The Fedorovich File

by Ross H. Spencer

  “All right, why doesn’t Mawlniyuh kick Krahsny Lentuh’s ass?”

  “Because it can’t put its finger on Krahsny Lentuh’s people—they’re deeply imbedded in the fabric of the KGB.”

  “A big outfit?”

  “Big enough. How many does it take to rock the boat?”

  “This must work wonders for KGB trust and cooperation.”

  “There’s no surface friction, no obvious suspicion—Kremlin orders are carried out to the letter in what appears to be a spirit of harmony. It’s the undercurrents that disturb Mawlniyuh.”

  “A Krahsny Lentuh man could be moonlighting, following Kremlin instructions with one hand, violating them with the other—the mysterious Mr. Mawson, probably.”

  “Absolutely! Chapter three of The Wheels of Treachery gets into the subject of Krahsny Lentuh, revealing its aspirations and this has placed General Fedorovich in grave danger. He was born in Youngstown and he’ll die here if Mawson finds him!”

  Lockington shrugged. “Olga Karelinko appears to be the only loose thread.”

  “And the woman who told you about Olga is dead—so is the woman who picked up Olga’s mail.”

  “Gordon Kilbuck knows about her, and he’s still among the living.”

  “Yes, but for how long? Lacey, you’re going to need help!”

  “You’re volunteering?”

  Natasha said, “I’m not bad—I can offer excellent references.”

  “Yeah, and a guy named Lockington is one of them—you ran rings around him last spring!”

  “Can you use me?”

  “When I need help, I’ll whistle.”

  “Lacey, you may not have to whistle.” Her pale blue eyes were sparkling. She was taut, like a thoroughbred filly in the starting gate, much as she’d been when he’d met her, and Natasha Gorky had been nothing short of superb when he’d met her.

  32

  When Lockington arrived at his office, he found Barney Kozlowski leaning against the north end of the desk, peering into the parking lot. Barney’s expression was grim. He said, “We may have trouble here!”

  Lockington hung his hat on its favorite nail, yawning. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, there’s a horse-faced guy in an ’87 blue Caddy out there. He was there when I got here, and he keeps staring at the office. He’s probably armed—guess I better go out and take him.”

  Lockington turned, following Barney’s gaze, locating the blue Cadillac. He said, “Look, kid, you got real lucky with Frank Addison, but one of these days you’re gonna swing at an armed man, and he’s gonna pump a pound of lead into your navel!”

  “But we just can’t sit here!”

  “You can—I can’t.”

  “You’re gonna take him?”

  “I’m gonna talk to him—he’s a client.”

  Lockington snatched his hat from the nail, jammed it onto the back of his head, and went out to Gordon Kilbuck’s Cadillac, getting in. Kilbuck said, “Who’s the guy at the desk?”

  “A member of my staff—he’s in charge of aerial reconnaissance.”

  Kilbuck didn’t smile. “Got anything?”

  “I had a couple of decent possibilities—lost both of ’em.”

  Kilbuck shook his head disapprovingly. “Well, dammit, Lockington, how did you manage to do that?”

  “It was easy. They got killed.”

  Kilbuck blinked, his jaw sagging. “Oh, my God—sorry, Lockington!”

  “So am I.”

  “They were murdered?”

  “Rather thoroughly, I’d say.”

  “On account of this—this Fedorovich business?”

  “Ten’ll get you twenty.”

  “The KGB?”

  “I’ve discounted the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.”

  Kilbuck whistled. “Jesus H. Christ—now what?”

  Lockington said, “Well, as I figure it, you drive down to Polly’s Place and play a few innings of grab-ass with Nanette, and I get back to looking for Alexi Fedorovich.”

  “There’s still a chance?”

  “There’s always a chance, but some chances are better than others. So far, I’ve been stuck with the others.”

  “All right, whatever you say.”

  Lockington said, “Watch yourself, Kilbuck—there’s a few heavies mixed up in this.”

  Kilbuck nodded, Lockington got out, and Kilbuck peeled rubber leaving the Mahoning Plaza parking lot. Barney was standing in the office doorway, thumbs hooked in his belt in the Hollywood-established fashion of Dodge City gunslingers.

  Lockington gave him an okay sign, getting into the Mercedes to drive east on Mahoning Avenue. He turned left at the big red-brick church, pulling to a stop across the street from 24 North Brockway. The driveway of 25 North Brockway was a narrow uphill thing and he climbed it to go to the rear of a small gray dwelling, knocking lightly on the door.

  A heavy-set elderly woman with horn-rimmed spectacles responded. She wore a pink bathrobe and fuzzy blue bedroom slippers and a wart on the end of her nose. She looked him over. “Cop?”

  Lockington nodded. “May I come in for a few minutes, ma’am?”

  She stepped clear of the doorway, allowing him to come in. “I heard there was cops all over the neighborhood last night, but I was playing bingo at St. Ann’s—Friday night’s my bingo night.”

  Lockington said, “It was Candice Hoffman’s, too.” He sat gingerly on a rickety chair at a wobbly table. There was a crossword puzzle book on the table and an ancient Sessions clock ticked loudly on a wall. The kitchen was neat. It smelled of nutmeg, Lockington thought—or maybe it was ginger. He didn’t know one spice from another. He said, “Is it okay if I smoke a cigarette, ma’am?”

  “It’s okay if you got one for me—I’m fresh out.” Lockington gave her a Camel, holding a match for them. He said, “Sorry, no filters.”

  She sucked on the cigarette, inhaling, permitting smoke to trickle from her nostrils. This one appreciated tobacco. She said, “Filters are for fairies. I ain’t no fairy!”

  “May I have your name, ma’am?”

  “Mabel Johannsen, what’s yours?”

  “Poirot, ma’am.”

  Mabel Johannsen said, “I’m a widow, my kids are in California, I got no dogs, no cats, no job, no prospects.” She considered her situation. She said, “Shit!” Then she said, “But I keep a clean house, which is more’n I can say for some people.” She slipped a cheap glass ashtray onto the table at Lockington’s elbow.

  “Before this happened, have you noticed anything that appeared suspicious across the street?”

  “Sure have—Mrs. Gossman’s out of town—Kansas City, I think—and there’s been a woman coming there in the afternoons and she stays two, three hours. If you ask me, old Vern Gossman’s got another iron in the fire!”

  “I meant at Candice Hoffman’s house.”

  Mabel jerked a chair from under the kitchen table, seating herself with a resounding thump. “Like what?”

  Lockington pushed the ashtray in Mabel’s direction. “Oh, like maybe Candice is entertaining gentlemen callers.”

  “No, nothing like that, but what’s suspicious about entertaining gentlemen callers? Hell, I entertain a couple every week, and, mister, when I entertain ’em, I guess they stay entertained! The bastards never come back!”

  Lockington said, “Well, then, anything that would seem to be slightly out of the ordinary?”

  Mabel shook her head. “I hardly ever look over that way—I watch a whole bunch of TV, and I mind my own business, which is more’n I can say for some people.”

  “What can you tell me about Candice Hoffman—did you know her well?”

  “Oh, not real well, but well as most, I’d say. Candice ain’t been home much this summer—probably visiting her mother. Candice took care of her own, I gotta say that for her—can’t say it for some people.”

  “She was married?”

  “She was, yes, until her old man got drunk and ran his car into a bridge abuttment
out in Columbiana County.”

  “Dead?”

  “If he ain’t, they buried somebody what looked exactly like him.” Mabel chuckled. She’d liked that line.

  “Where does Candice’s mother live?”

  “I don’t know—never asked her, but it can’t be too far from here—sometimes she ain’t gone much over an hour. I suppose the old woman’s sick.”

  “Her father—is he still living?”

  “She’s never mentioned him. I suppose he’s gone. Her mother’s got to be in her sixties, and men-folks usually go first—ever notice that?”

  Lockington nodded. “What was Candice’s maiden name, do you know?”

  “No idea.”

  Lockington snuffed out his cigarette. “She had no friends—no visitors?”

  “Just neighborhood people, far as I know—Candice was well liked—I’ve been over there lotsa times for coffee. Candice made damn good coffee, which is more’n I can say for some people.”

  Lockington got to his feet. “Well, thanks, Mabel—sorry to have messed up your morning.”

  “No problem, officer. Candice’s daughter used to come around once in a month of blue moons—maybe you could talk to her.”

  Lockington sat down. “She had a daughter?”

  “Yeah, her only kid, I think—Brenda—real good looker. Brenda’s in her late twenties, I’d say.”

  “Brenda—Brenda Hoffman?”

  “Not now—Brenda’s been married two, three times—can’t hold onto a man. I had my husband for thirty-one years—all depends on how you treat ’em.”

  “What’s Brenda’s latest married name?”

  “Damned if I know—it was Carpenter the first time, but that one went bust in hurry. Carpenter drank and chased floozies, Candice said, but then what man don’t? You wanta keep your man, you gotta look the other way now and again.”

  “Brenda has kids?”

  “Never heard of any—Candice would of mentioned ’em—Candice was crazy about kids. Anyway, Brenda’s a nympho, and them nymphos got no time for kids—kids take ’em outta circulation.”

  “Who told you that Brenda’s a nympho?”

  “Candice did—only she didn’t come right out with it—-she just talked around it, but you couldn’t miss what she was driving at.”

  “How long had Candice lived here on North Brockway?”

  “Well, let’s see—since ’81 or thereabouts.”

  “Brenda was living with Candice then?”

  “No, she got married early—probably right after she graduated from high school, if she even graduated—you know how today’s kids are—can’t wait to get married, can’t wait to get divorced. I didn’t get married till I was twenty-eight—Jake was thirty-one—it pays to wait, I always say.”

  “Any information on Candice’s wake?”

  “Sure—Sabatini’s over on South Avenue—tonight, six to ten.”

  “You’re going?”

  “Oh, hell, no—wakes depress me—some people enjoy ’em!”

  Lockington nodded, getting up, thanking Mabel again, tipping his hat to her as he went out, remembering that he’d forgotten to take the damned thing off. There was a man leaning against the right front fender of the Mercedes. Lockington said, “Good morning, Frank.”

  “I recognized your car,” Addison said.

  “I got the only black ’88 Mercedes in Mahoning County?”

  “You got the only black ’88 Mercedes with 987-KN plates.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Around the corner.”

  Lockington unlocked the Mercedes. “Get in.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Lockington rolled down the windows. He said, “Frank, you got a cigarette? I left mine on Mabel Johannsen’s kitchen table.”

  “Well, hell go back and get ’em!”

  “Naw—Mabel was fresh out.”

  33

  Borts Field is in Youngstown, Ohio’s principal West Side recreational facility—baseball, football, swimming, tennis—bounded by Connecticut Avenue to the north, Oakwood to the south, Millet to the west, Belle Vista to the east. Frank Addison had suggested that they drive down there and Lockington had done so, parking on Millet Avenue. They sat in the third base line bleachers, soaking up the mid-October sunshine, sucking on cans of orange soda they’d bought from an Oriental lady in a little store on Oakwood Avenue. Addison was gazing over the deserted expanses of Borts Field, smiling. It was a nostalgic smile—Lockington knew a nostalgic smile when he saw one, he’d smiled a few of his own. Addison was saying, “I got some memories here—one time I hit a homer with two men on in the ninth and we won it 4–3 . That baseball traveled three city blocks.”

  Lockington thought about it. “Some wallop—damn near half a mile.”

  Addison chuckled. “Back in those days, a lotta guys hit ’em that far.” He pointed east toward Belle Vista Avenue. “Those chain-link fences weren’t out there then, so if you busted a liner into right-center, sometimes it’d bounce through the hedges along the perimeter, and if it got through the hedges, it’d roll down the embankment to Belle Vista Avenue.”

  “That ain’t no three city blocks.”

  “No, but Belle Vista runs downhill to the north, and that damn ball would roll across Connecticut Avenue and keep right on rolling.”

  Lockington said, “I see,” knowing that when a guy Addison’s age gets to talking about the sports heroics of his youth, it’s hard to get him stopped.

  Addison was rambling on. “I was hitting third in the lineup and do you know what that number-four hitter said when I crossed the plate?”

  Lockington shook his head.

  “He told me that if I hadn’t done it, he would have!”

  Lockington shrugged. “Well, he could have.”

  “Goddammit, Lockington, there was two outs—if I’d struck out, that sonofabitch wouldn’t have got a chance to do it!”

  Lockington nodded, letting the subject fade. The sun was hot and they took off their jackets, draping them over the splintered green benches of the bleachers. They watched a flock of pigeons wheel from the west to land on the infield. In a minute or so, Addison glanced at Lockington. “Do you like pigeons?”

  Lockington said, “Sure—doesn’t everybody? What’s wrong with pigeons?”

  “I didn’t say there was anything wrong with ’em, I just asked if you liked the rotten little bastards.”

  Lockington yawned, “Okay, so I like pigeons.”

  A couple of teenage kids on bicycles came rolling down the hill from Oakwood Avenue, riding directly at the birds, frightening them to flight. Addison glanced at his watch. “Those kids oughta be in school.”

  Lockington said, “They oughta be in jail—they spooked the pigeons!”

  Addison finished his can of soda. “You believe in God, don’t you, Lockington?”

  “Yeah—what’s your point?”

  “No point, but anybody who likes pigeons just gotta believe in God.”

  “And you’re wondering why I’m looking into Candice Hoffman’s murder.”

  “I ain’t gonna ask—I’m gonna let you tell me.”

  Lockington’s smile was dismal. “It’s pretty much the same story you heard at the Golden Sombrero—I’m looking for an individual that Abigail Fleugelham knew a long time ago. It’s possible that Candice Hoffman was remotely connected with him.”

  “A long time ago?”

  “No, recently.”

  “How recently?”

  “About as recently as you can get.”

  “You’re looking for a ‘him’—you didn’t tell me that earlier.”

  “Candice Hoffman was alive earlier.”

  Addison sat hunched forward on the bleachers bench, elbows on his knees, chin cupped in his hands. After a while he said, “So, what’s it all about?”

  Lockington said, “I can tell you this much—I think that there’s a human trail leading to the guy I’m trying to find, and I think that somebody’s on
the trail with me.”

  “Who’s in the lead?”

  “He beat me to Candice Hoffman, didn’t he?”

  “Fleugelham, then Hoffman—apparendy he’s eradicating the trail. Why?”

  “Possibly to slam the door on a third tracker.”

  “Who would the third guy be?”

  “I don’t know—I’m not concerned with a third man—it’s the second sonofabitch that worries me. He’s close!”

  “If he’s close, you’re close!”

  “Which is why he’ll probably try to kill me.” The pigeons were back. Lockington said, “I like that gray one with the white chest—the one on the pitcher’s mound. Proud-looking cuss, ain’t he?”

  “Forget the pigeons. If this other man finds the guy you’re trying to locate, will he kill him?”

  “Certainly.”

  They got up, leaving the bleachers, walking a few yards to Oakwood Avenue, turning west toward Millet and the Mercedes. Addison said, “Look, Lockington, if it’s any of my business, why did you take this case?”

  “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

  “It wasn’t a chicken, it was a pigeon.”

  Lockington said, “That’s why I took the case.”

  34

  Cayuse Bresnahan was seated at the wheel of his brown Ford Escort just east of Lockington’s Mahoning Plaza office. He beeped his horn when Lockington got out of the Mercedes. Lockington ambled over to the Escort. Bresnahan’s black Stetson had been pushed to the back of his head at a rakish angle, his sunglasses resting high on his forehead—he looked weary, Lockington thought. Bresnahan frowned. He said, “That brontosaurus is sitting at your desk!”

  Lockington said, “I know it.”

  “He works for you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I think maybe we better talk out here!”

  “Suits me, if we can find something to talk about.”

  “You’ve made no progress—none at all?”

  Lockington rested his forearms on the roof of the Escort. “What’d you expect in forty-eight hours: bands? Wild horses? Naked women?”