by K. K. Beck
Sergei slipped the picture back in his pocket. “That Victor kid is pathetic,” he said. “And if he does have all those cars he told you he had, they’re mine.”
The fish master shrugged. “I figured he was kind of off. But what did I have to lose? Anyway, just in case he was wasting my time, I told him I couldn’t wait for Gleb to pay me off in Vladivostok. I told him I needed a deposit.”
Sergei gave the man a big smile and clapped him on the back. “You know what,” he said. “We’ll let you keep that. No problem!”
“Thanks a lot,” said the other man.
“You just need to let us know when the cars are arriving. I’ll give you a number to call.”
The fish master threw up his hands. “I don’t need a number. I don’t even want a number. I can tell you right now. It’s all arranged. They’re supposed to be loaded on right after the engineers from the company arrive from Vladivostok for the final inspection of the work we’ve had done here and right before we sail home. Early Tuesday morning. Around two in the morning.”
“I’ll be here with my guy and his rig. Leave the gate open,” said Sergei.
“I was going to do that for Vic anyway,” said the fish master.
———
IT wasn’t until Tyler and Flavia rang the doorbell of Gus Iversen’s house in Ballard that he suddenly wondered what Flavia would think of his grandfather’s living room with its old-fashioned, well-worn decor, and of his grandpa’s unkempt attorney, Veronica. But it was too late for all that.
Grandpa opened the door and Tyler introduced Flavia to Gus and Veronica, who was sitting there with her dog, Muffin. After Flavia had petted the dog and Grandpa had gone into the kitchen to bring them coffee, Flavia gravitated to the collection of family photos on the mantel. Pictures of Mom when she was a kid. A family portrait of Tyler with his parents and sister. And a horrible sixth-grade school picture of Tyler smiling with a mouth full of braces and a really bad bowl haircut.
Grandpa soon returned with the coffee in two mugs, one of which bore the legend WORLD’S BEST GRANDPA—a Christmas gift from Tyler when he was nine—and another that read YOU CAN ALWAYS TELL A NORWEGIAN BUT YOU CAN’T TELL HIM MUCH. Flavia gave him a dazzling smile and said, “A purse seiner!” Apparently she hadn’t been looking at Tyler’s horrible photo at all, but at the oil painting of the Ingrid Marie.
“Grandpa was a fisherman,” said Tyler.
“When I retired and sold the boat, I had a guy paint that,” said Gus, smiling proudly.
“Did you fish in Alaska?” said Flavia. “I’m trying to get on a research vessel that’s going up there this summer.”
“Not at first. We used to fish around here. But then back in 1974 the courts said the Indians could have half the salmon down here. Totally changed the fishery.”
Tyler decided to cut him off before he got started on the injustice of the Boldt decision. “The reason we’re here,” he said, “is to talk about some stuff we’d like to tell the police. I think it might have something to do with that shooting. And also it might help Flavia.”
Veronica turned to Flavia. “What’s your interest in this matter?” she said.
“My brother owns the restaurant,” she said.
Tyler added, “Flavia’s brother got mixed up with some thugs who seem to be in the Russian mafia. A loan type of thing.”
“Loan sharks!” said Gus. “You gotta stay away from loan sharks.”
“Anyway,” persisted Tyler, “I have reason to believe they’re stealing cars out of the parking lot there.” He explained about the device he’d found on the car. “And two of the valets seem to be mixed up with these thugs.”
“These Russians, they also insist we use this valet company,” said Flavia. “Tyler and I think it’s so some crooked employees there can put these things on the cars.
“They’re trying to take over our business,” Flavia went on. “Maybe if the police investigate them, they’ll stay away from us. But I don’t want them to think I called the police. And I don’t want the police to know my brother did business with them. Maybe that’s illegal. I don’t know.”
Veronica Kessler looked thoughtful. “Okay. I can tell the police that my client—you, Tyler—has suspicions that there might be some criminal activity going on at Alba that involves Russians. The body they found in that Audi was apparently a Russian. That was in the paper. So I’m going to tell them that they should be pursuing that line of inquiry. But they might want to talk to you about what you saw. Tyler, whatever you do, don’t talk to them without me.”
“Okay. But you have to keep Flavia out of it.”
“I’ll try. But I’m representing you, not her,” said Veronica jerking her thumb in Flavia’s direction.
“I won’t talk to them about anything if you mention Flavia or her brother,” said Tyler, who was startled to discover he had just put a comforting hand on Flavia’s knee. He withdrew it immediately.
“No problem. You’ll just tell them about the device you found. So who are these bad guys we want to hang the crimes around the place on? Do they have names?”
“They’re easy to find,” said Tyler. “They hang out at the bar in Donna’s Casino.” Suddenly, Tyler remembered what Brian had said about the conversation he’d overheard between Chip and Vic. “I think the guy in charge might be named Captain Zhukov,” he said. “But he might be dead. Chip and Vic went to some funeral.”
“Captain Zhukov?” said Gus. “That sounds familiar. I swear I’ve heard that name.”
“Okay, Tyler,” said Veronica. “I’m going to call those detectives that gave you such a hard time. I’m going to tell them about your suspicions. But I don’t like it.”
———
“GET in the damn car!” Dmytro Zelenko was parked in front of a cedar-and-stone building surrounded by gravel paths and wide garden beds full of Japanese maples and low evergreens.
Leaning into the window of the car, his cousin Volodya, holding a small duffel bag, said, “Are you sure you don’t want to come in and meet my counselor? And some of the people from my group?”
“Are you crazy!” said Dmytro. “Why would I want to meet them? A bunch of shrinks and drunks. Are you nuts?”
“They’re not drunks anymore. They are in recovery,” said Volodya, climbing into the front seat. “Like me.”
“Yeah, okay,” said Dmytro. He jammed his foot on the accelerator and squealed away. “This place gives me the creeps.” He glanced over at his cousin. “You look good, though, Volodya. Not so puffy.”
“I feel good, too,” he answered, smiling, and gazing out the window at the bosky surroundings like a happy child on an outing.
“Well, you won’t feel so good when I tell you what’s happened while you were in there drying out,” said Dmytro. “Sergei told me all about you shooting Old Pasha.”
Volodya looked embarrassed.
“You can’t just go around killing people!” said Dmytro. “Sergei thinks you might have shot up Alba when that billionaire was there, too!”
“But I didn’t kill anyone that time,” said Volodya. “I just was so mad at Vic and Chip. No one would even have known about Old Pasha if they hadn’t messed up with the car he was in the trunk of.”
“I don’t know why I put up with you,” said Dmytro.
Volodya sighed heavily. “I’m sorry about Old Pasha. That was booze shooting,” he added philosophically.
“Yeah, but I doubt the cops will see it that way. What are they going to do, arrest a bottle of Stoli?”
“How will they ever know it was me?” said Volodya.
“Well, Sergei Lagunov—that car thief you hired—could give them the gun you used for both crimes,” said Dmytro.
“Why would he do that?” said Volodya. “And how come he has the gun?” He wrinkled up his face in concentration. “A lot of stuff that happened before I got arrested, it’s kind of a blur. Booze is very bad for your brain cells. They showed us a movie with a dead alcoholic’s brain. It w
as full of watery pockets.”
“You asshole! Right before you got busted for drunk driving, Sergei took it off of you and left the car you drove into the ditch!”
“Oh yeah! I do remember that. He kept saying, ‘Give me the gun’ after we heard the sirens.”
“We gotta get it back,” said Dmytro. “You gotta get it back. Sergei is using that gun to take over our business. He’s threatened to rat you out and give it to the cops. They can match it to the bullets in the body. And he can probably convince them he got it from you. He’s a protected witness. We know that because he already ratted out someone else back in New York.”
“What are we going to do?” said Volodya.
“I’m not doing anything,” said Dmytro. “You’re going to get that gun back.”
“You mean beat him up until he gives it back?”
“Nope. You can’t do that. He’s pretty well connected. You got to sneak that gun away. You can start by searching his apartment.”
“What makes you think it’s there?”
“It’s a good place to start.”
“I’m not sure I want to do that,” said Volodya.
“It’s the least you can do. I don’t see why I should just turn over my business to that bastard Yuri just because you messed up.” Dmytro sighed. And there was still the matter of Vic and his powerful uncle in Tbilisi to contend with. This wasn’t the kind of thing he had signed on for years ago when he switched from his legitimate auto body work to making a little extra on the side by providing the marketplace with quality used parts.
———
VOLODYA finished looking very thoroughly through all the dresser drawers in the bedroom, making sure to put everything back carefully, just like Dmytro told him. The way they had planned it was that Volodya would make sure it didn’t look like a burglary unless he actually found the gun. That way, Sergei wouldn’t suspect they were searching his apartment. But if he did find it, then they’d make it look like a burglary, and hope that Sergei figured it was just your regular burglar, who, quite naturally, would steal a gun if it were there.
Volodya also investigated under the vast bed, and in between the mattress and the box springs, struggling to get it all put back together properly, taking care to smooth down the leopardskin-print bedspread perfectly with his latex-gloved hands. Dmytro had insisted on them, too.
He had already checked underneath the cushions of the black leather sofa and chairs in the living room. He had also searched the fridge and the freezer and the toilet tank and the closet in the bathroom.
He now turned his attention to the bedroom closet. Here he discovered some expensive-looking narrow leather shoes with pointy toes in a neat row, some sneakers, an ironing board, a barbell and a collection of free weights, and a sports bag, as well as a tall wicker laundry hamper. He plowed through Sergei’s dirty clothes—mostly black silk boxers and starched white shirts that smelled of cologne.
Volodya was about to investigate the shelf above his head, which seemed to hold some folded blankets, when he heard a key in the door. Horrified, Volodya stepped further back into the closet and slid the door shut. Now he heard Sergei’s voice. Was he with someone else?
But then Volodya heard a pause and silence, followed by another burst of conversation. He must be on the phone.
Now, Sergei seemed to be coming into the bedroom. It was hard to tell with all this thick carpeting. But he must be right outside the closet, because now, Volodya could hear his voice perfectly. “Our Ukrainian friends are cooperating nicely,” he said. “Dmytro is intelligent enough to understand his position. His stupid cousin is still in rehab as far as I know. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t put it past Dmytro to sell out the cousin. Thank goodness we have more leverage than that gun. Dmytro still doesn’t realize the powerful vor Gleb is thirteen years old!”
Volodya heard Sergei laughing right outside the closet door. He squatted down and grabbed one of the dumbbells among the collection of weights, and rose just in time to be dazzled by the light from the now open closet door and the vision of Sergei with his phone in one hand, his tie undone, his eyes wide.
When Volodya brought the dumbbell down on Sergei’s forehead, he put everything he had into it. Sergei collapsed instantly to the ground. As Volodya stepped over his crumpled form, he noted the way the skull was caved in, and the oozing blood from the wound and from Sergei’s mouth.
As Volodya made his way toward the sliding glass balcony door off the bedroom that had served as his entrance, bloody dumbbell in hand, he heard a small, yappy sound coming from the phone. “Sergei! Can you hear me now?” the voice said.
Volodya crushed the phone with the dumbbell to make the little voice go away. And then he thought maybe he shouldn’t leave the phone here. The cops could find out who Sergei had been talking to. Maybe that would be a bad idea. Suddenly, it also occurred to him the dumbbell should go, too.
He supposed Dmytro would want him to continue to look for the gun. But it wasn’t registered to Volodya. He’d bought it off some kid who also sold him a car once. And without Sergei saying Volodya had used it in a murder, who cared about the gun anymore anyway? Really, when you thought about it, Dmytro was better served by having Sergei gone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
DETECTIVE DEBBIE MYERS AND Flavia Torcelli stood at the entrance to Alba, and Flavia gestured vaguely toward the front of the restaurant. “And the noise came from there,” Flavia said.
“And where was Mr. Ott then?”
“It’s so hard to remember,” said Flavia. “It happened very quickly but it seemed to last forever. He was standing right behind Scott, and I was welcoming Scott. Shaking his hand, you know? And then suddenly we heard the shots. And Mr. Ott pushed Scott and he fell right on top of me!”
“And what was Mr. Ott doing then?” Debbie asked.
“How could I tell? I was completely smothered by Scott. He wouldn’t get off of me!” She gave a little shudder and wiggled her fingers. Debbie smiled. Scott Duckworth may have had a crush on this girl, but it was clear the feeling wasn’t mutual.
“Did Ott have anything in his hand?” asked Debbie. “A weapon?”
Flavia’s eyes widened. “I don’t think so!”
“Okay, then what happened? Can you walk me through it?”
Flavia led the way inside. “Then Mr. Ott kind of pulled Scott off of me and pushed us both into the kitchen. It’s hard to remember essactly. But then he locked us in the kitchen! He wouldn’t let me out!”
Flavia pushed a metal door that opened into a busy kitchen. There was a pleasant combination of the percussive sound made by employees chopping vegetables on a long table, and the sizzle from huge frying pans where others were sautéing mushrooms.
“Let’s see,” said Flavia, looking around the kitchen as if the surroundings would jog her memory. “Then he went away for a while and trapped me in here with Scott and the other security guy.”
“Do you know where he went?” said Debbie.
“No. He was gone about, maybe fifteen minutes.”
“And then he came back?” said Debbie.
“That’s right,” said Flavia. She stared over at the sink, and its sign reminding employees to wash their hands. “Then he did something strange,” Flavia said. “I just remembered. He went over there and washed his hands. Really scrubbed them clean, you know? Why would he do that?”
“Good question,” said Debbie. “Now I’d like you to take a look at this guy. Did you see him around here that evening?” Debbie handed over a picture of Roger Benson. “Does this guy look familiar?”
“No,” said Flavia. “Well, maybe. I think I might have seen a photo of him but not him.”
“His name is Roger Benson, and his son is a valet here,” said Debbie.
“Oh.” Flavia smiled. “I think I saw his picture at Tyler’s grandfather’s house. But I never saw him in person.”
“Do you know Tyler Benson outside of work?” asked Debbie, astonished.
; Flavia looked nervous. “Well, a little bit. We are both students at the university,” she said.
Debbie acted as if this weren’t interesting news. “Oh yeah? What else do you know about him?”
“Not very much,” said Flavia, and then she added, “I have no reason to think he’s not a really good person.” And then she blushed.
———
“LOOKS like the guy was waiting for him inside the closet,” said MacNab. The two detectives were in Sergei Lagunov’s apartment standing over Sergei’s corpse, now on a stretcher, as it was being zipped into a nylon body bag.
Lukowski shrugged. “Superficially, it’s your classic burglary in progress. Guy comes home. Burglar hides in closet. Guy opens closet door. The victim’s loosened tie and his position point that way. And the jimmied-from-the-outside patio door looks legit.” Lukowski stepped over to the dresser, and pointed to a gold chain lying on top of it. “But the place looks totally undisturbed. And you’d think a burglar would have at least grabbed that on his way out.”
“Seeing as our victim was one of the mourners at tattoo guy’s funeral,” said MacNab, “there might be a lot more to this story. Dave Chin is coming over to take a look.” The two detectives had shared photos of Old Pasha’s funeral with the Auto Theft department. Detective Chin had shown an interest because he’d been working on trying to get something on a suspected auto theft ring made up of Russians.
With the corpse now out of the way, MacNab began to check out the contents of the bedroom closet. He flipped through a series of suits. “Expensive stuff,” he said. He reached up onto the top shelf, the one Volodya had been about to investigate, and pulled out what looked like an attaché case.
Through the open bedroom door, MacNab and Lukowski saw Detective Chin, a thin Asian man in his early forties, come into the apartment’s entry hall. The technicians were preparing to remove the corpse, but Lukowski said, “Hey, show Dave our guy. See if he knows him.”
