Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler)

by Margolin, Phillip

  “So, what do you want to know?” Felton asked.

  “Do you remember Anthony Watts and Donald Marion?”

  “Sure,” Felton said without a second of hesitation.

  “I’m surprised you recall a case that old so easily,” she said.

  “There are some cases you never forget. I’m certain I know who killed those two but I could never prove it, and it’s always bothered me. Why do you want to know about Watts and Marion after all these years?”

  “Richard Molinari has become a person of interest in a case I’m investigating.”

  A cloud passed over Felton’s features. “Richard, huh. That’s a name I never hoped to hear again. What’s he involved in now?”

  “Some very interesting stuff, and he doesn’t go by Molinari anymore. He changed his name to Charles Benedict, and he’s a criminal defense attorney.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “Molinari moved from here to Pennsylvania and changed his name. Then he earned a GED, went to college, and graduated from law school at the University of Virginia, with honors.”

  “I’ll be damned. I never saw that coming.”

  “What can you tell me about Molinari?”

  “He’s a stone killer, that’s one thing I can tell you. You’ve probably noticed the racial makeup of this neighborhood. It’s mostly black and Hispanic, and it has a very high crime rate. I tried to get my father to move to Florida because it’s not safe, but he’s stubborn. Even this area, which is mostly middle class, has more than its fair share of crime.

  “There are a lot of gangs operating here, and it was worse twenty years ago. The most powerful gangs were African American, so figure out how tough a white boy would have to be to earn the position of enforcer in the Kung Fu Dragons, the dominant gang in the neighborhood. That was Richard. He was devoid of a conscience, owned a very high IQ, and was totally ruthless. No one wanted to fight him because you had to kill him or he’d never stop coming after you.

  “Let me give you an example. Molinari’s family moved from somewhere back East when he was sixteen. The first day in high school three kids beat him up. After that, Molinari gave them his lunch money and generally acted like a coward toward them, but before the month was out, two of the boys were beaten with a baseball bat. The brain damage was so bad that they were useless as witnesses. The third boy was burned to death in a house fire that killed his entire family. The day after the assault and the arson, Richard showed up at school with a baseball bat. He never said anything, but word got around the school that he was not someone to fuck with, if you’ll pardon my French.”

  “Was he arrested?”

  “The principal told us the boys had beaten up Molinari, and about the bat, so Richard was our main suspect, but the kid was too smart for us.”

  “Did you take a look at the bat he brought to school?”

  “Sure, but it wasn’t the bat he used. That bat was found on the front steps of the burned-out house, covered with the victims’ blood but wiped clean of any prints. Someone, probably Molinari, spread the word around school that the kids had been beaten silly with a baseball bat.”

  “How did he get into the gang if he was white?”

  “The rumor was that he made a deal with the leader of the Dragons to take out the leader of a rival gang that was trying to take over the crack cocaine trade in the area.”

  “He killed him?”

  “We don’t know. No one could prove he was murdered because he just vanished. After that, everyone started calling Molinari ‘the Magician.’ ”

  “Because he made his victims disappear?”

  “That was part of it, but he actually was an amateur magician.”

  “If he was in so tight with the Dragons, why did he take off?”

  “The Dragons were dealing for a Mexican drug cartel. Marion and Watts were emissaries from a gang in Cleveland that was going to do a drug deal with the Dragons. We had a snitch who told us that the deal was bigger than usual and there was a substantial amount of cash involved. Watts and Marion were supposed to make a swap in one location but they never showed up. We think Molinari lured them to an abandoned barn, killed them, then hid the money. We arrested Molinari but we couldn’t hold him. The day he left the jail was the last day anyone saw him in Missouri.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Isn’t it. And what you’ve told me makes sense. Even as a teenager, Molinari was the smartest criminal I’d ever dealt with. He was definitely smart enough to know he had no future with the Dragons after he ripped them off, and smart enough to know he had to disappear, like a card in one of his tricks.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Frank Santoro had a friend in Organized Crime in the Department of Justice who owed him a favor. According to Santoro’s friend, Nikolai Orlansky was always accompanied by several bodyguards and his armor-plated car had bulletproof glass. Orlansky varied his routes from his home to his businesses and never visited the businesses in any predictable order. The crime lord did have one weakness, however—women.

  Nikolai changed mistresses frequently. This was not a problem, since one of his businesses was prostitution and new young bodies regularly flowed from Eastern Europe to the brothels he controlled. Orlansky rarely kept company with one woman for very long, but he used the same penthouse apartment in a high-rise condominium in D.C. for his assignations. Santoro’s friend said that Orlansky was known to have a very healthy sex drive and rarely remained celibate for more than a few days. According to the latest surveillance information, Orlansky’s wife had just left for a shopping spree in Manhattan and the Mafia chief had not visited his current mistress in several days.

  Nikolai Orlansky’s driver parked in a reserved spot next to an elevator that went straight to the penthouse. A second car filled with bodyguards made certain that their boss was safe before motioning him out of the car.

  Santoro watched the ritual from the front seat of his car. As soon as Orlansky got out, Frank walked toward the gangster with his badge held high.

  “Lee County police,” he proclaimed in a loud voice.

  The bodyguards swiveled toward him and several guns pointed at various parts of his body.

  “Mr. Orlansky,” Santoro said, “I’m unarmed and I’m not wearing a wire. I just want to talk. If you’ll give me a few minutes of your time I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Orlansky assessed the situation before telling his men to stand down.

  “Frisk him,” Orlansky told a slender man with a narrow mustache and watery eyes. Santoro had read several files on Orlansky, and he recognized Peter Perkovic from a mug shot. Perkovic was a ruthless killer and Orlansky’s right-hand man.

  “He’s clean,” Perkovic said after a thorough pat-down.

  “Come in the car,” Orlansky said. He slid across the backseat, and Santoro sat next to him. Perkovic shut the door but watched the detective through the window.

  “So, Detective . . . ?”

  “Frank. And this conversation is just between us. It is completely off the record. I’m going to talk and I don’t expect you to say anything. I just want you to listen.”

  Orlansky looked amused. “You have intrigued me. So, tell me, what is so important that you have approached me in secret in a garage?”

  “Gregor Karpinski.”

  Orlansky’s brow furrowed and Frank got the impression that Orlansky was genuinely puzzled.

  “He’s a bouncer at one of my clubs,” the gangster said.

  “He’s also in the hospital after coming out on the wrong end of a discussion with a friend of mine.”

  Santoro assumed that someone like Orlansky, who was used to dealing with the police, would be able to mask his emotions if he wanted to, but Orlansky showed surprise, and it looked genuine. Either he was a terrific actor or Santoro’s revelations were new to him.

  “Horace Blair has been charged with murder. Barry Lester is the state’s key witness against Mr. Blair. Two days ago my friend interviewed Tiffany
Starr, Lester’s girlfriend. Two things happened that evening: Karpinski threatened to rape my friend if she didn’t back off, and Tiffany Starr was stabbed to death in Rock Creek Park. It’s too late to help Tiffany Starr but I’m here to tell you to stay away from my friend. If a hair on her head is touched, I promise to make your life hell on earth. Are we clear?”

  Orlansky did not look frightened or angry. If anything, he looked confused.

  “You say Karpinski is in the hospital. How did that happen?”

  “Ask him, if he survives.”

  Orlansky seemed troubled. “Detective Santoro, thank you for speaking to me in private. I appreciate the courtesy. I had nothing to do with what happened to your friend or Miss Starr. You can tell your friend that she has nothing to fear from me.”

  “Then our business is done. Have a nice evening.”

  When Santoro walked to his car he didn’t look back. His heart was beating like a trip-hammer and he couldn’t relax until he was out of shooting range. While he drove, Frank thought about his meeting with Orlansky. He was pretty certain that the Russian was genuinely surprised by everything he’d been told. If Orlansky didn’t send Karpinski to threaten Dana, there was a good chance that Charles Benedict was behind the threat, and that presented a problem. It was one thing to use his position to threaten a gangster like Orlansky. It was quite another thing to try to strong-arm a member of the bar who also happened to be the attorney for a very powerful and well-connected person who was facing a murder charge. This was especially true when you had no evidence whatsoever that the lawyer had committed a crime. Santoro could imagine the fallout if he confronted Benedict the same way he’d confronted Orlansky.

  Santoro pulled into a shopping mall and dialed Dana’s cell.

  “How is Kansas City?” he asked when Dana answered.

  “Interesting. Why are you calling?”

  “I had a talk with Nikolai Orlansky. He assured me that he didn’t send Karpinski after you. I got the impression that he didn’t know anything about what happened.”

  “Then I think I know who did send that ape. Especially after what I learned today.”

  Dana filled in Frank on Charles Benedict’s background.

  “This puts everything that’s happened in a completely different light,” Santoro said when Dana was through.

  “I think it’s possible that Benedict killed Carrie Blair and set up her husband. Our problem is that we have no proof. If he did kill Carrie Blair, Benedict is one crafty psychopath. We can’t talk to his client without his permission, and unless Karpinski confesses, we have nothing.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Charles Benedict tried to get in touch with Gregor Karpinski all day. He called Gregor twice and got voice mail. He left a message telling the Russian to call him about his legal bill. When he still had not heard by eight in the evening, Benedict called The Scene and asked for Kenny Ito, one of the bartenders.

  “Kenny, Charlie Benedict here. I need to talk to Gregor Karpinski. Something’s come up in one of his legal matters but he’s not answering his phone.”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Gregor got fucked up last night.”

  “Fucked up how?”

  “I don’t know how it happened. I just heard some of the guys talking. All I know is that he’s in the hospital, and it’s bad.”

  “Do you know what hospital he’s in?”

  Ito told him. Benedict thanked him and hung up. He leaned back and thought. All Gregor was supposed to do was threaten some girl. How could a girl “fuck up” Gregor? The guy was a monster.

  Benedict fished out the business card Tiffany Starr had showed him shortly before he gutted her. He went on his computer and Googled Exposed. Loren Parkhurst was not listed as an employee. Benedict thought about that. Just because she wasn’t listed didn’t mean she didn’t work for the paper. She could freelance.

  Benedict typed Parkhurst’s name into the search engine. Nothing. Now, that was strange. If Parkhurst were a journalist, she should have published something somewhere. He didn’t like this. A woman journalist who didn’t show up on the Internet and who was capable of “fucking up” a beast like Gregor Karpinski.

  Benedict thought some more, and the more he thought, the more concerned he became. Gregor could tell the cops that Charlie had asked him to threaten Parkhurst. Worse still, if Gregor talked, Nikolai could learn that Charlie used Gregor without his permission. He and Nikolai got along pretty well, but Nikolai was unpredictable.

  What to do? What to do? After giving that question some serious thought, only one viable solution presented itself.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The drugs! Gregor craved the drugs. When they wore off, the pain returned. When he was a child, Gregor had learned the hard way how to deal with pain inflicted by fists, kicks, belts, and sticks wielded by his father and his fellow schoolboys. Then he grew and thickened and became the one who inflicted the pain. He was used to fighting in prisons and bars and back alleys. But that pain wasn’t like the pain that bitch had created.

  Gregor never suspected that the whore might be armed and would have the guts to stab him like that, in that place. Some women fought back at first. He liked that. It excited him. Most of the women begged and pleaded. Eventually they all became obedient and willing to do anything to avoid a beating. Except this one.

  No woman had ever done to him what that bitch had done. And she would pay. He would find her and he would . . . He was about to think “fuck her,” but he might never be able to fuck anyone ever again.

  The thought brought tears to Gregor’s eyes. Suddenly he was so sad. What had she done to him? How could she? What if she had taken his manhood? What if he . . . ? No, he could not let himself think about that. And no matter what he could not do, he could always make her suffer and scream the way she had made him scream. Oh, he looked forward to that. The hate kept him going.

  Then something horrible occurred to Gregor. He was starting to think clearly! If he could think clearly it meant the drugs were wearing off. Suddenly the pain touched him ever so lightly; just enough to turn his hands into fists and compel him to suck in a breath. Soon it would sink its claws in him, and that would be very, very bad. But the bad thing would not happen because Gregor had his magic button, his precious button. Press the button and morphine raced through him and swept away the pain. He started to reach for his wonderful, special button, but strong fingers gripped him and pressed his hand against the side of the bed.

  The drugs dulled Gregor’s reflexes and it took forever to turn his head and focus. When he did he found himself staring into the lifeless eyes of Peter Perkovic.

  Gregor was in a private room, lying in a hospital bed. His complexion was the color of dead fish and wires ran from many parts of his body into machines with multicolored lights and electronic readouts. The machines beeped and buzzed. Normally even someone as physically powerful as Gregor Karpinski would feel fear when subjected to Perkovic’s cold stare, but Gregor was still floating in a druggy haze.

  “Peter?” he said. When he spoke, his mouth felt like it was filled with cotton.

  “You don’t look so good, Gregor. How are you feeling?”

  There was something odd about Perkovic, but Gregor had trouble tracking.

  “That bitch fucked me up,” he answered, his speech badly slurred and his eyes unfocused. “She stabbed me.”

  “That’s awful,” Peter said just as Gregor figured out what was bothering him. Peter was dressed in a green smock and loose green pants. He was dressed like a doctor or an orderly. How strange.

  “Are you working in the hospital?” Gregor asked. He sounded loopy.

  “No, Gregor. It was just easier to visit dressed like this.”

  “Oh.”

  Suddenly the pain struck and Gregor flinched. It was only a pale shadow of the pain that would come if he didn’t press the button. He tried to raise his hand, but he didn’t have the strength t
o break Peter’s grip.

  “Soon, Gregor. Soon I will let you press the button,” Peter said. “But first you must tell me what happened.”

  Gregor started to tear up. “She stabbed me in my prick, Peter, in my balls.”

  “That’s terrible. Why did she do that?”

  “I told her what to do but she would not obey. Then she hurt me.”

  “What did you tell her? What order did she disobey?”

  “To back off, to stop asking questions about the Blair case.”

  “Ah, did Nikolai ask you to speak to this woman?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you ask Nikolai if you could threaten her?”

  “He told me Nikolai said it was okay.”

  “Someone said this?”

  “Yes. You know I wouldn’t do anything unless Nikolai said it was okay. He told me he’d talked to Nikolai and Nikolai said it was okay. Nikolai isn’t mad at me, is he?”

  “No, no, Gregor. Nikolai wishes you well. He hopes you make a full recovery.”

  The pain hit and this time Gregor arched his back and grimaced.

  “One more answer and you can press the button. Who told you to talk to the woman?”

  “Charlie, Charlie Benedict, the lawyer. He said it was okay. Please.”

  “Thank you, Gregor. Nikolai wanted me to tell you something. This woman who stabbed you . . .”

  “He doesn’t have to worry. As soon as I’m out, I’ll make her scream, I’ll rip her up.”

  “No, no, Gregor. Nikolai does not want you near this woman. She is off-limits to you forever.”

  “What?”

  Gregor spasmed. The pain was becoming unbearable.

  “Say you understand. Say you will forget about this woman forever.”

  “Please,” Gregor begged.

  “Say it.”

  “I won’t hurt her ever. Ahhh!”

  Peter released Gregor’s hand and he stabbed at the button until the morphine chased the pain. Within moments, he forgot the woman and Peter and everything else because he was floating high above his troubles on a cloud of good feeling.