by Frank Zafiro
He turned his attention to the notepad on his desk and tossed her briefing paper haphazardly onto a loose stack on the corner of his desk.
Renee sat in shocked silence for a moment, then rose. She met the eyes of Captain Reott and Lieutenant Crawford, giving each of them a stunned nod before turning and leaving the office. She closed the door behind her and walked down the short hall. When she passed Charlotte’s desk, the secretary raised her eyebrows questioningly.
“Can we send him back to the army?” Renee asked.
1146 hours
Detective Ray Browning set down the telephone receiver just as Detective John Tower poked his head around the corner of his desk.
“You want to grab some lunch, Ray?”
Tower was the newest member of Major Crimes, having pulled duty in the Sexual Assault unit previously. Browning had worked with him in the past and knew him to be a good detective, if a bit emotionally driven. Since being transferred—some would say promoted—to Major Crimes, he’d been adrift in a new environment.
Browning understood why. Homicide detectives were somewhat clannish to begin with. On top of that, there was the natural confidence—some would say arrogance—that came with being a first-string player. And then there was the hierarchy. Detectives Finch and Elias were partnered up, but most of the detectives flew solo. Lieutenant Crawford threw together ad hoc partnerships when cases merited it, but ever since the Crime Scene Forensics Unit took over processing the evidence, the age-old practice of automatically putting two detectives on every case went by the wayside.
“Ray?” Tower repeated. “Lunch?”
Browning smiled and shook his head. He rarely ate out. Instead, he brought a brown bag lunch and stored it in the small refrigerator near the coffeepot. Some days he made his lunch, other days his wife surprised him and did it. On those days, he usually found a note tucked away somewhere in the bag, signed by his Veronica.
“Brown bagging it again?” Tower asked. “Don’t you ever get tired of the same old thing?”
Browning shook his head. “No. Besides, where do you go when you eat out? The same old places?”
Tower shrugged. “I suppose.”
“You wait until you’re married,” Browning told him. “You might start bringing a brown bag lunch, too.”
“So I can save money for my future?” Tower asked, teasing.
“Nope,” Browning answered. “So you can bring a little piece of home with you to work.”
Tower paused, considering. “I guess that’s why Stephanie’s picture is on my desk.”
“Could be. When’s the big day?”
Tower smiled hugely. “One week.”
“Getting close. How’re you feeling about being a married man?”
“Great,” Tower said. “I feel great. She’s wonderful. She understands what this job can do to you, too.”
“That’s a rare thing, man or woman.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” Tower shrugged again and turned to go. “Well, anyway, I gotta get something to eat.”
“Where?”
Tower paused. “Why? You change your mind about coming along?”
“Sort of. I just got off the phone with the arson investigator, Art Hoagland. You know him?”
Tower shook his head.
“He’s a longtime fireman,” Browning said, “but new at the investigator gig. Sometimes he likes to bounce an idea or two off of me.”
“So?”
“So,” Browning continued, “I figured you might like to come along. We can meet Hoagland for some lunch at whatever trendy location you young detectives are eating at nowadays.”
Tower gave him a curious look. “I wouldn’t ever have figured that the only way I’d get you to go out for lunch would be invite along a second responder.”
Browning shrugged. “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’m in,” Tower said.
“All right.” Browning stood and reached for his jacket. “Wait a second. Second responder?”
Tower grinned. “You’re familiar with the term ‘first responder,’ right?”
“Sure. Police, fire, medics.”
“Well,” Tower explained, “the guys on patrol decided that should be amended, on account of how every time they’re called to a scene, fire is standing off, waiting for the cops to check things out and make them safe. So instead of calling them first responders, they’re—”
“Second responders,” Browning said, a smile playing on his lips in spite of his effort not to let on that it was funny. “Well, he’s a brother investigator now, so let’s say we give him some help.”
Tower shrugged. “Sure. But since it’s his case we’re running, he’s buying, right?”
1204 hours
Valeriy walked into the poorly lit coffee shop and found a seat near the window. A dowdy waitress appeared at his table after several minutes. He ordered a Turkish coffee from her, then pulled a Marlboro out and lit it.
As the smoke curled upward from his cigarette, he stared out the window at the street beyond. His thoughts strayed to the streets of Kiev and his hardscrabble teenage years there. He imagined that he might have died in some street fight if he hadn’t found his way into the army at sixteen. There, his ability to control his emotions and to focus had served him well. He’d found himself part of the elite forces, the Spetsnaz, before he would have been old enough to legally drink in America.
Val smiled at that. Even more ironic, when he finished his term of service he elected to leave the military and found himself right back on those same Kiev streets he’d left only a few short years before. Of course, things were different for him by that time. He had learned to organize, to weigh risks and to act decisively. It wasn’t long before he was a leader in the black market groups.
He drew in the tobacco smoke, held it, and let it whoosh out as the waitress clattered a tiny cup of Turkish coffee in front of him. He eyed her coldly, but she ignored him and waddled away.
Val didn’t touch the coffee right away. Sergey’s words from Saturday night stuck in his mind. “The calm before the storm,” he’d said. Valeriy knew his boss was right, even though Sergey didn’t realize everything that was in play. His ambition was grand. Too grand, in Val’s eyes. There was plenty of opportunity here in America, if a man were careful and not too greedy.
I will let the big man’s ambition exceed his grasp, Val thought. They would expand and expand until everyone decided the Russian Mafia was a huge problem for these American police. Sergey would not stop before that happened, Val knew. It was inevitable, so he chose to embrace the fact and make it work for him. They would rise up like a great civilization, and then, when they were eventually seen as a threat and the police focused on them and beat them back? Well, they would simply retreat. But that retreat would only go so far. Their operation would still be well beyond where they’d started. But because they would have been so prevalent before the retreat, the police would forget them. Bigger fish would catch their attention while Val and his operation continued to swim, mostly unseen.
Of course, Val knew that would never happen as long as Sergey was in charge. Always a gangster, never a soldier, Sergey didn’t understand what it took to be a true leader. It must be Val who took charge. But how? How to do it right?
For all his plans, that was one thing Val did not have an answer for yet. He wondered if it was because he knew he had to be very careful, or if he was hesitant because Sergey was married to Marina. Was he allowing sentiment and emotion to interfere with his decision?
Val stubbed out his cigarette and cast a mildly irritated glance at the door. Dmitri was late.
The momentary diversion didn’t dispel his self-doubt. The question hung in his mind’s eye, flashing in red. Val reached down and lifted the small cup to his lips and sipped the strong, bitter brew. He let his mind mull over the question, poking and prodding at his heart.
It took another sip before he reached his conclusion. It wasn’t Sergey. It was Marina.
He did not want her to feel any pain. She was his sister and he loved her. But Sergey would have to go.
The two propositions seemed mutually exclusive. If Sergey left this world, Marina would feel pain. But Sergey would eventually have to be eliminated for Val’s plan to work.
He sat in the chair and examined the problem from every angle, as if it were cold marble pieces on a black and white checkered board and not people of flesh and blood and hearts. He was so engrossed in his thinking that he didn’t hear the front door to the coffee shop open.
Dmitri appeared at his table, gasping and out of breath. “I’m sorry, Valeriy,” he wheezed, his fat face red with exertion. Huge droplets of sweat rolled down his cheeks. “I ran into a problem with—”
Val held up a palm. After a moment, he swung the palm downward into an invitation for Dmitri to sit down. The corpulent man gratefully squeezed into the seat across from Val.
“Have a coffee,” Val suggested. “It’s Turkish, and very good here. The service is horrible, but the grind is delicious.”
“Oh, no thank you,” Dmitri said. “I am not really—”
“Have a coffee,” Val repeated.
His voice held no more of an edge than his first suggestion. If anything, the second time Val spoke in a quieter voice, but Dmitri read the danger and the intensity there.
“Of course I will,” Dmitri said. He swallowed thickly and raised his hand to get the waitress’s attention. She looked annoyed, but took his order. Dmitri thanked her but she turned and strode away.
“I wonder what her problem is?” Dmitri mused.
“She’s fat and disgusting,” Val pointed out.
Dmitri cleared his throat. Then he said, “I don’t know, Valeriy. I’m very fat, too, but I am not unhappy like that.”
“It is different for a woman,” Val told him.
Dmitri raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Ah, yes, I suppose it is.”
The two men sat quietly until the waitress plopped Dmitri’s coffee in front of him. He immediately picked it up and tasted it. Val watched as Dmitri first grimaced, then smiled and raised the tiny cup in his direction. “Thank you for suggesting it. It is very good.”
“Do you know what the Turks say about coffee, Dmitri?”
The fat man shook his head.
“They say it is black as hell, strong as death, sweet as love.”
Dmitri nodded. “True enough, I suppose.”
Val grunted and took another sip of his own. He was already weary of Dmitri’s sycophantic ways, though he was glad to command such respect from the people in the organization. He knew that much of it was transference of their respect for Sergey, but Val was working hard to ensure that those loyalties slowly migrated to him.
“Were the parts I gave you the correct ones?” he asked Dmitri.
The round-faced Russian nodded quickly and repeatedly while taking another sip. “Yes, yes. They were exactly what was needed. Where did you find them?”
Val waved away his question. “Don’t worry about that. Have you begun the conversion?”
“Yes.”
“How long until all of the rifles are converted?”
Dmitri’s expression grew pensive. “It took me a while to do the first one, but now that I see how it works, the rest should follow quickly. I believe I can have all ten finished in a couple of days. Perhaps sooner.”
Val nodded. “Excellent. Good work, Dmitri.”
Dmitri smiled at the praise. “Thank you. You’ll tell Sergey who did this job, yes?”
Val gave him a contemplative look. After a few moments, he said, “Of course I will.”
“Thank you. It is always an honor to be of service.”
“If you complete this task on time, I will be very grateful,” Val told him, choosing his words carefully for full effect. “And I won’t forget your service.”
Dmitri nodded his thanks again. Val could tell that the fat armorer didn’t yet understand what he had meant, but that was exactly Val’s intent. When the time came, words like the ones he just spoke would resonate with the people who’d heard them.
“I trust the pay is sufficient?” Val asked him.
“Oh yes!” Dmitri said, bobbing his head. “Very generous. Thank you.”
“Very well.” Val raised his cup and finished his coffee. Dmitri mirrored his actions, trying and failing to suppress a grimace at the harsh brew. “I will meet you here again tomorrow,” he told Dmitri. “If you’ve finished the project, we’ll make arrangements for delivery.”
“All right,” Dmitri said. “Should I call you?”
Val shook his head. “Whenever possible, don’t use the telephone.”
Dmitri shrugged. “Yes, Valeriy. I understand.”
“Good,” Val said. “Now, I will see you here tomorrow.”
Dmitri rose and reached for his wallet.
Val waved his money away. “Please,” he said. “It is my pleasure.”
Dmitri offered his hand. Val shook it. The larger man’s palm was cold and clammy. “Thank you,” he told Val before turning and leaving.
Val watched him go, absently wiping his hand on a napkin. As much as the man presented himself as a bumbler, he was the finest armorer Val had ever known. If he said he could have the rifles ready in two days, then he’d probably finish in one. And that meant—
“Sir?”
Val glanced up. An older man with a round belly and thick black mustache stood in an apron next to his table. “Yes?”
The man pointed to the recently vacated chair. “May I sit?”
Val nodded.
The man lowered himself into the seat. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table top. “I have a problem, sir,” he said.
Val said nothing. He watched and waited.
The man cleared his throat. “This is my place,” he began, motioning with his hands. “I start it up when I come here to America almost two years ago.”
“You are Ukrainian?” Val asked.
“Georgian,” the man answered. He held out his hand. “Pyotr,” he said.
Val shook his hand without saying his own name. Either the man knew who he was or he didn’t. “What is your problem?” he asked.
Pyotr lowered his eyes. “It started with my daughter,” he explained. “She does not listen to me like she should, much to my shame. She has become all too American.” He shook his head sadly. “And then she took up with these black boys who drive the cars with all the thumping music. You know the ones? They wear the baggy clothing, too.”
“I know them,” Val said. “But many young men behave that way.”
Pyotr nodded. “Yes, but these boys… these chernozhopyi… they are more than just young troublemakers.”
“How so?”
Pyotr glanced around the empty coffee shop, then leaned forward. “Two of them came to me three days ago. One of them, he is the one who my daughter calls her boyfriend, he tells me that I must pay protection for this business. He acts like he will help me somehow, but all he wants is money.”
“How much did he ask for?”
Pyotr named a figure.
Val shrugged. “Every week? That is not so much. Maybe you should pay. That way, you keep your business and your daughter is happy.”
Pyotr’s eyes widened and flashed with anger. “I do not want my daughter to be happy with this black ass.” He shook his head. “No, I will not pay. A penny that they demand today will become a dollar tomorrow.”
“Then you have a problem,” Val commented. Inside, he felt a tickle of anger at these gangsters trying to move into what they should have easily recognized was not their domain. But they’d be dealt with shortly. Perhaps, though, he could find a way to profit more fully from the plans that he and Sergey had already set into motion.
“I know I have a problem,” Pyotr said. “That is why I am sitting here with you.”
“What can I do?” Val asked.
Pyotr smiled and leaned back, turning his palms up. “I am not a young ma
n, Valeriy Aleksandrovich Romanov. Not a foolish one, either. I know the power that you wield in our world. I would like your help.”
Val showed no sign of surprise or interest. “Again, I ask—what can I do?”
Pyotr leaned forward again. “I can pay you instead. You can protect my business.”
Val pretended to consider momentarily, then shook his head. “I cannot.”
“Why?”
“It isn’t enough money,” Val said. “It isn’t worth doing battle with those types of people.”
Pyotr licked his lips nervously. “I… I can pay more. How much would—”
“We are not interested in such smalltime activities,” Val told him. “They tend to be very costly.”
“But—”
Val pushed back his chair as if to stand. “I am sorry, my friend. But you are on your own.”
Pyotr stared at him in surprise. “You would abandon your countryman to these jackals?”
Val returned his stare for a long moment. He thought about pointing out that the Ukraine and Georgia were not the same nation, but he knew what Pyotr was driving at. They had spent long enough under the same flag to be considered countrymen. Especially here in America.
He pulled his chair forward. “No. When you put it that way, I see your point.”
“Thank you,” Pyotr said.
“But we are not in the business of protection,” Val continued. “We are in the business of business.”
Pyotr nodded as if he understood, then stopped suddenly. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Val said, “that I will protect this business from those black gangsters and any other threats because it will be my business.” He gave Pyotr a penetrating stare.
Pyotr was aghast. Then anger seeped into his expression. He began shaking his head, stammering, “No, no, I won’t—that isn’t why I—how can you—?”
Val held up his hand, silencing the older man. “You have asked me for something. I have granted it. I would be very insulted if you were to retract your request now.” He leaned forward himself and asked, “Do you want to insult me, Pyotr? Since you know my name so well, I can only imagine you know about me just as well. You know that those blacks are nothing to fear in comparison.”
