Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (22 page)

37

“AUNT KRISTEN!”

I give Princess Kendra a bear hug. I make a move for James, but he escapes my grasp and yells, “No smoochies!” at the top of his lungs.

“James!” his father, Jimmy yells.

It may only last for a brief moment, but life feels normal.

“Hey, James,” I say. “No smoochies for me means no pizza for you.”

He gives me his hard guy stare, weighs the options in his mind, purses his lips into a tight line, and delivers his kiss with a head-butt before running off.

I rub my forehead. That might leave a bruise. Kaylen tells me I wind James up too much. She’s looking at me now with an I-told-youso expression.

“Are we going to Aunt Klarissa’s house or Grandma’s house?” the princess asks.

“Grandma’s,” I say.

“Her house smells funny!” James yells, well out of his dad’s arm-reach.

“James!” Kaylen and James yell in unison.

It’s good to see family love in action.

“It does! It smells funny,” he yells from the stairway, poised for a quick escape.

James, of all people, should not be passing judgment on what smells.

“Does not,” Kendra says.

“Does too,” James says, his volume one decibel beneath the legal yelling limit.

“I need to give Kelsey a kiss and then it’s time to roll gang.”

It’s one o’clock. I’m only an hour late. I head for the nursery to hold Kelsey for a little while. I need to be with someone sweet and innocent.

I spent the morning in a conference room with Blackshear and Squires interviewing Leslie Levin.

Good looking guy. He was humble and contrite but found numerous and subtle ways to let us know he was a player. “Nancy was nothing. I’ve had better,” was his classic line. What a creep.

Halfway through the interview he quit trying to pretend he wasn’t looking at my chest. I didn’t get the big genes, so maybe he was just trying to determine if anything is there. But I somehow suspect Leslie ogles anything and everything in his path. Definitely a creep.

Leslie and Nancy hooked up through an online service that I guess qualifies as a dating service. But I think the idea is to skip dinner and movie and maybe any chitchat. Apparently Ed Keltto took care of everyone but his wife. At least that’s what Nancy told Les—according to him. His assertion that Mr. Keltto was inattentive is hearsay, of course, but at this point, Nancy isn’t talking. She has lawyered. The lawyer isn’t letting Nancy talk to us again until he has time to review the facts and have an in-depth discussion with her client.

Leslie corrected me several times after I called him Les. “It’s Leslie.” That only encouraged me until Squires gave me a look that said knock-it-off.

If Mr. Keltto carried himself with angel wings and a halo, you can see devil horns and a red tail on Leslie from a mile away. I’m being judgmental. Is that a crime? I guess it is to some people.

Nancy hooked up with the wrong guy. He threw her under the bus throughout the interview. He insisted he has no idea where Nancy got the notion he was leaving his wife to be with her. It was just sex for him. Free—he made sure we knew.

Bottom line, he doesn’t want to be charged in Edward Keltto’s murder as an accomplice. He was doing everything in his power to distance himself from her. In the end it won’t work if he’s lying. Everybody rolls on everybody.

We still haven’t confirmed he was out of town. Blackshear wasn’t lying when he said his research assistant is slow. It shouldn’t take Alyson more than a day or two to check out the guy’s alibi. You get his airline and parking receipts to start with. You ask him where he parked. You call security at O’Hare and have them email the digital video surveillance files. You watch mind-numbing footage until you want to pull your hair out. You confirm that Leslie wasn’t lying when he said he drove his car to the airport, the same car Bradley said was parked a couple doors down from the Keltto’s house right around the time Ed Keltto was murdered.

Not only does Alyson not work late, she apparently calls in sick a lot. She’s been out Thursday and Friday. I’m probably being harsh. The flu is going around.

I told Blackshear I’d look at the video myself. Problem is Alyson didn’t put it on the CPD server—a major violation of IT and procedural policy—and she isn’t answering the phone from her deathbed. So now we have to wait until Monday unless she picks up the phone and loads the files on the server from her VPN connection.

You can’t just fire someone in a union heavy system like the CPD. Alyson has been written up with one formal reprimand. If she gets a second over this, it shouldn’t take too long to cut her loose. But you never know.

If Bradley is wrong and Leslie Levin’s alibi holds up, we’re wasting time we could spend combing through Nancy’s life. If she isn’t the killer, we’re wasting time not looking for other leads.

When we were through with Leslie Levin all I could think is life is difficult enough already, why do some people seek out more complications and problems? Nancy, Nancy, Nancy. Did you even try to work
things out with Ed? Did you ever tell him you needed more attention? Who am I to talk? I couldn’t tell Austin I wanted a hug after attempting to resuscitate a dead man.

Rachmaninoff’s Concerto No. 2 in C Minor played in the background. Vladimir had barely moved in the past few hours. The small living room was dark except for a faint glow from a dull yellow streetlight, which cast shadows that matched his mood.

He stood, cracked his neck and lower back, and pulled out his wallet. He slid out a small stack of cards he kept squirrelled in one of the slots. He turned each one over slowly until he came to the name Arkady Ruchkin.

He slowly ran the edge against the stubble on his cheekbones, up and down, the rasp blending with the music.

Ruchkin. Assistant Attaché Agricultural Affairs with the Russian Embassy. Pasha’s contact with Moscow.

Could he call him without getting himself caught?

He would try in the morning.

Chuck E. Cheese works for me about twice a year. Once for my birthday celebration and one other night I have the kids stay over. It ends up being more like four times. I’m not complaining. The kids have fun, though I suspect the allure of the giant piano-playing gorilla and singing rat is wearing off for Kendra. I’ve got this little ritual where I tell Kendra and James I don’t know where I want to go for my birthday dinner. They yell, “Chuck E. Cheese!” and I remember it is my favorite place in the world. Honestly, it works out for me. I can pound out the reward tickets playing Shoot the Moon fast enough to get both of them a prize. Wish my handgun scores on the CPD range were half as good as what I can do on Shoot the Moon.

After a couple hours of pizza and games we went swimming at the Y. My goal was to wear James out so he’d go to bed early. When we got bundled up for the run to the car, my eyes were bloodshot from the chlorine overdose and drooping with weariness. James looked like he was ready for a night on the town.

I drove the kids home in the GTR. He squawked the whole way for getting stuck in the tiny backseat. I’ve got to get my car back from the garage. I haven’t had time to get over there to pick it up. Since finding out my repairs cost more than seven hundred bucks, I haven’t been in such a hurry, no matter how mad I am at Klarissa.

We pulled into Mom’s tiny driveway and sprinted the few frozen feet to the back kitchen door. I couldn’t help myself. I started sniffing. Maybe James is right. Maybe mom’s house does smell a little funny. I look at upholstered furniture that has been there since I was a kid. That would do it.

James fumed that Kendra was sleeping with me and he was imprisoned in his mom’s old room.

“It isn’t fair!”

Life isn’t fair, James. You’ll learn that sooner or later. Mom, the librarian, went in and read to him for an hour with the patience of Job. I know he—Job—had some terrible things happen to him, but I’m still not sure how patience got associated with his name. It’s something my parents said, so it just pops out. I need to read my Bible more.

Mom reading to James worked out great because it gave me time with Princess Kendra without watching out for a head-butt from James.

After church in the morning I’ll drive over to Klarissa’s condo. Hopefully it hasn’t burned down. In five days Mom seems to have got her equilibrium back from a neighborhood murder. Maybe I should just move back in there.

I feel betrayed. It wasn’t like I had figured Austin was my one true love. In fact, I’m pretty sure I don’t see it working out. I’ve talked to him just twice this week. Once in a video conference call and once
when he let me know no Russian was trying to kill me. Maybe I work for him the same way he has worked out for me. Low demand and maintenance. Maybe he’s ready for more. A relationship with Klarissa won’t be a walk in the park, but probably not as difficult as one with me, and she’s definitely more engaged.

So if Klarissa and Austin make each other happy, I think I’m fine with that.

I’m just mad about them getting started behind my back. You just don’t do that. I’ll have to get over it. I’ll have to forgive. Maybe I’ll hash it out with Klarissa tomorrow. She sure isn’t going to fess up to it unless I bring it up.

Last time we talked she asked, “What’s got in your craw?”

What is a craw anyway?

38

SO THIS IS the detective who puts my life in such risk? She is skinny. No meat on her. I should have waited for her in the Park. I could have snapped her neck like a twig.

I don’t like that she has children. Why did Anasenko Sadowsky not tell me she is a mother? I did not like it when my mother died. Those two are younger than me. But this is America. Everyone gets divorced. There is a daddy somewhere. So they are better off than me. I never knew my father. He was killed in prison before I was born.

They will be fine. It’s time they learned life isn’t American commercials and TV shows where everyone smiles and has only nice things. In Russia we know death is always around the corner.

How can she afford that nice car on a cop salary? She’s probably crooked. Maybe her children are better off without her.

Med drove the Western Star to Conner’s address on the information sheet he had been given. It was still day so he had got out and poked around. There was a different name on the mail slot. She’d moved. Wrong address. He’d have to find her for himself.

It didn’t take long for Medved to realize there were too many Conners in the encyclopedic Chicago phonebook—with none showing the first name Kristen—for him to find her on his own. He considered calling the switchboard at the Chicago Police Department, but with his heavy Slavic accent, he didn’t want to set off any warning bells that someone had come to call on one of their finest with everything going on in the news. They would know she was at risk. They would be keeping an eye on her with everything happening in New York City.

Why would the FBI or NYPD use a Chicago detective to track Pasha? That didn’t make sense to him.

He’d never been in a position of making decisions and taking the initiative, but the Bear wanted as clean a slate as possible.

He thought back to the news reports. Genken dead. He already knew that. Pasha Boyarov in prison. That was new and that was big.

Med gnawed on an idea. Maybe he could . . . No . . . It wouldn’t work . . . Don’t think about it . . . But why not?

There was only one name he knew in Chicago. Anasenko Sadowsky. Everybody knew Sadowsky. He ran Chicago. Sadowsky visited New York to meet with Genken. Years ago, back when he was still on the rise, he had heard Pasha brag that he had been included. Med assumed Sadowsky and Genken continued to meet and that Pasha was sometimes in the meetings. But what about Vladimir Zheglov? He was important to Pasha’s gang but was he high enough in the New York
bratva
to be in strategy meetings between the cities. He hoped not.

Could he do it? He could try.

After changing into a new set of clothes at Dollar General—thank Lady Udacha they carried large sizes—he took a bus to the Holy Trinity Russian Orthodox Cathedral on Leavitt Street in the Humboldt neighborhood. He stepped off the bus into swirling winds. He began walking the streets in a three-block radius around the cathedral, looking at each bar he passed. He came to one named Minsky’s. It looked right to him. He entered and sat at the near empty bar.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked in Russian.

“Are you Minsky?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” the man answered with a scowl. The response was right. Anyone who grew up in Russia knew that answering questions was rarely a good thing to do.

Med matched the man’s scowl and said, “I need to speak to Anasenko Sadowsky.”

“Don’t know him.”

“Mr. Sadowsky will want to speak to me.”

“That’s great. But I don’t know him. Never heard the name.”

Play this right. What would Vladimir Zheglov do?

“Bring me a bottle of Stolichnaya, my friend. Cold. Ice cold. I need a couple of glasses. I will sit over there,” Med said, pointing to a booth.

“I am not your friend,” the man answered. “I will bring you a bottle when you show me money.”

Med pealed a hundred dollar bill from his wad and left it on the counter before walking over to the booth.

Minsky brought him the bottle and four glasses.

Med didn’t look up but gave a nod and said softly, “If you remember meeting Mr. Sadowsky, give him a call and tell him that Vladimir Zheglov would like to talk to him.”

The bartender never said another word to him but an hour later a Cadillac Escalade pulled up and parked in front of a fire hydrant.

Two men walked in and nodded to him. He stood up. They patted him down thoroughly and none too gently. It was noon and there were maybe thirty men present now. Heads stayed down and no one took notice. After removing the
pika
strapped to his left shin—it would have been suspicious if he wasn’t carrying some weapon—and satisfied he was not wearing a wire, one man sat across the booth from him and stared. The other went outside and opened the back door of the Escalade.

A short stocky man with white hair emerged. Now is the time to stay cool, the Bear told himself. Say little. Russians don’t like talkers. Think like Zheglov. Be Zheglov. You are not the Bear. You are a powerful man. You are feared and respected.

The white haired man sat across from him and the second bodyguard slid into the booth next to him.

Shut up, he said to himself again. Don’t ask questions. Don’t answer questions. That’s how Pasha and Vlad handled things. Just tell the man what you need.

Nobody said anything. I’ll speak first but only one time, Med said to himself.

“I need information on a Chicago detective and I need a car.”

The man stared at him for a full minute. Who would break the silence? He finally asked, “What is going on in New York?”

Medved shrugged.

Another stony minute went by. Maybe I could have been a brigadier, Med thought. I am doing this right.

“Who am I helping?”

Now it was going to get very tricky.

“You are helping Vladimir Zheglov and you are helping the
bratva
. You are helping friends who will sort all things in New York out very soon.”

“Moscow?” Sadowsky asked.

Med shrugged.

“Genken is really dead?” Sadowsky asked.

Med gave a small nod. He poured four glasses of vodka and lifted his glass. The men did nothing. He shut his mouth and waited. They brought the glasses up slowly and the four men toasted.

“To Genken,” Med said.

Another excruciating pause.

“I heard you pulled the trigger,” Sadowsky said, eying him warily with perhaps a hint of hostility.

Med stared. He didn’t know what to say, which was good. It made him tough like Vlad. He couldn’t speak until Sadowsky said something else.

“What will Boyarov tell the Americans?” the man asked.

“Don’t worry about Pasha. He will be handled.”

Where did that come from? It was a good answer.

“Tell me the name,” Sadowsky said, holding his hand out.

Med slid the sheet of paper across the table.

“From the Pakhan’s own hand,” Med said. “But the information is out of date.”

Sadowsky let his hand rest on it and stared at the Bear. Med had done prison time. He knew the game. He stared back. Sadowsky finally looked down at the paper and handed it to the man sitting next to Med, who got up and walked to the back of the bar.

Now is not the time to drink too much, Med told himself. You say too much when you drink. You get too friendly. He sipped on a single glass of vodka for the next thirty minutes, despite his urge to pour the whole bottle down his throat.

The bodyguard returned and handed a clean sheet of paper to Sadowsky. Sadowsky slid it across to Med, face down. Med wanted to snatch it up but told himself, don’t touch it. Be cool. You are a powerful man. You are Vladimir Zheglov. Don’t show eagerness or nervousness. Be patient.

“Where do you want the car delivered?”

Med almost looked up with a smile. Vlad would not smile. He fought it down and looked at the table. You can do this. Your problem is you drink too much Stolichnaya. Not another drop until Kristen Conner is dead and you are hundreds of miles away. Med had mapped his route toward the south. His next stop would be St. Louis at the earliest and maybe as far as Tulsa. I-55 south out of the city and pick up I-44 westbound in St. Louis.

“Here,” Med answered.

Another long pause and Sadowsky said, “We work well with Chicago Police. Many friends there. We don’t bother them and they don’t bother us.”

Med looked up slowly. What would Vladimir do? They wouldn’t care what the Chicago
bratva
thought.

“Chicago is a dangerous city,” he said with a shrug. “High murder rate. People die every day.”

The bodyguard whispered in Sadowski’s ear.

Medved knew life and death hung in the balance for him. He held his tongue.

Another tediously long pause slipped by before Sadowski said, “You will remind our friends that we helped.”

Med wanted to dance on the table and shout, yes, I will say anything you want me to. But that was not what men of power did.

He looked Anasenko Sadowsky in the eyes and gave the smallest nod he was capable of.

Ten minutes later he drove away in a five-year-old, nondescript Chevy Malibu. It was too small for his liking but it was perfect for what he had to do next. No way could he have kept looking for Kristen Conner in a dump truck. One thing he knew how to do without trying was drive a car in heavy, confusing traffic, even if his days of driving a cab were over.

Med pulled into a filling station two miles from the Holy Trinity Cathedral. I’m a different man. Maybe it is owning a valuable truck. Lady Udacha has given me a new reason to live. I will be a successful businessman. Maybe I will have many trucks one day. Men will answer to me, the boss. I will marry a new girl in Texas or California. I will have kids.

He spent the next forty-five minutes looking for the transmitter. He almost gave up but found it in the inside flap of the Malibu’s owner’s manual. He went inside the Gas and Grub and bought a small tube of Gorilla Glue. He went back to his car and watched the flow of customers sliding credit cards in and out of the slots on the gas pumps next to a small TV screen with commercials about all the things that could be purchased while fueling up their cars. Every now and then someone pulled up, went inside to prepay his or her gas in cash. He counted how many seconds it took.

I am getting good at this thinking. He waited for the perfect moment. When have I had patience like this? When a line formed at the single cash register and a man in a beat up pickup truck went
inside to pay, he made his move. He slipped the transmitter under the lip of the front bumper with enough glue to hold it in place for years. If Sadowsky finds out I’m not Vladimir, no matter how much power I have shown, he will find me and kill me.

The Bear ambled slowly and confidently back to the Malibu, got in, and returned to his motel. After checking that his Western Star was fine, he went to his room. He pulled out a map of Chicago and compared it against the sheet of paper that Anasenko Sadowsky had given him. He plotted out places he would watch Kristen Conner to find the best place to kill her.

He followed her from the Second Precinct to her sister’s house and then to the game arcade. He had never seen a Chuck E. Cheese. A couple times he wondered if he could go inside. The games looked fun. He wanted to play whack-a-mole.

But he was not the old Bear. For a couple more days he was Zheglov, the death angel.