by Ed Kovacs
Honey had been avoiding my gaze. She looked out the window, glancing at the CSI people. “While you and I were at the FEMA trailer park this morning? Two CI-3 guys stopped by my mom’s house. Pretending to look for me.”
I felt my face flush.
“They told my mom to give me a message. ‘Tell your daughter not to screw with us. Bad things can happen to corrupt cops.’”
I crossed to her and put my hand on Honey’s shoulder. I reeled in my anger because I didn’t want her worrying more than she already was. I figured it was an empty threat, but right then I decided I’d spend money out of my own pocket and assign people to cover Honey’s mom 24/7. I had strong motivation to solve this case, but I’d just added a good bit more.
“Maybe you should drop out of this,” I told Honey. “I’ll continue by myself. You have plenty of other cases to work.”
“No way. Anybody who shoots dogs? And puts human beings through a metal shredder? They need to go down.”
I gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. FBI agents, real ones, had threatened my partner and best friend, and they did it through her mom. It was like being in some kind of peculiar upside-down world where nothing made sense. I’d just suggested to Honey that she back off the case, exactly the opposite of what I intended to do. I was about to shift into a higher gear and step on some toes.
“We’ll wrap this case. I promise.” I gave her the most reassuring look I could muster. “You okay?”
She nodded but said nothing.
“Then my first stop is to see a guy who’s already gotten away with murder.”
According to the dossier provided by Harding, Grigory Pelkov was a firmly established, mid-level international arms dealer from the Ukraine, not known for letting much get in his way. He was assumed to be an agent for the GRU, Russian military intelligence, the most closed and opaque of all Russian intelligence organizations. I knew the GRU to have retained its Soviet-era methodology; they were crude, rude, and lewd, and if they had an American-type motto it would be: Just do it. They took pride in not letting niceties stand in the way of achieving results.
From what I’d read in Breaux’s computer and Harding’s dossiers, Pelkov bought and sold everything from utensils to utility trucks, and hand-held GPS units to hand grenades. His customers were dictators, warlords, Third World armies, shaky democracies. He spoke seven languages fluently, had no arrest record, and wasn’t wanted by any law enforcement agency. But he’d been detained by police in Cannes, France, last year, accused of knifing a homosexual in a bar who had made an unwanted advance. Even though the man died, charges were dropped and Pelkov quietly left the Côte d'Azur. An FBI psychological profile concluded Pelkov was a homophobe, which didn’t seem to be much of a stretch, but it made a city like New Orleans, with an outrageous, openly gay population, an interesting choice for him to put down roots. He’d been in and out of NOLA for almost a year, mostly in, and seven months ago he rented a large house in Uptown on St. Charles.
I decided on an approach that, even for me, was a bit unorthodox.
“Mister Pelkov, please join me for a drink.”
I sat in an easy chair in Pelkov’s study holding a bottle of Russian Standard. A big ostentatious desk and oversized chairs set the design tone. Pelkov wore a silk paisley robe with slippers and looked like he’d had a rough night, even though it was mid-afternoon. He blinked wolfish gray eyes as he focused on me, looking only mildly startled as he ran stubby fingers through salt-and-pepper curly hair.
“Okay, but—I don’t know you or how you get in my house.”
He looked to be about five feet ten, with a waistline that suggested he enjoyed the good things in life.
“Do you drink vodka?”
“You know Russian who doesn’t?”
“You’re Ukrainian.”
“Words,” he said, waving off the idea of international borders and nationalities. Those kinds of loyalties might get in the way of his global arms-dealing operations. “I give staff day off. Maybe not good idea.” He checked his watch, touching the face as he moved his arm to bring the dial into focus. He casually sat across from me and gestured for me to pour.
I set to preparing our drinks, enjoying his consternation. I’d gotten in by jumping the fence and simply picking a lock on a side door. I’d expected to find assistants, bodyguards, but there weren’t any.
“Your alarm wasn’t set.”
“Too complicated. Sasha do for me, Mister?”
“Saint James. I really expected a security detail.” I handed him straight vodka rocks and we clinked glasses. “Za vas.”
“And to you.” He took a healthy quaff. “If I hire men with gun to protect me, maybe they see my money and get other idea.”
“I’m working with NOPD, looking into Del Breaux’s and Ty Parks’s murders.”
“I won’t miss that son of a bitch Del Breaux.”
“Tell me about your association with him.”
“We have same business. Middlemen. Sometime compete, sometime do joint venture, sometime help each other, sometime he cheat me. It called business.”
“Buying and selling weapons.”
“Matériel. I make more to sell trouser or flashlight than I make to sell gun. Rations, medical supply, truck part, computer and software. I sometime do deal with not one bullet or gun in shipment.”
“You make it sound harmless.”
“I kill no one. A child can buy knife at hardware store and slit Mommy’s throat. So is hardware clerk bad guy?”
“I hear you know something about knives. What was the dead man’s name in France?”
Pelkov waved it off. “Just misunderstanding.”
“Did you tell that to his family?” Pelkov didn’t answer. “When did you last see Breaux alive?”
“Same night he die. At restaurant. Clayton Brandt can tell you. And others.”
“What others?”
“Ask Clayton Brandt. He good with names.”
“Screw that; I’m asking you, shitbird,” I snapped.
Pelkov had a hard face; he could be thinking about butterflies but still look like a brute. I wasn’t exactly giving him the nicest of looks, either. Many seconds ticked by as he decided how to answer.
“Myself, Clayton Brandt, Del and Ty, Tan Chu, and Nassir Haddad.”
“The Buyer’s Club.”
“Ty Parks just wife, not buyer.”
“Where was this dinner?”
“Restaurant August. Nice food.”
“So did you see him after you left the restaurant?”
“No.”
“In your business, would it be common to have two and a half million dollars on hand in cash?”
“Not common, not smart. Most deal use international escrow account. Cash is like blood to bring shark. Not good.”
“Then why did Breaux have all the cash in his house?”
“If he have big cash in house then he not smart.”
“Maybe he sold something valuable to some sleazebag intelligence agent?”
“I don’t know,” said Pelkov, frostily.
“Your masters in Moscow would pay with your blood if they could get their hands on Breaux’s secrets, wouldn’t they?”
“Only master I ever have is wife, who is now ex.”
“What about your purchases here in New Orleans? You don’t use cash?”
“Sometimes at grocery store, yes, I use cash.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I use bank transfer to pay for my business purchase. I don’t keep big cash money.”
“So you won’t miss the million dollars I found in the locked drawer,” I said, gesturing toward the ornately carved wooden desk dominating the room. Pelkov froze, as if I’d taken his breath away. “And you’re right; it’s not too smart to have big cash on hand, Grigory.”
Pelkov’s eyes shifted to my backpack sitting at my feet. I casually lit a cigarillo.
“Relax,” I said. “The money’s still in your desk. I
won’t take it until you’re dead.”
He stared hard at me.
“You want kill me?”
“Somebody does. Not sure I blame them.” I exhaled toward him. “Tell me about Global Solutions.”
There are times when you wish you could read minds. Pelkov’s face could have been carved from a quarry.
“Solution to what—climate change? If ice melt in Siberia, is okay with me.”
“Hey assclown, you’re a prime suspect in a murder investigation. That pretty little paisley robe you’re wearing will go over real big with all the convicts when I throw you into Orleans Parish Prison. Now tell me about where you buy the weapons here, how you take delivery, make the payments.”
“I tell you this. Breaux cheat me on few shipments to Africa. Shorted merchandise. Goods I can’t supply to my customer, he have in stock. I lose face and I don’t like that. And I lose money; I like that even less.”
“Arms dealers don’t keep stock on hand.”
“Most don’t. Breaux has capital to risk and he get lucky, he make many sale.” Pelkov lit a cigarette. “I want ask you, why you care who kill two gay guys?”
“I don’t know about the hole you climbed out of, but in America we actually arrest murderers and put them away.”
“So why you not put away rapist like Del Breaux?”
I tried but failed to hide my surprise at the remark. “Rapist?”
Pelkov slowly freshened his drink, taking some pleasure in drawing out my interest and making me wait for his response. “He attack me in Nassir’s hotel suite when he drunk. Like wild animal. Old man can’t keep penis in his pants.”
“I find that hard to believe, Pelkov.”
He shrugged slightly. “Why would I lie about the dead? Ask others; they will tell you. Check hospital records because when he come at me, I slam his head into wall. I think he wake up with bad headache. And memory not to mess with Pelkov. He tried same thing with Nassir, but Nassir not do so well.”
Damn, he might be telling the truth. “The same night?”
“No, different night. There was party at Breaux’s house. I never go there, but I hear he get drunk, attack Nassir. Nassir want to put hit on Breaux after that. Tell me he will kill Breaux when time is better. Clayton Brandt had to give Nassir big present to make some peace.”
“So Breaux raped Nassir Haddad?”
“Yes. So you see, Nassir hate him more than me.”
If Pelkov was telling the truth, I needed to pay Nassir Haddad a visit, pronto.
“Have you been to Brandt’s office?”
“Of course.”
“Is his desk very neat, or is it cluttered?”
“Strange question.”
“Not really. It tells me a lot about someone’s personality.” I had a very good reason to ask the odd question. And since a guy like Pelkov would be familiar with interrogation techniques, he knew that some of the questions I was asking, I already knew the answers too. He knew I was testing him for truthfulness.
“Office is big and nice. Expensive furniture. Desk is big mess, papers and junk every place.”
“Where were you two o’clock Sunday morning?”
“Right here.”
“You can prove that?”
“I have many guests every Saturday night. Small party. Sing, drink. They can tell you.”
A worthless alibi; no reason to even ask for the names.
“This city very dangerous,” Pelkov said. “I don’t go out much. Never late at night. Why so many murder in your city?”
“Greed, of course. You might know something about greed.”
“I know the greed of countries. Like America, Britain, France, Germany, Brazil, China, Russia, Iran. They make the weapon and sell them. I just middleman, like alcohol distributor.” He held up the bottle of vodka. “More people die in America every year from alcohol death than from gunshot death. So who is more bad, more greedy—man who sell gun, or man who sell alcohol? You don’t like gun selling? Go talk to your generals and your president.”
“I’m sure you’re as pure as the tap water in Nigeria, but you didn’t answer my question: tell me about how you buy the weapons here.”
“Who say I buy something here?” he asked indignantly, shrugging his shoulders with his hands out, palms up. I noticed his ears start to redden as he pointed a stiff finger right at me. “My business is my business. I don’t tell my secrets.”
“You mean the GRU doesn’t tell its secrets, right, Mister Russian Spy?”
I had casually slipped the Hornet onto my right hand. Pelkov reached for his glass on the table in front of us and I grabbed his hand. “Let’s get something straight,” I growled.
He was strong, but I was fast. I wrenched his wrist as I started to press the tang down onto a pressure point. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know.”
Pelkov’s eyes darted to the side at the sound of the front door flying open and rushing footsteps. Four armed men streamed into the foyer, spotted us in the study as they shouted in Russian then stormed into the room. I released Pelkov, and he angrily pulled his hand away from me and rubbed his wrist as he took deep breaths.
Pelkov had signaled them somehow, but I hadn’t seen him touch anything since I’d surprised him—except his watch. He must have a wireless panic alarm built into his timepiece. Nice touch.
“No security detail, huh?”
Red-faced, Pelkov’s eyes riveted onto me with hate. “Sasha, Mister Saint James is leave now. Help him go.” Sasha, a tall bald freak of nature with the kind of build that could make a UFC heavyweight appear small, approached me practically smacking his lips. “I don’t think he see front door yet. Please show to him. But check backpack. Make sure he not have my money.”
As I stood up, Sasha grabbed my backpack and started rooting through it, finding nothing but burglary tools. I hadn’t bothered bringing any listening devices and bugging the place. I’d figured that after this visit they’d be checking for bugs for the next two days.
“Three men were put through a metal shredder at a scrap yard this morning,” I said quickly, holding Pelkov’s gaze. “Their bodies now look like a large bowl of borscht. They were handling Tan Chu’s shipments for him. You’re right. New Orleans is a dangerous place. And people can get away with things—until events catch up with them. Tan Chu has diplomatic immunity. You don’t, Pelkov. And one way or the other, I’m going to put your sorry ass down.”
Sasha and the Russian bodyguards roughly hustled me all the way out to the front gate. By the time I got to the Bronco parked around the corner I was fairly drenched with sweat. Clouds blew in fast from the Gulf, but I couldn’t seem to catch any shade. Blistering sunlight kept finding me and I decided to take that as a good omen.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I was taking side streets to cut from St. Charles to Tchoupitoulas, when Terry Blanchard, the compromised Customs inspector called my sterile cell.
“Go ahead.”
“The green container with the scrap left the TDF yard. About fifteen minutes ago.”
“Onto a Chinese freighter?”
“Negative. A truck picked it up and took it out of the port.”
“What about outbound shipments? I’m not seeing anything in that e-mail box.”
“Me either. The shipments have stopped.”
“Okay, good work.”
The line went dead. The guy was earning his money. I called Kendall, who was on duty in the surveillance van.
“Kendall, can you get on the GPS tracer? Our green container has left the port.”
“Done followed it. ’Bout to call you ’cause the container be piggy-back on a truck. Just pull into a big building out in Harahan. Truck done dropped it, then drive out. They just now closing the door, so I can’t see in.”
As usual, Kendall was a step ahead of me. We compared addresses; the container was at Chu’s place. Chu’s dossier noted that he and his entourage lived in an unmarked steel building with a large garage doo
r that could accommodate big-rig trucks. Kendall had already set up an observation post in an abandoned building kitty-corner to Chu’s building.
I imagined that Chu wasn’t a happy camper right now, probably having just discovered that the stolen GIDEON sample was missing.
As I started to feel a little smug, reality set in. I had grown a tail. A professional one. Which meant maybe four or more vehicles using a technique called a “floating box.” An advance vehicle drove about a block ahead of me, a tail vehicle a block behind. A vehicle paralleled me one street to my right, another vehicle one street to my left. And maybe there was an extra command vehicle somewhere. It was hard to break out of a floating box, if that was what I faced. If I turned right, the vehicle now to my right would become the advance vehicle, the vehicle now to my left would become the tail, and so on.
The best way to break out was to quickly hang a U-turn. If a vehicle behind you suddenly turned left, then that was the tail taking up a new position as the box tried to adjust.
The small side streets had given them away. I felt 90 percent sure. Then the 10 percent started to make me second-guess myself. Maybe I was creating some self-fulfilling paranoia. Either way, I needed to find out, so I executed a fast U-turn, and sure enough, a white van about a block back made a quick left turn.
I didn’t try to outrun the box; I wanted to ID each vehicle. I had the white van made and recorded on the Bronco’s video cams, so I leisurely drove over to I-10 and headed to New Orleans East, a largely obliterated, deserted area that had not even begun to recover from the killer Storm of one year ago.
I cruised past massive apartment complexes, abandoned and in ruins, then exited onto Read Boulevard. The shopping center, hospital, and high-rises there loomed as terminally wounded, empty hulks. No repairs or demolition, no mold remediation, no gutting. Nothing had commenced. Seventh District NOPD officers and National Guard MPs driving Humvees still operated out of makeshift headquarters—trailers—next to the obliterated station house on Read, but there weren’t enough officers to adequately cover even half of Seventh District. Looters operated at will, stripping copper pipes and wire from homes; black gangs robbed isolated Mexican work crews of their daily cash payments and sometimes killed them. As a result, the illegal Mexicans had started to arm themselves.
