by David Duffy
“Turbo?! You there?!” Victoria called.
“Sorry. Car ahead just spun out.”
“Can you hear yourself talking? You’re no good to anyone dead, least of all me.”
“The sweetness of your sentiment is all I need to bear me back to town.”
“Christ! You are the most stubborn—”
“National trait. Only foreign invaders are defeated by snow. Have I told you how snow and Russian stubbornness turned the tide of the Great Patriotic War?”
“Save the propaganda and focus on the road. What happened in Crestview? Foos said you’d encountered difficulties, but everything’s okay now.”
“Foos exaggerated—about okay. I’ve got the Leitz kid and the Russian girl in the backseat. We’ve got Nosferatu on our tail, maybe. They’ve got him on their tail, certainly. Neither of them will tell me what’s going on, I was up all night last night, and this is a long trip. So I’m in a bad mood. But I’ll be back in your arms in a few hours.”
“There’s something you need to know.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m breaking rules telling you.”
“I understand.”
“Alexander Lishin.”
Uh-oh. “The backseat, remember.”
“That’s why you need to know. He’s dead.”
I checked the mirror. All still.
“Where? When?”
“He was found in the Moscova River fifty miles outside Moscow. Apparently there was a thaw and he bubbled up through some thin ice. The CPS got there first. They’ve got a tight lid on. He’s been dead several weeks.”
I looked in the mirror again. Irina hadn’t moved, still sleeping soundly or giving a good performance of same. Did she know?
“Cause?”
“Run through with a fireplace poker and the body dumped. The poker broke through the ice. He’d been tortured about eight different ways before he hit the water.”
“Thanks. I understand everything you mean. We’ll talk about it when I get there.”
“You coming home?”
“I’ve got to drop off the kids. Then a stop to make. Then probably the office.”
“A stop? What kind of stop?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“How’d I know that’s what you were going to say? I’ll be waiting.”
* * *
I spent the last ninety minutes of the drive thinking about Victoria’s news and whether Irina had any idea and what it meant. I came up empty on all fronts. I would’ve given a bottle of vodka for a laptop and the ability to read what Ivanov had to say. Victoria said the CPS put a lid on. I was willing to bet the Valdez—and the Potemkin—that Ivanov had the story.
The kids came to life as we crossed the Willis Avenue Bridge into Manhattan. The streets were quiet and empty. We got to Irina’s house first, which would give me a few minutes with Andras. She anticipated that and whispered something about “remembering our promise” before she kissed him on the cheek and got out of the car. Her stepfather opened the door when I rang. He tried to greet her, but she brushed past without a word. He looked at me, the blue-gray eyes cold but sad.
“Would you like to come in? Drink? You’ve had a long drive.”
I could see he had a hundred questions. What parent wouldn’t? I wanted out of there before he started asking.
“No, thanks. I’ve got another delivery to make.”
He hesitated, ever so slightly. He wasn’t used to being turned down, but he sensed it was better not to push. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll call in the morning.”
No question about it being first thing. That would be enough time for me.
Andras avoided mirror eye contact as I drove slowly down Park Avenue. We had the street to ourselves, a good thing since it was slushy and slippery.
“So what’s the deal between you two,” I asked in my best friendly, conversational tone. “She your girlfriend? You going out?”
He didn’t answer, didn’t even look up. I wanted to tell him that I knew girls like her, that I’d married one of them and been where this led, and he didn’t want any part of it. He wasn’t going to listen.
“What I said back there on the highway, about the Baltic Enterprise Commission? That’s all true. If you’ve ripped them off, they will not rest until they catch you. I’ve seen Karp—the tall man, the assassin—at your father’s office, at your uncle Walter’s building, and at your place in Crestview. He knows who you are, Andras. He knows who she is too. Her stepfather may be able to pull some strings on her behalf, but I very much doubt he’ll pull any for you. And that doesn’t mean they still won’t use her—hurt her—to get to you. Seventeen’s pretty young to start living underground. If you tell me what’s going on, maybe I can help figure a way out. That’s what I’m going to tell your dad, but I’m making you the offer first. I don’t want anything in return, but you do have to tell me the truth.”
He didn’t respond, he just looked around the car, as if examining for the first time where he’d spent the last eight hours. I caught his eye in the mirror and held it. He leaned forward, and I slowed to a crawl, ready to stop altogether. There was a moment when I thought he might open up, but it passed. He fell back in the seat and buried his head in his hands.
He was honoring his promise to Irina. It occurred to me that he just might be more scared of her than Karp.
Leitz himself came to the door, like Batkin. The greeting here was warmer. He hugged his son, and Andras hugged back—with what appeared to be obvious affection. Maybe he was just glad to be rid of me. The kid went inside and Leitz shook my hand.
“It seems I am continually in your debt.”
“You might not think so when you hear the whole story.”
“How bad is it?”
“I don’t know it all yet, but I’m not exaggerating when I say life and death. I think he’s used his computer skills to rip off the people who bugged your network—the Baltic Enterprise Commission. That’s why they did it, by the way, they were after him, they were never interested in your TV deal. The fake lawyers interviewing your brother and sisters, maybe even Alyona’s involvement—they were all part of the effort to find out who was stealing from them.”
“Andras? Stealing? Baltic Enterprise Commission? He’s a boy, a school kid!”
“I don’t know how to tell you this. He’s a school kid with eleven million dollars in a dozen different bank accounts. He and Irina and a couple of others are running their own criminal enterprise. A pornography operation—in which they produce, direct, and star. This isn’t conjecture. I’ve seen the whole thing. I can document the bank transfers.”
Leitz shook his head back and forth, eyes wide, mouth suspended in a circle. I’d hit him hard, perhaps harder than I should have, but I was feeling the impact of the last twenty-four hours. He tried a couple of times to collect his wits and speak but the wits weren’t cooperating.
“There’s more,” I said. I told him about Nosferatu and the explosives. “Talk to your son. Maybe he’ll open up to you. I tried a few times. No luck. Something has a strong hold on the boy. Probably Irina, but it could be something else.”
“All right. But…”
“He isn’t safe here. You can hire security, but I wouldn’t give most rent-a-cops much chance against these guys. If I were you, I’d get him into hiding—a hotel somewhere busy where no one will notice or care about one more person. Take away his cell phone. Don’t tell anyone where he is. Especially not Irina. I’ve got a couple of leads to follow, but if he decides to talk about what he’s been doing, maybe we can figure a way out of this. That’s his best chance.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“He won’t have to worry about college admissions.”
CHAPTER 33
Twenty-second Street in Queens was dead quiet at 8:00 P.M. and filled with snow. The plows had made one pass, but that had been hours earlier. I parked the Valdez against a snowbank, partly blocking the street, but t
here was just enough room for a car to pass, if any came by, which seemed unlikely. I walked the block, looking for signs of life and finding none, including no sign of the FBI. They probably figured nobody would be out. Or maybe they took snow days. I’d have to ask Victoria.
I stopped by a van with AAA-ACE-ACME LOCKSMITHS on the side, parked across the street, engine running, and knocked twice on the window. A small, wiry man got out.
I’d made one more call from the road, while the kids were sleeping. Fyodor, proprietor of AAA-ACE-ACME, whom I pay well for the occasional B&E job, told me I was out of my fucking mind. I told him I’d add two bills to his normal fee. He agreed to meet me in Long Island City.
In four minutes, we were through the front door and on the elevator. Fyodor wrinkled his nose when we got off on the third floor. The stench was intense in the closed hallway. It got stronger near the door to YouGoHere.com. Fyodor knelt at the lock and did his work quickly, taking seven, maybe eight minutes. When the last click clicked, he pushed the door open and doubled over, retching. I gagged when the wave of stench hit me. I pulled Fyodor up by his shirt and yanked him back toward the elevator.
“You were never here.”
“I never wanted to be.”
I gave him seven hundred dollars, and he left without a word. I stopped in the hall, letting the stink dissipate, not wanting to go in, knowing I had no choice.
I didn’t have anything to cover my face. I took the deepest breath I could, and moved fast through the door, pulling it closed behind me. The room was dark, I tripped over something immovable, cried out and lost the air in my lungs. I inhaled, stifled the urge to vomit, and kept going, feeling for the window. I found a metal blind and glass and a crank and cranked it. I yanked up the blind and put my head through the opening, sucking cold air, trying not to throw up.
When my insides settled down, I dropped the blind, leaving the window open. I flicked a light switch by the door.
They say flies find a body within hours of death. They’d found Walter Coryell—the source of the smell had to be Walter Coryell—and invited all their friends over for a feast. I’d set several clouds abuzz. A prehistoric mass of maggots seethed around the ears, nose, and eyes. The body slumped over the desk that had tripped me, bloated with bacteria, head at an impossible angle, the no-longer-recognizable remains of eyes in rotting sockets turned to the ceiling. The fresh air diluted the stink, but not enough.
The headquarters of YouGoHere.com was a one-room office. Three file cabinets, drawers closed. Same with the desk. The room itself was plain as plain could be. Desk, chair, two other chairs on the other side. All cheap metal and plastic construction. No signs of search or violence other than the body with the broken neck. I went back to the fresh air of the window while I looked around again.
Something was wrong, aside from the body. A printer and a copy machine against one wall. A cheap table against another. No computer. No servers, a staple for any Internet firm, but also no desktop machine, no laptop, no nothing. YouGoHere might be a rundown sham of a business, but even a sham needs the basics, if only to put up a credible front.
Holding my breath, I made a quick circumnavigation. Next to the copier, against the wall across from the window, I found a patch of floor, two feet by four, where the color was darker than the surrounding linoleum. The size of two server racks placed side by side. They would have shielded the floor from the sun. I eased the copier away from the wall. A half-dozen cable connectors stuck out of a plastic plate in the Sheetrock. The servers had been here.
Coryell’s corpse wore a white shirt and khaki pants, both stretched tight by bloated skin. Running shoes on the feet. A navy blue ski jacket hung on the back of the chair. A bulge in his rear pocket. I reached for it. I don’t know why it felt creepy—there was nothing he could do now, except stink and breed more flies—but it did. I worked the wallet out and went back to the window.
Eight twenties in the billfold, a New York driver’s license, two credit cards, Visa and American Express, and a B of A bank card, all in the name of Franklin Druce. I found an identical wallet in the desk drawer with a license and bank and credit cards issued to Walter Coryell.
The other drawers yielded nothing. Neither did the file cabinets. I replaced the wallet, eased the copier back against the wall, took off my jacket, and wiped everything I’d touched. Holding my breath again, I put down the blinds and shut the window. The stench closed around me in an instant. I let myself out and took the stairs two at a time down to the street. The cold, wet air outside was about the sweetest smell ever.
CHAPTER 34
“Russky!” Pig Pen called when I emerged from the server farm. “Tiramisu! No gigolo.”
He was grinning, if parrots can grin, custard hanging from his beak.
Victoria and Foos sat opposite each other over a chessboard on the coffee table. She jumped up and ran to me. She was wearing jeans that had been sewn on, boots, and a black T-shirt advertising Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge in Nashville. Tootsie had made it to fit her. We hugged tight, and some of the misery of the last thirty-six hours fell away, until she pushed me back.
“Phew! You stink, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
I didn’t mind. I’m sure she was right.
“Bayou Babe. Tiramisu! Russky gigolo,” Pig Pen said.
“Pig Pen and I are bonding,” Victoria said.
“I’m not so sure I’m going to like this.”
“You jealous?”
“Now that you’ve demonstrated yourself to be a soft touch, he’s not going to let go easily.”
“Bayou Babe,” Pig Pen said.
She turned to face him. “Quiet, parrot, or you’ll be eating rice pudding before you know it.” To me, she said, “You smell like death, not warmed over.”
“There’s a reason for that.”
It wasn’t what I said but how I said it—more hard-edged than I intended.
“Uh-oh. This that stop you mentioned?”
“’Fraid so.”
“Careful, Turbo, she’s a much better chess player than you are,” Foos said, coming in our direction.
“I never claimed to be any good at chess.”
“Neither does she.”
“Hey! All I said was…”
“That you were only a beginner?”
“Did you beat him?” I asked. If she had, she was seriously good. Foos wasn’t grand master material, he didn’t have the discipline, but he wasn’t too many levels below.
“We drew twice,” Victoria said. “We were just starting the rubber match.”
“Go back and finish. I’ve still got stuff to do.”
“Uh-uh. I want to hear what you’ve been up to—and how many laws you broke.”
“To be continued,” Foos said. “I got all that material you asked for, Turbo. How’s Andras?”
“Okay, physically. In a shitload of trouble otherwise.”
“Maybe more than he’s aware,” he said. “Let me know when you want to take a look at those servers.”
“First things first. Drink.”
“What servers? And what about a shower?” Victoria said.
“Has to wait, I’m afraid.”
“Always thinking of yourself,” she muttered.
Foos grinned and headed for his office. I went to the kitchen and poured a large glass. Victoria raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.
“Food next,” I said as I went rummaging through the mostly empty fridge.
“Want to talk about it?” she said.
I was leaning over the vegetable drawer. I stopped. Being asked to talk about it was new to me. I’ve lived a lonely life in those terms. No parents, and as a kid, my friends were usually looking for a way to climb up my back, as I was theirs. I could talk to Iakov, until I found out I couldn’t, but his sons were worse than the kids in the Gulag. When I was married to Polina, I didn’t discuss my work. The Cheka demanded secrecy and loyalty. Foos and I discuss work-related matters but he’s not long on discussion ge
nerally and about as sympathetic as a cinder block.
On the other hand, as soon as I started talking, I’d be headed down a street with no way out at the other end. Too many crimes had been committed—not just by me—for her to ignore. The kids were in it up to their necks, and she’d rightly demand they go to the cops. I’d already sent one into hiding, and the other’s stepfather—my client—was unlikely to look kindly on a request to serve her up to the law. I could tell her what happened, but I was in no position to do what she’d want done—although I doubted she’d see it that way. I told myself to stop rationalizing and play the hand. I closed the drawer and unbent myself.
“Coryell’s dead. That’s the smell. Just spent enough time with the corpse to confirm he’s your man Druce.”
She didn’t blink or act surprised. “Where?”
“His office. No sign of FBI outside.”
“We pulled him. You had to go there tonight?”
I nodded. “Those kids are in life and death danger, and he’s the link—or was. I didn’t know he was dead. Correction—I expected he could be but wasn’t sure. His neck’s broken. Several days ago, judging from the stink and the flies.”
“I already know the answer to this, but I’ll ask anyway—you call the police?”
“Believe it or not, I did. From a pay phone.”
“You leave a name?”
My turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Never mind. Take what you can get. Hang on.”
She took a cell phone from her pocket and gave someone a short list of orders about the NYPD, Coryell, and his office.
“Want to hear about the computers?” I said when she finished.
“What computers?”
“ConnectPay’s. The ones that probably have every transaction the company ever made recorded on their hard drives. Not to mention customer files, money flow, BEC data…”
She’d been pacing the kitchen while she made her call. She stopped and faced me. “What about them?”
“They’re missing. Not in Coryell’s office. They used to be, I saw where they were. Somebody took them. Maybe the same somebody who killed him.”
“Goddammit. You got any good news?” She paced some more.
