Rogue Angel 51: The Pretender's Gambit (9 page)

“Of course not.”

“Then I need to talk to someone who can name a person like that. Give me the name of someone I can talk to about Maurice who might know who killed him.”

Yelena crossed her knees and leaned forward. She looked nervous as she smoothed her dress. “Perhaps you are right.”

“I’m hoping I am.”

“But you must understand, these men you are talking about, they are very dangerous men. Men who have killed. Men who would not hesitate to kill again.”

“Do you think men like that will talk to the police?” Annja knew the answer before she even asked the question.

“No. Pride alone would keep them from communicating with the police. These men are still Russian, you understand? They may have lived in New York for thirty or forty years, but in their minds they are still Russian. They will trust no one.” Yelena shook her head and shrugged. “Not all of them are immediately dangerous. Perhaps there are a few you may speak with.”

“If I could get those names, I would appreciate it.”

“You may wish to thank me after you meet them.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Do not automatically believe this is true.” Yelena hesitated a little longer and Annja waited her out. Talking to the Russian criminals might be a dead end, but she had nothing else to pursue at the moment. “Let me tell you about Leonid Klykov…”

Chapter 11

At first glance to the casual observer who was passing through the neighborhood, the small neon sign over Buba’s Bar looked like it had been misspelled, but Annja knew it was supposed to be Buba, which was the diminutive of “bubbala,” or “bubeleh,” and not Bubba’s Bar. The Yiddish term was used to address older women with fondness. Originally it had referred to midwives and grandmothers in Slavic cultures. It was also used as a term of endearment.

Waiting for traffic on the street corner where the cab had let her out, Annja had to smile.
Grandmother’s is a den of inequity. Who knew?

The redbrick building stood four stories tall. The bar occupied a small space between a florist and a falafel shop. A faded green awning stuck out over the sidewalk, creating a narrow ribbon of shade in the noonday sun. The small windows offered only a peek inside the place, and much of that space was taken up by handmade signs advertising specials.

When the light changed, Annja hit the crosswalk. On the way over in the cab, she had pulled up a quick background of Leonid Klykov on her tablet. Back in the 1970s, Klykov had gotten arrested for a number of things, and finally took a nine-year fall for racketeering. According to the reporter who’d covered the case, business had gone on as usual for Klykov and his old life was waiting for him when he finished his sentence.

Annja knew Bart would not be happy if he found out what she was doing, but she felt certain she could get in under the radar on the visit.

When she stepped through the front door of Buba’s, the warmth of the bar gusted over her, carrying the smells of beer and borscht and fresh bread. She stood there and just enjoyed the bread smell, realizing how hungry she was.

Small tables crowded the tiny floor space at the front of the bar. A few stools lined the bar, and a large-screen television, apparently the only modern convenience in the place, hung on the wall in one of the darkened corners. A horse race was in progress, the shrill ring of the starting gate opening echoed throughout the bar and the thunder of hoofbeats and the excited banter of the announcer followed it.

Several old men sat at the tables. A few younger men sat in the corners of the bar and watched with the hard eyes of wary bodyguards.

An old, bald bartender in a prim shirt and tie wiped his hands on his waist apron and came from behind the bar. He put on a nice smile and his heavy cologne arrived before he did.

“May I help you?” His English was good enough, but heavily accented.

“I’d like to speak with Leonid Klykov if I could, please.”

The bartender hesitated, letting Annja know one of the old men was probably Klykov, but she hadn’t a clue which one he would be. Yelena had offered very little in terms of a description, and the most recent photographs Annja had found of the man on the internet were from the 1980s. Klykov stayed out of the public eye.

One of the bodyguards stubbed out a short black cigarette in a tray at the bar and came over. He was almost six and a half feet tall, broad shouldered and wearing his black hair cut nearly to his scalp. Edges of tattoos showed above the collar of his turtleneck. He wore a shoulder holster with a semiautomatic snugged under his left arm.

“It’s okay, Semyon. I got this.” The newcomer’s accent was mostly out of the Bronx with a hint of Slavic. His dark eyes were hard, and he smiled like a predatory beast as he ran his eyes over Annja.

Annja waited for his eyes to meet hers again. “You’re not Leonid Klykov.”

He smiled again and held out a hand. “Gimme your purse.”

“I’m not carrying a purse.”

That confused the guy for a minute, and it made a couple of the old fellas in the back crack up.

“That’s right, Georgy. You get her straightened out.”

Georgy waved with his free hand. “Gimme the backpack.”

“Why?”

“Because I said.” He lowered his voice and put more threat into his words.

“No.”

Cursing, Georgy reached for Annja’s backpack strap. Annja captured his arm, rotated it and pulled to get him to bend forward, then she spun sideways toward him and threw an elbow into his face. Georgy stumbled back and reached for his pistol, but Annja got there first and pulled the weapon free. He growled at her and tried to grab her. She backed away and kicked him in the crotch. When he stumbled, she spun to the side and slammed the pistol into the back of Georgy’s head.

Already unconscious, the big man fell face-first toward the tiled floor. Before he hit, Annja held up the 9mm at chest level, pressed the magazine release and worked the slide to eject the bullet, then dropped them. Gun, magazine and bullets all hit the floor just a heartbeat after Georgy.

Several of the other bodyguards had weapons in their hands at that point, all of them aimed at her.

Annja kept her hands up at shoulder level. “I just came here looking for Leonid Klykov. I didn’t come here to be manhandled.”

A group of four old men in the back started laughing out loud and pointing at the bodyguard on the floor.

“Hey, Leonid,” one of them hooted, “I think you are paying Georgy too much.”

An old man with neatly cut gray hair and a short goatee frowned. He was short and had a small pot belly. His dark green eyes remained focused on Annja. He wore a light brown suit that didn’t advertise wealth, but Annja knew from how the suit fit it had been tailored. He rolled a toothpick in his teeth.

“What do you want with Leonid Klykov?” the man asked.

Annja remained standing where she was but she put her hands down at her sides. “To talk.”

“About what?”

“Maurice Benyovszky.”

The man nodded. “That is a sad subject. Why would you want to talk about that poor man?”

“I’m trying to find out who killed him.”

The man shrugged. “Why? Even if you find the killer, Maurice Benyovszky will still be just as dead.”

“Something was stolen from him.”

“Ah.” The man nodded. “So this thing that was stolen belonged to you?”

“No.”

“Then what is your interest in this endeavor?”

“If I find the thing that was stolen, then I’ll probably find Benyovszky’s killer.”

“Again, Maurice will still be dead.”

“But the property that was stolen can be returned to its rightful owner.”

The old man lifted his eyebrows. “Someone hired you to do this thing?”

“No.”

Lifting a hand to his face, the old man scratched at his goatee. “I do not see why you would trouble yourself in this matter.”

“Can you help me, Mr. Klykov?”

Klykov picked up a glass of beer at his elbow and sipped. “Nor do I understand why you would trouble me.”

“I was told you were Benyovszky’s friend.”

“That would be between me and Maurice, and no business of yours.”

“Mr. Klykov, if you know anything about Benyovszky’s murder, I would appreciate your help.”

“You are police. I don’t help police.” Klykov turned his back to her and lifted his beer once more.

“I’m not the police.” Annja started to take a step forward. Frustrated, she decided she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Unfortunately, the other bodyguards still had their weapons in hand and flipped off the safeties. She froze. “Please, Mr. Klykov. If you can help, I wish that you would.”

One of the other men at the table leaned forward and whispered into Klykov’s ear. The old Russian gangster listened, then reached under his jacket as he turned to face her.

Annja’s heart sped up as she thought maybe Klykov was going to deal with her himself.

But the old man only pulled out a pair of glasses and slipped them on. He blinked at her, then smiled broadly. “You are Annja Creed! The chaser of monsters in history!”

Feeling somewhat relieved, but still not certain how everything was going to turn out, Annja smiled and nodded. “I am.”

“Come! Come!” Klykov waved her over to his table. The other men shifted around to make room and one of the bodyguards brought over an extra chair after the old gangster ordered him to. The guns were also put away.

Annja slipped out of her backpack, placed it beside the seat and sat.

“I love your show.” Klykov smiled hugely. “I save them all on my DVR and watch them.”

“That’s awesome.” Annja felt awkward sitting there and didn’t know what to do about it. “Did you know Benyovszky?”

“Maurice? Sure, sure. For a long time. He was one of us.” Klykov motioned to the bartender. “Semyan. Get the lady something to drink.”

Annja asked for a water with lemon. “Did you know about his business?”

“I did. Maurice was very industrious, very knowledgeable about old things.”

Annja took her phone out, thanked Semyan for her drink when he placed it on the table and pulled up a picture of the elephant. “Can you tell me anything about this?”

Klykov adjusted his glasses and peered at the image. “It’s an elephant?”

“Yes, it’s an elephant.” Annja felt her hopes dwindling.

“Then I can tell you it’s an elephant.”

“Maurice never mentioned it to you?”

“Maurice mentioned lots of things. He would talk all day, that one, if you let him.”

One of the other men, a man with a smile made crooked by an old scar along his jaw that pulled his lips down, chimed in. “This is the elephant Maurice was talking about last week. The one he said was going to make him a lot of money.”

Annja turned her attention to the speaker. “Do you remember anything else Maurice said about the elephant?”

The man gave the question some thought and stroked his scarred jaw. “He said it was an
old
elephant and he was gonna make bank on it.” He shrugged. “That’s all I got.”

Stymied, Annja sipped her water and tried to think of her next course of action. All of her leads had dried up. She wondered if Bart had discovered anything new.

“Tell me something.” Klykov ran a finger along his nose. “How was Maurice killed?”

“You don’t know?”

Klykov burst out laughing and the other men joined him.

“This is trick,
da
?” the old gangster asked. “You try to entrap me?”

“No. I just thought you might have heard.”

“No. Only Maurice, his killer and the police know how he was killed. That news has not reached the street or been on television.”

Annja speculated if telling Klykov and his cronies that information would affect Bart’s case.

“She is being careful, this one,” the scarred man said. “She is very smart.”

“Obviously she is smart,” Klykov said. “She has a television show.”

“Just because you have a television show doesn’t mean you are smart,” one of the other men said. “Look at some of those crazy reality shows. All my nieces and nephews watch them. They are not so smart on those shows, and they are not so smart in their lives.”

“Well,” Klykov said undaunted, “Annja Creed is smart.” He flicked his gaze back at her. “Tell me how Maurice was killed.”

After another, briefer, hesitation, Annja described the means by which Benyovszky was murdered.

“Ah.” Klykov leaned back in his chair. “Someone Maurice knew. Someone who likes to use a hammer in his kills.” He pursed his lips. “Would you like to know who this malefactor is?”

“Yes.” Excitement thrummed through Annja’s body.

“Then we must work out a trade.”

“A trade?” She thought for a moment that he was kidding her, but then she saw that he was deadly serious.

“Of course a trade. I am not going to do this thing for free. I have my reputation to think of.”

“What do you want?”

Chapter 12

Georgy took the box from the delivery guy who brought it into Buba’s. The delivery guy stood there looking annoyed. Georgy wasn’t in a good mood either. He’d woken up and discovered he was the butt of the other bodyguards’ jokes, kind of like Rudolph at the reindeer games, as one of the bodyguards had put it.

“Georgy,” Klykov called from the table. “Do not be a cheapskate. Pay the man for his troubles.”

Frowning, or maybe grimacing because he still had a large bump on the back of his head that an icepack hadn’t much helped, Georgy held the box in one hand and fished money from his pants pocket with the other. He gave the money to the deliveryman, who promptly made himself scarce.

“If you learn how to tip faster,” one of the other bodyguards called out, “maybe you’ll be in practice to pull your gun faster.”

Georgy snarled an oath at the man while the other bodyguards cracked up. Annja tried to hide her own smile. She’d actually been having a great time listening to the bodyguards rag on Georgy, and soaking up the stories Klykov and the other gangsters told about their misadventures back in the day. All of the old men were good storytellers. As it turned out, crime was a lot funnier than she’d ever imagined. And strangely enough, she thought Roux and Garin would have fit right in with the old gangsters.

Annja shoved aside the remnants of her meal as Georgy placed the box on the table. Klykov had insisted on ordering from the falafel place next door after Annja had inquired about getting something to eat. He had paid for everything and the meal was good.

Taking out a knife, Georgy flicked the blade open with his thumb and slid it along the wrapping tape.

“Back, back,” Klykov said, pushing the big man aside. “I’ve got this.” He stood and reached into the box, hauling out
Chasing History’s Monsters
T-shirts and Blu-ray collections. He parceled those around to his friends, grinning happily.

Annja still couldn’t believe the old gangster had demanded television swag for his information. All of the items were easily attainable from the show’s website. She waited till all of the items were distributed, including a T-shirt to Georgy, who actually seemed pleased but tried to hide it.

“All right,” she told Klykov. “I’ve held up my end of the deal. Do you know who killed Maurice?”

“Sure, sure. I knew as soon as you told me about the hammer. Maurice knew only one man that would kill him like that. It was Pavel Onoprienko.”

The name didn’t mean anything to Annja, but she typed it into her tablet PC after she asked how to spell it. The scar-faced man, his name was Pitor Serov and he was a grandfather to four little girls whose pictures he loved to show off, leaned in and gave her the correct spelling. Klykov hadn’t known.

“How do you know it was Onoprienko?” Annja got immediate hits on Pavel Onoprienko, known also by his sobriquet Pavel the Gavel. The reason for that followed almost directly.

“Because Onoprienko has a history of killing with hammers.” Klykov frowned as though troubled. “He is a deeply disturbed man. Would you like me to take you to him?”

Annja quickly scanned through the information she’d gotten on the man. Onoprienko had a long history of violence. He’d only gotten out of prison a few weeks ago. If Klykov was correct in his assumption, and she felt that he was, Onoprienko would be headed back to prison.

“Do you know where Onoprienko is?”

Klykov shrugged. “I can make a few calls, if you would like.”

Annja didn’t hesitate. “Please.” She only briefly considered calling Bart and telling him what she was doing, but she had the definite feeling that Klykov would not cooperate with the police no matter how much television swag was offered.

And there was a chance that Onoprienko was not guilty no matter what Klykov said. Calling Bart, until she knew for certain, would only deflect the ongoing investigation.

Klykov took out his cell phone and started punching in numbers.

* * *

S
ITTING
IN
A
tiny cybercafe across the street from the bar he had tracked Annja Creed to, Rao sipped hot tea and waited. He had gotten lucky when he’d returned to the apartment building where Benyovszky had lived. If the archaeologist had not been there, he hadn’t known what he was going to do. She was his closest lead to the elephant.

But she had been there, and he had tracked her to the building where the fortune-teller lived. Now she was across the street. Rao didn’t know who she was talking to, but he knew the woman had not given up on finding the elephant. The fact built up his confidence at the same time as it filled him with trepidation. He needed to pick up the elephant’s trail himself and find out if the legends about the Eye of Vishnu were correct.

Even if they weren’t, even if the power of the eye wasn’t real, there could still yet be so much recovered that had been thought lost.

“Hey, bro. You got any change you could donate to a worthy cause?”

Rao turned toward the three young men that approached him. He had marked the three of them when they’d entered the cybercafe and had known they could pose trouble. He’d made certain he never had eye contact with them, choosing to remain quiet and small.

The tactic hadn’t worked primarily because there were so few people in the cybercafe. All of the other clientele were teenagers playing computer games.

There was no “worthy” cause. The men were there to rob him.

“I think I can help you.” Rao reached into his pocket and took out twenty-three dollars, all that he had left when a man had tried to mug him earlier. After he had knocked the would-be mugger out, Rao had taken the man’s clothes as well, switching the unconscious man out with the orange jail jumpsuit. Rao placed the money on the table before him.

Money didn’t concern Rao. Finances were the least of his worries with the temple behind him.

The tallest of the three men picked up the folded bills and flipped through them. As he totaled the amount, his lips moved. “Twenty-three bucks, that’s it?” He didn’t sound happy.

“It is all I have,” Rao said truthfully. He hoped they would believe him and leave him in peace. He did not want to give up his observation post.

The man squinted at Rao doubtfully. “I don’t think this money is all you have. You’re holding out on us, man, and we don’t like that.”

“I have no more money. Please take that and go.”

At the check-in counter, the clerk watched anxiously as he stood with his cell phone clutched in one hand. He was in his middle years, shaggy headed and wearing a heavy-metal T-shirt with the name of a band that Rao was familiar with from his days at university.

“Can’t do it, ” the tall gang member said. “This ain’t enough to even get us some burgers.”

“If I had more, I would give it to you.”

“Let’s see if that’s true. Stand up and lemme see.” The young man waved a hand at Rao.

Without a word, Rao stood. His clothing didn’t fit him properly. The shirt and jacket were too big, and the pants were too short, ending a few inches above his ankles.

“Empty your pockets.” The gang member waited as Rao did as ordered, turning up only a few coins.

“I ain’t believing it,” one of the other men said. “Guy’s gotta be hanging on to something. Nobody walks around that broke that ain’t got a credit card on them.”

The leader nodded. “That’s true. And why don’t you have any ID?”

Not having ID was going to be a problem. Rao knew he would have to contact the temple to work that out. He intended to do that as soon as he pieced together what Annja Creed was doing.

“It was stolen,” Rao replied. “This city is not a good place to live.”

The men laughed at that.

The guy leading the group stepped forward and seized Rao’s wrist. Rao let the man twist the arm behind him, but could not bear having the man put his dirty hands on him. Knowing precisely where the big man was by his stance and the way he held himself, Rao twisted out of the hold, caught a new one on the man’s arm, then chopped the man in the throat.

The man staggered back, reaching for his throat and panicking because he couldn’t breathe. The temporary throat paralysis would pass, but Rao didn’t want to wait for that. He dropped to his hands and swept the man’s legs out from under him with a foot. Then he rolled away and got to his feet in one lithe move.

His two companions tried to close ranks, slipping knives into their hands as they fell into striking stances. Rao dropped into a Crane stance, both his hands moving before him. The men hesitated, then rushed in.

Rao slapped the first man’s knife hand away with the back of his wrist and slammed a palm strike to his opponent’s chest. While the man struggled to catch his breath, Rao plucked the knife from his hand and spun behind the second man, who had overextended himself on his thrust.

Flicking the knife out, Rao fended off the man’s second thrust with the blade. Metal screamed and hissed as the knives met. Holding the man’s weapon at bay with his own, Rao lifted his left leg and drove his foot into the man’s face, driving him backward into another table.

The man fell on top of the table and tried to get up. Rao reversed the knife and whipped it down. The point nicked the man’s earlobe and nailed his hood to the table. Frightened, probably thinking he’d been stabbed, the man lay there and blinked rapidly.

Rao leaned over the man, invading his space. “Stay here.”

The man nodded.

Calmly, Rao pulled up the hood of his own jacket, reclaimed his money from the first man, who was still struggling for his breath while lying on the floor, and left the cybercafe. The café manager was talking rapidly on his phone.

Outside the café, Rao searched for another position that would allow him to observe the Russian bar when he noticed Annja Creed leaving the building.

Two old men walked with her to a cab. A younger man, obviously not happy with the situation, followed them, but one of the old men waved him away. Like a sullen pup, the young man walked back to the door of the bar and stood there with his hands folded up under his arms.

Spotting another cab coming down the street, Rao flagged the driver. He opened the rear door and slid into the backseat.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

Rao rolled his window down a little to allow fresh air into the vehicle. He nodded at the cab just pulling away from the curb in front of the Russian bar. “Follow that car.”

Without missing a beat, the cab driver reached over, flicked on the meter and eased into traffic.

“Do not lose them,” Rao said.