by M. K. Gilroy
Three hours later Heather Torgerson checks in with me when she arrives for her shift. I’ve got two CPD officers guarding me on the floor and two more cruising the area. That should keep the wolves at bay, though I do wish I had my Sig Sauer under my pillow. I wonder when I will it get it back from the ballistics lab.
The FBI insisted they place an additional resource on the floor because the case falls in their jurisdiction. I think Heather wants to chat but my head is buried in the casebooks for the Keltto murder. I may be stuck on the sidelines but Big Tony brought me enough caffeine to last me until midnight. I might as well put the time to good use.
64
THE BEAR IS in bad shape, Zheglov thought. The room reeked of infection. The giant was delirious. He should just put him out of his misery. But oh what a tale he had to tell. I can’t believe he was asleep in the room over the garage when we hit Genken. Stealing the truck was pure genius. Then he sold Sadowsky that he was me. He did good. Very good. His business idea isn’t bad either. I wish I could drive a truck. He should have gone straight to Dallas or Phoenix or wherever else he was thinking about. He didn’t need to kill the cop. She didn’t see anything. Coming after her only let the bratva and now probably the Feds know he’s not dead. Much better to be presumed dead.
So what does this mean for me? What do I do next? If I could drive a truck I’d follow his plans. If I was a miracle worker and could save him I’d go into business with him. That would be so inconceivable that no one would find us.
He looked down at the giant of a man. His chest was heaving as he gulped for air. He alternated between laughing and crying. Vlad sat next to him on the bed, doing his best to block out the stench of dying flesh.
“Med. Med. Nazar, can you hear me?”
“I can hear you, Mommy.”
“I’m not your mommy. It’s me, Vladimir.”
“Are you an angel?”
Vlad almost laughed and said, “I’m not your angel, Med.”
The Bear just smiled and nodded, no clue who was in the room with him. Maybe he sees an angel.
“Nazar. Tell me about your new business again. Tell me what you are going to do with the truck. Tell me about your new life.”
The Bear smiled and babbled in his native Russian and then switched to English and then just slurred. Didn’t matter what language he spoke in. The words made no sense anymore. I’ve lived a bad life, Vlad thought. I’ve seen many men die. Better to die happy. What better way to go? He reached for the pillow and pushed it over Med’s face. The giant was too weak to fight. He might not even know it was happening. He pressed down and put his weight into it. After sixty seconds he felt no movement. He kept the pillow pushed tightly for another two minutes to be sure.
He’d already gone through Medved’s belongings and picked out what he could use, namely cash and weapons. He had the keys to the Malibu in his pocket. It would be nice if he could drive a truck.
As Med’s body relaxed a silver crucifix fell from his hand. Vlad picked it up and looked at it closely. He crossed himself and repeated the motion over Nazar—Medved, the Bear—Kublanov. I think that’s what the priests do. Maybe he is in a better place. I think he is probably nothing in nothingness, but why not hope?
“This is a ridiculous plan, Bob,” Reynolds stormed.
“Not your call,” Van Guten interjected.
“I think Bob can answer for himself,” Reynolds snapped at her.
“Don’t fight, kids,” Willingham broke in. “Since when has a ridiculous plan bothered you Austin? We’ve done many ridiculous things as a team and a lot of them have worked. I hope you’re not letting your personal life bleed into work.”
“Bob, I’m not going to even address that last sentence. Let me say this. First, we’ve done some ridiculous, outrageous plans, but they haven’t included the abuse of a fellow law enforcement official, at least not one of the good ones.”
“I resent your use of the word abuse, Austin,” Van Guten interrupts.
“I’m not going to get into a war of semantics with you Leslie,” Reynolds says back. “Pushing an appeal forward to question everything someone—a hero in this case and the one that brought you the Shark, I might add—did in a near fatal encounter with a serial killer, without her knowledge, is dirty pool. Plain and simple. Which brings me to number two. Bob, when we’ve gone with outrageous plans there’s been a clear outcome. What’s all this for? To get a sociopathic or psychopathic serial killer to maybe talk about his delusions of grandeur? Van Guten said it herself. He’s living on Mount Olympus. So all this for what?”
“Austin, you know there are forty-seven active cases we can definitively identify according to our Elite Serial Crime Unit,” Van Guten says, breaking in. “And we all know that is a very conservative estimate. Some seemingly random murders have a common denominator and pattern that not even our best effort with Operation Vigilance has identified yet. By the time we catch most serial killers they are dead. Or they lawyer up or clam up. I thought that was what the Cutter would do and he didn’t disappoint the first eight months. But now we’ve finally got a live one who wants to communicate. We can’t let this get past us. Getting him to talk will save lives. I think that’s a very clear outcome.”
“Then let Conner know.”
“If we did that, we’d have to let the whole Chicago Police Department know,” Willingham said. “No matter how small the circle, someone will tell someone else.”
“If CPD brass finds out about this they’ll never help us on a case again.”
“They won’t find out,” Willingham persisted.
“What if the judge agrees with Abrams?”
“He won’t,” Willingham said.
“You know that for sure? It’s already fixed?” Reynolds asked.
“That would be something you learn strictly on need to know basis, soldier. I wouldn’t tell you either way.”
“Is this even legal?” Reynolds asked.
“Of course an appeal before trial is legal,” Van Guten said.
“I hope we’re not crazy enough to tamper with a judge on a case this important,” Reynolds said. “But I might be even more afraid of what we’re trying to do if we haven’t.”
“You’re pushing it, Austin,” Willingham said.
“Okay, Bob,” Reynolds said, matching his glare. “Do your thing. But don’t ask for my help if you and Leslie screw the pooch. I work for you but I have nothing to with this.”
“Is that for you to say?” Willingham asked.
“Of course it is,” Reynolds said.
“Austin, you are not thinking clearly on this,” Van Guten said, stepping in to interrupt an escalation of words.
“You’d be surprised how clear my mind is these days,” Reynolds said. “I’m heading back to New York. Time to bear down on Pasha Boyarov.”
Reynolds looked at his watch. No time to get back to the hospital.
He texted a quick message: Back in a few days. Be safe.
65
AFTER READING THROUGH the Keltto murder case notes twice—and finding nothing new to help us—I go through the Chicago bratva pictures and notes that Spencer Doyle gave us. I need to stay in touch with him. I suspect he will be mayor some day.
The Red Mafiya. The American bratva. The Moscow oligarchs. This has nothing to do with me. My involvement with them is absolutely accidental. I heard a preacher say that there are no accidents, only Providence. I pray every day. I ask for God’s help. I ask Him to use me. But I’m not real sure I’m on His go-to list. Feels for sure like a coincidence to me. But there were some pretty amazing coincidences that helped me catch a serial killer. I did some things right as a detective but at the end of the day, my encounter with the Shark seemed meant to be. I got a few breaks and worked them hard—but at times, most of the time—I was blind. Providence? Okay, it’s too hard to follow this line of thought. I’ll go with what my dad said. God works in mysterious ways. I hope so.
I hit my walkie-talkie call button and
Heather comes in. She’s faster than room service.
“I’m going to lock up my files and need a witness,” I say.
CPD has to approve any secured locations outside the premises for classified documents—or they don’t leave the building. Zaworski and Nelson worked out a special dispensation that consists of a metal attaché handcuffed to a radiator. Torgerson is on the short list of approved witnesses.
We check in the files and she asks, “You have enough energy to talk?”
“I don’t know, Heather. The caffeine is finally wearing off and I’m about ready to zonk out. Can we talk another time?”
“Not with me,” she says, almost smiling. “There’s a patient in ICU. Says she knows you. Just so happens she’s under police watch as well. Want to guess who?”
Oh man. No way can I talk to Nancy. I’ve been told to stay away.
“Here or there?” I ask.
“Has to be there.”
“I think I just woke up, Heather.”
“You’ve done so good Kristen. I know it sounds weird but I’m proud of you. I remember when you were just a little girl at the bus stop. Eddy and I could never have kids. I didn’t think it mattered. But then I’d watch you guys messing around before the bus came and went. Sometimes I’d wish.”
Nancy pauses, her thoughts miles and years away. She was always a pretty lady. She looks old all of a sudden. I shouldn’t be here.
“Do you remember when you and that kid . . . I can’t remember his name . . . got in a fight?”
Paul McIlwain. A bully. He was picking on another kid. Can’t remember the kid’s name. McIlwain was bigger than me and had me flat on my back with his fist raised to punch my lights out. He would have won if he had. But he had to be a big shot and lower his face to my face to tell me girls couldn’t fight. I head-butted him and broke his nose. A punch or head-butt in the nose ends most fights. His mom came down to my house to complain. My mom was shocked and horrified. My dad did his best not to smile.
“Your family was always very nice, Kristen. Wish we’d spent more time with you guys.”
“So what’s going on, Nancy? I don’t think you want to talk to me for a walk down memory lane.”
A tear runs down her cheek.
“I’ve messed my life up, Kristen. Eddy deserved better. I was never a very good wife. He was always such a good guy. He’d give the shirt off his back to help anyone in need. I never did anything. I was difficult to live with. I think that’s why he got involved in so many outside activities. It was a lot easier than listening to me complain.”
“Is that really the way it was or are you trying to get me to feel sorry for you?”
“I wish I could say it was the latter. But no, I wasn’t great to live with. I’m ashamed to say, but Leslie wasn’t my first affair. Does that shock you?”
“Honestly? I know it shouldn’t with all I’ve seen in police work, but it does.”
“You’re probably judging me right now aren’t you?”
“Do you want me to be honest?”
“Nah, don’t answer,” she says with a half laugh and half grimace.
We sit in silence for a long moment. I can’t ask her anything. I shouldn’t be here. I’ve got Torgerson to back me up that this conversation is at Nancy’s insistence. But with the Cutter working on an appeal and Don warning me to stay away from her, I really want to get out of here. I don’t want to hear anything that will hurt our case—we have enough ammunition already. I don’t want the slightest taint on what we have on her.
“Kristen, I deserve anything I get on this. I don’t want to screw up things for anyone else. I know you want out of here. But I’m going to tell you three things you need to hear if you want to find who killed Eddy. Have your FBI friend come in if you want a witness that I’m in my right mind.”
You don’t want to slow down the flow when a suspect starts talking. But I realize she’s right.
“Give me a second.”
I get up, go to the door, and tell Heather what’s going on. She returns to Nancy’s bedside with me and pulls up the second visitor’s chair.
I have her give her name, the date, and that she is not being coerced. She says the words as I write them. I hand it to her with a pen and she signs it.
“Okay Nancy, tell me,” I say.
She takes a couple of deep breaths and says, “First, I didn’t kill Eddy. Second, Leslie had nothing to do with this. He said some crazy things about us getting married and him moving in with me or us starting over on the West Coast. But he never said anything about getting rid of Eddy other than pushing me to file divorce papers on him so we could be together.”
And? That’s it? I think Heather and I are holding our breath.
“Third . . . you need to take a hard look at Bradley.”
Where is this coming from? Bradley’s only fourteen. Sure there are juveniles who commit murder. It’s not common, but it happens.
“Why Bradley?” I ask.
“Eddy tried to help him some. He told me he didn’t trust him. For Ed to say that is a big deal. Eddy also said that Bradley had a temper and gave him a push one day.”
“Where did that happen?”
“In the garage. Eddy was teaching him how to do woodwork.”
“Did Ed report it?”
“No. He just told me. So I’m sure that doesn’t hold much weight with you. I know for a fact Bradley’s had some troubles with the law that include violence. I’m pretty sure his records are sealed. His mom told me.”
Okay. This is big. Why are we just learning about Bradley possibly having some violence in his past now?
“Anything else, Nancy?” I ask.
“Well . . . this is kind of embarrassing … but I caught him trying to spy on me some. I didn’t think anything at first. Teen boys can get a crush on an older woman or anything that walks on two legs easy enough. But he was sneaky about it. I started pulling the shades. He really started giving me the creeps.”
Okay.
“I’m not saying he had anything to do with Ed’s murder . . . and I don’t what to see a kid get in trouble any more than he already has . . . I hope I’m wrong, but I’d just take a look if I was you.”
I feel sick to my stomach. Was Leslie Levin set up by a fourteen-year-old? Have we been set up?
Back in the room, Heather helps me go through the case files one more time. It’s tiny but there is definitely a notation on Bradley’s information sheet that a juvenile court has sealed files on young Mr. Starks. Heather caught it. I’m mad. I shouldn’t have missed it. It is way too late to call Squires or Blackshear. I ping them with a text and set my alarm for seven to call them early. I drift into a troubled sleep, my thoughts darting back and forth between the Cutter, Nancy, Bradley, even Reynolds. For having something he just had to tell me, he sure has gone silent.
66
VLADIMIR ZHEGLOV DROVE the Malibu due east on I-80 and stopped in South Bend, Indiana, to check into a motel and catch some sleep. South Bend. The only reason he knew the name of the town was the Notre Dame football team. He watched a little pro football but didn’t really care enough to understand it. At least there was real football to watch on TV now. The only time he got to see Dynamo Moscow was during Euro Cup match play. But he’d taken a liking to Arsenal in the British Premiere League, which was on TV a lot in the US. The Arsenal was owned by a Russian oligarch.
Who is in charge? Vlad asked himself.
Genken held on too long and didn’t have a succession plan in place. It would probably be Luytov now. Ishutin was too old. Teplov didn’t know what he was talking about. Genken should have set it up a couple years ago, but naming your successor was dangerous. And everyone knew Pasha was his favorite. Maybe that’s what emboldened Pasha to say yes when Moscow came calling with a lousy idea.
You didn’t have to be a genius to know someone wanted to create bioweapons to use against the US. But that was stupid, he thought. The US was where the action and money was. Why would Putin kill
the goose that laid the golden eggs?
He slept eight hours. Vladimir wasn’t sure he moved the entire night. He was up at seven and looked at the four phones on the small desk in his room. His, Teplov’s, and the two untraceable prepaid phones Teplov had got for the two of them to stay in touch with. Risk turning them on? He needed to know what was going on. He could turn them on and put them in airplane mode except for a minute or two at a time. But still, no more than three or four minutes of power per phone in case there was some other signal going out. He would be on the road shortly. East? West?
He turned on his own phone first. He put it in airplane mode as soon as it powered up. Hopefully it hadn’t connected with a cell tower letting someone know he was alive and where he was. He had thirty missed calls with no voice messages. Everyone in Pasha’s gang was running scared and didn’t dare put their name into the digital ether world—but they wanted to know what was going on. He scanned the list and saw two calls from Luytov. He wrote down the number. He checked for text messages and had more than fifty. He scanned them quickly. Most were from men that reported to him and all basically asked the same thing, Vlad, what is going on?
Wish I could tell you.
Two texts from Luytov. Gleb Lutyov. The first said, “Call!” The second said, “We need to talk.”
Do we?
He turned the phone off and followed the same process on Sergei Teplov’s phone. He didn’t recognize most numbers. There were a couple from Luytov and a bunch from Sadowsky. He wrote down Sadowsky’s number and turned off the phone.
He powered on Teplov’s cheap prepaid Nokia. The model had been around so long the call time probably cost more than the phone itself.
He called Luytov. Gleb picked up on the fourth ring.
“Yeah?”
“You know who this is,” Vlad said.
The man would know it was him or he wouldn’t. No way was he giving his name to be heard by the NSA listeners.
