Tipping the Valet

by K. K. Beck

  The technician unzipped the bag just enough to reveal Sergei’s face. “Doesn’t look familiar,” said Dave Chin. “But I guess he’s not looking his best.”

  “He would have looked worse if the building manager hadn’t come up here to bitch about his parking in a handicapped slot,” said MacNab.

  Chin said, “Oh, wait, I’ve seen him before. He’s the scar guy from the funeral pictures.”

  “Did anyone else in those funeral shots look familiar?” said MacNab.

  Chin nodded. “One of the older guys said he recognized one of them. A burly guy who did some time for auto theft back in the nineties. We checked him out: Dmytro Zelenko. He’s been out of trouble since then. But I doubt he’s mended his ways. Runs some kind of auto body shop that we don’t have enough probable cause to really check out. But we’re pretty interested. There’s been a big spike in auto thefts, especially high-end stuff. We’ve figured there must be some organized enterprise pulling off these thefts.” He glanced over at MacNab, who was now opening the attaché case on the floor. “What you got there?”

  MacNab looked down at a collection of tools and electronic devices.

  “I’m not sure,” said MacNab.

  “Wow,” said Chin. “That’s very interesting. We’ve got a combination of old-school and new-school stuff here. Slide hammer puller to break into the door locks and the cylinder lock. Test light. Screwdrivers, your basic slim jim. And we got the RFID microreaders to defeat ignition locks, and we got some tracking devices. And we got some electronic stuff I’ve never seen before. And here’s some old-school spark plug fragments. These are a quiet but effective way to get safety glass to shatter. What else is in that closet?” asked Chin.

  MacNab reached up and took down what appeared to be an oily rag. He carefully unwrapped it and the three men looked down at a handgun.

  “Looks like a .22-caliber to me,” said Lukowski happily. “If we’re lucky, it’s the one that killed tattoo guy and we can clear that case.”

  “Yeah,” said MacNab. “But then we gotta find who killed the killer.”

  “Let’s ask this Zelenko character,” said Lukowski. “We gotta talk to him anyway, about tattoo guy.”

  ———

  HELENE Applegate was happy to see Debbie Myers. Helene kind of wanted Debbie to see her calm and in charge after that meltdown outside the restaurant. She liked Debbie. She seemed so understanding—like a real friend. And she’d been thinking hard about the advice Debbie had seemed to give her when they last met.

  “Mr. Ott is running a little late,” she explained. “How about a coffee?”

  “Sounds good,” said Debbie, settling into Helene’s cozy office chair. Helene busied herself with a coffeepot and poured them each a cup.

  “I’m kind of surprised you responded to Red Ott’s request for a meeting,” said Helene. “I know how busy you are.” The email he’d asked her to send to Debbie had sounded arrogant to her—like a summons to an employee. He’d requested a meeting to “update Scott and myself” on the progress of the investigation, and to “share intelligence.”

  “I was interested in talking to Mr. Ott anyway,” said Debbie. “Listen, Helene. Thanks for your help the other day. I was able to schedule an interview with Roger Benson. We’ll be talking later this afternoon. So that’s good.”

  Just then, Red Ott came into the room. “Good, you’re here,” he said patronizingly to Debbie, not apologizing for being late. “We’ll meet in the conference room. Helene, can you come and take some minutes?”

  When they were all ensconced in the conference room, Ott said pompously, “So what have you learned?”

  “Well, Mr. Ott,” said Debbie cheerfully, “we’ve learned that the nickel-plated Smith and Wesson snub-nosed revolver we found in the Dumpster was stolen from the police property room when you were still on the force. And some people say you were the chief suspect.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” said Red Ott. He paused and cleared his throat. “And even if it were true, I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations has run out.”

  “And,” said Debbie, “we’ve learned that some bullets from the gun were found in Scott’s car. From the side of the car you were facing when the shooting began.”

  Helene gasped, but continued to take notes.

  “And your point is?” said Ott. “I mean, that kid says he found the gun in the Dumpster.”

  “Yeah, and Flavia Torcelli says you were rummaging around in that Dumpster yourself two days after the shooting. I believe detectives Lukowski and MacNab will attest to that.”

  “I was making sure that the area was secure,” said Ott, looking nervous now. “You can’t prove that gun was ever in my possession.”

  “Maybe not,” said Debbie. “But Miss Torcelli also said you washed your hands right after the bullets flew. Gave them a real good scrubbing. Why would you do that?”

  Helene, now overcome, flung down her notebook. “Powder burns!” she exclaimed. “If he fired that gun he wanted to get rid of any powder burns. And he ditched the gun in the Dumpster, then went back to try and get it!” She rose, flung aside her notebook, and leaned over the table staring down at Ott. “Why did you shoot at Scott!”

  Ott cringed, leaning away from her. “Okay, I might have returned fire when I saw Scott was in trouble. In fact, I did. The old training kicked in! And I was supposed to protect him.”

  “Thank God you missed him,” said Debbie.

  Just then, Scott came into the room with his sister. Carla had carefully arranged blond hair and wore an expensive black pantsuit and pearls.

  “What’s going on?” said Carla.

  Helene ignored her and turned to Scott. She pointed at Ott. “He could have killed you! I knew he was no good.” Now she turned to Carla. “Why didn’t you listen to me when I said to fire him? Don’t you care about your brother?”

  “Gosh!” said Scott. “Helene, I’ve never seen you so riled up!”

  “That’s because she’s in love with you!” his sister said, narrowing her eyes. “Isn’t that true, Helene?”

  “Yes, it’s true and I don’t care who knows it!” said Helene. She fled from the room, while Carla folded her arms across her chest and glared at her retreating back.

  “Mr. Ott, I’d like you to come downtown and make a voluntary statement,” said Debbie.

  ———

  THE two Zelenkos sat on white plastic lawn chairs underneath the cherry tree behind Dmytro’s chop-shop. Despite the cluttered surroundings—auto parts, rusting junk, an oily puddle in the gravel—the scene was peaceful. The cherry tree was in bloom, and an intermittent breeze occasionally sent a flurry of pink petals to join the drift already settled on the gravel below. A robin, apparently building a nest there, flew back and forth with grass and bits of string and other junk from the site. Dmytro’s two Rottweilers snoozed at their feet. Both men were drinking Diet Cokes.

  After a moment of silence, while what Volodya had just told him sunk in, Dmytro said, “Jesus Christ, Volodya! I just told you to get the gun! Not kill the guy!”

  “It was an accident,” said Volodya. “I don’t feel good about it either.”

  Dmytro had noticed that since coming back from rehab, Volodya seemed to be talking about his feelings all the time. “Okay, so tell me again what he was talking about on the phone. Before you crushed his skull.”

  “He said, ‘The Ukrainians are cooperating.’ He said I was still in rehab. But he was wrong about that.” Volodya frowned.

  Dmytro sighed. “I suppose you didn’t check the phone to see who he was talking to?”

  Volodya ignored him. “He said you were intelligent. And that I was stupid. That son of a bitch!”

  “Is that why you hit him so hard?” asked Dmytro.

  “Maybe it was,” said Volodya thoughtfully. “That’s interesting. Maybe I was angry. Maybe is self-esteem issue.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” said Dmytro. “Anything else?”

  “Oh, there’s one thing
he said I didn’t understand. He said you still didn’t know that some guy named Gleb was only thirteen years old. And then he laughed. Who the hell is Gleb?”

  Dmytro grabbed his cousin’s hand. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Dmytro. “So Vic was full of shit. And Sergei lied about it when I asked for his help. Maybe it’s okay you took care of him.” He leaned his head back thoughtfully and observed the robins flapping around near the top of the cherry tree.

  Just then, the cousins were startled to see a troika of tough-looking men emerging from the shop’s rear entrance, and approaching them at a good clip. One of them was a heavyset bald guy wearing a dark suit with an open silk shirt underneath it. Dmytro thought he looked like a retired weight lifter. A few feet behind him, one on each side of him, were a couple of guys in a collection of baggy nylon gear bristling with sports logos.

  “Are you the Zelenkos?” said the guy in the suit.

  Dmytro recognized the voice from their many phone conversations. “You must be Yalta Yuri,” he said. “What brings you up here from California?”

  “You must be Dmytro,” said Yuri. “Which means this piece of shit is Volodya who killed my old pal, Pavel. Now I’m wondering what happened to Sergei,” said Yuri.

  “You guys wanna Diet Coke?” asked Volodya.

  Dmytro and Yuri ignored him. Dmytro rose so they were both standing, and the two men stared at each other as one of the robins let out a melancholy low note.

  “I was talking on the phone with him when it sounded like he got hurt,” said Yuri.

  “I was afraid that might happen,” said Dmytro. “I think I know who might have done something like that.”

  “Oh really?” said Yuri. “And who might that be?”

  “A kid. Named Victor Gelashvili. I think maybe he killed him.”

  “Who said Sergei was dead? I just said I thought he might have been hurt,” said Yuri.

  After a beat, Dmytro said, “Well, I figured that if he was just hurt, you would have found him. Talked to him. Learned what happened.”

  “So why do you think Victor Gelashvili wanted to kill Sergei?” said Yuri.

  Volodya spoke up. “Sergei found out Vic was stealing from us.”

  Yuri waved his hand impatiently. “I know all about that. The cars. Kapitan Zhukov.”

  “Kapitan Zhukov?” said Volodya. “Who’s he?”

  “Come with us. We’ll go there together tonight, after midnight. If Sergei’s alive, he’ll be there.”

  “What do we need to go with you for?” demanded Dmytro, suddenly red in the face. “I thought Sergei was working for me. Then he tells me I’m working for you. Now you accuse us of killing him! Why would I do that? So you can kill me? I don’t even know what the guy was up to with this Kapitan Zhukov. Listen, you can have my damn business. I don’t care. If you want it so much, just take it.”

  Yuri strode over to Dmytro and backhanded him across the face. Dmytro staggered backwards, into his cousin’s arms. As soon as he did so, Yuri’s two henchmen muscled their way up to both Zelenkos. One of them cuffed Volodya on the ear, and said, “Show some respect.” Volodya dropped Dmytro into a greasy splotch in the dirt and gravel, and the second of Yuri’s thugs kicked him while he was down, then slapped Volodya who was still standing, but tottering from side to side.

  Yuri stepped toward him, and seemed about to give him the coup de grâce, when a voice speaking English said, “Is everything all right?”

  The knot of men turned around and faced Lukowski and MacNab, as well as Dave Chin.

  “Who are you?” demanded Yuri.

  “Seattle police,” said MacNab. “We’re here to ask a few questions.”

  The Slavs stood up and brushed off their clothes. Yuri smiled. “We were just playing around,” he said.

  Volodya looked terrified. “What do you want to talk to us for?”

  Lukowski spoke up. “We’re investigating a homicide.”

  “I don’t know anything about it!” said Volodya.

  “Well, you attended the funeral of the victim,” said Lukowski patiently.

  Chin, meanwhile, was taking in the premises. “Nice little business you got here,” he said. “Body and fender work, huh?”

  Volodya’s face relaxed and he produced a big smile. “You must mean Old Pasha’s funeral. No, I wasn’t there. I was in rehab.”

  “Are you Dmytro Zelenko?” asked Chin.

  “No, he is,” said Volodya. He pointed to Dmytro.

  MacNab consulted the photograph taken outside St. Basil’s. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said, comparing the image to both cousins. “You guys look a lot alike.”

  “We’re cousins,” said Volodya helpfully.

  “We’re wondering what happened to Pavel,” said Lukowski. “What do you know about him?”

  Dmytro shrugged. “He was an employee. Very quiet. Kept to himself. Don’t know anything about him at all, really.”

  Yuri spread out his hands to the detectives expansively. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, officer. I just got into town today. Just visiting some old friends of my mother’s from back in the old country.”

  Dave Chin stepped up to Yalta Yuri and said, “Mind telling us who you are? Got any identification? If that’s your rental car parked out front, you must have a valid driver’s license on you.”

  “I wasn’t driving,” he said. He nodded to one of his associates. “He was. But he doesn’t have to show you nothing. This is America. You want to talk to me about anything, you talk to my lawyer in Santa Monica.”

  Now Yuri turned to the cousins and said in Russian, “I’ll be back here at midnight.” The cousins both looked obediently at their watches. “You’re coming with us to Kapitan Zhukov. And if Sergei’s not there…we’ll see what happens next. Meanwhile, these guys got another job for you to do first.” He nodded at his two henchmen. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  TYLER HAD BEEN ASTONISHED when Jessica called him and told him he was wanted back at Alba that night. “But I’m on suspension,” he said.

  “Not anymore. Because Flavia Torcelli called and insisted you be back there tonight.”

  “She did?” Tyler had said. He felt a rush of happiness. She wanted him there with her!

  “Yeah. And the customer’s always right. Get down in time for the dinner rush.”

  But when Tyler did arrive, and found an excuse to go inside where he ran into her at the reception desk, Flavia was all business, greeting him with her customary unsmiling nod. Smiles were strictly for the customers. “Good. I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Vic and Chip will be leaving early.”

  “They are?” This was going to be awkward—being on shift with those two. Especially after Vic had threatened him at their last meeting.

  ———

  “FUNNY how nothing happens, then everything happens all at once,” said Lukowski. He and MacNab were in a small conference room at police headquarters with detectives Myers and Chin, and he was writing things down on a whiteboard with a pink marker.

  “One. Ott admitted to Debbie he was the other shooter.” He printed out: 1. OTT FIRED AT DUCKWORTH ASSAILANT. “He panicked and fired at the retreating vehicle after Duckworth was shot at, with the snub-nosed .38-revolver that he probably stole out of the property room years ago. The bullets from that gun are definitely in the side of the Duckworth car he was facing. And the Italian gal is sure that Duckworth was already up by the door of the restaurant next to her and next to Ott when those shots were fired.”

  MacNab shook his head in disgust. “Can’t we get him for something?”

  Debbie rolled her eyes. “He was right about the statute of limitations on stealing that gun. But I’m going to talk to the prosecutor about nailing him for having an unregistered weapon, and for reckless endangerment.”

  “Good luck with that,” said MacNab. “Think Duckworth wants the world to know he had a Keystone Kop as c
hief of security? He’ll put the kibosh on that indictment for sure.”

  “Okay,” said Lukowski, writing squeakily, 2. GUN FROM HOMICIDE AND ASSAULT RETRIEVED. “The gun that killed our tattoo guy and the gun that hit that valet are the same gun. And we got it. We found it in the apartment of a guy named Sergei.”

  “Have you found this Sergei yet?” asked Debbie.

  “Yes, but he isn’t talking,” said MacNab. “Because someone bludgeoned him to death. He was standing right by the closet where the gun was. Maybe he was going for it while confronting someone. It doesn’t quite fit with his body position. We may never know. It all seems to fit, seeing as the first victim appeared to be connected with Russian organized crime, and so did this Sergei, who didn’t seem to have a real job and had a nice collection of high-tech auto theft tools.”

  “Okay. So maybe he’s your guy when it comes to your homicide. But why in hell would he take a shot at Scott Duckworth?” said Debbie.

  “That’s where our little pal Tyler Benson comes into it,” said Lukowski, beaming happily. “I just had a real interesting conversation with his lawyer.”

  “Did she tell you where he is?” asked Debbie.

  “Nope. But she had a long drawn-out story about how the Russian mafia were using that restaurant, Alba, as a happy hunting ground for high-end cars.”

  Debbie looked thoughtful. “And Scott was thinking of buying Alba. Is that a motive for them to scare off Scott? Seems weird to me. There’s still a lot that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Okay, listen to this,” said Lukowski. He turned to the whiteboard again and wrote, 3. ALBA VALETS WORKING WITH RUSSIANS TO TAG CARS? “According to the kid’s lawyer, he says some of the valets there have been putting tracking devices on the cars, and maybe copying electronic key codes, so they could easily be found and stolen later. And the two valets he named happened to be the two who showed up to that Russian funeral.”

  MacNab said, “Gee, wonder why the kid decided to share this with us? Maybe because he’s already trying to cut a deal?”