by Jared Paul
The Tahoe flipped over on its side twice and rolled to a stop in the middle of Mary’s front lawn. Pieces of the antique mailbox were scattered everywhere. Petals from the beheaded begonias and daisies in his sister’s garden floated back down to the earth in a soft rain. The front end of Jordan’s CRV was partially caved in and a headlight was missing, but aside from that it appeared unharmed.
Someone was complaining inside the wreckage of the Russian’s truck, which had definitely gotten the worst of the crash.
“Crazy. Shit. Unbelievable. Shit. Crashing. Crazy. Shit.”
Jordan watched as the Russian who had tried to jump out of the driver’s side crawled out from under the heap of twisted metal. When he got to his feet Jordan leaned out of his window and fired a round directly between his eyes. The Russian dropped face forward into the sod like a puppet with its strings cut.
From the other side of the Tahoe a second man came hobbling out. He had his hands raised up in the air in a gesture of surrender. There was a deep gash in his forehead, and his shirt was ripped at the collar. He looked dazed and zombified as he plodded along slowly towards Jordan’s vehicle.
“I relent. I relent. I relent!”
The Russian kept saying it over and over until Jordan wondered if he’d lost a couple of marbles in the crash. He came closer and stopped right in front of the car. Jordan pointed the .38 at his sternum and asked a question.
“How many more of you did they send?”
“I relent! I tell you I relent!”
“Yeah I got that part. How many Russians? Three? Four?”
With his hands still raised over his head, the Russian looked around like he might find the answer somewhere in the detritus of the yard. From overhead the sun was beating down mercilessly, reflecting off of the broken glass that seemed to cover everything in a fine layer. Jordan guessed that the Russian had a concussion and was trying to jog his memory so that he could answer.
“I uh. Zerr were five. Five of us I sink. Yes five.”
“Are you absolutely positive? Just five?”
“Yes. I am sure. Only five.”
Somewhere in the distance the sound of police sirens wailing was approaching. The front door to Mary’s house opened and two tall Russian men who looked like they might be brothers if not closely related came sprinting out. Jordan jerked the .38 to aim in their direction, but instead of charging at him they immediately ran away, leaping over the next door neighbor’s backyard fence and fleeing the growling terror that was their Chihuahua.
When the last two Russians had disappeared over another fence and into the alley Jordan turned his attention back to the man in front of him. He had a goofy sort of grin on his face and he shrugged as if to apologize for his comrades’ cowardice.
“You see? Only five. Like I say. Yes?”
Jordan smirked and bowed his head.
“Yep. Just the five.”
Putting the weapon aside, Jordan reached for the transmission. He put the CRV in reverse and backed up about twenty feet. Jordan shifted gears again and looked at the Russian who still had his palms up in a helpless gesture.
“Just five, I relent,” he repeated.
“It’s too late for that friend.”
Jordan gunned the engine and ran him over.
…
The Montville Police Department arrested two men fleeing the scene of the shooting shortly after. Alexei and Timur Prokorov admitted to breaking and entering the domicile at 313 Revere Court, with the intention of stealing a flat screen television set and an extensive collection of costume jewelry they had found in the master bedroom.
When they were asked why they left the house empty handed they said that they were frightened off by the gunshots outside. They told the investigators that they had no connection to the men who were killed, and that they had no knowledge of the whereabouts of the members of the Pollard family, who could not be found.
One of the officers at the Montville station ran a search and discovered that both brothers had active warrants in New York for grand larceny and conspiracy to distribute large quantities of heroin. The liaison for the case was a detective working out of the 86th precinct in Brooklyn, one Leslie Bollier. He looked up her contact number in the database and called to let her know that the Prokorovs had been caught.
…
“Have either of them made any statements yet?” Bollier asked the small-town cop as she eyed the younger brother Timur through the glass box. He was sitting alone in the interrogation room.
“Sure have. They’re some chatty Cathys. Neither one even asked for a lawyer yet.”
Taken aback, Bollier raised an eyebrow at the officer.
“I get the impression they’re both a couple stars short of a galaxy. Know what I mean?”
“I do. Thank you. Is it alright with you if I talk to them together at once?”
“Alright by me if it’s alright by you.”
They took Alexei out of his cell and put him into the same room with his little brother. Bollier watched them for a few minutes, whispering nervously to each other and gesturing feebly in their handcuffs. A special microphone planted into the wall captured everything they said. When the brothers were done working out the details of their cover story Bollier laughed and sauntered into the room.
“Good evening gentlemen. I assume that you know who I am.”
Timur sat still as a gargoyle but Alexei nodded. Bollier repeated all of the finer points of the ridiculous cover story the two had concocted, and explained that she had been listening the whole time. When she was through Bollier asked if they were going to waste her time.
After a pause Alexei replied that they would cooperate.
“Excellent. So. You two know that I know what you were really doing at that house. The plan was to ambush my friend when he came looking for his sister, only when you saw him coming you decided that discretion was the wiser choice than valor. Correct?”
Grudgingly Alexei admitted that they fled from the wrath of “the army man,” as the Russians had taken to calling Jordan Ross.
“That was a good decision, gentlemen. You’re smarter than most of Shirokov’s flunkies. I appreciate that. I like intelligence, I find it very, very sexy, so I’m going to give you one chance. Just this once chance to tell me what your boss has done with that family. I want to know where they are and I want to know RIGHT FUCKING NOW.”
The two Prokorovs exchanged a series of worried gazes. Bollier stood up and leaned over the table, her arms splayed out wide like a bird of prey’s.
“Gentlemen. I thought you weren’t going to waste my time. I’m going to count to three. The first one of you who speaks up and tells me where the Pollards are can walk away from this with nothing but a misdemeanor charge. The other one is going to get a personal private audience with the army man. Tonight. Ready? One.”
Timur and Alexei looked like they were on the verge of defecating themselves as she began to count.
“Two.”
Before she reached three both of the Prokorov brothers started talking fast.
…
By the time it was over they gave Bollier everything she asked for and more. They practically fell over each other to provide details and information both about the Pollard family and about crimes she had never even heard of. In the end she felt she had no choice but to allow both of them to be taken into protective custody. She reviewed their statement with the Montville police Captain and entered them into the system. Bollier walked out of the station head held high, feeling truly hopeful for the first time in weeks. Even if Shirokov weaseled out of a conviction for the Riis Landing mess, they had him dead to rights on kidnapping charges. Bollier called Jordan Ross and Agent Clemons and told them to meet her at Stacey’s on 29th street.
It was nearing one thirty in the morning when she finally arrived after the drive back from Jersey. Her conspirators showed up just a couple of minutes later and the three of them took a booth in the back where nobody would overhear t
hem talking.
While they were waiting for the waitress Bollier retold the story to Agent Clemons, then clued them both in on the Prokorov brothers’ defection. The waitress came over and Bollier ordered a Manhattan with Bulleit Rye, Jordan got the tap IPA, and Agent Clemons sheepishly asked for a club soda with no ice.
“Sounds like you want a real drink. You sure about that?” the waitress admonished him.
“Not in the slightest bit.”
“Just get him the club soda. He’s recovering.” Bollier interjected and the waitress didn’t ask for any further explanation.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” Bollier answered, smiling. As the waitress sashayed away from their table, swinging her hips, Bollier swept a lock of hair behind her ear and turned to watch her go.
Agent Clemons sulked and hung his head low near the table where someone had carved their initials next to the letters X-T-C and drew a heart around it. He had not had alcohol since the sting operation when he was shot in the spleen by a Russian’s stray bullet. More than anything, he would have loved a taste but the doctors had advised against it for at least another four weeks. His system had taken a powerful blow and was still recuperating. Any intoxicants could set him back a long way. Agent Clemons moved like normal, but slower, as if he was unsure that the ground beneath his feet would hold steady anymore.
Jordan Ross cleared his throat and spoke in his direction.
“By the way I need a new vehicle.”
“What’s wrong with the CRV?” Agent Clemons asked warily like he didn’t actually want to hear the answer.
“It got KIA’d.”
“How?”
By way of reply Jordan made a poof sound and shot his hands out. Agent Clemons sighed and promised to get another car as soon as possible, and asked if he would take better care of this one.
Once that was settled Jordan nodded and then turned to Bollier.
“Did you find my sister?”
“They weren’t home. According to my two new genius stool pigeons Shirokov has them holed up in a warehouse somewhere on Staten Island, near the ferry.”
Shades of red and purple passed over Jordan’s face as he processed it. His teeth ground so hard that Agent Clemons heard it from across the table, even with the jukebox playing. When he had calmed down enough to speak again Jordan asked Bollier if she believed them. Bollier tilted her head to the side a moment and sipped from her glass.
“Facing an arrest a lot of people will say anything, but yes I did. Kyle?”
Agent Clemons was about to drink from his club soda but he set it down and sneered at it instead.
“I’m going to have agents checking every warehouse in the borough first thing in the morning, but it’s probably going to take a few days with nothing more to go on than that. They didn’t have an exact address?”
Bollier shook her head.
“I don’t think Alexei and Timur are what you’d call inner-circle material exactly. But it’s a good bet it’s the same place they brought me when… you know.”
Together the three of them observed a moment of silence. Bollier’s abduction was a sore subject, the group’s greatest failure to date, up until this apocalyptic scenario with Mary’s family. Bollier had not been the same since. Jordan Ross doubted that she ever would be.
The waitress finally returned with their drinks and three coasters. She slid the last one under the Manhattan and winked at Bollier. Next to the Pabst logo a phone number was scribbled down along with a smiley face. She lifted the Manhattan and took a sip then pocketed the coaster.
Jordan Ross and Agent Clemons were blushing and looked like they were about to break into a grade-school ooooOOOoooh chant. The detective instructed them to shut up and they did so, sealing their lips tight before they even had a chance to be lurid.
The levity was short-lived. Jordan asked the question the trio had been dreading.
“So. Does anybody have any ideas how Shirokov found out I’m alive?”
The FBI agent and the detective exchanged a very concerned look. They avoided looking at their vigilante partner in the eye. Part of their deal was that nobody Jordan knew would be put in harm’s way. With Jordan dead that was easy, but alive was another thing entirely. Jordan waited for them to speak for a while and then he took an exceptionally long draught from his glass of amber ale.
“No theories? No clues? No suspects? No ideas whatsoever?” His voice was all acid.
Detective Bollier blinked and studied the etchings and vandalism on the table carefully.
“I’m sorry Jordan. We never thought that he had this kind of...”
“...It would appear that Shirokov’s arm is a lot longer than we originally thought possible,” Agent Clemons finished for her.
Jordan huffed bitterly.
“It would appear so.”
He drained the rest of his beer in one tip and a series of big gulps. When the last of it was gone down his gullet Jordan slammed the pint glass down onto his coaster and stood up to go. For a moment he loomed over the two of them, and it looked like he was about to say something else, but then he stormed away without a word.
Bollier reached to grab his arm but Agent Clemons quietly shook his head and said no.
Chapter Four
Vladimir Shirokov took two steps back and looked at the canvas, but it was not quite the right angle, so Shirokov stepped back several more. He had shed off the heavy cast and ditched the crutches the week before but still had to wear a walking boot on his right foot where the army man had shot him. The boot was better than the crutches but moving around was still an ordeal.
The canvas was 48 by 60 inches of warm colors, swirling around in a vortex that gave the illusion of drawing the viewer into a portal towards a dark and fiery nether region straight out of Dante’s Divine Comedy. Reds and oranges and yellows danced in the spiral, but the reds dominated the composition. When Shirokov was six paces away he felt the lighting was just right. He stood with a ceramic palette and a wet brush in hand and spoke to the lawyer.
“What do you sink?”
Avi Solomon was sitting off to the side of the studio, going through a ream of papers from the real estate agent’s office. The A-list attorney was an expert in many things but art was not one of them. Absently, Solomon looked up for a moment and then went back to his work.
“I don’t know. I think maybe it needs more red.”
The irony was not lost on Shirokov and he allowed himself a chuckle, but when he returned his gaze to the canvas he thought about it.
“Maybe you are right. Maybe you might have eye for painting after all.”
“That’s possible. But right now my eye is a little preoccupied with your trial. Have you made any progress on getting to a juror?”
Shirokov’s glowing amber eyes rolled in his head as he sat down and propped his walking boot up on a divan. His freedom may have been on the line but the subject of his trial had become an intolerable bore to him. The paintings were suffering with his mind distracted as such.
“Do not concern yourself with jury. Tell me about property.”
“There’s no new news I’m afraid. We have been over this. Finding a buyer after what happened out there on your front lawn is going to be extraordinarily difficult.”
With a shrug Shirokov turned his head toward the tall window. A breeze caught the curtain and he glimpsed a sliver of green.
“Difficult yes. Impossible no.”
“Impossible quite very possible I’m afraid. I don’t care how many bathrooms you’ve got nobody wants to live on an estate where eleven people got killed. At least consider bringing down your asking price.”
Shirokov rubbed at his temples.
“Your negativity. It is tiring. Surely there must be one buyer who is not unnerved by ghosts and superstition.”
“There might be, but snagging him at what you’re asking is like praying for a miracle.”
“Miracles do happen, counselor. Miracles happen often. Now.
What has happened to Alexei and Timur?”
Avi Solomon swallowed hard and set the stack of papers off to the side. His fingers formed a steeple and he tapped his shoe nervously.
“I received word from our source last night.”
Shirokov waited and eyed the lawyer with a cold patience.
