Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

Val waited. He knew what the man’s answer would be.

Eventually, Pyotr raised his eyes to Val’s and nodded. “Yes,” he said, swallowing thickly. “Thank you.”

“You are a countryman,” Val said. “You do not need to thank me. Now, I want you to think of a price over the next few days. When we talk again, we’ll work out how much I will pay you for the business and what your salary will be. All right?”

Pyotr nodded his head, then stood woodenly and walked away from the table. His slumping shoulders and shuffling gait were those of a broken man.

Val stopped him after a few steps. “Pyotr?”

The man turned to face him.

“What is the name of the fat waitress?”

“Olga,” he answered.

“Fire her today,” Val said.

Pyotr’s eyebrows shot up. “But she’s my sister-in-law.”

“She’s a horrible waitress,” Val said. “Fire her today. I’ll send you a couple of girls who are young and beautiful. That will bring more customers in here.”

“She’s my sister-in-law,” Pyotr repeated weakly.

Val didn’t answer.

After a moment, Pyotr sighed. He raised his hands questioningly. “Will these young girls know how to do this job?” he asked.

“Anyone could do better than Olga,” Val said.

Pyotr didn’t reply. He gave Val a resigned nod, turned, and headed to the back of the coffee shop.

Val watched him go. He felt no remorse for the deal he’d just struck. The man had asked for it. Besides, Val had needed a good business to launder the earnings from the chop shops. Largely a cash business, a coffee shop could enjoy fluctuations in income without drawing any suspicion. It was perfect.

Not so perfect for Pyotr the Georgian, Val mused. He’d keep his word on the man’s salary. In fact, he’d make sure it was a generous one. But he had no intention of buying the business from Pyotr. No, he’d take away the books and pay the man a stipend, but that’d be the end of it.

He was pretty sure Pyotr knew it, too.

Val had been prepared to leave the shop after his meeting with Dmitri and move on to his next duty. But now he took a few extra moments to sit in silence and look around. The coffee shop was dark but clean. Brighter lights and prettier girls would make a difference, he decided. All was quiet except for hushed voices in the back, followed by some sobbing. Val didn’t let those noises intrude upon his enjoyment as he sat in his new business and planned.

1243 hours

Detective Tower took a huge bite of his sandwich and chewed appreciatively. Browning watched him attack the sub and resisted the urge to sigh and shake his head. He thought about warning Tower that he wasn’t always going to be able to eat like that, but he wasn’t sure if his motivation was for Tower’s well-being or his own envy of Tower’s metabolism. Despite an obviously voracious appetite, Tower remained slender and appeared as hard as whipcord.

He probably doesn’t even work out, Browning mused.

Tower glanced up at him as if he’d heard the older man’s thoughts. “What?” He shrugged. “I’m hungry.”

“Apparently.”

Tower motioned toward Browning’s half sub, still untouched. “Eat your alfalfa sprouts and tofu. You’ll feel better.”

Browning narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to bluff Tower into thinking he’d struck a chord with him. But the younger detective just flashed him a grin and took another huge bite.

Arson Investigator Art Hoagland looked up from his meatball sandwich. “Uh, you guys have some kind of a food issue or something?”

“Not me,” Tower said, taking another bite.

Browning let out the sigh he’d been holding in. “No issue, Art. Thanks for buying.”

“Yeah,” Tower said through a mouthful of food. “Thanks.”

“No problem. It’s the least I could do to pick your brain.”

“What’s on your mind?” Browning asked.

Hoagland set his sandwich down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Well, being an investigator is a completely different gig,” he said. “And it’s got my head spinning a little bit. Especially on this most recent case.”

“How so?” Browning asked. “Trouble interpreting the evidence?”

“No. That’s not a problem. Fire leaves very distinct evidence. And I know fire.”

“What’s that evidence tell you?”

“That there was faulty wiring, which started the fire.”

“No evidence to the contrary?”

Hoagland shook his head. “None that I could see.”

“And the size of the fire supports that? The way it developed?”

“Yes. All of the physical evidence at the scene points directly to old electrical wiring being the cause. The burn pattern from that point on is consistent. There’s nothing suspicious.”

“But we’re here,” Tower observed, putting the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. “Eating on your dime.”

Hoagland nodded but said nothing.

“Was this an older house, Art?” Browning asked.

“Yes.”

“Original wiring?”

“Yes.”

“So it makes sense?”

“The fire makes sense,” Hoagland admitted. “It just doesn’t feel right.”

“How so?”

Hoagland leaned forward. “I guess my problem is the people end of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“A dead woman,” Hoagland said. “And two dead kids. Burnt up.”

Browning nodded knowingly. “It’s always tough to see the victims in the crimes that we investigate. And burning is a horrible way to die. But for me, all of that becomes a stronger motivation to do right by those victims. To solve the case, no matter what.”

“I understand that,” Hoagland said. “But that’s not my point. My point is, who was missing?”

Browning cocked his head. “What’s that?”

“Who wasn’t there?” Hoagland repeated.

“The husband,” Tower said. “The man of the house.”

Browning’s eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. “There’s a husband? And he lives there?”

Hoagland nodded. “Yeah, though it wasn’t easy to verify. None of the Russian neighbors would confirm it.”

“We sometimes have that problem, too. That entire community is reluctant to talk to the police. I think it’s a holdover from the old country. It’ll change with time.”

“We hope,” Tower added.

Hoagland went on. “The neighbors further up the street weren’t sure if there was a husband who lived there or not. I guess that’s a result of our neighborhoods not being as tight-knit as they used to be. But the little old lady across the street was certain.”

“So you got a solid witness.”

“Not really. She was also certain that this was 1983 and that Richard Nixon was president.”

“Oh.” Browning considered for a moment, then asked, “Was it a rental?”

“No.” Hoagland shook his head. “Owned. And in the wife’s name.”

Browning and Tower exchanged a glance.

Hoagland looked from one to the other, then asked, “What? What’s that mean?”

Tower pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. “Give me the address of your fire,” he said.

“1409 West Grace,” Hoagland told him.

Tower scratched out the address on a napkin, then rose and walked to the counter.

“What’s he doing?” Hoagland asked.

“Checking something,” Browning told him.

“Checking what?”

“Maybe nothing. We’ll see in a minute.”

Hoagland gave Browning a look of exasperation.

Browning smiled slightly and leaned forward. “Listen, Art,” he said. “Russian society is still very patriarchal. Not to an extreme, but it is still a major component in the social order. I’m sure that’ll break down as they acclimate to American life, but for now, that’s the way it is.”