The Truant Officer (6 page)

He took one more glance into the mirror and came away impressed with himself, as usual. His face wasn’t the same since the shooting, but it was improving each day. “Not bad for a poor boy from Orensburg,” he mumbled to himself.

His childhood dream was to be a pop star like his idol, Joseph Kozolbol. So as a teenager he left home and moved to the Black Sea port city of Odessa, known for its wealthy residents. He took a job crooning on a cruise ship, which allowed him to travel abroad—a rare opportunity in the Soviet Union at the time. Even as a young man he was always thinking business, and took advantage of his travels to bring back items that were near impossible to obtain behind the Iron Curtain. He sold them at a huge markup, showing a pretty good knowledge of the free market for a communist kid.

The cruise ship was the start of his lucrative music and business careers. Mixing his great love of music with business to create a cocktail of power.

But this past year, he learned what a toxic mix love and business could be. When his son Alexei was accused of killing his longtime friend and business partner, Karl Zellen, he was forced to leave the US and relocate to this dreadful strip of sand called Israel. Viktor knew that Alexei wasn’t the one who killed Karl, but was sure that the Americans would twist Alexei’s words, or lie about evidence in order to come after him. That’s why he was forced to flee. America was a lot like him—they covered up their dirty deeds behind music.
America the Beautiful. God Bless America
. He spit at that—America was no different from these protestors—pledging morality, yet lusting for the dark side.

Viktor took another glance at the scene he created. He felt the crowd closing in on the limo, continuing to taunt Natalie in screaming Yiddish. It reminded him why he hated Israel. But unlike others in the region, he took no issue with their choice of deities.

His main point of contention was that they were always arguing and shouting, and when they weren’t giving him a migraine with their constant volume, they were whining about their plight. Viktor didn’t understand this thinking—the way he saw it, all Russians were dealt a bad hand before they left the womb. But they grabbed, clawed, and stole their way to the top. They made their own way without complaint, even if their methods were harsh.

As he watched Natalie bounce beautifully through the bloodthirsty crowd, the ringing of his phone startled him.

“It’s Kelli,” the voice on the other end began.

“Make it fast—I lack time,” he said, watching Natalie moving toward the vehicle, surrounded by bodyguards.

“Nick’s on the move.”

As he processed this news, a wicked smile came over his face. “I want him to come to me in one piece. Get word out—especially to Zubov—only I deal with Nick. This is personal.”

Chapter 11

Natalie Gold was whisked into the limo. Once the door slammed shut, the protestors began rocking the vehicle.

Viktor looked Natalie up and down like he was checking for scratches on a new Ferrari. She wore a transparent fishnet body stocking with only a skimpy bikini underneath. Natalie’s curves were trapped underneath the body-stocking like a bear in a bag. She had a different look from most Israeli women, which besides her powerful voice, was one of the reasons he chose her. There were no doubt many exotic beauties in Israel, but he liked that Natalie looked American. The buxom blonde who oozed a take-no-prisoners sexuality. Viktor might have been forced to stay in Israel, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t bring a piece of Americana with him.

He kissed Natalie on her puffy lips. She returned the kiss, but it lacked any hint of love or attraction. He sensed that it was a kiss of gratitude. Natalie was young, but she was street-smart, and like himself, she understood how to mix love and business to get to the top.

Viktor had become intimate with many of his protégés over the years. He even married pop star Maria DeMaio when she was only nineteen. But Natalie was special, and he didn’t have to be Freud to figure out why.

She was a replica of Paula—the one true love of his life. He could still shut his eyes and relive the first time he heard the curvaceous beauty sing at his Brooklyn club, Sarvy’s. She sang like an angel—a voice he’d never heard equaled until he found Natalie singing outside of that bookstore.

The limo drove away, knocking a few protestors off along the way. They traveled through the Western Wall Tunnel, then down the cobblestone streets and out of the ancient city. About an hour later they arrived in Tel Aviv, a much more modern city than Jerusalem, and preferred by Viktor. He opened a Sarvy Music office in Tel Aviv a couple years back. It was located amongst a north-south strip of skyscrapers crowded along the coast of the Mediterranean Sea.

As the early afternoon sun shone into the limo, Viktor placed his hand on Natalie’s fishnet-covered thigh. He felt her shudder at his touch, despite her forced smile.
Good thing she was a singer and not an actress,
he thought. He liked it when those around him felt a sense of fear.

“Remember that we have an important dinner guest tonight.”

Natalie nodded attentively.

He handed her a box wrapped with a bow. “I think you should wear this tonight. I believe it will make a good impression on our company.”

She opened the package to reveal a sequined gown. She kissed him on the cheek and exclaimed, “It’s beautiful. You are so generous to me.”

“And tomorrow you will be flying to the States for your video premiere,” Viktor continued, all business.

“I wish you could come with me.”

He smiled at the lie. “You know I can’t risk that right now—with the trial starting next week. But I do have something I want you to deliver to Alexei for me,” he said, not providing any details.

“Of course.”

Viktor ordered his driver to stop in Ramat HaSharon, a suburb northeast of Tel Aviv, to accommodate his desire to stop at his favorite Russian bookstore—the same one he had discovered Natalie outside of. This wasn’t a nostalgic trip, he wanted to buy a stack of his favorite Russian crime novels. The criminal was often the hero in Russian novels, and he liked that.

He also enjoyed visiting his old friends who ran the store. The Russians in Israel always stuck together. They were treated as lepers, and endured constant calls for their deportation. Russians made up only about a fifth of the Israeli population, yet were constantly blamed for establishing enclaves in the country and importing shallow values.
More whining
, Viktor thought—nobody had ever offered to give back the billions of dollars that Russian businessmen like himself pump into the economy.

Viktor left a fifteen hundred dollar tip for his comrades at the bookstore. A nice payday for sharing a glass of vodka and reminiscing about their youthful days in Odessa. He also had Natalie put on an impromptu performance of her new single for the few lucky souls browsing the bookshelves. Viktor had always been known as a benevolent don who held honor above cruelty. Unlike his predecessor, a man who was feared but not respected, Viktor was showered with gifts and held in great esteem within the community—a community that had spread across the globe—but they also knew not to cross him.

They left the bookstore and drove toward Netanya, a coastal city halfway between Tel Aviv and Haifa, where Viktor owned a magnificent cliffside palace that overlooked the Mediterranean Sea. His riches were legendary.

Viktor escorted Natalie inside. He began preparations for their dinner guest, but his thoughts were on his potential reunion with Nick.

Chapter 12

Darren walked out of the interrogation room beaten and dazed. Despite Agent LaPoint’s claims to the contrary, Darren didn’t feel like he had anybody in his corner. He would have to find Lilly by himself—he had never felt so alone.

He entered the main airport terminal through a door marked
Authorized Personnel Only
. It was now closing in on seven o’clock and the airport had woken up from its slumber. Passengers lined up for security checks, restaurants were open for overpriced breakfasts, and newspaper stands were selling Monday morning editions of the
Arizona Republic.
On the front page was the headline:
Gang Warfare!

Darren bought a copy, and after quickly skimming it, was relieved that Lilly’s name wasn’t released. If she was really abducted by a student who’d tried to make it look like a copycat crime, as the police hinted, then Darren saw an advantage in the media helping to sell the gang angle. Perhaps lull her captor into a false sense of safety.

He folded the paper under his arm and began heading toward the pilot’s parking area. But blocking his path was the same reporter from earlier.

“I have no comment,” he replied before she even opened her mouth, and continued his walk toward the parking garage.

“I don’t know where you’re going, your wife dropped you off on Saturday morning. You have no car at the airport.”

He had forgotten—the plan was for Lilly to pick him up when he returned. “How do you know that?”

“I’m a reporter, remember? Sounds like you have a lot on your mind, maybe you’d feel better if you talked to someone about it.”

She was right—he did have a lot on his mind. He mentally pictured Brett Buckley from one of their encounters at Lilly’s tutoring sessions. He stood out to Darren because he seemed much more mature than some of his classmates. Darren also remembered his intense eyes and powerful looking physique. Now he pictured him in that ski mask with a knife, throwing his wife into the back of their vehicle and driving off. Darren felt ill, causing him to stop in his tracks.

Jessi caught up to him. “So do the police have any leads?”

He doubted it would really make him feel better, and logic told him that he’d regret it if he engaged this reporter, but he felt compelled to talk to someone, and she was the most readily available. “They had some theories, but seemed to be fishing. They definitely didn’t think it was gang related. Hinted that it might have been one of my wife’s students, she is a…”

“Teacher at South Chandler High, I know,” she informed, as if to showcase her reporter cred.

“I shouldn’t be telling you anything,” he said, having second thoughts, and began walking away again. But he couldn’t shake her.

“So they think one of your wife’s students was stalking her?” she asked. “I’ve had a few stalkers myself, makes you feel very alone and vulnerable. Did the police give you a name of the student they suspect?”

“No,” he lied, but his thoughts were on the first task in front of him—getting home. Maybe when he saw Lilly’s things or smelled her perfume he would be able to think more clearly.

“I don’t know who you think you’re dealing with—I’m not some local yokel, I used to work in New York—the police would’ve run possible suspects by you, want to know if she ever talked to you about X student or Y student. Maybe she mentioned being scared of one of them, or had some romantic overture made toward her, something along those lines. So how about we start with some honesty?”

Coming from the person who stole his wife’s credit card, that was a bit rich. Darren should have left her behind, but for some reason he didn’t, and continued talking, “They were throwing some theories against the wall, hoping they’d stick. The local police practically accused me of being involved in her disappearance, but then the FBI came in and acted like they were my best friends. If they can’t get on the same page, then I have no idea how they expect to find Lilly.”

Jessi continued to cling to his side like flypaper, and let out a condescending laugh. “Don’t you get it—they were playing good-cop/bad-cop. I hope you’re smart enough to figure out that they think you’re involved.”

“That’s ridiculous! I love my wife—all I want is her to be safe.”

She rolled her eyes. “Tell it to the jury. It’s textbook. You’re conveniently in New York, which gives you a perfect alibi, and you and your wife were obviously having problems. So you hire one of her students and make it look like one of the gang abductions.”

“I’m a pilot. It was my job to be in New York. And what makes you think we were having problems?”

“Some reporters might see your sad puppy dog eyes and fall for your story, but I see a husband away and a wife strutting around in a skimpy outfit like she’s heading to a club. And you seem like one of those inadequate guys who wants a bunch of kids so you can imprison her. But your wife didn’t give you children, so my guess is she had a boyfriend that she was going to better-deal you for, and that’s why you had her abducted, and possibly killed.”

“What are you talking about?” Darren said, lowering his voice, “Boyfriend? Killed? You’re crazy! And obviously you don’t know Lilly. We love each other and I’m going to find her!”

Darren barged by Jessi toward a car that wasn’t there. She jumped back in front of him. “You’re going to need my help to find her.”

“I don’t know how you could help me.”

“You need to make a public plea on television. I have the power to set it up.”

“If you think I was involved, then why would you help me?”

“It’s in both our interests to find your wife. For me, I need to break the big story that will get me back to New York. In your case, if you really had nothing to do with her disappearance, then you obviously want to find her before she ends up like those other women, or worse. But if you did hire this kid to get rid of her, then you best start playing the role of the concerned husband ASAP.”

Darren gave her a dirty look. But when he met her eyes, he came to a scary realization—aligning with Jessi Stafford might be his best chance to get Lilly back.

Chapter 13

They drove in Jessi’s car, a convertible VW Cabriolet, red.

The trip from Sky Harbor to South Chandler took about twenty minutes. There was always heavy traffic in the Valley, but they just beat the morning rush. Jessi spent the entire ride on her cell phone headset like a hard-edged labor negotiator, convincing her bosses to put his plea on television. From what Darren could make out, her appeal hit a roadblock. Lilly’s name had yet to be released, so besides the obvious legal issues it might raise, there was no way to check if Darren really was the husband, or just another wacko trying to break into reality TV. But she finally won out and victoriously hung up.