David Duffy - In for a Ruble

“Would you like to come in? Drink? You’ve had a long drive.”

I could see he had a hundred questions. What parent wouldn’t? I wanted out of there before he started asking.

“No, thanks. I’ve got another delivery to make.”

He hesitated, ever so slightly. He wasn’t used to being turned down, but he sensed it was better not to push. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll call in the morning.”

No question about it being first thing. That would be enough time for me.

Andras avoided mirror eye contact as I drove slowly down Park Avenue. We had the street to ourselves, a good thing since it was slushy and slippery.

“So what’s the deal between you two,” I asked in my best friendly, conversational tone. “She your girlfriend? You going out?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t even look up. I wanted to tell him that I knew girls like her, that I’d married one of them and been where this led, and he didn’t want any part of it. He wasn’t going to listen.

“What I said back there on the highway, about the Baltic Enterprise Commission? That’s all true. If you’ve ripped them off, they will not rest until they catch you. I’ve seen Karp—the tall man, the assassin—at your father’s office, at your uncle Walter’s building, and at your place in Crestview. He knows who you are, Andras. He knows who she is too. Her stepfather may be able to pull some strings on her behalf, but I very much doubt he’ll pull any for you. And that doesn’t mean they still won’t use her—hurt her—to get to you. Seventeen’s pretty young to start living underground. If you tell me what’s going on, maybe I can help figure a way out. That’s what I’m going to tell your dad, but I’m making you the offer first. I don’t want anything in return, but you do have to tell me the truth.”

He didn’t respond, he just looked around the car, as if examining for the first time where he’d spent the last eight hours. I caught his eye in the mirror and held it. He leaned forward, and I slowed to a crawl, ready to stop altogether. There was a moment when I thought he might open up, but it passed. He fell back in the seat and buried his head in his hands.

He was honoring his promise to Irina. It occurred to me that he just might be more scared of her than Karp.

Leitz himself came to the door, like Batkin. The greeting here was warmer. He hugged his son, and Andras hugged back—with what appeared to be obvious affection. Maybe he was just glad to be rid of me. The kid went inside and Leitz shook my hand.

“It seems I am continually in your debt.”

“You might not think so when you hear the whole story.”

“How bad is it?”

“I don’t know it all yet, but I’m not exaggerating when I say life and death. I think he’s used his computer skills to rip off the people who bugged your network—the Baltic Enterprise Commission. That’s why they did it, by the way, they were after him, they were never interested in your TV deal. The fake lawyers interviewing your brother and sisters, maybe even Alyona’s involvement—they were all part of the effort to find out who was stealing from them.”

“Andras? Stealing? Baltic Enterprise Commission? He’s a boy, a school kid!”

“I don’t know how to tell you this. He’s a school kid with eleven million dollars in a dozen different bank accounts. He and Irina and a couple of others are running their own criminal enterprise. A pornography operation—in which they produce, direct, and star. This isn’t conjecture. I’ve seen the whole thing. I can document the bank transfers.”

Leitz shook his head back and forth, eyes wide, mouth suspended in a circle. I’d hit him hard, perhaps harder than I should have, but I was feeling the impact of the last twenty-four hours. He tried a couple of times to collect his wits and speak but the wits weren’t cooperating.

“There’s more,” I said. I told him about Nosferatu and the explosives. “Talk to your son. Maybe he’ll open up to you. I tried a few times. No luck. Something has a strong hold on the boy. Probably Irina, but it could be something else.”

“All right. But…”

“He isn’t safe here. You can hire security, but I wouldn’t give most rent-a-cops much chance against these guys. If I were you, I’d get him into hiding—a hotel somewhere busy where no one will notice or care about one more person. Take away his cell phone. Don’t tell anyone where he is. Especially not Irina. I’ve got a couple of leads to follow, but if he decides to talk about what he’s been doing, maybe we can figure a way out of this. That’s his best chance.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“He won’t have to worry about college admissions.”

Twenty-second Street in Queens was dead quiet at 8:00 P.M. and filled with snow. The plows had made one pass, but that had been hours earlier. I parked the Valdez against a snowbank, partly blocking the street, but there was just enough room for a car to pass, if any came by, which seemed unlikely. I walked the block, looking for signs of life and finding none, including no sign of the FBI. They probably figured nobody would be out. Or maybe they took snow days. I’d have to ask Victoria.

I stopped by a van with AAA-ACE-ACME LOCKSMITHS on the side, parked across the street, engine running, and knocked twice on the window. A small, wiry man got out.

I’d made one more call from the road, while the kids were sleeping. Fyodor, proprietor of AAA-ACE-ACME, whom I pay well for the occasional B&E job, told me I was out of my fucking mind. I told him I’d add two bills to his normal fee. He agreed to meet me in Long Island City.

In four minutes, we were through the front door and on the elevator. Fyodor wrinkled his nose when we got off on the third floor. The stench was intense in the closed hallway. It got stronger near the door to YouGoHere.com. Fyodor knelt at the lock and did his work quickly, taking seven, maybe eight minutes. When the last click clicked, he pushed the door open and doubled over, retching. I gagged when the wave of stench hit me. I pulled Fyodor up by his shirt and yanked him back toward the elevator.

“You were never here.”

“I never wanted to be.”

I gave him seven hundred dollars, and he left without a word. I stopped in the hall, letting the stink dissipate, not wanting to go in, knowing I had no choice.

I didn’t have anything to cover my face. I took the deepest breath I could, and moved fast through the door, pulling it closed behind me. The room was dark, I tripped over something immovable, cried out and lost the air in my lungs. I inhaled, stifled the urge to vomit, and kept going, feeling for the window. I found a metal blind and glass and a crank and cranked it. I yanked up the blind and put my head through the opening, sucking cold air, trying not to throw up.

When my insides settled down, I dropped the blind, leaving the window open. I flicked a light switch by the door.

They say flies find a body within hours of death. They’d found Walter Coryell—the source of the smell had to be Walter Coryell—and invited all their friends over for a feast. I’d set several clouds abuzz. A prehistoric mass of maggots seethed around the ears, nose, and eyes. The body slumped over the desk that had tripped me, bloated with bacteria, head at an impossible angle, the no-longer-recognizable remains of eyes in rotting sockets turned to the ceiling. The fresh air diluted the stink, but not enough.

The headquarters of YouGoHere.com was a one-room office. Three file cabinets, drawers closed. Same with the desk. The room itself was plain as plain could be. Desk, chair, two other chairs on the other side. All cheap metal and plastic construction. No signs of search or violence other than the body with the broken neck. I went back to the fresh air of the window while I looked around again.