Sold To The Russian

by Isabella Laase

  Pavel obeyed with his hands in the air and a visibly trembling Zoya curled a little closer to his back. “Pavel Petruskenkov?” A plainclothes detective came out of the darkness behind the wall of weapons, flashing his shield and ID, his tone dangerously calm. “My name is Detective Carl Sinclair, and I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Lesta Kuzmich.”

  With his hands in the air, Pavel was surrounded before she could grab his arm. A young uniformed policewoman shoved her from his side, shouting unintelligible demands in English. “Wait,” Zoya demanded frantically, pushing at the woman’s shoulder. “Pavel!”

  The man who’d waved the paper turned him around and cuffed his wrists behind his back, removing his wallet, gun, keys, and cell phone, and dropping everything into single plastic bags that were whisked away by even more police who’d spread across the front lawn. “Get out of my way,” she screamed in Russian, trying to get back to his embrace, but the cop continued to physically block her movement, maintaining the rapid-fire commands that came too fast to understand more than every few words. Stop. Police. No.

  “Zoya!” shouted Pavel as they pushed him toward a waiting police car on the street. “Don’t fight this! Do you hear me? Take a deep breath and watch your temper.” Turning to the female cop, he said, “She doesn’t understand a lot of English. She’s not being obstinate.”

  “That’s right,” said the man who’d cuffed him. A tall, lean man in his forties with a thick head of hair and piercing blue eyes, he spoke Russian as he handed her another piece of folded paper. “That’s why they sent me. This is a search warrant for the house. You’re going to go inside and stay out of the way, and we’re going to tear this place apart until you want to cry, but we’re going to find whatever he has to hide.”

  “Call Galena’s father,” said Pavel, his voice amazingly calm. “You know that number by heart. Tell him to call Johannes Dzuiba. He’s my attorney, and he’ll know what to do. They’re going to search everything. You can’t stop it, but don’t even tell them your name until Johannes gets here, then do everything he says.” As they bent his head to put him in the back seat of the police car, he yelled to her, “You’re stronger than this, Zoya.”

  He was gone before he could say another word, and she was left standing in the driveway wearing the black cocktail dress that had brought her such happiness just a few hours before, their entire relationship on the precipice of disaster stemming from their unfinished conflict. She’d pushed him into that conversation. She no more wanted to leave him than fly to the moon, yet she’d backed him into a corner by being stubbornly and stupidly blind.

  “Zoya.” Clearly in charge, the man touched her elbow as the front door to the house splintered at the frame under the weight of their equipment, setting off the piercing shrill of the security system. “You aren’t dressed to stay out in the cold on such a miserable night. Come inside, and don’t worry about the alarm disturbing your neighbors’ sleep. They’ll pull the wires. I’m Detective Sinclair. It’s a good Scottish name, but my mother was Russian, and I can speak the language quite well. There aren’t that many of us on the force, and we certainly couldn’t have allowed Liam Jackson in on this little secret, could we?”

  His expression was filled with sympathy, but his words explicably chilled her even further than she already was. She fought the urge to run screaming down the street to find a familiar face. Since she was a small child, she’d been taught that the police were to be feared. They took men and women from their homes, never to be seen again, and nobody had led her to believe that the terror would be lessened on a cold, dark night in America. The thought that he was already lost to her made breathing even harder, but she steadied her nerves, walking into their home with her trembling chin held high.

  “Excellent choice, Zoya,” he said with a wide smile as he followed her. “Sit on the couch. Would you like a cup of coffee or tea before I ask you a few questions about the murder of Lesta Kuzmich?”

  The pieces of the puzzle were coming together, uniting what she already knew with what she was learning, but she walked past him to the phone in her kitchen and called Galena’s house. Her father answered almost immediately, and she kept her tone much stronger than she’d ever thought possible. “Please, Mr. Aaronson. Pavel’s been arrested and taken to jail. The police, they’re here, going through all of his things. Can you get the lawyer for him? I don’t know the number, and I can’t read the American phone book. He wants Johannes Dzuiba.”

  “Don’t say a fucking word to them,” he warned ominously. “I’ll call him, but just sit quietly, and I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. This is America, Zoya, not the Soviet Union. They won’t hurt you, but they will lie to you. Wait for one of us to get there.”

  She hung up the phone and sat at the kitchen table as the police tore through her cabinets, dumping her dishes and pots on the counter before moving to the dining room where they emptied the new plastic toy boxes filled with trucks and action figures. The couch cushions were knocked to the floor and the furniture was moved to the center of the room where the rest of her treasured possessions were accumulated by men and women who stared at her with judgmental glares.

  “Well,” said the cop, sitting next to her. “This is a mess, isn’t it? I bet you never saw this coming when you agreed to live with this man, did you?” Her eyes opened wide, but she didn’t say anything as the search team moved upstairs, leaving them with the sounds of their continuing invasion through the floorboards.

  “We did some digging, Zoya Zhvania,” he said. “It was an interesting marriage, considering there is no sign that Pavel went to Russia the month you were supposedly married to him. I didn’t think even the Russians did proxy marriages anymore, but who am I to judge such an ancient culture? So, why don’t you just start by telling me what you know about Pavel’s whereabouts on September nineteenth, because that’s the last night that anybody saw Lesta Kuzmich alive.”

  Sinclair nodded to the female cop who handed him a manila envelope. In a dizzying straight line, three officers came down the stairs with Pavel’s computer and several plastic bags filled with papers and envelopes and walked out the front door with his things. “You see, Zoya,” he said, leaning back in the kitchen chair. “I’m sure that you remember that night because it was only a few weeks after Lesta shot Pavel through that window, the one right over there. That must have made quite a mess. Did it take you a long time to clean it up?”

  It was all happening too fast, but her fear over the shooting paled in comparison to what her racing heart was experiencing at that moment. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong and none of that ever happened, but Pavel had been clear that she was to keep her mouth shut. Fighting her terror-fueled tears, she stared at the man for a long time, a wall of silence on both sides when a shout of excitement came from upstairs, and another officer entered her living room with Pavel’s antique gun box, moved to the bedroom closet when the boys had spent the weekend.

  “That was a good find!” Sinclair said happily. “I don’t suppose you want to give us the key so we can open that without breaking it into a thousand pieces.” He paused, but when she still didn’t speak, he shrugged like he couldn’t have cared less. “Did you know that we can run tests on a gun and tie it to the same bullets we found in the body? We’ll find the weapon, Zoya, and he will go to jail, with or without your cooperation. This man’s family deserves some answers. Would you like to see the pictures?”

  He pulled the graphic photos out of the envelope, but she had to look away. Lesta’s lifeless body, picture after picture. Inside a garbage bag with his arms and legs distorted at unnatural angles. Lying on the concrete surrounded by yellow police tape. Obvious bullet holes across his body. His skin unnaturally gray and his clothes stained in dark, bloody streaks. She knew without a doubt that she’d washed that same blood away from her family the night he died.

  Still fighting for control of her emotions, she looked to the front door, counting the minutes until somebod
y, anybody came to her side. For a second, she reconsidered her plan to run, disappearing into the darkness and never returning, but with all of those guns ready to be drawn, they’d likely shoot her before she reached the back deck.

  When she still didn’t respond, he sighed. “But we both know that Lesta wasn’t a good man, was he? Sometimes it’s better for all of us when a mobster is dropped into a garbage bag and dumped in the Hudson River. Unfortunately, once we found that bag, my boss expects me to find the man who did it, and everything I found led us back to Pavel Petruskenkov. So, if you would just tell me what he was doing that night, we could move on. We don’t tolerate people in this country who withhold evidence, but maybe, for you, an American jail is better than being deported back to Russia. I’m guessing that Damir Petruskenkov wouldn’t be so happy to see you with his brother out of the picture.”

  Damir’s name caused her to shudder, and she failed to hide the tear that spilled onto her cheek. “I don’t understand why you look so upset?” he said patiently as she wiped away the damning evidence. “Don’t you realize what this means? In America, all you have to do is tell me what I need to hear. He goes to jail for the rest of his life and you get everything. The house, the bank accounts, everything. Even custody of those little boys, if you want them, but I’m betting his cousin would keep them out of your hair. He’s a very rich man, and with him gone, you would become a free and very rich woman. We can even protect you from the rest of his family. Just tell me where he was the night Kuzmich disappeared and what happened to the gun. It was raining. It was a Tuesday. You owe him nothing.”

  She stared at him in disbelief, thinking about her past, her present, and her future. Anton and his sons. Everything that she’d ever dreamed and everything denied to her since she’d been taken from her father, given to her in a single sentence. Her response was simple. Pushing the terror aside, she curled her lip with disdain and finally answered his persistent questioning. “I have nothing to say to you until my attorney gets here.”

  Chapter 19

  Despite her small core of supporters assembled in the driveway, only Johannes Dzuiba had been allowed into the house by the police. While shouting at the detective about a wife’s legal protection during investigations against her husband, he’d held her hand, threatening to file a complaint with the review board over the scope of the warrant, but despite his familiar face and Pavel’s approval, his presence failed to bring any security to the chaos.

  After several hours, the police finally began to depart with more plastic bags stowed into the back of their vans, but the lean detective came to her at the kitchen table. “Here’s my card, Zoya. If you change your mind, call me, and I’ll be back to take your statement. And remember, this is Pavel’s lawyer sitting next to you, not yours.” He added a pair of fake quotation marks. “We both know that the legality of your ‘marriage’ is weak, at best. I’m confident that you don’t want me looking too closely at your immigration visa.”

  “That’s enough!” roared Dzuiba. “If you have no charges against my client, you’ll leave immediately and stop trying to intimidate her with false accusations.”

  His tainted business card represented the sum of everything that was so very wrong, but she took it while Dzuiba continued his tirade against the NYPD. She walked to the gas stove where she set it on fire before dropping the burning ashes into her sink. “Get the fuck out of my house, Detective,” she said, sounding much braver than she felt. “And you may call me Mrs. Petruskenkov.”

  He left with a shrug, shouting to his remaining men that they were done. Abel Aaronson was the first in the door, closely followed by a teary-eyed Galena who took her into her arms as her living room was filled by Pavel’s top advisors and soldiers. Even Liam came to her, waiting until after the police had left to protect himself from their scrutiny.

  They stayed long enough to see that she was fine, talking among themselves and making plans on Pavel’s behalf, but tiny Galena took a stand within the hour. “It’s late,” she declared loudly. “Everybody needs to leave and give her a chance to sleep. Liam and I will stay with her.” She was a little surprised when the burly, heavily armed men obeyed with few complaints, and Galena pushed her toward the master bedroom. “Come on, Zoya. Get ready for bed and I’ll stay with you.”

  “Really, Galena,” she insisted. “I just want to breathe a little on my own. I’ll be fine. Go sleep with Liam in one of the boys’ rooms.”

  “If you’re sure,” said Galena, running her hand across Zoya’s cheek. “Don’t worry about Pavel. Johannes said he’d be out in the morning, but we’ll be here until he comes back.”

  Nodding as Galena closed the door, she slipped out of the black cocktail dress, hesitating for a few seconds before dropping it into the trash, her magical night forever destroyed. From the bathroom window, she identified the black sedan with two of his soldiers in her driveway, but like the presence of his attorney, there was no comfort with the discovery.

  She put on his sweatpants and t-shirt before crawling under the covers on his side of the bed. Through the thin walls, Galena and Liam quieted almost immediately. The silence became so defeating that she turned to the nightstand to retrieve his small gun from the drawer when she remembered that it would be gone, like everything else that kept her safe. Staring at the ceiling, she took deep breaths, forcing her muscles to relax and shaking the foggy uncertainty that had debilitated her since he’d been taken away.

  Despite the invasion into her private life, she understood that she wasn’t a victim. Pavel was guilty of the accusations. She was guilty as well, but she had no guilt, a survival combination that she’d embraced since fleeing South Ossetia as a teenager. She’d trusted him to take care of threats to their safety, but his lack of mutual trust was hard to accept. He’d never told her that it was Lesta who’d died, or where the gun was that killed him, or even if there were more deaths and dramatic steps taken that he wasn’t willing to discuss.

  She dozed, but coming to terms with her loss every time she roused defeated any rest so she went downstairs when the sun sent sharp streaks across the floor to bring another day. After Galena insisted she eat eggs and toast that had no flavor, they tackled the reorganization of the house, and she prepared a meal to feed the men who’d returned to fix the broken front door and security system. Despite the long list of chores, the afternoon stretched on forever, and it was almost eight o’clock at night by the time Pavel returned. Wearing the same clothes she’d last seen him in, he was tired and unshaven.

  The tears came easily, but she didn’t care who saw them. “It’s fine, Zoya,” he said, gently taking her into his arms and rubbing her back. “They’ve dropped the charges after Johannes told them you would testify that I was with you all night. They had very little evidence that wasn’t circumstantial, and they’d relied on finding a gun to make their case. And nobody is going to deport you. You’re safe, I promise.”

  “I’m pleased it’s all worked out, Pavel,” said Galena, pulling Zoya in for a long hug and a sad smile. “I’ll leave you two in peace, but I’ll come back to that spare room anytime you invite me. My father is bringing another new cousin to stay with us, so I’m sleeping in my little sister’s bunk bed. They do seem to move on rather quickly, though, so hold out hope for this one, too.”

  “Thank you for staying with her, both of you,” Pavel said, walking them to the door. “It meant a great deal to me knowing that she was cared for. Liam will take you home, Galena.”

  Galena looked uncomfortable, but when Liam nodded his approval, she grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it. “He’s going to be taking me home for a long time. We’ve decided to be exclusive.”

  Zoya was happy for them, but had to force a smile until they left, still holding hands. After the chaos of the last twelve hours and with the weight of their failing relationship hanging between them, the house remained uncomfortably quiet. She heated up the leftover stroganoff, and he sat at the kitchen table and made a few calls whil
e he ate.

  “Come to bed with me, Zoya,” he said, standing. All the signs of exhaustion were embedded into the deep lines across his brow. “Clean up the kitchen in the morning. I am betting you could use the sleep as much as I could.”

  Once again, their marriage depended on her ability to walk away from all of the unanswered questions, but she’d come too far to abandon what she considered to be core beliefs about herself and her place in this world. The conversation they’d abandoned in the driveway needed to be finished, one way or the other, and this arrest had only served to solidify that understanding.

  “We need to talk, Pavel,” she said, leaning against the counter and willing her voice not to break. “I can’t have this both ways, either I’m part of your world or I’m not, but I’ll never lie for you again unless I understand what I’m lying about.”

  He moved toward her, and she silently prayed that he would demand she submit to his authority. With a few words, he could end this standoff and give her the gift of his safety, leaving the thoughts about her own independence for another day. But he removed a cold beer from the back of the refrigerator and stood in the doorway to the living room without speaking.

  “Just talk to me,” she begged. “I’m not an idiot. This rogue bid for power excuse that you came up with doesn’t make any sense. Killing you wouldn’t have helped Kuzmich. Everybody in Brighton Beach knows that Damir is the real power, and he would have just sent somebody else.”

  “You need to be careful when you speak out loud,” he said, looking out the window before taking a sip of his beer. “You never know who is listening.”

  “Do you think the house is bugged?” she asked, frantically looking around her kitchen.