Authors: Jared Paul
“
Heyyyyyyy Leslie. How’s it going?”
Bollier forced a fake smile and said hello. Castillo’s moustache was overdue for a trimming and there were faint traces of sweat stains in the armpits of his shirt.
“Boy you sure know how to keep the old nose to the old grindstone. Burning the candle at both ends, I see. What are you workin on?”
Instinctively Bollier shifted her weight and pushed the files on
Shirokov and his gang further away. She had never trusted Castillo to begin with, and his incomprehensible cluster fuck handling of Jordan Ross made Bollier think he was either borderline stupid or something much worse.
“Oh nothing much, just reviewing some old unresolved murders. Trying to get that clearance rate down, you know how it is.”
Castillo walked up to the edge of her desk, his gait a little unsteady. Cheap domestic lager was on his breath.
“Yeah I do. You know I do. I work hard, but I also know how to have a good time.”
“I’m certain that you do, Morris. Can I help you with something?”
The well rounded shoulders supporting Castillo’s giant head shrugged, and the detective swung his leg up and sat on the edge of
Bollier’s desk.
“You’ve been
workin soooo hard. I just thought maybe you would like to take a little break. Maybe come out with me and grab a beer or two. Just as friends of course, just friendly. I know. What do you say?”
For a fraction of a nanosecond Bollier considered taking Castillo up on his offer, she was exhausted and had been going over the same evidence for days.
She needed to unwind and come back to the casework with a fresh pair of eyes. A tall glass of cold beer sounded like ambrosia. Only there was no way in hell she was going to spend an evening in a sports bar with Detective Morris Castillo while he made idiotic jokes about lesbians and then pat her on the shoulder and assure her he was only kidding.
“Boy. Um. That does sound very tempting, but I think I’m just going to call it a night. If I had a beer right now I would probably just curl right up and fall asleep at the bar. Thanks though.”
Bollier hoped that her latest rejection of Castillo would send him off sulking like usual. Those hopes were dashed when he leaned over, trying to get a better look at her files and shaking that unspeakably fat head of his.
“
Yeeeeah I figured you’d probably say no but I thought I would ask anyway. I’m just trying to do the friendly thing. I was so worried the other day when those crazy fuckers came after you and the Rambo guy.”
Castillo was sloppily fishing for information on Jordan Ross. Why? Detective Bollier sat up erect in her chair, suddenly alert.
“It was scary.”
Castillo must have been even drunker than Bollier had first realized. He swayed on her desk, a melancholy sort of look coming over his face.
“You’ve got to be more careful. I mean, what are you doing riding with that guy? Those Russians are crazy enough to do anything, you know that.”
“Better than anyone I do, yes.”
The sad look on the shit-faced detective dissipated and was replaced by a stern one.
“Someday you’ve got to let that go, Leslie. It’s not healthy hanging on to all that anger over the years. That’s how you
get ulcers. My uncle Roderigo for example he died from colon cancer because he got so worked up over his wife that cheated on him and left.”
Bollier cleared her throat and fixed Castillo with her hard stare that she normally held in reserve for interrogating a suspect in the box.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to take care of yourself like I said. These people are dangerous. You need to drop this thing with
Shirokov and the Russians. It’s been years and you keep on going after them… I worry. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Bollier shot up and slapped Castillo across the face. Before he could argue or say anything else she picked up her files and stormed out of her office and then the building, heels clicking furiously all the way.
Rage still boiling in her veins, Bollier got in her car and drove all the way up to midtown to her loft on 8
th
avenue. She parked across the street and sat waiting with the engine idling. For a while she watched the street. It was past midnight and there wasn’t much foot traffic. Several insomniac joggers blew by, an old man walking a spaniel, a woman in a fur coat and a gaudy top hat hurried along, breath huffing cold in the air. Bollier looked at all the cars lined up along either side of the street but did not see anyone in them. No big black SUVs, nothing suspicious at all.
“Stop being such a pussy and go in and go to bed, Leslie.”
She chided herself but did not move from the driver’s seat. Several moments went by and she decided to wait just a little bit longer. Bollier reached to turn on the radio and realized her hands were shaking. For a half an hour Bollier listened to the light classical satellite station, but eventually she had to admit that she could neither calm down nor bring herself to enter her apartment. Finally Bollier turned the keys in the ignition and pulled out of her parking space to go find a hotel.
Feeling refreshed after her first decent night of sleep in weeks, Bollier got up early and headed out to Queens to visit her friend at the FBI field office. Special Agent
Kyle Clemons had graduated from the academy in the same class as Bollier, but he was far too bright a shining star to stay in the department. After putting in just two years in homicide he applied for the organized crime task force in the Bureau and he got it.
Bollier left her car on the fourth floor of the big parking garage next to the federal building. She passed through a series of metal detectors and check points and then Clemons was paged that his visitor
had arrived. He looked sharp in the classic black suit and clean shaven look favored by so many feds. Unlike most of them it suited him well. As he approached with his sweeping long strides, Bollier thought that Clemons was the kind of man she could see herself with, if she had been interested in men.
“Leslie. Great to see you.”
Agent Clemons pecked her on the cheek, a gesture she allotted to no other guy in her life.
“Thanks
Kyle. You look fantastic.”
“So to what do I owe the pleasure?”
They walked together through a labyrinth of fluorescent lit cubicles until they reached Agent Clemons’ office, a sort of landfill with a desk and computer buried somewhere beneath an avalanche of case files. Agent Clemons said how happy he was to hear she was okay after the bridge attack and got her a cup of English breakfast tea. Bollier sipped the scalding tea and looked sheepishly at Clemons.
“I have a favor to ask.”
“And here I thought you would be visiting just for my company. So shoot. What is it?”
“That too of course. I need you to kill this Brooklyn manhunt for the ex-army guy.”
Agent Clemons raised an eyebrow at the detective.
“That would be the ex-army guy Jordan Ross who wasted an entire Russian hit squad at his home and then fled the scene?”
“That would be the one.”
“Not going to be easy to call that off. What’s your connection?”
“Are you really asking?”
“Just trying to cover my ass Leslie, t
he district attorney is not going to be happy. They want Ross found and brought in, like yesterday.”
“I can’t say. I need you to trust me. He may be just the link we’ve been looking for…”
“For our… side project?”
“The side project, yes.”
Agent Clemons and Detective Bollier exchanged a mischievous glance and held it long enough that a casual observer wouldn’t be blamed for thinking they were flirting and would tear each other’s clothes off the moment they got alone together. When it was through Bollier drank her tea and watched the fed expectantly.
“Alright. I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”
“Yes actually. I hate to ask for anything on top of that but I’m starting to think there’s a leak in my precinct. Shirokov may have his hooks in somebody. There has been one too many coincidences lately. Could you look into it?”
For some reason Agent Clemons found this request to be a subject of great amusement. He laughed long and hard, slapping the knee of his slacks several times before he stopped.
“Is something funny?”
“A leak in your precinct? No! Perish the thought. You’re not exactly Ms. Current Events are you? Let me show you something.”
The federal agent must have worked out a system to the impenetrable clutter in his office. After rooting around the seemingly random heaps of information, he came up clutching a folder that was stamped in red ink FOR SENIOR PERSONNEL ONLY. Agent Clemons stood up and closed the door to his office then he opened the folder.
Glossy black and white pictures were inside. Surveillance photos taken from a coffee shop on 14
th
street that Bollier knew to be a hangout for the Russians. The FBI must have been sitting on the location for weeks, snapping pictures and collecting audio samples. Agent Clemons flipped through the pictures. Bollier recognized several of the individuals; Roman Dhokorin, one of Shirokov’s top men, Boris Maslov, killed in action, the big bodyguard Vitaly Krupin, a few brief shots of Vladimir Shirokov himself wearing a gray suit and blue button down shirt, silver hair coiffed at shoulder length and a wicked smile playing on his lips while he read from a heavy book.
Agent Clemons stopped the slideshow for a moment and intoned in a serious voice.
“Now. Stop me when you see something disturbing.”
The next photo showed two uniformed policemen at the coffee shop, handing off an envelope to
Krupin. Another had what looked like a customs agent doing the same. Then there were several pictures of two plainclothes detectives sitting and chatting with Shirokov. Leslie swallowed a lump in her throat when she recognized Casings and Castillo.
“Who else knows about this?”
“The director, the agent photographers, yours truly, and now yourself.” There were still two photos left in the bunch but Clemons was holding back. “So far nothing truly shocking. What’s a little grift and graft in the NYPD after all? We have known about Castillo for months. But then there’s this.”
Agent Clemons flipped over the last photo, revealing
Shirokov sitting across from a slim, middle aged man in a cheap suit and an American flag pin on his lapel. The face looked familiar but Bollier could not identify him.
“Who is this with him?”
“That… is New York State Senator Marvin Greene having a power brunch with Vladimir Shirokov.”
Bollier felt a numb, tight, sinking sensation in her chest like her breastplate was caving in. She picked up the photo
and stared at the State Senator, and then up at Agent Clemons.
“We’re still working on the connection but the fact that Greene is meeting with
Shirokov in broad daylight is about the most unsettling thing that I’ve seen in this office ever. When you came in here you told me that you needed a favor. Now you do one for me…”
Agent Clemons closed the folder and returned it to the chaotic slush pile of evidence threatening to overrun the office like a feral weed. He sat down next to Bollier and put his hand on her shoulder.
“Be careful out there.”
Walking out of the FBI offices in Kew Gardens, detective Bollier was shaken to the core. On the way to the parking garage she felt a lurch in her stomach and barely made it to the trash can in time to throw up. Bollier told herself it was because she’d had so much strong black tea on an empty stomach but recognized the lie immediately for what
it was. If a State Senator could be bought the next logical jump could explain why the District Attorney wanted Jordan Ross to be found and brought in so badly. Bollier dismissed the idea as ludicrous, paranoid. She had a job to do and indulging in that kind of nihilism would not help anything.
Bollier gathered herself together and put a breath mint in her mouth, then boarded the elevator which took her up to the fourth level of the parking garage. The sound of her high heels on the concrete echoed through the whole floor.
The new Taurus on loan from the precinct was parked at the end of the main aisle, facing east to the outside. Bollier clicked the button on her keychain which unlocked the trunk and sprung it open. When she reached the car Bollier tossed her purse in and closed the trunk. For a moment she stood there, watching the gray peaks of Manhattan’s mountainous skyline, tracing the lazy flight of a sea gull riding a current of wind out over the bay.
A hood pulled down over
Bollier’s eyes and two strong pairs of men’s hands grabbed her arms from behind. She kicked out and managed to scream “NO” just once before the chloroform seeped into the hood sent the detective into a bright warm oblivion.
Detective Leslie Bollier woke up
to the sound of broken French being spoken. Her eyes opened to a world of complete darkness and for a minute of consuming horror Bollier believed that she had been poisoned and gone permanently blind. A hand removed the hood covering her head and Bollier took stock of her surroundings. She was restrained to a metal folding chair by both hands and feet, and a gag was fitted to her mouth.
Several tall men in leather jackets were circling her in the interior of what looked like an abandoned warehouse. Tin barrels were stacked five deep and two high around the walls. The roof was forty to fifty feet high, crossed by iron beams and ringed by a scaffold all the way around.
Smoking cigarettes, more men patrolled the scaffold carrying automatic weapons. There were no windows anywhere to be seen. Inside the warehouse the air was cold, a crisp draft coming in from somewhere. Zip tie handcuffs bound her hands together behind her back. Bollier tried rubbing her palms together to get the blood flowing and warm them up but it wasn’t easy.
Out of the din of conversation, a jovial voice rose above the others.
“Detective! I am so glad to finally be meeting you.” Vladimir Shirokov approached from Leslie’s left, spreading his arms wide and suddenly shouting “WELCOME TO STATEN ISLAND” as if it were a magical kingdom of wonder, wizards, and unicorns.
Bollier mumbled through the gag but nothing intelligible came out.
“Oy. How rude of me. Leonid. Please you remove this thing so that the detective and I can have a pleasant conversation together.”
A husky Russian with a diamond pinky ring on each hand came over and freed the ball gag from detective
Bollier’s mouth. She coughed and tried to lick the dirty rubber taste out.
“I would offer you water to clear your throat but I’m afraid is not so clean here.”
“Vodka will do.”
Shirokov’s
face brightened at that. He seemed genuinely delighted by Bollier’s spunk.
“That it will. Of course. Leonid. Fetch the Smirnoff and pour us each a glass.”
While he was waiting for his lackey to retrieve the vodka Shirokov commanded another one to pull up a chair next to Bollier. When it was set up for him he hitched up his pants and sat down, spreading his legs wide and leaning one arm over the back of the chair. Leonid walked like he was muscle bound. He poured a glass and handed it to his boss, and then poured another and lifted it towards the detective’s mouth. Shirokov raised his glass in a toast.
“Cheers.”
Bollier tipped her head back and let Leonid pour the vodka onto her tongue. For a second she considered spitting it out in Shirokov’s face, but that would have accomplished nothing but a waste of perfectly good vodka, so she swallowed. It was not good but anything was better than the aftertaste of the rubber ball gag.
“So. We have as you can imagine some business to discuss…” From a fold within the confines of his sports jacket,
Shirokov produced a long slender flaying knife. Bollier wondered absently how he had managed to carry it around without cutting his ribs. “Now. Tell me if you will, please, where I can find this man. This former army man named… Mister Jordan Ross.”
The Russian boss spoke the name like it was a grave curse, an incantation that could bring down rains of fire and fury from the heavens if uttered carelessly.
Bollier affixed Vladimir Shirokov with a cold gaze. For years she had been wishing for a chance to be up this close and personal with him, to look into the amber eyes of the man who killed her partner and see the truth; that he was nothing but a bully, a thug, a mindless infected mad dog frothing at the mouth with rabies. What she saw instead surprised her. The windows to Shirokov’s soul revealed a curious, perhaps even playful nature, someone who could have been an artist in another life. To Bollier’s mind this made him far more dangerous than a simple brute.
“I am waiting for you to
answer my question. I am waiting very patiently.”
Shirokov
waved the flaying knife in front of Bollier’s face and she flinched instinctively.
“I hope that you will tell me. You are a beautiful woman.
Even despite your best efforts to hide it beneath this…” Shirokov indicated her formal business attire with a wave of disgust, “… this drab sexless garment you wear, and with no makeup on your face. You try very hard to hide how beautiful you are detective, but it shines right through… I would hate to see that beauty go to waste.”
Using his fingernails, not the knife, he plucked at the bandage on
Bollier’s chin. Shirokov stripped it off, flung it aside and examined the scar she’d earned during the shootout on the bridge. He made a disappointed tisking sound.
“Such a shame. I will ask you one more time, detective. Where… is… Jordan Ross?”
Bollier watched as Shirokov’s steady butcher’s hands slowly stretched towards her face. The knife was gleaming an inch away from Bollier’s nose. She swallowed and made her answer.
“Leslie Bollier. Detective. New York Police Department. Badge number 4183.”
“
Shlula vokzal’naja
.” Shirokov spat and shook his head. He rose and folded the metal chair back up and handed it off to the husky Leonid, then Shirokov handed his blade to another Russian to hold while he removed his coat and rolled the sleeves of his button down up above his elbows. The hair on his forearms was long, dark and unruly.
“You should know that I did not want to do this. Yet you give me no choices.”
The other Russian offered Shirokov back his flaying knife, hilt first. With a sad sigh he took it from him and walked steadily towards Bollier. He seemed about to raise the knife to strike when one of the men patrolling the scaffold yelled something.
“
Avtorityet
!”
What little of the tongue Bollier knew was restricted to the most common words and phrases that
Shirokov’s gang used. This wasn’t much help since they preferred a bastardized mix of broken French, Russian, Ukrainian and English.
Avtorityet
was either a title of respect, like godfather, or an indication of his rank in the hierarchy, she wasn’t sure.
In mid strike
Shirokov paused and glanced over his shoulder quizzically. The man had a sub-machine gun strapped from his shoulder, an unlit cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in the other.
“
Da
?”
“
Il est le pakhan appelant
!”
The look on
Shirokov’s face changed abruptly from sad resignation to startled disbelief.
“
Est-ce vrai
?”
“
Oui
!”
For a
quiet and tense moment Shirokov swept a glance around the warehouse, regarding each of his men suspiciously, as if they might be hiding something. Up on the scaffold all of the Russians had stopped their rounds and stood watching. Leonid and the other men on the ground floor froze as well. A forklift driver in the corner cut the engine to his machine and sat idly.
Shirokov
walked into position directly under the machine gun man and made a motion for him to toss his cell phone down. Hesitantly, as if the phone were a precious and delicate gem, the Russian leaned over the rail and let the phone slide from his hand. Shirokov snatched it out of midair and slowly brought it to his ear. He listened for a second and answered in English.
“Hello?”
Bollier could not hear a voice on the other end. Either the volume on the speaker was turned too low or whoever was calling had a mild manner of speaking. The air had gotten so thick in the warehouse that Bollier could almost feel it as she breathed, some invisible but tangible presence filling her throat.
Still holding the flaying kni
fe, Shirokov caressed the ivory handle with his thumb and forefinger, a nervous gesture, entirely unconscious Bollier suspected.
“No. Give me one minute,”
Shirokov brought the phone down and pressed it against his chest. He turned to Bollier and almost apologetically excused himself to take the call. “Excuse me if you please, detective. I am afraid I must take this in private.”
Briskly
Shirokov walked away to the far side of the main floor towards an exit sign that hung over a door. He opened it and disappeared into wherever it led. The Russians milling around all broke into a chorus of chaotic whispers. Bollier tried her best to listen and translate in her head but she was still groggy from both the chloroform and vomiting up everything in her stomach at the parking garage. Recalling the events leading up to the warehouse, Bollier was struck by the audacity of it. Abducting an active homicide detective from the parking garage next to an FBI field office was so bold, so reckless, so utterly, unthinkably stupid that in a way it was actually genius. Bollier’s grandfather had been a captain in the British Special Air Service when he met her grandmother in Bretagne. His prize possession was a service medallion of a dagger bracketed by wings, with the phrase WHO DARES WINS written below the blade. When he died he passed the medallion down to his favorite granddaughter, Leslie, who kept it tucked away in a safe deposit box at the bank.
These Russians certainly had daring to spare and yet this seemingly random telephone call had scared them to the bones. What was going on?
…
Vladimir
Shirokov stepped through the doorway and found himself in a dimly lit stairwell. He did not like the way that the sound of his steps echoed up through the chamber. He did not want any of his words to be overheard, so he began climbing upward. When he reached the upper floor Shirokov found an empty room that had been a foreman’s office in a former life. Rusty filing cabinets and a single wooden desk were the only furnishings. Once he made sure that he was alone Shirokov locked himself in and took the call.
“
Pakhan?”
“
Vlade. Are you alone?”
The voice on the other end of the line was calm, deceptively serene. Never once since
Shirokov had the ink of the rose burned into his chest had he heard the voice rise in anger. It was measured and even always.
“Yes.”
“I am speaking to you from long distance as you know so I will make this short. You are holding a woman in our Staten Island location. A detective woman named Bollier.”
A shadow passed over
Shirokov’s face and he was grateful that none of his men were around to see it.
“How do you know this?”
“You will let this woman go.”
Anger was rising to the surface.
Shirokov prided himself on maintaining a cool, collected veneer even when he flew into homicidal rages, especially when he flew into homicidal rages. But this meek and mellow voice somehow always managed to crack the ice. Shirokov dared to repeat himself.
“How do you know I am holding this woman? Who is telling you this?”
“Vlade…” the voice warned, almost turning sharp for a second, “you will let this woman go. Already you have drawn much attention to yourself while chasing this army man, too much attention. There are more important considerations than this. You are to release this woman unharmed and return her to any location which she so desires. Understood?”
Shirokov
crept up to a filmy window next to one of the filing cabinets and glanced outside. He heard the horn of a ferry bellow out as the vessel departed from the Bay street dock. Hudson Bay was hidden beneath a blanket of impenetrable fog. He searched the horizon, eyes flitting from gray shore to bleak sky, seeking an answer to the unfathomable reach of the voice and finding none. With some effort, he swallowed his pride.
“Yes
pakhan
, understood.”
The call ended. Just for morbid curiosity’s sake,
Shirokov punched the keypad and brought up the recent call log. Restricted was the only information available for the last incoming call. Shirokov slid the smart phone shut and cussed.
“
Mne pohui
.”
…
Bollier’s sense of time was distorted by the lack of natural light in the warehouse. How long had she been unconscious after the Russians slipped the hood over her face? How long ago was it that Shirokov went off to answer the mysterious phone call? Five minutes? Ten? She did not have any inkling. The Russians to man had lit up cigarettes when their boss departed and Bollier was considering asking one of them for a smoke. Since she was unlikely to get out of this alive, Bollier figured she might as well partake in the nicotine even though it would mean surrendering a hard-earned seven years of sobriety. The warehouse was an enclosed space and she was getting the tar in her lungs anyway. Bollier was about to ask Leonid when Shirokov returned.
“Detective Bollier!” Her name echoed through the cavernous room.
Shirokov gave the machine gun man his phone back and started rolling up his sleeves.
“You must accept my apology. There has been a terrible misunderstanding.
This is quite embarrassing really. Leonid! Untie the detective, can you not see she is bound?”