by Mike Knowles
“No, I got some uniforms with some mops. They’re just gonna wring ’em out back at the lab.”
“Not all of the blood belongs to the girl; some of it belongs to Igor. If you compare it to the blood left on the bed in the hospital, you will find a match.”
“He good for it?”
“I didn’t kill the nurse. He was the last one to see her alive. Either he did it or the girl did after she let him loose. She was a hard one; don’t let the skinny legs fool you.”
“This is a start, but where’s Igor?” said Morrison. “I have to have someone to tie all this blood to.”
“He’s in the wind, but I’ll have him soon,” I said. “What happened with the two men on the scene?”
“We found them in the bedroom fucking with the mattress. Put a big slit down the centre. They don’t speak English though. Only word they seemed to have a grasp of was ‘lawyer.’ That was one word they knew real well.”
“You know who they are?”
“I know they’re Russians.”
“They work for Sergei Vidal.”
“No shit.”
“No shit,” I said.
“Why were they here?”
“You’re the detective. I’m sure you can piece together a motive if you put your mind to it,” I said as I put the phone on my shoulder so I could use both of my hands to pull the drywall free.
“So,” Morrison said, “I have Sergei Vidal’s men at the site of a brutal slaying with shit thrown all over the house like someone was searching for something. Something they didn’t find yet, because there was nothing in the car or on them. What am I gonna find in the house?”
I ignored the question. “Is Miller there?”
“Why?”
“I want you to tell him something.”
“I told you he’s clean,” Morrison said, still clinging to his badge brother.
“Why do you stick up for him when you know he’s dirty?”
“And how do I know that? Because you told me? You think your word means anything to me? I know your type — I’ve been schooled on people like you since birth. My brother is like you. He’s a meth addict ’cept back home on the island we don’t call it meth. We call it P. He’s twelve years older than me, so he was my idol growing up. Problem was he lied all the time so he could get high. He’d say we’d go to the park after school, but he’d never come get me because he was high. He’d tell me we’d go to a rugby game, but I would sit home all night in my jersey because he went and got high. When he got worse, he’d steal from me to get high. He stole my bike, my Nintendo, one time he sold my new shoes. Every time he came down he’d swear it would never happen again, but it would because he was a junkie, and lying is part of being a junkie. See, to me, you’re just like him. You’ll say anything you can to get what you want, but it will always be a lie because you’re a junkie just like him.”
I pulled some cheap insulation out of the wall and dropped it on the floor. The other wall of Igor’s room was now visible through the square hole I’d made.
“You’re not on P like my brother, you’re a criminal addicted to something stronger than meth; something much more addictive — staying out of jail. I don’t really need to explain to you how hooked you are on staying out of a cage, do I? It’s only been a few days since I turned you loose, and you’ve already killed a man with my gun and blackmailed me with it to avoid doing time. What other things have you done, that I don’t know about, to get your fix? Who else had to die so you could walk the streets?”
“Let’s cut the shit. You and I are both bent. You set me loose, Morrison. Everything that happened was because you saw fit to use me as bait. And what was I on the hook for? You just wanted a bust you could attach your name to so you could get ahead, so don’t try to pretend that you’re Dudley Do-Right. You’re just an opportunist with a badge — a different kind of junkie who gets off on his pay grade.”
“You’re right about that, mate. There’s definitely some dirt under my fingernails. Most cops are a little dirty. No one trusts a guy who doesn’t have a little stink on him. And maybe Miller has dirtier hands than me, but I’m not turning on him on your say so. I know you’re running game, mate, I’ve been lied to by better, and it won’t work.”
“Maybe I am wrong about Miller,” I said. “But you set me loose to shake the trees. You wanted me to find you a bigger fish to arrest, and now you’re changing the rules because the fish I found stinks. You need to get okay with what I have because there is nothing else on the menu. You want a big bust with a lot of press? Then you need to accept that Miller is involved in some way. Deep down you know I’m right. You have to admit, things just seem to have a habit of happening when he’s around.”
Morrison sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “They do.” He paused, and I heard him taking a deep breath. He let it out slowly, then said, “What do you want me to tell him?”
“You just tell him that Sergei is taking a run at Igor. Tell him that you heard it from a couple of your sources on the street while you were looking for Igor. Tell him Sergei almost got him, and you’re sure that Igor will be turning up dead any day now. Tell him your CI’s are saying that whoever brings Igor in will be set for life. Get that? Set for life.”
“Is it true?”
“Enough of it is.”
Morrison sighed and told me he’d pass it along.
“You need to do it fast,” I said.
“He’s been hanging around for the last hour. He’s real interested in the scene. I’ll tell him now.”
“How did it end with your brother?” I asked.
Morrison paused, and when I heard his voice again it was serious. “I arrested him the day I became a cop, and I broke his arms so he couldn’t shoot up anymore.”
I hung up and listened with a motel glass against the single sheet of drywall separating me and Igor. I could hear him grunting clearly enough, then I heard a crash. I walked back inside the other room, gun in hand, and found Igor toppled in his chair. He had rocked back and forth too hard and had sent the chair over on its back. I righted the chair and rested the blade of the folding knife between Igor’s legs. I understood Igor. He worked out of a strip club, kept a woman he never touched, and beat her regularly because he was emasculated. Everything he did was meant to seize some part of the masculinity he felt he was lacking inside. Igor was empty, but he still had the right useless decorations. I slid the knife forward until it met resistance. His head thrashed, but the rest of him stayed frozen. Igor couldn’t afford to move because of the knife against his balls.
“Igor,” I said. His eyes were shut tight. I pushed harder and said it again, “Igor.” He looked at me, and I leaned in closer. “You’re already a fucking joke. Everyone sees through you. Those who don’t think you’re gay. What will they say when they find out you have no balls? Will they still let you run the strip club if they know you can’t enjoy it?”
Hitting Igor where it hurt was never going to be physical. If I cut him, he would give up and accept death. If I pierced something inside, something deep and emotional that was already rotten and festered, I would have him.
“You can get out of this, Igor.” I showed him the red knife. “You want out?”
Igor nodded vigorously.
“All you have to do is make a call and say what I tell you to say. One call and we’re done. Sound good?”
Igor nodded.
“Stay put.”
I sat on the bed and wrote out what Igor was to say on the inside of a red palm Bible left inside the night stand. When I finished, I capped the pen and got Igor’s cell phone out of his pants on the floor. I powered the phone up, pulled the tape on Igor’s mouth free in one pull, and asked, “What’s Miller’s number?”
Igor looked at me puzzled for a moment. “Miller?”
“This isn’t about you, Igor. You’re just too stupid to realize that.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Then tell me the number.”
Igor
told me, and I dialled. I put the phone between his shoulder and ear and rested the knife back against his balls. Igor grunted and then started reading.
“It’s me. Listen, I’m in some shit, but I can bring it around. I just need some help. Sergei’s trying to fuck me, and nothing can make that change, so I’m gonna fuck with him first. I’m gonna give you some places that he uses, dirty places. You’re gonna bust ’em. You’ll have enough to take down Sergei, then I’ll take over.”
I pulled the phone a few inches away from his ear so I could listen to Miller backpedal. He wanted no part in taking on Sergei. I had prepared for this.
Igor read on, “If I have to take you down with Sergei, I will. Remember, I have tapes, you cocksucker. I want you at the Escarpment Motel, Room Thirteen, in one hour, or we’re done.”
I took the phone off Igor, hit end, and closed the knife.
“That plan — it will never work,” Igor grunted. “Miller will not help me go up against Sergei — it’s suicide.”
I nodded.
“You son of a bitch cocksucker. I am bait? You want Miller to tell Sergei so he can kill me. You motherfucker!”
Igor was getting loud, so I shut him up with a right hook. I didn’t put much into the punch, just enough to feel teeth break. Igor spat blood on the floor and kept his voice down. “How did you know about the tapes I had on Miller?”
“I heard you tell him about them.”
“When?”
“Right after you killed Tatiana in your kitchen.”
Igor’s mouth hung open. “You did this? All of this? You were the one in the street. You stole the money and shot at me in the restaurant. This is all your fault. You cocksucker, I’m going to . . .”
My fist hit Igor on the side of his rib cage on a spot where there was no muscle protecting the bones. This time I didn’t hold back. His body, taped to the chair, went rigid with the impact, leaving the other side open for the same treatment. I felt bones break against my fist once then twice.
“Igor, you did this, not me. You opened up something that was dead because you couldn’t let what happened go. Getting shot warped you when it should have just taught you something. You want to live in this life, you have to accept the risks. You want to live by the gun, you have to expect to die by the bullet.”
Igor didn’t answer me; his ribs were broken on both sides. Moving was agony and would be almost impossible. He forced out a few words in an almost soundless whisper. “You’re dead, Moriarty.”
I understood the threat. He would never be able to understand my response. I grinned at his fluttering eyes. “I’m not dead, Igor; I barely even exist. Death doesn’t know my name, but he keeps searching for me, and I keep moving. I know he’ll catch up one day; just not today. Today is your day.”
I put him the rest of the way out with a fist and then untaped his wrists and ankles. The ribs would confine Igor to the bed. He’d barely be able to breathe enough to stand, let alone run. I left Igor’s pistol on the corner of the night table just out of reach from the bed, propped Sergei’s shotgun in the corner, and called Morrison.
“Miller leave?”
“Yeah. He got a call and took off.”
“You free?”
“I can be, mate.”
“Get in the car and drive to Whitney Billiards. It’s near a restaurant in the West End called Greece on King.”
“I know it.”
“Get there and leave your phone on.”
I hung up on Morrison and went to my own room. Everything was in motion now. What I cooked up would either work out or end in a bloodbath.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The thin mattress in the room had two guns on it. The Glock police pistol, already on the hook for a murder, and the Colt .45. I wiped the guns down, making sure to get everything, even the brass cartridges. I didn’t want to leave anything behind. I put the Colt in the shoulder rig and the Glock behind my back. I had to be careful about which gun I fired and at who. One wrong bullet would destroy any hopes I had of walking away.
I tore a piece of thin pillowcase off and wiped down every surface in the room. I put the rag in my pocket, turned off all of the lights, and stood by the door using the peephole to watch the parking lot. Time went by, and every few minutes I moved from the door to the hole in the drywall. Igor made no sounds at all from next door.
Eventually, an unmarked police cruiser rolled past the peephole, parked in the rear corner, and killed its engine. No one got out of the car. The bedside clock had only counted thirty-five minutes since I hung up Igor’s phone. In the dark car across the lot, I saw the flare of a lighter, then the small circle of a cigarette. I knew it could go two ways with Miller. He could decide to kill Igor himself in an “attempted” arrest, earning himself a commendation, or he could trade up by selling Igor out to Sergei Vidal. I bet Miller wasn’t going to try to kill Igor in an arrest attempt. There was too much chance an investigation into Igor might turn up his name or Igor’s tapes. It would be better if Miller took care of Igor off the books. And if he was already freelancing, why not trade up for a better partner? Miller was corrupt already; why should he settle for being in bed with mid-level muscle when he could get in bed with upper management?
Miller sat quietly in his car while Igor lay silently in his bed. I watched Miller and listened to Igor, but neither man moved. I watched for nineteen minutes until a black Mercedes sedan pulled into the parking lot. The unmarked car flashed its lights once, and the Mercedes pulled in beside it. The two cars were snug together in the adjoining spaces. They stayed like that for a few minutes, probably talking through lowered windows, until Miller squeezed out of the police car. The man in the Mercedes followed — it was Sergei Vidal.
I waited, watching the Mercedes for more bodies, but there were none. Sergei had come alone. Sergei and Miller together must have been a result of a battle of wants and needs. Sergei needed Igor dead because he believed he was turning on him. Sergei was four men down, and Miller was the only way to get to Igor right away, so he had to work with him. Sergei needed Miller. Miller wanted the money working with Sergei would offer, but more than that he wanted to live. He must have insisted that Sergei come alone. That way, no one would kill him too. Miller needed Sergei alone to get what he wanted. Wants and needs had brought them together to kill a man in Room Thirteen.
Both men walked wordlessly across the parking lot. Whatever they had to say had been said when they were parked. Miller raised a fat arm and pointed to the room next to mine. Sergei, a man in his fifties with salt and pepper hair and wearing a black turtleneck and black pants, scanned the parking lot. He saw something to his left and said something I couldn’t hear, or lip read, to Miller. Sergei broke away from the other man and strode across the parking lot towards whatever he saw. As he walked, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a knife. He opened the knife and let it hang low in his left hand brushing against his thigh as he walked. The only thing in front of him would be the manager’s office. I remembered the glow of the television splashing out onto the puddles on the pavement as the kid inside working nights watched Romero movies — he’d never see the Russian coming. Sergei was beefy; his chest was barrel shaped, and he walked proudly with his shoulders back. His form told me he was powerful as a young man and surely now still stronger than most. His bulky frame left my view.
I used the time the murder in the office would take to concentrate on Miller. He had taken a spot to the left of Igor’s door. His fat back was so close I could have touched him from the open doorway. I took a few steps back and pulled out the .45. Sergei would know the room was occupied when he killed the manager. The info would be in the logbook. If he decided to try to do the occupant of the room like he did the manager, he would find the black eye of the .45 instead of a punk kid. If that happened, I would have to work on the fly. I backed up to the hole I had made in the drywall and listened with my eyes, and the gun, trained on the door. After a few minutes, the door inside Room Thirteen creaked open
and shut.
There was silence while Miller and Sergei approached the body. I took a few steps away from the wall, out of earshot, and powered up the phone. I got Morrison after one ring. “Escarpment Motel just up the street. Room Thirteen. Now!” I hung up the phone and put my ear back to the wall.
“Wake up, motherfucker!” Miller said.
There was a murmuring that must have started somewhere inside Igor’s broken ribs.
“What’s that? Speak up.”
Another murmur.
“He’s fucking high or something. I told you he was on the stuff. He doesn’t even know where he is, but we know, don’t we?”
“Finish it and let’s go,” Sergei said.
“Go ahead, Sergei. Do it.”
“Nyet. You want in? This is the way. Otherwise, I will never trust you. You want to work for me? Fine. Do your first job.”
“I work for money, not for free.”
“Fine, fine. You will be paid, now do it.”
“Well, I do like to make a good first impression. Tell ya what, Igor. I think the grief of killing your wife became too much for you to bear. You ran, got high, and then shot yourself with your own gun.”
There was some grunting and rustling before Miller said, “Stand back. You don’t want any brain matter on you. The spatter on the wall and ceiling has to be perfect, or someone will know there was someone standing near the body. Plus, that shit never gets out. We caught a body one time . . .”
“Do it!”
BANG.
“Take the shotgun,” Sergei said.
“Is it yours?”
“You work for me now. We are not partners, so shut the fuck up and get in the car. Da?”
“Yeah, yeah. I mean da, da.”
I got away from the wall and back to the peephole. A new car was parked in the middle of the lot. Detective Sergeant Huata Morrison was walking from the car to Room Thirteen. I eased the door open a crack so I could hear what went on outside.
Morrison drew his gun and screamed “Freeze!” when he saw Sergei leave the room. In his hands was the same squat revolver he had aimed at me in the cemetery.
