Marked Man II - 02 (13 page)

Shirokov paused to hazard a guess.

“Astronomical.”

Three of the Neo-Nazis got up and came over to where Shirokov and Askokov were standing. They each in turn dumped their garbage and left the trays. As they were walking past, one of them snickered.

“Well I’ll be damned. I guess you can teach an old Jew new tricks. Somebody finally remembered their place looks like.”

Anger flared Shirokov’s nostrils but he did not react. Fuming, Askokov was about to throw himself at the giant Aryan inmate, but Shirokov held his shoulder.

“Today is not the day my friend. Soon. Now we sit and eat, and you must tell me all about the manner of your transfer here. I want to know everything. Everything.”

...

That Anton Askokov did not know much about the circumstances of his transfer came as no surprise to Shirokov. Anton was not what he would call a capable man. He had his uses. All men had their uses at the end of the day, as all men had their limitations. Anton had more limitations than most. He excelled at punching things and shooting things. An above average driver, but that was the extent of his talents.

Intelligence was another matter. And not just gathering information, military type intelligence. As far as Shirokov could tell Anton did not read, did not think, and had never suffered from ambiguity. So when he told Shirokov that some lawyer he had never met before came out of nowhere and told him he was being sent to Sing Sing and he thought nothing of it, Shirokov was less than shocked.

But when the lawyer Solomon said that he knew nothing Askokov’s transfer, the wily Russian’s curiosity was peaked.

“So that is it?”

Solomon shrugged and repeated that this was the first time he had even heard of it. He knew that Shirokov hated being out of the loop more than anything, but he had nothing to offer. They were meeting in large, drafty room the size of a hangar bay with dozens of tables set up. Guards patrolled the perimeter. Everywhere other inmates were talking with their lawyers, or else holding their babies, or making out with their wives and girlfriends like it was Paris in spring and not a state prison.

Shirokov furrowed his eyebrows.

“I do not get this. This. How do they move prisoner without notifying attorney?”

“I’m sorry Vladimir. First time I’ve ever heard of it happening. I wish I knew what to tell you. Oh. I forgot to mention. The Senator sends his love.”

“Alright alright. What about news on appeal?”

At this the lawyer’s face brightened. He slipped a few forms out of his sheaf of notebooks and spread them out on the table.

“Very good news on that front. Strange news, but very good.”

“Strange how? Enough I have had of this strangeness.”

“I wouldn’t say strange, sorry. It’s just unusual the way it came to me. An old friend of mine from law school came to visit my office this week. He works in the DA office now. He had some very interesting insight into how the DEA and the FBI knew that boat was coming into Riis Landing that night.”

The lawyer leaned over and whispered conspiratorially. As he spoke Shirokov sat at attention and listened close.

“Apparently a rogue FBI agent and an NYPD detective grabbed one of your guys and tortured him. Petyr… uh… Zhadanov? He’s missing. We’re working on tracking him down. But the story is they supposedly locked him in a warehouse for a week and beat him until he gave up the scoop on the boat coming in. Now if we can get ahold of him and prove this, then we have a chance of getting the verdict thrown out. A mistrial.”

Shirokov smiled, but he still looked puzzled.

“This is good. This is very good. But tell me, this friend. Your law school friend with the DA. Why would he share information?”

Solomon replied that he did not know for sure, probably that he was angling for a favor down the line. Lawyers did it for each other all the time. A professional courtesy. Shirokov said that he understood, but his expression said otherwise.

During the pause Shirokov’s gaze drifted over to one of the Aryan Brotherhood inmates feeling up his girlfriend. Judging by the coos and moans coming out of her mouth she was not self-conscious about it in the least.

“I have to get out of this place,” Shirokov grumbled.

“We’re working on it.”

“Suppose you find Petyr. Suppose you can prove this. How long before I am out?”

The lawyer apologized again.

“Months. Several months at least. I know it’s not ideal, but cheer up. Look, I’ve got to dangle because I’ve got two more clients to meet with here, but there’s one other thing.”

“Da?”

“I got a weird message the other day. Someone called my cell phone. They said that I should tell you to sit tight and that more help is on the way.”

All of the muscles above Shirokov’s waist constricted. He was as tightly wound as a rattlesnake in a coil, about to strike.

“Who is they?”

Solomon sensed the tension in his client. He hunched over into a crouch.

“They didn’t say. It was very short. Whoever it was said that they were calling long distance so they would be brief. Then all they said was to tell you help is coming. The voice was kind of hollow. Like it was modified with a machine.”

Goosebumps broke out all over Shirokov’s arms. For a minute the phoenix tattoos on his biceps looked like pixelated cartoons. He did not speak. Solomon had to break the quiet.

“Do you know who it was?”

The lawyer had seen a lot of thousand yard stares in his time dealing with incarcerated clients, but never one quite so long as Shirokov’s, who rocked in his seat and remained silent.

“Vladimir? Should I be worried?”

At the sound of his name Shirokov broke out of the trance.

“What?”

“Should I be worried?”

Shirokov stood up, his composure and swagger returned to him as if they’d never left.

“No,” he lied.

…

Detective Bollier felt a lurch in her stomach and she held leaned over the toilet, gasping. Her hair kept falling in front of her face. She had to hold it back with one hand and steady herself with the other on the rim of the bowl. It was not a pretty sight. Bollier was glad to be alone in the women’s room for once.

Another lurch, but nothing came up. The anticipation was much worse than the event. Bollier knew this and she wished that the ordeal could end. Throwing up was no longer a big deal. Waiting to throw up on the other hand…

Bollier lost her balance and lay on her side for a while. She breathed fast like she’d just been through a cardio regimen. In reality she had not been to the gym in weeks. The mere idea of the gym sent unpleasant vibes throughout her system. Her body would reject exercise at this point, it would reject food even. For the better part of a month she had been operating on a strict diet of whiskey and whatever bar food was handy; peanuts, trail mix, the occasional bonanza of sour cream and onion potato chips.

How long had she been in the bathroom like this? It was still morning, she was pretty sure. But it couldn’t be too far off from lunch, judging by the angle of the sunlight slanting in. Maybe she could go one more day hiding in her office with the shades drawn, skipping out for an early cocktail and lunch, coming back two hours later, hiding for another hour or so, and calling it an early day.

The nausea had passed and Bollier had just decided on this course of action when someone came into the lady’s room. She froze, all her weight propped on her elbow. It hurt but she kept still, trying her best not to make a sound, not even to breathe too loudly.

“Leslie?”

Shit.
She pantomimed the word but refused to let it out.

It sounded like
Sergeant Melanie Cole. She was a good friend, but only a decent cop. Bollier would have preferred an exceptional cop and a shitty friend. She did not say anything and hoped Cole would just go away.

Footsteps came closer, then stopped right outside her stall.

“Leslie is that you in there?”

Bollier gurgled a reply.

“Yeaah it’s me.”

She was horrified at the sound her throat made and held a hand over her lips like she’d just burped at a dinner party.

“It’s Melanie. Are you alright?”

There were times when Bollier could not stand Sergeant Cole. Where did she get off being friendly all the time? Didn’t she know it made other people look bad? Didn’t she know some people did not want to be comforted? Couldn’t she just leave the introverted cretins to their miseries? Bollier was about to say something cross when another lurch shut her up.

At the worst possible time the nausea was returning. It came in waves, sometimes gentle rolling splashes, sometimes in fierce white caps.

Finally she croaked out an I’m fine, then Bollier blinked rapidly and smoothed her hands over her face, imagining that she could somehow rub the aroma of Bushmills out of her skin. Sergeant Cole lingered just outside the stall, shifting her weight from foot to foot. After another minute she spoke.

“Ok. Captain wants to see you.”

“Thanks. Tell him I’ll be there in ten.”

“Captain says he wants to see you now.”

“Five minutes! Can he give me five fucking minutes to get myself together? After everything I’ve done for this precinct. Jesus.”

Sergeant Cole left without another word. Bollier was relieved to think that she had finally shaken that insufferably positive woman.

Three detectives and a useless sack of skin from Human Resources were in Captain Branden’s spacious corner office, shooting the breeze. When Bollier arrived and knocked on the doorframe they hushed. The Captain dismissed the detectives, and one by one they walked past. None of them met her eyes.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“I did. Why don’t you go ahead and have a seat?”

Bollier chose the chair farthest from the HR rep. She met him once at orientation and could not remember his name. Captain Branden took up residence behind his desk. He waved a hand to indicate some kind of connection.

“Leslie. I believe you know Dylan from HR.”

“Of course! How are you Dylan?”

The mock smile that Bollier showed Dylan from HR was so bright it could have blinded a kitten wearing Raybans.

“Great, thank you detective.”

“Well. There’s no easy way to do this. We’re here to talk to you because we’re your friends, and we’re all a little concerned.”

Bollier managed to feign surprise.

“Concerned? Why what’s up?”

She was a million miles from the wretch that left the women’s bathroom only minutes ago. Acting came more and more natural the drunker detective Bollier got. Dylan from HR looked intensely uncomfortable. As he squirmed and stammered she got a thrill from watching him struggle. Only people who weren’t cut out to do anything else on the planet ended up in Human Resources. If you couldn’t hack it there…

“...it’s just that. We’ve heard some troubling things…”

“From who?”

“...that’s not important. What matters most is that you take care of yourself so that you can do your job effectively… see the thing is, most alcoholics never take action on their own…”