Dead End Fix (16 page)

“Answer for going free!”

One man stepped forward. Peter Vestikov. He had been in charge of the St. Petersburg operations when Vadim Tokarev ran the cartel and continued in that position. Allie kept a steady eye on him.

“I know who is in charge,” Vestikov told the officer. He raised a pointed finger toward Allie and spoke slowly. She was certain Vestikov wanted him to understand every word he spoke. “That is the woman. She calls herself queen, but she is a whore. A whore who killed to steal the organization from a man who loved her.”

The commanding officer approached Vestikov. He made an exaggerated display of following the man's accusing pointed finger with his gaze. Then his eyes rested on Allie.

“This is queen?” he asked. “This is pretty lady queen?”

“She is,” Vestikov assured him. “She leads us. This is her idea. We obey or we die.”

The commanding officer made no move to approach her. Instead he turned to the remainder of Allie's men. “This true is?” he asked in broken Russian. “One man maybe lies. One man maybe love pretty lady. No she say. One man angry and lies. Other man say yes? Other man say this lady in charge?”

Allie listened to the whispers her men shared, keeping her eyes on the commanding officer.

“Answer for going free!” he yelled. “Is another man to say lady is in charge?”

Two additional men stepped forward. Allie watched them go stand beside Vestikov. Abram Ivanov was her man in Croatia. Makar Aleshin ran operations in southern Spain. Two major operatives in her cartel. She'd trusted them, promoted them, made them richer than they'd ever imagined. They each raised a pointed finger Allie's way.

“This is our leader,” Abram Ivanov said. “She calls herself our czarina.”

“Our queen,” Makar Aleshin confirmed. “Vestikov is correct. We do as she says or we die.”

The commanding officer nodded. “Three men.” He spoke in Russian. He walked toward Allie. Six men standing in front of her closed ranks as the officer neared. But uniformed soldiers with automatic rifles can be a strong deterrent against a more aggressive defense.

Still, Allie was moved by their loyalty.

She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and let the commander lead her to the table.

“Three men,” the officer said to her in English. “Three men accuse you of being in charge.” He paused. “These drugs. These whores. May I ask you? Are you the one I'm looking for? Are you their queen?”

Allie took her time before answering. She allowed herself a long, slow look at each of the men in the room. These were her men. Her soldiers. She'd promised them safety and riches and power and they'd stood with her. She wanted to fill her eyes with them before what would come next. She saved her last long look for the three men who had betrayed her. She drank in the scorn in their eyes, the disgust on their faces.

Vestikov spit at Allie's feet. “Stupid whore! We would have followed Vadim Tokarev to the grave. He was a great man. You are nothing but his toilet. We should have killed you long ago.”

The commanding officer called for silence. He spoke to Allie again, this time in Russian. This time the entire room would know his question.

“Are you their leader? Is this your doing?”

“Yes,” Allie responded in the language of her men. “I am their czarina. This is my doing. I am in charge.”

“These men follow orders of you?” The limits of the commander's Russian were being tested.

“Yes. They are correct. My men do what I tell them or they die.”

The commander made a quizzical face. “Then what am I to do?”

Allie took a deep breath. She wanted to be fully present at this moment.

“Kill the two,” she decided. “Leave Vestikov for me.”

In an instant the commanding officer raised his rifle and fired two bursts. The first turned Abram Ivanov's head into a pulpy mush. One heartbeat later Makar Aleshin's chest erupted in a flood of red as six bullets ripped into his torso. Both men fell to the floor, almost as one unit.

The women around the room began to scream. Some ran for the door, but a line of uniformed soldiers blocked their exit.

“Silence!” Allie ordered. “Stand where you are.”

Allie's men hadn't moved. It took no more than a few seconds for the women to control their crying. These were women used to quashing their fear.

“Assemble your men,” Allie said to the commanding officer.

The man barked two brief commands in Arabic. Instantly, more than two dozen men formed a straight line down the center of the room. Each stood at attention. Each shouldered his rifle.

Allie took her time walking down the line, inspecting the new recruits she'd enlisted just days before. It hadn't taken her long to locate the English-speaking commander. And it hadn't taken much to convince him that aligning with her was a far more lucrative and secure position than remaining loyal to a shaky government unable to stop even the most poorly equipped bands of religious zealots marauding around their country. He, in turn, had promised he could find limitless numbers of men who would be loyal to anyone promising their families a safe and better life. Together they had orchestrated the evening's events.

Allie would have her Middle Eastern market.

Her position as leader would be cemented.

And now she had her own small army.

She touched the shoulder of each man as she passed. The commander had taught her one Arabic phrase, and she whispered it to every soldier as she looked deeply into his eyes.

“I will save you.”

When she was finished, she walked to Abu Al Fared. This time her glance held no seduction, no promise of allowing him to use her as he had so many women. Her eyes telegraphed the message that he should never doubt she was his equal.

“Take my offering, Abu. Enjoy the women. Treat them well. Your customers will find our products of the highest quality. That is your first requirement of me. The second is that you be free of local laws. Have I convinced you?”

Al Fared resumed his practiced pose of the bored sophisticate. He tipped his head and tossed her a brief salute. “You have indeed. But do I have to remind you? You promised me one more thing.”

Allie nodded. “The Fixer.”

“I can get quality product from any number of sources. Likewise, I can hire people to handle the locals.” He looked down the line of Allie's army. “Perhaps not as impressively, but the end result is the same. When I deal with a woman, I expect spectacular performance. You promised me the Fixer. Are you a woman of your word?”

“I am.”

She shook Al Fared's hand and watched him leave the warehouse trailed by five beautiful women, leaving her alone with her men. Two dead on the floor, one Judas awaiting his fate, and the rest left basking in her power.

She walked past them all to stand in front of Vestikov. She spoke in Russian.

“You told the commander you obeyed me or you died. What were my orders?”

Vestikov showed no traces of his earlier defiance. “Protect our queen,” he whispered.

“Did you obey me?”

“No, czarina. I failed you.”

Allie asked the commanding officer who had played his role so well for his handgun. She raised it level to Vestikov's face.

“Wait!” Fyodor Ratchikov called out. “Czarina, I beg you! One moment.”

Allie lowered her gun as her lieutenant approached her.

“I know this man well,” he said. “His mother is my sister. I bounced Peter on my knee when he was a baby. I prayed at his bedside when he was a teen and the fevers took him. I watched him grow strong and tall. When the time was right, I chose him to join us. I watched him with an uncle's pride as he served Vadim Tokarev with distinction. I love him more as a son than a nephew.”

“What is it you want from me, Fyodor?”

“Leave him to me. He is a good man at his heart. Loyal. He was scared tonight. Fear weakens a man. If my training of him was poor, that is my sin, not his. I beg you. As a child begs his mother for a second chance. Let me handle this.”

Allie looked at Vestikov. She saw the plea in his eyes.

“And what lesson will he learn?” she asked Ratchikov. “That betrayal is met with a lenient hand? That his czarina bows to the prayers of a frightened uncle?”

“He will learn strength is mightier when it is tempered with mercy. He will learn a second chance guarantees there will not be a third.”

For the first time since she had taken control of the cartel, Ratchikov understood her power. He had long made a show of bowing to her position yet always questioned her authority and urged her to leave the management of the enterprise to him. He had trivialized her standing as heir to Vadim Tokarev, confident he could rule more competently. He was, after all, a man. A Russian. And, as such, her superior.

But tonight had changed everything.

“Please, czarina,” Ratchikov begged. “This is my shame as much as my nephew's. I brought him to Vadim. Let me avenge this betrayal. I will take him far away. Your beautiful eyes will never again be soiled by the sight of him. He will be disgraced in our family. Allow me this one mercy. I beg you. For all I was to Tokarev and all I shall be to you. Grant me this kindness and I will be your slave until my last breath.”

Allie inhaled long and slow.

“As you said, Fyodor, it was you who brought this traitor to us. May we all be thankful my beloved Vadim died before he could see the result of your treachery.”

Ratchikov's eyes widened as Allie's words fanned the flame of his terror.

“Had I known it would end this way, I would have never brought Peter Vestikov to us. I would have left him at his mother's side to play with the other little boys. He would never have known the glory that exists in serving. First Tokarev and now you, the greatest of all women.”

“Is that how you view me? Has your opinion of me so changed? Am I no longer to simply go shopping and leave the leadership to you?”

Defeat pulled at the man's face. Ratchikov knelt before her. He reached for her hand and kissed her ring.

“You are my goddess. Filled with courage and strength. Brave enough to forgive. Strong enough to show mercy.”

“Get up, Fyodor.” Allie's voice was kind. “Stand before your czarina.”

Ratchikov scrambled to his feet. “I pledge obedience to you until my death.”

“Complete?” Allie asked.

“Yes, my czarina.”

“Unquestioning?”

“Yes, my czarina.”

Allie paused. Then she handed her gun to Ratchikov. “Kill this traitor.”

Ratchikov's eyes lost all orientation. His jaw opened and closed, yet no words emerged.

“Prove your loyalty, Fyodor. Earn the right to stand beside me,” Allie cooed. “Cleanse your soul.”

Ratchikov's hand shook with the weight of the gun. He turned pleading eyes once more toward Allie.

“Please, my czarina.” He raised his hands in supplication. Instantly, all the Yemeni soldiers trained their automatic weapons on him.

“
Now,
Fyodor. Show us all where your loyalty lies.” Allie stared at him, waiting for Ratchikov's next move. She watched him struggle to raise the gun.

“I love you, Peter,” he said.

Allie felt the floor tremble as Fyodor Ratchikov put a bullet between his nephew's eyes.

“At this rate, we're gonna run out of space.” Jim DeVilla stared at the whiteboard. “Nine bodies in less than a week. All found in an area a little more than two square miles. Anybody see the papers this morning?”

“Reporters are calling those neighborhoods killing fields.” Micki Petty looked to Mort, who sat behind his desk. “Tensions are high. Parents are keeping their kids home from school.”

“Can't say I blame them.” Even the presence of Bruiser's giant head resting on his leg couldn't ease Mort's tension. “This all started with Banjo being killed. If I lived in that area, I wouldn't be eager for my kid to be the next victim of some punk whose aim was sharper than his IQ.”

“You're wrong, Grant.” Lincoln Lane stood on the far side of the office next to his brother, Franklin. Mort needed their expertise if this case was going to get solved. “This didn't get kicked off with Banjo's death. You started poking around, questioning gang members. Looking for someone to blame. That's what started this bloodbath. I warned you, Grant. And frankly I don't see a way this ends fast or clean.”

“Take it easy, Lincoln,” Jim urged.

“Don't tell me how to take anything, DeVilla. You prom queens in homicide don't know how good you have it. Wife offs her husband after she catches him sleeping with the nanny. Man kills his boss before he finds out the guy's got his hand in the corporate cookie jar. One, two, three, it all adds up. You sop up the glory and the headlines, the bad guy goes to jail, and you sip coffee until the next time some one-time amateur picks up a gun. It's different in my shop. There's no logic to gang killings. These animals hit whoever, whenever. Then they all close ranks. Nobody says nothing. Figure they're all gonna take care of it in their own way. They usually do, too. Best we can do is minimize the damage until the shooting stops. Steer clear, contain the thugs to their own turf, and pray for the day they all kill each other.”

“So we step away from Banjo's murder?” Mort asked.

“I told you that from day one, didn't I?” Lane's voice rose. Bruiser stood, instantly at attention, looking to Jim for direction. “If you kept your red, white, and blue nose out of this, time would pass. Maybe a few days, maybe a few weeks. Then one day we find some banger dead somewhere. Then it's over.”

“But we have a duty—” Mort didn't get far before Lane interrupted him.

“Don't you get it, Grant? What you and your team do is investigate. You search for clues, add 'em up, come to a conclusion. It's a well-orchestrated game with rules and judges and procedures and warrants. But my world? Gangs? We don't do investigations. We're the good guys trying hard to keep the enemy at bay. We don't provoke them. They want to rub themselves out, well, that's okay by me.”

“You can't mean that,” Mort protested.

“Damn straight we mean it.” Lincoln Lane shook his head. When he spoke his voice was quieter but still held its angry edge. “What do you see when you look at me?”

“I see a frustrated man taking the lazy way out.”

Franklin Lane pulled himself away from the wall, fire in his eyes at Mort's insult to his brother. Lincoln Lane reached out a steady hand to hold him in place.

“Go on,” Lincoln urged. “Tell me what else you see. All of it.”

Mort was confused. “What are you looking for?”

Lincoln shrugged. “What did you see the first time you laid eyes on me? At that breakfast the chief called all those years ago. Introducing me as the newest member of the gang task force. That's when we first met.”

Mort nodded his remembrance. “Can't say I thought much of anything.”

“We'll let that little white lie slide for a moment. How about now? What do you think of me now?”

“Our paths have crossed. I know your reputation.” Mort was still confused as to why Lane was asking. “I'd call you a stand-up guy. That's why your stance on these gang killings is astounding to me.”

“Astounding, is it?” Lane's chuckle held no humor. “You said it yourself a few days back. ‘Why is it we haven't been drinking buddies?' you asked me. What with our being in the same business and all. Not to mention the same damned department. Let me tell you why we never shared a beer. I hadn't earned the right yet.”

“I'm not following.”

“Black folks have to prove themselves to white folks. Every day. Every encounter. Back at that breakfast, if I had been a white guy being introduced, you would have figured out a way to get to know me straight from the go.” Lincoln jerked a thumb toward Jim. “DeVilla here's famous for taking the new guys out to the Crystal to teach 'em the ropes over a few pints. New
white
guys, that is.”

“That's bullshit,” Jim said.

“Is it?” This time it was Franklin Lane who spoke. “I've got lots of white friends. One thing I've noticed is in every case my white friends got only one black friend. Me.”

Mort thought of L. Jackson Clark. The bond between them was tighter than blood.

And Larry was Mort's only black friend.

“Tell me what this has to do with investigating Benji's murder.”

“Black folks get up every day wanting to do what's right for themselves and their families. They go to work, school, church, whatever. They complain about taxes and root for their favorite teams. But they have to do it knowing the primary thing they have to do is prove themselves. First and foremost. Prove they're not a threat. Prove there's no reason the white folk need to defend or attack them just because they're standing there.”

“I don't think politics is what's needed right now,” Micki offered.

“This isn't politics,” Lincoln insisted. “This is fact. Something you can never understand. When white folks see white folks, they assume the guy's okay. White guy has to show himself to be untrustworthy before you turn away. When white folks see black folks, it's the opposite. They see a thug. We have to prove our worthiness. Each and every day. We're held back. We're overlooked. We're even shot in the street because of it. And these gangs fuel that white fear. There's no hope for our community as long as these gangs exist. So if they want to take each other out, I say let them. Let 'em clean up their own shit one bullet at a time. I'll look the other way if it means there's a chance that when a white man looks he sees
me
and not some banger masquerading as a normal person. And sad as it is that Benji's dead, if his death leads to these animals going extinct, well, maybe the person who shot him did some kind of twisted good deed.”

Mort's head pounded. A cold steel belt tightened around his chest. Breathing was hard. He wanted to toss Lane and his brother out of his office. Maybe even demand the men take a leave of absence until they rethought their priorities. But he didn't.

Because Lane was right.

Benji had been killed in October. Mort's calendar had read November for over a week now and he still had no leads as to who had pulled the trigger. He was convinced the 97s were behind it, mistaking Benji for a member of the Pico Underground. He and his team had interviewed more than twenty known members of each gang. No one had given them anything. Mort himself had interviewed the men Lane identified as leaders of the gangs. Antwan Nevers, the head of the Pico Underground, was polite and succinct in his answers, and he stuck to his story that he knew Benji Jackson through his close association with Benji's brother but had no idea who might have orchestrated his killing. Nevers always referred to the dead preteen as Benji and always called his brother Bayonne. Not once did he slip and use their street names, Banjo and Three Pop.

The same scenario unfolded when Mort brought in Martin Lester, aka D'Loco, alleged leader of the 97s. Lester arrived with two attorneys and assured Mort he had never met Benji, didn't know Three Pop, and had no idea who might be responsible for Benji's death. He insisted the 97s were nothing more than a social organization, targeted by police and made to look like something sinister. When Mort asked him how an unemployed man could afford two lawyers from one of Seattle's most expensive firms, D'Loco let the suits earn their fees by objecting to the line of questioning and calling an end to the interview.

And the body count kept rising.

“Let's not waste any effort pointing fingers, okay?” Micki exchanged stern looks with each of the men in the office. “And we'll save the discussions on healing the racial divide for another time. We need a way out. Linc, you know these guys. What's your suggestion?”

“Let it play out,” Lane said. “These creeps need their thug justice. They're smart enough to know the good citizens of Seattle aren't going to get riled up so long as it's banger versus banger. The last thing either of these gangs want is some civilian—God forbid some
white
civilian—to get caught in the crossfire. That would bring heat they don't have guns enough to stop.”

“Just let the war continue?” Mort asked. “That's your suggestion as a member of this department?”

Lincoln nodded to his brother, and both Lane brothers headed to the door. “You asked for my two cents. Let 'em play whack-a-mole with one another. Think of it as an urban renewal project.”

Two hours later Mort walked into Our Joint and greeted Vanessa.

“Don't they ever let you go home?” he asked. “Whenever I come here, I see you behind that desk.”

The receptionist played with her giant hoop earrings. Her fingernails were polished deep orange and dotted with tiny black specks.

“You comin' so regular now, maybe we ought to make you a member or somethin'. You know we got programs for seniors, right? There's a old man's club meets Wednesday mornings. Doughnuts and talk is they thing. Most those folks over seventy. But you lookin' tired enough to pass.”

Mort smiled. Maybe he should sign up. He'd been visiting Our Joint regularly since Benji's murder, talking to whoever wanted to say their piece.

“She in?” he asked.

“You got an appointment?”

“Not really. I was kind of hoping.”

Vanessa reached for her ringing phone. “Well, you can hope all you want. Go on back and see if she's wantin' to see you. But it's rude you droppin' in all the time.” She picked up the phone. “This here is Our Joint and I'm Vanessa. Why you callin'?”

Mort headed back. He knew the way to Gigi Vinings's office.

“Mort!” She waved him into her cluttered space. Cinder-block walls covered with posters describing various programs were interspersed with photographs and artwork Mort was certain was produced by the children using Our Joint as a respite from neighborhood strain. Mort picked up a photo lying on Gigi's desk.

“This new?”

Gigi nodded. “Taken day before yesterday. How do you like the company I'm keeping?”

Mort flipped the photo around for her to view. “Seahawks' wunderkind quarterback. Very impressive. And so is the number on that giant check the two of you are holding.”

Gigi took the photo back, chuckling as she looked at herself standing next to the Seahawks' star quarterback. “A wonderful man he is. His foundation gave us fifty thousand dollars.”

“Our Joint starting a football team?”

“Of course not. You think a man that great is just about the football? We asked him for three thousand to recarpet the kids' reading room and buy new books. He came here last week. Toured the place. Signed autographs, talked football, and had his picture taken with some of the members. Next thing you know, he's coming back. Giving us more than ten times what we asked. Saying he couldn't help but notice we might want to redo the entire space!”

“I've heard that about him. All-around great guy.”

“Says if we need anything, he wants me to call him first.”

“Tell him what you need is another Super Bowl win. How's that?”

She asked him if he wanted some coffee. “The church ladies made about two dozen pumpkin pies this morning.”

He declined but asked if she had a few minutes. “Vanessa fears I'm taking advantage of you.”

Gigi chuckled again. The sound of her laughter eased some of his tension. “Vanessa is a good girl. We're blessed to have her. But she has…How can I say this? She's taken ownership of her job—and this place—and of me, too.”

“She's protective.”

“That she is. Have a seat. What's eating at you today?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Let's say you look like a man who could use a few weeks on some tropical beach. Maybe sip one of those drinks out of a coconut shell.”

“You're following the papers?” he asked. “The gangs?”

“Mort, folks around here know more about the day-to-day activities of those dirty creatures than any ten policemen combined. Why do you think Lincoln and Franklin hang out here? Sure, they're doing great things for our kids. Did you hear we took All City this year?”

“I did, indeed. Got past St. Alphonse to do it.”

“They're excellent coaches. The boys love them. But for all their good work, the Lanes spend their time here because our members aren't afraid to talk about the gangs. They get information that helps them contain the danger.”

“That's an interesting choice of words.”

“What's that?”

“ ‘Contain.' That's what Lincoln Lane said his goal was. Said we're never going to stop them but that he'd be happy just to contain them.”

Gigi took her time answering. “There has to be a way we can stop them.”

“Like this war that's going on now?”

“Maybe. Cowardly men with guns playing tough by shooting other cowardly men with guns. Pretending they're avenging their turf or their brothers.” She paused. “But maybe there
is
some bizarre kind of tribal justice about it.”