The Truant Officer v5

by Derek Ciccone

  The before was a fresh-faced twenty-something with the smile of an idealist. The after was just a torso. No head—no hands—no feet. A corpse that some of his more heartless colleagues repulsively referred to as “Bob.” It was a favorite tactic of the Russian mob, and perfected by the Sarvydas Organizatsiya, to make identification virtually impossible.

  “We need to find him ASAP,” Eicher stated, attempting to hide the desperation in his voice. “If Sarvydas gets to him first, they will be picking up his pieces with a wet-vac.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, counselor,” LaPoint replied, deadpan. “I thought Viktor Sarvydas was just a hardworking music mogul on vacation in Israel. A heartwarming rags to riches story.”

  Even in jest, LaPoint outlined two of the biggest challenges in taking on Russian crime bosses like Sarvydas. First of all, they hide behind legitimate businesses. In Sarvydas’ case, it was Sarvy Music, an international music empire with a knack for churning out pop stars.

  The other problem was the ease of their flight. Any Russian mobster worth his vodka had Israeli citizenship and passport—taking advantage of the Israeli policy of Right of Return, which allows citizenship and safe haven to all those with Jewish heritage and doesn’t bend for any extradition laws. But most Russian mobsters were Jewish in passport only. Eicher doubted that Viktor Sarvydas had ever seen the inside of a synagogue.

  “Just find the kid,” Eicher barked into the phone and hung up.

  Chapter 9

  After hanging up with LaPoint, Eicher desperately needed a fix of good news. It was just past nine in the morning in New York, and the offices in Foley Square were beginning to fill up with the wretched rumblings of Monday morning.

  Eicher viewed the hustle and bustle through the glass partition of his office and noticed a man who didn’t fit in with the conservative suit-and-tie attire of the US Attorney’s Office. And he was headed directly into his office.

  The intruder didn’t alarm Eicher. In fact, he was happy to see Ivan, even if he wasn’t thrilled with the heavy scent of fish he brought with him.

  “Ivan—it’s April, not January,” he greeted his visitor, noticing his fur cap and dense beard. He carried a cooler one might use to store bait. “Going fishing?”

  Ivan displayed a toothless grin and spoke in his thick Russian accent, “We already do fishing today, and I think you be interested what we caught.”

  Eicher nodded his head, indicating him to continue.

  “Moziaf Butcher Shop was raided first thing this morning, investigating last week’s shooting. I could have saved them time, they, of course, found nothing to connect Moziafs to murder. But they came across something that might interest you.”

  Ivan was an undercover cop in Brighton Beach—a section of Brooklyn that is the home office for the Russian mob in the United States. That’s not to say the majority of the residents weren’t hard working and law-abiding citizens, but Eicher was only interested in those who broke the laws. Ivan was one of the rare few willing to talk, and only Eicher and a few colleagues above his pay grade knew Ivan’s true identity. He very rarely showed up here—there are only so many times you can claim to being hassled by the feds without suspicions being raised—so Eicher knew this must be important.

  Like many Russians, he emigrated to Brighton Beach in the 1970s, and became a popular street vendor in Little Odessa. He was known for his homemade foods that included everything from pirogi to pastry shells filled with spicy pork. Word of mouth attracted none other than the don of Brighton Beach, Viktor Sarvydas. He was so impressed with Ivan that he made him his personal caterer at his popular club, Sarvy’s.

  But at heart, Ivan was a man of honor. And after observing Sarvydas’ unspeakable acts, Ivan chose to become what the Russians call a musor, or informant. While he was never able to get Sarvydas, he did have success in the arrest and prosecutions of many of his dangerous underlings. He was so successful that the NYPD offered him a full-time position.

  “So what was this shooting about?” Eicher made conversation as he accepted the ice chest and set it on his cluttered desk.

  Ivan shrugged. “Who knows? Moziafs are crazy. Maybe they no kill anybody this week and needed fix.”

  No statement could better sum up the Moziafs—a husband and wife team of killers. They had been working for Sarvydas in recent years, although their allegiance was usually with the highest bidder for their services.

  Oleg, the husband, was an enormous four-hundred-pound former Olympic weightlifting champion from the Soviet Union. He loved three things—killing, steroids, and his wife, Vana. She was arguably the more ruthless of the two, and claimed that killing was like sex for them. Ivan joked if that were the case then they sure were getting more than the average couple. The shooting connected to this morning’s raid was the typical work of the Moziafs—six people shot in Coney Island in the middle of the day with hundreds of people there, yet no witnesses.

  Eicher was mildly surprised by the reappearance of the Moziafs on American soil, as Viktor Sarvydas and most of his henchmen had been on the next plane out of JFK after the arrest of his son, Alexei. Last Eicher had heard, the Moziafs were taking up the sport of car bombing in Moscow, and with the trial only a week away, he expected Sarvydas’ troops to lay low.

  “Not one person could identify them?” Eicher asked.

  Ivan had a hearty laugh at his naiveté. “They interviewed fifty witnesses and they all say ya nectevo ne znago—I don’t know nothing. There are lots of rumors. With Viktor out of country and Alexei going to trial, many think Sarvydas’ deputy lieutenant, Parmalov, is making power play and Moziafs doing dirty work for him. But who knows with these people—they have no loyalty. When I first arrive, Moziafs and Zubov were rivals in war that leave bodies from New York to Moscow, and now both work for Sarvydas. Ask me this afternoon and everything be different.”

  Eicher understood the frustration in Ivan’s voice. When it came to the Russian Mafiya, they were severely outgunned. Eicher removed the top from the cooler and immediately jumped back about a foot.

  “Moziafs like to keep souvenirs,” Ivan stated, matter of fact.

  Eicher stared at the frozen hands that were stored in plastic Zip-lock bags like they were leftover chicken in the refrigerator. He felt sick, but his nausea turned to interest when he saw the tattoo on the left hand in the webbing between the thumb and index finger. It was an interlocking N Z. He instantly knew that it belonged to Audrey Mays, Nick Zellen’s girlfriend.

  Alexei’s powerful lawyers would have a field day with the search, and it wasn’t a smoking gun by any means, but it was another connection the prosecution could make between the murders and the Sarvydas family.

  As Eicher looked at the amputated hands, it sure didn’t feel like something to celebrate. He feared getting to that place where finding the remains of a murdered girl would constitute a good day.

  He thought of Nick, remembering how devastated he was by Audrey’s death. He wanted to be mad at him for the ulcer he was causing him this morning, but could only find compassion. Eicher couldn’t even fathom the emotions that must have been haunting Nick as the trial grew closer. He just hoped the next hands they found wouldn’t belong to him.

  Chapter 10

  Viktor Sarvydas lounged in the back of his stretch limo, parked outside of the Western Wall Plaza in Jerusalem. He peered out the tinted bulletproof windows and marveled at the sheer numbers, and the ferocity of those who came out to protest his latest protégé, pop sensation Natalie Gold.

  The Wailing Wall was a place where Israelis had come to mourn the past since King Herod built the retaining wall over two thousand years ago. It was considered one of the most holy places in Jerusalem. And that is exactly why he chose the spot to shoot Natalie’s latest video, full of all the gyrations and revealing outfits of a pop princess.

  Sarvydas smiled, proud to have achieved the desired controversy once again. And it’s not like the protestors could stop him—he had friends
in the highest places.

  The video was classic Sarvydas. It combined his ruthless business savvy with his passionate love of music. But most of all, it was fueled by his lust for power. He not only had a kingdom that ranged from Brighton Beach to Israel to Moscow, but he was also a kingmaker. A few months ago, Natalie Gold was a homeless girl named Daria Scheffer, who was singing for her supper in Tel Aviv, outside of a Russian bookstore that Sarvydas frequented. Now, only six months later, Natalie had rocketed to worldwide fame, and her first single “Vengeance” was the most downloaded song on iTunes.

  He spotted Natalie pushing past the angry mob, surrounded by machine-gun toting bodyguards. Sarvydas was enjoying the scene before him. He checked his jet-black hair in a mirror and adjusted the ponytail that dangled at the back of his neck. He was now in his late fifties, but age hadn’t lessened his vanity. He believed in being at his best, fearing the newer model that was always trying to come up behind him. And when you are the don of the Russian Mafiya, it usually comes up behind you looking to kill.

  He took one more glance into the mirror and came away impressed with himself, as usual. His face wasn’t the same since the shooting, but it was improving each day. “Not bad for a poor boy from Orensburg,” he mumbled to himself.

  His childhood dream was to be a pop star like his idol, Joseph Kozolbol. So as a teenager he left home and moved to the Black Sea port city of Odessa, known for its wealthy residents. He took a job crooning on a cruise ship, which allowed him to travel abroad—a rare opportunity in the Soviet Union at the time. Even as a young man he was always thinking business, and took advantage of his travels to bring back items that were near impossible to obtain behind the Iron Curtain. He sold them at a huge markup, showing a pretty good knowledge of the free market for a communist kid.

  The cruise ship was the start of his lucrative music and business careers. Mixing his great love of music with business to create a cocktail of power.

  But this past year, he learned what a toxic mix love and business could be. When his son Alexei was accused of killing his longtime friend and business partner, Karl Zellen, he was forced to leave the US and relocate to this dreadful strip of sand called Israel. Viktor knew that Alexei wasn’t the one who killed Karl, but was sure that the Americans would twist Alexei’s words, or lie about evidence in order to come after him. That’s why he was forced to flee. America was a lot like him—they covered up their dirty deeds behind music. America the Beautiful. God Bless America. He spit at that—America was no different from these protestors—pledging morality, yet lusting for the dark side.

  Viktor took another glance at the scene he created. He felt the crowd closing in on the limo, continuing to taunt Natalie in screaming Yiddish. It reminded him why he hated Israel. But unlike others in the region, he took no issue with their choice of deities.

  His main point of contention was that they were always arguing and shouting, and when they weren’t giving him a migraine with their constant volume, they were whining about their plight. Viktor didn’t understand this thinking—the way he saw it, all Russians were dealt a bad hand before they left the womb. But they grabbed, clawed, and stole their way to the top. They made their own way without complaint, even if their methods were harsh.

  As he watched Natalie bounce beautifully through the bloodthirsty crowd, the ringing of his phone startled him.

  “It’s Kelli,” the voice on the other end began.

  “Make it fast—I lack time,” he said, watching Natalie moving toward the vehicle, surrounded by bodyguards.

  “Nick’s on the move.”

  As he processed this news, a wicked smile came over his face. “I want him to come to me in one piece. Get word out—especially to Zubov—only I deal with Nick. This is personal.”

  Chapter 11

  Natalie Gold was whisked into the limo. Once the door slammed shut, the protestors began rocking the vehicle.

  Viktor looked Natalie up and down like he was checking for scratches on a new Ferrari. She wore a transparent fishnet body stocking with only a skimpy bikini underneath. Natalie’s curves were trapped underneath the body-stocking like a bear in a bag. She had a different look from most Israeli women, which besides her powerful voice, was one of the reasons he chose her. There were no doubt many exotic beauties in Israel, but he liked that Natalie looked American. The buxom blonde who oozed a take-no-prisoners sexuality. Viktor might have been forced to stay in Israel, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t bring a piece of Americana with him.

  He kissed Natalie on her puffy lips. She returned the kiss, but it lacked any hint of love or attraction. He sensed that it was a kiss of gratitude. Natalie was young, but she was street-smart, and like himself, she understood how to mix love and business to get to the top.

  Viktor had become intimate with many of his protégés over the years. He even married pop star Maria DeMaio when she was only nineteen. But Natalie was special, and he didn’t have to be Freud to figure out why.

  She was a replica of Paula—the one true love of his life. He could still shut his eyes and relive the first time he heard the curvaceous beauty sing at his Brooklyn club, Sarvy’s. She sang like an angel—a voice he’d never heard equaled until he found Natalie singing outside of that bookstore.

  The limo drove away, knocking a few protestors off along the way. They traveled through the Western Wall Tunnel, then down the cobblestone streets and out of the ancient city. About an hour later they arrived in Tel Aviv, a much more modern city than Jerusalem, and preferred by Viktor. He opened a Sarvy Music office in Tel Aviv a couple years back. It was located amongst a north-south strip of skyscrapers crowded along the coast of the Mediterranean Sea.

  As the early afternoon sun shone into the limo, Viktor placed his hand on Natalie’s fishnet-covered thigh. He felt her shudder at his touch, despite her forced smile. Good thing she was a singer and not an actress, he thought. He liked it when those around him felt a sense of fear.

  “Remember that we have an important dinner guest tonight.”

  Natalie nodded attentively.

  He handed her a box wrapped with a bow. “I think you should wear this tonight. I believe it will make a good impression on our company.”

  She opened the package to reveal a sequined gown. She kissed him on the cheek and exclaimed, “It’s beautiful. You are so generous to me.”

  “And tomorrow you will be flying to the States for your video premiere,” Viktor continued, all business.

  “I wish you could come with me.”

  He smiled at the lie. “You know I can’t risk that right now—with the trial starting next week. But I do have something I want you to deliver to Alexei for me,” he said, not providing any details.

  “Of course.”

  Viktor ordered his driver to stop in Ramat HaSharon, a suburb northeast of Tel Aviv, to accommodate his desire to stop at his favorite Russian bookstore—the same one he had discovered Natalie outside of. This wasn’t a nostalgic trip, he wanted to buy a stack of his favorite Russian crime novels. The criminal was often the hero in Russian novels, and he liked that.

  He also enjoyed visiting his old friends who ran the store. The Russians in Israel always stuck together. They were treated as lepers, and endured constant calls for their deportation. Russians made up only about a fifth of the Israeli population, yet were constantly blamed for establishing enclaves in the country and importing shallow values. More whining, Viktor thought—nobody had ever offered to give back the billions of dollars that Russian businessmen like himself pump into the economy.

  Viktor left a fifteen hundred dollar tip for his comrades at the bookstore. A nice payday for sharing a glass of vodka and reminiscing about their youthful days in Odessa. He also had Natalie put on an impromptu performance of her new single for the few lucky souls browsing the bookshelves. Viktor had always been known as a benevolent don who held honor above cruelty. Unlike his predecessor, a man who was feared but not respected, Viktor was showered with gifts and held
in great esteem within the community—a community that had spread across the globe—but they also knew not to cross him.

  They left the bookstore and drove toward Netanya, a coastal city halfway between Tel Aviv and Haifa, where Viktor owned a magnificent cliffside palace that overlooked the Mediterranean Sea. His riches were legendary.

  Viktor escorted Natalie inside. He began preparations for their dinner guest, but his thoughts were on his potential reunion with Nick.

  Chapter 12

  Darren walked out of the interrogation room beaten and dazed. Despite Agent LaPoint’s claims to the contrary, Darren didn’t feel like he had anybody in his corner. He would have to find Lilly by himself—he had never felt so alone.

  He entered the main airport terminal through a door marked Authorized Personnel Only. It was now closing in on seven o’clock and the airport had woken up from its slumber. Passengers lined up for security checks, restaurants were open for overpriced breakfasts, and newspaper stands were selling Monday morning editions of the Arizona Republic. On the front page was the headline: Gang Warfare!

  Darren bought a copy, and after quickly skimming it, was relieved that Lilly’s name wasn’t released. If she was really abducted by a student who’d tried to make it look like a copycat crime, as the police hinted, then Darren saw an advantage in the media helping to sell the gang angle. Perhaps lull her captor into a false sense of safety.