In Plain Sight (15 page)

“Set-up was just like you said, boss. Let's get you out of here,” I said to Igor as he went limp, loud enough for Sergei to hear. I shouldered him quietly and kicked open the back door. The alarm screeched to life as my feet touched the alley gravel. I hustled Igor around the corner and onto a side street that connected with King. I was on the busy street in thirty seconds and in the car thirty seconds after that. I wasn't worried about Sergei following me; he had to get the alarm off before someone showed up and found the bodies in the
OTB
. I didn't kill Nick and Pete, because live bodies present more problems than dead ones. Dead bodies get carted off, buried, and erased. Wounded men, if they are found by the authorities, go to hospitals and get questioned. Nick and Pete would never talk to the cops, but they would still bring all kinds of heat down on Sergei unless they were dealt with quietly. Sergei couldn't outsource this problem to anyone else — there was no time. If Sergei wanted to stay out of custody, he would have to do something about his men — and that meant giving me time to get away.

Within the hour, Igor was taped to a chair in the motel room next to mine. His clothes were in the bathroom, and the folding knife was in my hand.

T
he bullet had torn through the lower half of my ear, leaving a section of undamaged ear hanging. I used the knife in the bathroom to take the wrecked part of the ear off. It took two rolls of toilet paper to stop the bleeding and a piece of duct tape over some more of the cheap motel toilet paper to cover the wound.

The motel room next to mine was just as tight. Igor's chair was at the foot of the bed, and it took up all the space between the bed and the wall. To get behind Igor required a trip over the mattress. His feet were taped to the back two legs, and his wrists were fastened to the metal frame behind his back. Over his mouth, a piece of tape kept him quiet. His eyes weren't on me, they were on the knife.

“Feels like we've been here before, eh? Except last time you had me tied down.”

Igor thrashed his head, the only part of his body that he could move, and grunted at me.

“I've been reading I'm Okay, You're Okay.” Igor's eyes peeled away from the knife and found mine. “I figure you thought of your own solution to get that closure you wanted. One that wasn't in the book. You figured I'm not okay, and neither are you. But you thought that if you killed me you could get okay. Sort of take out half of the equation, and everything will sort itself out.” I chuckled. The sound made Igor's lip quiver under the tape. “I hate to break it to you, Igor, but killing never sorts anybody out. If anything, it turns you inside out even more. The more you do it the less it will help, because you keep turning off a bit more of yourself. It's like burning nerve endings one at a time. You feel it for a minute while it dies, but pretty soon you can't feel anything no matter how hard you try. Way I see it, you got it all wrong. We'll never be okay. Okay isn't for people like us. We've done too much wrong to too many people. Okay went out the window the first night you rode with a gun in your pocket and violence in your heart. You can never come back from that. The most you can hope for is alive. It's not what we deserve for what we've done, but it's what we get. It's all doing wrong earns you, if you're good enough at the bad. That was always your problem. Try as you might, you never had the gravel in your guts, but somehow you managed to defy the odds and stay above ground. Now stay put.”

I went outside and walked into my room. I powered up the cell phone and dialled Morrison while I cut through the decades-old yellowed drywall with the knife. I winced when the phone touched the ear damaged by Nick's bullet and quickly switched the cell to the other side of my face. Morrison picked up as I finished my first cut into the wall.

“Morrison.”

I dragged the knife a foot down the wall, turned the blade, and made another long cut. “Where are you?”

“The house you told me about. It's a fucking mess.”

“You having crime scene techs go through it?” I turned the knife again and started a cut back up the wall.

“No, I got some uniforms with some mops. They're just gonna wring 'em out back at the lab.”

“Not all of the blood belongs to the girl; some of it belongs to Igor. If you compare it to the blood left on the bed in the hospital, you will find a match.”

“He good for it?”

“I didn't kill the nurse. He was the last one to see her alive. Either he did it or the girl did after she let him loose. She was a hard one; don't let the skinny legs fool you.”

“This is a start, but where's Igor?” said Morrison. “I have to have someone to tie all this blood to.”

“He's in the wind, but I'll have him soon,” I said. “What happened with the two men on the scene?”

“We found them in the bedroom fucking with the mattress. Put a big slit down the centre. They don't speak English though. Only word they seemed to have a grasp of was ‘lawyer.' That was one word they knew real well.”

“You know who they are?”

“I know they're Russians.”

“They work for Sergei Vidal.”

“No shit.”

“No shit,” I said.

“Why were they here?”

“You're the detective. I'm sure you can piece together a motive if you put your mind to it,” I said as I put the phone on my shoulder so I could use both of my hands to pull the drywall free.

“So,” Morrison said, “I have Sergei Vidal's men at the site of a brutal slaying with shit thrown all over the house like someone was searching for something. Something they didn't find yet, because there was nothing in the car or on them. What am I gonna find in the house?”

I ignored the question. “Is Miller there?”

“Why?”

“I want you to tell him something.”

“I told you he's clean,” Morrison said, still clinging to his badge brother.

“Why do you stick up for him when you know he's dirty?”

“And how do I know that? Because you told me? You think your word means anything to me? I know your type — I've been schooled on people like you since birth. My brother is like you. He's a meth addict 'cept back home on the island we don't call it meth. We call it P. He's twelve years older than me, so he was my idol growing up. Problem was he lied all the time so he could get high. He'd say we'd go to the park after school, but he'd never come get me because he was high. He'd tell me we'd go to a rugby game, but I would sit home all night in my jersey because he went and got high. When he got worse, he'd steal from me to get high. He stole my bike, my Nintendo, one time he sold my new shoes. Every time he came down he'd swear it would never happen again, but it would because he was a junkie, and lying is part of being a junkie. See, to me, you're just like him. You'll say anything you can to get what you want, but it will always be a lie because you're a junkie just like him.”

I pulled some cheap insulation out of the wall and dropped it on the floor. The other wall of Igor's room was now visible through the square hole I'd made.

“You're not on P like my brother, you're a criminal addicted to something stronger than meth; something much more addictive — staying out of jail. I don't really need to explain to you how hooked you are on staying out of a cage, do I? It's only been a few days since I turned you loose, and you've already killed a man with my gun and blackmailed me with it to avoid doing time. What other things have you done, that I don't know about, to get your fix? Who else had to die so you could walk the streets?”

“Let's cut the shit. You and I are both bent. You set me loose, Morrison. Everything that happened was because you saw fit to use me as bait. And what was I on the hook for? You just wanted a bust you could attach your name to so you could get ahead, so don't try to pretend that you're Dudley Do-Right. You're just an opportunist with a badge — a different kind of junkie who gets off on his pay grade.”

“You're right about that, mate. There's definitely some dirt under my fingernails. Most cops are a little dirty. No one trusts a guy who doesn't have a little stink on him. And maybe Miller has dirtier hands than me, but I'm not turning on him on your say so. I know you're running game, mate, I've been lied to by better, and it won't work.”

“Maybe I am wrong about Miller,” I said. “But you set me loose to shake the trees. You wanted me to find you a bigger fish to arrest, and now you're changing the rules because the fish I found stinks. You need to get okay with what I have because there is nothing else on the menu. You want a big bust with a lot of press? Then you need to accept that Miller is involved in some way. Deep down you know I'm right. You have to admit, things just seem to have a habit of happening when he's around.”

Morrison sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “They do.” He paused, and I heard him taking a deep breath. He let it out slowly, then said, “What do you want me to tell him?”

“You just tell him that Sergei is taking a run at Igor. Tell him that you heard it from a couple of your sources on the street while you were looking for Igor. Tell him Sergei almost got him, and you're sure that Igor will be turning up dead any day now. Tell him your
CI
's are saying that whoever brings Igor in will be set for life. Get that? Set for life.”

“Is it true?”

“Enough of it is.”

Morrison sighed and told me he'd pass it along.

“You need to do it fast,” I said.

“He's been hanging around for the last hour. He's real interested in the scene. I'll tell him now.”

“How did it end with your brother?” I asked.

Morrison paused, and when I heard his voice again it was serious. “I arrested him the day I became a cop, and I broke his arms so he couldn't shoot up anymore.”

I hung up and listened with a motel glass against the single sheet of drywall separating me and Igor. I could hear him grunting clearly enough, then I heard a crash. I walked back inside the other room, gun in hand, and found Igor toppled in his chair. He had rocked back and forth too hard and had sent the chair over on its back. I righted the chair and rested the blade of the folding knife between Igor's legs. I understood Igor. He worked out of a strip club, kept a woman he never touched, and beat her regularly because he was emasculated. Everything he did was meant to seize some part of the masculinity he felt he was lacking inside. Igor was empty, but he still had the right useless decorations. I slid the knife forward until it met resistance. His head thrashed, but the rest of him stayed frozen. Igor couldn't afford to move because of the knife against his balls.

“Igor,” I said. His eyes were shut tight. I pushed harder and said it again, “Igor.” He looked at me, and I leaned in closer. “You're already a fucking joke. Everyone sees through you. Those who don't think you're gay. What will they say when they find out you have no balls? Will they still let you run the strip club if they know you can't enjoy it?”

Hitting Igor where it hurt was never going to be physical. If I cut him, he would give up and accept death. If I pierced something inside, something deep and emotional that was already rotten and festered, I would have him.

“You can get out of this, Igor.” I showed him the red knife. “You want out?”

Igor nodded vigorously.

“All you have to do is make a call and say what I tell you to say. One call and we're done. Sound good?”

Igor nodded.

“Stay put.”

I sat on the bed and wrote out what Igor was to say on the inside of a red palm Bible left inside the night stand. When I finished, I capped the pen and got Igor's cell phone out of his pants on the floor. I powered the phone up, pulled the tape on Igor's mouth free in one pull, and asked, “What's Miller's number?”

Igor looked at me puzzled for a moment. “Miller?”

“This isn't about you, Igor. You're just too stupid to realize that.”

“I'm not stupid.”

“Then tell me the number.”

Igor told me, and I dialled. I put the phone between his shoulder and ear and rested the knife back against his balls. Igor grunted and then started reading.

“It's me. Listen, I'm in some shit, but I can bring it around. I just need some help. Sergei's trying to fuck me, and nothing can make that change, so I'm gonna fuck with him first. I'm gonna give you some places that he uses, dirty places. You're gonna bust 'em. You'll have enough to take down Sergei, then I'll take over.”

I pulled the phone a few inches away from his ear so I could listen to Miller backpedal. He wanted no part in taking on Sergei. I had prepared for this.

Igor read on, “If I have to take you down with Sergei, I will. Remember, I have tapes, you cocksucker. I want you at the Escarpment Motel, Room Thirteen, in one hour, or we're done.”

I took the phone off Igor, hit end, and closed the knife.

“That plan — it will never work,” Igor grunted. “Miller will not help me go up against Sergei — it's suicide.”

I nodded.

“You son of a bitch cocksucker. I am bait? You want Miller to tell Sergei so he can kill me. You motherfucker!”

Igor was getting loud, so I shut him up with a right hook. I didn't put much into the punch, just enough to feel teeth break. Igor spat blood on the floor and kept his voice down. “How did you know about the tapes I had on Miller?”

“I heard you tell him about them.”

“When?”

“Right after you killed Tatiana in your kitchen.”

Igor's mouth hung open. “You did this? All of this? You were the one in the street. You stole the money and shot at me in the restaurant. This is all your fault. You cocksucker, I'm going to . . .”

My fist hit Igor on the side of his rib cage on a spot where there was no muscle protecting the bones. This time I didn't hold back. His body, taped to the chair, went rigid with the impact, leaving the other side open for the same treatment. I felt bones break against my fist once then twice.

“Igor, you did this, not me. You opened up something that was dead because you couldn't let what happened go. Getting shot warped you when it should have just taught you something. You want to live in this life, you have to accept the risks. You want to live by the gun, you have to expect to die by the bullet.”

Igor didn't answer me; his ribs were broken on both sides. Moving was agony and would be almost impossible. He forced out a few words in an almost soundless whisper. “You're dead, Moriarty.”

I understood the threat. He would never be able to understand my response. I grinned at his fluttering eyes. “I'm not dead, Igor; I barely even exist. Death doesn't know my name, but he keeps searching for me, and I keep moving. I know he'll catch up one day; just not today. Today is your day.”

I put him the rest of the way out with a fist and then untaped his wrists and ankles. The ribs would confine Igor to the bed. He'd barely be able to breathe enough to stand, let alone run. I left Igor's pistol on the corner of the night table just out of reach from the bed, propped Sergei's shotgun in the corner, and called Morrison.