For Everything a Reason Page 20

  His son’s kidnapper, Eugene Profit’s killer stared back at Joseph with cold detachment.

  Yurius.

  This fact, Joseph was certain of. His heart began to race. The photo in his hands began to shake. Memories flooded together inside his head: pictures and video and sounds, all merging together like a multidimensional jigsaw puzzle.

  A fist landed squarely against Joseph’s forehead. Pain flared across his skull, and for one terrible second he thought he was about to lose all consciousness – downed by another attack. Instead he stayed upright, rocking back in his seat. He was now gripped by the photograph’s clarity and meaning.

  “Don’t bother with the Internet,” Joseph advised the detective. His eyes were clear now, and a bitter smile, laced with hatred, had split his face in two.

  “What?”

  “I already know who Yurius is.”

  Carter looked puzzled. “You okay, Joseph?”

  Joseph formed a tight fist, but left his thumb pointed out. “Show Time…” he said, giving the detective the thumbs up gesture.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Rat continued to gnaw away at Viktor’s thoughts. In the late hours of the night, Viktor often suffered at the hands of his dark imagination and paranoia. Was it because he spent these hours alone, with no one else to share the nights with, that he toiled with his own tortured thoughts?

  Most of Viktor’s men had returned home, another day of work done, having helped Sergei Mikhailov’s empire to grow that little bit bigger.

  The bottle of Vodka next to him was now almost empty, the glass that siphoned it empty, too. The aroma of spent sex hung heavily in the air. Earlier, Crystal, one of Viktor’s working girls, had put in a bit of extra time tonight. They’d fucked; Viktor thrusting into her aggressively, trying to vanquish these demons through the act of sex, while Crystal had lain there silent and immobile.

  Now, alone again, he was stretched out on the bed, the sheets gathered in a crumpled mess at its foot.

  He’d paid a high price for his leadership – a position that demanded an impassiveness bordering on cold-blooded detachment. Only once or twice had he allowed himself to get close to some of his employees – his men – but on each occasion he’d been forced to discipline them, when a mistake had been made. And Viktor’s discipline came with a heavy hand. It was all about maintaining face – keeping respect and fear as your two closest allies.

  And this was the only real reason why Viktor had entertained the fool Presley Perkins. To allow someone to get away with $25,000 would make him look weak, and this was a weakness that Viktor could not afford to have.

  Viktor would be sending his top man, Pyotr Krylov, to do business with Presley. The Georgian had requested that he do so. Viktor didn’t think Perkins would like what Krylov had to offer, but the thought bent the Russian’s lips into a ghastly leer. Krylov had made many ‘problems’ go away over the last few years, and the Russian boss felt glad to have him here to help when times were hard. No one – not even Dolly’s son – could be allowed to make a mockery out of old Viktor.

  There was a gentle tap at the door.

  The Russian boss reached down to grab his undershorts. The tap came again, louder this time, but still masked with caution.

  “What is it?” Viktor inquired, drawing his shorts up to his waist.

  “Boss – you have a guest,” a voice informed him.

  Viktor open the door to find the doorman, Nikolay, standing before him.

  “Guest?” he asked.

  Nikolay nodded.

  “Who?”

  The old Russian shuffled nervously from one foot to the other. “A familiar face,” he replied worriedly.

  Viktor stepped back in the room to gather up the rest of his clothes. “Where is this ‘guest’ now?” he asked, slipping his shirt on.

  “In the TV room.”

  “What? You let him in?”

  Nikolay shrugged. “Said he needed to speak to you – so I let him in.”

  “At this time?” Viktor said.

  “Said you’d want to speak to him. Something about a rat?”

  Now, Viktor looked both interested and unnerved. “He’s here?”

  “Who?” Nikolay asked, the conversation taking a bizarre reversal of direction.

  “Never mind,” Viktor said, dismissively, with a wave of his hand. “I’ll see him.”

  “You need me to arrange for assistance?” Nikolay asked, meaning protection.

  Hell no, thought Viktor, wanting no one but himself to speak to the unexpected visitor. He shook his head. “No, Nikolay, I can handle this quickly by myself.”

  Nikolay nodded again, and then simply disappeared from view. Viktor dressed quickly before heading towards the TV room. He stopped halfway there, wondering if it would be more prudent to go armed. Yet, after chiding himself, he stepped inside.

  Viktor’s heart skipped a beat.

  A uniformed policeman stood in the centre of the room. His cap was tucked under his arm, casually, like he was making a routine house visit. Then the visitor turned away from the bank of TV screen to look upon the Russian boss.

  In a hiss, Viktor asked, “What are you doing here?”

  The guy before him grinned back. “Come –Viktor, you’re not pleased to see your own brother?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The old TV set hissed and a blanket of white fuzz filled the screen. A small group of people sat huddled around it, their faces expectant and eager. The TV had been plonked on Carter’s desk and an old VCR lay covered in dust to one side.

  Joseph, Carter, Marianna and Tyler were all tipped forward in their seats. The white blizzard that blew across the screen cleared.

  “What are we looking for again?” Tyler asked.

  Joseph pointed to the screen before them. “Keep watching.” He pressed the remote and a picture appeared, warped and broken, and playing at twice the speed. Joseph stopped the tape.

  Football sensation Michael Tucker filled the screen, his broad shoulders reaching beyond the shot, clipped off by the edge of the TV set. The tape had lost its quality somewhat, the top part of the screen constantly pulling the picture to the right, a symptom of overuse and an inability to track. The recording had come directly from one of the other detectives, who’d rushed home after Joseph had launched into a frenzy desperately seeking anyone who had been aware of the previous night’s documentary.

  Carter fidgeted awkwardly. Had Joseph slipped into some kind of dementia? His surprising change in behaviour had unnerved him. All he kept saying was ‘Show Time’ and giving him the thumbs up.

  The picture started to fast-forward again. Tiny bodies in bright uniforms scurried around the football pitch like overexcited ants.

  “Here,” Joseph said, playing the tape again. Now, Tucker was being interviewed in a locker room, dressed only in a towel, which was wrapped loosely around his waist. By his smug expression it didn’t take long to realise that the interviewer was female.

  “Turn it up,” Carter insisted.

  Joseph increased the volume. The football player was halfway through thanking God for bestowing His humble servant with such divine talent. An occasional naked body would appear in shot, black or white butt cheeks, momentarily gracing the camera. Tucker turned to someone out of shot and then launched into a tirade of juvenile banter. The camera panned around to catch a towering white male. The guy was laughing, but his eyes belied a lack of understanding. He was tall and muscular, with a broad face, cut either side by tight Mongolian eyes.

  Joseph hit the pause button. “Yurius.”

  “What?” Carter gasped.

  Marianna reached out to take her husband’s hand. “Joseph – are you sure of this?”

  Joseph nodded, his eyes unwavering, pinned to the TV screen. “That’s the bastard who took our son.”

  Carter examined Joseph’s face. He recognised the look – he’d seen it many times over the last three months, in his own bathroom mirror. The hate that ra
diated from Joseph was tangible.

  “Joseph,” Carter began, “are you one hundred percent certain of this fact?”

  “That’s the man who took Jake – yes.”

  Carter moved to one of the computer monitors.

  “What are you doing?” Tyler asked, joining him.

  The detective brought up Google. He typed in ‘Yurius footballer’ and then pressed ENTER. A list of sites appeared instantly. Carter clicked on the first one. The same face that was frozen on the TV appeared on the monitor screen. The caption read: Olympic Medallist takes America by storm. Carter started to read deeper.

  At that moment, a group of dark-suited individuals entered the Department. There were seven men in all. Six of them carried themselves with an air of self-confidence, self-assuredness, which was borderline obnoxious. The seventh person followed, dressed casually, he moved with slouched shoulders and looked around with nervous eyes. He was short, in his mid-to-late forties, and appeared to be doing his best to stick close to the team of agents.

  Like synchronised swimmers, the group split apart, without hesitation or dialogue. Two headed directly for Captain Mendoza’s office, one placed a large briefcase next to the detective and his recording equipment, and the remaining three gathered around the edgy civilian as if he was the President himself.

  The agent with the briefcase opened it without comment, and then began arranging a second set of recording equipment. These, though, were state-of-art devices: a paper-thin laptop instead of the detective’s old analogue recorder, earphones that looked as if they should be worn by some performing pop star, and a small box that, in all honesty could have been anything. Quickly, he arranged a second set-up next to the first.

  Whilst Carter’s attention was riveted to the confrontation going on in Mendoza’s office, Joseph couldn’t tear his eyes away from the civilian-looking guy. He looked fearful, sad and annoyed all at the same time. Joseph recognised these emotions as his own. They made eye contact. The guy nodded simply, as if he somehow shared Joseph’s internal pain.

  The man hesitated for a moment, before stepping towards the occupied table. The three agents shadowed him step for step. Now closer, Joseph found the guy’s eyes to be red-rimmed and puffy. He’d been crying, and recently.

  The guy opened his mouth as if to speak.

  This new inclusion to the group drew Carter’s attention away from the verbal exchange that was going on in Mendoza’s office.

  The guy spoke. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He was softly spoken and his words had had genuine sincerity behind them.

  Joseph just stared back blankly.

  “I’ve lost someone too,” the guy said.

  “Who?” Joseph asked, wondering if perhaps he was the brother of one of the slain cops.

  “My father…”

  “Do I know you?” Joseph asked.

  “No. I don’t think so,” he replied. “But you may have known my father – sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “I believe you met my father.”

  Joseph frowned. “I’m sorry – I don’t believe I did.”

  The guy extended his arm. “I’m Edward Jones. Henry’s son.”

  Carter’s mouth dropped open. “Wait a minute – you’re supposed to be dead.”

  Edward Jones turned his attention towards the detective. His hand remained in Joseph’s, but his empty, soulless eyes bore into Carter’s.

  “Dead and gone to hell,” he said, in a voice devoid of hope.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The uniformed officer took a step towards the Russian boss. His face split to reveal bright white teeth. “Come – Viktor, is this any way to greet your brother? Your blood?”

  Viktor was half inside the TV room. Subconsciously, his hand patted the side of his hip, where he would ordinarily wear his weapon, on the few occasions when he needed one.

  The guy before him laughed openly. “Always the same old Viktor.”

  Viktor’s eyes formed themselves into tight, questioning slits. “What brings you here, Yurius?”

  Yurius placed the officer’s cap on the back of the large sofa which overlooked the bank of TV screens. “We have business to attend to, remember?”

  “Not here,” Viktor hissed. “You shouldn’t be seen here.”

  Yurius’s smile widened, reminding Viktor of a Great White shark. “No worry, brother – I came undetected.”

  Viktor finally entered the room. He moved closer to his brother, but maintained a safe distance.

  Yurius said, “I come bearing gifts.”

  “What?”

  “Gifts, for my brother.”

  “From whom?”

  Yurius grinned again. “I bring cub from big bear.”

  The Russian boss frowned. “What?”

  “I bring bear cub, for my brother.”

  Viktor took another step closer. “You get out now, while I still have my patience.”

  Yurius just stood there grinning foolishly. Another step took Viktor close enough for him to see his brother’s face in detail. He was broad of face, square-chinned, with a thick crop of brown-grey hair. His was cut into a short, tidy style, unlike Viktor’s unruly mane. Now, closer, Viktor also saw the thin line of scar tissue that ran from just below Yurius’s hairline, down to the top of his left temple. His eyes were deep brown, but the left one ticked constantly, just noticeable if you knew what to look for.

  Yurius smiled now with a look of deep affection. “Viktor – you look tired.”

  Viktor took the remaining few steps before finally embracing his brother. “You shouldn’t come here,” he said again, but this admonishment had no weight or malice behind it.

  Yurius kissed both of Viktor’s cheeks. “Come – I show you gift now.”

  Viktor shook his head. What the hell was his crazy brother talking about? He paused for a moment, looking deeply in his brother’s eyes. The burning flame of intelligence that had once been there was now gone.

  “What is this gift you speak of?” Viktor asked.

  Yurius grinned, his shark-white teeth visible. “I will show you. Come, follow me.”

  The Russian crime boss followed his brother. He was led to the rear of the TV room, through a storage area, and then along to the bolted back doorway.

  Viktor frowned. “How did you get in?”

  The white smile cut through the gloom. “Nikolay let me in. Don’t worry Viktor, nobody saw me.”

  Viktor rubbed at his eyes. Tiredness clawed at them with cruel talons. “Hurry, Yurius – it is late.”

  Yurius reached out to release the bolts. They slid back silently, well greased and maintained: an emergency exit that was kept in good working order. The doorway opened and the alleyway beyond flooded in, dousing them in a pitch-black wash of darkness.

  Viktor’s heartbeat quickened.

  His brother’s moods were volatile at best, and Viktor wouldn’t have put it past his boss, Sergei, to utilise such a thing, and turn brother against brother. Stepping out into a dark alleyway was not on Viktor’s immediate list of things to do. Yurius stepped into the shadows and gestured towards something just out of view.

  Viktor poked his head outside, briefly, tensing slightly, half-expecting the quiet cough of a silenced weapon. Instead, he caught a glimpse of a car’s rear. The weak lights above, which filtered through from the bright sidewalk, cast slivers of light on the trunk’s surface like the multicoloured mix of motor oil and water.

  Yurius moved towards the trunk. He activated a button on the key ring that had appeared in his hand. The taillights flashed twice before the trunk lid popped open.

  “Look, Viktor – bear cub.”

  Viktor took a step closer. A slight shape revealed itself to him. Just a small part of the object was visible, but with sickening dread, he knew what lay inside to be human.

  “What have you done?” he asked, thinking the unthinkable.

  Yurius frowned. “What?”

  “Who is this?” Viktor asked, looking
down now at the small bundle.

  “It is big bear’s little cub,” Yurius explained.

  “What is this big bear you speak of?”

  Yurius grinned from ear-to-ear. “It is Joseph Ruebins’ son.”

  “Oh good God…” Viktor cursed. “What have you done?”

  Chapter Forty

  Edward Jones continued his tale, his small audience enthralled by his unbelievable revelations. He explained his involvement in laundering vast sums of money for the Russian kingpin, Viktor Mikhel; money that had been filtered through various associations, like the Afghan War Veterans’ Association. He explained how, after working for just two years with an accountancy firm based in the Brighton Beach District, he’d been given the task of head bookkeeper. He also took a while to explain how he had helped build the Solntsevskaya Empire by manipulating local economies and then investing heavily in macro hedge funds. He then went into great detail about how he and Viktor had made a small fortune, taken from the Colombians, by laundering money through various charitable trusts, without Sergei Mikhailov knowing.

  Understanding came to Carter. “So that’s why they got to your father, in an attempt to silence you.”

  Edward nodded. “Yeah. Cowards couldn’t get to me – so they went for an ailing old man who couldn’t defend himself.”

  Tyler shook her head. “Everything makes sense now. Why the killer took the tong…” She cut her sentence short, aware of Edward Jones’ involvement.

  The accountant reached out to pat her shoulder. “It’s okay – I’ve been informed about what happened. Go on.”

  She didn’t need to finish her sentence, as most understood what she’d been about to say.

  Joseph said, “So it was a direct threat to you – a symbol to force your silence?”

  “Yes,” Edward agreed.

  Joseph frowned. “But he said something about his secret – his… insurance?”

  “Not his – mine,” Edward corrected.

  “Explain,” Carter said.