The Truant Officer v5

by Derek Ciccone

  “This place is totally off-the-chain. What is it?” Becks asked.

  “You not know Sarvy’s?” Oleg asked, sounding dumbfounded.

  “Only the hottest nightclub in the world,” Vana added as if she was Paris Hilton.

  “And this is where we’re supposed to meet this Rabbi dude, or will he be too busy DJ’ing?” Becks continued with the sassy tongue that Vana seemed to like.

  “He upstairs,” Oleg responded mechanically.

  “We apologize for noise, but they preparing for Natalie Gold video premiere party tonight,” Vana informed.

  Darren remembered her as the Israeli pop star that Treadwell’s kids were fans of. It was also very evident that he was out of his element, so he let Becks lead the dialogue.

  “Natalie Gold—that’s fly. And the Rabbi still had time to give his blessing to lil’ ole us.”

  “More like circumcise you,” Oleg replied with a laugh.

  As they moved toward a marble staircase, Vana pointed out that Viktor Sarvydas, the owner, had shelled out over four million dollars for the party, including half a million on the bathroom alone. They made it clear that he would do whatever it takes to get what he wanted. And right now it appeared what he wanted was Darren.

  Oleg pushed them up the staircase and into a windowless, but otherwise exquisite office.

  The Rabbi did not have a long Hasidic beard or wear the traditional garb of an Orthodox. He was a trim man, dressed in a simple sweater with khakis. If Darren had to guess, he would say he was in his early sixties. His face was littered with red splotches on his otherwise pale skin.

  He rose from behind his desk and greeted them as if they were foreign dignitaries. Unlike the Moziafs, his English was polished, with only a slight accent.

  He turned to Becks, appearing curious by her presence. “And who would you be, young lady?”

  She said nothing, stubbornly pressing her lips together.

  “I’m talking to you,” the Rabbi raised his voice.

  Becks looked at the Moziafs, who stood behind the desk with their enormous arms crossed across their heaving chests. “My B, I guess your cats got my tongue.”

  “Cats can be quite dangerous when you don’t give them what they want.”

  “The name is Ryan. Rebecca Ryan. Who wants to know?”

  The name seemed to trigger his memory. “Ah, the girlfriend.”

  The Rabbi sat back down behind his desk. With a nod, the Moziafs prepared chairs for the guests, before returning to their station.

  “My name is Steve Parmalov,” the Rabbi said in a calm tone, “and I’m the deputy lieutenant of Sarvy Music and the many other assorted businesses of Viktor Sarvydas.”

  It was like he expected the name Sarvydas to send them into cartwheels.

  “The music mogul dude?” Becks asked with surprise.

  Darren had heard of Sarvy Music, of course, but the name didn’t ring a bell until Becks’ last statement. Now he remembered the flamboyant Sarvydas, who was most famous for cultivating the career of pop star Maria DeMaio and marrying her when she was only nineteen. What this had to do with Lilly, Darren had no idea.

  Parmalov smiled thinly. “He’s a music mogul like I’m a rabbi, and the Moziafs are butchers.” He chuckled to himself. “Well, actually the Moziafs are very much butchers.”

  They found humor in their boss’s words.

  Becks remained feisty. “So did you bring us here to see your standup act?”

  Parmalov turned his beady eyes toward Darren. “No, you’re here because Mr. Sarvydas is very interested in finding your wife, Mr. McLaughlin. He has business with her travel companion.”

  Becks looked like she was putting something together in her mind. “I’ve been following his story on the news. He fled the country after his son was arrested on murder charges. His son killed his business partner, or something like that.”

  “The trial starts next week,” Parmalov replied.

  “I don’t understand what that has to do with us,” Darren said again.

  Parmalov leaned back in his chair, and ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Viktor doesn’t like the way things are going and would like to sit down with Nick Zellen and have a heart-to-heart about the direction of the trial. But unfortunately, your wife has gotten in the way.”

  “Who is Nick Zellen?” Becks asked.

  Chapter 59

  Parmalov began to answer, before stopping in mid-sentence. He gauged their blank looks and a smile crept from his thin lips. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?” Darren asked.

  “That the name of your wife’s boyfriend is Nick Zellen, not Brett Buckley.”

  Their looks turned puzzled. “What are you talking about?

  “Nick Zellen was in the Witness Protection Program. He claims to have witnessed Alexei Sarvydas murder his father, and plans to testify against him in the trial. Viktor thinks that Nick might be mistaken in what he saw, so he plans on speaking with him.”

  Becks lashed back at him, “That’s a total load of crap!”

  “Oh, it is?” Parmalov replied with a scary calmness, and then tossed a folder in Becks’ direction. It contained pictures of Nick Zellen from a boy to the young man she knew as Brett Buckley. His identity might have changed, but his dark features and intense eyes hadn’t. It was undeniably the same person.

  Darren read through the file. Nick Zellen was a twenty-four-year-old law student at NYU. He grew up in Sands Point, Long Island, the son of Karl and Paula Zellen. He had a sister named Sasha, who was a junior figure skating champion. Nick attended high school at the Taft School in Connecticut, where he was a hockey star. He did his undergrad at Cornell, before entering law school at NYU. He took a leave of absence last spring after his father’s murder.

  Darren sat in a state of shock, now keenly aware of the danger Lilly was in, and why the FBI was so interested in this case.

  Becks appeared more angry than stunned. “Let me guess, you and Uncle Viktor want us to help you find Lilly to lead you to Brett...Nick...or whatever his name is, so you can kill him. Then Alexei goes free.”

  Parmalov shook his head. “I hope you take solace, Rebecca, in the knowledge that a relationship built on lies is not a relationship at all. You can do better than a boy who wouldn’t even tell you his real name.”

  Becks didn’t appear comforted.

  Parmalov continued, “Honesty is everything in a relationship. Look no further than Oleg and Vana—as sick and twisted as they are, they never break their bond of trust. And that’s why they’ve had such a successful union.”

  Darren sat in a catatonic state. Could this be real? It was like something out of a movie—murder trials and Russian mobsters. And when they caught Lilly...he couldn’t let that happen.

  “I look in your troubled eyes, Mr. McLaughlin and I don’t understand your worry,” Parmalov addressed him. “The reason I want to find them is to make sure Nick will be safe to testify. Viktor has complete confidence that Alexei will be exonerated at trial, but is concerned that if anything happens to Nick, it will confirm many of the wrongful myths about the Sarvydas family, and harm Alexei in the jury’s eyes.”

  Even Darren, the sap, wasn’t buying that one.

  A point echoed by Becks, “If you’re on our team, then why’d you send Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber after us?” She pointed at the Moziafs, still stationed behind the desk.

  “I apologize. We had to get to you before the feds did. They would poison your minds against the Sarvydas family. If I wanted you harmed, the Moziafs would have gladly helped me with that endeavor.”

  “Why should we believe you?” Becks snapped back.

  “I believe in the justice system, as does Viktor. When we first came here many years ago, Viktor and I worked for a man named Vladimir Miklacz. He put us in charge of what we called the People’s Court. It began in a back room of a small restaurant on Brighton Beach Avenue, and later moved to this very room.

  “The people of the
neighborhood accused of a crime came before our panel. It had been a violent area where it was cheaper to hire a hitman for two grand than to pay off your debts. But we cleaned it up in a way the police could never have done. Alexei deserves the same right to face his accuser.”

  Darren had an idea that this People’s Court was more about thugs torturing and extorting the community members, than Judge Wapner rendering an impartial decision based on the facts.

  “So what do you want us to do?” Darren got to the point.

  “You are going to be my main contact in getting your wife back. I predict her guilt will eventually get the best of her, and she will contact you. When she does, you will come directly to me with this information.”

  “What if we refuse?” Becks interjected.

  “Then Mr. McLaughlin will get to watch the Moziafs cut you to pieces.”

  The Moziafs appeared to be slobbering at the possibilities.

  Parmalov’s final words were, “And you are not to talk to the FBI or the US Attorney’s Office under any circumstances.”

  The meeting was over.

  The Moziafs literally carried them out of Sarvy’s and tossed them onto the pavement.

  “Enjoy New York,” Vana said.

  “We’ll be watching,” Oleg ominously added.

  Chapter 60

  Becks helped Darren up off of the cement sidewalk.

  “You look like you’re going to pass out again,” she said with a concerned look. “Let’s get you some food.”

  She walked him away from Sarvy’s toward a nearby street vendor—a bearded man in a fur cap, manning a pushcart. He was selling some sort of spicy pork and Darren wasn’t sure if it would be more help or hindrance to his queasy stomach.

  Like most on the Brighton streets, the man spoke in a deep Russian accent. Becks ordered two dishes of pork and a couple cans of soda. They bartered on money—the man didn’t seem to have any set prices. Becks haggled him down, showing tough negotiating skills, before handing him a crisp twenty. She told him to keep the change with a grin, as if to remind him that she won the battle of wills.

  As they walked away, the man began shouting out, “Help, police! Thieves!”

  Darren looked back, concerned that the vendor was being robbed, but it became clear that he was referring to them. Before he could protest, two black SUVs with tinted windows skidded to the street corner. A couple of men jumped out and dragged Becks and Darren into the vehicle, then sped off.

  Darren struggled to make out where they were taking them—he recognized the Brooklyn Bridge as they passed over it into Manhattan—skyscrapers whizzed by as they powered through the busy traffic.

  They veered into the underground garage of a building. Then were whisked out of the vehicle and up a maze of stairwells and elevators. They landed in what looked like a typical business setting, and were led through busy cube farm into a cluttered office.

  It was very different from Parmalov’s. There was no marble or mahogany, and the steel desk was piled with paperwork and half-full mugs of coffee.

  A man entered the room. This time there were no fake greetings and handshakes. Just a no-nonsense instruction to take a seat in the chairs facing his desk. He dismissed their captors, ordering them to close the door on their way out.

  He sat behind his desk and swallowed some coffee. “I’m US Attorney Eicher. We were supposed to meet an hour ago, and you’re late.”

  “We sort of ran into a couple of roadblocks,” Darren said.

  “About seven-hundred-pounds of roadblocks named Moziaf,” Eicher replied.

  “Next time you wanna use us as bait for the skeepy mahnstas, how ’bout gettin’ some rent-a-cops who know how to use their heaters. You almost got us killed!” Becks snapped.

  Eicher’s face contorted in annoyance. “I don’t remember inviting you here, Miss Ryan. And for the record, not following directions is what almost got you killed.”

  “You didn’t invite me, just like you didn’t warn me that my boyfriend was wanted by the Russian mob. Or that he wasn’t who he said he was. What is this witness protection bullshit?”

  “You, along with the rest of the world now know that Brett Buckley is actually Nick Zellen. It’s very important that we find Nick before others do.”

  Becks didn’t look impressed. “The bottom line is, you put people like me at risk, and people got hurt.”

  Eicher and Becks traded angry glances. They seemed to be made from the same cloth. “As long as Nick’s identity was a secret, then nobody was in harm’s way. But the federal marshal in charge didn’t do a very good job of keeping tabs on Nick, resulting in our current mess.”

  Becks stewed, while Eicher focused on Darren.

  “I’m sure Parmalov filled you in on the fact that Nick is a very important witness in an upcoming trial. We feel you, as Lilly’s husband, are our best chance to find her, and that she will lead us to Nick. So we are going to need your cooperation.”

  Darren thought of Parmalov’s threats. Do not talk to the feds or the US Attorney’s Office. The Moziafs popped into his head.

  “I have nothing to say,” he announced.

  Eicher leaned back in his chair. “My agent on the scene in Arizona, LaPoint, thinks you are a dumbass who has no idea what is going on. He’s half right—you are a dumbass. But if you don’t talk to me, I’m going to be forced to believe you and your wife are working with Viktor Sarvydas.”

  Becks took up his fight, “Darren has nothing to do with it!”

  “And how would you know this?”

  “Because I went through all of Brett’s emails. And while his wife might be a cheating skank, her emails read like a lovesick teenager, not some mobbed-up chick—and if you can’t see that, then I think you are the dumbass. Maybe you should stop looking for others to blame and acknowledge that you effed up this case all on your own.”

  Becks rose up like she wanted to fight. Eicher did the same.

  But before a confrontation ensued, Darren uttered, “Fine, if you think it’ll get Lilly back safely, then I’ll help you.”

  Chapter 61

  Eicher gathered them around his computer. “If you are as ignorant of the facts as you claim, Mr. McLaughlin, then I think you need to know who you’re dealing with here.”

  He played the video of the airport shootout. He froze it just as the Moziafs leaped out of the van.

  “Oleg and Vana Moziaf are Olympic champion weightlifters turned ruthless killers. They are also an unintended consequence of 1970s amendments that were supposed to assist the religiously persecuted, but also opened our shores to numerous gangsters and gulag-hardened thugs from Russia. What we call the Red Tide.”

  “The Moziafs are more like a tsunami,” Becks commented.

  “Trust me, you saw their softer side,” Eicher remarked. “But they’re not the only ones you need to worry about. They learned their craft from the original don of Brighton Beach, Vladimir Miklacz—also known as Psyk, Russian for psycho. He was a cruel man who ruled with fear, until he and his daughter were gunned down in cold blood. His son-in-law, Viktor Sarvydas survived the shooting, and upon recovering from his wounds, was elevated to don. Most believe that Viktor was the one who set up the hit in the first place. This includes your new friend, Parmalov, who has always thought of himself as the rightful heir to the throne.”

  “What’s with the Rabbi stuff?” Becks asked. “The guy was anything but kosher.”

  “Back in the 1980s, Parmalov and Viktor were known for running scams in the Diamond District. At least until Viktor double-crossed him, setting Parmalov up to take the fall for their operation. With the authorities closing in, Parmalov went on the run. The FBI eventually found him hiding in a synagogue in California, posing as a rabbi, which is how the name came about. It also sent him to prison, which cleared a path for Sarvydas to put into motion his plan to rise to power.

  “Upon his release, Parmalov declared war on Sarvydas. With the Moziafs acting as his chief soldiers, the bloody battle
lasted for ten years, and left bodies from Brooklyn to Moscow. That was, until they agreed to join forces with Sarvydas. It made good business sense for all parties—there was just too much money to be lost on both sides by that time to continue waging a war that was draining treasure and assets—but we have remained skeptical of this merger.”

  A slide show of photos passed over the screen—one grisly murder scene after another. According to Eicher, all the work of the Moziafs. Darren felt ill—these were the people after Lilly!

  Eicher continued, “Viktor Sarvydas has gotten the lion’s share of credit for taking the Russian Mafiya from local extortionists to a worldwide financial empire. But this man was equally important.”

  An image of a bookish looking, bespectacled man with a neatly trimmed goatee appeared on the screen. “This is Sarvydas’ business partner, Karl Zellen—the undisputed smarts of the operation. He was a prominent Jewish dissident, a writer who had penned anti-Soviet articles for The New Yorker and Jewish Digest, and was a champion of the arts—often found hanging out with the literary elite at Elaine’s or at jazz clubs in Greenwich Village. But he was also a cold, efficient killer. He was the antithesis of Sarvydas, preferring a low-profile life with his family in Long Island.”

  Becks looked long and hard at the photo. “Sounds a lot like his son, living a double life. Difference is that Karl got the easy way out, compared to what I’m going to do to Nick.”

  Eicher ignored her. “About eighteen months ago, we arrested Karl Zellen on money laundering charges. Not even the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the crimes he committed, but enough to send him away for the next twenty years. Facing this long stint in federal prison, he agreed to cooperate with us, and spill the beans on Sarvydas—our top target. To make a long story short, word of this got out to Sarvydas, and Zellen’s wife ended up dead.”

  Eicher turned his chair back to his desk and pushed photos across the desk. It was of Paula Zellen, her naked body riddled with bullets. Her eyes were open, staring straight ahead with the blank look of death.