The Truant Officer (22 page)

Eicher was ushered into a tomb-like room. Moments later, Alexei was brought in, his hands and feet chained. He looked nothing like the man who entered MCC almost a year ago. His tanned face was now gaunt and pale. His flashy Versace clothing was replaced by a drab prison-issued jumpsuit. His once flowing rocker-hair was now shaved to the scalp.

Alexei was seated across from Eicher at a steel table. He showed that he still possessed one thing he entered MCC with—his cocky smile, which he displayed as he lit a cigarette with jittery fingers.

The book on Alexei had always been that he had the “Killer B’s.” Big mouthed, brash, and a set of big balls. His hobbies were extortion and abusing women, and like his father, he had a passion for music—his band Acid Bath was often a headliner at Sarvy’s prior to his arrest. But Alexei lacked an important B—brains—and that’s what got him locked up. And it’s what Eicher hoped would lead him to the information he needed.

Alexei originally left New York to get away from his father’s wide shadow. He made his mark in Miami—often referred to as the second city of Russian mob activity—starting up a line of high-end strip clubs, which served as a cover for a prostitution ring. He gained stature in his father’s business by brokering deals with the Columbian drug cartels, but found his true niche in arms sales. He would secure automatic weapons from the Columbians, and sell them back in Russia, where such weapons were in high demand.

“I’m glad you’re here, Eicher,” Alexei began.

“And why is that?”

“I needed to get laid tonight. And I’ve already had every ass in this place, so I was looking for some fresh meat. Why don’t you bend over so we can get this show on the road.”

“You’re not really my type. You remind me too much of my ex-wife.”

“Why do you hurt me like that, Eicher? I was going to be gentle with you, but when you say things like that it makes me want to rip you apart.”

Eicher didn’t take the bait. “We’ve had some developments in your case.”

Alexei faked a stunned look. “You don’t say.”

“The two lead investigators, Dantelli and Bachynsky, are dead, and Nick Zellen is missing.”

“If you’re looking for Nick, a little birdie told me he was getting married in Vegas.”

“And by little birdie, are you referring to your father?”

“I was invited, but unable to attend. If you talk to Nick, please assure him that the next time I see him I will give him the most memorable wedding gift ever.”

“Answer the question!” Eicher demanded.

Alexei shrugged. “Maybe you have a leak in your office.”

He had heard that one before. “So you’re telling me that you and your father had nothing to do with any of this...Dantelli? Nick? Leaks?”

“What could I do from in here? And my father and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms since he let me rot in prison for a year on these trumped up charges.”

“If you don’t stop trying to play me, you’ll be rotting in here for a lot longer.”

The statement carried no weight. After today’s events, Alexei and his father were way ahead on the scoreboard, and they both knew it.

Eicher was expecting smugness, but got anger. “People say I’m dumb, people say I’m a killer, people say I beat the shit out of women. I have no problem with that, but don’t ever call me a liar!”

Eicher took a deep breath. He needed answers more than he needed a fight. “But you must admit that these events do benefit your case.”

Sarcasm replaced his anger. “Now that you mention it, I recognize that they do benefit my case.”

“You had nothing to do with this?” Eicher pushed.

“I told you since day one that I was set up.”

It was true that he’d maintained that stance since his arrest, but for the first time Eicher was starting to wonder if there was some truth behind the bluster. So he took a chance. He laid out his theory about Alexei being set up to take the fall for Karl Zellen’s murder, paving the way for Parmalov to gain control of the Russian Mafiya. He left out the part about how he still believed Alexei killed Karl.

“What’s a Parmalov?” Alexei asked with a hearty chuckle. “I’ll take a roast beef with Parmalov on rye.”

“You don’t know the man who is second in command at Sarvy Music?” Eicher asked with a raised eyebrow, holding up a photo of Parmalov and Alexei looking chummy during an all-night card game at a cabaret.

“Oh, that guy. I’ve been in here so long my memory is not so good.”

“Then let me refresh it. Parmalov’s closest confidantes are two killers named Oleg and Vana Moziaf. They own a butcher shop in Brighton Beach where we found the hands of a murdered stripper, who worked in a club you own. In fact, we have witnesses that say you and the girl had more than an employer/employee relationship,” Eicher made up the next part on a hunch. “Parmalov wants me to think you killed her, making sure you grow old in here. That’s why he planted the hands for us to find.”

Eicher slid the “before” photos of the girl across the table. Followed by the photos of her mutilated body and hands. “Do you know her?”

Alexei studied them coldly, and answered, “I don’t know. I screwed most of the whores there, but I never looked at their faces. And I was usually too messed up on coke to remember.”

It wasn’t George Washington chopping down the cherry tree, but it was likely a candid admission. Eicher didn’t want to admit it, but there was a trend of truthfulness in Alexei’s statements since the arrest.

“I’m on your side here, Alexei. But I need to know who set you up, so I can work to bring them to justice.”

Alexei wasn’t biting. He trusted no one, especially the government. He shook his head and confidently stated, “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Eicher. I will take care of it myself.”

“That might be a little hard to do from prison.”

Alexei’s laugh echoed throughout the chamber. “We both know I’m not going to be in prison much longer.”

“No matter how many witnesses you knock off, you left your prints all over Zellen’s house, and you still have a lot of motive, but no alibi. And Nick just called me—we’re picking him up as we speak—so your ass is going to be sore for a long-long time.”

“A little birdie told me that Zubov is on Nick’s trail. That doesn’t sound too promising for you. And even if he is safe, I hope you haven’t hinged your whole case on the word of Nick Zellen. Your ass is going to be the one that’s sore if you have.”

“And why is that?”

He gleamed an evil grin. “Because then I’m guaranteed of getting out of this place. And when I do, I’m going to show you and that pretty assistant of yours some of the tricks I’ve learned in here.”

Chapter 49

Dava watched the Rangers game at Nellie’s sports bar on the Upper West Side, waiting to meet Wendy Grant. While the Rangers uninspired play was pinching at her nerves, she still couldn’t help but to smile at her good fortune.

The first thing Dava did was pay a visit to the strip joint where Rachel had worked. The husky Russian manager didn’t want to talk to her at first, but when she began to question the age of a couple of dancers he employed, Sergei suddenly turned chatty. But she learned nothing new—Rachel Grant was a wannabe actress who danced at a couple of clubs to make ends meet, rented a small apartment in Brooklyn, and was officially declared missing about a year ago.

Her father was a professor of political science at the University of Wyoming. When she put in a call to Dr. Grant, he informed her that his wife was currently in New York, following up a new tip on their daughter, and provided her cell phone number. From his tone, Dava could tell he was skeptical of a happy ending and sought to move on with their lives, while his wife needed some sense of closure. For better or worse, they would soon have it.

Upon contacting Wendy Grant, Dava took Eicher’s advice and didn’t mention anything about the grizzly discovery. Dava told her that Rachel’s name had come up in a case the US Attorney’s Office was investigating. Wendy said the name ‘Sarvydas’ meant nothing to her, but was still willing to meet. There was desperation in her voice that said she would grasp at any straw.

Wendy Grant was a thin, attractive woman in her late-forties. Her auburn hair was tied in a no-frills ponytail and she wore a pair of glasses. She appeared more sophisticated than Dava expected.

But what stood out was her worn, defeated look. Her head and eyes moved constantly, as if she was looking for Rachel with every twitch. Dava approached her and introduced herself. She reached out to shake Wendy’s hand, even though a hug seemed more appropriate.

Wendy Grant had no time for small talk. It was as if any moment that wasn’t spent searching for Rachel was wasted time. “You say that Rachel might have some information about a case you’re working on?”

Dava nodded. “That’s correct.”

“What kind of case?”

Dava needed to do a little fishing to see what Mom knew about Rachel’s work in New York. “It was connected to her job.”

Wendy didn’t flinch. “You mean the dancing?”

“I mean the activities that the dancing led to,” Dava said as gently as possible.

“I know about the prostitution arrests, Ms. Lazinski.”

Instead of adding anything, Dava used a technique that Eicher taught her. Just let the witness talk. And Wendy Grant did just that.

“Rachel was always a bit of a rebel. With Paul’s job we moved around a lot from place to place. So I thought it was an army brat type situation. By the time she became a teenager, we had settled in Laramie. Raising a rebellious teenage daughter in a college-town wasn’t always the easiest thing—there was a lot of drinking and parties that anyone with a decent fake ID could get into, and there were a couple of arrests. But at least in Laramie I felt like we could keep her in our sights and have some sense of control over her well-being. But things changed when she moved to New York.”

“How so?”

“She turned distant, and rarely called. Paul thought it was because of the fights we had about her choosing not to go to college. But I knew there was something more to it—call it mother’s intuition, but I could feel it. When she came home for Thanksgiving it was like she was a different person.”

“Any idea what caused this change?”

“There was a boyfriend. She was so mysterious about him and she didn’t even introduce us when we came to New York to visit her. The whole time we were here, it was like she was putting on a show for us and couldn’t wait to get us out of town. I think this boyfriend was the reason for the change in her, but I have no proof.”

“A mother’s intuition is often correct. What was her boyfriend’s name?”

“She called him Alex, but never provided a last name. And for all I know, it could have been a made up name. I have tried to locate him, but I’ve come up empty. He’s what this case of yours is about, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Please don’t treat me like a fragile flower, Ms. Lazinski. When your daughter goes missing you find strength you never thought you had. This Alex was her pimp, wasn’t he? And you think it’s possible that he ran off with Rachel, or that,” she gulped her tears back, before finding resolve. “Or that he killed her.”

Wendy had given her an opening, and Dava took it. “We are investigating a prostitution ring run by an Alexei Sarvydas. He is currently in prison and awaiting trial. I am just trying to interview all the girls who might have worked for him to help build our case. I think he might be the Alex that Rachel referred to.”

Wendy Grant’s face said she had no sympathy for the man she felt led her daughter down a dark path. She would likely have even less when she found out where that path led.

Chapter 50

“When I spoke to your husband, he mentioned something about following up a new lead,” Dava said.

“I had vowed to move on. Logic says that Rachel is either dead or wants us to think she is. But last week I received a call from a woman named Justina, who shared an apartment in Brooklyn with Rachel.”

This perked Dava’s interest. “Was she a…”

“Another working girl that you might want to talk to…yes,” Wendy said, tears trickling down her face. “She might have been the last person to have seen my daughter. She told me that Rachel had left to go on a date, and she never returned.”

“And by date, you don’t mean with her boyfriend, this Alex?”

Wendy shook her head. “It was for her job.”

“So this roommate just got in touch with you out of the blue?”

“According to Justina, when Rachel went missing she hightailed it out of New York. She had assumed that Rachel had been busted, and feared that she might give up the other girls. So she grabbed everything she could and was on the next bus to Reno.”

“And you met with this Justina?”

“Yes—she came to meet with us in Laramie. She was going through the things she took from the apartment, which she’d stashed away in storage. She found unsent letters from Rachel that she must have accidentally grabbed in her haste to leave. They were very personal in nature and Justina thought we would want them. She was as surprised as anyone that we hadn’t heard from Rachel.”

“These letters are why you returned to New York?”

“No, the reason I came back to New York was that Justina also found a key to a self-storage space that Rachel had rented. I think I might be able to find some clues there, and I know that Rachel had kept a journal her whole life, which was nowhere to be found when we cleaned out her apartment. That is where I was headed when you called.”

Dava felt an excitement shoot through her. Although it was tempered every time she looked at Wendy Grant, the image of her daughter’s severed hands etched in her mind. Rachel Grant was caught up in something dangerous and now her mother was going to have to bear the brunt of the pain from that perilous liaison. But there was no time for sentiment. Dava had a job to do—she needed to get that journal.

They took the subway. Rachel did not rent the storage near her apartment or place of work, both in Brooklyn, giving Dava the impression she might be using it to hide something. It was located on the southern tip of Manhattan on South Street at Catherine Slip.