Marked Man II - 02

by Jared Paul

  Once Jordan got a hold on all of his bags he hustled out of the shop, then hurried all the way back to the boarding house, not stopping once to catch his breath. Back in his room, Jordan dropped his bags and clutched at his chest. The run had badly irritated his rib cage, and he had no choice but to lie on his back the rest of the weekend.

  The episode in the vitamin shop made Jordan feel ridiculous. A nutcase conspiracy theorist. He told himself that if the Russians turned him into a hermit they won, even if he lived. Two days later he went back to his regular routine, but he doubled his precautions, circling back on the same block two or three times and glancing over his shoulder constantly. Walking around the corner for a dozen eggs became a half hour long ordeal. Jordan despised living this way. Sweating alone in the tiny boarding house room, Jordan promised himself that the next Russian he came across would pay all the more dearly for his inconvenience.

  …

  Detective Bollier feared what it would mean if she told Jordan Ross she was assigned to his case. The Corporal had no ties left in New York, outside of his sister. He had no family. Maybe he would sense that the walls were closing in and just pack up his guns and leave, never to be seen or heard from again. Losing Jordan would leave her with one less friend in a world where she was already woefully short of them. She decided to sleep on it.

  In the morning she had no better idea how to broach the subject, and her hangover made abstract thinking an exercise in agony. Bollier decided to sleep on it again.

  Finally refreshed and clear headed, Bollier ate a quick breakfast and lit out for the 25th precinct to find more information. There she was told that originally Akio Montri’s case was assigned to a Detective Jonathan Slade, now on administrative leave. No news as to why. Bollier did her best to charm an address out of them but the precinct only provided her with a phone number, which turned out to be disconnected.

  Bollier disliked asking Agent Clemons for Intel on general principle. She was a big girl. She worked alone, and nine times out of ten she could find out anything she needed to know without anybody’s help. But time was a factor so she swallowed her pride and made the call. Inside an hour Agent Clemons gave her Slade’s home address. When he asked what it was for she stonewalled him, but promised that they would talk again as soon as she knew more. She had a feeling it was going to be one of those life changing conversations, and Bollier dreaded those like the plague.

  Detective Jonathan Slade lived in a two-story Gable Front house in Queens. His wife was home with summer influenza, and he asked Bollier to be as quiet as possible because she was sleeping upstairs. He made coffee and they sat on the living room sofa.

  “So. What can I do you for, detective?”

  “Well. It’s this case that just got dropped in my lap. Akio Montri.”

  Slade sipped from his mug and said he recalled the name but not the particulars. He said it a little too fast for Bollier’s liking.

  “I know how it is. After a while they all start looking the same. The cases I mean.”

  “They certainly do.”

  “You must be enjoying yourself getting some time off. Your Captain said it was administrative leave?”

  “Too much vacation time built up. I get my pension in another twenty-six months and I haven’t taken a day off since the 90’s. Union said I had to use it up, something about priority protocols.”

  “Sounds like you’d rather be out there working.”

  “I didn’t say that exactly.”

  “No?”

  Detective Bollier was only half disappointed to discover that Slade was no slouch. He danced around her line of questioning with the ease of an old pro. There were only so many homicide detectives who truly knew the game. The NYPD was missing one of its heaviest hitters out there. Only Slade was too evasive. If he was truly yanked off the case over vacation time he wouldn’t be so slippery.

  It was a ploy, he wanted her to know that something was utterly rotten, but he was too clever to come out and say it. They volleyed back and forth for a few minutes. Bollier felt a sense of desperation setting in.

  “Look, Jon. I can see you’re smart police. Ordinarily I could sit here and banter with your all day. But this case is… different.”

  “Lady, you’re not fucking kidding.”

  “Why did they pull you? Really?”

  Detective Slade threw up his hands.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. I must have pissed up the wrong rope somewhere along the way. One day I’m out on assignment at the kid’s dorm. Next thing I know I’m back at home base and the Chief of Internal Affairs is telling me I’ve got to take an eight week leave of administrative absence.”

  A shudder passed through Bollier that she could not conceal.

  “The IA Chief? Personally?”

  Detective Slade nodded grimly and took a very long pull from his steaming French Roast. He stared out the window onto the street, where a handful of neighborhood kids were riding by on twelve speed bikes.

  “Maybe I should consider it a message. Like maybe it’s time to retire early.”

  “When you’re so close to your pension?”

  “There’s things more important than money.”

  Bollier agreed that this was true and did her best to settle her nerves. After a while she worked up the courage to ask the question she came there for.

  “Alright. I’ll get out of your hair in a minute. Just one more thing. I know you only had a little while to work it, but did you find anything unusual about Montri?”

  “Unusual?”

  “Yes, anything that could help.”

  Detective Slade pondered this for a moment before he spoke.

  “I don’t know how helpful it will be, but there was something that struck me as odd.”

  Bollier already had a pen and a small spiral notebook in hand. She clicked the tip out and told Slade she was ready.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I suppose you know that he was some kind of political prodigy. Top of his class. Heading for the state house for a cushy internship. So I suppose it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that he travelled in exclusive circles, but…”

  The detective stopped talking and stared at the blank, black TV screen like the mysteries of the universe could be discerned there, if only one had the patience to watch long enough.

  “Yes?”

  “I pulled Montri’s cell phone records. In the seven days before he fell outta that building he got five calls from the New York State Capitol.”

  She said the name.

  “Marvin Greene.”

  Detective Slade had enough sense not to ask how she’d guessed.

  “And on the night in question?”

  “Forty seven minutes before they found him.”

  Bollier lifted the delectable cup of French Roast that Detective Slade had brewed to her lips. She let the coffee pour into her mouth, but she found herself unable to swallow. It took three tries before it went down.

  ...

  Jordan Ross was just beginning to calm down when he saw the same man in the vitamin shop again the next week. Jordan was thumbing through a fitness magazine when he caught a glimpse of him in the supplements section.

  Of course Jordan could not be sure, but he thought he saw him look his way. If Jordan was being truthful with himself he would have admitted it didn’t matter if he was sure or not. The fact that he ran into him twice was proof. Somehow, the Russians had got a scent on his trail. Perhaps he’d slipped up. In one of those circuits between the gym and the boarding house he must have missed a tail. One person in the crowd that was all it took. New York was the best place in the world to hide.

  Jordan kept his distance. He followed the man as he made his way through the store. He kept several paces back, but never let his eye wander off. This time the man was wearing a Jordan brand t-shirt to go with a pair of matching basketball shorts. He bought two bottles of fish oil, a Vitamin C, and an iron supplement. At the checkout he looked up at
the same reflective surface Jordan saw the first time. Their eyes met. The man thanked the cashier and headed for the exit. Jordan left his magazine on the rack and followed him out.

  Wherever he was going it must have been close. Jordan was relieved that he did not flag down a taxi, as he doubted very much he had the funds to chase him around the island in another one. He walked briskly right past the parking lot and turned onto 62nd.

  As he hounded the stranger from a distance, Jordan kept his hand close to the .22. The Russians could have had a roaming hit squad nearby, just waiting on the word from their special spy. If he made a sudden grab for a cell phone Jordan would have shot him.

  Jordan was careful not to be too obvious about what he was doing. He stayed close enough so that he could close the distance with a short sprint, but far enough so that the vitamin man wouldn’t suspect anything. The man walked four blocks without stopping. The longer he followed the more leery Jordan became. He kept expecting the man to suddenly whirl around and unload on him with a handgun, but he just kept on walking.

  The Russians had not shown themselves to be the most cunning strategists. Usually when Shirokov went after Jordan he sent several large men with guns and hoped for the best, but things were changing. That they lured him out to Mary’s house was a change of pace. Also there was the pizza delivery boy come ninja assassin. The Russians were re-shuffling the deck and he had to figure out what game they were playing, he had to be one step ahead every time.

  He stopped at a red light and flexed his calves, presumably waiting for the light to change. Jordan slowed his pace enough so that he would not catch up. When the light turned they crossed, Jordan only a few yards behind with several mid-day shoppers in between them.

  When he came to First Avenue he took a left. Jordan tensed, sensing that his destination was near. The combat scenarios played through his head at a hundred miles an hour. Which direction would they come from? He scanned the fire escapes. He looked for the best place to set up an ambush.

  The man stopped in front of an old pre-war apartment building. He reached into his basketball shorts, and as he did so Jordan yanked out the .22 and approached from behind. He pulled out a set of keys and began sorting through them, as if he wasn’t sure which to use on the door. All at once he dropped them on the sidewalk. He cursed and bent to pick them up. In so doing he caught a glimpse of Jordan approaching, gun drawn.

  All of the sudden the Russians’ plan dawned on him. It made perfect sense. All along the Russians had wanted Jordan to follow this man to a quiet part of the island where they could spring on him all at once. This vitamin man was the bait in an elaborate trap. They expected Jordan to follow the man, then break into the apartment so that he could beat him, interrogate him, find out what he knew about his sister. But the second that the apartment door opened he would get his face blown off by a double-barreled shotgun.

  The man panicked at the sight of Jordan coming on with the 22. He fumbled through the keys even faster. He forced a key into the slot, but by then Jordan was on him and he had the muzzle of the warm gun tickling the base of his neck.

  “Very tricky. Almost got me there buddy.”

  Vitamin man was trembling.

  “Oh God. Oh God! What do you want?”

  “Let’s go for a walk. To the alley.”

  “Ok! I’ll do anything. Just please don’t hurt me. Please.”

  Jordan directed him around the side of the building. He kept the gun in his back to force him along. About a dozen yards into the alley he commanded vitamin man to get down on his knees. He did so, still trembling and squeezing his eyes shut tight.

  “Open your eyes. How many are up there?”

  “How many who?”

  Jordan brushed the tip of vitamin man’s nose with the barrel.

  “Last chance. How many people are up there waiting for me?”

  “Uhhh. Um… just my roommates.”

  “How many?”

  “Two?”

  “Give me your wallet.”

  The vitamin man did as he was told and handed it over. Jordan flipped through cash, credit cards, and a dozen Polaroids of dogs in kennels, and all the while the guy begged for him to take whatever he wanted just as long as he please would just please leave him alone he would promise not even to call the police. Jordan found an identification card. The name read Calev Bar Zohar. Below that it said Animal Medical Center - New York City. Jordan read it three times.

  “You’re a veterinarian?”

  Calev Bar Zohar answered that he was, then asked Jordan Ross to please not hold it against him and please not to hurt him. Slowly, as the realization came over Jordan he felt a burning sensation in his cheeks.

  “You’re a veterinarian,” he repeated.

  “Yes. Take the wallet. Take whatever you want. Just please.”

  Jordan let the vitamin man’s leather wallet drop from his hands like it was infected with rabies. Tucking the 22 away, he looked up and down the length of the alley.

  He was relieved that nobody was around to see the robbery, but even more relieved nobody was there to witness his embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry…. I…. think I… may have made a mistake,” Jordan said and then ran away.

  …

  It was muggy hot out in the yard and Vladimir Shirokov did not feel well. He sat on a broken weight-lifting bench, reading Crime and Punishment and every few minutes he pressed a hand to his stomach and let out a low moan.

  Anton Askokov was doing dumbbell curls with forty pound weights on the adjacent bench. He made a grunting sound each time he completed a lift. When he heard Shirokov let in a sharp intake of breath Askokov immediately dropped the weights and rushed to his side.

  “Avtorityet? What is wrong?”

  Shirokov swept his underling’s hand away and sighed.

  “I am having stomach aches.”

  “Should I ask for help? We can call prison doctor. They have good doctors in American prison, I know this. One helped to remove my tooth. It was rotten.”

  The Russian boss was about to correct Askokov and inform him that it must have been a dentist, but then he decided it was too hot and his gut pained him too much to bother.

  “No doctor. It is not their concern.”

  “Are you sure? You do not look well, avtorityet.”

  “No doctor,” Shirokov spat, but he could not contrive the powerful tone that he would have preferred to use. He had as of yet not informed Askokov of the plan he hatched with the chemist Paviel.

  Askokov was a loyal subordinate, but Shirokov was leery. He could not be sure who had pulled the strings to make it happen. The most likely candidates were the District Attorney’s office, perhaps the FBI. Askokov could have been turned, and sent there to glean information from him. There was also the chance that the man who had called Solomon was responsible, but the idea that the voice on the phone was capable of engineering such a thing was as unsettling as a mole in his circle. He pushed the unwelcome thought away.

  “NO doctor.” He managed the force this time and returned to his reading. Askokov went back to lifting the dumbbells, sweat pouring into the denim jacket tied around his waist.

  Shirokov tried to focus on Dostoyevsky but found his mind wandering. The chemist had warned him to expect some pain as the little balloons of Potassium Perchlorate and Aluminum powder made their way through his system. Knowing that his plot was proceeding well should have done something to ease the discomfort, but it did not.

  Glancing up from the page, Shirokov looked around the yard. On a dirt field a few dozen yards away some of the inmates were playing baseball. The crack of the stick hitting the ball echoed through the humid air and the men went scurrying around the diamond according to some logic that Shirokov could not discern. Clouds of dirt kicked up from their cleats wafted up and out towards the river. Shirokov looked longingly at the sparkling blue waters beyond the electrified and razored fence. Behind them on the dilapidated basketball court some other inmates were l
anguidly practicing trick shots. It must have been too hot to play a regular game.

  A scuffle broke out on the baseball field. One of the inmates appeared to have injured himself sliding in the dirt. Shirokov watched the others stand over him, pointing and exchanging threats. He lost interest after another few moments and began to read.

  The rhythm of Askokov’s grunts became a sort of metronome. As a child Shirokov’s parents had encouraged him to become a concert violinist. The instrument’s steady ticking had a calming effect, and little Vladimir focused and played better when he listened. It was the same with Askokov’s noises. For the first time all day Shirokov was able to concentrate and get through a page without any effort. So it was particularly upsetting when he heard someone yelling at him from the field.