by Dave Daren
That wasn’t a surprise. And neither was the fact that the person who answered had a definite accent, one that I knew was certainly Eastern European, and possibly even Serbian.
Chapter 23
“Isn’t this Jimmy?” I asked in a confused voice.
“There’s no Jimmy here,” the voice replied.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I’m sure my name is not Jimmy,” the voice insisted.
“But this is Jimmy’s number,” I said and I read off the number I’d just dialed.
“Jimmy lied to you,” the voice replied. “I’m not Jimmy.”
“Jimmy put you up to this,” I laughed. “It’s okay, I get it. Look, would you just put Jimmy on?”
“There is no Jimmy,” the voice snapped.
“Then who the hell are you?” I demanded. “And where’s Jimmy?”
“I don’t know any Jimmy,” the man replied.
I couldn’t believe I’d managed to keep him on the line, but sometimes it’s hard to fight against our instincts, which apparently includes staying on the phone until the conversation is over.
“I’m looking for Jimmy,” I said again.
The man made a frustrated sound, and I heard someone else say something in a language that I didn’t recognize.
“There’s no Jimmy here,” the voice snapped. “Just Milosevic.”
“Wait,” I said. “Like that Serbian guy who committed all those war atrocities? I thought he was dead.”
“Ratko,” the man snapped.
“Ratko?” I asked in a puzzled tone. “Who is Ratko? I just need Jimmy.”
The man finally seemed to sense that something more was going on and hung up. I gave him a minute, then dialed again, but this time, no one answered. I tried two more times, though I didn’t expect anyone to answer and no one did. I moved on to the last number on the list, and was told that the number was no longer in use.
I had a name, at least, though a Google search returned only information about the Serbian butcher and his cleansing of Bosnian Muslims. Eventually, I found a few pages that talked about other people that had the unfortunate luck of sharing the name Milosevic, but none seemed to point towards a good suspect for organized crime activities. Perhaps, like Anthony, Ratko Milosevic had found it was wiser to keep a low profile.
“Why, Mr. Morgan,” the crime reporter for the Daily News said when she answered her phone. “This is a nice surprise.”
“I’d like to talk to you some more about the Serbians,” I said. “And run a name by you.”
Wherever she was, it sounded like it was busy. I heard someone yell something in the background, and the clatter of someone typing. Brenda announced that she would be right back, and then the noises faded away.
“Sorry about that,” Brenda remarked. “It gets noisy near deadline time.”
“About the Serbians,” I started.
“I’m heading out of here soon,” she replied. “Maybe we could meet somewhere for a quick bite?”
“Uh, sure,” I agreed though I wasn’t all that hungry. I glanced at the clock and tried to decide where we could even meet. “Which office are you in?”
“Downtown,” she said. “But I’m heading to Brooklyn. Can we meet at the Chipotle on Court?”
“Sure,” I agreed. At least I could get yet more exercise in and there was a good coffee place nearby where I could pick up something while I waited for the reporter to appear.
“Meet you in about twenty,” she said and then hung up.
I took another quick look through Marinello’s text to see if I could find anyone named Milosevic or Ratko, but came up empty. In fact, I couldn’t find any trace of any Serbians besides the one I had just talked to on the phone. Frustrated, I pushed the computer aside, grabbed a jacket and returned to the streets once again with two phones stuffed into my pockets.
Court Street has long been one of the major thoroughfares in Brooklyn, and even when other nearby neighborhoods went through periods of decline, Court Street remained vibrant and bustling. It was also constantly changing, and the current version bore little resemblance to the one I had first encountered just a few years ago. So it was pleasant to walk along, the street still crowded despite the hour, and check out the new stores and businesses that had moved in recently and enjoy the aromas from the new restaurants.
I managed to grab a cup of decaf to go just before the coffee joint closed and I loitered outside the Chipotle, which was still busy and smelled like grilled meat and hot pepper. My stomach growled in response, and I decided something small wouldn’t ruin my dietary habits.
I spotted Brenda as she crossed the street with a group of teenagers. At a distance, she looked like part of their group, an image that was amplified when she apparently shared a joke with the pack that set them all howling with laughter. At the corner, she split away from the teens and turned towards the taco place. I saw her scan the people out front, and then she smiled when she saw me.
“Cute t-shirt,” I commented when she skipped up next to me.
Brenda looked down to study the t-shirt she wore which featured several rows of Brooklyn-style brownstones. The shirt, combined with the wide legged jeans and the scruffy flats added to her wild young thing image. At least her hair was loose this time, and the auburn waves dusted her shoulders before curling under.
“They don’t really bother with a dress code at work,” she said with a shrug.
“Shall we go in?” I suggested as my stomach grumbled again.
Brenda laughed and ducked inside the door. She joined the fast-moving line and placed her order without hesitation. My own lite snack ended up being an order of carne asada tacos topped with cheese, salsa and plenty of guacamole. With our orders in hand, we found a spot in a corner and spent several minutes devouring our food before either of us spoke.
“So, you want to know about the Serbs,” she said after she took a long sip of her soda.
“I have a name,” I said. “I was wondering if it would mean anything to you.”
“Hmmm,” she said thoughtfully as she watched me over the rim of her cup. “You know, you still haven’t said that your client will talk to me.”
“He will,” I assured her. “But this is related to something that came up today.”
“Okay,” she said slowly.
“I’m not going to say the name unless you agree to tell me what you know right now,” I insisted as I saw her debate her options.
“You know, I would normally be the one who gets to make the demands since I’m the one with the information,” she pointed out.
I polished off my last bite of taco and took a sip of my coffee. I didn’t look at her again until I had neatly wiped my mouth and balled up the wrapper for the tacos.
“Fine,” she agreed with a sigh. “But you owe me for this.”
“Ratko Milosevic,” I replied.
Brenda blinked and then tucked her hair behind one ear. I noticed she wore a pair of delicate pearl earrings for the first time, and had to force myself to look away from her ear.
“Why are you asking about him?” she asked. “He’s one of your guys.”
“My guys?” I repeated in surprise.
“Well, the Febbo family,” she said.
“Are you sure?” I demanded as surprise started to give way to real concern.
“He runs errands for Ben Kroger,” she said. “He does long distance runs once a month or so. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”
I was on my feet before she’d finished talking and was making my way towards the exit. I had my phone out and dialed Anthony’s number even as I squeezed past the people who were just arriving, and paced impatiently along the sidewalk as I waited for Anthony to answer.
“What’s going on?” Brenda demanded when she finally caught up with me.
“I talked to Milosevic today,” I said when Anthony’s number went to voicemail. “He was one of the people Marinello had frequent contact with just before Francie was kill
ed.”
“Oh,” she murmured as she tried to untangle all of the possibilities. “Wait, do you think…”
“I’m not sure what I think,” I replied as I called Anthony again and got his voicemail, again. “But Anthony and Ben Kroger had an argument earlier today.”
I didn’t see any need to explain how I knew that or that I had been the instigator behind the fight. Brenda, however, crossed her arms and studied me for a moment.
“And you were there for this argument,” she remarked.
I didn’t say anything, which only seemed to confirm whatever she suspected.
“Anthony’s not answering,” I snapped when the voicemail started again.
“There could be any number of reasons for that,” she pointed out.
“And a lot of them aren’t good,” I replied.
“Isn’t there someone else at the house you could call?” the reporter asked.
I nodded, then scrolled through my numbers. I found the one for Gulia’s phone and called, but as with Anthony’s number, it went to voicemail.
“Gulia’s not answering either,” I remarked.
“It is late,” Brenda observed as she brushed her hair back with her hand, though I could hear a twinge of doubt in her voice as well.
I started to walk back towards my apartment building, with some vague notion that I needed to get out to the Febbo estate. Brenda grabbed my arm and somehow pulled me to a stop. She was stronger than I would have imagined, and I looked at her in surprise.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I need to make sure everything is okay at the house,” I said. “I’m going to drive out there, and if someone finally answers the phone before I get there, then I’ll tell my client what you just told me. If no one answers the phone, then I’ll pound on the door until someone lets me in.”
“That’s not much of a plan,” she observed.
I shrugged off her hand and started to walk away again, but she darted in front of me and placed a hand on my chest.
“My car is closer,” she said. “And I’ve got a V-10 that will get us there a lot faster.”
“And how do you know that?” I asked though I knew she was probably right. My Volvo had pretty good moves, but not V-10 good.
“What, you want me to believe you’ve got a Hennessey Venom in the garage?” she demanded.
“No,” I admitted. “A Volvo.”
“Please,” she said. “I can run circles around you.”
“You’re just hoping to meet Anthony,” I said as I started to walk away again.
“You already said he would do the interview,” she said as she chased after me. “So maybe I just get an introduction tonight, and he’ll see that I’m helpful and cute, and concerned for his safety.”
I finally stopped, so abruptly that Brenda ran into my back. She stepped around me and gave me her most hopeful look with her big, brown eyes, and I sighed again.
“We can be there in half the time,” she assured me.
“The police--” I started to protest.
“Ha!” she laughed. “Not even close.”
“Okay, fine,” I said. “Where’s this supercar of yours?”
She grabbed my hand and started to pull me towards Pacific Street. There’s a parking garage there that offers monthly rentals on parking spots, which is where I assumed we were heading. I stopped for a moment when I felt one of the phones buzz, but I wasn’t sure which one. I pulled them both out of my pocket, but it was the burner phone with an unknown number. I didn’t even recognize the area code, so I tucked everything back into my pockets and trotted after Brenda.
I found her waiting by the stairs to the upper levels, and she gave me an impatient look as I let another car go by. We climbed to the third level, and then Brenda led me halfway up the next ramp to a spot near the elevators. We stopped next to a small car shape beneath a gray tarp. Judging by what I could see of the outline, it was a sports car of some sort but I still wasn’t prepared for what she unveiled.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked with a smirk as she pulled the tarp from the car.
I found myself looking at an orange Dodge Viper, complete with two black racing stripes down the center of the car’s body and the image of a thumb-sized coiled snake painted just below the door handle. I stared at the car for a moment while Brenda bundled up the tarp and tossed it in the trunk, and then I just looked at the reporter.
“I’m not even sure which question to ask first,” I finally replied.
“My grandfather always told me he would buy me whatever car I wanted when I graduated from college,” she said. “I think he was relieved that I didn’t ask for the Bugatti.”
“Definitely faster than my Volvo,” I added.
Brenda smiled and closed the trunk, then moved towards the driver’s side. As she did so, I spotted two men as they stepped off the elevators and looked around. It was hard not to see us, since we were so close, and I saw one of the men nudge the other.
“Trouble,” I hissed as Brenda unlocked the car and started to open the door.
She looked around and saw the two men who were now jogging in our direction. Something glinted in one man’s hand, and as he started to raise his arm, I realized it was a knife.
“Hey, you,” the man with the knife called out.
It was completely unoriginal, but both Brenda and I froze for a moment, as if to make sure he was really talking to us. Neither man said a word after that. They were of a kind, average height with bulging biceps hidden beneath their jackets. One had light brown hair, the other had dark brown hair, and that was all I had time to see before the men attacked us. The one with light brown hair reached towards Brenda as she tried to scramble inside the car. But the engine didn’t turn over and the man emerged from the car with one beefy hand wrapped around Brenda’s neck.
And then the darker haired man, the one with the knife, swung his blade at my throat. I stumbled back as I tried to duck out of the way and smacked the back of my head against the roof of the car. There was a thud as I made contact and a squeak from Brenda, though I wasn’t sure if that was for her predicament, my predicament, or the possible damage to her car.
My attacker was fast and had already started to bring the blade back as I slid sideways along the edge of the car. I fell towards the ground as I reached the edge of the roofline just as the knife whistled past my head, but I stopped myself from hitting the concrete and ended up in a ninja crouch. I saw the man’s arm swing past me and then stop, but before the dark-haired man could start another strike, I landed two quick jabs to his stomach, and then launched myself upwards with an uppercut to his jaw.
My fist hit the soft spot just below the chin, and the man’s head snapped back. I heard his teeth grind together as the two rows of bone collided and then a trail of bloody spit spurted from the corner of his mouth. A tooth soon followed as my opponent tried to set his feet. The man’s head started to flop forward, and I was disappointed to see that his eyes were still clear.
His arm jabbed forward and I caught the wrist inches from my own stomach. I slid sideways as the dark-haired man yanked on his arm, and then swiveled to keep me in view. I wasn’t as fast with my left hand, but I couldn’t risk releasing his knife hand. As we spun around in a circle, he kept trying to jab me with the knife while I punched away with my left hand. I think he wanted to punch me hard enough to make me let go, but my own jabs kept him busy as he tried to protect himself from another hard blow.
“Fuck!” the other man yelled out, and I heard the sound of feet scrabbling across the concrete floor.
My opponent didn’t take his attention from me until something crashed into the back of his head. An empty Pepsi bottle landed on the ground behind him, and while the bit of plastic hadn’t caused any damage, it did bother him enough that his eyes slid sideways to look towards his companion. That was the millisecond I needed, and I threw my entire body into a punch that landed squarely between his eyes, just at the brid
ge of the nose. There was a satisfying crunching sound as my fist made contact with bone, even as blood sprayed out in an arcing pattern in the space between us.
The man started to pinwheel backwards, his brow red from the blood and one eye shut. The other eye tried to glare on me but it was obvious the man was having problems focusing. I landed a final punch as he tried to swivel his head towards me, and I caught him across the cheekbone, close to the ear. Blood started to trickle from the ear canal as the man’s head bounced sideways. For a heartbeat, it looked like his head would actually roll right off the end of his neck, but the spine held and his head slowly returned to its normal position.
My attacker slumped to the ground in stages, with a brief stop while he was balanced on his knees, and then finally he landed face first against the concrete. Blood began to pool around his head and ooze across the concrete floor, but I heard another squeak from Brenda and turned to look for the second man.
Brenda had managed to break free from the other man’s grasp, but she was pinned against the wall with only a Harley-Davidson between her and the man with the light brown hair. She must have landed a good blow because I could see a bruise starting to form along the side of his neck. To her credit, Brenda didn’t react when she saw me charge towards the second man, and it wasn’t until I was a step behind him that the man even realized I was there.
He started to spin around but he was too late and too slow. My foot made contact first as I landed a high kick just below his shoulder. There wasn’t the satisfying crunch I’d had with the other attacker, but the man grunted and started to fall forward. I struck with my fists then, even though they were already sore from the other battle. A jab and uppercut to the side of the head before he could right himself sent the second man to the ground with a resounding thud.
“Let’s go,” I called to Brenda.
The auburn haired reporter started to limp towards the car, and I realized she must have injured her ankle.
“It’s not broken,” she assured me as she tried to hide the grimace she made every time she put weight on her right foot.
“But you can’t drive like that,” I pointed out.
