Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (21 page)

“Do we bring him in and talk to him tonight?” I ask. “It’d be good to test his willingness to be anywhere at any time to talk about anything.”

It’s been a long day. All of us are ready to call it quits. No one says anything for a minute.

“On one hand it would be good to punch him in the nose tonight,” Blackshear says. “It would mess up his equilibrium. But on the other hand, we can do the same thing early morning. Do you all see a problem sleeping on this?”

We don’t.

“I’ll set my alarm for six,” Blackshear continues. “I’ll call and set up a pickup at seven in a black and white. I think it’s time Leslie’s wife knows what’s going on.”

“Whose wife?” I ask.

“Leslie. That’s the guy. Leslie Levin.”

We make plans to meet up at the Second at eight to interview him. The two men leave. Mom is already in bed again—I’m not much of a support to her. I’m too tired to talk anyway.

“They gone?” I hear her ask.

She pads into the living room where I’ve locked the front door. I think she’s wearing the same bathrobe she’s had since I was a little girl. She gives me a tired smile.

“Your daddy would be so proud.”

“Ah, Mom.”

She hugs me tight.

“I’m proud too. And I love you. And I pray for you every day you’re on the job. It still scares me to death sometimes. But I know you’re doing what you love and you’re good at it. Like your daddy.”

“I love you too, Mom.” I hug her back hard.

“Go to bed, you look tired honey. It sounds like you guys are starting early.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, Kristen?”

“With everything going on, you okay?”

“Maybe not tonight, but I will be. God always looks after me. So yeah, I’m okay. Besides, what choice is there?”

She gives me another hug and heads back for her bedroom. There for a moment I thought she was going to see a few tears roll down my cheeks. Then she basically let me know she was eavesdropping the whole time.

Maybe Mom should have been a cop.

I brush my teeth, consider a shower, but settle for washing my face. I plop into the bed that has been mine since my earliest memories. I consider reading. I’m halfway through an Ian Rankin novel that features an Edinburgh detective that is always in and out of trouble. I wonder why I like the Inspector John Rebus books so much. I’m too tired.

I look at my iPhone, flip to a Bible app, and read the verse of the day: “Make every effort to live in peace with everyone and to be holy; without holiness no one will see the Lord.” Does that count for devotions?

Lord, I’m not sure how well I’m doing in the peace with everyone department. Can I blame it on the job?

Not much of a prayer tonight.

My mind is still working. Nancy, how do you throw away your marriage and run off with a guy named Leslie?

Then I think of what mom said.
What choice is there?
I always assumed I got my attitude about counseling from my dad. Maybe I learned you have to move on, no matter what life throws at you, from my mom.

34

THE CARPET WAS worn and there were cigarette burn holes on the bedspread and the upholstery of the two chairs on either side of a battered table or desk or whatever else you needed it for. The walls were thin and the room next to his was apparently rented by the hour. The TV set was a big cubed monstrosity that might be twenty years old. The bathtub was stained with years of dirt. It was a dull watermelon color that might not be made anymore.

Medved sighed. It was perfect. The old steam radiator put out plenty of heat and the nightly rate was cheap. Best of all, the owner, probably Pakistani or Indian, Med figured, had a spot in the back of the lot where he could park his truck.

“Anyone going to mess with my truck?” he demanded gruffly.

“No sir. I have a spot where our trash dumpsters used to be. We can pull the gate shut and lock it. But it will cost extra.”

Perfect. He liked that the man called him sir. He figured it would take three or four days at most to figure how to hit Detective Kristen Conner. Then he’d be on his way. He went ahead and paid for a full week because the owner offered him a twenty-five percent discount. He added ten bucks a day for the truck and that went in the man’s pocket instead of the cash register. Everyone was happy.

“Any good breakfast spots?” The Bear asked.

“We serve pastries and coffee in the morning. Complimentary of course, sir.”

“Nah. I want something hot. I’m a meat eater.”

“Yes, of course. Two blocks down you will find fast food and local restaurants. One that is very popular is in an old railroad car. It is called the Silver Palm. But it is a little further away and you will not find a spot to park your truck.”

“No problem. I like to walk.”

Med liked the idea of eating in a railroad car.

“It is very cold sir.”

“That’s how I grew up. I might not even wear a coat.”

The two men found that hilarious and laughed hard together.

“You don’t look like you grew up in the cold,” Medved said.

“No. It was always hot in Mumbai. Near the Indian Ocean.”

“Let me ask you a favor,” Med said. “Any chance I can borrow your key to the gate lock for a few days? I’ll be sure to return it to you and you alone. That way if I get called on a local job and have to drive it, I can let myself out—and you don’t have to freeze your butt off opening the gate.”

The man asked for an extra twenty-dollars as a deposit, which Med was glad to pay. He handed him the bill, they shook hands, and the deal was done.

After parking the truck and dumping his stuff in his room, he bundled up to walk down to the Silver Palm for breakfast.

35

VLADIMIR ZHEGLOV RUBBED the grease black stubble on his chin. He was sitting in a horrible little apartment in upper Harlem. It was his hidey-hole. No one, not even Pasha, knew about it. He rarely slept there but made an appearance once a month to pay the landlord his rent in cash. It was the kind of place where people didn’t ask questions or look at you.

Something was wrong. Everything was wrong. Pasha was supposed to be Pakhan of New York City and run the East Coast Bravta. It was set up with Moscow. Zheglov was to be the Sovietnik, Pasha’s chief counselor. It was all agreed. Then all hell broke loose when the Bear failed to deliver Frank Reynolds, Jr. to the warehouse in Queens.

That was the past. Now Pasha was arrested. That was all wrong, too.

Pasha told him he needed a few minutes alone with a girl he had coming over. He told Vlad to disappear for an hour, then come back and they would switch hotels. Vladimir told him it was a bad idea. No one could be trusted. This is how he would be caught. Pasha got angry and told him he knew what he was doing and calling for a little comfort wasn’t going to get them killed.

Pasha barked, “Be back in an hour sharp. We’re moving.”

Vlad ignored the disrespect—for the last time. But his antennae went up. He disappeared like Pasha asked but stayed close. He found a spot in a janitor’s closet across the street to watch. The window was up high and he had to stand on a ladder but it gave him the perfect angle to cover the hotel entrance and most of the front desk.

He saw a girl enter the lobby of their boutique hotel. Even bundled up she smelled like FBI to him. But then she came back to the front desk with her coat off, wearing a knee-length professional dress and
high heels. The lady working the desk handed her a key. She didn’t look quite right for Pasha. Too sophisticated. Definitely not hard enough. But maybe his imagination was playing tricks on him.

Foot traffic was almost nonexistent. People weren’t venturing outside unless they absolutely had to. He saw next to nothing for the next hour, including the kind of girl Pasha would send for.

He wondered if he was being paranoid. Of course he was. How could you not be paranoid with NYPD, FBI, and the
vory y zakone
after you?

He thought about walking back over. But a little lizard in the back of his brain said to wait. Five minutes after he was scheduled to return, agents with automatic rifles, wearing black body armor, flooded from an armored transport, and stormed the place. It was an impressive display of power. Pasha was a dead man.

Vlad listened with full concentration for the inevitable gunfire. But the only sounds he heard were from the street. Where was the fight? Would Pasha allow himself to be taken without trying to shoot his way out? Not the Pasha he knew. The two had discussed if it was better to go out in a blaze of glory or be taken into custody. Pasha said a blaze of glory. Vlad understood that beliefs sometimes changed when situations moved from hypothetical to reality. But not even one gunshot?

A black delivery truck rumbled onto the sidewalk behind the assault vehicle. He got a good look at a hand-cuffed Pasha, surrounded by men in black, being pushed inside before both vehicles roared off.

Vlad still didn’t move and kept watching. Twenty excruciating minutes later the girl in the short skirt entered the lobby, talking solemnly with a man in a suit and overcoat. The two looked like law enforcement all the way.

So what just happened?

Anyone who survived in this business had a hidey-hole no one else knew about. Vladimir exited an adjacent building a street over from his watching spot and had headed straight there to ponder all he had seen.

Now he sipped a cup of strong black coffee, sitting alone in the dark. It burned going down and warmed him.

The arrest . . . it didn’t look right. The more he thought of Pasha’s instructions to him an hour before it happened . . . the girl in the lobby . . . no gun shots . . . the more it reeked of betrayal.

Pasha, what have you done? What was supposed to happen to your old friend, Vlad?

Suspicion gnawed at him until it turned to certainty.

No gun. No knife. Bare hands. He would kill Pasha himself.

36

FINALLY STUFFED AFTER devouring two orders of the Three Little Piggy sandwich, Med returned to his room, shaved his face and head, and plopped on the bed. He slept most of the day. When he woke the sky was turning from dark gray to a smudgy black. He turned on the TV and laid back down.

The picture on the screen wasn’t clear but it was cable so he got the national news stations. He flipped the channel to WolfNews and almost gasped. There was his face along with five others from Pasha’s gang. Under his picture was his name and in bold letters, the words, AT LARGE.

He watched with fascination as the news anchor talked about another day of murders in New York City as more faces and names were shown. Under each name was one of a couple statements: Killed; In Custody; At Large; Presumed Dead. It was crazy. Pasha’s gang was still taking the brunt of the deaths, but all the brigadiers were losing soldiers.

Did I do all this? He began to laugh uncontrollably until he sucked saliva down his windpipe and choked and gagged for a minute. Someone in the room next door pounded on the wall. Maybe I will pound on you, my friend. Watch that you don’t make the Bear angry. He started laughing again.

When the newsman switched to warnings about another wave of freezing weather being churned up and hurtled south by the polar vortex, he started cleaning his guns, but he kept listening to hear if the blonde was on the air tonight.

As he threaded the black bristles of the brush through the barrel of his Glock, he thought about his current status. At Large. That meant he was being hunted. When he looked in the cracked glass mirror earlier
to shave his head again, he still barely recognized himself. He looked nothing like the bearded, bushy-haired man with his name under it.

But tomorrow he would still go to Dollar General to buy new clothes. It was not easy to find pants, shirts, and shoes that fit him. But he needed to get rid of what he brought from home. He had to do everything possible to make the old Bear disappear. No one here would recognize him, but better safe than sorry.

A thought crossed his mind. Why not just drive to Dallas or Phoenix or even Los Angeles now? No. Listen to the Pakhan. He was right. Even a new ID won’t protect your from a live witness.

He still needed to get rid of Detective Kristen Conner. Genken had given him a one-page information sheet on her. He needed to get a city map and study the lay of the land.

He looked up to see the pretty young reporter, Klarissa Conner, back on. She solemnly announced breaking news:

“This just in. Notorious Red Mafiya leader, Pasha Boyarov, the man believed to be responsible for this killing spree that has left more than thirty dead in New York City, has been apprehended and taken into custody by FBI agents. He will be held in the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn in solitary confinement.”

The screen showed a man under a blanket being escorted by a small army of FBI agents in what looked like a cargo loading area.

Unbelievable, Med thought. To think, all of this is happening because I was drinking vodka and went outside to relieve myself. Genken—the Pakhan, the big boss—and thirty others dead. More than a hundred arrested.

And now Pasha was captured? Could it be? Was Lady Udacha smiling so brightly on him? The only shadow was that Vladimir Zheglov’s name wasn’t mentioned in the report.

He looked at the array of weapons he had out on the table for cleaning. Just focus on the detective and forget the death angel. His rifle would be great for a long-range shot, but it could take weeks or
months to find the right location—and the weather would have to clear. Not even an option. A handgun would insure the job was done. Her death would have to come from close quarters. He looked at his
pika
. He could slice her throat.

The knife or handgun. Up close.