The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  Mariya and Sonia packing for her stay with Mariya and Janos. The handsome plain-clothes militiaman in Sonia’s apartment hallway smiled each time she placed a box outside the door. The last box contained underwear and she felt a slight blush. He was a big guy, stood to one side between her apartment and the stairwell. A glimpse of his shoulder holster was reassuring.

  Placing boxes outside the open door was fine, but Mariya insisted Sonia stay within sight. Sonia held a box of towels beneath which she’d buried Marta’s jewelry box containing the lock of red hair. Mariya said wait but Sonia thought one more box out the door wouldn’t hurt. She’d get another smile, the world not entirely insane.

  The militiaman was gone. Sonia leaned out and looked the other way. No one. She put the box down and stepped out in time to hear the stairwell door click closed. Perhaps the militiaman sneaking a smoke in the stairwell.

  Sonia left the apartment door open, walked two doors down to the stairwell. When the stairwell door opened, another man—taller, darker—smiled at her. Suddenly, she was lifted into the stairwell, a hand over her mouth from behind, yet the man was still in front, smiling. Thick hands shoved her to the edge of the stairs. At the next landing she saw the handsome militiaman lying awkwardly, eyes open, a blood puddle surrounding his head. But he’d just smiled at her! And now the dark smiling man and another had her! She tried to scream but her throat collapsed as though the entire building rested on her. Her last thought was of the jewelry box buried beneath towels.

  A brass key, long blade with many serrations, no identifying marks or engravings, the kind used for bank safe deposit boxes. Janos looked back to Eva Polenkaya.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Eva went back behind her desk. “My husband—God rest his soul—said it’s a copy, given him after the breakup of the Union. It was supposed to unlock a safe deposit box containing kickback money given a Kiev party boss. After the breakup, the boss, on his deathbed, revealed he wanted the money to do the world some good, implying there was more money than anyone could count. My husband joked it was the key to the kingdom. He said there was more to the story, the key actually to a safe deposit box that contained another key, which would lead to the money. He wanted to track down the money, use it to help find missing children. Unfortunately, the key has become useless. The man who provided it was named Alexander Zolotarev. He died after giving the key to my husband, and, as you know, my husband’s dead. When Doctor Marta Adamivna Voronko visited, I discovered the Voronko family and the Zolotarev family had dealings in Soviet days and earlier, before World War II. Zolotarev family members left Ukraine during a pogrom before the war. I thought the key might provide information for Doctor Marta’s research. I was going to give it to her during an upcoming visit, but now…”

  When Eva did not continue, Janos asked the obvious. “You said the key has become useless. I understand the man who gave it to your husband’s dead, but how is the key useless?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Eva. “How could you know? My husband held the key too long. You see, the safe deposit box that was supposed to contain a key to the fortune was located in a bank in one of the Twin Towers destroyed in New York on September 11, 2001.”

  Janos sat in his car gripping the key, rain hammering the Skoda’s roof. He wanted to call Lazlo, but it was early morning in Chicago. The rain had chilled him. He started the Skoda and turned on the heater.

  A key given Eva Polenkaya’s husband by a man named Zolotarev. The Zolotarev family chased from Ukraine during a Jewish pogrom. Many Jews were forced to leave or ended up in concentration camps. Many hid valuables. Perhaps the deaths of Doctor Marta and others doing family research was rooted in Ukraine’s past.

  Janos returned the key to his pocket and was about to pull away when he noticed a black Mercedes several cars back. He’d seen the Mercedes pull up when he arrived. Shortly after Janos pulled away from the curb and headed down the street, the Mercedes followed. Rather than go back to Mariya and Sonia at the apartment, Janos drove toward Kiev Militia headquarters to see if the Mercedes followed. But then his cell phone rang, the display showing it was Mariya.

  Guilt, Mariya insisting she accompany Janos to the morgue. If only she’d stayed at Sonia’s side. If only they’d stacked boxes inside behind a locked door. If only the plain-clothes militiaman had not been overcome.

  She’s still there, running down the stairs, cradling Sonia’s head, rocking her, trying to bring back life. She’s still there, yet she’s here in the basement morgue, Janos squeezing her hand as Chief Investigator Chudin takes them first to the militiaman’s body, then to Sonia’s body.

  Afterwards Chudin left them alone in his office.

  “You’ve saved my life so many times, Janos.”

  “They would have found another way. I shouldn’t have left. We must both live with it.”

  “We need to find who did this. What did Lazlo say?”

  “He asked if our visas are in order. 1939, something in the US. After the autopsy and cremation and a brief service, we’ll fly to New York and begin our search together.”

  Mariya hugged Janos tightly. “Together.”

  Chapter 15

  Several Harleys were backed into the curb, yet Ogden Avenue’s Bent Spoke bar was quiet. Lazlo ordered a Sam Adams. The bald bartender with many tattoos smiled with missing teeth. “Things get lively later. After eight hours in an office cubicle, they change to leathers and up Ogden they come. Depending on the weather, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Lazlo.

  A back room, pool being played. Although Chicago’s smoking ban went into effect a couple years back, Lazlo picked up occasional whiffs. Perhaps a door out the back. On the bar top a Harley tank with legs was labeled “Tip Jar” with a footnote, “This used to be our smoking fund to pay fines when they were affordable, Goddamit!”

  The bartender washed glasses, put them on a drying rack, then came back and stood before Lazlo. A stereotypical moment. The bartender, towel in hand, wiping at the bar where nothing’s spilled. The bartender’s neck creases formed the tattoo line of demarcation, a rainbow of color down beneath his sleeveless tee shirt. Lazlo wondered if Bent Spoke was a gay bar, its name referencing more than roughly handled motorcycles.

  “Is asking if you’re a cop out of line?”

  “Why should it be out of line?”

  A coy smile, “You’re here for someone other than Sam Adams. You want a pad and pen?”

  “I’ve got a good memory.”

  “So, get on with it.”

  “Very well, a patron named Minkus.” A pause, the name familiar. “While researching the name I discovered a motorcycle club. I need to know if he’s been here.”

  “What if I say no? Will you slide off and leave?”

  “I haven’t finished Sam Adams. Saying you’ve never heard the name is archetypal. Yes, I was a policeman in another life. There are things I could tell you, the way you paused. You’ve heard the name. An answer will send me back to my apartment to apply what I’ve learned. Did you hear about the Ukraine case? That’s where I’m from. Investigators contact me. Women are killed by suffocation. Radioactive soil from Chernobyl stuffed into their mouths. Their jaws broken because the hand stuffing the soil is large. You have large hands, but many have large hands. The killer wears gloves, remnants of gloves found on women’s teeth. I’m a man of detail. All I ask is confirmation of your knowledge of the Minkus name.”

  The bartender walked from behind the bar to the back room doorway and shouted, “Moss, there’s a guy here I think you should see!”

  Moss was skinny, in his 70s or 80s, hard to tell. Lazlo was reminded of Willie Nelson. Moss struggled out the doorway, hanging onto the doorjamb, then made his way along the bar holding on with both hands. He wore a knit hat, sideburns and beard sticking out below the hat like hay hanging out a horse’s mouth.

  “What you want?
”

  “Important family information. It will harm no one, but may help younger persons down the road. What can you tell me about a motorcycle club member named Minkus?”

  Moss turned toward the back room, motioned to the bartender standing in the doorway. The bartender gave a come here head tilt and two bald men joined them. Not as old as Moss, both weighing over 100 kilograms, or at least 250 pounds.

  Moss said, “He wants to know if there’s someone named Minkus in the club.”

  When the 250 pounder wearing a leather vest said, “Which one?” Moss lay his head down between his arms on the bar.

  “Jesus, Bird, he didn’t ask how many there were.”

  “Well, how the fuck did I know? I thought he was a friend.”

  “He’s no friend,” said Moss.

  The two heavies moved in, held Lazlo’s arms below the shoulders.

  “Please do not drop me. I’m old and experienced.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Moss.

  “I’m from the old country. I’ve been thrown out of many bars. Ukraine bar thugs are especially brutal. You know what happens to police who dare to enter a Ukraine bike bar? Sometimes they live, sometimes they don’t. Ukraine bike bars are notorious. The bikes outside contain parts from every brand of motorcycle. Please allow me to stay. If you throw me on street without hearing questions, later your minds will be occupied with thoughts of what I was searching for. What good is that? And who would be hurt if I asked questions?”

  Moss nodded toward the two who responded by letting go of Lazlo’s arms.

  “So, go on,” said Moss.

  “Gentlemen, were there two men named Minkus?”

  Without being asked the bartender brought two glasses of cheap domestic from the bar tap and handed them to the thugs.

  “Don’t you want anything?” Lazlo asked Moss.

  Moss slid from the stool, undid his belt, and dropped his jeans. The jeans stopped at his thigh and he pushed them lower to reveal a half-full urine drainage bag.

  “Can’t have beer,” said Moss. “Doctor’s orders.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lazlo, watching Moss struggle to pull up his jeans. His boxer shorts were red, his legs white table legs.

  After dealing with a complicated belt buckle, Moss spoke. “Buddy Minkus’ old man was run over by a bus and Buddy couldn’t drop it. Kept having theories about who wanted his father dead. Cops give him zilch, so he takes a lone wolf trip searching for clues. Says his father was pushed. While Buddy’s on his trip, cops come asking about him. Turns out he’s done a horizontal park in the Colorado Rockies, gone over the side, and him and the bike are a mess. They don’t ID him for a couple weeks.”

  “What about the other Minkus?” asked Lazlo.

  “Couple weeks back, Buddy’s son Cory decides to take his own trip west to, as he said, find himself. Another lone wolf, another Minkus.” Moss smiled. “I’m a poet and don’t know it.”

  “I’m familiar with the oldest Minkus run over by the bus. I spoke with a son having the same name, George Minkus.”

  “George is Buddy’s older brother,” said Moss. “Came here after Buddy disappeared. He’s not a biker. Drove a rice burner hybrid. We told him about Buddy’s theory someone pushed the old man. Buddy was a Vietnam Vet like me. Plenty of Rolling Thunder rides.”

  “I’m on the same journey,” said Lazlo.

  “Rolling Thunder?”

  “Determining whether someone pushed or the old man fell.”

  “You should talk to older brother George again.”

  “I called before I drove my rice burner here. He said he knew nothing more. That’s when I went online and was led to the Bent Spoke.”

  “What kind of rice burner you got?” asked one of the thugs.

  “Old Honda Civic.”

  “They are dependable,” said Moss. “Want another beer?”

  “No, thank you. I must go. Good luck with your health.”

  Next morning was sunny but cool for spring. At first Guzzo grabbed tan shorts he’d worn in Arizona from the laundry basket, but after stepping outside came back for tan cargo pants. He did his own laundry, careful nothing remained in pockets. After the last trip, Vera asked, in front of the girls, how it went. Guzzo saw himself smiling in the hall mirror as he retrieved from his bag gifts he’d picked up in Sedona.

  In the backyard, Guzzo raked the lawn still brown from winter. He told Vera a Chicago suburb yard should be neat. Lately she’d begun questioning his jobs. When confronted, she gave her usual answer. She was interested in everything he did, her curiosity driven by her need to be assured of his safety and her desire to help. Vera knew many things, like the weapons, ammo, and equipment in storage facilities near major airports, but she didn’t know everything.

  A lawnmower started nearby, its engine running rough, threatening to die. Guzzo wondered if it was the same neighbor he’d helped the previous year by reattaching a throttle spring. He stopped raking and looked toward the noise. It was beyond his house, not visible. Vera stood at the kitchen window, watching him while she spoke on her cell phone. He made a point to ask later about her phone call. If the answer was unsatisfactory, he’d eventually find her phone and check recent calls. Once, after she was on the phone, he saw no recent calls and questioned her. Vera’s answer came fast. She’d wanted to call a preschool for the girls but decided against it at the last second. When he asked if she had another phone, she became angry. Guzzo waved to Vera in the kitchen window. Vera waved back, saying something into the phone.

  During a barbeque last fall, he’d been able to overhear two wives. He’d gone to his garage to fetch charcoal. Coming back around the corner of the house, he paused after cutting through backyards.

  “Vera’s from Ukraine.”

  “Does she work outside the home?”

  “Give me a break. She’s got two little girls.”

  “What does Tony do?”

  “Shipping or something. Out of town stuff when he’s busy.”

  “He was in that first Iraq war, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he’s got that tattoo.”

  “Maybe he’s in one of the intelligence agencies.”

  “Could be.”

  Guzzo smiled at his reflection as he passed his garage window, recalling a Hitchcock film he’d recently seen, the television screen reflection observed by the housemaid at the mountain home near Mount Rushmore as Cary Grant sneaks along the balcony. The housemaid holds Grant at gunpoint as James Mason and Martin Landau escort Eva Marie Saint out to the airplane idling on the runway. North by Northwest, that was the movie.

  After the job in Sun City, where he came across the Hitchcock book by Francois Truffaut, Guzzo ordered it at a bookstore, and also checked Hitchcock videos out of the library. Hitchcock’s film names often came to mind. Penny, the well-endowed Greek neighbor bending to examine bulbs surfacing in her garden, reminded Guzzo of Rear Window. When Penny stood and turned to explore her yard, she saw Guzzo and waved.

  He and Penny chatted at the corner fence post for a while. How the kids were doing, the spring weather, promises to get together more this summer. Penny said she’d just gotten off the phone with Vera and this enhanced Guzzo’s neighborly mood.

  He fired up his Sears lawn tractor and began pulling the lawn aerator he’d rented the day before. Halfway through the backyard, he felt his phone in his hip pocket. Without shutting off the tractor, he checked the display. The blank text was from P, meaning he’d be expected at the fish market the following Monday. He’d have lunch at his favorite restaurant, and afterward meet Pescatore. He put his phone away, put the tractor in gear, and pushed the throttle.

  George Minkus Junior’s wife left Lazlo and George alone in the living room. On the coffee table was a framed photograph of George and another man, arms around one another’s shoulders. George had short salt-
and-pepper hair, round face, and was heavyish. The other man was thinner, had a runaway beard, and wore a red, white, and blue star-spangled do-rag.

  Lazlo turned the photo toward him. “I assume this is your brother Buddy.”

  George nodded.

  “You didn’t mentioned him after your father’s death.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “I’m trying to help.”

  “Help? After Dad died you weren’t any help. Even after the toxicology report.”

  “Remind me. What were the results?”

  “Alcohol level only .05, so he wasn’t drunk. A trace of Valium, so they chalked it up to that. He was a nervous man, always looking over his shoulder.”

  “Did he talk about the past?”

  “Not much. He was in the Navy in the Pacific, their carrier was torpedoed, but he seemed more positive about it than his earlier stint in the CCCs.”

  “Any details about the CCCs?”

  “He was in Utah building roads. He got a mailing one time about a reunion. My brother and I found it in the garbage and asked about it. He said it was a long time ago and most of the guys were dead. Buddy thought it meant something. That and the hair.”

  “The lock of hair that was in his wallet?”

  “Yeah. Buddy asked Mom and was shocked she didn’t know about it. He said Dad carried it in his wallet as long as he could remember and why didn’t Mom know something?”

  “What was your brother’s theory?”

  “Buddy said he asked once after Dad and Mom returned from a party. Dad was drunk and Mom had Buddy help him upstairs. Buddy said he emptied Dad’s pockets and, when Mom wasn’t listening, asked about the hair. Dad said it came from Wyoming. Buddy asked who in Wyoming, and Dad kept repeating Wyoming over and over until he passed out. After that, no matter how Buddy brought it up, Dad denied he’d ever said it.