David Duffy - Last to Fold

He dropped his speed by half. Victoria looked at me.

“What’d you tell him?”

“Used one of your lines. Slovaks scare easier than Russians.”

They got me upstairs to my apartment and tried to park me on the sofa, but I excused myself and hobbled to the bedroom to call Petrovin. This time he answered. I did my best to keep my voice low and level and pain-free.

“I need to track down a rumor. I’m told someone took a shot at CPS headquarters Saturday morning. The intended target was an officer named Tiron, Aleksei Tiron.”

A pause. “Why call me?”

“You’re CPS.”

“How—”

“Your cell phone. Calls to your office. Here in America, the land of the free can be an overstatement.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. You have access to some significant capabilities.”

“Will you check on Tiron?”

Another pause. “I know Tiron. I’m sure I would’ve heard if something happened to him.”

“That’s a relief. I’d still like to confirm he’s okay. I’d also appreciate knowing whether there was a shooting or the whole story is somebody’s idea of a bad joke.”

“A strange request, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I’ll explain when I see you next. It has to do with our friend Barsukov.”

“I see. How do you know Tiron? Shall I give him a message?”

“He’s… the son of a friend. No message.”

Victoria was on the sofa, and Foos was in the kitchen. The culprit vodka bottle was standing on the counter amid the dirty dishes. I swore I would lay off the sauce for a while, but I knew I was lying as I did so. Foos held it in my direction. I shook my head. He put it in the freezer and moved the dishes to the sink. I sat next to Victoria. Petrovin’s news had alleviated the worst of the pain, but I still hurt all over.

Victoria said, “I feel terrible about Saturday night. I didn’t want to leave. That man, he practically carried me out of there.”

“I know. Thanks. It’s better that you did. Lachko was trying to intimidate both of us, for different reasons. As you saw, he’s not subtle, and sometimes he gets carried away.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“We had a one-sided conversation, Lachko, Sergei, and I. When they got bored, they dumped me somewhere off Ocean Avenue. I took the subway home.”

“You took the subway?”

“I told you before, Russians are stubborn. That was before I slipped and hit my head on the coffee table. I did that all by myself.”

“With a little help from the vodka bottle, I think.”

“Drinking beer without vodka is just a way to spend money.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“What it says. Russian proverb.”

“Russian horseshit. You probably already had a concussion, so a couple of shots is just what you needed.”

“I realize the visual evidence doesn’t support me, but I do an okay job of taking care of myself.”

“You sure know how to pick your friends, too.”

“Careful,” Foos said from the kitchen.

“Present company excepted, of course,” Victoria added quickly. “Did Barsukov say anything about Risly?”

“Ahhh, that’s why you’re so attentive. The depth of your concern is touching.”

“Hey! That’s not fair. I called you three times. Who do you think got you to the hospital?”

“She’s telling it straight, Turbo,” Foos said. “You’d still be out cold on the rug.”

“Sorry. Meant it as a joke. Barsukov didn’t kill Risly, if that’s what you’re asking. Risly was his protégé, or that’s the way he looks at it. He was also a golden-egg-laying goose.”

“We reckoned he was the point man on the money laundry.”

“You were right. How’d you get onto that, if it’s not a state secret?”

“We’ve been running a joint investigation with your CPS for more than a year now. They’ve been able to track large sums of money moving in and out of Russian banks. Some of it originates in Russia, some moves in from Asia and the Middle East. It moves out again to the kind of places you’d expect—Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Cayman Islands. We got a break when things in Liechtenstein loosened up, and we could see that money moving into the U.S. in thousands of small chunks. We also found funds headed the other way. But we lost the trail here. Then we got lucky about six months ago. Two of your countrymen got in a fight at an East Village bar. They were drunk. Big surprise.”

I let that pass.

“One of them pulls a knife and cuts the other across the chest. Not so bad that it kills him, but enough to require a couple yards of stitches. So one gets taken to the hospital, the other to the precinct house, and miracle number one, the cops at each compare notes on what they found. Both men carrying BlackBerrys, and both BlackBerrys have identical long lists of messages, and the messages are tables filled with some kind of code. The cops didn’t know what to make of it, but they sent it up the line, where, miracle number two, a lieutenant figures this might be bigger than a bar fight and orders the BlackBerrys returned to their owners, after they’ve been bugged. He also orders the owners released, which was easy because when they sobered up, nobody pressed charges. He also ordered them followed. Miracle number three, he calls us.”

“You used up your quota,” I said.

“You got that right. These two Russians ain’t the swiftest bears in the forest, and they go blithely about their business over the following days and weeks like nothing has happened. So we know they spend most of their day at banks and ATM machines, depositing and withdrawing money. We know the money ain’t theirs, but we don’t know who the accounts belong to and how they can move around as much dough as they do, in such small increments. Nobody can have that many bank accounts. And we can’t subpoena every transaction of every bank, every branch, every day.”

“Not even under the Patriot Act?” Foos said, making no effort to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

“What’s wrong with the Patriot Act?” she said.

“Perhaps you haven’t been properly introduced,” I said. “Victoria de Millenuits, this is Foster Helix. Foos, Victoria.”

“The Foster Helix?” Her head swung back and forth between the two of us. Foos tried to look innocent, something he’s not good at. I’m sure I just looked frightful.

“The Foster Helix,” I said. “Privacy advocate, STOP founder and CEO, thorn in the side of government agencies everywhere.”

“God damn it! You should’ve warned me. I could lose my job telling him what I just told him. I mean, Jesus, I work with guys who want to bring back the electric chair, just for him.”

“Music to my ears,” Foos said. He gave her a mischievous grin. “But you don’t need to worry. We’re all friends here. Right, Turbo? Mind if I sample your vodka?”

“Help yourself.”

“Victoria?”

She looked at me. “Don’t suppose you have any wine?”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll have mine on the rocks, then.”

“Turbo?”

“None for him,” she said.

I looked back at Victoria. “Maybe I can do without your concern.”

Foos brought her a glass. It looked good.

“Do you know that goddamned foundation of his has filed a half-dozen amicus briefs in cases we’ve got under appeal?” she said.

“I thought it was more,” I said. “Did I mention I’m on STOP’s board? Foos, Pig Pen, and me. You’ll like Pig Pen. He’s the secretary.”

“Shit. It’s a good thing for you y’all are in the kinda shape you’re in.”

Foos arched an eyebrow at her logic. “I’m outta here. Gotta meet someone. Need anything before I split? Can you make it to the bedroom?”

“Think so.”