended on how many men they had to be ‘nice’ to. If there were many, he said they owed more since it was more work to clean and cook for them.”
“But they never saw any of this payment? Did he buy them things?”
Irinka nodded. Konstatinov said, “Yes, clothes, toiletries. He even brought in a professional makeup lady who taught them to 186 P.A. Brown
put on makeup and look pretty. The woman used to work in movies, she said. She told a lot of fun stories. All the girls hoped to impress a big Hollywood person and live up in the hills. They felt very glamorous, with their faces dressed and the new clothes Mickey gave to them. Sometimes Mikalenko would take them driving in his ‘soft’ car and show them all the beautiful homes. He implied he could see that they lived up there and had all the money and clothes they ever wanted.”
Tears welled up in Irinka’s eyes as Konstatinov said, “But she says ‘All I wanted to do was go home to my baby.’ The one Mikalenko didn’t get away from her. She is glad now he talked her into leaving the baby behind with her Baba—her grandmother, and her husband. She does not know what Mikalenko would have done to the child if she had been here.”
“So if he didn’t already have this baby selling scheme planned out, he must have come up with it later. What happened? Did one of his girls get pregnant, and he couldn’t force her to get rid of it, so he decided to sell it?”
“It’s possible. He is a monster, either way.”
David nodded. “Tell her if she cooperates with us, we’ll see that she gets home. That I can promise her.”
Konstatinov spoke for nearly a minute. That seemed to rejuvenate the woman who chattered for several minutes, presumably a
bout her daughter back home.
David stood up, drawing an alarmed look from Irinka that was quickly quieted by Konstatinov. “I think that’s enough for now. We need to interview the other two, then we can see about getting them home. Mikalenko will be in jail at least for the night, even if he does get a mouthpiece. After that, they may want to think about relocating.”
Konstatinov relayed the words of advice. Irinka frowned and shook her blond head. “What will they do? Where will they go? They know no one here. Only Mickey—”
“I know, I know. He was always good to them. Tell her I’ll think of something. I’m sure we can contact the local women’s shelters. They’ll help us.”
L.A. BONEYARD 187
The other two interviews were only moderately productive.
They mostly confirmed Irinka’s words. It turned out Katrina also had a child in Ukraine, a six-year-old boy who was staying with his aunt, Katrina’s sister. She had been married, but her husband was killed in Iraq. He had been dead for over five years. She had no prospects so she had jumped at Mikalenko’s offer.
“I’m sure it sounded too good to be true,” David muttered after they completed both interviews and released the three women.
“He is one sleazy character,” Konstatinov concurred. “I hope you can make a strong case against him.”
“You and me both.” David glanced at a nearby wall clock. It was nearly six. “Well, I’m calling it a night. We can pick this up tomorrow. Maybe our friend in lockup will decide to spare us all and confess.”
Konstatinov snorted. “Even I am not so naïve.”
David grinned, though the effort felt strained. “Listen,” he said. “Maybe we can get together over breakfast this week and we can talk about what you’re looking for in the LAPD. I’ve been around a few years, I might know a thing or two that could help.”
“I would like that very much.” David noticed that when Konstatinov became excited, his accent thickened. This time David’s grin held more warmth. “Does tomorrow work for you?”
“Is fine. Is great!”
“There’s a place down the road that has a pretty decent breakfast. O’Malleys. Come hungry, they feed large. How does seven sound?”
“I will be there.”
“Then have a good night,” David said and headed for the parking lot where his Chevy waited.
He stopped into the florist again. This time he ordered a dozen red roses, suppressed his inner wince at the bill and sent them to Chris with the message: I love you, David. Then he broke 188 P.A. Brown
down and ate in the diner beside the hotel. The food wasn’t quite as bad as he had feared; he still didn’t have much of an appetite, and left most of his meatloaf and mashed on the plate.
He wasn’t surprised to find Konstatinov already seated when he walked into the diner the next morning. There were two menus on the table and Konstatinov was half way through what David assumed was his first coffee. Or he could be wrong and the guy had already been here a while, waiting. It wouldn’t have surprised him. He’d been that gung-ho in the beginning, too.
“Coffee,” he told the waitress when she came by the table.
She brought a steaming mug.
“So tell me what are your plans for the next five years?
Where do you want to be then?”
Konstatinov put his coffee down and grew serious. “I wish to be a homicide detective, like you.”
“Do you know what’s involved in that? I mean really involved? It means no more seven-thirty to four shifts, or even ten hour shifts, then off for the night or four days. It means working forty-eight hours straight, no sleep, then being lucky to grab a thirty minute lay down in the pod, before going into another forty-eight. It means considering yourself lucky if you’re only working a half a dozen homicides at one time. Only RHD gets the luxury of picking and choosing their cases, and getting the time to actually work them. I’ve got a light caseload right now, only five active ones and a couple of 60-dayers I still have to work on occasionally, at least to keep my hand in, in case something breaks.”
“I am prepared to go the far way. I am strong.”
“I’m sure you are, but it’s not just strength. It’s fortitude, too. With the second guessing pundits always hanging over us all, policing isn’t what it used to be. It’s a bureaucratic nightmare and I don’t know if it’s ever going to get better.”
“Then you will quit, no?”
L.A. BONEYARD 189
David sighed. The kid was shrewd. He saw right through David’s bluster. “No, I’m not quitting, though some days I question my sanity.”
“Ah we are all Rasmussen crazy. Like a fox, eh?”
“Yeah, crazy like a fox. You can do something for me today.
Can you check out some Russian websites and look up those soccer games—Sweden and Russia. I’ll see you get an Internet-capable PC.”
“I would like that much.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tuesday, 10:20 AM, Northeast Community Police Station, San Fernando Road, Los Angeles
After breakfast, Konstatinov went back to his patrol assignment. David promised to procure him a computer. He found Jairo away from his desk, hopefully for the day. Just before noon he looked up to find the desk sergeant standing over him, a shit-eating grin on his dark face. “You got an admirer, Detective.”
The fat, balding ex-NYPD cop set a monstrous bouquet of mums, carnations, lilies and baby’s breath ferns on top of his already cluttered desk. He had to grab a pile of folders that threatened to spill onto the floor and find space for the thing.
The sergeant was still grinning, and belatedly David saw everyone else was, including Lieutenant McKee, who stood outside his office, arms folded over his chest.
“Laine.”
“Er, yes, Lieutenant?”
“What is this about? Some fan of yours?”
Jairo appeared at his desk. He was smiling even more broadly than the desk sergeant. He pulled one of the red mums out of the basket and inhaled the smell. “Maybe a little psychic bluebird sent them.”
“Get them off your desk, Laine. This is a work space, not a flower shop.”
David’s face grew hot, but he obeyed, with some reluctance.
He carried the flowers down to his locker, hating to shut them up where he knew they would wilt and die, but he had no choice. Once he was sure he was alone, he pulled out the small gift card that had come with the flowers. It said simply. “I love you. Let’s talk. ”
192 P.A. Brown
He smiled down at the colorful array of blooms, and plucked a carnation out. He wove the stem through his buttoned down shirt front and paused to admire the effect. He knew he was going to be razzed by the guys, he knew someone would make some stupid crack about not bending over to pick up anything off the floor when David was around. Sometimes their taunts were so predictable. Yesterday’s news.
He touched the bouquet, inhaling the smell of cut flower, green fern and earth. He knew it was a test Chris had sent him.
A message, how far was he willing to go for his lover? Into the land of ridicule? Or would self-loathing hold him back? His heart felt twenty pounds lighter, and though it wasn’t an admission that Chris wanted him back, things were looking up.
At least he wasn’t sending David his clothes. Maybe they could work this out for real.
After lunch Konstatinov called David and told him the results of his morning search. “Eight and a half weeks ago the Russian national team played the Swedes. Sweden won by twelve points.”
“Any other plays between them around that time?”
“The only other game was about a week later. That one was won by the Russians.”
Around two Mikalenko’s mouthpiece, a high-priced lawyer from Brentwood, showed up. David and Konstatinov met him and the prisoner in an interview room. He set Jairo to watch the proceedings through the two-way.
After introducing themselves, David gestured for the lawyer and Mikalenko to sit at the
table.
“What exactly are you charging my client with?” the mouthpiece, Donald Fishburn, asked, before they had even taken seats.
Before he could start, David recited everyone’s name, his rank, the time and place for the recording device and video.
Then he ticked points off on his fingertips, “Forced confinement, solicitation for the purposes of sex, crossing interstate lines, the illegal procurement of children for sale, murder.”
L.A. BONEYARD 193
“Murder!” Mikalenko sat bolt upright, his face flush with anger and fear. “Who did I kill? You have proof? You have no proof!”
Fishburn put his hand across Mikalenko’s arm. “Don’t speak, Mr. Mikalenko. They’re trying to goad you into speaking rashly.”
“I’m trying to get your client to tell us the truth, that’s all.
He can do that and we can wrap this up.”
“My client has nothing to say to you.”
“Then I suppose we should go ahead with charging him. I’ll strongly support no bail, as your client is clearly a flight risk, since he’s not even American. He’s already shown his skill at getting people in and out of the country, it’s only one step further to getting himself out. I’m sure the judge will agree.”
“I did not kill anyone!”
“Then tell me who did.”
Mikalenko folded his arms over his chest. His arm muscles bulged. If David had to guess he’d say Mickey lifted weights.
The better to intimidate the smaller, lighter females he smuggled into the country?
“Did you know a Doctor Jozef Sevchuk?”
“No,” Mikalenko said.
“He was a gynecologist,” David said helpfully.
Mikalenko shook his head violently. “No, I say.”
“What did you do with the children, Mikalenko?”
“What children?” But this time Mikalenko’s eyes shifted left, moving to study the far wall. He licked his fleshy lips. “I know nothing of any children.” He muttered something in Ukrainian.
