by K. K. Beck
Lukowski handed around a sheet of paper. “Here’s a picture he says he took with his phone. It’s some kind of device that he says these other two were putting on the cars.”
Dave Chin said, “It’s similar to the stuff we found at Sergei Lagunov’s apartment.”
Debbie thought for a moment and said, “The only way Roger Benson could have known Scott Duckworth would be there at Alba is from the kid, Tyler. That’s why I had trouble ruling him out.”
“And we’ve had trouble ruling him out because his prints are all over the trunk of the car our dead guy was in,” said MacNab.
“But you told me you think this Sergei did that guy,” said Debbie.
“Maybe he had the kid deal with the body,” said MacNab. “Accessory to murder. And he’s trying to rat out the rest of the guys stealing cars to cut a deal.”
“I want to talk to him, but I can’t find him,” said Debbie. “He never seems to be at his apartment. And his boss at the valet company says he’s on suspension for this week, so we can’t grab him at work. But that little Italian gal at Alba might know where he is. As far as I can tell, they’re an item. She actually blushed when I mentioned his name. And apparently, she’s already met his family.”
“Action item number one,” said Lukowski, adding a new line of text to his whiteboard. It read GET TYLER BENSON.
———
TYLER was tidying up the valet podium. He had just noticed that they were out of split rings, the little metal circles they used when customers took their ignition key off their own ring and handed it to the valet all by itself, when Flavia came up to him with a conspiratorial look.
“Listen,” she said, lightly touching his shoulder, “the police just called me. Detective Lukowski. He wants to know if I know where you are.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I didn’t know,” said Flavia. “I asked him if he had called Jessica at Elite Valet. Because if he did, then she would know that you were back at work, and that I was lying. And then I could have said that I didn’t know where you were because you were parking a car.”
Tyler did admire the way Flavia could think on her feet.
“So,” continued Flavia, “he told me that he already spoke to Jessica yesterday, and Jessica said you were on suspension. So I think you’re okay for now.”
Tyler sighed. “I hate sneaking around like this. I just need to hear back from Veronica. I want to know if she had a chance to talk to the cops, and if she thinks it’s okay for me to go ahead and talk to them. There’s some stupid message on her voicemail about having to take Muffin to the vet.”
Tyler’s phone rang. “Maybe that’s Veronica now,” he said and looked down at it. “Oh. It’s my grandpa.”
“Your nonno? You better take it,” said Flavia, exhibiting a nice family feeling that Tyler had always associated with Italians.
“Hey, Tyler,” said Gus Iversen. “I just ran into an old pal of mine over at Mike’s Chili Parlor. I knew his dad, who was a boilermaker back in the day. This guy works on marine engines. Regular old Ballard wharf rat. Anyway, let me get to the point here. He says he knows where we can find that Captain Zhukov you were talking about. I’m getting an address for you. Maybe you can go over there and check her out.”
“Wow!” said Tyler. “Hang on.” He turned to Flavia, and removed the phone from his ear, even though Grandpa was still talking. He heard the tinny sound of his voice from around his hip. “My grandpa says he knows where Captain Zhukov is. As soon as I go off shift, I’m going over there. Then, I can call the cops from there.”
But just as he wasn’t listening to Grandpa, Flavia wasn’t listening to him. She was staring at a red VW sedan that was pulling up to the valet podium. “Look,” she said. “It’s Scott. He never said he was coming!” She patted her hair.
“I gotta go, Grandpa,” said Tyler. “Call me back and leave the address on my phone if I don’t pick up.”
Scott Duckworth was a passenger in the VW. Instead of a commando-type driver, backed up by thuggish-looking bodyguards in the backseat, there was a middle-aged lady at the wheel. Tyler leapt to the driver’s side. When women drove in, he opened the driver’s side first. Even if the male passenger was Scott Duckworth.
The pleasant-looking lady accepted a claim check and climbed out of the car, and smiled while Tyler gave his customary greeting. Over the top of the car he could see Flavia smiling up at Scott. He suppressed the urge to say, “Hey Scott, why don’t you buy this goddamn place and use your zillions to chase the Russian mafia out of here?”
Flavia was saying, “I’m so glad you came. What a surprise. No security?”
The lady who had driven in walked over to both of them and said, “Mr. Ott is no longer with us. Introduce me, Scott. This must be Flavia Torcelli.”
“Hey Flavia,” said Scott, “This is Helene Applegate. I wanted her to come and take a look at Alba. I told her I might be investing in this place.”
“So nice to meet you,” said Flavia, shaking Helene’s hand and pouring out all the charm on her instead of Scott. Perhaps, thought Tyler, she sensed, as he did, that this woman was a decision maker in the sale. Maybe she was some kind of foodie consultant, or something.
Scott confirmed part of Tyler’s theory by saying, “I’m really interested in Helene’s take.” More dazzling smiles from Flavia to the older woman.
“I’m so sorry we don’t have a reservation,” said Helene, without sounding all that sorry.
Flavia tilted her head back, raised an arm in the air, and said, “Ha! Reservation?” as if the idea were ridiculous, which of course it was.
And then Scott Duckworth explained what Helene Applegate’s role in the decision-making process was. “Helene and I are engaged,” he said.
———
SOME hours later, in Woodinville, a suburb to the northeast of Seattle, Chip Lundquist and Victor Gelashvili entered their unit at the Acme Heated Storage facility. Chip said, “I’m almost sorry about saying good-bye to these awesome cars.” The two of them gazed at their gleaming collection in silence for a moment.
“Well, you won’t be sorry when we have an awesome balance in that Swiss bank account,” said Vic.
“You really think this is gonna work?” asked Chip. “I mean, what if Gleb stiffs us? What could we do about it? Him being over in Russia and all.”
“He’s not going to stiff us,” said Vic. “It’s family, it’s, like, an honor thing or whatever. He made that real clear. Besides, I already told him we’re ready to start work on another shipment. So he won’t even think about stiffing us.”
“Another shipment? How do you know another Russian trawler will pull in here for repairs?”
Vic shrugged. “I don’t. I just told Gleb that so he won’t stiff us. Just a little measure of security. He’ll want that next bunch of cars. He told me the demand for really good cars over there is insane.”
“Right on,” said Chip.
“Anyway, you gotta have faith. I mean, you won’t get anywhere in life with a defeatist attitude like that. It’s happening. We’re making it happen. Okay, let’s get started. I’ll take the Maserati. You take your car to get us back here for the next one.”
“No fair,” said Chip. “I wanna take the Maserati.”
“Forget it,” said Vic. Chip looked hurt so he said, “Okay, you can take the Lamborghini on our last run. But no speeding. This is going to take a long time, but if we get stopped, we’re screwed. And cars like these are prime bait to a motorcycle cop.”
———
IT was almost midnight, and there were just two cars left in the lot. Tyler went inside with the cash box to Flavia’s office so she could lock it up along with the restaurant receipts. She was sitting at her desk counting bills under her breath in Italian.
She looked up at him and smiled. “Isn’t it sweet?” said Flavia. “Scott Duckworth marrying that nice lady. So sweet those two old people finding each other!” She beamed, and Tyler felt bad
that he’d ever assumed Flavia was a gold digger. Just because someone was attractive enough to be a trophy wife to a billionaire didn’t mean she wanted to be one.
“Ah!” she said now. “But what were you trying to tell me when they pulled up? Something your nonno told you?” Now she was bundling the bills up with rubber bands.
“He has an address for this mysterious Captain Zhukov,” said Tyler. “I was thinking of driving out there. Maybe it’s their mafia clubhouse or something. Maybe we could tell the police about it.”
“When are you going?” Flavia said, looking excited. “Will you take me with you?”
“I was thinking of right now,” said Tyler. “Are you sure you want to come?”
“Of course I want to come. We’re just driving by to take a look, right? What could possibly happen? I want to come with you! I’ll tell my brother you’re giving me a ride home tonight. And I’ll go chase that last party out of the bar. You’ve been busy without Vic and Chip,” she said. “Did you get anything to eat?”
“No, but I’m okay,” he said.
“I’ll make you something. Maybe a sandwich? We have a lot of antipasto stuff left over tonight.”
Tyler went back outside, and to save time went and pulled the last two cars up to the stand, as well as his own. Within a few minutes, two young guys in business suits came out of the bar. One of them was weaving and looking pale. Tyler looked sharply at the other guy. He seemed sober enough and had his ticket and a ten-dollar bill all ready.
Tyler pointed to the two cars. “Which one is yours?” he said to the sober guy.
“The Outback. The other one is my buddy’s.”
The drunk guy’s knees sagged a little and his head was lolling. He gazed over at his own car. “That’s mine. I think,” he said.
Tyler ignored him, and turned to the first man. “Your buddy shouldn’t be driving. Are you going to give him a ride home? He can leave his car here.” Tyler didn’t add that Elite Valet wouldn’t be responsible for the car. He just wanted these two out of here so he and Flavia could go check out that address.
“Okay,” said the first man, not sounding too enthusiastic about this errand. When he opened the passenger door, the drunk guy collapsed onto Tyler’s chest.
Tyler sighed and began to push him back off, but suddenly, the drunk guy began heaving. A second later, Tyler felt warm vomit all over his chest.
“Goddammit!” he said.
Just then Flavia came outside wearing her office cardigan over her suit and carrying her purse. She let out a little shriek, then said, “I’ll go back and get you a bar towel. Poverino!”
The drunk guy said, “Hey man, I’m really sorry,” and collapsed into the car. Tyler kicked the door shut.
“Jesus, Ryan,” said the driver, throwing the car into gear and taking off.
Tyler peeled off his jacket and his shirt. He heard the click of Flavia’s heels as she returned, and snatched the towel out of her hand and scrubbed his chest with it. “Have you got a plastic bag or something for my stuff?” he said.
“Sure,” she said and went back into the restaurant and he put on his spare shirt and a uniform jacket that was hanging on a hook inside the booth. Chip kept it there in case anything happened to his uniform while he was working. He always looked perfectly turned out, and had explained to Tyler that a perfect appearance paid off in tips.
He popped the trunk of his own car, ready to throw his clothes in there as soon as Flavia returned with the plastic bag.
A second later, he felt a tap on the shoulder. Surprised, he turned around. He hadn’t heard her heels clicking back. But it wasn’t Flavia at all. It was some guy in an Oakland A’s shirt. Another guy wearing something with a Nike swoosh on it lurked behind him.
Before he knew what was happening, he was pushed into the trunk. Then he heard the raspy sound of duct tape being ripped off a roll. And a short, sharp female scream he could only assume was coming from Flavia.
Chapter Twenty-Four
FOUR MEN STOOD OUTSIDE Dmytro Zelenko’s house in the dark next to the massive door of his triple garage—Yalta Yuri, his two henchmen, and Dmytro himself. The view from the street was obscured by dense shrubbery. In the driveway were two parked cars—Tyler’s, and the dark van with tinted windows that had followed it back from Alba.
Dmytro was listening to Yuri, and looking worried. “Okay,” said Yuri, “now it’s your job to step up and explain to him how he can’t be ripping us off. You gotta show me you can run this business properly.”
“What about Vic?” said Dmytro.
Yuri shrugged. “He wasn’t there. But it’s okay. Just scare this guy and he’ll scare Vic.” He chuckled. “I make it easier for you.”
“So what do you want me to say?” said Dmytro.
“At first, you say nothing. Just maybe that you’re disappointed. Then you’re going to have to get physical. Silent and physical. After that, he’ll tell you what he’s been up to and apologize. I guarantee it.”
“I’ll start with the dogs,” said Dmytro.
“Oh, we had to take the Italian girl, too,” said Yuri.
“What!”
Yuri shrugged. “She was there while we were pushing him into his car. But no worries. We already control her. She won’t make any trouble. She makes trouble, her brother’s business is gone and she knows it. Maybe it’s good to let her know who she’s dealing with.”
———
TYLER and Flavia were on the other side of the garage door and could hear the men talking, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. They had been hustled inside this garage from the car after Tyler had endured a long, bumpy ride with his wrists duct-taped together, making it impossible for him to work the safety latch on the inside of the trunk or reach his phone. Flavia had been yanked out of the backseat.
In the few seconds when they had stood in the driveway, restrained by the two thugs, Tyler had ascertained they were in some dark suburb, and not far from the street. Another man, an older guy, had taken his phone, and asked Flavia for hers. She had handed it over from the purse hanging on her shoulder. Right after that, they’d been pushed deep into the garage, and the garage door had slid down.
“Where are we?” she said in a tiny voice.
“Did you see anything from the window?” he said.
“They made me lie down in the backseat.”
Tyler looked around. “We’re in somebody’s garage.” The lights were off but he could still see. There was a workbench with some tools on it, garden furniture, and a lawn mower. “Can you get this tape off my wrists?”
Flavia started silently picking at the tape. Tyler continued looking around. At the back of the garage, opposite the main door, was a regular door that looked like it led to a garden. And that’s where the dim light was coming from. There must be some kind of exterior porch light there. The door had a large pane of glass in it and some crisscrossed molding. Tyler looked over at the tools on the workbench. He saw an electric drill there and some hand tools, including a couple of hammers and a light-weight sledgehammer.
“They didn’t prepare this place to be some kind of a prison,” he whispered.
“They even gave me back my purse!” she said, hopefully, arranging it so the strap crossed her chest, the way Italian women often carry purses.
Tyler pointed to the workbench. “We can use those tools to get out of here through that door, even if it’s locked.” He wondered if the drill was charged up. It could be a pretty effective weapon. If they could get out that door to the garden, maybe he’d take it with him.
“This place isn’t far from the road,” said Flavia.
“So if we get out of here we’ll probably be near other houses,” said Tyler. “I can bust out that door and get help.”
“No! I’m coming, too,” said Flavia. “Don’t leave me alone here!”
She yanked off the last of the tape. “Are they just trying to scare us? Who are they?”
“Did they talk in the car?�
��
“Yes, but in Russian. And they made one phone call but that wasn’t in English either.”
“There were three of them?”
“That’s right. One sat in the back with me.”
Suddenly, the garage door began opening. Flavia and Tyler stared at it. After it had risen about two feet, they saw two Rottweilers and a pair of human legs. A second later, the opening was about three feet taller. Now they were looking at a portly guy who was holding on to two leashes. Tyler grabbed Flavia and pulled her into a dark corner of the garage.
“I guess you wonder why I brought you here,” said Dmytro.
“Mr. Zelenko?” said Flavia.
“I got no beef with you,” he said strolling purposefully toward them. “I got a beef with him.” He leaned over to the dogs and started whispering to them. Then he went over and grabbed Tyler and pulled him into the light. Suddenly, he looked astonished. “Shit!” he said, dropping the leashes and running back out. In another second, the door was being pulled back down.
The dogs began to growl. Tyler picked up Flavia and carried her to the workbench, where he sat her down. “Stay up there!” he said, grabbing the drill, while she scrambled into an upright position.
He pointed the drill at the more aggressive of the two dogs, and depressed the button. One of the dogs bared his teeth.
Meanwhile, Flavia was rummaging in her purse, and soon was frantically opening a Styrofoam clamshell box. It contained the snack she’d made for Tyler with tonight’s antipasti. Tyler could smell salami. She handed him a long, crusty roll. He dropped the drill and divided the roll in two. Each side was full of salami and cheese.
The dogs stopped growling and trotted over, still dangling their leashes. Soon, they were bolting their treats, wagging their tails and licking Tyler’s hand.
From outside the garage door, they heard Dmytro Zelenko’s voice. “You assholes!” he was shouting. “I swear to you that’s not Chip!”
“They think I’m Chip?” said Tyler.
Flavia was scrambling off the workbench. She pointed at his jacket. Tyler looked down. Even upside down, the laminated nametag pinned to the Elite Valet jacket he’d snagged from the booth right before he was jumped clearly read CHIP.
