White Russian

by Steven Henry

  Erin straightened up. She turned to the Russian woman, who brought in a tray with a teapot, sugar and cream bowls, two teacups, and a plate of shortbread cookies.

  “How do you take your tea?” Natalie asked.

  “Cream, no sugar, please,” Erin said, deciding to try it the same way she had her coffee. She wasn't a tea drinker.

  Natalie poured two cups and sat down in the armchair at the end of the table. Erin sat on the couch. Rolf settled himself at Erin's feet.

  Natalie took out a black cigarette and a lighter. “Do you mind?”

  Erin shook her head, knowing anything that relaxed Natalie would help with the interview. “Is that a Sobranie Black?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Natalie said, surprised. “You know it? I did not think anyone not Russian knows this brand.” She lit the cigarette, settled it between her fingers, and took a long drag. “I told Gregory I would quit, but this has been a difficult twenty-four hours. I do not think he would mind.”

  Erin took a sip of tea. It was dark, strong, and bitter. “Ms. Markov, we've been going over your husband's information,” she said. “We've been trying to figure out who would want to harm him. Did Gregory owe money to anyone?”

  “No one,” Natalie said.

  “You're certain of that, ma'am?” Erin pressed. “Maybe a short-term loan, to cover an investment?”

  “Certainly not,” the other woman said, her eyes flashing. “Gregory always paid his debts.”

  “Do you know who he was paying each month?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Five thousand dollars, cash, every month. Who was getting that money?”

  Natalie said nothing.

  “Ms. Markov,” Erin said, leaning forward and putting her cup and saucer on the table. “You said you wanted to help me find your husband's killer. I need you to tell me the truth.”

  “It is not mine to tell,” Natalie said.

  Erin blinked. It was her turn to say, “What do you mean?”

  “I will help you,” Natalie said. “But there are others who might be hurt by this. How do I know they will be all right?”

  “These others,” Erin said. “Are they criminals?”

  “Criminals!” Natalie said scornfully. “That word means so many things. In this country, you are a criminal if you kill a man, yes? But you are also a criminal if you smoke a cigarette with marijuana instead of tobacco. You are a criminal if you make a mistake on your taxes. You are a criminal if you do not have the correct permits to do business. You are a criminal if you come to this country without proper paperwork. It is just like under the Communists, except they made it a crime to leave and you make it a crime to come.”

  Erin understood. “If this is something to do with the INS,” she said, “I'm not interested in that. I'm an NYPD Major Crimes detective, Ms. Markov. I'm not going to deport anybody. Was your husband helping illegal immigrants?”

  “He did not hide money,” Natalie said. “He did not even take a deduction on his taxes for this. He broke no laws.”

  Erin wasn't sure about that, but she wasn't an immigration lawyer. “How did he find the people who needed his help?” she asked.

  “Gregory knew everyone in the importing business,” Natalie said. “Some of them know people who bring other people on boats. They are poor. They pay more than they have just to come here.” Natalie leaned across the table and laid her hand on Erin's. “There is so little opportunity in Russia, Officer O'Reilly. Many of these people are no more than children. Little girls with no money who do not speak the language. What becomes of them, once they are here?”

  “Oh my God,” Erin said quietly. “He was looking for prostitutes. Just not for the reason we thought.”

  “My husband would never take advantage of a girl in such a position,” Natalie said proudly. “He wished only to help them.”

  “Ms. Markov,” Erin said. “This is important. Do you know who was running the girls?”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I mean, when girls get brought in to be hookers, who brings them in? Do you know any names? Places?”

  Natalie shook her head. “Gregory knew these things. He did not tell me.”

  “Did he have anything written down?” Erin asked. “Names, addresses, anything at all?”

  “I do not know. I will look through his papers,” Natalie said. “Do you think this is why Gregory was killed?”

  “I don't know,” Erin said. “But I'm going to find out.”

  Chapter 7

  “Dead ends,” Erin said, slamming the door of her apartment. “Nothing but dead goddamn ends.”

  Rolf wagged his tail. He wasn't ready to give up.

  Erin smiled at her partner. “You did your part,” she said. “We get the guy, maybe we get a DNA match from the cigarette in the parking lot. But it won't help us if he's not already in the database.” She thought it over. “Shit. I should've got one of Natalie's butts out of the ashtray.”

  Rolf cocked his head.

  “No, I don't think she did it,” Erin said. “But we could at least run a match.” She sighed. “We're done for the day. I'm gonna take a shower, and we're not gonna think about this any more tonight.”

  The German shepherd laid his snout between his paws and stared up at her.

  “Yes, I'll feed you first,” she said, getting out the kibble.

  In spite of what she'd just said, she kept thinking while she stood under the showerhead. The hot water felt good on her neck and shoulders. They had no suspects. Her best guess was that Jane Doe's pimp had gotten a lead on her and followed her. But why gun her down with a bystander present? What if Markov had pissed off the wrong guys and he'd been the target? What if the girl...

  “Maybe she was bait,” Erin said aloud. That was a thought. “Human traffickers, sick of easy marks getting scooped off the streets, lay out some bait for the good Samaritan. Markov can't resist, he goes for it, wants to talk to the girl. But the girl doesn't know the whole plan, or else they just don't give a damn and gun her along with him. Get rid of all the witnesses?”

  She thought it over. “No,” she said. “Girls are worth money to guys like that. No point in killing her if she's playing along. Hell, maybe she's got nothing to do with this, and she's just in the wrong place, wrong time, like all the rest of her life. Plain old shitty luck.”

  She was going in circles. She shut off the water and toweled off, then put on a long T-shirt over her underwear. By the time she'd gotten home from work, walked the dog, and cleaned up, it was too late and she was too tired to do anything else. An evening of mindless TV sounded about right.

  She was midway through a rerun of “24” when her door buzzer went off, jolting her off the couch and onto her feet. Rolf jumped up, ears perked, ready for action.

  “Yeah? Who is it?” she asked, punching the intercom button.

  “It's Vic.”

  “Okay, sure. Come on up,” she said, but she was a little confused. A glance at the clock told her it was later than she'd thought, almost ten. Then she looked at herself. “Pants,” she said, grabbing a pair of sweats from the bedroom. She considered trying to dress up a little more, then decided the hell with it. She and Vic had been in a gunfight together. He could see her in comfy clothes. But she did add another layer, putting on a tank top and tossing the T-shirt back on top of it.

  She was just in time. Vic knocked on the door as she poked her arms through the sleeves. She shook her hair back, double-checked the peephole just to be on the safe side, and opened the door.

  “Evening,” she said. “C'mon in.”

  “I didn't wake you up, did I?” Vic said, taking in her disheveled appearance.

  “No,” Erin said. “I'm just watching Jack Bauer beating up terrorists.”

  “Classic.”

  “Vic,” Erin said.

  “Yeah?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh,” he said, looking at her. “Right now I was thinking, maybe I could tak
e you up on that drink you were gonna get me.”

  “Vic, it's a work night,” she said.

  “I know. Look, we don't have to go anywhere fancy. I just want to talk.”

  “How'd you even know I'd be home?”

  “I didn't.”

  “Vic, we've got these inventions, they're called phones.” She looked more closely at him. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Absolutely.” But he was distracted, edgy. He always had a restless energy to him, but at that moment, he couldn't stand still. He was pacing in the entryway, clenching and unclenching his hands.

  “Okay,” Erin said. “Let's get that drink. Maybe it'll settle you down. You're making me twitchy. Stay there. I'll put on something else. I didn't know I was stepping out tonight.”

  She changed into slacks and a blouse and pulled her hair into a ponytail. While she was doing it, another thought hit her. Not a pleasant one.

  “Look, Vic,” she said, coming out of the bedroom. “I don't want you getting the wrong idea here. You're my coworker and my friend, but—“

  “Shit,” he said. “I'm not asking you out, okay?”

  “Okay, good.”

  “Good?” He sounded a little hurt.

  “That's not what I meant,” she said. “I mean, I don't like you.”

  “Good,” he said more firmly. “I don't like you either.”

  “You're a jackass thug.”

  “And you're a hardass bitch.”

  “Glad we got that settled.”

  “Damn right. Now, we getting that drink?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Where's a good place around here?” Vic asked.

  “I haven't had a chance to check out the neighborhood yet,” Erin said. “There's... shit, the closest place is the Barley Corner. It's just two blocks that-a-way.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Vic said. “That's the bar you almost blew up last time you were in it.”

  “Yeah,” she admitted. “But it wasn't exactly me—”

  “The one that's full of Irish mobsters,” he continued.

  “Right. Maybe somewhere else?”

  “Maybe somewhere else,” he agreed.

  With the aid of Erin's smartphone, they found another joint a little further away, a bar called Last Call. It didn't have the class of the Corner, but it probably wasn't full of gangsters, either, so it seemed like a good compromise. They went in and got a table along the wall.

  “What'll it be?” asked a tired-looking young woman with stringy hair.

  “White Russian,” Vic said.

  “Two,” Erin said. She wasn't much on vodka usually, but she was always willing to try a different drink. Coffee liqueur sounded good, and it might sharpen her up a little.

  She waited until the drinks arrived. Vic took a heavy slug of his. Erin sampled hers more carefully. She didn't know how strong it was, and wanted to take her time. “So, what's up?” she asked. “Is this about the case?”

  “No,” Vic said. “Well, maybe a little. Not really.” He swirled his drink, staring at the patterns in the old fashioned cut glass.

  Erin waited. This was good interrogation practice for her.

  “I didn't find anything,” he said. “Not about the victims. I guess I'm looking for advice.”

  “You? Advice?” She couldn't believe it. “Vic, how long have you been on the force?”

  “Thirteen years.”

  “And you've been a detective longer than I have.”

  “Not that kind of advice,” he said. “I'm talking about girl stuff.”

  “Girl stuff?” Erin echoed. “Oh, God. Talk to your mom about this. See, there's differences between boys and girls...”

  Vic snorted. “That's not it either,” he said. “Okay, I met this girl. Woman. Whatever. I was done knocking on doors, came up totally blank. Nobody talking. And I ran into her.”

  “What kind of girl? Streetwalker?”

  “What? No!” Vic exclaimed. “What's the matter with you? No, she's just this girl, okay?”

  “Okay,” Erin said. “So what's special about her?”

  “I talked to her.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  “For three hours.”

  “What about it?”

  “I've never talked to a girl for three hours,” Vic said. “I don't like talking.”

  Erin smiled. “I've noticed,” she said. “You'd rather be kicking down doors.” Vic had been with the NYPD’s ESU, Emergency Services Unit, doing SWAT-type work, before transferring to Major Crimes.

  “Exactly,” Vic said. “But she was interested in me. She was asking me questions, like she really wanted to get to know me.”

  “You think she was hitting on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what's the problem? She not your type?”

  “She's exactly my type,” Vic said. “And we had fantastic chemistry. I mean, I'm talking serious sparks.”

  “So why are you here, talking to your coworker, instead of getting it on in the backseat? Or did you already do the deed, and it was over too soon?”

  “No,” he said. “That's the thing. She wanted to, I'm sure of it. But she backed out.”

  “So that's what you want advice about,” Erin said, taking another sip of her drink. “You want to understand the female psyche.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You may think this is strange, Vic,” she said, unable to resist tweaking him a little. “But not every girl jumps in the sack with some guy she just met. You think she wants to see you again?”

  “Yeah. She asked for my number.”

  “You give it to her?”

  “Nine-one-one.”

  She laughed. “Seriously?”

  “Okay, yeah, I gave her my number,” Vic said. “I'm just trying to figure if it was a brushoff, or what. It was kinda strange.”

  “You get her digits?”

  “No,” he sighed. “Not even her last name.”

  “What's her first name?”

  “Tatiana.”

  “Russian girl?”

  “Yeah,” Vic said. “And I'm a Russian guy. Match made in heaven.”

  “Well, you want my advice, so here it is,” Erin said. “She got your number, and didn't give you hers. So she wants to be in the driver's seat. Let her. It's not like you've got a choice, right? Let her call you. If she does, you'll know she's interested. If not? You're screwed, and the hell with her.”

  “You're right,” Vic said. He threw back the rest of his White Russian. “I didn't really need you to tell me that.”

  “I'm not a relationship counselor,” she said. “I live with my dog, okay? You want to talk to a woman who's good at relationships, try my sister-in-law, Mrs. Happily Married.”

  “Nah,” he said. “I just wasn't ready to go home yet. Still awake. Hell, maybe I'll drive back down to Little Odessa, pick up some whores.”

  “The way you say that really gives me the creeps,” Erin said. “Wait a sec. You drove all the way up here to have one drink with me, and now you're gonna drive all the way back to south Brooklyn?”

  “Line of duty, O'Reilly,” Vic said. “Line of duty. And hey, you owed me a drink.”

  “You okay to drive?” she asked.

  “Erin, I've had one,” Vic said. “A Russian needs one drink just to deal with the existential pain of being Russian. We don't start to feel it till the third or fourth round.”

  “I guess the Irish are the same way,” she said. “Be careful out there.”

  “Why's everybody keep telling me that?” he wondered.

  Chapter 8

  One of the most frustrating parts of detective work was waiting for things to happen. Lab results, paperwork, inquiries. Erin didn't like waiting. She liked doing. And what she was doing for the next few days, unfortunately, was nothing.

  Vic was trying to make street-level contacts in Little Odessa and, Erin suspected, exploring the possibility of having a girlfriend. Jones was working the numbers at her computer, trying to find something—a
nything—that would provide a solid motive. Webb re-interviewed the night manager at the motel and anyone else connected to the case, which wasn't many people. He spent a lot of time on the phone with the Brighton Beach Vice squad, and almost as much time bitching about how unhelpful they were.

  And Erin had no leads. It got so bad she actually started missing patrol duty. At least interesting things happened on patrol, even if those things involved drunken assholes throwing up in the back of her squad car. She and Rolf were both itching for action. She spun wheels for three days, drinking too much coffee, training with her K-9, and trying to think. The weekend came and went. Finally, Webb called her over to his desk.

  “O'Reilly?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You getting anywhere?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It's the Fourth on Thursday,” he said. “You planning on seeing family?”

  “If I'm needed here, I can let them know,” she said, looking straight ahead.

  “Come off it,” Webb said. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his temples. “You know as well as I do that we're going nowhere. Your folks live upstate, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get out of town. Go see Mom and Dad. Come back fresh. If you head out Wednesday evening, can you be back at work Friday?”

  “Sure thing,” she said. Her heart leaped. She'd just about resigned herself to being alone on the holiday.

  “You know what our homicide closure rate is?” he asked.

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  “Rhetorical, O'Reilly,” Webb said. “Last year it was seventy-four point eight percent, including cold cases. Not counting the cold ones, we cleared fifty-seven percent. It's basically a coin toss, and sometimes the coin comes up tails.” He sighed. “And this one counts double. You know, it might have been out-of-town talent. In that case, we won't solve this one in a hurry, if at all.”

  “Yes, sir,” Erin said, unable to think of anything else to say.

  So she loaded Rolf into the Charger on Wednesday after work and headed to West Hurley, New York. It was a two-hour drive, which wasn't too bad. West Hurley was a town of about two thousand, set on the Ashokan Reservoir and surrounded by forest. Erin's dad had always said he'd get as far away from the city as he could when he retired from the NYPD, but no one had expected him to actually go through with it. Erin's mom hadn't wanted to be too far from her kids, so they'd compromised by staying in New York state, but getting well clear of the five boroughs.