Downfall (18 page)

The doorknob had gone still. I listened. Had opening the safe triggered a silent alarm? I wondered how big a public relations disaster it would be to fight my way out of a public relations office.

I waited. Presumably the door would be unlocked in a few moments and I would confront an outraged subordinate and maybe a security guard. I was not worried.

Silence. No one coming to the door.

I eased it open. A fresh, new sticky note adorned the door. I guess such messages got transferred to her desk over the course of the day. I shut the door and walked back down the hallway, past open offices and a now full conference room, and back into Diana’s office. I sat. Waited five minutes.

Got up and went out, past the receptionist. He shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir, I haven’t heard from her.”

“That’s all right. I’ll reschedule.” I gave a most understanding smile and didn’t want to look like an annoyed client because if I did he might try to foist some other account exec on me.

I got onto the elevator just as a swarm of interns got off.

I hurried toward the van. Felix already had the engine running. I got in. He pulled out of the garage, made turns, started heading back toward the Haight and The Select.

“I broke and entered,” I said.

“I’m so proud,” he said.

“Maybe this is a duplicate of what Janice left for Diana.” I opened the envelope. It wasn’t a video. Inside were news articles organized with binder clips. News accounts, and all bad news. People who had been arrested. Or fired. Or had some calamity befall them. At the bottom of the stack was one piece of paper with one word written on it in thick black ink:

DOWNFALL.

Were these clients that Janice had somehow failed? People that had harmed her? Or people that she had harmed for Belias? This was meant for Diana—but what did it mean?

Felix’s phone rang. He studied the display. “I don’t know this number,” he said.

“Answer it.”

Felix clicked on the phone. “Hello?”

His eyes went wide, and he mouthed one word: “
Diana
.”

I leaned close to hear, my forehead pressed to Felix’s.

“I’m sorry for what happened,” she said. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not me. Maybe the bar owner. Where are you?”

“There are some people after me. They have really major resources. I think they just altered my work calendar. I was checking it and my e-mail and saw an appointment there that isn’t supposed to be. A text message on my phone that I never wrote.”

Me weaseling into her office.

“Turn your phone off,” Felix said. “Call me on another line.”

“I need your help, Felix. If you care about my mom, you’ll help me.”

Felix made a face. I nudged him with my finger.

“What is going on, Diana? You nearly got my boss killed. And he’s the best boss I’ve ever had.”

“I am so sorry,” she said.

“What does this mess have to do with your mom?”

“She’s in bad trouble, and I have to help her. I have to get her out of it.”

“And these people are after you…”

“Yes, they’re in trouble, too. But I can’t expose them without getting Mom in serious trouble. Please. I know you care about her…She told me she cares about you.”

“I’m not going to be an accessory to a crime,” he said.

“You won’t. You won’t. But just help me help her.”

Felix bit his lip. “We should call the police.”

“Absolutely not, Felix,” Diana said. “No. You cannot. You cannot. You’ve kept your mouth shut, haven’t you?”

“Yes, because I didn’t want to get you in trouble. I knew it was you that came in; I saw the security tape. I wanted to discuss this with your mother, but I can’t reach her.”

“No one can. That’s the problem.” Tears tinged her voice.

“Um, okay. All right. Where can I meet you?”

“Can I come to the bar?”

I thought that was a dumb request. The bar was the last place Diana should be, with an active police investigation centered there. Desperation must be keeping her from thinking straight. I shook my head.

“No, the police might come back. A man died there, Diana.”

“Okay. Okay. If I meet you, you’ll come alone? I can explain.”

I nodded.

“Okay,” Felix lied. “I’ll come alone.”

She fed him an address in the Marina District. “No police, Felix, no one else. You do this for me and I promise you, Mom will be safe.” She started to cry.

“Okay,” he said. He hung up. He looked at me. “Maybe I should go alone.”

“No,” I said. “I’m coming with you.”

“She said to come alone. We can’t risk losing her trust.”

“We can’t risk losing her. You know Belias and his people are still hunting her.” I climbed up to the driver’s seat. “Let’s go. We get her, this is over.”

D
ETECTIVE ANITRA DESOTO
preferred face-to-face interviews over phone calls. She also preferred the element of surprise. Unfortunately she got the surprise when she knocked on the front door of The Select, and instead of Sam Capra answering, a petite woman, with blonde hair and cold blue eyes, stood in the doorway.

DeSoto flashed her badge. “I’m looking for Sam Capra.”

“He is not here,” the young woman said. DeSoto guessed she was about thirty, maybe a bit younger. She wore black jeans and a dark sleeveless sweater and her accent sounded Russian or Eastern European.

Dead Russian on the floor. Dead Russian’s brother dead at their house. Capra spoke Russian. Now attractive woman with similar accent.
I believe we call these connections
, DeSoto thought.

“And do you know when he will be back?” she asked.

“I do not know where he is. When I arrived at the bar, he was not here.” The woman leaned against the door. “You are investigating the incident last night.”

“I am. And you are?”

“Mila. I am Sam’s business partner.”

“I thought he was sole owner of the bar.”

“I am more like an investments adviser.”

“Ah.”

“Would you like to come inside and wait for Sam? I suspect he will be back shortly. I will text him and let him know you are here.”

She hadn’t planned on waiting but a Russian woman here intrigued her. “Thanks.”

DeSoto entered the darkened bar. It had been tidied since last night, but it still smelled of spilled drinks and cleanser and underneath that the scent of death, a bare whisper against her nose.

“You live here in San Francisco?” DeSoto asked.

“No,” Mila said. “I am in Los Angeles, on other business, when I get the terrible news. So I come here to help Sam in his hour of need.”

“And where are you from originally?”
Smooth
, DeSoto thought.
You have a future in this detecting work.

Mila glanced at her. “You are asking because the man killed last night was Russian?”

“Yes.”

“You do not know your accents. I am Moldovan.”

For a moment DeSoto thought that might be a species on
Star Trek
; then she remembered a country named Moldova. Used to be part of the Soviet Union. Poor by European standards. And a hub for international crime, she’d heard it mentioned on a panel at a police conference she’d gone to in Miami last year.

Sam Capra just kept getting more interesting.

“Would you like a drink?” Mila asked.

“Sure, a Coke. But I have to pay. Rules.”

“Of course.” Mila fetched a glass, put in fresh ice, poured a cold can of soda she’d retrieved from the refrigerator instead of from the drink nozzle. She put it on the bar. “A dollar will do.”

DeSoto slid the dollar to Mila.

Mila said, “It must be so interesting to be a police investigator.”

“Yes.”

“I suspect you see the worst in people.”

“Yes.”

“Most people cannot imagine the depths that others can sink to,” Mila said. “Until they see it.”

“How does a woman get from Moldova to Los Angeles?”

“I have my papers if you are worried I am an illegal immigrant.”

“No, just curious.”

“I wanted to see the world. Not much to do in Moldova. I feel the entire country is small town.”

“And how did you connect with Sam?”

“We met at a friend’s party,” Mila said. “Baby shower.”

DeSoto sipped her soda. She suddenly did not like this woman, not at all.

Mila leaned on the bar. “So. This man who died. You know who he is now so you can figure out why he shows up here at our nice bar?”

“What has Sam told you, if I might ask?”

“Sam told me he was a stranger who spoke Russian.”

“So that’s why Sam speaks Russian? Because of you?”

“No. We speak Romanian in Moldova. Although many of us do know Russian.”

“So why does Sam speak Russian?”

“He grew up with parents who worked all over world; he was always learning new languages quickly. He owns a bar in Moscow, so him knowing the language does not mean he knows this dead man.”

DeSoto decided to fish. “I wonder if you might know the name of this man.”

“Since we do not know him, no, I am not terribly interested in his name.”

DeSoto was sure that last part was a white lie. “His name was Grigori Rostov.”

Mila pursed her lips, sucked in her cheeks slightly, gave the matter five seconds of thought. “I do not know a man with that name.”

“Do you know his face?” She pulled a photo from her jacket and passed it to Mila. She studied the dead man. She studied it for much longer than DeSoto thought she would.

“No. I don’t.” She handed the photo back. “I see what you’re trying to do, Detective, and I understand it. You seek a connection. There is none, and I know Sam very well.”

“How about his brother, Vladimir?” She produced another picture. Another dead face.

Mila stared and studied it. “His brother?”

“He died last night or early this morning. Shot in the chest. At a home he shared with his brother in Outer Richmond.”

“How awful for their parents.” She handed Vladimir Rostov’s picture back to DeSoto.

“Two brothers dead in the same night, Mila, and Sam won’t return my phone messages.”

“He is always forgetting to charge the cell. And I promise you he was quite shaken by last night’s events. He has nothing to do with this brother. I would suggest you look carefully at their associates.”

“The hard drive is missing from their computer.”

“Ah. Then this was about some shady business of theirs. Nothing to do with Sam.”

“I’d like to know where Sam was late last night.”

“I assume he was here. You’ll have to ask him.”

DeSoto decided to push the game with this woman. There was something in Mila’s stare. Like a chess player, waiting to see what DeSoto’s move would be. And a smile like she was two moves ahead.

She thought she might shock the smile off Mila’s face. “This man, Grigori Rostov, was born in Moscow. He was recruited into the Spetsnaz, Russian Special Forces…”

“I know what Spetsnaz is.”

“And then he got thrown out. Accused of misappropriating armaments and money, but nothing proven. So he came here, and he and his brother became enforcers for their uncle, a Russian mobster in New York. The word is they fell out of favor there after a screwup and came out here to start fresh.”

“California does have good job-training programs,” Mila said.

“And the word here is that the brothers Rostov were muscle for hire. Grigori and Vladimir were a solid choice if you needed a beating administered. Dangerous men.”

“Not so dangerous if he can’t beat up Sam. Sam is a gentle soul.”

Hardly
, DeSoto thought. “Since you are Sam’s…partner? Was that the word?”

“Yes, I believe that was the word I’ve used.”

“Then perhaps you can illuminate some gaps in Sam’s story.”

“I was not here last night. I am a poor excuse for a witness.”

“More in checking up on Mr. Capra’s background.”

“I do not understand why you are not busy typing a report about his bravery, since he protected two dozen customers here last night.”

“I don’t know that he saved anyone,” DeSoto said. “Beyond himself.”

Mila crossed her arms and gave her a wry smile that was almost pitying. “Ask your questions, Detective.”

“I found a video of him talking on a morning news show about his brother being executed in Afghanistan.”

“Yes. That was a tragedy.”

“He said he graduated from Harvard.”

“I did not know him then, but he seems to dislike Yale, so I believe him.”

“And then he joined a business-consulting firm in London.”

“Yes.”

“Well, the firm no longer seems to be in business in London.” DeSoto raised an eyebrow. “I’ve had people on this since early this morning, trying to find someone who knew him there. His past in London seems a blank page.”

“Consultants are the first to fall in a slow economy like we’ve had.” Mila shrugged. “Perhaps they failed because they were bad at publicity.”

“And then he came into ownership of this and some other bars. I’m wondering where the money came from to make such an investment at such a young age.”

Mila gave out a long, bored sigh. “And this relates to last night’s events how?”

“He owns a bar in Manhattan. Grigori Rostov came here from New York.”

“I believe there are daily flights between the two cities. Is there a point?”

“I’m trying to get a picture of Sam.”

“Sam’s actions speak volumes. He saved a customer. You think there is a connection to this Grigori Rostov? I am telling you there is not.”

“I found a record of a marriage in Virginia between him and a woman named Lucy Collins. Then this year, a record of a divorce.”

Mila said nothing.

“And yet Lucy Collins Capra seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. No record of any credit activity. No death certificate. No taxes paid. She doesn’t seem to exist anymore.”

“Lucy left him,” Mila said. “Where she is now is not of interest to him.”

“His past is an odd jigsaw,” DeSoto said. “I just want to know the whole truth.”

“You have been told truth. You do not listen to it.”

“This young woman.” She slid Mila a grainy photo of the woman who had been the apparent cause of the fight. A young woman, African American, moving quickly past The Select’s bar. “Do you know her?”

“No, I don’t. But it’s not a good photo.”

“She’s not the missing Lucy Capra. Is she Sam’s girlfriend?”

“No. He told you he did not know her.”

“Maybe she was dating both the Russian and Sam. He lies that there is no connection. Maybe he panics. Maybe he has to shut up the brother to keep him from coming forward.”

“What a nice collection of maybes you have.”

DeSoto took the photo back. “You see the position I’m in. Mr. Capra has some blanks in his background.”

“I do not see what that matters. He is an honest businessman who protected himself and his customers.”

“Do most bar owners have the skills to single-handedly disarm and kill a Russian Special Forces veteran?”

“Maybe Rostov is former soldier because he was incompetent soldier. There was another man with him. There was this woman who brought the trouble into the bar. Yet you worry about Sam.”

“Sam is the one who killed someone last night.”

“Detective, I am starting to believe the only reason you are here is because you want to make a headline. You want to stretch out a simple case and attach your name to it.”

DeSoto felt a slow bolt of anger rise in her chest. “I’m sorry, what was your last name?”

Mila stared at her for a moment with a half smile. “Court. Mila Court.”

DeSoto frowned for a moment. “Court? Is that a Moldovan name spelled some weird way without vowels?”

“No, it’s not. Court, like for tennis. It is my married name.”

Mila’s phone buzzed. She said, “Excuse me, Detective, but I have nothing further to say and I have work to do. I will tell Sam what you told me and that you are looking to speak with him. Thank you for your concern.” She glanced at her phone. From Felix. A text message:

And an address. Mila clicked off the phone and showed Detective DeSoto to the door with a smile.