Brighton Beach: A Kurtz and Barent Mystery (Kurtz and Barent Mysteries Book 5)

by Robert I. Katz

  “And Rugov buys them, other corporations, I mean.”

  “Supposedly.”

  “And now, they’re merging with Hotchkiss and Phelps.” Kurtz finished his curry puff, decided against having a fourth and moved on to the Panang shrimp, considered for a moment and spooned a small portion of tamarind duck and yellow rice onto his plate.

  “So it seems.”

  “That term, merger, is sort of a euphemism, isn’t it? It makes it sound like it’s an actual merger, where two companies are joining together to create a new, larger company. What’s really happening is that one company buys the other, gets rid of the assets that they don’t want, fires the corporate officers, fires half the workers and then subsumes its business into itself. At best, the company that’s being bought will become some sort of a new division, but maybe not. Maybe it will simply vanish.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So, who is buying whom?”

  Lenore shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Machiavelli. Sergei Ostrovsky patted his lips with a linen napkin and smiled across the table at Iosif Kozlov. The two ate lunch together every few months. Truthfully, Sergei Ostrovsky was not certain if Kozlov was more of a friend or more of an enemy. In his world, the two were often interchangeable. They were, however, business partners, in a limited sense, at least.

  “Rugov has suffered reversals,” Sergei Ostrovsky said.

  “This I have heard.” Iosif Kozlov shrugged.

  Sergei Ostrovsky nodded as if the other man had said something very wise. Truthfully, Sergei Ostrovsky could not have cared less if Rugov and his organization were obliterated, except for the concern that whatever obliterated Rugov might next choose to obliterate himself. One had to be wary about such things.

  “Javier Garcia is also displeased,” Kozlov said.

  Sergei Ostrovsky blinked. A small smile hovered over Iosif Kozlov’s face as he said this. Kozlov, it seemed, was enjoying Javier Garcia’s discomfort. Sergei Ostrovsky wondered why. “So I would imagine,” he said, “since it is his employees who were killed and his business that has been disrupted.”

  “And by whom, I wonder?” The smile on Iosif Kozlov’s face suddenly vanished. He looked intently at Sergei Ostrovsky.

  Interesting. Sergei Ostrovsky had wondered the same thing. He had almost convinced himself that it must have been Iosif Kozlov. Kozlov apparently had concluded, or at least was wondering, the same regarding Sergei Ostrovsky.

  “It wasn’t me,” Ostrovsky said.

  Iosif Kozlov patted his lips with his napkin and shrugged.

  Of the three men, Ostrovsky had the smallest organization. His people were well trained, his interests profitable. He had been content to grow steadily but slowly, with minimal risk. The venture that he had entered into with Iosif Kozlov had enriched them both. Kozlov had the connections in Macau and the Phillippines that allowed for the product to be transported easily, with minimal losses to the ever vigilant narcotics agents of numerous governments. Ostrovsky had done business before with both Juan Moreno and Javier Garcia and, if not trusted exactly, was a known quantity to both the Mexican and the Colombian gangs. Garcia had his people on the street, throughout the city and beyond. It seemed a natural association.

  Rugov, of course, had his own organization and his own contacts, some of which were the same as those of Ostrovsky and Kozlov. Inwardly, Sergei Ostrovsky sighed. The world was big enough for them all. Truthfully, though they sold similar products, narcotics represented a small percentage of both Alexei Rugov’s and his own profits. There was no need to fight over the scraps. So much better to live peacefully and enjoy one’s life.

  He realized that Javier Garcia might not see things in exactly the same way.

  “Javier Garcia,” Iosif Kozlov said, “is a dangerous man.”

  “We are all dangerous men. Javier Garcia did not get to where he is today by being either impetuous or stupid.”

  “No, but he is going to strike back. He has to. He cannot allow such an affront to pass unanswered.”

  “Since neither of us would seem to be responsible for his recent misfortune, then neither of us should have anything to fear.” Sergei Ostrovsky smiled as he said it. Iosif Kozlov smiled back.

  “Dessert?” Sergei Ostrovsky asked.

  Iosif Kozlov seemed to consider this. “Please.”

  The shack was small and rarely used. It did have electricity, however, and running water, though there was no heating system and the water was room temperature only. The shack sat near the side of a dirt road that connected to a larger paved road that led into the very small town of San Sebastien, New Mexico.

  The shack served as a way station for drug runners, a fact that was officially unknown to the local police, who had been well paid to stay away.

  Rodrigo Diaz stepped warily around a small pool of blood on the floor. It would not do to get blood on his fine, leather shoes, but also, scorpions were common in the desert. No matter how tightly the windows and doorways seemed to be closed, the little monsters did somehow on occasion find their way inside.

  “Why do you persist in this foolishness?” Rodrigo Diaz said.

  A large, naked white man lay strapped to the one table in the small central room. He looked up at Rodrigo Diaz through dull, swollen eyes. He gave a little cough and spat a glob of blood in Rodrigo’s direction. He grimaced through broken teeth.

  Rodrigo shook his head. “All we are asking for is a name. One little name. A simple thing. Who hired you?”

  The man shook his head.

  Truly, Rodrigo Diaz was amazed. Low level cannon fodder was rarely known for its intelligence or its strength of will. A few threats, perhaps a symbolic kick or two in the most sensitive places, and most of them were quite happy to sing whatever tune their captors required. Not this one. They had already progressed far beyond threats. His nose was broken, his front teeth shattered. Still, he refused to speak.

  “You know that we have merely begun,” Rodrigo said. “What you have already suffered…” Rodrigo shrugged. “It is only the beginning. We all know how this will end. Let us end it now.”

  “Fuck you,” the white man said.

  Rodrigo sighed. “Your defiance will make no difference. No difference at all.” Rodrigo nodded toward the much larger man standing at the side of the table. “Sebastian is very good at his work. He enjoys it.”

  The white man’s eyes flicked toward Sebastian, who smiled.

  “Fuck him, too.”

  “So foolish,” Rodrigo said. “So very foolish.” He nodded toward Sebastian, who picked up a hammer and carefully shattered the white man’s left thumb. The white man screamed. Sebastian brought the hammer down on the index finger, then crushed the rest. By the end, the man was hoarsely whimpering.

  “All we want is a name,” Rodrigo Diaz said. “Just a name.” He smiled. “Then you can rest.”

  The man was crying but seemed no closer to telling them what they wanted to know.

  “There are so many parts to the human body,” Rodrigo mused. “So many parts that can be rendered useless, or even removed.” Rodrigo paused, gave a slow, sad shake of his head. “We are not used to such defiance. Sebastian, I fear, is growing angry. Your refusal to cooperate is insulting to him. If he starts again, it will not end with your fingers or your toes.”

  The man drew a deep, sobbing breath and looked at Rodrigo’s face. He blinked his eyes. “Ostrovsky,” he whispered. “Sergei Ostrovsky.”

  “There now,” Rodrigo said. “Was that so difficult?” He turned toward Sebastian. “You may continue,” he said. “When you are satisfied, bury what remains in the desert.” He left, carefully closing the door behind him, content with the outcome that had been achieved. His superiors in La Familia would be pleased.

  “Sergei Ostrovsky,” he said to himself, and shrugged.

  Chapter 23

  Jason Blair gave Kurtz a moody look. “Why is he here?”

  Kurtz w
ondered the same thing. He stood in the corner and smiled at Jason Blair.

  “I want him where I can keep an eye on him,” Barent said.

  Jason Blair shrugged. “We’ve looked at Albert Morelli as closely as we can without a warrant. He bought himself a boat recently. Boats are expensive. This was a Grady-White Express, thirty-three feet. He got it used for $126,000.”

  “That’s a good price, actually,” Moran said.

  “Maybe it is, but he’s a cop. Most cops don’t have 126,000 bucks to throw around.”

  “Maybe he bought it on credit,” Barent said.

  “He didn’t. He paid cash.”

  “Okay…” Moran said.

  “There’s more. A year ago, he bought a condo on Amelia Island. That’s in Florida, in case you didn’t know, a very upscale community. Nothing ostentatious. A mere three bedrooms on the beach for seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

  Barent scratched his head. Nice, Kurtz thought. Maybe he should buy a condo on the beach.

  “Cash?” Moran said.

  “He put down half. He’s got a mortgage for the rest.”

  “No chance a favorite aunt died and left him the money?”

  “Not so far as we have been able to determine.”

  “Okay,” said Barent, “so now what?”

  “What we have been able to find out, simply by accessing public records, combined with Arnie Figueroa’s testimony, should enable us to get a warrant. We’re going to cover Albert Morelli like a blanket.”

  “And then we’ll see,” Moran said.

  “Yeah,” Blair said. “Then we’ll see.”

  “This makes no sense,” Javier Garcia said.

  Esteban Martinez puffed up his cheeks. He said nothing.

  “Sergei Ostrovsky is our principal supplier. Why then, would he attack us?”

  An obvious question, Esteban Martinez thought, without an obvious answer.

  “I don’t believe it,” Javier Garcia said.

  “Our source was not lying,” Martinez said. “We have this on good authority.”

  Garcia shrugged. “The source may have been deceived or misinformed. He may not have known who really hired him. He was a foot soldier. Such men go where they are told and do what they are ordered to do.”

  “You are of course, correct. The question now is: what are we going to do?”

  “Set up a meeting with Sergei Ostrovsky. We will confront him with the evidence and see what he has to say.”

  Esteban Martinez spread his hands. “He will deny it, and regardless of the truth, he will manage to sound convincing.”

  Javier Garcia glowered at Esteban Martinez, who frowned but did not look away. “True,” Javier Garcia said reluctantly. It occurred to Javier Garcia that perhaps he was getting a little old for this. It was one thing to strike at one’s enemy. It was quite another to play cat and mouse games with a phantom.

  “If we strike at Sergei Ostrovsky,” Esteban Martinez said, “who benefits?”

  Javier Garcia sat back in his chair, frowning.

  “The obvious answer,” Martinez said, “is Alexei Rugov.”

  “Should we strike then at Rugov? Without evidence of any involvement? This seems…unwise.”

  Esteban Martinez said nothing. He waited. Finally, Javier Garcia’s eyes snapped to his face. “No,” Garcia said. “We will not take this bait. Not quite yet.” His lips twitched upward. “Find out more.”

  “Of course,” Esteban Martinez said.

  The dead white guy, whose dismembered body now lay under the sands of the Chihuahua desert, had friends, most of whom had vanished into the wind. He also had a former girlfriend, who had not.

  Rodrigo Diaz was annoyed. They had already done this. He resented being required to do it again. It was insulting to his own competence. Sebastian, however, was pleased. Sebastian truly loved his work and welcomed any opportunity to demonstrate his expertise.

  The former girlfriend’s name was Anita Lopez. She worked as a waitress at an all night diner outside of Las Cruces. She had been easy enough to snatch and now here they were, in the same shack with another victim strapped down to the same table. Anita Lopez did not try to resist, not even when they removed her clothing and tied her to the table. She had merely looked at them with wide, pleading eyes. She had sobbed a little when her legs were spread wide and her feet placed in restraints but she did not try to resist. Anita Lopez was far smarter than her former boyfriend.

  Sebastian, Rodrigo Diaz could see, was frustrated with this situation. Sebastian much preferred it when they resisted, and this one was younger and more attractive than most, her breasts almost firm, her genitalia displayed like a succulent flower, ready for the plucking. Rodrigo toyed with the idea of letting Sebastian have his way with her, merely to satisfy the desires of a very valuable employee, but no…a certain level of discipline must be maintained. Sebastian needed to understand that the infliction of pain and humiliation had a purpose beyond his own gratification.

  “I’ll tell you everything!” Anita Lopez had said.

  She did, of course, tell them everything. Unfortunately, she knew very little regarding her former boyfriend’s work. She did, however, have a few names. “Brett Callender,” she had said. “Jesse Montoya.” And that was all.

  “Please let me go,” she had said. “Please!”

  Rodrigo Diaz actually considered it. Anita Lopez had offered them no resistance and no offense. Then he sighed to himself and sadly shook his head. One never knew when a victim would be struck with a burst of conscience and a sudden urge to talk. Their task would be much easier if Brett Callender and Jesse Montoya were given no opportunity to flee.

  He nodded to Sebastian, who smiled and selected a long thin dagger from his suitcase full of tools. Anita Lopez screamed as Sebastian placed the dagger against the left side of her chest and slipped it between two ribs and into her heart. She struggled for a bit, then her eyes glazed and she fell back, dead.

  “Dispose of her,” Rodrigo Diaz said, and walked out.

  Brett Callender and Jesse Montoya…they should be easy enough to find.

  “Albert Morelli is receiving anonymous deposits into his account on the fifteenth of every month,” Jason Blair said. “In addition, of course, to any little envelopes he might receive.”

  “Anonymous,” Barent said.

  Blair nodded.

  “Any way to trace them?” Barent said.

  Blair shook his head. “Not a chance.”

  “How much are these anonymous deposits?”

  “They vary. A couple have been for twenty thousand bucks. The smallest amount was twelve.”

  “Only on the fifteenth?”

  “No.” Blair grinned. “There have been three others, fairly recently.” Blair glanced at Joe Danowski, who was sitting on a rickety looking chair in the corner. “The first was about six months ago, on February Fourth. The second was April Seventeen and the third was July Eleven. Danowski let his breath out in a slow sigh. Blair grinned at him. “Any significance to those particular dates, Joe?”

  Danowski looked sick. “We had received information regarding what were supposed to be sizeable shipments of narcotics, two of them from Texas, one from Europe. When we arrived, there was nothing to find. Either our information was wrong or they had been tipped off that we were coming.”

  “My money,” Barent said, “is on tipped off.”

  “Who was supposed to receive these shipments?” Moran asked.

  “Alexei Rugov.”

  “We have received further information,” Esteban Martinez said.

  Javier Garcia looked up from his meal and favored Esteban Martinez with a smile.

  “We have a description of the man who hired them. This man claimed to be acting on behalf of Sergei Ostrovsky.”

  “Go on,” Javier Garcia said.

  “He was white, tall, with broad shoulders. He wore a suit, despite the heat in the New Mexican desert. His hair was brown, his eyes were blue.” Esteban Martinez paused.


  Javier Garcia, who knew his old friend well, merely waited. Martinez grinned. “He had tattoos on his hands: the head of a snarling tiger on the left, a small eagle on the right. The letters, O-M-Y and T on the fingers of his right hand.”

  Javier Garcia sat back. “Russians,” he said.

  “These tattoos are distinctive. This man was undoubtedly Russian.”

  “And what do these distinctive tattoos signify?”

  “The snarling tiger is a symbol for defiance of authority. The eagle is a mark of high rank in a criminal organization. The letters are an acronym. In Russian, they stand for the phrase, “None can escape me.”

  “Excellent work,” Javier Garcia said. “All that is left is to find out who among our Russian colleagues has such tattoos.”

  “I’m working on it,” Esteban Martinez said.

  Javier Garcia smiled. “I’m sure that you are.”

  “None of this makes any sense,” Kurtz declared.

  They were eating at Sarge’s, one of New York’s premier Jewish Delicatessens. Barent felt a particular loyalty to the place, since it was founded in 1964 by a retired police sergeant. Kurtz was always happy to go along. Moran had the day off. He was taking the kids to a Yankees game.

  “No?” Barent looked at him, his disapproval plain.

  “No. Andrew Fox and the Mexican guy who were murdered were peddling alpha-methyl fentanyl. Steven Hayward, and possibly his wife, were selling carfentanil. Yet both got whacked.”

  “This is true.”

  “I can understand one or the other, but why both?”

  Moran looked up from his pastrami on rye. “Why not both?”

  “Aren’t the people selling China White competing with the people selling Serial Killer? Yet they both were murdered. This would imply two different killers.”

  Barent smiled. “So?”

  “It seems unlikely.”

  Kurtz frowned down at his plate of Maatjes herring. He had never even heard of Maatjes herring before coming to New York. It was not a traditionally Jewish dish, having been invented by the Dutch, but somehow, as with most things herring, it had been happily adopted by New York’s Jewish immigrants.