It wasn't the answer Polanski was looking for. His nostrils flared. He stared at him, anger seething in his now-bloodshot eyes. The veins bulged from them like earthworms wrapped around clumps of white frosty soil.
Salenko stepped forward and gave an account of what happened. "We went inside, Boss. Asked her for the cash. But this guy came out of the back office. He was huge. Bigger than us. Maybe six-five, two-sixty or two-seventy. Dark hair. There was a scar on the left of his neck. Looked like a cut from a blade. He said he was security and that she wasn't paying up."
Polanski looked at him, then at Zurawski’s face. There was a strip of white tape across the bridge of his nose and the skin on either side was yellow. His eyes were ringed with dark purple circles. Polanski looked him the question.
"I moved to draw a blade," Zurawski said. "But the guy sucker punched me before I had it out."
"Laid him out with one shot," Arshavin added.
Polanski looked at Arshavin, then back to Zurawski. He flicked his eyes up and down his face. "That explains the state of you," he said.
Zurawski looked down at the carpet, embarrassed.
"Then, what happened?" Polanski asked, looking at Salenko and Arshavin.
"Salenko and I pulled our knives," Arshavin answered. "But the guy pulled a gun and told us to leave." Arshavin shook his head. "No way for a knife to win that fight. We had no choice. We backed off."
Salenko nodded. "We carried Zurawski out of there," he said. "Went back to the car and waited for them to leave. And, then, when they did, we burned the place to the ground."
"Yeah. I have the photographs," Arshavin said and drew his cell phone from his pocket, unlocked its screen and opened his photo gallery. He selected a photograph and turned it around for Polanski to see.
It was a shot of Angel's Salon burning under the dark night sky. The flames glowed orange. They roared out through the broken front window and flickered behind the door as they scorched the interior.
Polanski studied it for a second, nodding his head. "OK," he said. "Good."
The three men breathed a sigh of relief.
"But not good enough," Polanski added. "Her business may be gone, but I'm still four thousand dollars down. And I presume they're both still at large?"
Arshavin nodded.
"What do we know about them?"
"The hairdresser?" Arshavin asked, rhetorically. "Nothing."
Polanski frowned. Again, not the answer he wanted. "What about the security guard?"
Arshavin shrugged.
Polanski looked at Salenko.
He shook his head.
Polanski’s nostrils flared for the second time. His patience was nearing breaking point. "Did he sound American?"
"Yeah,” Salenko answered.
Polanski looked at him and nodded. "And how did he act? Did he seem confident? Authoritative? Like some kind of private detective or security contractor? Like he had done this sort of thing before?"
"Yes, Boss," Zurawski said. "That's it. It seemed like he had done this before, like he was private security."
Polanski looked his way and nodded, again, slowly processing the information.
"What do you want us to do, Boss?” Arshavin asked.
"Do you want us to follow up on him?" Salenko added.
Polanski shook his head. "No. I'll get Malenko involved. I want you to focus on the hairdresser. I want you to find out who she is, where she lives and if she has any family. And I want it like yesterday."
The men muttered their agreement and headed out the door.
Polanski listened to the outsoles of their boots thud against the steel stairs as they made their way up to street level, then sat down on the cream leather chair behind the desk and drew his cell phone from his suit pocket. He unlocked the iPhone's screen and dialled a number that was fourth on his speed-dial list, while staring deep into the pink and purple-tinted waters inside the fish tank.
A man answered after just two rings. "Chief Malenko."
"It's me," Polanski said.
"Mr. Polanski," Malenko answered. "What do you need?"
"There's somebody I need you to find."
"Who?" Malenko asked.
"Some sort of private security guard who happened to turn up at the wrong place at the wrong time."
"You got a name?"
"No. That's what I'm calling you for," Polanski answered.
"What do you need?"
"I want you to get me a list of all Michigan-registered private investigators and security personnel. I want their photographs and registered addresses, both home and business. I want to find out who this guy is."
"Consider it done," Malenko replied. "But we're busy at the moment.”
“Busy?” Polanski inquired, agitation in his voice. "I don't do busy."
“It's a homicide. I can’t push that aside. Just give me a couple of hours, I'll dig up what you need and I'll send it over.”
"I'll be waiting," Polanski said and ended the call.
NINE
Like Vladimir Polanski, Joe Beck was an early riser. Shortly after daybreak, he was up, showered and dressed and high on caffeine. He had started the day early, lying naked in bed drinking coffee with Naomi. Then, he had taken a quick shower and pulled on a pair of dark blue jeans, a white shirt with rolled up sleeves, left open at the collar, and his black woolen coat. He had handed her his card and told her to call him if she ever needed his help, before grabbing his night bag and kissing her goodbye and leaving her apartment.
He had climbed into his Camaro and made his way to Enzo's, a small bakehouse off Atwater Street, just a few blocks south of her apartment. It was a small, cosy sort of place. Perfect for grabbing a cup of coffee and a spot of breakfast. The walls were a vibrant orange and the floor was mahogany-effect linoleum. A couple of espresso machines hissed and plopped in the background underneath the relaxing notes of bossa nova jazz and the scent of coffee, bacon and eggs, and fresh pastries that wafted around the front of house.
It wasn't busy, nor empty. Just ticking over. Men wrapped up in dark coats, scarves and gloves, and sharp suits, office types, hurried in and out, picking up coffees to go in orange paper cups. A few of the more relaxed-looking ones hung around, chowing down on butter croissants and sweet pastries. The sort of breakfast food Joe Beck would roll his eyes at.
A few women sat at the chromium tables by the bakehouse's front windows. They were wearing heavy-looking roll-neck sweaters in shades of black, grey and navy blue and they were eating muffins and granola bars and drinking velvety smooth lattes and cappuccinos while browsing the internet on their cell phones or casually reading magazines and books before work.
Lattes and cappuccinos weren't Beck's style. Neither were muffins or window seats. He was sitting at a table near the back wall with a clear view of the front window, the entrance and the fire escape, and it made him pretty much invisible from the outside. Exactly how he liked to be positioned. He was about half-way through an unsweetened Americano that was colored with cream. A strong, pure and simple brew. A straight up man's coffee, which he had paired with a scrambled egg and bacon stuffed burrito. It was huge. Maybe eight or nine inches long. And thick. The eggs were fluffy. There were maybe six of them inside, a grating of cheese scattered along the top. And the bacon was crispy. It had a great smoky flavor with a savoury hint of salt. There wasn't much of it left.
His cell phone was in his left hand, its screen on a Google search results page displaying information on a 'Jerry Detroit.' He was looking for the landlord of the apartment that Darius Adamczuk had rented.
There were results for a pizza and barbecue restaurant on Livernois Avenue, advertisements promoting tickets to a Jerry Seinfeld show at the Fox Theatre, a listing about a deceased Detroit journalist named Jerry Buckley, and, finally, a link to Facebook showing profiles of people with the name 'Jerry' who lived in and around the city. Beck tapped the link.
The Facebook results page loaded, displaying the profiles for over
one hundred people. Everyone from a student at Wayne State University named Jerry Adamson to a self-employed comedian named Jerry LaFarge. Too many results and nothing specific, he thought, realizing he had to narrow it down. He decided to change his focus and concentrate on the property rather than the person.
He took a bite of his burrito, then a sip of the Americano and started a new search, typing in 'Apartment rentals' and the address Adamczuk had lived at. Results for a few realtor and letting agency websites advertising everything from 'cosy' to 'trendy' to 'cheap' apartment rentals around the city popped up. He scrolled past them, thinking that if the apartment wasn't on the official register, it wouldn't have been handled by a realtor or an agency. He clicked to the next page of results. Then, the next. And, then, the next.
It was on the sixth page that he found one result of particular interest. A link for now-expired advert listing on Craigslist sitting buried in fifth position in the middle of the page. It contained the exact address for Adamczuk's old apartment in the description snippet. He tapped the link to see the details.
The advert was discreet. There were no pictures of the building or apartment. Or the local area. None at all. All it had was a headline and one paragraph of text. It read, ‘Immaculate 2-bed, 1-bath apartment situated on Detroit's Alfred Street. Free on-site parking and within walking distance to Ford Field and Downtown. Rent at $750 per month. Cash only. Gas, electricity and water bills included. Call Jerry McDan for more information.’ It offered what looked like his cell phone number.
Beck laid his cell phone down on the table and took another bite of the burrito and drank some more coffee, a half-smile on his face, realizing he now had something tangible: the landlord's full name and phone number. All thanks to just a few clever internet searches. He took another sip of coffee, then scooped up his cell phone and opened up his Facebook app. He keyed in 'Jerry McDan' and the cell phone number and hit the search icon.
A result popped up a second later. It said, 'Jerry McDan. University of Detroit Mercy. Accountant, Hamlin & Hughes.'
Jerry McDan was a middle-aged guy somewhere in his mid-forties with short grey sideswept hair and a clean-shaven face, as far as Beck could tell from his profile picture - an image of the man on a fishing boat on a lake somewhere while holding a bottle of Coors Light.
Beck took another bite of the burrito and another sip of coffee, a satisfied grin on his face. He not only knew the guy's full name, but also what he looked like and who he worked for. Which meant it was time to find where he worked. He keyed the company name into Google, 'Hamlin & Hughes.'
The top search result was their official website. He tapped the link and the web page loaded.
Hamlin & Hughes was an accountancy firm. Their website said they specialized in book-keeping, financial reporting and corporate restructuring. Their brand strapline was 'Accounting for things, so you don't have to.' Their main selling point was experience, quoting thirty-five years of history, and their registered office and only place of business was listed as, '200 Main Street, Ann Arbor, MI, 48104. About forty-five miles drive from Detroit, west along I-94.'
Beck glanced at his watch. The time was eight o’clock. If he set off now, he'd be there in time for the start of the business day. He tucked his cell phone into his coat and finished the rest of his burrito and necked the rest of his Americano, then left the bakehouse.
TEN
Unlike Joe Beck, Naomi Hefter wasn't an early riser. She didn't have to be. She was her own boss. She was able to set her own hours and it didn't really matter whether or not she was late. There was nobody monitoring her time card and there was nobody expecting her to be places at times when she didn't want to be herself, like early in the morning.
Often, she would rise around nine o'clock. She would start the day with a coffee, always a latte, followed by a light breakfast. Sometimes it would be toast with butter, other times it was toast with a light spreading of jelly. After breakfast, she would take a hot shower and wash her hair and get herself ready for work. She would leave at ten-thirty and stop at Starbucks on the way, picking up a skinny latte made with sugar free caramel syrup, before making her way to the salon to open up for eleven o'clock.
Today, though, was different. She was up early. She had woke with Joe Beck, fooled around a little under the sheets, then got up and made some coffee. They lay under the duvet, drinking it in bed, before he got ready to go. She took his contact details and thanked him, again. Wished him farewell and waved him off, then gone back to bed. But she had just lay there, tossing and turning, staring up at the ceiling. When she looked at the clock, it was shortly after eight.
She threw her duvet to the side and rolled out of bed. She padded over to her bathroom door, moving gingerly, and lifted her pink silk housecoat that was left hanging on a chrome hook screwed into the back of the door and slipped it over her naked body. She tied its belt tight around her waist and opened her blinds, then walked back over into the bathroom. She came out a few moments later, feeling fresh having now removed yesterday's makeup, and walked through to her hallway, continuing through into her kitchen. It was small and square, about fifteen feet by fifteen feet, and it had beach counters with slate grey worktops and the same mahogany wooden floor as the entrance hall and lounge.
She drew a transparent latte glass from the cupboard above the stove and jug of skim milk from the refrigerator. Poured the milk into the latte glass and used the steamer of the coffee machine to heat and steam the milk. Next, she moved the glass of frothed milk underneath the drip and flicked the switch on the machine to start making an espresso. The machine hissed and plopped and sent a brown beam of coffee boring down through the white, foamy milk. As the latte was being crafted, she threw two slices of wholemeal bread into her black shiny toaster and pushed it down to toast, then put the milk back into the refrigerator.
Just as the beam of coffee stopped and her latte was made, the toast popped up. It was like clockwork. A routine she had perfected through years of practice. She eased the toast from the toaster, careful not to burn her fingertips, and laid it down on a grey square plate. It was crunchy, but not crispy, and golden brown. It looked perfect. Just the way she liked it. She thought about what to have on it.
Butter, jelly. Butter, jelly. Today's a jelly day.
She turned around and lifted a bottle of Smuckers grape jelly from the cupboard and squeezed a light helping onto each slice of toast. Grabbed a knife from the drawer and used it to smooth the jelly in, gently, going left to right and, then, right to left, giving each slice a smooth, sweet and sticky, purple coating.
She put the grape jelly back into the cupboard and the knife into the sink and lifted her latte from the steel drip plate of the coffee machine. Took a blissful sip, then lifted her plate of toast and made her way through to the lounge.
She laid her latte and plate of toast down on the table by the side of the sofa, then sat down on the same seat as she had sat on the night before, curled up, comfortable, with her silky smooth legs on the cushion tucked underneath her body. She reached over and lifted her velvety latte, took another frothy sip and lifted a slice of toast. She took a bite and placed it back down on the plate. It tasted great. Toast and Smuckers always does.
Thinking that it was nearing Thanksgiving and she needed to make a start on her Christmas shopping, because, compared to last year, she was behind, she scooped up her iPad that was sitting on the table underneath the copy of Style Weekly and switched it on and used the next half-hour to eat her breakfast while browsing Amazon, some gift experience vendors and some health, beauty and perfume sites.
She saw a few things some of her friends and family would like, even thought of going back to buy them, but glanced down at the brown enveloped letter, that had slipped out from between the pages of Style Weekly, and sighed. She laid her iPad down on the sofa and looked up, straight ahead, her eyes on the blank television screen. She frowned and took her last sip of the now lukewarm latte, then glanced out the window at th
e chill morning air.
The sky was white and frosty. It looked menacing, like it was threatening to dump even more snow onto the city's barren streets. She stared at it for a long moment, then decided to go in and open up the salon early, thinking she could do with the extra hours. There were commitments she had to cover, schedules she had to adhere to, payments she had to make.
She laid the empty latte glass down on the side table beside the plate and magazine and got up from the sofa and padded through to her bedroom, where she showered in her en-suite and dressed and did her make up for work.
By the time she was ready, it was nine-thirty. Her hair was straightened and held in place with a little spray. It had a natural hold, but not a strand looked out of place. Her eyes looked smoky, their upper lids brushed with a glittering hint of charcoal liner. They sparkled every time she blinked. Her face looked radiant and smooth and tanned. She had applied some moisturizer to her skin, letting it soak in, then gently topped it with a layer of primer, followed by a light coating of nude-colored foundation before brushing her cheeks with a light pink sparkling blusher.
She was wearing a silky pair of dark socks, dark crop pants and her cream silk salon shirt. It enveloped her perfect figure like a wrapper around a candy bar. Her rose gold Michael Kors watch was fastened around her left wrist and a matching rose gold bracelet was wrapped around her right. Her nails were freshly polished. They were a soft, shiny shade of pink. And her hands and skin were moisturized to a hydrating shine. She flicked her eyes over her reflection in her mirrored wardrobe doors and smiled. She looked like one of the women who graced the covers of the style magazines like the one sitting on the table in her lounge. She looked like a million bucks. And ready to style her clients' hair. Not like somebody with worry weighing on her mind.
She walked through to her lounge and drew a light grey woolen coat and a light and dark grey checked scarf from a cupboard by her front door. She slipped her arms into the arms of her coat and eased it over her shoulders, then did up its front buttons before wrapping her scarf loose around her neck. After that, she lifted a pair of black Chelsea boots that were patterned with small, shiny metal studs and slipped them onto her feet.
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