Authors: Giles Blunt
“I have a colleague or two could take lessons from you,” Cardinal said.
“From me? What
in?
My tuba playing is not so hot, and my driving is a constant concern to the Bureau. Yiddish maybe? You have someone dying to learn Yiddish?”
“Not exactly,” Cardinal said.
“Can’t be much demand for it up here. Jews don’t respond well to cold. Deserts. We like deserts. Especially if they belong to someone else. I got a Palestinian colleague, we call him Zippy because his family name is a little like Doodah. One day I told Zippy, I said, ‘Doodah … Doodah … That’s so familiar. I got it! I think my cousin moved into your family house in Jerusalem!’ Oh boy, did I catch hell from him. Such bad jokes I make. I think I could take lessons from that McLeod guy. Now he’s
funny.”
“McLeod, yeah. Very dry.”
“Dry, no. Funny, yes. Okay, I’ll shut up now. I hate people who gas on when you’re on a stakeout. The perfect opportunity for reflection and they have to launch this
spielkreig
. So
dismayed
I get. So
disheartened.”
They settled once more into their separate quiets. Half an hour later, the Chevy Aveo pulled into the lot and parked in front of room eight.
“Let’s wait till he gets to the door,” Cardinal said.
“Long as he doesn’t get
inside
the door. That would be a
negative
thing.”
The man got out of the car and shut the driver’s-side door and immediately opened it again. He reached in and pulled out a paper bag with the KFC logo. He shut the car door again and locked it and carried his dinner to his room door.
Cardinal got up and drew his Beretta. He opened the office door slowly so it wouldn’t squeak, and he and Mendelsohn were behind the man before he had his key out of his pocket.
“Ted Nelson?”
The man turned and looked at them both and said, “Fuck.”
“I need to see some ID.”
“ID why? I have done nothing.”
“Just show me.”
The man reached into his inside coat pocket. Mendelsohn was behind Cardinal with his weapon drawn. The man dropped the wallet and Cardinal kept his Beretta trained on him while he picked it up. There was a credit card and a New York driver’s licence in the name of Nelson, but everything else was in the name Yevgeny Divyris.
“Yevgeny Divyris,” Cardinal said. “You’re related to Irena Divyris? You’re Russian?”
“Ukrainian,” Mendelsohn said, his Glock aimed at the man’s head.
The man turned and looked Mendelsohn up and down and spat on the ground. “Jew.”
“Yes. And please let me personally apologize. I’m so
sorry
you people had to work so hard herding us into the showers. Nice
job
your people did as camp guards.”
“Fucking scum. How many in my country you starve to death? Millions.”
“Hands behind your back,” Cardinal said.
“Millions dead from starving while landlords ate like pigs, and nobody talks about this millions. Only the fucking Jews.”
“Both hands,” Cardinal said. “Now.” He snapped the handcuffs on the man and turned him around. “That Mercury is your sister’s rental. You have any explanation why it’s at your hotel?”
“I don’t have to explain nothing. To you or your fucking Jew friend.”
“I’m sure you mean that in a positive sense,” Mendelsohn said.
They put Divyris into the back of the car and drove to the station, where he was booked on a charge of credit card fraud. They sat him in an interview room and left him there to stew for half an hour while they dug up all the background they could on him.
“Explain to me one thing,” Mendelsohn said, “and then I’ll just observe. Explain to me how it is that the Jews, who are supposed to be behind every
international plot, who are supposedly manipulating the world’s
banking
system through a worldwide network of conspirators—explain to me how these Machiavellian
geniuses
ended up as lampshades and other handy household items.”
“Right now I’d rather ask him about his relationship with his sister.”
“Good point.
Focus
, Detective. I
like
that. See,
I
could learn from you.”
—
Cardinal sat himself down opposite Yevgeny Divyris and silently filled out a form. Divyris sat back with one foot crossed over his knee, cuffed hands in his lap.
“How long you plan to keep me here? You think I don’t have better things to do?”
Cardinal didn’t look up.
“I asked you question.”
Cardinal put aside the form. It was actually just a federal tax form; you couldn’t beat the feds for ominous-looking documents. At this proximity he could see Divyris’s resemblance to Irena. He had the same deep-set eyes, the same wide cheekbones, and Cardinal wondered if his sister had had the same arrogant attitude.
“You don’t have right to keep me here,” he said. “You have to charge me.”
“You’re charged with fraud.”
Divyris gave a snort. “Credit card. I thought you were investigating my sister’s murder, but no, big detective is worried about credit card. Is nothing.”
“It’ll do for now.” Cardinal flipped back through his notebook. “You owned a fur farm outside Kiev, didn’t you?”
Divyris stared at him. “Long time ago. Big deal.”
“It was doing quite well until about, let’s see, five years ago. What happened then?”
“Market problems. Suddenly no one buys furs. No one in Russia.”
“But some people were doing quite well. Lev Bastov, for example.”
“Lev Bastov? Is nothing. Nobody.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but Lev Bastov appears to own several fur farms in Russia, and owns or has a controlling interest in fur factories in
Russia, China, the U.S. and Canada. He sells furs, buys furs, manufactures coats, hats, you name it, and sells them again. Hardly nothing.”
“Who cares? Is his business.”
“Just before the fur market really tanks, he sells his factory in Russia and buys two in China. That’s exactly one year after he marries your sister.”
“Maybe you never notice—so busy chasing credit cards—some guys are lucky. Other guys? Not lucky.”
“Which brings us to your own fur farm.” Cardinal consulted the notes. “A thriving business when you take it over, a disaster when you sell it—presumably for peanuts—two years later. Again, right before Lev Bastov hits the big time.”
“You get this from Internet? Internet is always wrong.”
“We have witnesses who say you were hot on the idea of Irena marrying Lev Bastov. You were totally excited about it. Lev Bastov was going to buy your fur farm and save you from ruin. Lev Bastov was going to set you up on a new farm somewhere profitable. Or better yet, he was going to make you manager of a fur factory.”
“Some guys like to talk big, you know? Some guys like to make promises—especially when they have eye on woman like my sister. If you cannot win her with your looks, you buy her with your money. You make big promise her family will benefit also. He will look after everyone. Then he’s married and big promises are forgotten.”
“But he did keep one promise. He did put you in charge of a factory in—where was it …” Cardinal flipped a page in his notebook, scanning until he found the entry. “Kalinin?”
“Kalinin. Fuck Kalinin. Kalinin, it’s like getting charge of auto factory in Detroit. Like getting charge of
Titanic
. Bon voyage, Captain!”
“Sales went down, profits turned to losses, people lost their jobs, and Lev Bastov put it all on you.”
“Lev tells me, ‘You drink too much, party too much. You pay yourself too much. And you pay too much for furs when no market.’ As if I’m supposed to know future. I’m supposed to know China is going to rule universe? Fucking slave owners.”
“And he fired you.”
“Fuck him.”
“He gets your sister, he gets his factories, his profits, his jet-set lifestyle, and you get …”
“I hated the bastard, okay? Big revelation: I’m not going to miss Lev Bastov. But if you suppose I killed him, no. Kill
him
, maybe I can imagine. Kill Irena? Never. And you will never prove this, because I did not do it.”
“Why are you even in Algonquin Bay, if you’re not in the fur business anymore?”
“I buy for couple of Jews in garment district. Pay is shit.”
“Where were you the night your sister was killed?”
“My hotel.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“Yes, of course someone was with me. Irena and her fucking husband were with me. You saw their car outside hotel. You think I’m going to go out to some house with them, cut heads off, and stay in hotel waiting for you to arrest me? And all this time I leave their car outside my room?”
“You probably didn’t know it was their car. They come to visit you, they knock on your door—why would you see their car? Did you call them or did they call you?”
“They called me.”
“The memory on your cellphone says otherwise.”
“So I called them. Why not?”
“You weren’t on good terms. Why did you call?”
“With
him
. With
him
I was not on good terms. I didn’t ask Lev to come. With my sister, yes. I call her to come see me, say hello, spend some family time. Is my sister. Also, I wanted to see Anton.”
“Anton. Bastov’s son from a previous marriage.”
“I know, strange I should like him, but he’s good guy. Not like Lev. He was supposed to come to auction, but he had to cancel. Got sick.”
“Was anyone else with them?”
“No.”
“You arranged for someone else to meet them, didn’t you?.”
“No. They came alone. We were supposed to go out for a drink, Irena, Anton and me. Lev came too, I don’t know why. We were just leaving when they get a call. Lev’s cell. Some guy wants to show them house.”
“What guy?”
“Some guy. I don’t know. Real estate guy. I knew they were looking for house, but still I thought was strange, real estate agent calling late at night. Supposedly they met some guy night before was going to set it up. Ten minutes later Lev’s phone rings again, guy is outside in car, and they leave.”
“What guy? What did he look like?”
“I didn’t see him. Phone rings, Lev answers, they go out.”
“What kind of car?”
“I didn’t see.”
“What did you do after they left?”
“I stay in my room. No. First I go out to beer store, buy six beers, come back and watch TV. You can check with beer store.”
“What did you watch?”
“Movie. Some porno.”
“What movie?”
“You want
title?
Of porno movie?
Pussy
something. Starts with window washer, sees blonde working out on treadmill. Then comes repairman, then comes painter—oh, and her personal trainer—brown hair, tits size of your head.
Spitfire Pussy.”
“Sounds like a classic,” Cardinal said. “Okay, so you know Lev and Irena are coming to the fur auction. You know they are thinking of buying a house here—”
“Investment property, they tell me. I don’t have house. I rent lousy apartment. They collect houses.”
“So you arrange a set-up. Some guy posing as a real estate agent, but he’s really someone you paid to kill Bastov.”
“Not true. No.”
“Lev and Irena have everything. They collect factories, houses, and you’ve got nothing but broken promises. What’s to stop you hiring someone to kill them?”
“I told you. With Lev, yes, I was pissed off. With Irena, no. Is not her fault. You think I hire someone to cut my sister’s head off? You are one crazy cop. I hope you got some other suspect, because you can’t blame this killings on me. You have to prove, and you can’t.”
Cardinal put his notebook and papers aside and leaned across the table. “Two questions for you, Yevgeny. One, why didn’t you come to the police
when your sister disappeared? We couldn’t even find you as next of kin. And two, why are you still here nearly two weeks later?”
“I want to find out what happened. This is so strange?”
“And yet you never showed up to help our investigation, or to ask a single question.”
“As if you know answers. Lev was not perfect business guy, okay? Is good chance they were killed by
mafiya
. You think he didn’t have dealings with
mafiya?
He did. How much, I wouldn’t know. They kill whole families,
mafiya
—I don’t want to go back to Brooklyn, find some fucking
vor
in my apartment. Okay?”
“So for safety’s sake, you hang around in the place where your sister was murdered.”
Divyris shrugged. “Is true. You think I would stay here if I
killed
them? Waiting for you and your handcuffs? I am not rich, maybe, but I have business too. I have to make a living. I’ve been talking to people, setting up deals. You can check.”
Cardinal pulled out a sheaf of papers he had printed out and placed it on the table. “E-mails,” he said. He pulled out another sheaf of papers and placed it beside the other. “Translations.” They were actually Google translations and perfectly hilarious, but close enough that Cardinal could fake it.
Divyris said something in Russian or Ukrainian. When Cardinal didn’t reply, he said something else.
Cardinal improvised from the top translation. “‘Don’t imagine I will forget. I will never forget. Your loving husband made promises and you will make him keep them, Irena, or it will be trouble for you.’”
“Fuck you.”
Cardinal read from another one. “‘Always the same story. Always these lies. Make him do right, or I will make him myself.’”
“And you wonder why I don’t phone police. I am angry, okay? Lev owes me, okay? Bastard has everything. He owns world and all little tiny worlds that make up big world. And me he can’t give decent living? His sister’s brother? Treats me like dog? Worse than dog.”
Cardinal got up and went to the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Mendelsohn and McLeod were in the next room, watching through the one-way glass. Mendelsohn put down the phone. “Manager confirms he ordered
Spitfire Pussy
and ran it from 11:30 to 1:30 a.m.”
“Thank you, Maestro,” McLeod said, “but that doesn’t mean he watched it.”
Cardinal handed McLeod the sheaf of bogus forms. “Get a list of his so-called business contacts and check them out. I want to know what he’s been doing for the past two weeks.”