Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

“You mean, the father rules with an iron fist.”

“Probably not that extreme, but along those lines. There’s a long history of this for the Russian people. Even their middle names are a variation of their father’s first name, regardless of whether the child is a son or daughter.”

“I understand, but how does this fit in with my arson?”

“It fits like this,” Browning said. “If there was a husband, he’d be the head of the family. The mother would be the center, but he’d be the head. So if they owned a house, not only would it be in his name, it would most likely be only in his name. The wife’s name wouldn’t even be on the paperwork at all.”

“So you’re saying there probably wasn’t a husband.”

“Maybe not,” Browning said. “But there’s another possibility.”

“Which is?”

“Let me put it to you this way. When we first started encountering California gangs up here in River City, we rarely found guns or drugs on the older, ranking gang members. You know who had the guns and the dope?”

“Who?”

“The juveniles in the gang. See, they all knew that a fifteen-year-old risked a significantly lighter sentence in Juvenile Court for having a gun or drugs, as opposed to a twenty-three-year-old.”

“That makes sense.”

“You know who else held for the gangsters? Particularly their guns?”

Hoagland shook his head. “No.”

“Their girlfriends. Because they knew the females were less likely to be searched and probably wouldn’t be searched as thoroughly by male officers.”

“Okay, I can see why they’d think that, but-”

“Do you know how the Italian Mafia used to hide assets?”

Hoagland held up his hands. “Enough questions, Ray,” he said. “I asked you for your advice.”

Browning smiled. “Art, the best thing one investigator can do for another is ask a lot of questions. Maybe one of the questions will get you thinking about something you overlooked or thinking about some piece of evidence in a different light.”

Hoagland considered, then shrugged. “All right. I see your point. Sorry. It’s just that this is my first major case. And people have died.”

“I understand,” Browning said. “Believe me.”

Hoagland picked up his drink and took a pull from the straw. “Okay, go on. You were saying something about the Godfather?”

“Sort of. The Italian Mafia used to put property in the name of their wives or parents, even their children. Some of the California gangs have done it, too.”

“Why?”

“It helps hide the gangster from the IRS, for one. Plus, it makes the paper trail harder for law enforcement if a RICO case ever comes down. They also figure that if they get busted, there’ll be something there to take care of the family.”

“That’s noble enough, I suppose. I mean, for a crook.”

“There might be some nobility in it somewhere,” Browning said, “but mostly it was about covering their own backsides.”

Hoagland nodded. Both men remained silent for a moment. Then realization crept into Hoagland’s eyes. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that the husband might be a gangster?”

“It’s possible.”

“And we have a Russian gang problem here?”

Browning smiled. “Last I heard, we had ten or fifteen thousand Russian, Ukrainian, and Georgian immigrants here in River City. Now, unless they are an extraordinarily virtuous people, there are going to be a hundred or more criminals in a population that size. And if that many criminals are operating in a city like ours, some of them are going to get very organized.”

“But that’s all theory, right?”

Browning shrugged. “We don’t have anything solid, no. But we’re pretty sure there’s an organized group operating here in River City.”

“Why would you think this husband, if he exists, is one of them?”

“I don’t,” Browning said. “Not necessarily. But follow the logic. One possibility is that there is no husband. But if there is a husband, why wouldn’t his name be on the deed? Especially in such a patriarchal culture?”

Hoagland pursed his lips in thought, but said nothing.

“You see,” Browning continued, “our role as investigators is to read the evidence, imagine probabilities, and then eliminate them. If there’s no husband, you’ve reached the end of that particular road. If there is…” He trailed off.

“If there is,” Hoagland finished, “then I’ve got some more digging to do.”

“Exactly.” Browning picked up his sandwich and took a bite.

Tower returned to the table and sat down. He pushed the napkin across the table toward Hoagland. “Oleg Tretiak,” he announced.

Hoagland looked down at the name, then up at Tower. “Who’s he?”

“According to the Department of Licensing computer, he’s a guy who calls 1409 West Grace home,” Tower said, his tone slightly smug. “And I’ll bet that Tretiak is the same last name as your other three victims, right?”

Hoagland nodded.

Browning swallowed his food and gave Hoagland a long look. “So now you’ve got yourself a little mystery, don’t you?”

Hoagland nodded again, his eyes glazed over in thought. “I need to find out who Oleg Tretiak is.”

Tower shook his head. “No, you know who he is. You need to find out where he is.”

Hoagland sighed heavily. “And how am I supposed to do that? I mean, I know I can check for him in our computer system, but-”

“Already done,” Tower announced.

Both Browning and Hoagland turned their eyes toward him. Browning waited while Tower let Hoagland squirm a little. Then the younger detective smiled and said, “He’s flagged with a 629 code.”

Hoagland let his chin flop forward onto his chest. “Please. In English. Cop talk is about as foreign to the fireman here as Russian.”

“It’s an FBI flag,” Browning explained. “It means that anyone who comes into contact with this person has to report it to the FBI immediately.”

“So if I find the guy, I have to call the FBI?”

Browning nodded. “Yes. But if this guy is in the wind, it might be worth giving the local office a call anyway. Just to touch base. Maybe they know something that will help you out.”

“Yeah,” Tower said sarcastically. “They’re really good about sharing information.”

Browning chuckled. “Touche. But you never know. It’s worth a phone call.”

Hoagland nodded. “All right. I will. In fact, I’ll go do that now.” He rose from his chair and extended his hand to Tower. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime,” Tower said, and shook it.

Hoagland reached for Browning’s hand. Browning gave him a firm shake. “You’ve got a good gut for this, Art,” he said.

“How so?”

“The physical evidence told you this was accidental. Maybe it was. But something on the people side didn’t add up, so you’re following out the lead.” Browning smiled. “That’s what a good investigator does. So keep it up.”

“Thanks.” Hoagland gave Browning’s hand one final, short pump, then released it. “See you later.” He turned on his heel and left the sandwich shop.

Tower watched him go. “Not bad for a hose hauler,” he admitted.

Browning nodded. “Not bad at all.”

2212 hours

Officer Katie MacLeod sat on her couch with her leg propped up on pillows. She stared at the television, watching a hospital drama but not really paying attention. She wondered if the writers took as much dramatic license with the medical profession as they did with hers. Mostly she didn’t care.

She glanced at the clock. Twelve minutes after ten.

What she cared about, mostly, was that her platoon mates were already out on the street, patrolling River City. Which is where she belonged. Not sitting on her couch, half doped-up on pain meds and with an ankle the size of a volleyball.