Private Moscow

by Patterson, James

  Puffing clouds of steam as he walked the woodland path to the church, Yenen soon reached Leonid and Dinara.

  “Mr. Yenen,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Dinara Orlova.”

  Yenen refused the greeting with a dismissive wave. “We live in dangerous times, Miss Orlova. Even the touch of a hand can be deadly.”

  Dinara recognized the paranoid glint in the man’s eye. She’d seen it in her reflection when she used to work undercover. There was no such thing as too careful, she’d always told herself, and here was a man who lived by that mantra.

  “How can we help you?” Dinara asked, lowering her hand.

  Yenen looked at his bodyguards, but it was Leonid who picked up on his pointed expression first.

  “Hey,” Leonid said to one of the men, a huge bull-necked figure whose coat struggled to contain his massive frame. “You’re Tisha Bobrik, aren’t you?”

  The man looked at Leonid in puzzlement.

  “Leonid Boykov. We were on the Olympic team together in 2004.” He mimed lifting weights. “You got bronze in the super heavyweight. I got silver for rapid pistol.”

  “I remember you,” Tisha said. “You were at the team party on the last night.”

  Leonid nodded. “We might even have shared a toast or two.” He smiled. “Listen, why don’t we bore these other fellows with tales of past glory and leave these two to talk.”

  Tisha looked at Yenen, who nodded.

  “OK,” Tisha said, and he and the other guards followed Leonid to the portico a short distance away.

  His work as a cop meant there were few places in Moscow where Leonid didn’t know someone, and his Olympic success with a pistol had made him a minor celebrity, so he could usually find a connection. The deft way he read people and won them over was something Dinara aspired to.

  “What can Private Moscow do for you, Mr. Yenen?” Dinara asked, once the others were out of earshot.

  “You are to investigate the murder of a woman called Yana Petrova. She was killed in an explosion last night.”

  CHAPTER 16

  THE BOMBING OF the Boston Seafood Grill had made the news. According to reports, police hadn’t confirmed a cause and were saying it could have been a gas leak.

  “Are you suggesting it was a bomb?” Dinara asked.

  “Yes,” Yenen replied. “And Yana Petrova was the target.”

  Dinara had never heard of the woman before. “How did you know her?”

  “She was a friend.”

  Friend. A vague word that could mean anything, Dinara thought. Was this woman a business contact? A lover? A threat?

  “What did she do?”

  “She was a customer-service agent at Moesk,” Yenen replied.

  “The electric company?” Dinara remarked.

  Yenen nodded. “You are to find out why she was killed and who did it.”

  “The Boston is popular with a lot of influential people,” Dinara said. “How do you know she was the target?”

  Yenen’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  “I’m going to have to consult with my superior,” Dinara told him. “We have a—”

  The billionaire cut her off dismissively. “You are going to take the investigation. Your business is failing because you are owned by an American. Solve this case and my patronage will change things for you.”

  “I need to know—” Dinara began.

  Yenen interrupted her again. “I’ve told you everything you’re going to get.”

  This was a man who was used to being obeyed, and his high-handedness rankled.

  “What about terms?” she asked.

  “Call my lawyer,” Yenen replied, handing her a card. “Talk to him about the details. You will find another number on the back.”

  Dinara turned the card over to find some hand-scrawled digits.

  “That is how you reach me. You, and nobody else.”

  Yenen studied Dinara for a moment, before starting toward the parking lot. “Move, Dinara Orlova. You are wasting precious time.” He called to his men. “Hey!”

  The guards broke off their conversation with Leonid and hurried to join their boss.

  “So?” Leonid asked as he sauntered over.

  “One of the richest men in Russia just hired us to investigate the murder of an office worker,” Dinara replied. “How does he even know her?”

  “Where did she die?”

  “Last night at the Boston Grill,” Dinara said.

  Leonid whistled as they watched Yenen and his bodyguards walk down to the three SUVs. “Noisy death,” he observed. “The mark of someone who is confident they won’t be caught, or who isn’t worried about the consequences if they are.”

  Dinara nodded. “And how does he know Yana was the target? The police haven’t even confirmed the cause of the explosion, let alone identified a motive, if there is one.”

  Yenen and his men climbed into the three vehicles.

  “Maybe we should have asked for a ride,” Leonid said, looking around the deserted park.

  “A little walk won’t hurt,” Dinara replied as she started toward the path.

  Leonid grunted disapprovingly and joined her. “So are we taking the case?”

  “You got anything better to do?” Dinara asked. She watched Yenen’s convoy drive out of the park and speed into the distance. “Come on,” she said, picking up the pace.

  CHAPTER 17

  WATCHING THE SURVEILLANCE footage was difficult. Up on that podium, I’d been totally oblivious to my surroundings, and had been so focused on Karl Parker that I hadn’t been alert to the danger right in front of me.

  I was in the security control room of the New York Stock Exchange with Seymour “Sci” Kloppenberg, the head of Private Los Angeles’ science and forensic lab, and Ben Katz, the Exchange’s head of security. They were standing next to Maureen “Mo-bot” Roth, Private’s top computer genius, and next to them was Justine Smith, our brilliant forensic profiler, who for a while had been the woman I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with. But a combination of work, my own stupidity and a failure to communicate meant our relationship hadn’t been as straightforward as either of us would have liked. The last time we’d spoken on a personal level, she’d made it clear she wanted nothing more from me than professional contact, and I suspected even that would end if someone came along with the right job offer.

  She was beautiful and intelligent and even though I couldn’t find comfort in her arms, I was grateful to have her with me. After everything we’d been through, the familiarity of her presence was reassuring. We watched eight screens that were broad-casting simultaneous footage shot by different cameras around the Exchange.

  “He might as well have been waving a red flag,” Mo-bot remarked, pointing at the monitor which showed the assassin moments before Karl walked to the front of the podium.

  Why didn’t you turn your head? I asked my past self.

  Mo-bot was right. The assassin had come into the Exchange late and had walked around looking for a vantage point. He’d been one of only three guards in the huge chamber, but unlike the other two who stood near exits, this man had placed himself among the traders. He’d kept glancing at the genuine guards and had shone a fake smile at anyone who caught his eye. If I’d seen him, I was certain I would have sensed he was a threat.

  “I’m sorry,” Mo-bot said after seeing my face drop. “I didn’t mean … It’s a lot easier to see things after the fact. Especially when you’ve got a close-up of the guy.”

  “Any idea how he got into the building?” Sci asked Ben Katz.

  Katz was a short, thin man who reminded me of a math teacher I’d once had. Dedicated and diligent by reputation, the security breach obviously pained him.

  “Someone added false credentials to our system,” Katz replied. “We’re working on trying to find out how.”

  “Why wasn’t he challenged by anyone?” I asked.

  Katz gave a resigned shake of his head. “I don’t have a good answer fo
r that. We’re going to be conducting a major review of our procedures after this.”

  “Should I continue?” the Exchange’s security technician asked.

  He’d paused the footage moments before Karl was shot. Katz sought guidance from me and my team.

  “I need to see what happened,” Sci replied. “Sorry, boss,” he said to me.

  I had no desire to see my friend die again, but I knew we had to watch it. I stood frozen as the horrific event was replayed in sharp detail, and felt suddenly overwhelmed. I needed to get out of that room and away from those screens which were showing me images I knew I’d never be able to forget.

  “I’ve seen enough,” I said to the group. “I’ll meet you outside when you’re done.”

  Justine gave me a sympathetic look as I left the room, and I nodded my appreciation.

  I waited for them on Broad Street, and went over the events of the previous day. If I’d been a little faster, a little stronger, the shooter might have been in custody. But I couldn’t undo the past. All I could do was use it to beat myself up.

  It was another freezing day and the fresh snow being dumped by the black clouds was keeping the Saturday morning streets quiet. A few tourists braved the weather and snapped photos of the Exchange and the other grand old buildings around it. There were still a couple of news trucks on Wall Street, but no other sign that a good man had been murdered here the previous morning.

  “You did what you could,” Justine said when she joined me. She placed a reassuring hand on my back. “It looks like a professional hit.”

  “You buying this Ninety-nine story?” Mo-bot asked as she and Sci approached.

  The media was running with the sensational idea that America’s wealthiest were now under threat from a radical political group, and armchair pundits were chewing over my friend’s murder, filling the airwaves with dangerous chatter and speculation.

  “I think it stinks,” Sci remarked, zipping up his vintage biker jacket so it covered his chin. “That wasn’t some zealous idealist. That was a soldier.”

  I nodded. “I’m not buying it either. Sci, I want you to stay here. Run your own analysis on the scene. The shooter might have touched something or had contact with someone on his way in. See if you can track his arrival. Find out how he got here.”

  Letitia Jones, the Parkers’ lawyer, had arranged for us to be accorded every professional courtesy by the Exchange. Any help they could offer to bring the killer to justice would play well in the media, and I had no doubt the executives were terrified by the prospect of being hit with a wrongful death and negligence lawsuit by the Parker family.

  “What are your relationships like with NYPD?” I asked.

  “Good,” Sci replied.

  He regularly traveled the world giving lectures on forensic science, and shared our resources with the FBI’s Quantico lab and police departments around the country. He was well respected by law-enforcement agencies everywhere.

  “See what they’ve found,” I suggested.

  “Will do,” he replied.

  “What about me?” Justine asked.

  “Find out about the chopper they used to escape,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “And Mo-bot, I want you to come with me. We’re going to find out what Karl Parker wanted to tell me.”

  CHAPTER 18

  JESSIE HAD PROVIDED us with one of Private New York’s staff cars, a black Nissan Rogue. As I drove Mo-Bot out to Long Island, she talked about anything and everything other than the case. How New Yorkers were crazy to put up with this weather when California was open for business; what was happening in the world of quantum computing; the latest developments in artificial intelligence; her planned vacation to Cairo to visit the Pyramids of Giza. For ninety minutes I forgot about failing Karl Parker and almost felt like my old self again. If Mo-bot’s rambling monologue was designed to take my mind off things, it worked.

  Then we arrived at Karl and Victoria’s beachfront home and reality came crashing in when I was confronted with the trappings of the life that had been taken. Karl had come a long way from his Marine instructing days. A double gate opened onto a long drive that led from Hilltop Avenue toward the coast. High trees heavy with snow lined the driveway, and after a quarter of a mile or so, they gave way to a paved courtyard which lay in front of a huge two-story beachfront mansion. A Mercedes G-Wagen and a Bentley were parked outside a six-car garage that stood near the house.

  “Some place,” Mo-bot observed as we parked beside the other cars.

  We got out and crunched across the snow-covered drive to the front door, where a housekeeper waited.

  “Come in,” she said. “Mrs. Parker is in the library.”

  The housekeeper introduced herself as Ermilita. She led us through a beautifully decorated house to a large library that overlooked the beach. Bookcases lined three walls, and in the middle of the room were a couch and two armchairs that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows. Victoria Parker was standing by one of the windows, looking out at the beach. There were patches of snow here and there, but most of it had been swept away by the saltwater. Victoria turned to face us as we entered, and it was obvious she’d been crying.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked.

  Victoria gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “Thanks for seeing us,” I said. “This is Maureen Roth. Maureen’s our resident technology expert.”

  The two women shook hands.

  “Where do we start?” Victoria said.

  “I’d like to ask you some questions about Karl, and Maureen will take a look at Karl’s computers and files, if that’s OK,” I replied.

  “Let me show you his office,” Victoria said.

  We were on our way out of the library when a buzzer sounded. Ermilita hurried ahead and we heard the front door open. Words were exchanged, but I couldn’t make out what was being said.

  “Ma’am,” Ermilita called. “There’s a package for … well, you’d better come and see.”

  Mo-bot and I followed Victoria, and we found a UPS delivery driver waiting by the front door. He was holding a package about the size of a shoebox.

  “What is it?” Victoria asked.

  “Look at the writing, ma’am,” Ermilita replied.

  Victoria studied the label and her face fell. “That’s Karl’s handwriting,” she said.

  I hadn’t seen anything written by him in a while, but took Victoria’s assessment on trust.

  “Where did this come from?” I asked.

  The driver checked a handheld computer. “The package was dropped off on a forty-eight-hour service the day before yesterday at the UPS Store, North Seventh Street, Brooklyn.”

  Victoria took the parcel. “It’s addressed to you,” she told me.

  “Can I get a signature?” the driver asked, and Ermilita obliged.

  “Mo-bot, can you get his details?” I asked, indicating the driver.

  “Sure.” She nodded, and Victoria and I moved to a table in the hall.

  I studied the parcel. Alongside the UPS labeling was an adhesive label with my name and the Parkers’ address written in cursive. Brown paper, sticky tape, no obvious danger. I peeled back some of the tape and carefully unfolded the flap.

  “Why would Karl send you a parcel here?” Victoria asked.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling my old friend had known his fate, but supposition and superstition were the enemies of a good detective. I removed the wrapper to reveal a plain cardboard box. No marks or distinguishing features. I lifted the top flap and peered inside.

  “What is it?” Mo-bot asked when she joined us.

  “A book,” I replied.

  I reached inside and picked up a hardback copy of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. It was a well-used, dog-eared copy and I leafed through it to find a borrowing record stuck to the first page. The book came from the Leonard branch of the Brooklyn Public Library and had been lent to Karl Parker two days ago.

  “Why
would Karl send you a library book?” Victoria asked.

  I stared at Karl’s name in the lending record, wishing I knew the answer to her question.

  CHAPTER 19

  A SMALL CROWD of ghoulish onlookers watched the forensic operation on Lesnaya Street. They stood behind a cordon patrolled by two Moscow Second Regiment police officers. There was one news crew still at the scene, and the reporter, a grizzled veteran Dinara recognized, was having a cigarette while his camera operator shot B-roll footage. Beyond the cordon a trio of large field lamps had been arranged around the wreckage of the Boston Seafood Grill. A diesel generator hummed nearby and steam rose from the hot lights, which illuminated a horrific scene.

  The restaurant’s street frontage had been torn apart and fire had blackened much of the building. Fragments of furniture, chairs, tables, light fittings, chunks of the bar had been blasted into the snow outside, and each broken item had been marked by a small numbered orange flag. There were dozens of them. There hadn’t been any fresh snowfall, which meant Dinara could still see the outlines and indentations where body parts had been scattered by the explosion. She saw the shape of a leg, an arm, and the tiny shapes of fingers. The dismembered limbs had been removed from the scene but each spot was memorialized by a numbered red flag. There were thirty-five.

  “What a mess,” Leonid said.

  Dinara nodded. Inside the restaurant a team of forensic scientists sifted through debris and wreckage. Dinara and Leonid approached the cordon, close enough to the huge lights for their heat to take the edge off the freezing night.

  “See anyone you know?” Dinara asked.

  Leonid scanned the faces of four senior Moscow Criminal Investigations Department police officers gathered outside a mobile command unit. Three men and a woman, all in heavy police-issue coats and uniforms.