by Jon F. Merz
But somehow I didn't feel much like laughing right now.
I wheeled myself out of the office and closed the door behind me.
I tucked the key in the lock, heard the solid thunk as the bolt slid home and headed toward the elevator.
Outside my office, the night sky was clouded over with thick rain clouds. I wheeled my way down Centre towards the Monument. Dr. Poon's office had long since closed.
I caught a whiff of a fresh pizza being cooked at the sub shop by the Little Peach convenience store.
Around me, people moved on with their lives, immune to seeing some of the shit I saw.
Lucky them.
Unlucky me.
I headed home.
Chapter Thirty
As good a sleep as I had that night, it did little to ease my mind. Questions still clogged every synapse and nerve ending, resulting in my waking up with a pretty nasty headache.
I considered asking Jim Beam about his involvement with my aching head. But from past experience, I know he tends to deny everything.
After a breakfast of egg whites, orange juice and toast, I called McCloskey. I didn't think it was healthy having a cop mad at me. Especially since I'd probably need a lot of protection before this was over.
He answered on the first ring. "Wondered when you'd call."
"I wanted to give you some time to cool down."
"Yeah."
"Listen. I'm sorry about yesterday, okay? I had no idea it was going to go south like that in such a hurry."
"I know you didn't."
"Sorry you took a hit on your noggin."
"It's not the fact that I got knocked out that had me so pissed, it's the fact that for everything we went through yesterday, we got shit out of it. We got nothing on Darmov at all."
"Well, we know for a fact someone else is after him."
"Yeah. What good does that do us?"
"Might make it easier to bring him down."
"I doubt it. Besides, I'm one of those cops who actually gets a thrill from seeing people I bust go to court and then prison."
"You telling me if someone gets the drop on Darmov, you'll be disappointed?"
"Not all of us want criminals dead, Jake. Darmov's a bastard but I don't know if he deserves to die."
"You don't know him like I do, pal."
"You think he deserves to die?"
"I think I deserve a vacation is what I think."
"Case got you spinning your wheels?"
"Funny. You spend a lot of time thinking that up?"
"Nah, I just have these moments of divine inspiration."
"I'm so fortunate to be on the receiving end of them."
"Just consider yourself fortunate I still won't mind hanging out with you."
"Your head okay?"
"Mild concussion. I had tunnel vision for a lot of the evening. Lisa's pissed at you. Said you always seem to get me into trouble."
"You tell her you do a pretty good job of that yourself?'
"Hell no. Why should I take a fall when you can do it for me?"
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
"Want to hear the latest?"
"You're gonna tell me anyway, aren't you?"
"Darmov is married to Vanessa."
McCloskey paused for a minute. "Holy shit."
"Yep."
"You sure can pick Ôem, pal."
"You know what this means?"
"Aside from you sticking your dick in a hornet's nest?"
"Uh, yeah."
"What's it mean?"
"He killed his sister-in-law."
"How did he and Vanessa hook up?"
"Turns out the Patterson family is very much into criminal activities."
"Says who?"
"Says Darmov. Said their old man got the family started back at the end of the Second World War. He expanded into narcotics, weapons, that sort of thing."
"He still alive?"
"Died a few years back."
"Who's running the show now?"
"Melinda Patterson was running it."
"Was being the key word."
"Right."
"You think Vanessa's running it now?"
"No."
"Is that an objective answer or are you thinking with your crotch?"
"I guessed that Darmov would want to take it over. He said no. Says he's got enough doing what he does over here. Doesn't want any more."
"What an odd thing to say."
"I thought so too. Only thing I can figure is that whoever Darmov reports to back in Russia, one of the directives is not to make too big a splash over here. For whatever reason, I can't say."
"What I know," said McCloskey, "is the Russians prefer keeping a very low profile. They don't like interactions with the other syndicates. If that's the case, Darmov might be under orders to just let whatever shit the Patterson's were involved in just fade away. Maybe someone else picks up the pieces, maybe not."
"Makes sense."
"Or maybe someone else is already picking up the pieces, judging by how yesterday went down."
"The list of possibles isn't very long."
"Who have you narrowed it down to."
"UhÉ"
"You haven't."
"No. But I'm thinking about it really hard."
"What about that goon Viktor you were telling me about?"
I frowned. "I don't know. He's a tough sonovabitch and all, but I don't know if he's got the brains to mastermind competition to Darmov. He seems pretty faithful anyway."
"Appearances can be deceiving."
"True."
"He got the same background as Darmov?"
"Probably some. Not all. Darmov is much smarter."
"Or maybe Viktor's got even more. That's the problem with these guys coming over after the fall of Communism. All their records are incredibly tough to get a hold of. We may not even know if they are who they say they are."
"There'd be a record of Darmov and Vanessa's marriage, though, wouldn't there?"
"Yeah, but an ID is easy enough to come by. Darmov could have assumed any name he wanted. They don't do a lot of checking on those things, you know that."
I knew it. Go down to City Hall, fill out a form, mumble along with the city clerk and bingo Ð married.
"Who else is on your list?"
I hesitated. "Much as I don't like it, Vanessa."
"You have to consider her, dude."
"Yeah. I know it. I just can't swallow the idea of her being behind this."
"You think she knows Darmov killed her sister?"
"I think she might have suspected it. But she wouldn't ask Darmov outright, so she came to me."
"Shows she's smart, then huh?"
"Sure does."
"If she tried to call out Darmov, he might just waste her, too. Blame the whole thing on the drug dealers and get away free."
"Darmov said he knew of the Patterson family from his days in Soviet Intelligence."
"Yeah?"
"But it still seems odd that he'd marry into the family just as a way to keep tabs on his rivals."
"You think he's after something else?"
"Maybe."
"Would he tell you?"
"I doubt it. I mean, he's answered a lot of my questions, true enough, or so it seems, but if there's a real ulterior motive for getting in with Vanessa, I doubt he'd be so eager to cough it up readily."
"You gotta find out what the key is."
"I have to come up with another prospect, too. Darmov wants things to carry on as if nothing happened yesterday."
"I see the honeymoon's over with the new boss, eh?"
"Shit, we never even dated."
"What's Darmov's take on this whole thing?"
"Says he'll find out who's behind it and then unleash Viktor the mindless killer on them."
"Nifty."
"My thought, too."
"Maybe you should talk to Vanessa."
"Maybe I will."
; "Talk to her, Jake. Don't screw her."
"Can you dig up some stuff for me."
McCloskey sighed. "At last we come to the favor. Shoot."
"Get me a copy of Vanessa's wedding license."
"Not a prob. You think it'll actually help?"
"I don't know."
"Ok."
"Also, can you shake the trees with your fed buddies and see if you can get jackets on Darmov, Viktor, and Gregor?"
"You got last names on Viktor and Gregor?"
"No."
"Oh, wonderful. How the hell am I supposed to figure that crap out?"
"Well, don't you have Gregor's body down at the morgue?"
"Oh yeah. Sorry, my memory's still foggy."
"No sweat. Maybe some of his stuff will help you track down where he's been."
"Unless he's using an alias. He also might have entered the country illegally."
"Perish the thought."
"Yeah, I know. Tough to imagine, ain't it?"
"Can you dig up anything else on Vanessa?"
"Like what?"
"Like anything. I'm reaching for anything here, Frank."
"Man, you are so deep in hock to me for this crap, I can't even begin to tell you how many Friday afternoons at Guilfoil's this is gonna cost you."
"I'm sure you'll tell me."
"No shit. This is like, at least three months we're talking here."
"I'll just add it to Vanessa's bill."
"Damned honest of you."
"Must be Darmov's influence."
"I'll call you later."
"Thanks, Frank."
"Jake."
"Yeah?"
"Watch your back."
Chapter Thirty-One
Vanessa answered on the second ring and immediately perked up when she heard my voice. That was good. I was beginning to doubt if I still had any positive effects on women.
"Can I see you?"
I glanced out my office window for the third time in as many minutes. "Yeah. Let's get some dinner tonight. How does that sound?"
"Are you the main course?"
"Not even vaguely."
"Too bad."
"This is business, Vanessa. I need to talk some stuff through with you."
"How serious you sound, Jake. Is everything all right?"
"I'm sure it is. I've just got to get some stuff squared away." The man across the street at the bus stop had just let another bus pass him by. He showed no signs of being interested in public transportation.
"Where shall we eat?"
I let the blind snap back into place. "You know the Vinny Testa's restaurant over on Beacon Street in Brookline?"
Vanessa sighed. "Jake. Couldn't we eat at a more upscale restaurant? I'll treat."
"Vinny's makes some damned fine food as far as I'm concerned, Vanessa. I'm not much in the mood for a posh joint that serves everything on a lettuce leaf. Meet me at Vinny's at seven o'clock."
"All right."
I hung up and cracked the blind slat again. The man was gone.
I leaned back in my chair trying to figure out who he might have been.
Brenda buzzed me on the intercom.
"Yeah?"
"Man here to see you. Can I send him in?"
"He look dangerous?"
"Definitely."
"Oh, well, sureÉsend him in."
I sat forward and eased the .380 out of the holster along my forearm.
My door opened.
And the man from the bus stop downstairs walked in with a smile and a nod.
"How ya doin'?"
I kept the .380 low behind the desk. "Good. You?"
He smiled some more. "Good."
I smiled. "Well, now that we're both smiling and both obviously feeling good, you want to tell me who you are and why you don't like public transportation?"
He grinned. "You caught that, huh?" He nodded. "Good. I was told you were sharp enough to pick it up. You never can tell, though. Sometimes those assessments are far from the mark."
"Assessments?" What was I, some kind of paper experiment?
"Yeah. You know, your jacket. Dossier. It said you were sharp enough. Have to be I guess what with your specops background."
I leaned closer. "I'm still waiting to be introduced properly."
"Sorry. Name's Lou Dobbs." He gestured toward his jacket. "You mind if I reach for my credentials?"
"Why would I mind?"
"Because of the Walther you've got in your right hand."
"That's for unruly guests."
"You get a lot of those?"
"Not many. But lately," I shrugged, "times are a changin'."
"I heard." Dobbs reached into his jacket and withdrew a slim leather identification case and slid it across the table toward my right side. I used my left to flip it over and open it.
Inside Dobbs' mug stared up at me next to an emblazoned piece of laminated paper with the seal of the Defense Intelligence Agency on it. Dobbs' rank was a major.
I handed it back. "I'd salute, but like you said, my right hand's kind of occupied."
"We're indoors anyway," said Dobbs. "And besides, it's been years since anyone saluted me with anything other than a middle finger."
I grinned. "Know the feeling." I gestured to my office. "So, what brings you to my neck of the woods?"
Dobbs nodded at a chair and I smiled. He slid into it. "Case you're working on right now. Involving a guy named Darmov."
"Rings a bell."
"I'll bet."
"What's so special about him?"
"What isn't special about him," said Dobbs. "Guy's been involved in a number of pretty serious cases throughout most of the last decade."
I sighed. "Let me guess. I'm squatting all over a DIA operation?"
Dobbs smiled. "I couldn't tell you that even if it were true."
I chuckled. "Ah, how I miss the crystal clear truths of working for intelligence."
"You never worked for intel."
"I saw enough of it not to want to," I said. "Why are you here Dobbs?"
"Someone at Boston Police is asking to see jackets on a Viktor Grezchenko and Gregor Dmitov."
"Wow."
Dobbs smiled again. "Person asking to see the jackets is a guy named Frank McCloskey. Know him?"
"Yeah, he's some drunk I give a buck to every now and again."
"According to him, you owe him a lot of beer."
"Liar, too, that guy."
Dobbs kept smiling. Maybe he didn't know how to frown. "Anyway, I've got some information for you if you're interested."
"Sure. I've never turned down intelligence officers bearing gifts."
Dobbs patted his breast pocket. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Are you on fire?"
"UhÉno."
"Guess not then. Brenda out there just found out she's pregnant and passive smoke could hurt the baby."
"Baby yours?"
"Nope."
"But you care."
"I care."
Dobbs nodded and took out a cigarette anyway, slid it under his nose and then sucked on it without lighting it. "I ought to quit anyway."
"Sound advice."
He sucked for another thirty seconds and then put the cigarette away. Finally, he sighed. "Let's start with the deceased. Gregor Dmitov, aged 35. Born in Leningrad, educated at Shastokovichaya Preparatory School. From there he went into the military. He served with the 318th motorized infantry division of the 13th army in the Carpathian military district. Rose to sergeant in the tank corps before entering Spetznaz." He looked at me. "You're familiar with Spetznaz?"
"More and more it seems."
"Assigned to a Bravo Team in Ukraine right before the fall of Communism."
"And now he's dead."
"Yeah," said Dobbs. "Crying shame about that, too."
"What about my friend Viktor?"
"You guys friends?"
"Not even remotely. Viktor wants me dead, I'd expect."
"Lucky you."
Dobbs nodded. "Oh yeah. Viktor Grezchenko was born in 1960 outside of Kiev to a pair of Georgian immigrants. He excelled early on in school and sports. Came to the attention of the government fairly early on, but was routed into the military for obvious training purposes. Eventually found his way into Spetznaz as well, but he served on an Alpha Team."
"I'm noticing a trend here."
Dobbs cocked an eyebrow. "Are you? Already? Gee, I'm impressed."
"You should see me when I'm really hot."
"Want to know who his commanding officer was on the Alpha Team?"
"Dare I?"
"Please do."
"Darmov."
Dobbs smiled. "Give the man a blue ribbon." He shifted his feet and leaned back again. "Ilyitsin Darmov. Last known occupation prior to the fall of Communism: colonel in the GRU, Soviet Military Intelligence. Prior action in Beirut and Afghanistan confirmed. Unconfirmed reports also place him in Cambodia, Vietnam, Philippines, and Burma."
"Myanmar," I said.
Dobbs looked at me. "It's not Burma anymore?"
"Uh uh."
"Damned DoD maps." He leaned forward. "Darmov and Viktor are tight."
"Good friends are so hard to find."
"Gregor was the expendable."
"Someone sure expended him the other night."
"From the report, I'm surprised you weren't included."
I nodded. "Makes two of us."
"Only thing I can conclude is they weren't aiming for you."
"Must be my sparkling personality."
"Or your toothpaste, one or the other."
I slid the .380 back into the holster on my left forearm and leaned back. "Dobbs, why are you bringing me this information?"
"Call it a gift."
I laughed out loud. "Nothing you spooks do is ever a damned gift. What are you after?"
"We want Darmov."
"What for?"
"He was one of the leading tacticians for special operations in Afghanistan. He knows the area better than anyone we've been able to tap resource-wise."
"And that would benefit you, why?"
"You been watching the news since the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks?"
"Of course."
"We lost a lot of people down there."
"I knew a few. I've grieved like everyone else."
"We're going after Bin Laden. Some of his key people, too."
"So the prez has been saying."
"Darmov's knowledge of the area would prove valuable to our planners. They're planning on sending in special operations teams. Small, four guys each or so. They'll be on the ground for weeks, maybe months. No contact unless they need extraction. They're being given carte blanche to eliminate targets of opportunity. But we can't guarantee what they'll find because our own knowledge is extremely limited since the Taliban took over."
