Tonight I Said Goodbye

by Michael Koryta

  “Joe,” I said, “you drive a Taurus. So shut the hell up, stick your head out the window, and let me know if I’ve got a few inches to spare on that side.”

  CHAPTER 8

  VLADIMIR RAKIC and Alexei Krashakov, it turned out, lived in what was basically my old neighborhood. I’d grown up on a narrow street off Clark Avenue, and Rakic and Krashakov shared a two-decker about twelve blocks south. I’d never known anyone who lived in that house, but I’d passed it almost daily as a kid. Somehow, knowing they now inhabited my childhood territory made me like them even less.

  Joe and I cruised the block a few times before a parking spot offering a good vantage point opened up. The sun was still out, and we had to park facing into it, squinting against the light, but it was the best we could do. Joe had insisted we take his Taurus; he claimed my truck would stand out as unfamiliar to the neighbors. I tried to argue that no car screamed “undercover cop” quite like a Taurus, but he ignored me.

  We parked and settled in for the wait. There hadn’t been any cars in the driveway when we drove past, and none were parked at the curb in front of the home, so it appeared the Russians were out on the town. The two-decker was painted a light blue that was turning gray from weathering, but it was in better shape than most on the block. The house was the same style as many others in the neighborhood, and I recalled from past visits to such homes that on each level there were two bedrooms, a small kitchen, a dining room, one tiny bathroom, and a living room. There would probably also be a dank cellar and an attic with low ceilings.

  Joe looked around sourly. “This neighborhood’s gone to hell. When I was a rookie, this actually wasn’t a bad street. Nobody cares about their own home anymore.”

  “I grew up around here,” I said.

  He stopped drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and pointed at me. “That’s right. I’d forgotten that. You know any of the neighbors? Someone who could give us some good dirt on the Russians, maybe?”

  I shook my head. “Not this far south.”

  We sat and waited. I was thankful the temperature had crawled a little higher than in recent days, because we had to keep the engine off to avoid attention, and that meant no heater. The street was quiet. Behind us, on Clark, the traffic was thick, but on the little side street only a few cars passed. Once a man in an old military parka with several days’ worth of stubble on his face stumbled down the sidewalk and glanced in the car, saw us, muttered something, and crossed to the other side. He was carrying a paper bag in his left hand, and I saw him lift it to his lips as he neared the corner.

  “Told you this car wasn’t discreet,” I said. “He thought we were cops.”

  “Guy like that? Probably thinks every third car on the street is a cop.”

  “What do you think was in the bag? Southern Comfort?”

  “Old Grand-Dad,” Joe said confidently. “No doubt about it.”

  An hour passed, and then the monotony was broken by the arrival of the mailman. He moved slowly from house to house, wincing as he took the steps, as if maybe the years and the weight of the mailbag had taken a toll on his back.

  “Think we should check their mail?” Joe asked. “See if maybe there’s a letter from Hubbard in the box?”

  “Don’t see what it would hurt.”

  “It’d hurt if one of them is in the house, or they drive in while you’re up on the porch.”

  “I like how smoothly you do that.”

  “Do what?” Joe said, eyes wide, the picture of innocence.

  “Make it so I’m the one who’s going up on the porch.”

  He smiled and spread his hands. “Hey, you’re the one who’s so anxious for action with these guys. I’d hate to stand in your way.”

  I stepped out of the car and walked down the sidewalk, head down, hands in my pockets. Just another neighborhood guy out for a stroll. I needed the bottle wrapped in the paper bag, though, to blend in better.

  The house was about two hundred feet from where we’d parked. No one seemed to notice me, and the only car that passed didn’t slow down. I took the four steps up to the porch, the dried, flaking paint crackling beneath my shoes. The two windows facing the porch were dusty, and inside it was dark. A heavy-duty steel storm door protected the wooden front door. The old tin mailbox was fastened to the wall beside the door. I lifted the lid with my finger and slipped the contents out. Four envelopes; four pieces of junk mail. A wasted trip. I dropped them back into the box and pulled on the handle of the storm door. It was locked. I stepped up to the window, put my face close to the glass, and shielded my eyes with my hand, trying to make out the interior. Tires crunched on the street behind me, and I turned to see a black Lincoln Navigator pulling into the driveway.

  Two men sat inside, and neither looked particularly friendly. They opened the doors and stepped out of the vehicle, watching me carefully. The driver was a few inches shorter than me but thick, with dark hair, pale skin, and a jutting jaw. He had a heavy blue jacket on, and as he walked around the Navigator he pulled the zipper down, allowing him to reach inside the coat if he wanted to. The passenger was taller, with very broad shoulders and blond hair. His nose was large and slightly hooked, and his cheekbones and jaw were clearly defined and solid, giving a quality of strength to his face.

  I remained on the porch, a smile fixed on my face, but I didn’t speak. They approached slowly, then walked up the steps and stood in front of me, spaced so they blocked the steps completely.

  “Children are dying,” I said.

  They exchanged a glance. Confused. The shorter one said, “What do you talk about?” His accent was thick.

  “AIDS,” I said casually. “Children are dying, now, gentlemen. Not just adults. Children. Think about that. Then think about what you’ve done to help the problem.” I watched them as they stared at me. “It’s okay, gentlemen. Not many of us are doing our share to combat the disease. That doesn’t mean it’s too late to step in and do your part, though.”

  The taller, blond one spoke now. “You want money?” His accent wasn’t nearly as heavy as his companion’s, but he spoke in a clipped, careful voice that made it clear English was his second language.

  I shook my head. “We don’t want money. We want a cure.”

  He nodded. “What group are you for?”

  I cleared my throat. “I, uh, represent EAT.”

  He frowned. “Eat?”

  “That’s right. E-A-T. It stands for Eliminate AIDS Today. That’s what our goal is, gentlemen. Surely you agree that it’s an important one.”

  He studied me, and his eyes narrowed. “You have some literature for your group? A brochure, perhaps?” His careful, stilted pronunciation reminded me of a computerized answering machine.

  I shook my head. “I don’t come to you with a sales pitch, I come to you with a cause. Are you unaware of AIDS, sir? Do you really need a paper filled with statistics to make the danger real?” I tried to make my tone somewhat hostile, to put him back on his heels and keep him from getting too inquisitive.

  He looked at me with cold, calculating eyes, like a man studying cuts of meat in a butcher shop. I met his stare, and as I did I was sure he didn’t believe a word of my story.

  “I’m harmless,” I said.

  “You want money?” he repeated.

  I smiled. “If you’d be willing to give, we’d be willing to accept. Each dollar is a small step toward a cure. Each small step toward a cure is another life saved. Possibly another child’s life.”

  He reached into the back pocket of his black slacks and withdrew a thick wad of bills held in place by a gold money clip. The clip bore a military insignia, but his hand kept me from seeing it clearly. He slipped a twenty from the roll of bills and handed it to me.

  “Twenty small steps, then,” he said, and the short man laughed.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “You couldn’t do anything better with your money.”

  “Sure,” he said, then moved out of the way to let me pass. I walk
ed down the steps and back up the sidewalk, whistling and trying not to look back, trying not to appear aware of the way they stood on the porch and watched until I was out of sight.

  Joe’s Taurus was gone. I kept walking up the street, toward the corner. They were probably wondering why I wasn’t approaching other homes. Maybe they were coming after me now to ask me about it. Or break my legs.

  A car slowed behind me. Joe. I stepped off the sidewalk and pulled open the passenger door, then dropped into the seat and said, “Drive.”

  He turned onto Clark Avenue, and I looked in the rearview mirror. The Russians’ house was out of sight now, but at least they weren’t watching from the sidewalk.

  “Great timing I’ve got,” I said. “We sat in the car for, what, two hours and they didn’t come home? Then I’m on the porch for twenty seconds and they pull in.”

  “I thought about using the horn, but I decided it was pointless,” Joe said. “You wouldn’t have had time to get out of sight anyhow, and it would’ve attracted attention to me.” He pulled into a gas station parking lot and stopped the car. “So, what happened?”

  I told him, and when I was finished he was laughing so hard he was resting his red face on the steering wheel.

  “You took twenty dollars from them,” he said, struggling for breath. “That’s amazing, LP. Children are dying? That’s the first thing you can think of to say?”

  I shrugged. “Hey, it worked.”

  “I guess.”

  “I don’t think the big guy believed me, though.” I thought about it, remembered those calculating, flat eyes, and shook my head. “I’m sure he didn’t. He knew I was lying, but he didn’t know why, so he let it go.”

  “Wasn’t he the one that gave you the twenty?”

  “Yeah, but I still don’t think he was fooled.”

  Joe wiped at his eyes and took a deep breath. “What a stunt,” he said. “I was afraid you’d confront them about Ambrose’s car and I’d have to rescue your ass. Instead you give them a speech about dying children and fleece them for a twenty.” He laughed again, then started the car and drove us back to the same street. “I’ve got something to show you,” he said. “I wanted to hear your story first, and I thought it would probably be a good idea to get you out of sight, but you’ll be interested in this.”

  He made a left onto the Russians’ street and drove down it slowly. “Check out the green Oldsmobile on your side.” He drove past it, and I kept my eyes straight ahead but got a good look at the car in the side-view mirror. Joe turned the corner and started to circle the block again.

  “You see him?”

  I nodded. “Guy sitting in the front, looked like he was watching the same house we’ve been watching.”

  “You got it. He came in with the Russians but was hanging back a little. He circled the block once and picked a parking spot with a good view of the house, just like we did. Apparently we’re not their only secret admirers.”

  “You get a plate number?”

  He gave me a sour look. “Did I get a plate number? Who do you think you’re talking to? I got the plate number, and I took about six photographs of the car itself, as well as the Navigator the Russians drove.”

  “My mistake.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, we’ve got two of the Russians, and one car for them. Who are we missing?”

  “Malaknik, I think. Amy said he lives on the east side.”

  “Want to go have a look at him, or should we stay and watch these boys a little longer? Apparently, it’s a better show than we thought, because we’re not the only audience.”

  I looked at the clock and saw it was approaching five. “You said you got photographs of the Navigator?” He nodded. “Well, let’s get back to the office, then. I want to e-mail that photograph to Amy and see if it’s the same car she saw. Then we can run out to Brecksville and check with the neighbors. We’ll worry about Malaknik tomorrow.”

  Back at the office Joe uploaded the photographs from his digital camera to the computer. They were pretty decent shots, showing a good angle of the cars as well as shots with a tight zoom on each license plate. The green Oldsmobile had a South Carolina plate.

  “He’s come a long way to watch the Russians,” I said to Joe. “Must be about something important.”

  “The car’s come a long way,” Joe said. “Doesn’t mean the driver came with it.”

  Once the photographs had been uploaded, I e-mailed them to Amy, and Joe printed out a few copies. Then we returned to Brecksville.

  We spent half an hour combing houses. Everyone regarded us with suspicion, and everyone denied having seen the Navigator. After the fourth house, Joe began showing them photographs of the green Oldsmobile, too.

  “Why not?” he told me. “As long as we’ve got the photographs, it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

  It didn’t hurt. Five houses later, a woman who lived opposite the Westons and a few houses down nodded her head as soon as she saw the Oldsmobile.

  “Well, sure,” she said. “He’s a police officer.”

  “A police officer?” Joe said.

  She smiled. “Yes. He came around yesterday, asking about the same type of questions as you. Wanted to know what cars we’d noticed, all that type of thing. We really didn’t have anything to tell him, though.” She looked at us sadly. “It’s so tragic. The little girl was so sweet.”

  “This officer,” I said, “did he give you his name?”

  She squinted, trying to remember. “Davis, maybe? Davidson? Something like that. He had a badge, though. He showed it to me.”

  We thanked her and walked back down the driveway. Joe kicked at a few pebbles in the street, and we stood with our backs to the house.

  “No Cleveland cops are driving little Oldsmobiles,” he said. “It’s an Alero, for crying out loud. That’s not a department-issued car. No antennas on it, even.”

  “You know of any detective named Davis or Davidson?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither. Looks like we’ve got a fake.”

  He nodded and gazed back across the street, at the Westons’ house. “What we’ve got is an unknown third party,” he said. “Could be significant.”

  We finished up the block and talked to two more neighbors who’d been visited by “Detective Davis” the previous day. They’d all seen a badge, but he hadn’t been in uniform, and he hadn’t been one of the cops they’d talked to in the early days of the investigation.

  It was dark by the time we left. Joe wanted dinner, but I made him drive back to the office first. I wanted to call Amy and ask if she’d seen the photographs. It was late, but Amy typically went to work late in the morning and stayed until the early evening hours. I caught her at her desk.

  “That’s the SUV,” she said immediately.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. Those fancy alloy wheels stand out.” I could hear keys clicking on her keyboard as she typed furiously. “You have any idea what their tie to Weston is yet?”

  “No, but I do have another favor to ask.”

  “I don’t know, Lincoln. My car’s still in the body shop from the last favor I did you.”

  “Okay,” I said casually. “That’s fine. I don’t blame you. Well, I’d better be going, but thanks for checking the photographs.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” she said, and I grinned. “I was just giving you a hard time, Perry, don’t freak out about it. What do you need me to do?”

  “You know who Jeremiah Hubbard is?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I want to know everything he’s been up to in the last six months. He’s in the paper pretty regularly, but I want to know why, when, and who he was involved with.”

  The typing on her end of the line stopped. “You think Hubbard’s got something to do with Weston?”

  “He might.”

  “Lincoln,” she said, “you’ve got to give me this story.”

  I sighed. “Amy, we’ve been over this a thousand times.
It would be very bad for business if I kept turning confidential cases over to you. I know you want a good story, but I can’t do that.”

  “Bastard. Oh, well. As long as you keep me updated.” The typing resumed again. “I’ll check it out and get back to you.”

  As I hung up someone rapped loudly on the glass panel of the door with his knuckles, a sound like hail on a window. Joe and I looked at each other and frowned. We weren’t used to receiving drop-in clients, and it was late in the day.

  “Come in,” Joe said. The door opened and Detectives Swanders and Kraus stepped inside, accompanied by a third man I didn’t recognize. He was of average height, with a slim build and neat, carefully parted hair that looked like he spent a lot of time on it. His clothes were well tailored and unwrinkled. It was all I needed to see to know he wasn’t a cop. The briefcase in his left hand confirmed it.

  “Fellas,” Swanders said, nodding at us. He was one of those rare guys who could say “fellas” as a greeting without making you wince.

  “Swanders,” Joe said, nodding back at him. “Kraus. How you boys doing?”

  “Doing fine,” Kraus said, dropping onto one of the stadium seats without waiting for an invitation to sit. Swanders joined him, but the stranger stayed on his feet, crossing the office with a purposeful stride that made me think he was used to being the dominant force in most rooms. He reached in his pocket as he neared the desk, withdrew a slim leather case, snapped it open, and held it out for us to see. There was a badge on the left side and an identification card encased in plastic on the right. Joe pushed himself up on his elbows to get a better look but kept his feet on the desk.

  “FBI,” he said. “Heavens. We’re way out of our league now.”

  The stranger tilted the badge in my direction, and I looked at the name on the identification card. THADDEUS CODY, it read, SPECIAL AGENT, FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.

  “Thaddeus,” I said. “No shit? I bet you resent the hell out of your parents, don’t you?”