The Prince's Gamble

by Caridad Piñeiro

  Without waiting for her, he pushed through the door of the bar and over to one of the booths. Despite the early hour, a good number of patrons sat at the long wooden counter and at the booths around the perimeter. More surprising to her was the fact that inside, the place was actually spotless and filled with enticing smells.

  Roman plopped onto the bench in the booth and she took the seat opposite him. The leather of the bench was worn and patched in spots with vinyl, but clean. A waitress quickly came over, and he said, “One order of the fried pierogi, one boiled, and one onion and cheese.”

  With a nod, the waitress strolled away to place their orders.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” the detective belatedly said, and there was something about his actions that reminded her just a little too much of Alexander. Princely, and a bit imperious.

  Narrowing her eyes, she considered him more closely. “So, remind me. What’s your relationship to Alexander Ivanov, again?”

  That he wasn’t inclined to answer was evident as he said, “I thought we were here to talk about your tattooed man?”

  She nodded. “I understand you have some information on the local mob.”

  “I do, and I have a suspicion as to who the man in the photo might be, but I just want to confirm it,” he said, and looked casually toward the door of the bar. She turned in that direction as a mountain of a man plowed in, barely clearing the door frame. He wore a tank top that strained against the thick muscles of his chest and his solid beer belly. The skin exposed by his shirt showed a number of tattoos similar to those she’d seen inked on Russian mobsters.

  “Give me a second, will you?” Peter got out of the booth and walked toward the man, who had a good half a foot of height and girth on the detective. Despite that, Roman laid a hand on his massive shoulder and guided him toward their booth.

  He was too big to fit in the space, so Roman stood beside him and gave her a go-ahead look. “This is Ivan. An old friend. Show him the photo you sent me.”

  Kathleen yanked out her smart phone and pulled up the image. She handed the phone to Ivan, who nodded.

  “Da, that’s him. I’d recognize the tats anywhere.” His deep voice was flavored by a thick Russian accent.

  Kathleen looked over at the detective. “You know who it is?”

  “I suspected it was Igor Stravinski, but Ivan knows him better, right?” he said, and clapped the huge man on the back.

  Ivan wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something foul. “What do you want with him?”

  “We think there’s some connection to a missing hostess at Russian Nights,” Kathleen said.

  Ivan shook his head and let out a low whistle. “Not good. Not good.”

  The waitress brushed past the two men to place plates heaping with pierogies smothered in sweet-smelling onions on the table. “I’ll be back with the rest in a second,” she said, and walked away.

  Ivan smiled and smacked his hands together, the sound like a thunderclap. “You got these for me, right, Pyotr?” he said, using the Russian pronunciation for the detective’s name. A low rumble in his deep tones.

  “Sure. Have a seat,” Roman said and slipped back into the booth.

  Ivan immediately grabbed a nearby chair and sat at the end of the booth, his body almost as wide as the large slab of the wooden table. Kathleen suspected his bulk and ham-sized fists would be just as hard as that surface and was thankful he appeared to be on their side. She suspected he could crush the life out of her even if she managed to get off several rounds into him.

  A moment later the waitress swooped in with another plate of pierogies and bowls with a mound of sour cream.

  After she left, Kathleen resumed the conversation. “You said it wasn’t good if Stravinksi has the hostess. Why?”

  “You see these?” Ivan pointed to the various tattoos on his body.

  “I understand the tats are a history of a criminal past.”

  “I was a political prisoner. I became a made man to stay alive. But Stravinski just likes to hurt. He is one crazy motherfucker.”

  Was that the reason for Alexander’s reaction? Had he recognized the tattoos and known the man associated with them? And if he had, why hadn’t he said anything?

  She thought of Vanessa and, knowing what she now knew about her likely captor, her worry for the young waitress tripled.

  “Thank you for sharing that,” she said, sensing that beneath the tattoos and intimidating size, Ivan was not what he appeared to be.

  He jerked a thick finger in the direction of the plates. “Ladies, first.”

  She smiled and as a courtesy, she took his plate and served him a large portion of the pierogies and onions, bringing a smile to what might otherwise be a butt-ugly face.

  “Thank you.” He grabbed his fork and jabbed it in Roman’s direction. “You and Sasha, you take care of this lady, understand?”

  Roman smiled indulgently. “I understand, Ivan.”

  Kathleen mentally filed away Ivan’s comfort with Alexander’s nickname. As the meal progressed, she used a cautious line of questioning to find out more about not only Stravinski, but also about Ivan. There was a secret buried there somewhere, between him and Roman and Ivanov, and she wanted to know what it was.

  When they were done and rose to leave, Ivan surrounded her with his tree-trunk arms and gave her a gentle squeeze. With the power she sensed in him, it occurred to her that he could have just as easily broken every bone in her body.

  After the good-byes, she and Roman exited and walked back toward their parked cars. Before she drove away, however, she had a few more questions for the detective that she hadn’t wanted to ask in front of the other man.

  “How do you know, Ivan? Have you arrested him?”

  Roman shook his head. “He’s been clean over here, but his reputation preceded him. He’s kind of a folk hero to some.”

  “Because he was a political prisoner?”

  Roman nodded and walked over to his car, leaned against the fender. “He fought for freedom and survived. Many didn’t.”

  She detected the hint of admiration in the detective’s voice, but worried that he was allowing his emotions to overwhelm his objectivity. Despite that, the read she had gotten on Ivan was that he had no love for his crazy tattooed countryman.

  “Why are you keeping an eye on Stravinski? Is he part of the Russian mob?” she asked.

  “Not as far as we can tell. He’s a loner. Mostly petty stuff. Drug running. Prostitutes.”

  “Somehow I don’t think those girls think what’s done to them is petty. And maybe they weren’t just prostitutes,” she suggested, tamping down her anger over the injustice of it all. “Maybe he was recruiting them for other, nastier things, which might explain Vanessa Wilson’s disappearance.”

  Roman nodded. “If she was young and pretty.”

  “Very much so,” Kathleen confirmed grimly.

  “If Stravinski needs her gone, I wouldn’t put it past him to try to make a buck by selling her off to one of the slavery rings. That is, if she’s lucky.”

  Kathleen didn’t think losing your freedom was so lucky. But then again, the possibility gave her hope that the hostess might still be alive. Continuing with that train of thought, she said, “I guess we have maybe a week at the most from the night she was grabbed until Stravinski can arrange to get rid of her.”

  “Good guess,” the detective said. “He wouldn’t want to hold her for too long and risk being discovered.”

  Which left only a few more days before Vanessa was likely sold into slavery. If she was even still alive.

  “Who does Stravinksi answer to? Who’s his boss?” she asked.

  Roman circled his index finger close to his temple. “Crazy, remember? No one wants him in their crew so he works alone.”

  Maybe he didn’t work with any known mobsters, but that didn’t mean he was totally on his own. “Any chance he’s got a connection to Alexander Ivanov?”

  The detective’s reaction was emph
atic. He straightened like a shot. “No way. I already told you, Alexander is squeaky clean.”

  “Any reason for Ivanov to be afraid of this man?” she pushed, recalling Alexander’s very visceral reaction to his photo.

  Roman’s response this time was not as certain. “Rumor has it the Ivanov family had a run-in with some mob types, but it was quite a long time ago.”

  “Care to elaborate?” The detective obviously had information that he wasn’t sharing.

  “I don’t care to spread gossip. Why don’t you ask the man himself?”

  With a nod, Kathleen said, “I’ll do that.”

  She just hoped Alexander would be honest with her. She truly wanted to find a way to trust him completely. She was getting there, but her instincts were still humming. There was something he was hiding from her. She could feel it in her gut. And Roman’s hedging only confirmed it.

  She took a step to walk away, but Roman reached out and gently took hold of her arm.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think Sasha is involved in whatever is going on.”

  “It’s my job to bark, Detective.”

  With a quick thanks, she hurried toward her car. She had a meeting with her ADIC and the rest of her team in less than half an hour, and then it was back to the casino.

  If all went as planned, they would have additional boots on the ground by that night, watching for any signs of the escorts or Stravinski. She genuinely hoped the mobster was planning on making a buck off of Vanessa. That would mean she was still alive.

  But her time was running short.

  Kathleen needed to find her, and quickly.

  …

  “This is inexcusable,” a man at the check-in desk shouted. Alexander and Jim approached him in tandem. The man had been creating such a disturbance that one of the people working the desk had called for the chief of security. When Alexander had heard the man’s name, however, he knew he should be nearby himself, in case the situation got worse.

  “I’ll be here if you need me, Jim.” He gave the go-ahead to approach the check-in desk and waited out of view to avoid immediately escalating the problem. He and Petrov, the man making a fuss at the desk, were familiar with one another, but not in a good way. They were of a like age and had attended school together at one point. Both their families were wealthy, but that was where the similarities ended.

  “Mr. Petrov, pardon me,” Jim said, and walked toward the man cautiously, obviously aware of the curious and concerned glances of the other patrons in the area, and of the hotel staff manning the desk.

  Petrov pivoted on one heel and glared at Jim, his nose lifted petulantly, spoiling what might otherwise be his handsomeness. Although as Alexander observed him more carefully, Petrov’s blond good looks seemed to be showing signs of wear. From a few feet away, one large man who had been guarding a mound of bags, peeled away from his companion and swaggered toward them in response to Jim’s approach. The goon was big, but from what Alexander could see, he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

  “What do you want?” Petrov asked, his loud, condescending tone carrying across the distance.

  The security chief forced a smile to his face and held out his hand. “Jim Reynolds. Prince Alexander sent me down to make sure you were being taken care of.”

  A lie, but a necessary one. Alexander suspected that Petrov would not appreciate that someone had called security on him.

  “Well, I’m not being taken care of.” He mimicked Jim’s words in nasty tones. “I find it hard to believe that an establishment like this doesn’t have accommodations free for their best patrons.”

  “I understand. Let me see what I can do.” Jim walked to the desk where the harried clerk stood, now flanked by the hotel manager. Alexander couldn’t hear what was being said, but he suspected Jim was asking the staff to expedite a room for Petrov.

  The young desk clerk nodded and laid a pair of key cards on the counter.

  Jim walked back to Petrov and held his arm out, inviting him to return to the check-in desk. “It’s all set. I hope you enjoy your stay with us, sir.”

  Nose still held high in the air, Petrov brushed past Jim silently.

  The security chief shook his head and walked back toward Alexander, his features stiff and unyielding.

  “He was berating the desk clerks because it was taking them a little too long to find accommodations for ‘a man of his importance.’ His words, not mine,” Jim clarified, confirming what Alexander had already suspected was the problem.

  Although not royalty, Petrov and his family counted themselves amongst Russia’s richest citizens. Unlike Alexander’s family, however, the Petrov empire was rumored to have been built on less-than-honest labor and money.

  “I’m assuming we found suitable accommodations for my old friend?” He faced Jim as he said it, unable to disguise his lack of love for Petrov.

  “We did, but there’s something else that was in the files on our biggest gamblers that we gave to Kathleen this morning. Petrov deposited a large marker in your Monaco casino just a few days ago.”

  “How large?” Alexander opened his portfolio and tapped on the screen of the tablet computer secured inside. With a few more taps, he opened his file on Petrov.

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand,” Jim replied, deliberately standing in front of Alexander, serving as yet another screen for privacy.

  Alexander’s file confirmed the transfer into Petrov’s account with the casino as well as another that had occurred roughly a month earlier. Petrov’s gambling habit was well-known in their circles and he had earned himself a reputation as a whale. Because of the monies he would drop in most casino’s coffers, they generally would comp him for his rooms, meals, and some other amenities. Checking through his file, Alexander noticed that Petrov had stayed at Russian Nights three weeks earlier, and wondered why he couldn’t recall his visit.

  “Petrov was here at the start of the month?” he asked.

  Jim confirmed it with a nod. “He had called ahead that time and stayed for just two days. You were away. Parents Weekend at Tatiana’s university.”

  With a smile, he remembered how he had stepped in since their parents had not been able to make it due to other demands. Cheesesteaks, strombolis, football, and a visit from the Phillies Phanatic had been the highlight of the weekend with his sister.

  He returned his attention to the file on Petrov and noted that Petrov had also deposited another marker back then. Not as large, only one hundred thousand, but he had cashed it in during his last visit. A visit which, if he remembered correctly, coincided with the first suspicious transactions Kathleen had flagged in her report. He wondered now if the two incidents were somehow related and whether to raise that possibility with Kathleen.

  “Do we have any idea if Petrov really gambled nearly a hundred grand at the tables while he was here last time?”

  Jim shrugged uneasily. “No way to know, boss. Security tapes would have been recorded over already. I can ask around at the tables. Someone might remember a whale like him dropping lots of cash.”

  Alexander confirmed the plan with a quick bob of his head. “Ask the staff at the high stakes tables to keep an eye out for him. Assign one of your people to monitor Petrov’s whereabouts at all times. Have them report back anything unusual.”

  “What about Kathleen? Want me to brief her on this? Or will you do it?”

  Alexander hesitated, torn between wanting to see her again because of the feelings she roused, and keeping his distance to avoid her fractious attitude. Deciding that the latter outweighed the former, he said, “I was just on my way to the kickoff of the poker tournament. I’d prefer if you could brief her and advise that I’ll see her later.”

  Much later, if he could help it. Jim acknowledged his instructions and left.

  Alexander moved away from the check-in desk where the bellhops were collecting Petrov’s numerous suitcases. While he hurried to the event, he continued to review the various transactions. It wasn�
��t the first time that Petrov had deposited monies as markers at one of their other casinos and then withdrawn them, mostly at their locations in Monaco or Macao, but the amounts had been smaller. Not enough to really call attention to himself. Plus, markers such as these were commonly used by professional and high end gamblers to avoid carrying around large sums of cash. Depositing the money so they would have it to draw on was quite common, but Alexander also knew that some used the system for various illegal activities.

  What had happened to change Petrov’s habits all of a sudden? And why here and now?

  That question created a slimy feeling in Alexander’s gut. Maybe by the time he talked to Kathleen later, she and Jim would have enough info to wash away his unease.

  His phone rang and he glanced at the caller ID. His ever efficient assistant Tabitha, probably to remind him that he had to get to the Tsar Nicholas room for the upcoming poker tournament.

  He answered, and before she could utter a word, he said, “Thank you, Tabitha. I’m on my way.”

  “Actually, sir, I just wanted to let you know that a Detective Roman is here to see you.”

  Interesting. “Please ask him to meet me at the event room.”

  They both arrived at the Tsar Nicholas room at nearly the same time. “Good to see you again, Peter. I can guess why you’re here.”

  “I imagine you can,” Peter replied, and shook his hand.

  “I have a tournament that starts in just a couple of minutes. Would you care to join me inside?”

  Peter shook his head. “Thanks, but not while I’m on duty.”

  Alexander nodded and shoved his hands in his pants pockets. He rocked back on his heels for a moment, confused by Peter’s hesitation, before he said, “Is there a problem?”

  “No problem, Sasha. I just thought you should know that I met Special Agent Martinez earlier, and she asked about you again. Although I’m sure you knew she probably would.”

  “I did,” Alexander said, which only made him wonder why Peter was paying him this call.

  “She was asking about a thug named Stravinski.”

  Alexander made the connection immediately. “The man whose hand was visible on our surveillance photos.”