The Truant Officer (19 page)

She was a strong independent woman from Oklahoma. Nobody told her what to do, not even the man she loved. But when she returned to her Brooklyn Heights apartment, she found it draped in yellow police tape. It was like a scene from a movie as they carried a body out.

Her body!

Audrey Mays, twenty-three years old of Brooklyn, was murdered by an intruder in her apartment. It also crassly mentioned that her body was mutilated beyond recognition. At least according to the newspaper articles she read online at the Montreal train station, where she fled.

It was so hard not to contact her parents. She thought about how devastating it must have been for them to bury their daughter. She visualized her father being strong and philosophical, comforting her mother, who surely was an emotional wreck. She read about her own funeral in an Oklahoma paper online. The townsfolk seemed to blame the big bad, morally bankrupt city of New York, but Audrey knew who was behind her murder.

Viktor Sarvydas

And it was at that train station in Montreal where her new dream materialized. She knew that only then could they be together again.

In their last meeting, Nick had provided her with money to run—actually, it was enough money to live comfortably in her old life back in Oklahoma—she used it on a flight to Paris and a plastic surgeon who completely altered her look, turning the fresh-faced All-American girl into a sultry bombshell. She started singing for her supper in seedy bars, where she met the type of people who could provide her with a new identity.

She became an Israeli named Daria Scheffer, and while the surgeon’s knife had changed her look, she still had the same voice that brought the house down back in Devol. She made her way to Tel Aviv, where she purposely began singing outside the bookstore that Viktor frequented. She knew he had a great eye for talent.

She took another look at the television and stared at the photo labeled Brett Buckley.

“What are you up to, Nick?” she mumbled to herself.

Chapter 41

Rob Bachynsky eyed the woman across the bar. She was just his type. Actually most women were his type, which had always been his downfall.

He pulled his stare away and scolded himself for succumbing to his vice. It’s what got him in this mess, and made him drive the two hours from his mountain hideaway in Vail to the Denver suburb of Aurora. Dantelli was dead and Zubov was the lead suspect! It didn’t make sense—Rob had thought they were all on the same side.

He sipped his drink and thought of the marriages, the alimony, the daughters in private school. It all stretched his police check very thin. As his beloved mother had told him, “Robby, you live a champagne lifestyle on a beer paycheck.” As usual, Mom was right, which was why he was open to the offer from his partner, Tony Dantelli, to do some side jobs.

He was promoted to the organized crime unit in his Brooklyn precinct a few years back. His bosses sold him on the fact that his Eastern European heritage would be an advantage in dealing with the rising threat of the Russian Mafiya, and it was also a great opportunity to move quickly up the ranks. Rob was a self-proclaimed dumb Pollack, but was smart enough to know that the real reason for his “promotion” was because the Russians were a bunch of lunatics who would shoot you in the middle of Times Square because they didn’t like the way you looked at them. In other words, nobody else volunteered. Rob Bachynsky was expendable and he knew it.

At first, the side jobs consisted of him roughing up some guys—bad guys, drug runners—for Dantelli’s contact. But then it changed from rough-up to rub-out. When Rob drew the line, Dantelli revealed that his source was Viktor Sarvydas, and that his leaving would become an issue, as in a dead issue. He had no choice but to continue.

The Karl Zellen job itself was quite simple. Their instructions were to set up a meeting with Zellen under the pretext that they had found new information on his wife’s murder. Once inside, Rob tied Zellen to a chair in the kitchen, while Dantelli dismantled the alarm, did a sweep of the mansion, and made sure there was easy entrance for Zellen’s executioner, probably Zubov. Ten minutes in and out, and since Zellen greeted them as friends, there was no forced entry. Basically their job was to use their badges to clear a neat path. They would later return as the first officers on the scene and make the arrest for the murder of Karl Zellen. It wouldn’t be a difficult case to crack, since prints would be left of the man Sarvydas wanted arrested.

But when they returned, they found that Zellen’s son, Nick, had somehow witnessed his father’s murder, and claimed the killer was none other than Alexei Sarvydas. Worse yet, the prints matched Alexei’s, leaving them no choice but to arrest him.

When Viktor Sarvydas arranged a secret meeting with him and Dantelli, Rob thought they were dead men walking. They must have missed Nick when they did the sweep of the house, and someone must have screwed up on the prints, how else would they be plastered all over the crime scene? But surprisingly, Viktor praised their work. He instructed them, as the lead investigators, to work with the prosecution in its case against Alexei, until further notice. He said he would take care of everything else.

Dantelli advised Rob not to go into any federal protection programs, probably afraid that the feds could trick him into spilling the truth. So he took early retirement and moved to Vail, where Pavel Kovalenko would protect him. So when he received the news about Dantelli, he hightailed it to the Red Menace, a club owned by Kovalenko.

A large hand gripped Rob’s shoulder. He practically jumped out of his skin. He had been like a cat on a hot tin roof since that phone call.

“I know how you love those dark skinned beauties, Rob,” Kovalenko said in his thick Russian accent, noticing his stare at the woman.

It wasn’t too hard to figure out who he was looking at—the place was practically deserted, which was not unusual. Kovalenko owned two Red Menaces, one located in downtown Denver on Blake Street, which was usually jammed wall-to-wall, often with fans from Rockies or Colorado Avalanche games, many wearing the jersey of their hero, Pavel Kovalenko. But this one in suburban Aurora usually just had a few “regulars” on a typical night. The feds were always interested how a seventeen-thousand-square-foot club could stay in business with the only customers being a couple of mobbed-up Russians drinking for free every night. They knew it was a money laundromat for Sarvydas, but could never prove it.

“She is beautiful,” Rob conceded, avoiding eye contact with Kovalenko. Just the sight of his scar-lined face usually filled him with fear.

Pavel Kovalenko was a physical defenseman, nicknamed The Red Menace, who had a distinguished career in professional hockey. But in Russian Mafiya circles, he was known as an important Sarvydas lieutenant.

As legend had it, Kovalenko came to the US from Russia at the age of seventeen, signing a contract with the New York Islanders. His interests expanded beyond hockey, which led him to the Russian World Art Gallery on Fifth Street in Manhattan. It was there that he met a fellow Russian art buff named Karl Zellen. At the time, like many Russian hockey players in the States, Kovalenko was being extorted by Moscow thugs, who were demanding a piece of his salary in exchange for his family’s safety back in Russia. They even kidnapped his mother one time to prove they were serious about a late payment. But Zellen and his business partner, Viktor Sarvydas, cleared up that problem. It was the first step in what would be a bond of vors.

After retiring from hockey, he took over the western wing of the Russian Mafiya, headquartered in Denver. With over eighty thousand Russian immigrants residing in the area, it was the perfect place to blend into. And the affluent suburbs of Glendale, Englewood, and Aurora allowed them to open legitimate businesses as a cover. Unlike the flashy styles of Brighton Beach and Miami, Kovalenko conditioned his men to not draw attention to themselves, most living in modest homes and driving Hondas.

Rob looked up at Kovalenko. He had diagonal scars on his furrowed brow, perhaps from hockey, but more likely from other activities. Rob had heard many stories about him that he hoped were just urban myths, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

“No worries, Rob. Mr. Sarvydas left me in charge of your safety, so you have nothing to fear.”

“Maybe I panicked—I shouldn’t have come and bothered you like this. I know you’re a busy man.”

The grip on his shoulder tightened. “You made the right decision. If it’s true that Zubov killed your partner, then you also could be in danger.”

“I don’t understand, I thought Zubov was Mr. Sarvydas’ most loyal soldier,” Rob began, then stopped abruptly. The less he knew the better.

Kovalenko chuckled. “Zubov is as loyal as an alley cat. And I can assure you he didn’t get his orders from Mr. Sarvydas to harm your partner. You are safe here.”

Rob wasn’t sure what to believe. His glance again wandered to the woman

Kovalenko followed his eyes to the sparkling creature. “Let me talk to her and see if I can arrange a meeting with you. She seems alone, and I think you could use a friend tonight.”

Women were always his downfall.

Chapter 42

Lilly kissed him deeply on the lips. She then clasped his hand and led him to the dark room. The second they moved past the curtain, out of sight, she released his hand.

On cue, the lights came on and the clenched fist headed for Rob Bachynsky’s nose. Before he could figure out what was happening to him, Nick hit him with another punch. And then another.

Lilly had no remorse for luring the dirty cop into the backroom. A broken nose was the least this Bachynsky character deserved for being involved in the killing of Nick’s father.

After leaving Dantelli’s home in the late morning, they first headed to McCarran Airport, before stopping by to see an old friend. he provided Lilly with a Thunderbird convertible, along with a pair of “scrambled” cell phones.

Lilly did most of the driving, averaging over eighty on the desolate highways I-15 North and I-70 East. They filled up the tank in St George, Utah, where Nick walked off, saying he needed to make a call to soothe his sister’s fears, after she likely saw their faces splashed all over the television.

While Nick was on the phone, Lilly purchased a bottled water and a couple of magazines, including the latest
Rolling Stone
with Natalie Gold on the cover. Just another in a line of young girls she had become jealous of since her first kiss with Nick.

They rolled into the Denver area around ten, Colorado time. By 10:30, they had slipped into the Red Menace.

“You killed him, you son of a bitch,” Nick continued to pound away. Bachynsky was now huddled on the floor in a pool of blood, unsuccessfully trying to stop the attack.

“I don’t understand, Nick. I thought we were on the same side.”

“Same side? That’s a good one. I guess we are until you get into court and start playing dumb on the stand. Although, I don’t know how much acting you have to do to appear dumb.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Bachynsky pleaded.

“Don’t bullshit me—Dantelli already sold you out. Just because you didn’t pull the trigger doesn’t mean you didn’t kill him. That’s even worse…and gutless!”

Lilly felt like she was watching a replay from earlier. “I was just following orders,” Bachynsky said between blows.

“Viktor Sarvydas’ orders?”

He said nothing, which served as an admission. His eyes began shifting around the room like he was looking for help that wasn’t coming.

Lilly stood by the door, keeping a watch on the scary-looking guy named Kovalenko. Just her brief conversation with him at the bar had sent chills down her spine. For the moment, he appeared too busy running his restaurant to be concerned about the action in the backroom.

As Nick’s punches intensified, Lilly was sure that he was going to kill him, sensing he was having second thoughts about letting Dantelli off the hook. She vacated her post by the door and tried to intervene. “C’mon, Nick—you promised that you just wanted to scare him. Now you’re scaring me.”

“Sometimes plans get changed,” he replied coldly

A voice abruptly stopped the onslaught. “That is so very true. Sometimes plans do get changed. And you can think of me as a plan-changer.”

Lilly looked at the man in a suit with a neatly groomed mustache. He looked calm and composed.

Nick whispered into Lilly’s ear, “Zubov.”

Just the name made Lilly shudder.

Chapter 43

“I figured you’d be here, Rob. But Nick...what a surprise. It’ll save me a trip. And with the price of gas these days, that’s quite a blessing.”

Nick said nothing, as they watched Zubov take out a gun and twist on a silencer. Zubov’s calm, almost ho-hum demeanor scared Lilly.

Bachynsky struggled to his feet, but still looked wobbly. “We just followed Mr. Sarvydas’ orders. I don’t understand why you killed Dantelli.”

Lilly traded glances with Nick, who looked just as floored as she was.
Dantelli was dead?

Zubov chuckled. “People always want to know why, why, why. Why are we here? Why me? Things happen or they don’t—it don’t matter why.”

Nobody said anything, so Zubov continued, “Getting back to the change of plans, there was once going to be a trial and now there won’t be one. Rob, Nick, and our late friend, Detective Dantelli, all have decided not to testify against Alexei.”

“I don’t understand—we followed orders,” Bachynsky blubbered.

“Let me put it so even you can understand, Rob. I used to take orders directly from the don, Viktor Sarvydas—that was good for you. But with him out of the country, I now take my orders from the don’s son. Not so good for you.”

He smiled again, and it was scary.

Another Russian accent filled the room, this one a deep baritone, “The only thing that will be good for you, Zubov, is to put down that gun and move away from Mr. Bachynsky. I still take my
orders from the don.”