The bar offers many choices, but most of the bottles are various brands of vodka, some reasonably well known, others imported at some cost in order to satisfy the particular and varied palates of its clientele. Local vodkas are to Russia what local beers are to Germany, and many of those who have expatriated here like the taste of home.
Though the place does not exclusively serve those who may make their living outside the laws and norms of the Establishment, it generally seems that a good portion of the customers are indeed of that ilk. Even so, they all know who he is or know enough of how he is treated that they give him a wide berth.
The music is a sort of dark, pop rock, not to his liking, but he has it removed from his focus. It is also not turned up too loud. He presently sits alone, a short glass before him, empty, though close examination would show the vestiges of moisture indicating he has recently drank. The bottle of vodka also on the table is about three quarters full. His tattooed hands hold a small, leather bound book, one that happens to be a diary, and he carefully turns one page, showing a delicateness and care that some might be disinclined to expect from him.
His eyes move, imbibing the words on the page, and as though without thinking, he reaches for the bottle, pouring a decent measure of the clear liquid into the glass. He brings it to his lips, eyes angling to stay on the pages as he tilts his head back enough to drink nearly the entire serving. He returns the glass to the surface of the table, his fingers not breaking contact with it. He reads.
Once he completes these pages, he finishes the drink, but as he prepares to continue, his peace is interrupted. One of the nearby sentries, a large man who wears a dark suit much like that of his employer, steps nearer, waiting. The man’s eyes settle on the guard.
“Boss?”
Volkov perks his eyebrows as if his focus ought to be permission enough.
“Azim is here.”
He nods, bringing up the thin length of fabric attached to the book and using it to mark his page before setting the journal aside.
A man is admitted to the vicinity. He has dark hair, thick, the suggestion of a tight waviness, and the obvious signs of it not being too well cared for. He also has a prominent, hooked nose, and a scraggly growth of beard. He slips into a chair opposite the softer, more comfortable bench that makes up the booth, eyes glancing about furtively, then upon Volkov.
The crime boss just looks back at him, waiting, so the man produces a small pouch, setting it on the tabletop and untying the coarse rope that threads about its neck. Though it is subtle, the nearby sentries pay close attention. Nothing dangerous comes out, instead the man produces a rather large, gleaming, dark red gem, and he sets it atop the small satchel, then gestures toward it with both hands as a sort of presentation. He then sits back.
Volkov looks at the stone, silently studying it for a moment, then back at Azim. He reaches forward, sliding the sack and the rock upon it to himself. He peruses it more closely.
“What is this?” asks an accented, female voice.
The woman who stands there is well-dressed, though not without an obvious intent to display her body. She wears a dark, clinging dress, a bold swathe of color coiling about, tapered just below her right breast and broadening as it curves around to eventually meet the hem. Her coltish legs are displayed from upper thigh to ankle, where the stylish and quite tall heels completely encase her feet. Her hair is a shocking blonde, obviously fake, but all part of the look she cultivates. She holds a drink in one hand, leaning onto the bench, one foot still on the ground, obviously quite permitted and comfortable to be this close to Volkov.
“I am trying to determine that,” the boss utters, paying her little mind.
“It is the stone you asked me to procure,” Azim announces, desperation creeping into his tone, “It is the Orac-“
His voice stops as the boss holds up a hand in an obvious command to cease. Volkov goes closer, staring into the remarkable looking jewel’s depths. The woman also leans in, one hand slipping over the man’s shoulders.
“It is beautiful,” she intones after some time of relative quiet.
Volkov’s concentration broken, he looks up at her from his studying position. He does not look upset, but the cold stare he gives her is the sort that might cause fright in any number of people in his employ. She just looks back at him, also calm. He turns his face to more fully point at her, then raises his chin, and she leans in close. Words are exchanged, the two speaking in Russian, and then she saunters away, returning to other ladies gathered at the bar, all of a similarly stylistic bent. She is greeted boisterously, her name coming from their painted lips - Yelena.
The boss goes back to studying the gem, eventually pouring himself another vodka. He downs it, somewhat slowly, then sets the empty glass on the tabletop just as his eyes settle on the man across from him.
“It is the stone,” Azim reiterates.
“You will be paid,” Volkov states, his voice somewhat deep, gravelly, “You brought me object I asked for, so you will be paid, but I will determine if it is particular stone I seek.”
His eyes cut away, and the sentry returns, none too subtly encouraging the visitor to rise from his chair and leave the area.
After he has placed the jewel back into its pouch, put it away and is pouring another drink, Yelena returns, slipping fully into the bench and Volkov’s lap. He holds out his glass, a look of chastisement on his features. She smirks, then leans in, stealing a very quick kiss from his lips.
“Will stone be present for me?” she asks, speaking again in Russian.
“No,” he flatly answers.
Her smirks grows, and she snorts a short exhale. Yelena sips of her drink, something darkly colorful in a martini glass, snugging her bottom more firmly into his lap.
“I am working,” he tries.
“Pah,” she slits her eyes at him, lips pursing, continuing in the Slavic language, “You are reading book, drinking vodka, then buying beautiful stone. We are at bar, Kazimir.”
“And I am working at bar.”
“Just because you pour own drink does not mean you work here.”
He narrows his eyes at her, and she leans in close, whispering, “Do you wish to draw blood tonight?”
She pulls back, and he continues to look fully at her, again giving that almost unreadable stare that in nearly anyone else would cause fright. In her, it causes a nearly ubiquitous smirk.
“I might,” he says, and then he glances over to see some other men approaching; he pushes on her, obviously wanting her to again leave.
She stands, making a show of it, looking back at him, perking her rear out a bit. He takes in that sight, and she grins, walking away just as others of his organization arrive at the table. His demeanor changes as he hears their reports.
“Nothing,” he comments, summing up the information presented to him.
“Sorry, boss,” one of them dares to speak, and Volkov’s eyes snick over.
“Are you vigilante?”
The man’s eyes widen, and he leans back in his chair. “No,” he says, obviously confused and scared, eyes then looking about.
“Then do not apologize.”
The man breathes a sigh of relief.
“Vigilante wants to continue to operate on his terms,” Volkov speaks, pouring more out of the bottle, sloshing a smaller than usual portion into the glass. “That needs to change, so, we will offer bait.”
Once said, his eyes move over and settle on Alec before the vodka is drained.
*****
The place is in the City’s limits, but it is right on the edge, in a reasonably isolated area, as if specially chosen. It has taken them a good half hour to get here. Quain thinks this locale is not the only thing on the edge, noting some tension in his partner.
“Are you alright, Kahler?” he asks as they are pulling up to the small hovel of a makeshift building, other cars already here, the area being cordoned.
She applies the auto’s parking brake with likely mo
re force than is necessary, casting a sidelong glance at him.
“Yes,” she offers the clipped response, then exits the vehicle.
Quain follows, standing up and leaning onto the roof of the sedan. Kahler peers at him.
“We’re detectives, you know?” he says as the silence stretches.
“Yes, and we have a job to do in there.”
“Have you ever built a house?”
“No,” she says, then does a quick check of herself, making sure she has all she needs, but when she looks back, her new partner is still just standing there, leaning on the car. “What?”
“Without a good foundation, it doesn’t matter how well you build the rest. It’s all going to crumble sooner or later.”
“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind when I change careers.” She heads toward the structure.
He catches up with her easily, despite her determined pace.
“It’s a metaphor,” he persists.
She glances up at him as they walk. “I’m not the most subtle person.”
“No shit.”
He sees her try to suppress it, but the grin takes on her lips. She pushes her tongue into the lower part of her mouth, looking down, slowly shaking her head. Then she stops, turning to face him, squinting against the sunlight.
“Okay, Contee. No, I’m not okay. My daughter got in trouble in school for fighting, and this is not the first time. I’ve seen enough of this shit to tell that it’s probably not going to get better anytime soon.”
“Oh, come on,” he chides, leaning back from the waist, arms crossed, “I doubt she’s a hardened criminal. She’s probably just acting out for attention.”
“I’m not a home builder, and you’re not a child psychologist,” she says, some of her levity drained.
“Right, fine, gotcha.”
They resume heading to the derelict-looking building.
“I appreciate the concern,” she offers, forced, more polite than sincere, “I’ve got a job to do, both as a detective and a mother, and both are hard, and both will get done.”
“Right. But if you need anything, even just to talk or vent, or hell … do you box?”
She pauses again, giving him an askance look.
“Why?”
“I do some fitness boxing, nothing fancy. I thought you might like a chance to beat up on your new, annoying partner.”
“I’ve had training in Krav Maga and kick boxing. Do you want to rescind that offer now?” she announces, moving again.
“Nope,” he says, grinning.
She lets another curl touch her lips, again looking down as though to somewhat obscure it, but both their expressions disappear as they turn and confront the awaiting scene.
It had registered on a seeming subconscious level, but the smell of cinnamon, though strong, is overpowered by the stench of blood and death. The place is basically a room, four sides, a shoddy roof, mostly made of wood, save for the rickety garage door that has been put in one side to act as a strangely accessible door. It faces away from the approach, and is open, presumably to let some air in, but it is also letting the same out.
“Detectives,” speaks a voice, and both look over to see a bespectacled man from Forensics addressing them.
Quain wonders at how quickly this guy must have gotten here, but he doesn’t voice it. The scene is far too over-bearing to worry about such things. The man begins giving them a briefing, but Quain feels a sense of anger and even some brooding shock, despite his experience, and he takes it all in with very little active reception.
The smell of cinnamon and other spices is almost cloying. There are some plastic cups strewn about, the empty vessels stained with what looks to be wine, especially judging from the voided bottles. There are candles, but they have been burnt down or blown out. The body hanging suspended from the ropes is that of a child, no more than preteen, if that, though the condition of the corpse makes any such precise determination difficult at this point.
The victim also seems to be male, but again, condition of the body, along with presumed age and thus lack of development, prohibits a real conclusion. The Crime Scene Investigator mentions that exact cause of death is unknown at this time, but it is obvious the victim has been split open vertically from neck to pelvis, much of the viscera hanging or emptied in a congealing, dark mess.
They let the man go about his tasks, handling some of their own business as quickly as possible in order to get the body down and taken away. It affects them both, though they do their best to contain it, standing back, thinking out loud.
“It could be the same people who killed those other kids.”
“It could,” she agrees, “But that’s a bit premature.”
“Yeah, I know.” He studies the grisly scene. “It’s ritualistic.”
“Like a serial killer’s fucked up fantasy?”
“Maybe like the murder of that journalist … what was his name?”
“Who?” She turns to look at him, her own brow now furrowing like his.
“The blogger. The one who was investigating the child prostitution.”
“Wentreck?”
“Yes, that one.”
“Too soon.”
“I know, I know,” he continues, nodding, then exhales, looking at the scene, making a face of disgust, then looking back at her, “This is messed up, though. Too much of this already here. We’ve got to stop it.”
“Yes, that’s our job, and I plan to do it.”
“What if …,” he begins, and she is still mainly focused on the horrible scene, jotting information in her small notebook. “What if we could get help?”
“We have help. We’ve got Forensics here, and we have the resources of the department. We can check with Marek and Graner, if you want, see if it does match up with anything in their case,” she names the two detectives investigating the death of Wentreck.
“No,” he says, and she looks up at him, curious. “I mean, well, sure, that’s worth checking out, but I mean … what if we could get help from outside the department?”
“You mean like informants?” she asks, now more confused and suspicious.
“Yes,” he is quick to say, “Well, sort of.”
“Sort of?”
He leans in close, whispering, “The vigilante.”
She just stares. He has moved away, going back to ostensibly studying the scene, acting like he has not uttered a word.
“Are you serious?” she finally asks.
“Yep.” He nods, once, still looking forward, as if they were two clandestine agents trying to have a secret conversation whilst under surveillance.
“Contee!” she insists, turning more to him, and he looks at her. “Are you serious?”
“I am, yes. I mean, it’s not like I know the guy, but he has access to some pretty good intel. What if I might could get one of his informants to be an informant for us?”
“Wha-? Are you ser-?”
“Yes!” he all but shouts, chuckling a bit to relieve the tension, then he steps away, beckoning her to follow, which she does, and he continues, pitching his voice low, “Look, I was contacted by someone who claims to be an informant for the vigilante, and that really doesn’t matter. What matters is that I think they have some good stuff on this child prostitution ring. That could help.”
“Okay, okay. It could, if it is legitimate, and of course it matters. The vigilante is breaking the law, and anyone directly associating with his actions is also breaking the law.”
“Right. You’re right, and I’m not on task to bring in the vigilante. I want to bring in the mother fuckers who did that.”
A short moment passes, his eyes drilling into her, not accusatory but demonstrative.
“Okay.” She exhales, then nods. “Okay,” she says more firmly, “I want that, too. Frankly … the vigilante is also not on my radar of law enforcement,” and her pause makes him realize she has amended what she had planned to say, “If you have something that could help us, then great, but �
�� Let’s be adults here - you know your reputation in the department, and I am not asking you to defend yourself, but you do need to prove yourself with me.”
He scowls.
“Hey, tough shit if you don’t like that,” she pushes, and he mellows, realizing he deserves it, and she sees the change, nodding once. “Good. Let’s get some good, legitimate, preferably legal information on this, and then yes, let’s get the mother fuckers who did it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lilja is a bit surprised when she is told someone is here to see her. Barring the recent developments, her job is largely calm, some might even think it boring, and she rarely gets unscheduled visitors that are not a student or part of faculty. The woman waiting for her in the lobby makes her think of the time she met Skothiam, though he, of course, had an appointment. She is seated in one of the few chairs, the furnishings scarce since hardly anyone ever really uses the lobby, and she rises as Lilja approaches.
She is young, likely of similar age as Lilja, and dressed very nicely, smartly, looking all too refined for this place. Her dark dress is quite form-fitting, along with the tight necklace of pearls. She places a light, thin smile on her lips, curling them up just enough to affect the polite expression. Her jaw is rather pronounced, strong, and it presses into further definition, as if the woman grinds her teeth together as opposed to really smiling. Her eyes are a striking grayish-blue, and her dark hair is short, slicked down and parted on the left, tapering down in its severe style, going toward her right ear. Lilja thinks she glimpses something there, as though the intent is to hide a portion of the woman’s brow, but she cannot be sure.
“Good morning,” she greets, extending her hand, which Lilja accepts. “Anika Malkuth. Thank you for seeing me.”
There is a very brief pause from Lilja when she hears the name, and she stares, openly, contemplatively, retrieving her hand.
“Why are you here?” she finally asks.
That smile touches up, hinting at a smirk.
“I would like to see the Book and that it is well secure.”
“It is,” Lilja intones, still unmoving, just looking back at the woman.
Sword of the Butterfly Page 22
