Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3)

by M. K. Gilroy

  A suit? No. He wanted to be ready to move fast. He picked out a nice pair of slim fit twill pants. Not warm enough for this weather but if he was outside he would be running and it wouldn’t matter.

  He picked out a jacquard-knit sweater and a mock turtle to go under it. Next he bought a pair of soft-soled desert boots. Not much protection against the polar vortex but he could run in them if needed and better than sneakers or deck shoes against the slushy streets of wintery New York. He picked out a stylish quilted jacket, continuing to make sure he selected clothes he would never otherwise buy. When he was done, he bundled what he was wearing in the small duffel he was carrying. He took a look in the mirror. Not bad. Not until we’re up close will Ruchkin know it is me. From more than a couple yards, I have a whole different look.

  He walked north, monitoring his surroundings, and went into the Tumi store and bought a large canvas tote with leather handles and edging. He eyeballed the dimensions until he was comfortable it would hold what he needed to bring to the meeting.

  He took a cab to Penn Station. In a bathroom stall he transferred a custom Remington sawed off shotgun into the bag. The barrel was less than eighteen inches long and illegal in just about every state. Didn’t matter. Everything was illegal in New York City. If he was going to be ambushed, people would die with him. He added two Springfield .45s with the maximum number of shells in the clip. He put a third Springfield in his left pocket and a fourth in his right pocket. He strapped a Gerber LMF II survival knife at his belt and a second on his right leg.

  He took the shotgun out, added a pillow to the tote so the gun was positioned close to the zipper opening. He added four more clips of .45 bullets to a side pocket.

  Pasha laughed at him and said he packed too much when they were preparing for field work. Better safe than sorry. Pasha is in custody and I’m not.

  If I’m walking into a trap, Arkady Ruchkin and whoever is backing him up will die. I might too. But not without a fight. I won’t go like Pasha did.

  Zheglov checked every public egress and exit point in and around the meeting area. He then wandered in and out of shops to check escape routes not visible to the public. He went to a coffee shop a couple blocks away, sketched out ambush points and exit routes from memory. He studied his chart for thirty minutes and returned to the Time Warner Building. He had picked a lookout spot two levels above the large basement level atrium where he and Ruchkin were to meet. It was densely congested with shoppers on a Sunday afternoon. No one wanted to venture out in the frigid air. Better to hide in a crowd anyway, Zheglov thought.

  Ruchkin was to come alone. That didn’t mean he would. He probably wouldn’t. So Vladimir watched to know who else might be studying the area to identify his threats.

  A few minutes before the meeting time Zheglov spotted Ruchkin, a mid-level attaché in the agricultural department, who supposedly held a much higher level in a field that paid much more lucratively than tracking wheat, corn, and soy beans.

  He had already spotted a man across the atrium floor that looked like a good candidate. He looked back over at him. Sure enough, he watched Ruchkin as he neared the meeting spot. Then the two men gave one another small, barely perceptible nods. Vladimir almost smiled. Amateurs. They were handlers, not field men. They needed to get out more often and get their hands dirty tilling the soil of their profession.

  The agreed signal was Ruchkin would order one cup of coffee if he thought their meeting was in anyway compromised. Don’t come. Two cups of coffee meant it was fine to join him at the table.

  Vladimir’s eyes swept the crowd for another five minutes. He couldn’t find a second man. Another mistake. Ruchkin was now in place, two cups of coffee on the table.

  Vlad took the escalators down one level. Ruchkin’s watcher never saw him coming. It was too easy. He slid the stiletto between two ribs in the back and pushed to where he knew the heart was.

  He caught him around the waist before he could fall forward and put one of his arms over his shoulder. He half carried, half dragged the man to the door of the men’s restroom. A young punk with about twenty facial piercings gave him a hard look. Trying to be a tough guy.

  “Excuse me. My friend is sick. He is about to vomit again.”

  The kid made room for him to pass through the door.

  A stall was open. He got inside with him, undid the man’s belt, dropped his trousers, and sat him on the toilet seat. He pulled out a roll of duct tape, wrapped it around the man’s torso four times and then around the toilet tank until the roll was empty. The man had died instantly and wasn’t going to stand up and leave. But Vladimir didn’t want him falling forward. He checked the tape and stood up. The man’s bowels released. A rancid stench filled the space. Good. More realistic.

  The whole process took less than two minutes, from stopping his heart to taping him to toilet tank.

  He yanked the ear bud out of the man’s ear, found the transmitter, and stuffed both in his jacket pocket.

  He exited the restroom and strode confidently to Ruchkin’s table. The man looked slightly surprised. He was expecting a heads up from his compatriot.

  “Sorry I am late. I got detained. Thank you for the coffee.”

  “No problem and my pleasure,” Ruchkin answered.

  “Were you followed?”

  “No. I’m certain of it. I took precautions. With everything going on, I was very, very careful.”

  “And you came alone?”

  “Of course. We agreed.”

  “Good. Tell me what is happening.”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Zheglov reached across the table and calmly pulled the listening device from Ruchkin’s ear.

  “You won’t be needing that. Now give me the transmitter.”

  Ruchkin looked shocked.

  “If I have to ask you again you won’t like what happens next.”

  Ruchkin pulled a matching device from inside his coat pocket and handed it to Vlad.

  “Let’s walk Andy. That is what Pasha calls you, Andy, not Arkady, correct?”

  He nodded and asked, “Where?”

  Zheglov’s look told Ruchkin he wasn’t going to ask a second time. The two men walked together to a cigar shop. When Ruchkin paused in the doorway, Vladimir said, “Keep walking. Past the counter.”

  They passed the cash register where a dapper gentleman with flowing white hair began to mouth a protest. He saw the Springfield .45 DMX in Vladimir’s hand and closed his lips tight. They went through the back room. Vlad pushed open a service door that opened to wide hall where deliveries were made.

  “Move and be quiet.”

  They passed the loading bay and the two men descended the steps and walked up an incline to Ninth Avenue. Vlad raised his hand for a cab.

  “We will tell each other all we know. If you cooperate, you go home to your family tonight. I am sure your wife and three lovely children would like that. Understood?”

  Ruchkin gulped and nodded.

  Zheglov knew that Ruchkin was an amateur being used by professionals. Arkady knew nothing he wanted to know except one thing. A name and how he could be reached.

  40

  I LOVE MY sister and brother-in-law—and not just because they have provided me with sweet nieces and a hyperactive nephew.

  I do wish Jimmy would end his sermons at noon, but fidgeting the last ten minutes of a church service is a small price to pay for being around good, kind, gentle people like them.

  I know I’m sounding like a Marine, but I realize I do what I do so that they can do what they do without being jaded by the ugliness of life. I have no problem with that. I am glad they are sweet and effervescent and everything I was taught to be. I love God. I’m a good girl. I’m a church girl. But a lot of my life is spent interacting with the worst of humanity. It didn’t start when I got bumped to homicide with a detective shield. Since the first time I spent a Saturday morning with my dad in a police station, seeing good and bad people come through the d
oors, all with a story of violence or debauchery, I knew I wanted to be a cop, to battle injustice at the street level.

  Okay, now I’m sounding like a comic book character. I somehow don’t think I’d like good in a cape—though Klarissa already got me a mask I can wear.

  Jimmy preached on the power of positive thinking today. It was a good sermon, even if he got carried away for an extra fifteen minutes, when he had already said everything we needed to hear. His verse was: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” I did need to hear that. I have a lot of things to do. I have to make sure the Cutter stays in prison. I want to help clear what looks like a pretty simple murder case that is starting to drag. I have to figure out how I’m going to handle the Klarissa and Austin situation. Dear God, I do need strength.

  By ten after twelve my head was bobbing, my eyelids were closing shut, and I was unsuccessfully stifling a series of jawbreaker yawns. Kaylen elbowed me. Okay, she’s not always sweet. Then my phone vibrated and against better judgment, I sneaked a look—Kaylen caught me and gave me another jab and another disapproving look. It was a text from Blackshear letting me know the deathly ill and very slow Alyson had put the O’Hare surveillance tapes on the server. It was all I could think about for the final few minutes of church service.

  I hugged my precious Princess Kendra in the church foyer, breathed in the fragrance of baby Kelsey, and captured squirming James in a bear hug—me thinks thou dost protest too much—and ventured into a blinding sunny day that promised more than it could deliver. The bright shining light couldn’t mask the bitter cold. I fired up the GTR, intent to work on the surveillance tapes at Klarissa’s place.

  At a red light I looked down to double check Blackshear’s text and respond: All son uploaded fillets. Stuck at famine event. Do you have thyme?

  It’s possible I interpreted this wrong and he wants us to cook together to end world hunger.

  I text back: Yech! at a red light. I meant to say Yes. If he isn’t editing his voice-to-text than neither am I.

  We have to get moving on the Ed Keltto murder. We think we have what we need to at least charge Nancy Keltto with murder-one.

  She is very predictable. Not smart when someone wants to kill you, though she doesn’t know that. She left her kids with other people. She is probably not a very good mother.

  Med kept three cars between his Malibu and the little sports car she was driving.

  Maybe Lady Udacha is smiling on me again. I don’t want the kids to see their mother die. If I follow the skinny detective to the right place, I’ll do it now and be on the road tonight. He patted his pockets. The gun and knife were where he left them.

  Got it. Leslie Levin wasn’t lying. I’m watching grainy black and white footage. I see his make and model enter the parking lot. I get a good look at the license plates and confirm it is his black Infiniti. I note the file number and time stamp. I do the math in my head. Was there any way he could have driven from West Lawn where Keltto was murdered and get to O’Hare at 6:30? I wouldn’t cut it that close that close if I was flying out of town but it seems possible. Someone will have to make the drive based on the presumed time of the murder. The most likely route would be to take Cicero or Harlem to I-290 and then I-294. It would be close.

  Now I want to verify that it was actually Levin in the car.

  I look at the menu of cameras to see if I can spot his creepy face entering O’Hare. One of the most likely cameras is missing from the menu. Alyson is slow—and not very careful. Not a great combination for police work.

  I stand up. Can’t do this anymore. I need a break. But I do want to put a checkmark that Levin was at the crime scene or not at the crime scene. I plop back down. I watch another hour of video and spot him. I move the image back and forth at least five times. Yep. It’s him.

  I’m back in Klarissa’s condo. A week ago I was calling it my condo. It’s a very nice place just off Lake Shore Drive with a beautiful view of Lake Michigan, a private parking garage, and a doorman from six a.m. to midnight. Bernard works a few evenings during the week and one of the weekend nights. He is my favorite. After parking the car, I went in the lobby to say hi. How old is he? Maybe seventy, maybe eighty. His snowy white hair and deeply creased face are timeless. He is the only doorman that is allowed to eschew the dark uniforms and wear his own outfits. I can’t help but smile. His yellow tuxedo will wake you up and put a smile on your face. The purple suit with bright teal bowtie he had on tonight is maybe my favorite. Bernard is a showman whose beaming smile makes you feel good even on a bad day. He won’t call me Kristen, only Miss Kristen, so I return the favor and call him Mr. Bernard.

  “Well, well . . . Miss Kristen is back. It is so good to see you young lady,” he said to me when I popped out to greet him.

  It will be tough to give this up.

  Klarissa got rid of her townhome after a bad experience with a stalker and moved in with mom for a couple months. After interviews in Atlanta and LA didn’t pan out for a promotion to a national news show, she bought the condo. Then New York came calling. If she inks the deal, she’ll have her own primetime news show. She’s only twenty-eight. Not a bad career path.

  I think about what I’m paying her. I doubt it covers half the mortgage payment. No way. I have wondered if Klarissa will be able to maintain the arrangement when she finally gets a place of her own in New York City. There’s nothing cheap there—and she obviously won’t stay in a dump that I would find perfectly acceptable. After recent events, I’ll make it easy for her. She can sell the place or find a renter at fair market value.

  I think about sprawling on the elegant Queen Anne couch and watching some TV. But I’ve had enough excitement watching surveillance footage. I need some exercise.

  I head over to the marble foyer, drop down, and start pounding out twenty-five burpees with double pushups and jumps. I am red faced and panting heavy before fifteen. My arms are shaking by twenty-one. I roll on my back and start on fifty pikes—alternating ten fast and ten incredibly slow. My stomach is a knot by thirty. I jump up, put my hands behind my head and do lunges, starting at the doorway, crossing the living room floor, swiveling, and crossing back. I lose count but my butt and quads are burning.

  It hurts so good.

  I drop down for another twenty-five burpees—but no double pushups and jumps this time. I collapse at ten. I hate to be a quitter. When I stand up I realize I need to mop sweat off the floor. It can wait. No visitors tonight.

  I head to the master bedroom for a shower. There was no food in the refrigerator. I’ll order delivery if any drivers are willing to brave the weather. If not, I think there are some cans of soup in the small walk-in pantry. No canned peas—which is good. That will have to work if I can’t get delivery.

  I detour back to the kitchen and pull the Golden Palace menu off the refrigerator magnetic clip and order cashew chicken. Yes, they are delivering, the order taker tells me. My lucky night.

  As I towel-dry my hair after a quick shower the doorbell rings.

  That was fast. This really is my lucky night. I throw on a pair of pajama bottoms and my lucky Northern Illinois Husky sweatshirt that has seen its better days. The bell rings again.

  “I’m coming,” I yell.

  I can taste the chicken now. I forgot lunch and I’m starving. They aren’t going to brave the cold and leave quick I hope. I head for the door. Dang. I need my wallet. I head back into the bedroom to find it.

  Hurry. How often do you get this lucky? Must be a slow night for Chinese food to arrive this quickly.

  41

  “I WONDERED HOW I might reach you Vladimir,” Teplov said. “You have saved me the trouble and found me yourself.”

  The two men stared at each other, each with a gun pointed at the other’s chest. Zheglov said nothing.

  “Vladimir Zheglov. I’ve heard good things about you. Pasha Boyavov said you are very good. I can see that for myself. What you did at Genken’s was very impressive. Let me guess how yo
u found me. Ruchkin was always a weak link.”

  He looked for confirmation. Zheglov’s eyes never left his eyes or blinked. The stare was disconcerting.

  “Let me assure you,” Teplov said, “We are on the same side of this unfortunate set of circumstances. It is time we put down our weapons of mutually assured destruction and figure out what to do next. Together. There is a place for you in the new order.”

  “You put down your gun first,” Vlad said.

  Teplov sighed and lowered his Makarov, confident . . . almost . . . that Zheglov would work with him. The truth was, he was looking for Vladimir and did need him—and there was a future for him in the bratva, which would now be under total control of Moscow. None of the five active brigadiers had been selected as next Pakhan. But he could make sure Zheglov was part of the deal. Have him tie up a few loose ends, then send him overseas for a year until things cooled. When he came back he could report to the new Pakhan and become eyes and ears for him in Moscow.

  Or he could just have him killed for his role in killing Genken.

  “Sit, Vladimir. Let’s talk. Then we will toast a bright future.”

  The two men sat across from each other in comfortable leather chairs in his suite at the London Hotel. Their guns sat on a coffee table in front of them. I am good but Zheglov might be better, Teplov thought. As he prepared to speak his phone buzzed.

  “Vladimir, I am going to reach in my top pocket and accept this call. If you would like to pick up your gun to feel comfortable, you may do so.”

  Zheglov picked up his Springfield XDM 45, a nice handgun the Springfield Armory had manufactured by HS Produkt in Carlovac, Croatia. It was based on a model the Croats commissioned for their war with the Bosnians. It was reliable, which was all the trust Vladimir needed.

  “This is Sergei,” Teplov answered.

  The volume was set high and Vlad could hear the response: “This is Anasenko. U nas yest’ problemy, Sergei.”