The Dread Line

by Bruce DeSilva

The chief gave me a hard look.

  “Indulge me,” I said. “I promise it will be worth your while.”

  The chief stared at the ceiling, as if searching for a memory up there. “Winter of 1994,” he said, “a Russian factory ship with a crew of a hundred and sixteen spent four months anchored in the west passage within swimming distance of the island. The crew bought herring from local fishermen and processed it for the Russian market. Only the officers were allowed to come ashore, so folks got to feeling sorry for all those seamen stuck on that cold, stinky ship. One day, town council president Ted Pease and a crew of sixteen locals loaded a hundred and fifty steaks and some cases of soda on a boat, ferried them out to the ship, and spent five hours partying with the sailors.”

  “I remember hearing something about that.”

  “Yeah? Well, here’s the part you didn’t hear,” Ragsdale said. “One of the officers took a shine to a local girl named Cheryl Souza. A couple of months after the ship pulled anchor and steamed home to Saint Petersburg, she found out she was pregnant.”

  “Hence, Dmitri,” I said.

  “Exactly. She named him after his father, but the jerk never got in touch with her after he left. Cheryl was pretty resentful about that.”

  Ragsdale was right. The story was a good one.

  “Now your turn,” he said.

  “Last Friday, Souza approached a Boston fence named Max Barber and offered to sell him the Cargill jewelry.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You know this how?”

  “If I tell you, it’s got to stay between us.”

  “Go on.”

  I gave him most of it, holding back only Grasso’s name and my suspicion about the identity of Dmitry’s father.

  “Where do you think the jewelry is now?” Ragsdale asked.

  “Could be anywhere,” I said. “Under Dmitry’s bed. Buried in his yard. Hidden somewhere in the boat shop he manages. Or he might have sold it to Barber by now.”

  “But you said Barber is a cautious guy.”

  “Yeah. He wants to be sure Dmitry isn’t setting him up. He’s probably still checking the kid out.”

  “Your best guess?”

  “That Dmitry still has it. Bet you a box of Cubans he’s got a safe deposit box at Pell Savings and Trust.”

  “Let’s find out,” Ragsdale said.

  * * *

  The visitor’s chairs in the bank manager’s cramped office were gone now. In their place were two bassinets that held sleeping baby girls. As Ragsdale and I stepped in, Mildred Carson put an index finger to her lips and went “shhhh.” She rose and nudged us back into the lobby.

  “Back to work already?” I asked.

  “I was going to take another week, but corporate asked me to cut my leave short after Belinda was killed. Her office is still empty, so we can talk there.”

  Once we were seated, Ragsdale got right to the point. “I need to know if Dmitry Souza has a safe deposit box here.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t go into that right now.”

  Carson frowned. “Does this have something to do with the jewelry robbery?”

  “It does.”

  “Well, I wish I could be more cooperative, Chief, but the information you are requesting is private. I’m not allowed to disclose it unless you have a warrant.”

  “And I can’t get a warrant for the box unless I know he has one,” Ragsdale said.

  “Then I’m afraid we are at an impasse,” Carson said.

  * * *

  After leaving the bank, I strolled down the street to the Narragansett Café. I’d nearly finished my lunch when Carson came through the door, chose a table, and hailed the waitress. I drained my beer and headed back to the bank.

  The guard, Owen McGowan, was at his post near the front door. I whispered in his ear, letting him know what I was there for. He gave me a discreet thumbs-up.

  The metal box holding the safe deposit sign-in cards was on top of a file cabinet a few feet from the vault. The tellers and loan officers were busy with customers. No one paid me any mind as I strolled over, flipped the box open, rifled through the cards, and then slipped out the side door.

  * * *

  “Max Barber is one bad hombre,” McCracken said.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “According to Interpol, he was born Dmitry Bagrov in the Russian city of Krasnogorsk in 1961. His mother was a nurse; his father, a jeweler. He earned a degree in engineering at a Moscow university and joined the Soviet navy, serving as a political officer on destroyers. Political officers were Communist Party members assigned to keep an eye on ship captains to make sure they remained loyal. When the Soviet Union dissolved in chaos in 1991, the navy discharged him. Not clear why. He found work as the first officer of a fishing vessel, but that didn’t last.

  “In the midnineties, he surfaced in Moscow as a part of a criminal gang his father built during the country’s wild-west day—before Putin took over and implemented his perverted version of law and order. They bought up Russian Orthodox Church icons and czar-era antiques at rock-bottom prices in the Russian countryside and pulled a series of jewelry and art heists in Moscow and Saint Petersburg. Sometimes drilling through walls in the middle of the night, sometimes bursting in with guns blazing. His father was shot down in a gunfight with a rival gang in 1999. After that, Dmitry Bagrov vanished.

  “Interpol figured he was probably dead, but three years ago they learned that he’d slipped out of Russia, made his way to Hungary, immigrated to the United States under a false identity, and set up shop in Boston. Interpol suspects he’s a conduit to the West for stolen art, jewelry, and antiquities coming out of Russia and several of the former Soviet republics. But they don’t have any hard evidence.”

  After we hung up, I searched the Providence Dispatch’s Web site and found three old stories about the Russian fishing vessel that had anchored off Jamestown in 1994. One of them included a photo of the ship’s officers.

  * * *

  Cheryl Souza lived with six cats and a nervous canary in a peeling white cottage a half mile from the Jamestown business district. It was apparent that she’d been a beauty once, but the early onset of osteoporosis had left her stooped and fragile. She invited me to sit on a worn damask sofa, stepped into her kitchen, and returned with two cups of tea on a hammered aluminum tray.

  “Did you know that Dmitry’s father is living in Boston now and that he’s going by the name Max Barber?” I asked.

  “Why, yes, I did.”

  “Have you seen him?

  “Just once. He dropped by for a visit three or four years ago, and I told him he wasn’t welcome. I’m afraid I was rather rude.”

  “Did you tell him about Dmitry?”

  “I didn’t mean to, but he spotted a photo of the boy. That one on the mantel with him in his Little League uniform. He noticed the family resemblance straightaway.”

  “Did he want to meet his son?”

  “He did, but I told him no. After his ship returned to Russia, he never bothered to get in touch. I felt that he’d used me. I told him we didn’t need him waltzing back into our lives after all these years. But he asked around town and learned that Dmitry works at the boat shop.”

  “So he went to see him?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “How did that go?”

  “May I ask why you are inquiring about our private affairs?”

  “I believe Dmitry’s father is the leader of a criminal gang. I just want to be sure your son isn’t getting involved with him.”

  “Oh, my!”

  “What?”

  “He’s been sending me money every month. Not a lot, but it’s enough to cover the rent. I thought that was kind of him considering how I acted when he came to see me. I’m not comfortable taking his money; but the last few years, I haven’t been able to work because of my health. So I’ve been cashing the checks.”

&
nbsp; “I understand.”

  “Dmitry met him once—for a get-acquainted dinner at the White Horse Tavern in Newport. But as far as I know, he hasn’t seen his father for a couple of years.”

  “That’s probably for the best,” I said. “Thank you for your time. I can let myself out.”

  But when I got to the door, I turned back to her. “Mrs. Souza?”

  “Yes?”

  “You should keep cashing those checks.”

  * * *

  Dmitry Souza was busy with a customer when I entered the boat shop, so I strolled the isles, making a show of examining the merchandise. I was looking over a shelf of marine lights when he approached and asked if I needed help.

  “I could use a handheld searchlight for my Sundowner.”

  “There are several brands to choose from,” he said, “but I recommend the Leland strobe light.” He reached up and pulled a box down from a shelf. “It’s got a visibility of up to three miles and a rugged housing that’ll bounce if you drop it on the deck and float if it falls in the water.”

  I took a moment to read the specs on the box before saying, “I’ll take it.”

  After he rang me up, I asked if there was a place where we could talk privately.

  “What about?’

  “Max Barber.”

  “Who?”

  “Maybe I should have said Dmitry Bagrov.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do. He’s your father.”

  He looked around to make sure we were alone, then said, “Did he send you?”

  “No.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Mulligan.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “I’m a private detective.”

  He gave me a searching look. “Oh, I think I remember you. Didn’t I see you dancing with Belinda at the Narragansett Café one night?”

  “Yeah. Back in the good old days. Before you killed her.”

  “What! You think I did that?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Of course not. That bastard Alexander Cargill did.”

  “That’s what Chief Ragsdale thinks, but I’m not so sure.”

  He beckoned me to follow, led me into a cramped office behind the counter, and firmly shut the door. He stepped behind a cluttered desk and dropped into a torn vinyl office chair. The only other chair was occupied by some oily outboard motor parts, so I remained standing.

  “I would never have hurt Belinda. She was my best friend.”

  “And your partner in crime,” I said. “You pulled the bank job together.”

  “Bullshit,” he said, and nervously twirled his beard with his fingers.

  “I know you offered to sell the swag to your father.”

  “Where the hell did you hear that?”

  “Private-eye trade secret.”

  “Well, it’s not true.” His fingers dug at his beard again.

  “Did you kill Belinda because you were afraid she’d talk, or did you just get greedy and decide to cut her out permanently?”

  Silence.

  “Where’s the jewelry now?”

  He didn’t speak.

  “It could be here,” I said. “There’s plenty of nooks and crannies to hide it in the shop. But I’m betting it never left the bank. I think it’s in your safe deposit box.”

  He drew in a sharp breath and then slowly shook his head. “Can you prove any of this?”

  “Nope.”

  “But you think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you.” Again with the beard.

  “Not all of it,” I said. “Who tipped you off that Cargill was going to the bank that day?”

  Nothing.

  “Did you pay off one of the household staff? Did Alexander let something slip when he was trying to sweet-talk Belinda? Or was it Cargill’s bodyguard, Yuri Bukov?”

  Still nothing.

  “Bukov hasn’t been seen for months,” I said. “Did you kill him, too?”

  “I never killed anybody.”

  “What did you do with the gun?”

  “I don’t have a gun. I don’t even know how to shoot one.”

  “Well, whatever you did, you’re going to get away with it. Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you open your safe deposit box. Do that, and you’ll be spending the next ten years in Supermax.”

  He was still twirling his beard when I turned and walked out the door with my new searchlight under my arm. Outside, I called Ragsdale and asked him to set up a meet.

  36

  Mildred Carson and Owen McGowan were already there when I stepped into Ragsdale’s office. A couple of minutes later, Ford Crowder and Harvey Booth, the insurance investigator, strolled in together.

  “What’s the purpose of today’s hoedown, Chief?” Crowder asked.

  “Ask Mulligan. He called the meeting.”

  All eyes turned to me.

  “I know who stuck up Pell Savings and Trust,” I said, “and I know where Ellington Cargill’s jewelry is.”

  “Well, now,” Crowder said. “Ain’t you the cat’s meow.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Ford. How much of your simple-country-boy routine is an act?”

  He grinned. “Reckon I been ladling it on too thick?”

  “Sounds like you’re auditioning for Duck Dynasty,” Ragsdale said.

  “Or Hillbilly Handfishin’,” Booth added.

  “For crissakes,” Carson said. “Can you guys knock it off and get to the point? Some of us have to work for a living.”

  “Dmitry Souza was the gunman,” I said. “And his best friend, Belinda Veiga, was his accomplice. After they blindfolded Ellington Cargill, they snapped a few cell phone pictures of the jewelry and moved it from his box to one Souza had rented just a few days before.”

  “How did you know Souza has a box at my bank?” Carson asked.

  “Because you just told me,” I lied.

  “Ha!” Crowder said. “That was slicker than deer guts on a glass doorknob.”

  “Last Thursday,” I said, “Souza drove up to Boston and showed the photos to Max Barber. Far as I know, they haven’t stuck a deal yet. Souza’s box hasn’t been opened since the robbery.”

  “You’re saying the jewelry is still in there?” Booth asked.

  “I am.”

  “How’d you learn all this, pardner?” Crowder asked.

  “Confidential sources.”

  “That ain’t good enough.”

  “It’ll have to have to be.”

  “Chief?” Booth said. “Can you shed some light on this?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  “Well, can you get a warrant for the box?”

  “Absent exigent circumstances,” Ragsdale said, “there’s no way we get a look inside that box unless Mulligan provides a detailed statement.”

  “Which I’m in no position to do,” I said.

  “Why is it that you can’t be more cooperative?” Booth asked.

  “Those confidential sources?” I said. “They’re violent people with a long reach. If I violate their trust, they won’t think twice about killing me.”

  “Well then,” Crowder said, “why don’t we take turns watching the bank till Souza comes back to fetch the loot?”

  “He won’t,” I said.

  “Why not?” Crowder asked.

  “Because he knows we’re on to him.”

  “How?”

  “When I was puzzling this thing out, I questioned him and his mother.”

  “Now, why in the hell did you go and do that?”

  “Long story,” I said.

  “What’s the short version?”

  “Something the chief said made me suspect that Barber was Souza’s absent biological father, but I didn’t know for sure until I talked to them. Confirming that was a key to figuring everything out.”

  “I got a shorter version for you,” Crowder said.

  “Which is?
”

  “You screwed the pooch.”

  “Did Barber help his son plan the robbery?” Booth asked.

  “He didn’t,” I said, “but don’t ask me how I know that.”

  “So what do you suggest we do now, Chief?” Booth asked.

  “All I can do is bring Souza in and bluff him. I’ll say I’ve got him dead to rights and try to squeeze a confession out of him.”

  “Hot dang!” Crowder said. “That oughtta be as easy as pushin’ a watermelon through a garden hose.”

  “Oh, for crissakes, Crowder,” I said. “Will you please cut that shit out?”

  Crowder leaned forward and looked me straight in the eyes. “Know what I’m startin’ to think, pardner?”

  “That you wish you were rockin’ on a back porch pickin’ a banjo?”

  “I’m thinkin’ maybe you set this whole thing up.”

  “What are you implying?” Carson asked.

  “Mulligan’s got no love for the Cargills,” Crowder said. “And I reckon he ain’t all that sweet on fences and outlaws who pull guns in banks either. Long as the jewelry stays in the box, Souza can’t sell it to Barber, Ellington Cargill can’t get it back, and everybody is fucked.”

  And Grasso won’t get a big payday for ratting out Barber, either, I thought, but what I said was, “You gotta admit there’s a nice symmetry to it.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Booth said.

  McGowan, who’d been silent until now, cleared his throat. “One thing maybe none of you thought of yet. What if Souza gives his key to a bank employee and pays him off to get the jewelry out of the box?”

  “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” Carson said. “It takes two keys to open a safe deposit box. From now on, the bank’s master keys will be secured in the vault, and only Mr. McGowan and I will have access to them.”

  “Which is fine and dandy unless he pays one of you off,” Crowder said.

  Carson bristled. “You’ll just have to trust us on that, Mr. Crowder.”

  “Okay, then,” Ragsdale said.

  “What about your end, Booth?” Crowder said. “Is your company gonna pay off on Cargill’s claim?”

  “I’ll have to consult with the home office,” Booth said, “but probably not. As long as we think we know where the jewelry is, there’s a chance it can be recovered. So the case file will remain open.”

  Crowder hooted. “Like I been saying. Everybody gets fucked.”