Beating the Babushka (17 page)

They heard sirens in the distance.

“What are you going to do?” asked Cape.

The Pole looked over at his bodyguard, the pool of blood shimmering in the noonday sun. For a moment the Pole looked angry, then sadness settled over his features before he regained his chilly façade. “I am going to buy a new chessboard.”

“We never finished our game,” said Cape.

“True,” said the Pole. “And I believe it is your move.”

Chapter Forty

“You’re lucky I haven’t arrested you.”

Corelli scowled across the table at Cape, who was struggling to look contrite as he bit into a ham-and-egg sandwich. The coffee shop was two blocks from the hotel. He and Sally had checked out immediately, and she was already on her way to the airport. Cape hoped to make the same flight but knew he was pushing his luck. An hour from now he might be behind bars.

“I could take you in for questioning.”

“You mentioned that,” said Cape.

“But you don’t know anything about a homicide in Brighton Beach.”

“Not if you bring me in for questioning.”

Corelli gave him a cop stare for a full minute before exhaling. Grabbing his own sandwich, he took a ferocious bite.

“You’re an asshole,” he said with his mouth full.

“Beau didn’t mention that?” said Cape. “Besides, I called you, remember?”

Corelli almost spat. “Like you had a lot of choice.”

“I was never there,” said Cape. “I don’t know any Russian gangsters. I was just walking by when this nice old man asked me if I wanted to play a game of chess. I abhor guns. There were no dead bodies in the square when I was there. My dog ate my homework…”

“Enough!” Corelli held up his hand. “I get the point. You sure you’re not a lawyer?”

“Not me,” said Cape. “I’m one of the good guys.”

“That remains to be seen,” replied Corelli. “Talk to me.”

Cape took him through it, from the beginning. When he finished talking, his sandwich was still warm, but Corelli’s had long since vanished. Cape had left out only one important detail, and that was Sally.

“The cops on the scene identified the stiff as part of the Russian mob,” said Corelli. “Now I have to play nice with Brooklyn homicide. So fuck-you-very-much for ruining my afternoon.”

“I tried to keep it friendly.”

“I tried to quit smoking,” snapped Corelli, “but it didn’t do any good.”

“I was just an innocent bystander.”

“Bullshit,” said Corelli. “Innocent bystanders get killed—that’s why they’re called innocent bystanders. In my line of work, nobody’s innocent unless they’re dead. You, my friend, are what we call an instigator.”

“I didn’t instigate anything except a game of chess.”

Corelli started to huff but let it go. Instead he shook his head and almost laughed.

“You think it’s the same dickheads who tried to shoot you in San Francisco?”

“That’d be my guess,” said Cape. “I don’t know too many snipers.”

“You’re telling me the Pole’s clean? I got guys looking for him right now.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“That’s what I get paid for,” replied Corelli. “I’m a cop, remember?”

“Do you think the Pole would kill his own bodyguard?” asked Cape.

“In a heartbeat,” said Corelli emphatically. “If he thought it would get him something.”

“Like what?’

“Do you trust him?’ asked Corelli.

Cape considered the question. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I think I do.”

“Maybe that’s what he wanted.”

Cape didn’t know what to say to that. Corelli made a sound like he was coughing up a hairball but threw back some coffee before the Heimlich became necessary.

“The Brooklyn cops said there was an arrow stuck in the side of a building, right next to a window overlooking the park.”

“That’s where the shooter was.”

“Of course that’s where the shooter was,” said Corelli. “I want to know where the fucking arrow came from.”

“Maybe a sporting goods store?”

Corelli stared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Just doing my civic duty.” Before Corelli could respond Cape jumped in again, saying, “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“A favor or a question?” said Corelli. “’Cause you used up all your favors already.”

“A stupid question…Why me?”

Corelli gave a humorless chuckle. “Getting tired of being in the crosshairs?”

“You want to change places?”

“Not a chance,” said Corelli. “Your question’s not that stupid, but the answer’s simple—you were supposed to drop the case.”

“But if the Major and his pet rock hadn’t stopped by my office in the first place, this case probably would have dwindled and died on the vine. The cops had already written it off.”

“That’s not how it works in Russia,” said Corelli. “Remember, the Major is ex-Soviet, ex-KGB, ex-mafiya.”

“That’s a lot of x’s.”

“Those guys ran the Soviet Union with absolute authority. They told you to do something, then you did it, no questions asked. They were the law. People who resisted disappeared, lost their families, or wound up in the gulag. Someone from the Russian mob warns you off a case, you drop it like a hot potato, even if you’re a cop.”

“This isn’t Russia.”

“Tell that to the Major next time you see him.”

“But—”

Corelli cut him off with a raised palm. “Let me ask you as question—what would happen to the case if you got killed?”

Cape started to answer but caught himself as the answer started to sink in. “The cops would investigate—” he began.

“For how long?”

“Beau wouldn’t let it rest,” said Cape assuredly.

“True,” said Corelli. “But without the department behind him…” He let his voice trail off.

Cape nodded reluctantly. “If the case got cold…”

“Which it would, because the Major would shit-can whatever he’s into just long enough for the cops to move on.”

“Then my client’s story about her friend getting thrown off a bridge—”

“—is just a story with no one willing to investigate,” said Corelli. “Remember, these guys don’t care how messy things get, or who knows they’re the bad guys. You go away, their problem goes away, period—because nobody in their right mind is gonna pick up where you left off.”

“How could a guy like the Major get into the country if they have him on a watch list?”

“Easy,” said Corelli. “He’s not applying for citizenship, so all he needs is a visa to get into the country.”

“Don’t you have to apply for a visa? Supposedly the State Department has the Major on a watch list.”

“Say he goes to the American embassy in Moscow and applies for a visa—they check their list and bounce him back. He just goes to another country where he is allowed to travel, like Latvia, and gets a clean passport.”

“What do you mean by clean?”

“He fills out the new application without mentioning any criminal record,” replied Corelli, “which is highly illegal under U.S. law, but no one in Latvia really gives a shit. So now that he’s got a clean passport, he contacts some friends in the United States and asks them to write a letter to the American embassy in Latvia on his behalf.”

“Saying what?”

“He’s an important business associate, a major investor, or an all-around swell guy. The morons at the embassy get the letter, issue a thirty-day visa, and the Major flies into the country from Latvia.”

“Just like that?”

Corelli nodded. “And once he’s here, no one at the State Department is keeping tabs on him, so he can travel freely within the U.S.”

“Astounding,” muttered Cape.

“It’s what the politicians call a loophole.”

Cape didn’t say anything. He was thinking about a loophole big enough for the Major and Ursa to slip through and realized that tracking them was going to be almost impossible. All his usual tricks and online searches for credit reports, last known addresses, driver’s license applications, were all useless. The men hunting him couldn’t be hunted.

Corelli must have guessed the line of thought, because he softened his tone. “They only found blood near the dead Russian. You get hurt?”

“I’m shaken, not stirred,” said Cape. “But I’ll live.”

“That’s too bad,” replied Corelli, his voice regaining its usual gruffness. “I bet Beau you wouldn’t leave Brooklyn alive.”

“You could always place bets on San Francisco.”

“Already have.”

“Thanks, Corelli.” Cape put money on the table, stood, and extended his hand. “I owe you.”

“That’s the understatement of the year.” Corelli stood and shook hands. “Watch your back.”

“If you’re ever in San Francisco—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t look you up,” said Corelli. “I’d like to make it to retirement.”

Chapter Forty-one

The trip to the airport was only slightly longer than a Russian novel.

Plenty of time to make a phone call. Cape dialed a number he knew by memory and was surprised when Beau answered on the third ring.

“You’re at your desk?” said Cape, incredulous. “I thought the street was your office.”

Beau snorted into the phone. “Since you left town, things been nice and quiet. Gives a hard-working public servant like myself a chance to catch up on all the bullshit paperwork I gotta do.”

“My tax dollars at work.”

“Amen,” replied Beau. “But don’t forget, you’re the dickhead responsible for half the paperwork on my desk.”

“Point taken.”

“But that isn’t why you called, is it?” demanded Beau, his thunderous voice sounding all-knowing over the phone. “I just talked to Corelli.”

“Shit.”

“Said you came to town and left a dead body for him to clean up.”

“I don’t know anything about that, Officer.”

“You’re a menace.”

“My flight instincts took over.”

“That’s about the only instinct you don’t have. What do you want?”

“Did you test the heroin you found in the dead producer’s apartment?”

Cape heard Beau’s breathing over the line. “How do you mean, tested? We gave it the old taste test, and it passed. Tasted like junk, looked like junk…must be junk. It’s not powdered sugar, if that’s what you want to know.”

“What about the lab?”

“Sure, we always send a sample down to the boys in the lab, find out what’s in it. The report’s probably somewhere on my desk.” Cape heard papers shuffling in the background. He’d seen Beau’s desk. “What are you going on about?”

“Corelli said something about Turkish heroin,” said Cape. “How it’s different from the junk you get from Asia.”

“Yeah, he’s right. So?”

“I want to know where the heroin in the dead guy’s apartment came from.”

“Why?” The rustling noise stopped as Beau turned his full attention to the phone.

“I might know who put it there.”

“Who?”

“My Russian friends.”

“You think the Russians are making a play for the local drug trade?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then what?”

“Something bigger,” said Cape. “A lot bigger.”

Chapter Forty-two

“Gummy, don’t run.”

Vincent spoke the words softly, as if trying to coax a kitten down from a tree, but it was no use. Gummy spun on his heel and bolted, slamming face-first into Beau’s chest, bouncing off, and falling on his ass. Vincent bent down and gingerly grabbed him under the arms to help him stand.

They were ten feet from the main drag on Broadway, standing in an alley called Romolo. Since it had a name, Romolo was technically a street, but it angled sharply up from Broadway and ran into a dead end less than half a block up the hill. It sure as hell looked like an alley. But hidden on the left side halfway up the alley was the Hotel Basque, marked only by a neon blue sign with the word “hotel.” And on the ground floor of the hotel was 15 Romolo, one of the more obscure haunts in a city known for its bars and restaurants. Somewhere between a dive bar and casual chic, it drew an eclectic crowd that included lawyers, advertising executives, grad students, and the occasional mobster with a crystal meth addiction, like Gummy. When he stepped outside for a smoke, Vincent and Beau were waiting.

Gummy looked from one to the other, his face drawn. He wore an expensive black suit, crumpled from head to toe as if he’d slept in it. His eyes were black and jumpy, his hair greasy and thinning, his hands shaky. He had the burn-victim complexion of a meth addict. The edges of his mouth were stretched and pitted, lips wrapped around bleeding gums. His front teeth, top and bottom, had been ground to jagged stumps.

“How’s the habit treatin’ you, Gummy?” Beau sounded genuinely concerned. He walked Gummy up the hill to the end of the alley.

Gummy shifted his weight from one foot to the other in a spastic dance, a fire walker who realized too late the coals beneath his feet burned like hell.

“I don’t use ice no more,” he said.

Vincent nodded sympathetically. “Got too expensive, huh?”

“M-m-money’s not a problem,” said Gummy. “I g-g-g-got connections.”

“That’s right,” said Beau, as if he’d just remembered. “You’re with Frank Alessi’s crew.”

Gummy started to respond but coughed phlegm onto Vincent’s jacket instead. Beau covered a laugh by pretending to cough into his hand. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Vincent took out his gun and shot Gummy right there.

“I don’t know shhhit.”

“That’s not what you just said,” Beau drawled amicably. “You said you were connected.”

Vincent wiped gingerly at his lapel with a handkerchief. “That’s why we wanted to talk to you, Gummy.”

Gummy’s eyes jumped out of his head like a Tex Avery cartoon. “I got f-f-friends in high places.”

Beau looked over Gummy’s head. “Vinnie, what does moving ice get you these days?”

Vincent folded and put away the handkerchief, frowning. “Minimum five-year stint, I think. State Assembly just extended it.”

Gummy twitched, then went quiet for a second. “I don’t deal.”

“That’s the problem,” said Beau. “You don’t deal with us, you deal with a jury. See, Gummy, I got connections, too, over at Narcotics. They tell me you tapped into your connections to start moving the shit you’re using, so you could get it wholesale and make ends meet.”

Vincent chimed in. “Depending on the quantity, the jury might go with two years in, three on probation.”

Gummy’s eyes started to water.

“How long you think you’d last inside?” asked Beau.

“I read somewhere that addicts can go into shock if they get cut off,” said Vincent.

“Hard to get crank inside,” said Beau sadly.

“Why’d a connected guy like you start using in the first place?” asked Vincent.

Gummy resumed his fire dancing. “Gotta keep my edge, you know? Th-the ice keeps you sharp. Guy my age needs an edge.”

Beau nodded as if he understood, and he did. Even before he left Narcotics, crystal meth had become an epidemic. Confounding law enforcement was the drug’s unexpected appeal to normally law-abiding citizens. Truckers used it to stay awake on long trips. Middle-aged men and women tried to regain the energy and vitality of their youth. The gay community wanted a drug they could call their own. Ice had something for everyone, a seismic jolt of euphoria delivered straight to the cerebral cortex. Nobody saw the dark side of the little white crystals until they’d spread from both coasts to the Midwest, from the cities to the suburbs. Addiction came without warning or remorse. Ice was a body snatcher that sucked you dry, leaving behind a walking corpse too drained to know it was already dead.

“Everybody needs an edge,” said Beau. “But Frank doesn’t deal in trash, Gummy. Even a fat fuck like Frank’s got standards.”

“Wh-what are you sayin’?”

“I’m saying it’s one thing to get judged by a jury, but a whole ’nother thing to get judged by Frank. Ice is a street drug, Gummy. Low rent, high risk. Frank know about your little hobby?”

Gummy shuddered. If he had any teeth left, they would have started chattering. “He knows I’m using—was using. Said he’d get me help. I’m in a program—twelve steps.”

“That’s great,” said Beau. “Which step you on?”

“I forget.”

“Don’t sweat it, Gummy. Twelve’s a lot of steps to keep track of.”

“Nnno shit.”

Vincent leaned in close and almost whispered. “Frank doesn’t know you’re dealing, Gummy.”

Gummy’s head swiveled around. “You’re not gonna tell him?”

“Not if you help us,” said Beau mildly. “This ain’t about you, Gummy.”

“It’s about the zoo,” said Vinnie.

“You been to the zoo, Gummy?”

Gummy looked from Beau back to Vincent, his eyes suddenly clear. “No, not lately. Not since I was a kid.”

Beau nodded. “Me and Vinnie, we were just there. Know what we found?”

Gummy looked at his shoes and nodded. “Cecil.”

“Yeah,” said Beau brightly. “You always were good with names.”

Vincent nodded. “We need a name, Gummy.”

“We just want the triggerman,” said Beau soothingly. “Doesn’t have to go past that.”

“Frank’ll never know,” added Vincent. “About any of this.”

Gummy’s lips started twitching as he ground his ruined teeth together. When he spoke, his voice was almost calm, as if he’d come down from some terrible mountain and was gathering his strength for his next ascent into madness.

“I don’t know anything, you understand?”

Beau caught the change in tone. “’Course not, Gummy. We’re not even havin’ this conversation.”

“That’s right,” replied Gummy. “We’re not. But if we were—if we were talkin’, then I might tell you to look at a guy named Anthony.”

“Anthony got a last name?” asked Vincent.

Gummy shook his head. “I just know him as Anthony. Guys call him Big Anthony sometimes, ’cause he’s tall. But he’s not that big for a hitter. More lanky, you know. Kinda looks like a bird.”

“What kinda bird?”

“A hawk,” said Gummy. “Guy looks like a hawk.”

Vincent looked at Beau, who nodded. Laying his right arm around Gummy’s shoulders, Beau flexed his bicep, pulling Gummy close and almost breaking his neck. It was a gesture that was simultaneously tender and terrifying. Gummy gasped as Beau whispered intently into his ear.

“You better find those twelve steps or I’ll kill you myself,” he said. “Get off the shit, Gummy.” Beau uncoiled his arm and stalked off down the hill.

Gummy watched the two detectives walk away. Once they were out of sight he sat down heavily on the pavement and frantically clutched at his pockets for a lighter.

Beau and Vincent didn’t say anything until they’d rounded the corner at Columbus and passed two or three Italian restaurants. It was still early enough for North Beach to draw tourists. At the fourth awning Beau stopped suddenly and pushed through the door, grabbing two bar stools before Vincent caught up with him. By the time Vincent was sitting shoulder to shoulder with his partner, Beau had ordered two shots of tequila.

“We celebrating?” asked Vincent.

“No,” said Beau. “I fuckin’ hate tequila. This is punishment.”

“We got a name.”

Beau turned to face Vincent. “How do you feel about it?”

“The name?” said Vincent. “I think the name’s probably good.”

“Not what I meant,” said Beau. “How do you feel about bracing Gummy?”

Vincent threw back the shot and winced. “Like a manipulative scumbag.”

Beau nodded and ordered two more shots. “Don’t mind scaring the tough guys, the ones that need to be taken down a notch. Kind of like being a badass cop every once in a while.”

“But a guy like Gummy…” Vincent let his voice trail off.

“Yeah.” Beau looked straight ahead, at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

Vincent gestured at the bartender to hold off on a second shot. The first one was already working its magic, eating a hole in his empty stomach. “So what now?”

“That’s easy,” said Beau. “We go bird hunting.”