RCC04 - And Every Man Has to Die

by Frank Zafiro

  “Hey.”

  “You’re home late,” she said.

  He looked for suspicion in her eyes, but found none. “Late call,” he said.

  She seemed to accept his answer, giving him an easy nod.

  “Where’s Maggie?” he asked, not seeing her in the Subaru.

  “Having some Grandma time,” Rebecca said. “Mom’s taking her to Riverfront Park to go on the carousel and feed garbage to the mechanical goat.”

  It was Battaglia’s turn to nod. “Where are you going?”

  “Grocery shopping. You need anything?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe some beer.”

  “Already on my list.Anything else?”

  He thought about it and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay. Then I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “I’ll probably already be asleep,” Battaglia said.

  “I figured.” She gave him a sly smile. “But if you’re still awake when the Great Bambino here goes down for his morning nap…”

  Guilt stabbed him in the gut. He forced a weak smile. “Yeah, sure,” he said.

  Her eyes widened slightly. “Yeah sure?” she repeated. “Jeez, Anthony. Don’t sweep me off my feet or anything.”

  “Sorry,” Battaglia said. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  “Well, then, get some sleep,” she said, her tone turning brisk. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Rebecca—” he started to say, but she pushed the button to roll up the window. He didn’t bother trying to talk through the glass. He kept staring at her as she backed out of the short driveway and onto the street. Then, as she pulled away, she gave him a little wave.

  All is forgiven, he thought. That’s what her wave meant. She probably wouldn’t check to see if he was still awake come nap time, but she wouldn’t be mad at him when he woke up, either. He knew that because he knew her.

  Battaglia started the truck and pulled it into the garage. In the bedroom he undressed, mixing his clothes in with all the other dirty clothes in the hamper. Then he climbed into the shower.

  By the time he got out, sleep was gnawing at the edge of his consciousness like a gray mist. He settled into bed, trying to push away thoughts of Rebecca, burning houses, or hairless porcelain dolls lying on the grass. It didn’t work. So instead he thought about B.J. The memory of scents and sensations from just a couple of hours ago invaded his mind, and he carried them with him into an uneasy sleep.

  1549 hours

  Katie MacLeod rubbed her tired eyes. She glanced up at Renee, who was engrossed in a police report, probably her hundredth of the day.

  “Do you really do this all day, every day?” Katie asked.

  Renee smiled without looking away from the report. “It’s the only way I know to do good analyst work.”

  “How do you remember all this stuff?”

  “I only remember the important things,” Renee said.

  “How do you know what’s important?” Katie asked, motioning at the huge stacks of police reports. “There’s a ton of information.”

  Renee paused, crinkling her brow. “I guess I don’t rightly know how. Things sort of jump out at me, I suppose. I read through the reports and things just seem to… connect somehow.”

  “Sounds like magic to me,” Katie joked.

  “It’s not magic. Or if it is, you could do it, too.”

  “I don’t have this kind of brainpower,” Katie said.

  Renee shrugged. “I think it’s the same way you know when a suspect is lying even though you can’t prove it just yet.”

  Katie considered. “Yeah, okay. But it’s still a special knack, what you do.”

  “Thanks.” Renee pointed at the stack in front of Katie. “Now get back to reading.”

  Katie chuckled. “A stern taskmaster, too, huh?”

  “Those reports aren’t going to read themselves.”

  “I wish they would. Why can’t we just feed them into a computer and let it spit out an answer for us?”

  Renee gave her a chastising look. “Seriously?”

  Katie shrugged. “No, not really.” Then she added, “But why couldn’t we?”

  “No computer will ever replace a human analyst,” Renee said tersely. “Computers may be able to compile data more quickly, but analysis will always be a human endeavor.”

  Katie raised her hands. “Whoa. I didn’t mean to say—”

  “That I could be replaced by a computer?”

  “Uh…”

  “That’s about as likely as RoboCop replacing you.”

  Katie stared at her for a moment, trying to gauge whether or not she was wholly serious.

  Renee broke out in a grin. “Got ya.”

  Katie grinned back, relieved. “You had me going for a second, but I wouldn’t say you got me.”

  “If you’d have seen your face, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

  “Maybe,” Katie conceded.

  “Definitely,” Renee said. Then she motioned toward the stacks of paper in front of them both. “You’re right, though. Someday, a computer will help us weed through this. It will give us more information, more quickly. I’ll still be around, though. Someone has to interpret the raw data.”

  “What is there to interpret? I haven’t seen any reports that help make heads or tails out of the drive-by shooting. No witnesses. No informants coming forward with anything. Detective Browning’s investigation is at a standstill.” She shrugged. “What’s to analyze? There’s no data.”

  “There’s always data. You just have to listen to what it says.”

  “All I hear is silence.”

  Renee shrugged. “Even silence tells you something. Look,” she said. “It’s clear that the drive-by shooting on DeShawn Brown’s home was committed by Russian gang members. Later that same day, Esteban Ruiz, leader of the Dean Avenue Diablos, is stabbed to death in front of Broadway Foods. Both very public, orchestrated events.”

  “So?”

  “So, couple that with the fact that neither the Crips nor the Diablos are even talking to investigators and what do you get?”

  “Typical gangster behavior?” Katie guessed sarcastically. “It’s not like these guys ever talk to us when it’s gang-on-gang.”

  “Fair enough. So when they don’t talk to you, what are they telling you? That it’s a gang-on-gang crime. That’s something.”

  “It doesn’t get us any closer to solving the crime, though.”

  “Sure it does. It narrows the field. Plus, I got an interesting FI from Battaglia a few days ago.” She pushed her chair away from her desk and slid to a table a few feet away, where she shuffled through some papers for a few moments. “Take a look at this,” she said, handing the field interview to Katie.

  Katie read through the FI. “So the Russians are pushing the envelope on traffic stops, too. They refuse to cooperate, call for other cars, whatever.” She shrugged. “I mean, I see the officer safety issues here, but—”

  Renee held up a finger. “There’s more. The FBI has an informant from inside the Russian Mafia here in River City. He confirms what I’m saying.”

  “What are you saying, Renee?” Katie asked, exasperated.

  “The Russians are making a major play to control organized crime here in River City,” Renee pronounced solemnly.

  Katie stared at her for a long moment. “Can you prove that?”

  “Nope. In fact, I don’t even know who the major players are for sure.”

  The two women sat in silence. Finally, Katie sighed and motioned toward the piles of police reports in front of them. “Back to the stacks?”

  “Yep,” Renee answered. “There’s an answer in there somewhere.”

  1843 hours

  Valeriy Romanov sat at his coffee shop, reading through the River City Herald. Coverage on the recent gang shootings was prolific. In addition to the straight news piece below the fold on page one, there was a feature on the migration of gangs into River City in the regional section. He
was pleased to see that his people received little mention. Most of the concern was still over black gangs from California and white supremacists from Northern Idaho.

  He also read a letter to the editor decrying the inability of the police to handle the situation, putting most of the blame squarely on the shoulders of the relatively new police chief.

  The newspaper was off base on the true nature of the situation, of course. But he suspected that the police had at least a general idea that he and Sergey—especially Sergey; they must have known he was the leader—were making a concerted move at consolidating the local gang structure under their control. He didn’t think it would hold. Criminals resented authority by nature, even when it came from the brute criminal force that they knew and respected. Someone would buck the system. Possibly the young black who called himself Murder. Or maybe the Mexican, looking for some kind of revenge.

  It didn’t matter. If history had shown anything, it was that you can always repress people but repression will never last forever. His country had lorded over most of Asia and all of Eastern Europe for almost fifty years, but it had come to an end. This was no different.

  The only difference is that Val wanted it to fail. And Sergey with it.

  They would go from controlling a minority of the criminal action to a majority, only to be “beaten” back down by the police and rival gangs to something twice as large as what they started out with. Let the other gangs have their small, spoon-fed victory. Let the police capture their kingpin in Sergey. Val and the rest of the operation would shrink back into relative anonymity but still be greater than before. There was plenty of grain to harvest; there was no need to own every farm.

  It was not the way Val would have done things if he had been in control from the very beginning. But he was not. Sergey was, and he had to contend with the man’s ego and desire for power. So he had devised this strategy to take advantage of Sergey’s reach exceeding his grasp.

  Plans within plans within plans.

  The door dinged. Val glanced up out of habit. Instead of going to Pyotr at the counter, the man who entered looked directly at Val. He held the stare long enough to convey that he was asking for permission to approach.

  Val lowered his paper and nodded.

  The man’s expression broke into a deferential smile. He hurried to Val’s corner table and stopped next to the chair opposite Val.

  Val motioned to the chair. “Sit, brother.”

  The man shook his head. “Thank you, but no. My business will take but a moment of your time, Valeriy Aleksandrovich.”

  Val shrugged and waited, his expression impassive.

  The man shifted his feet, then smiled again. “My name is Vladimir Petrovich Malkinov,” he said.

  “I know you,” Val said quietly. “You are the custodian at the grade school in West Central, near the river.”

  The man’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he nodded. “Yes, yes. Fillmore Elementary.”

  “What is your business that is so brief you do not even wish to sit down?”

  Malkinov’s expression grew concerned. Val was glad to see it. It was better to be feared than respected, though he believed he had achieved both in the Russian community.

  After a moment Malkinov leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “My wife works at the Quality Inn on Division,” he said. “She told me something last night that I think you will want to know.”

  “What is it?” Val asked. For Malkinov’s sake, it had better be good. He was already tiring of this conversation.

  Malkinov smiled. “She tells me that there are two policemen staying in room 420. They have a guest.”

  “A guest?”

  Malkinov nodded. “Yes. A Russian guest.”

  Electricity shot through Val’s body. This could only mean one thing.

  Oleg, you bastard, he thought. You’re dead now!

  He kept his outward composure. “This is very interesting,” he told Malkinov. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a roll of money. “Let me please pay for the cost of your trip to see me today,” he said, peeling off several bills. He handed them to Malkinov, who took them gingerly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Romanov,” Malkinov said, eyeing the money and trying to hide his disappointment. “You are very kind.”

  Val forced a cold smile. Did this idiot think he carried enough money in his pockets to pay the bounty on Oleg? Or that he would pay in full without verifying the information?

  “Give Pyotr your address,” he told Malkinov. “Perhaps later I will send a loaf of bread to your home as well.”

  Malkinov’s worried expression disappeared and a smile spread across his face. “Oh, thank you very much, sir. Thank you.”

  Val nodded dismissively and picked up his paper. Malkinov got the hint. He gave Pyotr his address and scuttled out the door while the fat manager was still scribbling. Val ignored them both, staring at the newsprint in front of him but reading nothing.

  Oleg. We have you.

  He let the exhilaration flow through his body, then forced himself calm. He waved Pyotr over. The manager brought him the slip of paper with Malkin’s address on it.

  “Send Natalia out here,” Val told him, folding the piece of paper and putting it into his pocket. Pyotr nodded and disappeared into the back. Val flipped opened his cell phone and dialed Black Ivan’s number.

  “Yes?”

  “Pick me up at the coffee shop,” Val said. “We have work.”

  “Yes,” Ivan replied.

  Natalia emerged from the back of the store, wiping her hands on her apron. She approached with an expectant, hopeful expression. “Yes, Valeriy?”

  “Go home,” he told her. “I may come to see you later. Even if I don’t, you will tell anyone who asks that I was with you from eight-thirty onward. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, smiling. “Of course. Would you like me to cook for you, or—”

  “Just go home,” Val told her.

  Crestfallen, she turned to leave.

  He flipped open his phone again and dialed Sergey’s number. While it rang, he admired the curve of Natalia’s hips and her trim calves. Who knew? Maybe he’d finish in time to have dinner with her. Or that something more she was trying to snare him with.

  Sergey answered his phone. “Hello?”

  “We need to talk,” Val told him. “It is important.”

  Part III

  The right man is the one who seizes the moment.

  —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  TEN

  2031 hours

  Graveyard Shift

  Thomas Chisolm sat in front of his locker, considering his options. He pulled on his boots and laced them up. He’d given some thought to how he should approach Battaglia and Carson, or if he should even talk to Carson at all. In the end, he only knew one way to talk to people. Talk to ’em straight.

  If talking to Batts worked, he wouldn’t need to talk with Carson. If Batts didn’t respond, then maybe he’d see if Carson were receptive. That probably depended on how entranced she was with Mr. Anthony Battaglia.

  Chisolm stood and buckled his pants belt. No time like the present. He wandered toward the back of the maze-like locker room, listening for O’Sullivan’s rolling Irish lilt or Battaglia’s more guttural Italian Brooklynese. He heard the clanging of lockers and general clamor of twenty-plus cops gearing up for a graveyard shift, but none of the usual banter. Just one more sign something was up.

  He rounded the corner of the last row. Battaglia and O’Sullivan stood next to open lockers. Sully buckled his gun belt and closed his locker.

  “See you out there, paisan,” he said to Battaglia.

  Batts gave him a distracted nod.

  Sully walked past Chisolm with a casual hello, and Chisolm clapped Sully on the shoulder as he went by. Battaglia put his head through the opening in his ballistic vest and pulled the straps into place. He pressed the Velcro together, then glanced up at Chisolm.

  “Hey, Tom,” he said, h
is voice subdued.

  “Hey,” Chisolm answered. “We need to talk.”

  Battaglia gave him a puzzled look. “Sure. What’s up?”

  Chisolm glanced quickly around the locker room. No one was left in the same bay, but he could still hear activity all around them in other rows. He lowered his voice.

  “It’s about you and Carson,” Chisolm said.

  Battaglia’s expression changed to surprise, then melted into anger. He turned away from Chisolm and reached inside his locker for his uniform shirt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said forcefully.

  Chisolm shook his head. “Let’s not bullshit around,” he said. “We’re cops. We live in the real world.”

  “Really? Do people mind their own fucking business in this real world you’re talking about?”

  Chisolm ignored the tone. “Anything that happens on this platoon is platoon business,” he said.

  “I see,” Battaglia said. His eyes flashed with anger. He buttoned his shirt with rough movements. “And you’re the appointed spokesman for the platoon? Is that it?”

  “No. I don’t think anyone else realizes that you’re sleeping with her.”

  “Who says I’m sleeping with her?”

  Chisolm gave him a dubious look. “I’m not standing here because I think something is going on. I know what’s going on, and so do you.”

  Battaglia stared back at him and said nothing.

  “And it needs to stop,” Chisolm added.

  Battaglia finished buttoning his uniform shirt. He continued staring at Chisolm as he tucked in the shirt and buckled his trousers. Then he said, “Don’t tell me how to run my life, Tom.”

  “Run your life however you want. Just keep it away from the job.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Chisolm shook his head. “You know, if you want to step out on your wife, that’s your business. You’re an asshole for doing it, but it’s your business.”

  Battaglia snatched his gun belt and strapped it around his waist.

  “But when you start banging another cop, one we all work with, then it’s platoon business,” Chisolm said. “My business. Because I’m the one who’s counting on you or her to be one hundred percent when you’re here. Not worrying about playing patty-cake after shift at her apartment.”