The Dark Passage: A Sam Raven Thriller, page 5
Maybe the black cat…
Oh, you gotta be kidding…
“Luka?”
She pushed the door open further. The hinges squeaked. She didn’t step inside.
“Luka, it’s Irina, from the newspaper.”
No response. Irina returned to her car and dialed the police on her cell. Let them figure out what was going on inside. Because if the worst had happened, and Luka was dead, it meant she was on the right track. It also meant the cartel wanted to keep their secret. Which meant her source wasn’t going to be the last to die.
8
Irina was sitting in her car when the police arrived. She watched them in the car’s mirrors. The first officers stopped their car in front of Luka’s mobile unit and spent three minutes inside before they emerged with grim expressions. One put a strip of yellow crime scene tape across the open door. The other took a moment to get on the radio and call in their discovery. Irina’s heart sank. Luka was dead for sure. She wanted to wait until the homicide detectives showed up. She didn’t know the beat cops and they didn’t know her. They’d only tell her to wait for the detectives anyway to give her statement. The two cops stood outside and unit and waited. Same as she.
Thirty minutes later, more officials arrived. The crime scene crew, the coroner. No detectives. Finally, a dark blue sedan drove up. A robust balding man in a frumpy suit emerged from the car. He looked around. Irina left the car and hurried across the pavement.
“Stojanovic! Lieutenant Stojanovic!”
The stocky man turned. He was shorter than her, with a fat face and big cheeks.
“What are you doing here?”
“You’re here because I called,” she said.
“Did you go inside?”
“Are you kidding?”
Stojanovic looked at her with a stoic expression. He waited for more, but Irina wasn’t going to volunteer information until he asked. She knew him from previous stories she’d covered, and they respected each other. He wasn’t as combative as some of his colleagues, but he didn’t have any more love for newspaper reporters than they did.
“I still need an answer to my first question, Irina.”
“I’m on assignment. Luka—the victim—was my source.”
“A source for—”
“It’s a Balkan Cartel story.”
“Ah ha. Luka who? What was his last name?”
She told him.
“And why was he a source?”
“He was a low-level member.”
“Talking to you because?”
“I’m trying to—you know. Expose the new boss.”
“Ah ha. Everybody wants to know who the new boss is. Every fink on the street is asking for favors because they tell us they know who the new boss is. But you know what, Irina?”
“They’re flakes?”
“All of them. Nobody knows who the new man is. Get it? Your source was probably only extorting your paper for cash.”
“We didn’t offer him anything, Lieutenant.”
The homicide detective frowned but said nothing more.
“Anything you can tell me—”
“I haven’t seen the body yet. And you know the drill, Irina. We’ll see. Stay back while we look around.”
“I’ll stay right here.”
Irina watched Stojanovic turn and walk to the mobile unit and the activity inside. He walked at a slow pace. He saw no need to hurry, and Irina didn’t blame him. Luka’s body wasn’t going anywhere.
Lieutenant Vojin Stojanovic stepped into the mobile home with a greater sense of dread than usual.
He didn’t like murder scenes any more than the next cop, but a drug-related murder was worse than most. The cartel would call upon him to sweep a few things under the rug, and he was obliged to do their bidding—they were paying for such service, after all.
The crime scene crew consisted of two men in dark jumpsuits who took pictures of the body and noted the position of where it fell on the floor.
He spoke with the two officers who responded to Irina’s call, making notes on how they found the body and whether they thought anything had been disturbed prior to their arrival. Other than the door being open a little, they didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, which Stojanovic thought was funny. A dead body on the floor of the living room was perfectly ordinary, sure. The coroner determined the victim died from a gunshot wound to the back of the head, and the killer tied the victim’s hands and ankles before the shooting. The bullet remained in the man’s skull, the coroner said, and the victim’s face was distorted in front by a reddish bulge as a result.
Stojanovic noted the neat and tidy living room, which carried on through the rest of the small house, except for the stack of dirty dishes in the sink. The lieutenant didn’t like doing dishes either, so he’d give the victim a pass. There was no sign of forced entry; the victim knew his killer, or didn’t suspect his killer was there to kill him when he paid a visit. How much time had passed between the shooting and Irina Vukovic’s arrival is what Stojanovic wanted to know, but figured he’d have to wait until the coroner determined time of death. He’d compare it with Irina’s statement on her arrival. If it mattered. It probably didn’t. But Stojanovic was a thorough detective. He liked to know every detail. Knowing every detail helped him fudge things to keep the cartel clear, or at least alerted to any surprises he couldn’t interdict.
If only his wife hadn’t gotten sick. If she hadn’t gotten sick, he wouldn’t have taken their money.
He went back outside to talk to Irina. True to her word, she was still standing where he’d left her.
“Well?” she said as he approached.
“He’s dead.”
“How?”
“Gunshot. Was the door open when you got here?”
“It squeaked open when I knocked,” she said.
“Uh-huh. And you immediately sensed the worst and called the police?”
“I called his name first.”
“Luka’s name.”
“I sure as hell didn’t yell for Donald Trump.”
“And you got no answer, and you didn’t go inside.”
“Correct.”
“You immediately assumed—”
“Considering the nature of my job, and Luka’s employer, yes, Lieutenant, I assumed the worst. If he’d been in the shower we’d only be embarrassed right now.”
“He wasn’t in the shower. He was fully clothed, on the living room floor, hands and ankles tied.”
“No sign of a fight?”
“None.”
“He knew the killer.”
“You think?” Stojanovic said. “Want to join the force?”
“Give me a break, Lieutenant.”
“Go find another source, Irina. This one isn’t going to help you. In fact, why don’t you forget the whole thing. Nobody needs this kind of trouble, especially a young woman like you.”
“I should be at the bar looking for a husband, is that what you think?”
“I used to tell my daughter the same thing. She also used to ignore me.”
“Where is she now?”
“Pregnant with her third child. Now get out of here. If I need you again, I’ll call you.”
Irina pressed her lips together, and he watched her. She didn’t volunteer any more, but he already knew she wouldn’t. He wanted to know what she was thinking, however. What other moves did she plan to make? She wasn’t going to give up the story. This fact bothered him. Because if she didn’t, the next body he came to see would be hers. And she did remind him of his daughter.
9
Another thump as Irina ran over a pothole. More coffee spilled. “Dammit!” Irina steered to the side of the road with her right hand. The other held her cell phone. She was in the middle of dialing and finished once she brought the little car to a halt. The engine still ran.
Two rings.
“Yes?”
“Rasko, it’s Irina. Listen to me. Luka is dead and—”
“What?”
Rasko Lompar was her primary connection to the cartel underworld, introduced to her by a smuggler who was one of Ana Gray’s assets.
“They shot Luka at home; you need to get somewhere safe before they find you.”
Before Rasko said more, there was a commotion in the background, yelling, and then two pops. Gunshots. She knew the sound and there was no mistake. But Irina kept the phone to her head, plugging the other to block out the sound of the engine.
The killer won’t pick up and say his name. What are you waiting for?
And then—
“Who is on the line?”
Irina felt a chill. It was a new voice, male; a baritone voice, a man who didn’t need to speak loudly for somebody to hear him.
“Is this Irina Vukovic?”
“What have you done?” Irina winced. It was a stupid question, but her racing heart overrode good sense.
“You need to back off, little girl. Otherwise, you’ll be seeing me.”
The call ended.
Irina let out a breath and almost set the phone in the extra cup holder flooded with the spilled coffee. She jammed the device back into her purse instead.
A target on her back, for sure.
She pulled back onto the road and drove faster than before. Damn the bumps and spills. She had one more person to reach before it was too late.
Irina braked hard and shoved the gear lever into Park. She ignored the meter and crossed the sidewalk into a large tailor shop with the name Kemal Hasanaj, Tailors above the door. The bell chimed as she stepped inside.
Racks of clothes, accessories, all for men, filled the shop; the clerk stood behind a class counter under which more accessories sat on display. The clerk was tall and very thin with a sharp chin. He knew her from the frequent visits she made to talk with Kemal Hasanaj. Before he said a word, Irina blurted, “Tell him we need to talk right now.”
“I’m not sure—”
“Go tell him. And tell him Rasko is dead.”
A door opened at the rear of the shop. Within moments a lean man in a sharp suit emerged from the racks of men’s clothing. He stopped at the counter. Kemal Hasanaj was lean but tough, with sharp features and piercing dark eyes; always impeccably dressed in tailored suits, he was a walking billboard for his shop.
“What did you say, Irina?”
“Rasko is dead.” She swallowed.
“Come back to the office.”
He turned and started for the back. Irina followed. Hasanaj was only a year or two older than her. Known throughout Podgorica and Montenegro as one of the finest tailors outside of the UK, Hasanaj harbored a secret sure to send him to prison or the grave should he ever make a mistake.
His “real” job was the tailor shop. But he was also a smuggler and black-market information broker. One of Ana Gray’s assets, he and Irina had worked together many times whenever Ana required action in the Balkans.
“What went wrong?”
Hasanaj waited for her to take the chair in front of his desk. The office was small but immaculate, with framed photos of the early days of his tailor business on the walls. Irina explained what happened at the mobile home park and the shooting over the phone. Hasanaj listened and his face turned sad.
“Rasko was a friend.” He sank into his executive chair.
Irina only nodded. Hasanaj had plugged her in with Rasko Lompar, who put her in touch with Luka. The cartel was following the chain, and she told Hasanaj the trail led back to him.
The smuggler waved off her concern. “They won’t dare hurt me. Smugglers have a sort of gentlemen’s agreement. We all know too much about each other for them to risk killing me.”
“Yet you have no idea who the new cartel leader may be.”
“We don’t know everything, Irina.”
She remained quiet for a moment. Hasanaj was usually a talker, but news of his friend’s murder left him silent and sullen.
Then he said, “Have you updated Ana?”
“She can wait.”
“What about the undercover agent?”
“I have no idea what’s happening there, either. Ana hasn’t called me.”
“This started, for me, as just another mission. Now they’ve killed my friend. I can promise you I’ll be taking a bigger role going forward.”
Ana’s cell phone rang, the ring tone muted by the interior of her purse. She fished out the phone, said, “It’s Ana,” and answered by clicking the speaker icon. “I’m here with Kemal, Ana,” she announced.
“What’s the latest on your end?” the Englishwoman asked.
Irina repeated the events of the day for the third time.
Ana said, “Oh, dear.”
“I don’t know how much the cartel knows about us,” Irina said. “I also don’t know—”
“If their threat to you has any merit. Yet.”
“Want me to lay low for a while?”
“Yes, actually. Because I have an update of my own and it’s slightly better news. If nothing else, it will give the cartel somebody else to shoot at. The man I sent into Albania came back with our undercover asset, and I want you to brief them on your end of the case, Irina. I had hoped you might have some new leads, though. Maybe they can go over some of the old ones and shake something loose.”
“I may have a new lead for them, actually.”
“Tell me more.”
“It’s fifty-fifty, but I think this man is involved. A former colonel named Peter Kovac. He came up an earlier conversation I had with Rasko. He knows Vercuni and he’s worth checking out. Runs a nightclub and I think sells their drugs out of the back room.”
“Give everything you have on him to Raven and Elena.”
“I know Elena, but who is Raven?”
“The man I sent into Albania. American. Former CIA. He’s a good man. Give him all you got. And Irina? For now, leave Kemal out of the conversation.”
Hasanaj said, “Why?”
“A good poker player always leaves an ace in reserve.”
10
It was a long drive to the border.
Raven was glad to have left the Triumph motorcycle behind in favor of renting a decent car. He steered the four-door through the twisty mountain roads, letting Elena take in the view and snap pictures, while he focused on the pavement ahead and the view behind. He didn’t think anybody was following them. They were the only vehicle on the road, had been for miles and miles; they were clear of any pursuit, but he wasn’t for a moment going to say all was well. He wore his pistol under his coat, and the heavy hardware—the Uzi submachine gun—was in the trunk. Just in case.
“May I ask you something?” Elena asked.
“Sure,” he said.
“What’s your business in all of this? Are you doing it for the money or something else?”
Raven laughed a little. She frowned.
“I’m not making a joke.”
“I know you’re not,” he said. “I work alone. Sometimes Ana hires me.”
“What do you mean alone?”
“I go looking for trouble.”
“Why?”
“Because something happened to me once, and I’m trying to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen to others.”
“What happened?”
“I’d rather not say, Elena. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“I understand.”
“Ana mentioned your role in this,” he said. He wanted to change the subject away from his life. “This mysterious leader. She said it might be somebody you know. From the war.”
Now it was her turn to dodge the answers. “Yes.”
“What makes you think—”
“It’s a rumor same as the CIA people helping him. We’re looking for a man who calls himself The Wolf. He was a marauder during the war. He didn’t care who he killed or what side they were on. He was only interested in causing as much death and destruction as he could, and he had a large enough crew with him to accomplish the task. He killed my family. For years the story was he died in a battle, but now the rumor is he took over the cartel. My job was to find out if those rumors are true. But I didn’t learn anything. They caught me.”
“What did they catch you searching through?” Raven asked.
“Computer files. I was desperate for anything. It was a stupid move, and I should have stayed patient.”
“I get it.”
“Do you?”
“More than you know,” he said.
Raven steered through more twisty turns and let the conversation fade. He and Elena had a lot in common and shared a haunted past. He wasn’t sure the fact was a matter to celebrate, however.
“Do you have anything left from your family?” he asked.
“Only my DNA,” she answered.
She’s got more than me, Raven thought.
He felt fortunate to have the sterling silver locket around his neck, concealed by his shirt, which contained the only physical traces of his connection to what he lost. He didn’t tell her about the locket, though. He never spoke about it or what was inside, but it served as his conscience. The conduit through which the ghosts of battles past spoke to him and urged him on in the war without end. Only when the ghosts finally fell silent would the war be over. He wondered if they would ever cease their communication. But he was afraid of them going away, too. He wanted the war to stop someday; the killing couldn’t go on forever. If they stopped talking, his last link would vanish. He almost wanted the fight to continue until he stopped a bullet rather than give up the last link of communication. Only time would tell. Until then, he had a war to fight. He found allies where available. And he did not give up no matter the challenge. If The Wolf had indeed ascended to the big chair in the Balkan Cartel, Raven wanted to knock him off the throne and into the grave.
