The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  It took a while, but eventually the flames at the neck of the tank heated enough to ignite a rear tire and the underbelly. Finally, the gas tank melted through, gas spilled into the air and flared up. Like in Bullit, where they’d run into a filling station, the two hoods burned to a crisp. Guzzo doused the flare in shale, threw it into the back of the 350, found a place ahead to turn around, glanced down at the flaming Charger, and drove back to the highway.

  After speaking with Etta Pratt, Lazlo left Niki inside with the curator. Traffic groaned on the nearby interstate, almost like city traffic. A sudden feeling of déjà vu hit him. On a day like this in Kiev he’d go for a lunchtime walk. Perhaps he should take a closer look at Castle Rock resembling a Kiev cathedral on the far side of the highway. Perhaps he should take a closer look at the white Lincoln Navigator he’d seen parked since their arrival.

  As he walked, Lazlo searched the horizon between buildings. He went around back past garbage dumpsters, then into the parking lot where the Navigator was still parked beneath the single tree. Beyond the Navigator Castle Rock was larger than he’d expected, overlooking the town. When he emerged from behind the building it was obvious the male passenger was watching the entrance with binoculars. When the man saw Lazlo, binoculars disappeared and a bare elbow hung out the window.

  Lazlo kept walking and soon saw that an African American woman was in the driver’s seat. Both had short hair and were dressed in bright athletic clothing. Having been an investigator all his life he doubted they were tourists. He walked the outer edge of the parking lot, staring at Castle Rock, then turned abruptly, as if to walk back to the building, and approached the Navigator’s passenger side.

  The passenger was perhaps 30, his right arm obviously sunburned. The African American woman was somewhat older. Both stared at him. The binoculars were in the man’s lap. Although the engine was off, the woman’s hands were on the steering wheel in driving position.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  “Nice day,” said the woman.

  “Are you from around here?”

  “We’re tourists,” said the woman, taking charge.

  Body language, a slight movement of her head. She was boss, the young man the recruit.

  “I’m curious what government agency employs you.”

  The young man pulled his sunburned arm inside and looked to the woman. She hesitated a moment. “Excuse me?”

  Lazlo leaned on the passenger door. “You’ve been watching since we arrived. Why didn’t you follow the motor home?”

  The woman smiled, looked into the rearview mirror pretending to check her lip-gloss.

  “I’m alone,” said Lazlo. “Obviously I’m not a threat.”

  “All right,” said the woman. “What do you want?”

  “Would it be all right if I made a phone call?”

  “Who you going to call?”

  “Anthony Jacobson.”

  Both stared with looks of realization they tried to hide.

  Lazlo continued. “Jacobson said there’d be people out here. Other parties would be watched. Who are you watching? Yes, you can say you’re watching us. But I don’t think you followed us here. Someone led you. May I call Jacobson?”

  “A man full of questions,” said the woman. “Sure, call him. But I’ve got one for you. When you walked around the building did you see a black SUV back there?”

  “I did not.”

  “Shit,” muttered the man.

  Lazlo got out his phone, spoke to the answering service. “This is Lazlo Horvath for Anthony Jacobson.”

  He hung up and the phone rang seconds later.

  “What is it, Lazlo?”

  “Two of your people are here.”

  Lazlo handed the phone into the Navigator. The young man simply stared. The woman reached across and grabbed it.

  “Yes?…Yes, Sir…I understand…We lost the other vehicle and we’re in the parking lot with him” She looked to Lazlo. “He wants to know what you want us to do.”

  “I suppose, rather than following us, it would be best to look for your original mark.”

  After getting his phone back and exchanging numbers, Lazlo walked back to the building as Niki came out. They got into the Caravan.

  “We should eat something,” said Lazlo. “The two in the Navigator had Subways.”

  “Did you speak with them?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell you about it. There’s the Subway.”

  As Niki turned into the Subway, Lazlo glanced back and saw the Navigator leave the parking lot and head the other way.

  A phone conversation in Hungarian, sandwiches and drinks for four, Niki driving while Lazlo spoke to Janos and watched for the rest area, careful they wouldn’t pass it because of the black SUV. After turning in Lazlo retrieved his .38 that had been locked in the gun case inside his suitcase. They joined Janos and Mariya by going through the motor home’s side door.

  “Except for pepper spray, our only weapon,” said Lazlo, checking the cylinder as Niki, Mariya, and Janos watched.

  Janos reached out to Lazlo’s arm. “You remember Yuri Smirnov?”

  “Is he still in Kiev?”

  “Yes, I called moments ago. He was playing drunk. Instead of answering questions, he questions me. Asking about location from several angles. Because of the international phone, I was able to convince him Mariya and I are still in Kiev. It didn’t end there. He asked about you, wanting to know if you were still in Chicago. He feigns reminiscing old times, then suddenly asks about Eva Polenkaya. I never told him about Eva or the key.”

  “You think he’s turned over?” asked Lazlo.

  “He spoke Ukrainian, saying everyone is searching for something. He might know about the Brooklyn safe deposit box. After speaking with Smirnov, I called our old chief investigator.”

  “Boris Chudin?”

  “His men keep tabs on Smirnov. Their information digs the Smirnov hole deeper. He’s been in contact with a woman in the US who speaks Russian. The woman met Smirnov in Kiev during Fool Day celebrations, coincidentally a few days before Doctor Marta’s murder.”

  Lazlo shoved the .38 into his jacket pocket. “They’re following the money.”

  Janos turned to Mariya and Niki. “Lazlo and I need to confront the Russians.”

  “Only if you are both careful,” said Niki.

  “We were partners in Kiev,” said Janos. “Notorious Boy Gypsy and Father Gypsy.”

  “The windows are open,” whispered Janos as they crawled low behind the SUV.

  A moment later Lazlo held the .38 beneath the chin of the driver and Janos held a stubby twig within his sleeve poking beneath the neck of the passenger. More than the sight of Lazlo’s .38, their abrupt and demanding Russian/Ukrainian curses typical of militiamen disarmed the two. Soon all four were back at the Class C. They deposited the contents of the SUV’s glove box on the table at which Mariya and Niki sat. They’d tied the Russians’ hands behind their backs with their own shoelaces and their shoes flopped on their feet. Lazlo pointed his .38; Janos pointed the two automatics taken from them.

  “Their spare magazines and cartridges fill my pockets,” said Janos in Russian.

  “Your pockets must be heavy,” replied Lazlo in Russian. “I have their cell phones.”

  “If I use their pistols on them, one advantage will be a reduction in weight,” said Janos.

  The younger Russian who’d been the driver looked terrified. The older faked a yawn.

  Niki handed over a roll of gray duct tape. “I found this in a storage compartment.”

  Lazlo gave the cell phones to Niki. “Look at recent calls or saved contacts.

  “Russian technician designed phones,” said the older Russian, smiling. “Everything erases.”

  Janos switched to English. “Our friends are multilingual, at least English as
well as Russian. There’s a Hungarian phrase for what we need to do. Felfuggeszt hagy.”

  “A similar English phrase is to hold one in abeyance,” said Lazlo. “Better abeyance than death.”

  Mariya took one of the automatics from Janos and aimed it professionally, joining in the conversation, obviously discomforting the Russians. “We could put them in a safe deposit box if we found one large enough.”

  More tape was found and all four helped with the abeyance process, the Russians on their stomachs on the Class C’s back bed facing forward with arms behind their backs. Knees bent, feet up, and not only taped together, but taped to their wrists. While they spoke with the two, Janos moved them around. “To keep blood circulating.”

  “Your English is good,” said Mariya.

  “Why have you been killing old men and relatives of old men?” asked Lazlo.

  “You must have heard of the Civilian Conservation Corps,” said Niki.

  “How about Doctor Marta Voronko?” asked Mariya.

  Janos pressed his automatic first below one chin, then the other. “And Sonia Nagy.”

  Finally, the older of the two said, “Nothing rings the bell.”

  “What about the name Demidchik?” asked Lazlo.

  A slight reaction from the younger man.

  “Or the Chernobyl murders?” asked Janos

  Another reaction followed by the older man eyeing his partner.

  “Or trafficking young women in Ukraine so you can sell them abroad?” asked Mariya.

  “We were to keep an eye on you,” said the older man. “The reason is unknown to us.”

  “I overheard you talking about money for Putin’s coffers,” said Janos.

  “Of course,” said the older man. “Isn’t it always about money?”

  “Certainly you’ve heard of the Chernobyl murderer who stuffed Chernobyl soil into victims’ mouths.”

  “Of course we’ve heard of it.”

  “The investigation interferes with your trafficking networks.”

  “We don’t know anything about that.”

  “So, what about this?” asked Lazlo. “What about money accumulated before the second war being used to kill old Civilian Conservation Corps men and relatives who dare investigate?”

  Silence, then Lazlo nodded to Janos.

  “I overheard you earlier,” said Janos. “You know about the key I received from Eva Polenkaya. Your comrade Sergi wants the fortune. I’ll call and say you plan to betray him.”

  The younger man’s eyes widened. “You know Sergi?”

  “Shut up!” said the older man in Russian.

  As evening came, Janos drove the Class C followed by Niki’s Caravan south to the campground near the state line and the Lucerne Valley Marina. They shared sandwiches with the Russians, feeding them bites and giving them water. Rather than all staying in one place, Niki and Mariya drove the Caravan to a motel over the state line in Manila to stay the night.

  Lazlo and Janos would stay in the Class C with the Russians, perhaps learn more and decide what was next. Janos called the number on the rental agency agreement using one of the Russians’ cell phones. He complained the SUV stopped running and the agency should send a tow. Afterwards the number he’d called was indeed erased from the cell’s memory.

  The marina run by Rose Buckles’ niece was down the road from the campground. Next morning Niki and Mariya would be back and they’d decide who’d visit. After dark, Janos took a short walk with the phones designed by “Russian technician, to the marina parking lot, pulled the batteries at that location, then returned, spreading the phones and batteries across a field of scrub.

  According to Pescatore’s last message, a pair from Ukraine was in the area; the man an associate of Lazlo Horvath who’d contacted Niki Gianakos. The original mark had quadrupled. Guzzo’s message back to Pescatore told of the two in a rental, east coast accents, tragic accident. Although on retainer, he also received body-count bonuses. As he sat in his motel room, he suspected this would increase. Pescatore insisted the assignment was nearly concluded and he could look forward to retirement. Even so, a money trail was appealing.

  The Green River Best Western had restaurants on both sides. He’d backed the 350 pickup into a spot behind the motel in an unlighted area near a dumpster enclosure. He showered, changed to fresh cargo pants and hooded sweatshirt, walked across parking lots, and picked up his phone order from a steak house. While waiting for change, he gave the young woman behind the cash register the Guzzo smile. She did not smile back, did not even look at him. But when he walked out the door he glanced back and saw her watching.

  The cool evening air, the quiet, the sound of his own footsteps. Things coming to a head required caution. Not far away, on the other side of the gorge, he’d left two hoods burnt to a crisp. Pescatore had connections built up through decades—US crime families, international Mafias, intelligence agencies.

  Guzzo detoured behind the motel to the keyed rear entrance. Because of the bright lighting in close to the motel he could barely see the 350 near the dumpster enclosure. He checked to make certain he closed the passenger window, then recalled having done so after his arrival. In closer to the motel but still at the lot’s perimeter, a white Lincoln Navigator was also backed in with its tailgate off the edge of the lot and onto the scrub. Not a handy spot from which to unload baggage. Wyoming plates, perhaps a motel employee. Yet it was a new Navigator. Except for trucks towing trailers with drilling equipment straddling the marked parking spots at the perimeter, other vehicles in this part of the lot were beaters and pickups—motel and restaurant employees. He recognized a rental agency sticker in the Navigator’s windshield. He pulled out the small flashlight he always carried. Drink empties, fast food wrappers, and an empty binocular case. He doused the light and looked up quickly at the motel. A curtain on the second floor swung back into place.

  Instead of going directly to his room on the first floor, Guzzo climbed the stairs and walked slowly down the hallway. The smell of grilled steak and garlic bread oozed from the bag he carried. As he walked past the room where the curtain had momentarily pulled aside, he stopped to listen. Nothing but televisions. He turned around and headed back to the stairs. At the bottom he looked out at the lot. No change. He climbed the stairs again and quietly opened the door to the second floor hallway. No one.

  Back in his first floor room Guzzo spread his feast on the room desk and emptied pockets. He plugged in phones, checked one to make sure the motion detector he’d left near the 350 was activated, and turned on the television. The usual news channel crap—more on Anthony Weiner, complete with underpants bulge, hackers breaking into a Senate computer, and an old Boston mob boss arrested. If they’d waited, someone like him would have been assigned to hit the old fart and they’d save all the legal fees. Guzzo grabbed the motel channel lineup card, found TCM, and went there.

  On screen a younger Martin Landau points a pistol at James Mason. The first bit of dialogue is from Mason with an astonished look, “Leonard?” Then comes the shot fired at Mason who, realizing it’s a blank from Eve’s pistol, slugs Landau. Guzzo pulled his chair closer to the desk and began eating.

  Hitchcock would have enjoyed being here, zooming in on hints about the Navigator in the parking lot. Though he never told Vera, Guzzo relished these moments. A good steak, a decent motel room, a test of his second sight, and the puzzle. It was good to be the killer.

  Chapter 26

  Middle of the night, Russian discomfort complaints became gastrointestinal. The older man spoke of bladder and intestinal pain. The younger was blunt. “Soon we’ll shit our pants.”

  Lazlo and Janos checked the duct tape supply, concluded they had plenty, and released one at a time. First they had the older Russian hop into the small bathroom. They dropped his pants, praised his colorful shorts, and sat him down. When the older Russian was back on the bed s
ecured in backwards fetal position with fresh tape, they gave the younger Russian his turn. He was quicker, with steady streams and sighs of relief.

  “Aren’t you going to wipe my ass?” he asked in Russian.

  “You’ll have to live with skid marks,” said Lazlo in English.

  With the Russians secured, Lazlo motioned Janos to the front of the Class C where they sat in driver and passenger seats and leaned close. “I wonder if these two and your SBU contact are connected,” whispered Lazlo. “Tell me again about yesterday’s call.”

  “I assumed Smirnov was home drinking alone. Yet his conversation contained hesitations as if considering what another person might think. He’s not acting alone. His agenda is outside his agency, perhaps involving the female contact in the US.”

  “When should we mention his name to the two back there?” whispered Lazlo.

  “Wait until we can watch their faces. For now I’m going up to my bunk.”

  “And I’m going to my table made into a bed.”

  An hour later, amid snores within the confines of the Class C, Lazlo’s cell phone rang its Kafkaesque pinball tone, the screen saying it was Jacobson.

  “I have a request,” said Jacobson. “We’ve intercepted overseas and New York messages. Unknown content, yet the messages are to cells in your area and the Chicago area. I’d like to keep in touch and have the two in the Lincoln Navigator watch your backs.”

  “Who’s at our backs?”

  “Russians and organized crime.”

  “Ukraine SBU?”

  “Not sure, they’re good at covering.”

  “About the Russians,” whispered Lazlo. “They’re in here with us snoring away.”