The Game of Life or Death: A Detective Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers (The Jacob Hayden Series Book 3)

by Prandy, Charles

  Thirty-four

  My shoulder was sore and only required four stitches from where the bullet grazed me. In the woods, I thought it was much worse. It felt like the bullet went through my shoulder. In the end, the E.R. doctor put a patch over the stitches and told me to lay low for a few days. I politely thanked her, but there was no way I was going to lay low. Especially when I had a potential murderer to interview.

  Rule stayed with me the entire time. I wasn’t sure who was more worried: me for his safety or him for mine. It kind of felt like we were each other’s bodyguards. He didn’t want to leave me alone, nor I him, so we agreed to stay together until this investigation got sorted out.

  Two hours after I was shot, I was looking through a closed-circuit television set at the man who tried to kill me. He sat calmly behind the table in the interview room. He didn’t move much, but occasionally he looked at the camera as if he knew I was watching him. He was a man of average height and build, but according to Rule he was stronger than he looked. His hair was blond, but it appeared more dyed than natural, which led me to believe he was attempting to disguise his looks. Rule told me that when they were fighting, the man had asked him where his father hid the videotape. I asked Rule what videotape he was talking about, but Rule didn’t know. And if he didn’t know, he wouldn’t have known what was on it or if that was the reason his family was killed.

  My cell phone buzzed, and I saw that Pat was calling. I was hoping she had gathered some information before I spoke with this guy. We ran his prints but, unfortunately, they didn’t come back with any hits. We tried to get him to tell us his name but he wouldn’t, so now we were waiting to see if his prints came back from the international database.

  “Whatcha got?”

  Pat cleared her throat. “You got lucky. We got a positive match for one of the dead guys in front of your house. His name is Mikhail Dombrovski, and he’s apparently affiliated with the Lazarev Gang, an organized crime unit in Russia.”

  “Like the Russian Mafia?”

  “Exactly. He’s wanted in three countries for murder charges.”

  I continued looking at the guy as he sat behind the table.

  “What would the Russian Mob want with Rule?” I asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but this guy’s rap sheet is longer than any I’ve ever seen. Kidnap, drugs, extortion, the list goes on and on.”

  “Do we know how long he’s been in the country?”

  “A little over a week. He got through airport security with a fake passport.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Same with the guy from the black Navigator.”

  “You got an I.D.?”

  “This gets even weirder. He was former Russian police. Name’s Peter Yermilov, and he also has ties to the same Mob. In 2011, he was charged with gangsterism but the evidence wasn’t strong enough, so the case was thrown out. He was fired from the police department.”

  “So we have three dead Russians in one day with possibly another about to get interviewed. What the hell’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, but Jacob, video surveillance from Regan National shows two more men that are unaccounted for.”

  “Okay. The minute you get any information on my guy, get back to me. I’m going to see what I can get out of him.”

  We hung up. I looked at the monitor again, and he was looking back at the camera almost as if he’d heard my conversation because that same smile returned to his face.

  Thirty-five

  I pushed open the door and walked into the interview room. I looked at the man behind the table for a second before I sat down. I didn’t know his name or where he was from. He hadn’t spoken a word since his arrest, but Rule told me that when they were wrestling and he asked about the tape, his accent was thick and sounded Russian.

  I pulled over a chair and sat in front of the table and placed down a notepad and pen. The man rested his elbows on the table and moved his head side to side as if he were cracking his neck.

  “We have water. Are you thirsty?” I asked.

  He looked into my eyes and shook his head no. His eyes were the color of a clear sky, but seemed hollow and cold.

  “So, how about we start with the easy questions. Gotta a name?”

  No answer.

  “Do you live in the city?”

  No answer.

  “Look, I’ve got all the time in the world here.”

  That’s when he smiled again and finally uttered a few words. “Is that what you think?”

  His voice was deep, and his accent was Russian.

  “Is that supposed to imply something?” I asked.

  “Ask your questions.”

  “What’s your name?”

  He smiled again. “Do you think that will help you, Detective?”

  “You don’t?”

  “My name is irrelevant.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I don’t matter.”

  “In the grand scheme of things, I would agree. But right now it does matter.”

  We continued exchanging stares.

  “Viktor,” he said.

  “That it? Gotta last name?”

  The unpleasant exchange of stares continued on for a few more seconds. “Borovsky,” he said.

  “And, Viktor, are you Russian?”

  “Yes.”

  My mind started turning again. What would Russians want with the Rule family?

  “How long have you been in the country?”

  Viktor shrugged his shoulders like he didn’t know.

  “An approximation?”

  “A few days. I don’t really know.”

  “And why did you come to the States?”

  Viktor smiled again, “Vacation.”

  “Vacation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you always carry an unregistered Sig Sauer with you?”

  “Washington, D.C., is a violent city. I like to carry protection in case the police aren’t around to help me.”

  Bullshitting at its best, I thought.

  “And your buddies too? Are they on vacation with you?”

  Viktor shook his head, “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Mikhail Dombrovski. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  Viktor didn’t make any facial reactions, but his eyes kind of squinted a little. Did I catch him off guard?

  “No.”

  “Sure about that?”

  He didn’t answer, and suddenly it seemed like his bullshitting time was done.

  “How do you know Dennis Rule?” I asked.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Why did you ask his son about a videotape?”

  Viktor just shrugged his shoulders.

  “What is it that you want?”

  There was a knock at the door. I stood up and looked at my watch.

  “Be back in a minute,” I said. “In the meantime, think about why you asked about that videotape.”

  I turned and left the room. Standing in the hallway was Detective Gloria Monroe, an eight-year veteran of the force, holding pieces of paper in her hands. I’d asked Detective Monroe to watch the interview and pull up anything she may find on the suspect as the interview went on. She handed me a mug shot of Viktor Borovsky.

  “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Jacob.”

  “Show me.”

  “As soon as he said his name, it didn’t take long to find him. A quick Google search of his name attached with the word ‘Russian’ pulled up several images of him, including mug shots. In 2006, he was believed to be behind the assassination of a prominent Russian businessman. He’s also wanted in question for a 2001 bombing attack in Liski, a small city in Russia. Lastly, he also appears to be affiliated with the Russian Mob group, the Lazarev Gang.”

  “Shit.”

  “He’s been off the radar since 2006, until he grazed your shoulder with that bullet.”

  I looked over the papers and studied Vikt
or’s mug shot, which was a younger version of the man in the interview room. He looked cocky and confident with dark brown hair and a light beard.

  “Do you think he has anything to do with the Rules’ assassination?” Detective Monroe asked.

  “I do. I think he did it.”

  We walked back to the viewing room, which had a table and monitor showing the interview room. I placed the papers on the table and began reading through them. His list of alleged crimes ran across three pages, starting back to the early nineties. One sentence in particular grabbed my attention, but I didn’t get a chance to dissect it because Detective Monroe suddenly screamed out, “Shit!”

  Startled, I looked over to her and caught her eyes. They were bugged wide and staring at the monitor. I quickly shifted my eyes to the monitor and saw Viktor’s head leaning back and saliva erupting from his mouth.

  “Shit!” I screamed out.

  I rushed to the interview door, unlocked it, and quickly swung it open. Viktor’s eyes were rolled to the back of his head, saliva running down the side of his mouth. He didn’t look like he was breathing. I hopped over the table and, as best I could, laid him on the ground without slamming him down. I placed my ear over his mouth and knew for a fact that he wasn’t breathing. I started CPR. I placed my hands on his chest and started pumping. Then I blew into his mouth. I did this for two minutes until I realized that he wasn’t going to regain consciousness. Viktor Borovsky was dead.

  “Goddammit!” I said.

  I was covered in sweat and breathing hard.

  The closest lead I had to finding out why the Rules were murdered had just committed suicide right under my nose. How? I didn’t know.

  Part Two: The Next Day

  Thirty-six

  My alarm clock didn’t go off like it normally does. The sunlight was bright in my room, and Henry looked at me like I was crazy for not taking him out. It was ten in the morning, way past the time I normally woke up to go to work. I sat up in my bed and moved my sore shoulder around. Then I noticed that my wrists were sore as well. I spun my hands around in circular motions to loosen the soreness.

  I was up late last night after Viktor committed suicide, desperately trying to piece together scattered puzzle pieces. Nothing made sense to me. The Russian Mafia? Men with silencers killed in front of my house? Some kind of a videotape? The Rules? Nothing made sense. I couldn’t find a connection to any of it.

  I turned my hands in circular motions again trying to relieve the soreness in my wrists. After I went to sleep, I had one of the craziest dreams I’d ever had. A man with a mask tied me to my bed. I stood up and looked around the room. Nothing appeared out of place. Maybe the stress of the case was starting to get to me. I’ve read that some people who’ve had traumatic dreams sometimes wake up with the pain they experienced in the dream. I rolled my hands around again and wondered if that was what I was experiencing.

  Henry whimpered and looked toward the bedroom door.

  “Okay, big boy, let’s go for a walk.”

  Downstairs, Rule was still asleep on the couch. I’d known him most of my life and knew that he never slept past seven in the morning, which to him would be late. I tapped his leg a couple of times, and he started moving around.

  “Way past your wake-up time,” I said.

  Rule stretched. “What time is it?”

  “Past ten.”

  His eyes shot open. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I know. I overslept too. Imma take Henry for a walk. We’ve got to get a move on and find out more about these Russians.”

  “The way yesterday went, I’d better come for a walk with you.”

  “What, you don’t think Henry can protect me?”

  “Big dog. Little bite. Enough said.”

  We both looked at Henry, and the way he looked back at us, I swear if he had fingers he would have given us the middle one.

  As we walked toward the door, I said to Rule, “Did anything strange happen last night after we went to sleep?”

  Rule shook his head, “I don’t think so. I was out before my head hit the cushion. Why?”

  “Strange dream, that’s all. Guess it was nothing.”

  Thirty-seven

  Henry didn’t go to the bathroom right away. I think maybe he felt cramped in the house and just wanted to walk for a while, which was fine because it gave Rule and me time to talk. So much had happened over the past twenty-four hours that, outside of the brief conversation we had in my kitchen, we hadn’t really had time to talk about the case.

  The first few minutes we were both quiet. The street in front of my house still showed the bloodstains from last night’s murders. Part of a piece of yellow police tape lay on a side curb. Everything about the murders was still so fresh that it was almost hard to digest. I mean, how are two likely hit men, or men associated with the Russian Mafia, killed in front of a cop’s house without anyone seeing anything?

  “I’ve been thinking,” Rule said.

  “So have I.”

  “Yeah.”

  We walked another couple of steps in quiet.

  “Betsy Miller from my dad’s office, tell me again what she said.”

  I thought back to the conversation, which seemed more like a year ago and not twenty-four hours.

  “I was in your dad’s office, and she knocked on the door.”

  “And this was after you already talked to her the first time, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “She said your dad told her that the happiest day of his life was when he finally told you the truth.”

  “Right. And you said that she said that he also told her that people weren’t meant to keep secrets, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  We got quiet again. Both of us were thinking. I was wondering if he was starting to remember a conversation with his dad. And if so, what had his dad said?

  “Jacob, my dad never told me any secret. He was an open book to us and we to him. What secret could he possibly hide that would warrant killing an entire family?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve investigated families getting killed over five dollars. It boggles my mind that someone could actually do that, but it happens a lot.”

  “So, why would she tell you something that never happened?” Rule said.

  “You’re saying she’s lying?”

  “I don’t know. Just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Try to think back. Possibly just to an irrelevant conversation. Could your dad have told you anything close to being secretive?”

  Rule shook his head no.

  “So we’re back to square one. Why would Betsy tell me that your dad told you a secret?”

  We walked in silence again for a minute or so. Henry finally stopped in an area and started sniffing the grass. I think it’s interesting that dogs have to find the right spot to take a poop.

  “Dammit, dammit, dammit,” Rule said. Not in an aggressive tone, but almost like an “ah ha” moment.

  “Got something?”

  “So, you know how my business is to track down fugitives, right? Well, because I’m good at it, my dad asked if I could run background checks on all new employees. I didn’t mind. It was extra money, and it didn’t take up too much of my time.”

  “Okay.”

  “Betsy’s been with the firm for about six months. I remember running her background and it was squeaky clean.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sensing a ‘but’ coming?”

  “I’d have to pull her file, but I remember talking to one of her former employers and distinctly asking, ‘where’s your accent from?’ Just because I was curious.”

  “And?”

  “He said he was Russian.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Do I look like it?”

  Rule’s face had never looked more serious.

  “Let’s go talk to Betsy,” I said.

  Thirty-eigh
t

  Betsy Miller didn’t show up for work. We called her house from the Cardinal Rule office, and there was no answer there.

  “Has she ever not shown up without calling?” I asked Dan Conner.

  “No, this is a first. She doesn’t take off much, but she at least gives us a heads-up if she can’t make it in.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look at her desk?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Dan escorted Rule and me through the office to Betsy’s desk. Heads started turning at the sight of Rule. A few employees came up to him and offered their condolences and hugs. Some said that it’d be “okay” and for him to “stay strong.” Through Rule’s gestures, it was apparent that he was gracious toward their sentiments, but knowing Rule, he wanted to get to Betsy’s desk without any more hugs.

  We found her cubical neat and orderly.

  “She’s very meticulous,” Dan said.

  I looked at the desk. Flat screen monitor, keyboard, a cup to hold her pens, a bin to hold papers, a stapler, and a tape dispenser.

  “Anything appear out of place?” I asked.

  Dan looked around her cube and shook his head, “Nothing.”

  “Is Betsy married? Any kids?”

  “Two. I believe they’re in their late twenties, early thirties.”

  “Ever meet them? Have they come by the office?”

  “Nope, but she talks about them all the time.”

  “How about her husband?”

  “Divorced,” he said.

  We spent another minute or so at the cube and then went back to Dan’s office. We sat down, and Dan offered us a drink. We declined.

  “Mind if I have one?”

  He looked more to Rule than me. He turned around and poured himself a Scotch from a tray sitting behind his desk.

  “So, Jacob,” Dan said, “what’s with the interest in Betsy?”

  “Not sure yet. I just had a couple of follow-up questions to ask based on our conversation yesterday.”

  Dan nodded and took a sip of Scotch.