Russian Roulette

by Austin Camacho

  With his back to Hannibal, Boris said, “I wish you luck, Mr. Jones. If you locate the money, at least my Renata and the Petrova girl will be left in peace. Now, would you please ask my wife to bring out my lunch? I’d like to stay out here in the sun.”

  “Lunch. Damn.” Hannibal checked his watch, cursed under his breath, and moved quickly toward the house.

  -31-

  Hannibal’s phone was calling Cindy’s office before he pulled into traffic. The ringing didn’t give him enough time to berate himself for letting the case push their lunch date out of his mind. He would have learned all the same information if he had arrived at Boris Tolstaya’s rented house two hours later. Viktoriya would have still been under Ivanovich’s watchful eye and the three victims would still be dead. But he would not have been calling Cindy more than an hour late.

  When the phone clicked over to Cindy’s voicemail, Hannibal hung up and called the office general number. After three more rings, the receptionist answered. He pushed under a yellow light, his mind elsewhere.

  “Hello, Mrs. Abrogast. It’s Hannibal.”

  “Hello, Mr. Jones,” Abrogast said in her deceptively old-lady voice. “I’m afraid Ms. Santiago isn’t in this afternoon. And I must tell you, she was not happy with you when she left here, young man.”

  “My fault,” Hannibal admitted. “What did she say, Mrs. Abrogast?”

  “Oh, something about being stood up, I believe. She remarked that she had canceled a lunch meeting with that nice real estate fellow to go with you instead.”

  “Really? Well, I sure feel bad about that,” Hannibal said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Yes, well I don’t think it will be a big problem,” she said. “She’ll meet him for dinner instead. At Bobby Van’s, I believe. Nice place. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “A message? No thank you, ma’am. Have a nice afternoon.”

  As he cut the connection he felt cold inside. A message? What message could he possibly leave? Mrs. Abrogast was right. Bobby Van’s was not his idea of casual dining. It was expensive and classy, and well known for its top-notch prime rib. For a moment he considered hunting her down at court or wherever she was, but knew that would be close to impossible. Besides, if she was working, she would not appreciate his interruption. And besides all that, he was working too, damn it. He was on a case.

  Or was he? No one was paying him to find the murderers or to protect the orphaned survivor. In fact, who knew how much paying work had passed him by while he was chasing Russian ghosts. Worse, this pro bono pursuit of answers no one else wanted was costing him the closeness he deserved to have with his woman. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt obligated to share what he learned from the Tolstayas with Aleksandr Ivanovich. After that, he decided, it was time to return to his own life. Right then, he defined his own life as Cindy Santiago.

  The drive back to Viktoriya’s motel was uneventful despite the bank of dark clouds that slid across the sky to park overhead. Hannibal pulled between white lines among the very few cars in the motel lot and strolled to the building, scanning his environment as he climbed the exposed stairs. He didn’t see Ivanovich during his long trip between his car and the door, but he was certain that Invanovich had seen him. A sharp breeze sliced through his suit jacket as he stood on the landing. He gave the door a couple light taps when he reached it.

  Dr. Sidorov opened the door just enough for Hannibal to enter and closed it without locking it. Viktoriya handed Hannibal a mug of tea poured from the little coffee pot they had moved from the bathroom to the round table. Her dark eyes were still a little drowsy, as if they had not yet pushed all the way out from under the sedative. Having never seen her calm and relaxed, Hannibal looked at her as if for the first time.

  Her skin wasn’t simply fair. Her face glowed like that of a china doll. It cut a sharp contrast with the eyes that looked almost too big for her face and the rolling waves of hair like a black storm at sea. Her smile was inviting to be sure, but he wasn’t certain if it meant to suck him in or chew him up.

  “So tell me,” she said, perching on the edge of the bed, “did you learn anything of value from Mr. Tolstaya?” Her voice was as soft as he remembered, but he had not noted that husky undertone before.

  “Yes, tell us,” Ivanovich said. Hannibal snapped around to find him just inside the door. He had slipped inside, unnoticed. He was very quiet of course, but Hannibal knew there was another reason he did not feel Ivanovich’s entrance. For a brief moment, he had fallen under the same spell that held Ivanovich in thrall and, from all appearances, had called Dani Gana back from his African home. He sipped his strong tea while he took time to gather his thoughts.

  “Well, I think I know the truth about Viktoriya’s father,” Hannibal said. He stood in the corner beside the door. Ivanovich sat on the nearer bed. Sidorov settled into a chair at the round table. With the audience assembled, Hannibal figured he’d better just get on with it. “Boris Tolstaya admitted to me that he and Nikita argued about the money he owed. The argument became violent.”

  “No,” Viktoriya said. “Uncle Boris wouldn’t kill Father.”

  “Not on purpose,” Hannibal said. “I think he just got carried away, and your father was weaker and sicker than anyone knew.”

  Viktoriya clouded up, and buried her face in her hands. Ivanovich stood to get closer, but stopped short of putting an arm around her. After watching her body shake with soft sobs for a moment, he turned back to Hannibal.

  “So this was all about money after all?”

  “Maybe,” Hannibal said. “I think there may have been another factor. Boris’s wife seemed to think he wanted Viktoriya for himself, and was going to take off with her to Africa or someplace. Of course, if that was true, why would he introduce her to Dani?”

  “He didn’t.”

  Viktoriya raised her face when she spoke. Sidorov produced a handkerchief, which she accepted with a smile. Sidorov and Ivanovich looked at her the way the Tarleton twins watched Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind.

  “You didn’t meet Dani through Boris?” Hannibal asked.

  “Oh no,” Viktoriya said. “I met him in college. Actually, Professor Krada introduced us at one of his parties, and we dated for a while at Howard, but we kept it sort of quiet. It can be hard for a boy dating a white girl there.”

  Hannibal’s eyes flashed to Ivanovich, then back to Viktoriya. “My mistake. I knew you went to parties with him at the college while he was a student, but I thought you met him after you yourself left school. You’ve really known this man longer than I thought you had. You didn’t drop out because of meeting him at the Russia House, did you?”

  “Oh no, of course not,” she said. “I left school for the abortion. I was kind of surprised to see him again at the Russia House.”

  Hannibal watched the men’s faces. It appeared that he was the only person in the room surprised by the mention of an abortion.

  His mind returned to Viktoriya’s ruthless husband. Had he gotten Viktoriya pregnant in college? Or what about Boris, whose wife believed he had a thing for her? Hannibal already knew that Raisa was prone to blackmail. Maybe the abortion produced another income stream for her until the blackmailer had had enough. It could be a motive for murder, but it didn’t fit very well with Raisa and Dani being killed by the same weapon—unless Dani had embarrassed the folks back home and someone was sent to clean up all evidence of his transgression.

  Before Hannibal could decide on the right way to ask who got Viktoriya pregnant, Ivanovich stood.

  “Let us step outside for a moment.”

  Ivanovich held the door open for Hannibal and followed him outside. They walked toward the stairs with Hannibal in the lead. He assumed that Ivanovich wanted to protect Viktoriya from the obvious questions, but when they stopped he pulled out his wallet and handed Hannibal a check, folded in half. For the first he looked past Hannibal, avoiding eye contact.

  “You have done your job honorably,” Ivanovic
h said. “I know we did not meet in the best way, and that I took advantage of you, but once you made a commitment you did all that you agreed to do. I want you to know that I am also an honorable man. This is fair compensation for a job well done.”

  Hannibal nodded and slipped the check into an inside jacket pocket without looking at it. Now, even in Ivanovich’s mind, the case was over. Hannibal nodded and shook his most recent client’s hand. Ivanovich started back toward the room, but stopped when Hannibal did not follow.

  “Will you not come in to say good-bye?”

  “No need,” Hannibal said. “Neither of them needs me in their lives anymore. And probably neither do you. I have strong ties to law enforcement and you don’t need their interest rubbing off on you.”

  “I see,” Ivanovich said with a wry smile. “And we all have ties to organized crime and you don’t need those associations either.”

  “Look, I don’t know what your future holds, and it’s probably best that way,” Hannibal said. “Just protect the girl for a couple more days until I can get in front of Uspensky and convince him that she doesn’t have the missing money or know where it might be. Some losses you can recover and some you can’t. I’m afraid he’s just going to have to eat this one.”

  “She would be safe if you gave up Tolstaya.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Hannibal said, turning toward the stairs. “But his wife is there with him. Even if I was prepared to throw Tolstaya to the wolves, I’m not prepared to toss Queenie out with him. Just watch her until you hear from me, OK? I’ve got my own life to take care of.”

  * * * * *

  The clouds broke open just as Hannibal reached his car. The blackness leaned in, turning afternoon into night and the beltway into an elongated parking lot. Hannibal cranked Van Halen up as loud as he could stand it to blot out the sound of cold, watery fists beating against his roof and hood. He knew it wouldn’t last long.

  Only a light drizzle pattered on the street when Hannibal stepped out of the Black Beauty to inhale the sharp freshness of storm-cracked ozone. Inside his office, he stood in the middle of the floor for a few moments, enjoying the peace of having the space to himself for the first time in several days. He draped his jacket over his chair, planning only to call Uspensky to give him what little information he had and to plead for an end to the hostilities. But the flashing light on his phone told him there might be more pressing matters. He had two messages and one of them might be from Cindy. Feeling just a little anxious, he pressed the button.

  “Mr. Jones. This is Eric Van Buren, down at UVA. We spoke on the phone in Detective Rissik’s office.”

  “Damn,” Hannibal said.

  “Listen, I’ve been thinking about my old student, Hamed Barek. I’ve remembered some details that might be of interest to you in your investigation. If you’re still interested, give me a call.”

  Hannibal wasn’t sure there was any reason to learn more about Barek, AKA Roberts AKA Gana. He pushed the message button again.

  “Jones, this is Orson.” Sigh. Again, not the voice he was hoping for. “I just got a call that Hamed Barek’s mother is in Washington. She’s here from Morocco to pick up her son’s body, which they moved to Baltimore expecting to do an autopsy, which, of course, she put the kibosh on. She’s interested in talking to somebody who can tell her what happened to her boy, and I thought you’d like to talk to her too. Give me a call.”

  This was more interesting. She might have some insight as to where he left the money, and Van Buren might have some good conversation starters to offer, so he’d return that call a bit later. But first, he needed to get hold of a certain Russian mob boss.

  It proved easier than expected to get through to Uspensky. Hannibal simply called the office and gave the receptionist his name. When Uspensky picked up his phone after a surprisingly short wait, Hannibal heard a mixture of impatience and gratitude in his voice. Even without knowing what Hannibal had to say, he seemed to appreciate the fact that he called at all.

  “Jones. You got something for me?”

  “I’ve come across some information you might find of value,” Hannibal said. “But it’s not the kind of news that belongs in a telephone conversation.”

  “My day’s already pretty full. Be here tomorrow around 4:30.”

  Knowing the fates of Nikita Petrova and Boris Tolstaya made mobsters less intimidating. “You asking me or telling me?”

  Long pause. Hannibal could almost feel Uspensky’s mind working. Weighing options. Considering possible outcomes. Cost-benefit analysis.

  “Can you be here tomorrow around 4:30?”

  Better. “Why, yes, I think my schedule is clear at that time. I’m sure I can make it. And it will be worth it to you. See you then.”

  Hannibal felt a little better when he hung up the phone. In his world, one relished one’s small victories. He checked his watch and decided that he didn’t want to deal with either Rissik or Van Buren so close to the end of their workdays. Seeing the time also made him realize how hungry he was. He had missed lunch entirely and dinner time was coming up. And that made him think of Cindy. His Cindy, on her way to dinner with a slick real estate salesman. Unless they decided to dine later. But he knew she liked to eat early.

  His right hand moved of its own accord, snatching the phone off its cradle again. While he held it, he used his left to tap computer keys. In a few seconds he had the phone number to Bobby Van’s. He dialed and took a deep breath, knowing that he was crossing some invisible line.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten what time my reservations are for tonight.”

  “Sorry sir,” the hostess said. “Your name?”

  “Johnson,” Hannibal said. “Reggie Johnson.”

  “Yes sir. Johnson, party of two, for 6:30.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  Now, what did his hands expect him to do with that information? He looked out at the hazy, indecisive sky. The rain had stopped, but the eaves still dripped in front of the big windows. Was it clearing, or just taking a breath before another burst of rain? Would it become really light before the darkness set in?

  Could he just sit there and watch the darkness take over?

  * * * * *

  Early evening was the worst possible time to be driving into the District, especially if you were struggling up from Southeast to the opposite corner of the city. The only good point from Hannibal’s point of view was that he would not be holding anyone up if he cruised down the street slowly. The rain had stopped and sharp sunbeams came in from the west, giving the sidewalk and the asphalt on the street a sparkling sheen. Even the air looked cleaner, and the Washington Monument glowed like a ghostly signpost.

  The steakhouse sat in an old bank building practically around the corner from the White House. Hannibal wasn’t sure where he would park and was even less sure of what he would say to Cindy when he arrived. Would it be less rude to join them or to ask Reggie to excuse them for a moment?

  Then he saw her, sooner than expected. Despite the evening cool they were at one of the outdoor tables, talking to their waiter. Opposite her, Reggie sat in a purple suit and orange shirt. A starburst of light flashed off one of his diamond cufflinks.

  Cindy was lovely as always, wrapped in a camel coat. Her skin was smooth teak. He thought she had added an auburn tint to her dark brown tresses and left it down, just touching her shoulders, feathered in front. High cheekbones accented her Cuban roots. Her black heels had to be more than two inches high, force-flexing her shapely calves. He had not seen this suit before. The navy skirt looked a couple of inches higher on her perfect thighs than her usual length. A single string of pearls around her neck was the perfect accent, echoing her perfect teeth as she smiled and chatted with a man who could be a professional athlete and had the kind of style that allowed him to pull off wearing a purple suit without effort.

  Hannibal took in the whole scene in a few seconds as he rolled past, unnoticed.

  She looked so damned happy.
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  -32-

  Wednesday

  The sun was just flashing in from the eastern edge of the horizon when Hannibal came within sight of his building and slowed to a brisk walk. The pain lancing through his right side told him that he had held his speed a little high that morning. His heart was drumming triplets in his chest and each inhalation was a dagger in his lungs, almost bringing tears to his eyes. His jogging suit dripped with his sweat, but the early morning breeze cooled him quickly after he unzipped his top.

  He had pushed himself for five miles at a pretty strong pace, but he could not outrun his self-loathing for the night before. He dragged himself up the sandstone steps into his building and managed to get back into his apartment without having to say hello to anyone. That was his first success feeling of the day.

  During the time he stripped, showered, and ate two hardboiled eggs, Hannibal thought only about Cindy, sitting at an outdoor café table, unaware of his presence. He wondered why he had needed to see that sight, and how he could have just kept driving, never stopping to speak to her.

  He wondered, but he knew.

  Then he got dressed. He pulled on a white cotton dress shirt, not significantly different from the others hanging in his closet except that it had French cuffs and a designer label and that it was a gift from Cindy. He had said thank you at the time, then since he had no idea who or what an Ermenegildo Zegna was, he had looked it up online. He still didn’t understand what could make a white cotton shirt worth $235. He wore the shirt only because it made him feel closer to her.

  While putting his cuff links into place he considered where he would go that day. By the time he was tying his tie, his mind was entirely on the business at hand. This was the day he expected to wrap up the whole mob business that had him going in circles like a roulette wheel, chasing a stolen fortune.