Beyond Suspicion, page 26
In her heart she knew that this was the last she’d see of Beatriz.
She couldn’t move. It was well below freezing, but she was oblivious to the elements. Half a block away she spotted a police car parked at the curb. It seemed like a sign, Beatriz whisked away in an ambulance right past the police. It was time for someone in a position of authority to see the deplorable conditions they worked under.
On impulse, she ran down the icy sidewalk and knocked on the passenger-side window. The officer rolled down the window and said something she didn’t understand.
“Come see,” she said, but her command of the language was still very basic. “The factory. Come see.”
He gave her a confused look. His reply was completely unintelligible, a dialect she’d never heard before. She’d learned Russian as a schoolgirl in Cuba, but there was surprisingly little crossover to Czech.
“What are you doing, girl?”
She turned and saw her foreman. He was a stocky, muscular man with extraordinarily bad teeth for someone as young as he was.
“Leave me alone. I want him to see what happened.”
He said something to the cop that made him laugh. Then he grabbed Elena by the arm and started back toward the factory.
“Let go of me!”
“Are you stupid? The police can’t help you.”
“Then I’ll talk to someone else.”
“Yes, I know you will. We’re going to see the boss man right now.” His grip tightened on her arm till it hurt. He took her down a dark alley that ran alongside the factory. The pavers were frozen over with spilled sludge and dirty run-off from the roofs, and about every third step her feet slipped out from under her. At the end of the alley were two glowing orange dots, which finally revealed themselves as the taillights of a Renault.
Her foreman opened the door, shoved Elena in the back seat, climbed in beside her, and closed the door. The motor was running, and a driver was behind the wheel in the front seat.
“This is her,” said the foreman.
“Hello, Elena,” the driver said.
It was dark inside, and from the back seat she could see only the back of his head. “Hello.”
“I heard there was an accident with your friend. I came as soon as I could.”
“What do you care?”
They made eye contact in the rearview mirror, but she could see only his eyes. “Do you think it makes me happy when someone gets hurt in my factory?”
Elena didn’t answer, though she was taken aback to realize that she was talking to the owner of the factory.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I know it’s dangerous in there.”
“Then why don’t you fix it?”
“Because that’s the way it’s always been.”
“And you can’t do anything about it?”
“I can’t. But you can.”
“Me?”
“You can make things safer, at least for yourself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s very simple. This is a big factory. There are many jobs. Some are dangerous. Some are very dangerous. Some are not dangerous at all.”
“Seems to me that the women are always getting the most dangerous jobs.”
“Not all women. Some get the dangerous jobs, some get the not-so-dangerous jobs. It all depends.”
“On what?”
“On which part of your body you want to sacrifice.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Machine number eight should be up and running in a day or two. You’ll be taking over Beatriz’s spot.”
“What?”
He shrugged, as if it were none of his doing. “Or I suppose I could tell your foreman to assign it somebody else. It’s up to you.”
“What choice are you giving me?”
He turned partly around, as if to look at her, but his face was blocked by the headrest. He spoke in a low serious voice that chilled her. “Everything happens for a reason. No decision is meaningless. We all determine our own fate.”
“Like Beatriz?”
“Like you. And like hundreds of other girls much smarter than your friend.”
She could have smashed his face in, but an Eastern Bloc prison was no place for an eighteen-year-old girl from Cuba.
“Sleep on it,” he said. “But we need your answer.”
The foreman opened the door and pulled her out into the alley. A cold wind swept by her, stinging her cheeks. She stood in the darkness and watched as the car backed out of the alley.
She brushed away a tear that had frozen to her eyelash, but she felt only anger.
You pig, she thought as the car pulled away. How dare you hide your evil behind such twisted views of fate.
•
The lock clicked; a key was in the car door. Katrina cleared her mind of memories and sharpened her focus. The door opened, but the dome light didn’t come on. She’d taken care of that in advance to reduce the risk of detection.
Theo climbed inside and shut the door.
She was close enough to smell his cologne, even feel the heat from his body. Her pulse quickened as she rose on one knee. With a gloved hand, she guided the.22-caliber pistol toward the back of the headrest.
Theo inserted the key.
As the ignition fired she shoved the muzzle of her silencer against the base of his skull. “Don’t make a move.”
The engine hummed. His body stiffened. “Katrina?”
“Shut up. Don’t make this any worse than it already has to be.”
53
•
Jack went into the office as if it were a normal day. He was following the same advice he’d given countless clients living under the cloud of a grand-jury investigation: If you want to keep your sanity, keep your routine.
He was doing pretty well, until a certain hand-delivery turned his stomach.
It was a letter he’d expected but dreaded. As a prosecutor, he’d sent many of them, and he could have recited the language from memory. This letter is to inform you that you have been identified as a target of a grand jury investigation. A “target” means that there is substantial evidence to link you to a commission of a crime. Blah, blah, blah. Very truly yours, Benno Jancowitz III. The only surprise was that Benno Jancowitz was “the Third.”
Who in his right mind would keep that name around for three generations?
Line one rang, and then line two. Jack reached for the phone, then reconsidered. The target letter would surely push the media to another level of attack. He let his secretary answer. Screening calls was just one of the many ways in which Maria was worth her weight in gold.
He answered her on the intercom. “How bad is it?”
“I told Channel 7 you weren’t here. But line two is Theo Knight’s lawyer.”
“Thanks. I’ll take it.” With a push of the button Rick Thompson was on the line. Jack skipped the hello and said, “I presume you’re calling about the target letter.”
“Not exactly.”
“Theo didn’t get one?”
“I don’t know if he did or not. I can’t find him.”
“What?”
“We were supposed to meet in my office three hours ago. He didn’t show. I was wondering if you might know anything about that.” Rick’s words were innocent enough, but his tone was accusatory.
“No, I don’t know anything about that,” said Jack, a little defensive.
“I called him at home, called him at work, tried his cell, and beeped him five times. Not a word back from him.”
“That’s weird.”
“I thought so, too. Which is why I’m calling you. I was serious about what I said last night at Rosa’s house. I appreciate Rosa bringing me into this case. But just because she’s my friend doesn’t mean I’m going to treat you and Theo any differently than another client and codefendant. If I’m Theo’s lawyer, I’m looking out for his best interest.”
“I don’t quibble with that one bit. All I’m saying is that if you can’t reach your client, it’s none of my doing.”
“Okay. I’m not making any accusations. It just concerns me that all of a sudden he seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.”
“That concerns me, too.”
“If you hear from him, tell him to call his lawyer.”
“Sure.”
As he said good-bye and hung up, his gaze settled on the target letter atop his desk. It had been upsetting enough for him, and he could only imagine how it might have hit a guy who’d spent four years on death row for a crime he didn’t commit.
Jack faced the window, looked out across the treetops, and found himself wondering: How big was the “if” in “if you hear from him”?
Jack turned back to his desk and speed-dialed Rosa. Her secretary put him straight through. It took only a moment to recount the conversation with Theo’s lawyer.
Rosa asked, “You don’t think he split, do you?”
“Theo? Heck, no. He doesn’t run from anything or anybody.”
“You really believe that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“I represented him for four years.”
“That was for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Are you saying he killed Jessie Merrill?”
“Not necessarily. Just that people naturally draw inferences when the accused makes a run for it.”
“Nobody said he’s running.”
“Then where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You sure?”
He paused, not sure what she was asking. “Do you think I told him to run?”
“Of course not. But maybe Theo thinks you did.”
“You’re losing me.”
“The conversation you had at Tobacco Road is a perfect example. You told him that Jessie Merrill threatened you, and he took it upon himself to go threaten her right back. Maybe this is the same situation. You could have said something that made him come to the conclusion that you’d be better off if he just hit the highway.”
“I haven’t spoken to Theo since he and Rick Thompson walked out the front door of your house.”
“Then maybe his sudden disappearance has nothing to do with you at all. Maybe it’s all about what’s best for him.”
“Theo didn’t kill her. He wouldn’t. Especially not in my own house.”
“Think about it, Jack. What was the first thing you said to me when we talked about Jessie’s body in your house?”
He didn’t answer right away, though he recalled it well. “I said, if I was going to kill an old girlfriend, would I really do it in my own house?”
“It’s a logical defense. You think Theo was smart enough to give it to you?”
“It’s not that smart. I said the same thing to Sam Drayton at the U.S. attorney’s office. He tore it to shreds, asked me if I thought it up before or after I killed Jessie Merrill.”
“Theo’s not a prosecutor.”
“Theo’s not a lot of things, and he’s especially not a murderer.”
“I hope you’re right. But if you’re going to look for him, which I know you are, let me ask you this. You call him a friend, but how well do you really know Theo Knight?”
Jack’ first reaction was anger. Serving time for a murder he didn’t commit had forever put Theo in a hole. But he was no saint, either, and Jack knew that.
“Jack, you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Honestly. How well do you know him?”
“Do we ever really know anyone?”
“That’s a cop-out.”
“Maybe. I’ll let you know what I find out.” He said good-bye and hung up.
54
•
It was almost midnight, and Yuri was ready to make a move. He and Vladimir had spent the last six hours in their favorite hotel on the Atlantic City boardwalk. The Trump Taj Mahal was renowned for its understated elegance-but only if you were a Russian mobster. To anyone else, it was flash and glitz on steroids. Fifty-one stories, twelve hundred rooms, and restaurant seating for three thousand diners, all complemented by such subtle architectural details as seventy Arabian-style rooftop minarets and no fewer than seven two-ton elephants carved in stone. The chandeliers alone were worth fourteen million dollars, and each of the big ones in the casino glittered with almost a quarter million pieces of crystal. Marble was everywhere-hallways, lobbies, bathrooms, even the shoe-shine stands. Miles of tile work had actually exhausted the entire two-year output of Italy’s famous Carrera quarries, Michelangelo’s marble of choice for his greatest works of art. There was even a ten-thousand-dollar-a-night suite that bore Michelangelo’s name. Fitting. It was impossible to walk through this place without wondering what Mich would think.
“Let’s go,” said Yuri.
“What’s your hurry?”
“Enough fun and games. It’s time we got what we came for.”
Vladimir grumbled, but he didn’t argue. Blackjack was considered a house game, and for the past two hours he’d conducted himself as the perfect house guest. He was down almost twenty grand at the high-limit table. He gathered up his few remaining chips and stuffed them into the pockets of his silk suit. Then he ordered another drink for the woman seated beside him, a statuesque redhead with globes for breasts and a tear-shaped diamond dripping into her cleavage.
“I’ll be back,” he said with a wink.
“I’ll be waiting.”
Yuri grabbed his elbow and started him toward the exit. They were in the Baccarat pit, a special, velvet-roped area in the casino where the stakes were high and drop-dead-gorgeous women sidled up to lonely men with money in their pockets and Viagra in their veins. No one seemed to care that most of the babes were planted by the hotel to encourage foolish wagering.
“You think she’s a prostitute?” asked Vladimir.
Yuri rolled his eyes and kept walking, making sure that Vladimir stayed right with him. He made a strategic decision to avoid the temptation of the craps tables by leading him through Scheherazade restaurant. It overlooked the Baccarat pit, making it one of the few five-star restaurants in the world where you could eat lunch and lose your lunch money at the same time.
“These guys aren’t the kind of people you keep waiting,” said Yuri.
“We’re not late.”
“Not being late ain’t good enough. You get there early and wait. It shows respect.”
“Sorry. Didn’t know.”
They hurried down the long corridor and ducked into one of the tower elevators just past the Kids’ Fun Center. An elderly couple tried to get on behind them, but Yuri kept them at bay.
“All full,” he said as he pressed the close door button. He punched forty-four, and the elevator began its ascent, the two of them admiring their reflections in the chrome door. Then Yuri turned and straightened Vladimir’s tie.
“Just do what I say from here on out, all right? This meeting is too important to fuck up.”
“What should I say?”
“Just answer the questions asked. That’s all.”
Vladimir rearranged his tie, making it crooked again. “I look okay?”
Yuri gave him a friendly slap on the cheek. “Like a million bucks.”
The elevator doors opened and Yuri led the way out. Vladimir seemed almost giddy as they walked briskly down the hallway.
“Bratsky Krug,” said Vladimir. “I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” said Yuri.
“I laid eyes on one of these guys only once before. I ever tell you that story?”
“Yes.” Only a thousand times, the guy who plucked him out of the Kamikaze Club in Moscow, the bare-knuckled fights to the death. Bratsky Krug was Russian for “circle of brothers.” It was the ruling council of the vory, a powerful alliance of Russian mobsters. It didn’t have the power or structure of the Italian Cosa Nostra, but it had been known to settle inter-gang disputes. Yuri hadn’t promised his friend that the council would settle the viatical disagreement between Miami and Brighton Beach. For someone as starstruck as Vladimir, he knew, the prospect of meeting one of these “brothers” was reason enough to make the trip.
The corridor was quiet. Door after door, the whole wing seemed to be asleep. Most of the rooms were under renovation and unoccupied, which was precisely the reason Yuri had chosen the forty-fourth floor for the meeting. He stopped at 4418 and inserted the passkey.
“You don’t knock?” said Vladimir.
“You expect them to pay for the room? Like I said, we get here early, they come to us. We’re the ones who wait.”
He pushed open the door, then stepped aside, allowing Vladimir to enter first. It was dark inside, the entranceway lit only by the sconces in the hallway. Vladimir took a half-dozen steps forward and stopped. Yuri was right behind him. The door closed, and the room went black.
“How about some lights?”
Yuri didn’t answer.
“Yuri?”
With a click of a lamp switch on the other side of the room, bright white light assaulted his eyes. Vladimir reached for his gun.
“Don’t,” said Yuri as he pressed the muzzle of his silencer against the back of Vladimir’s head.
Vladimir froze, then chuckled nervously. “What’s-what’s going on, man?”
Yuri watched the expression on Vladimir’s face as a man stepped out from the shadows. It was Leonid, the Brighton Beach mobster whom Vladimir had thrown out of his strip club.
“What the hell are you doing here?” asked Vladimir.
Two more thugs stepped into the light. Instinctively, Vladimir went for his gun again, but Yuri pressed the pistol more firmly into his skull.
“I wouldn’t,” said Yuri.
Vladimir lowered his arm to his side. All color seemed to drain from his face as the reality of the setup sank in.
“Yuri, what’s this all about?”
“Leonid told me about the meeting he and his banker from Cyprus had with you at Bare-ly Eighteen. Seems you were extremely rude.”
Vladimir squinted into the spotlight. “They canceled our contract for no good reason. We skimmed a little blood, used a virus they didn’t like. What’s the big deal? You don’t walk out on a deal over little shit like that.”
