For Everything a Reason

by Paul Cave

  “It’s a shitty world we live in,” Carter said. “Conversely, Joseph, you may have just become the pivotal point in this investigation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because now you have seen the killer, and he isn’t gonna like that – not one bit.”

  “Christ…” Joseph cursed. “Who the hell is this guy?”

  Carter scratched at his chin for a moment. “Wait here,” he said finally. He stood and worked his way over to Detective Tyler’s desk. He rummaged around for a second, clearly looking for something in particular. Then, putting a thin folder under his arm, he returned to Joseph.

  “Thought you might want to take a look at this guy,” Carter said, slipping out a black and white photograph.

  Joseph took it. Turned it to the light to get a good look. The picture was mostly filled by shadow – of deepest inky black – and the rest a mass of grey shapes. This was hardly an award-winning portrait, something with artistic flare, or something to be found on the cover of a magazine. The face – if that’s what it truly was – was barely distinguishable.

  “Is this a joke?” Joseph asked. “This could be anyone. Or anything.”

  Carter grumbled, “Agreed. The Lab’s still working on it. It takes the digital recognition software an age to process the light and shadows available, and then turn it into something more accurate.”

  “Tell them to keep trying,” Joseph advised, before handing the photo back.

  Carter slipped it inside the folder. “Maybe we’ll have something better to work with later – once the techs have done their thing.”

  “So, who is this guy?” Joseph asked.

  Carter raised the folder off the desk slightly. “What – the guy in the photo?”

  “No,” Joseph replied. “Who the hell is – was – Henry Jones?”

  Carter looked deeply into Joseph’s eyes. “I don’t think Henry Jones is anybody. Just your average law-abiding citizen. What we need to find out is who the hell is connected to him, and connected in a big way?”

  “So what have we – sorry, you – got so far?”

  “Well, we now have a nationality. Russian, right?”

  “I guess,” Joseph agreed.

  “So let’s start digging – see what we can uncover.”

  “You think this guy is trying to get someone’s attention?”

  “No,” Carter replied. “I think he’s just the hand to the body that is trying to get the attention. And a very large body at that.”

  “Like who?”

  “Not sure, but I’d be guessing the Russian Mafia or some other Eastern European crime syndicate.”

  “Good God,” Joseph moaned, sick by the prospect of unwittingly becoming the target of such ruthless a group. “So who have I got after me? Some sort of hitman?”

  “There are a lot of highly skilled, cold-blooded professionals out there. Ex-KGB, Cold War spies, Russian army, criminal underworld, all just looking to get a piece of the action.” Carter got up and moved towards another desk. He pulled the chair back, ready to seat himself before a computer system.

  “What you doing?” asked Joseph.

  “See if I can find anything on recent disputes involving Russian gangs.”

  “Such as?”

  “Similar grisly killings.”

  “Jeez…”

  Joseph ran a hand over his face, as if that simple gesture would be capable of wiping away the vision before him, returning him to the world he’d once known and leave behind this insane alternate reality. He looked beyond the empty desks and a face caught his eye: dark-skinned, elegant, yet tired-looking, but full of strength and determination.

  Marianna entered the Department, closely followed by Detective Tyler.

  Joseph straightened in his chair, wanting to look strong and in control for his wife and son. He smiled at Marianna and then looked beyond her in anticipation of Jake.

  He didn’t appear.

  “Where’s Jake?” he asked.

  Marianna stopped at the desk. She switched her gaze from Joseph’s face to Carter’s, finding concern on both. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Jake. Where is he?” Joseph repeated.

  “He’s with Eugene, asleep. I didn’t want to wake him. Why?”

  Joseph looked back, uncertainty striking him dumb. What were these worrying thoughts and feelings that had him gripped now? Did he really want his son here, when dangerous times were ahead? He turned to Carter to find his own fears mirrored on the detective’s features.

  “What is it?” Joseph asked, looking for understanding.

  “Not sure. Doesn’t feel right.”

  “What doesn’t feel right?” Marianna demanded.

  “You think they could move that fast?” Joseph asked.

  “Who move that fast?” Marianna questioned.

  Carter climbed to his feet, his chair scraping noisily along the hard floor.

  Joseph reached forward to use the table. He stood on unsteady legs.

  “Where are you going?” Carter asked him.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Marianna grabbed Joseph’s arm. “Going where?”

  “To get Jake.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re in trouble, real trouble,” Joseph said.

  “From what?” she asked.

  Carter turned to her and said, “God only knows.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Viktor Mikhel sat alone now. His previous audience had vacated the room, leaving the crime boss alone with his trusted right-hand man, Pyotr Krylov. The Georgian was standing by the main door, sentinel-like, as if trouble could present itself at any moment.

  Viktor stared with bleary eyes at the half-filled glass. The clear liquid in it had already done a good job at numbing his senses and had, for the time being, vanquished the demons that scratched at his brain. Hard times were afoot. Things were changing rapidly. And some of these changes were slipping through his fingers like running water.

  The Russian crime boss looked around the room, suspicion and tiredness turning his eyes into tight slits. His earlier rant about hidden cameras had not been unreasonable, considering the level of trouble he was in. Both the FBI and Viktor’s own boss, Sergei Mikhailov – the head of the Solntsevskaya Mafia based back home in Moscow, were putting the squeeze on old Viktor.

  The FBI had him under surveillance 24/7, his phone lines were probably tapped, bank accounts being monitored, and any number of his civil liberties were being breached. Viktor had come to the US expecting free will and democracy: an open market for him to excel in. Instead, here he sat, a prisoner in his own home.

  Home?

  Yes, Viktor thought dismally, this vile place had become his home.

  The Big Apple!

  What a joke.

  Sergei Mikhailov had sent him here in the early 90s, and Viktor had come without hesitation. Eager to make a name for himself, he’d arrived with enthusiasm and ambition - his two closest comrades - ready to plunder this new Promised Land. Sergei had set him up with both business and manpower, and Viktor had first begun operating in the Russian émigré communities in New York’s Brighton Beach district.

  Extortion had been his business plan. He’d used the muscle Sergei had obtained for him, a group of hardened Ex-KGB and Afghan war veterans, who had years of experience behind them, and all looking for work and wealth now that the old communist regime had fallen.

  Viktor started to demand protection money from local businesses to begin with. A couple of hundred bucks here and there, before extending into illegal gambling dens, some of which were frequented by public figures, their palms already greased by Sergei Mikhailov. Next, a steady flow of sex-workers arrived, some under the promise of stardom, others simply desperate to get away from the economic collapse of a once great nation. All were forced to work off their debt, willingly or not.

  Before long, Viktor was amassing a serious amount of annual turnover. The vast majority was returned to his homeland, we
re the money was quickly laundered. Sergei was a master at turning dirty money into clean untraceable riches. He had inside men, accountants on his payroll, who were adept at filtering these funds without detection. The Afghan War Veterans’ Association was one such institution that had been added to the list of business fronts.

  Then, in the late 90s, Viktor had struck gold.

  Back home, Sergei had laid his hands on a Soviet-era submarine, an old Scorpion b-427. The vessel was earmarked for decommissioning, but the Muscovite crime boss had managed to gain ownership of it. Viktor had returned home briefly, before leading a contingent of ex-navy and army to South America. Their new-found Colombian friends had taken a deal, whereby Viktor supplied them with a small crew and navigational charts, allowing the submarine to enter American waters undetected. Unwilling to sell the vessel directly, Viktor had negotiated 10% profits on all shipments brought into the eastern states.

  However, the new millennium had brought many new hazards with it. The newly formed successor of the KGB, the FSB, had started to take back some control. And the police’s elite Berkut – or Eagle – force was conducting high-profile commando-style raids. Inevitably, many people were cutting deals to save their own necks, giving valuable information to the authorities, who were more interested in catching the bigger fish. These days, it seemed, nearly every organisation had a mole or rat, making it almost impossible to do business.

  Viktor tipped the remainder of his glass back. The fiery Vodka scorched his throat. He placed the empty glass back down and rubbed at his tired eyes. His little empire was now under threat. Someone who once served this enterprise had ratted him out.

  The FBI had seized an employee of his – on New Year’s Eve of all days – an accountant, who had struck a deal with the District Attorney. This accountant had been working with Viktor for years, laundering money over here by using national and international charities and business start-ups, fronts no less, and maintaining the books for Sergei’s pleasure. The Rat, Viktor’s way of identifying him, had taken a job in one of their ‘charitable trusts’, looking to make his mark. The guy had the Midas touch. He’d shown – taught – Viktor’s guys how to make vast sums of money by setting up hedge funds, macro hedge funds, no less. The simple premise had been for Viktor and Sergei to target a specific sector – manufacturing, for example – and then they would put the squeeze on the organisations and businesses that operated in such sectors. They’d simply make life hell for that particular division, forcing equity and shares to plummet. The accountant and his team would then invest heavily, buying large amounts of shares at rock-bottom prices. Finally, Sergei would call off the dogs completely, focusing on other areas; and before long, the industrial sector would quickly stabilise, allowing the accountant to cash in on sky-high share prices. It was a simple case of manipulating the local economy – and it was easy.

  It hadn’t taken long for Viktor to take the accountant under his wing. Then the real fun had started. Viktor had increased his percentage with the Colombians, explaining that the Scorpion submarine required more maintenance and personnel to run efficiently. It had been a small percentage increase, just 0.5%, not enough to draw too much attention back home from Sergei, but enough to keep both Viktor and the accountant happy. In just two years, they’d amassed a small fortune, all at Sergei’s expense.

  But then things had started to change. Viktor’s hold on the organisation was becoming tenuous at best. Some of his men had started to drift away, returning to the homeland, where they were needed to help run Sergei’s outfit, now that he was battling against the revived Russian government and the constant threat from rival gangs. The Chechen gang, Obshina, had already started to monopolise the firearms market within East European countries.

  Viktor knew without doubt that the FBI were looking to nail both him and Sergei, working in conjunction with the FSB, and were now busying themselves with collating as much evidence as they could. Why else had they not yet come knocking on his door? The accountant must have squealed like a pig, giving them much to think about.

  The Rat had just disappeared one day, simply not returning to his place of work after taking his lunch break. At first, his manager had failed to report this fact to Viktor, something that would not happen again, now that he was buried somewhere in the East District of Jersey. Viktor had immediately sent his men looking for the accountant. Then, two days later, an article had been printed in the Times, stating that a man had been found dead, burned beyond recognition. The car, though, was clearly identified as the accountant’s. Later that week a second article was run, now confirming that the body had been Viktor’s man.

  Viktor thought otherwise.

  Nothing rang true. Everything seemed too convenient. The car wreck had been found twenty yards down an embankment, somewhere just off the I97 turnpike. The news article stated that it was believed the driver had lost control and had gone over the embankment and crashed into a line of trees at the bottom of the hill. Okay, that was more than feasible. But cars just didn’t simply explode on impact, nor had there been any reason for the accountant to be so far out of town, at a remote place like Liberty State Park, during his short lunch break.

  Viktor had started to dig deeper.

  How and why had he travelled from the Brighton Beach area – where he worked – all the way over to Jersey City, with just an hour to spare? No, Viktor thought, the accountant hadn’t planned on making the return trip. Something or someone had been waiting for him, over in Liberty State Park. Further investigation revealed that no official funeral had been held for the accountant, just a short memorial at the hospital chapel where his body had been taken. Only his aging father had attended, and then the trail had simply disappeared.

  It had taken many calls and heated discussions with many of Viktor’s associates for him to discover that the accountant was actually alive and well – now under the supervision of the Witness Protection Program. The accountant and his cohorts were now preparing to tear Viktor’s empire down in one fell swoop.

  Still, Viktor wasn’t going to simply lie down and let that happen. He’d put his own plans into action. Unable to get directly to the accountant, he’d formulated a plan to draw the supergrass out of his vile lair.

  Tomorrow would bring its own problems, namely, Presley Perkins. Don ‘Dolly’ Perkins’ son was turning out to be a real pain in the ass – that was for sure. Whatever his criminal involvement, Viktor was in no rush to harbour a known cop-killer. That just brought too much potential exposure, even for him. He should have put a bullet between the guy’s eyes the moment he’d arrived here. Yet the promise of returned profit had halted that decision. Presley would indeed get his ticket out of here – that was for sure.

  Viktor had a plan for Presley too.

  He had plans for everything.

  Plans that would involve the slaughter of innocent and guilty alike.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  As if time had somehow been unable to find its way inside, kept out by sentiment alone, the room in which Eugene Profit sat in was devoid of anything modern or new. The chair he rested in looked like an antique, thick leather armrests with studded ends, and a back wide enough to seat a colossus. A TV stood silently in one corner, a simple wooden box that showcased dust instead of motion pictures. Black and white photographs on the mantel above the fire showed pictures of a younger Eugene and his wife, Elizabeth.

  Although it was still early evening – the hands of a grandfather clock ticking slowly towards nine o’clock – Eugene Profit lay dozing. A man of ritual and rhythm, he was a firm believer in ‘early to bed, early to rise’. The old ex-champ’s eyes rolled beneath their lids as he dreamt about days gone by. Most nights he was visited by an angel, her face eternally young and always smiling, eager to share these lonely hours with him, unwilling to be forgotten.

  Profit muttered something softly. “Elizabeth…” Then a contented laugh slipped quietly from curled lips. Sometimes these dreams turned to despair, as the o
ld pro witnessed his beloved wife slip from his life, taken into the night without chance or forgiveness.

  A bullwhip crack sounded, which jolted him awake. His eyes opened wide, first turning to the picture of his wife, before quickly scanning around the room. Darkness pushed against the window. Occasionally the wind scraped snow against it.

  Eugene strained to catch the sound again.

  Silence filled in the gap as he waited. Briefly, for a second time, the slight sound of a crack reached him. He climbed to his feet. The apartment he lived in was small and intimate, and had no hidden secrets left to reveal. A pipe underneath the kitchen sink gurgled late at night, a symptom of high pressure, brought on by the woman upstairs using her toilet. And Profit knew every loose floorboard so well that he could play out a melody by standing on them in sequence.

  Yet this noise was unfamiliar to him.

  For a second, he thought it sounded like the branch of a tree tapping against one of the windows. But here on the fourth floor no willow or honeysuckle would be capable of such heights.

  He stopped in the centre of the room, waiting. The noise refused to reveal itself. Nothing obvious sprung to mind and he almost shrugged it off – but then it came again, clear and sure. The sound came from the hallway. Profit walked around an old sofa and poked his head inside the next room. The boy he’d come to see as his grandson slept soundly in his bed, oblivious to the dangers that lurked in the darkness.

  Profit closed the door gently behind him and then entered the short hallway. A door to the right led towards his kitchen and another opposite offered access to a small closet. Most of the ex-champion’s boxing mementos were stored there: memories of another life that the old man had let go a long time ago, too painful to bear witness to, their triumphant meaning now hollow and pointless since the death of his wife. Just one small trophy remained in view, between two photos on the mantel, one which had been awarded to Joseph for representing his country as a young boy.