The Final Fabergé (26 page)

Oxby and Yakov spoke in unison, “Yes, yes.”

Viktor opened the door cautiously until he could slip inside. He closed it and crouched low beside the chest of drawers. He expected a smaller room, but the larger one worked to his advantage. He judged he was nearly twenty feet from the trio. Karsalov was easily identified. He was seated, facing the windows. Viktor identified Yakov Ilyushin—he stood to the right of Karsalov. Then the policeman. Oxby's back was to Viktor.

Viktor made a quick assessment. He might be discovered at any instant, and his strategy was based on surprise. He must get his knife into Karsalov's chest, and have time to make a second strike. He would disable Ilyushin as he went for Karsalov; throw the old man to the floor, stun him. But he could not do the same with Oxby. To outmaneuver Oxby he must catch him completely off guard. Speed! He could not engage Oxby until he had killed Karsalov. It was a simple plan; hit fast, don't engage, run.

Oxby said, “Why a celebration, Vasily. What was it about?”

“It was for my new son. For Mikhail. My navy friends came and we gave toasts to Mikhail. We gambled and I lost the egg my father gave me. Was that bad?”

“Not at all,” Oxby assured him. “One of your navy friends won it?”

“I remember we were drinking. I was sick from the vodka. Then—”

“Think, Vasily. Think very hard. Who won it?”

Vasily turned his gaze away from the window. His eyes swept the room and then he saw a figure rise up from the floor and rush toward him. The man struck Yakov with a sharp glancing blow, sending him sprawling to the floor. Then Vasily saw the attacker's young face, his eyes glaring, then the knife. The knife came closer and he screamed as it was plunged into his chest. For Vasily Karsalov, the room exploded.

Oxby lashed out and jumped onto the assailant. But Viktor twisted free and lunged again at Vasily and drove the knife once more into his chest. He pulled it free, then raised his arm to strike again. Oxby rebounded, and with hands clenched together, crashed both of them into the side of Viktor's face, knocking Viktor to the floor. The knife fell between them. Oxby picked it up. Viktor rolled over onto his stomach, then pushed himself up and onto his feet. Oxby held his ground, crouched low, his legs spread wide, knees bent, his arms extended rigidly, the knife held tightly in his right hand. Viktor committed himself to fight and not run. Oxby adjusted slightly, just enough so that when Viktor plunged ahead, his head lowered, Oxby brought the knife in front of him. Viktor charged ahead, driving himself into the knife. He made a hideous and terrible yowl. The knife had pierced his right eye and was lodged there. The full length of the blade had penetrated his brain. He would never feel pain again. The heart was alive for seconds longer, then it, too, was dead.

Oxby rushed to Vasily's side. Blood had seeped out over his shirt and onto the pillows of his chair. He was breathing heavily, his eyes open.

“Yakov, go for help!” Yakov had been more frightened than hurt and went as fast from the room as only one good leg would allow.

Oxby tried to stop Vasily's bleeding but there were two deep wounds in the chest. The blade had missed his heart, but Oxby was certain it had cut an artery. He was unsure how to stanch the flow of blood other than to make bandages out of the bedsheet and press them tightly against the wounds.

As if the conversation had never been interrupted, Vasily said, his voice surprisingly strong, “I remember the gambling. There was Prekhner . . . and . . . Akimov, my good friend. Sasha knew my Anna . . . they were both . . . ” His voice trailed off.

“Who else was there?” Oxby asked.

Vasily's head shook slightly. “I'm cold.”

The room was a virtual oven. Oxby said, “Can you remember who won the Imperial egg?”

“After I was sent to this place I learned that he was not my friend.”

“Who is not your friend?”

“They made me guilty for what he did.”

“Who, Vasily? What is his name?”

“He killed someone that—”

Vasily's eyes flickered. “Tell Anna . . . and . . . Mikhail . . .”

“What shall I tell them?”

“That I am . . . sorry.”

“I will tell them.”

A trickle of blood came out of the corner of Vasily's mouth. Oxby wiped it away with the sheet. “Where is the egg, Vasily? Do you know where it is?”

Vasily's eyes flickered again and blood appeared again. His voice was weaker. “Are you here?”

Oxby applied more pressure on the bandages. “I'm here, Vasily. We'll have help soon.”

Then Vasily died. Oxby knew the moment his heart beat for the last time. Not because his fingers no longer felt a pulse, but because he sensed that the time had come. Oxby searched the pockets of the young man on the floor. There was no wallet but he did find a hotel key. There was also money in three currencies, cigarettes, and a pocketknife that in the hands of an expert could do considerable damage.

Oxby sat on the edge of the bed and looked sadly at the blood and death in front of him. Who was the killer? There was a chance he would learn the answer. What of Vasily Nikolaiyvich Karasalov? Before, when he had spoken out, no one paid attention. Now someone would.

I
t took twelve days, but the last balloon finally came unstuck from the ceiling in the Carson Motors showroom and floated ungraciously down and onto the desk of Georgia Gradowski at the precise moment she was closing the deal on a Cadillac Seville STS equipped with OnStar.

Above her, in his office on the mezzanine, Mike Carson was meeting with two police detectives. Peter Crowley was every bit as brash and impudent as on the day when he and Mike had met in the North Shore University Hospital ten days before. Standing beside him was Alexander Tobias, Detective Sergeant, Major Case Squad, NYPD. Tobias was experiencing the painful sight of watching a fellow officer make a fool of himself as well as destroy the hard-earned reputation deserved by most respectful and conscientious policemen.

“The guy dies from an overdose of whatever the hell it was,” Crowley said as if he had single-handedly discovered the Rosetta stone. “No surprise to me. Those Ruskies don't fool around. Right, Alex?”

“Whatever you say,” the older detective responded. Alexander Tobias was a man in his mid-fifties, slightly on the portly side with salt-and-pepper hair, a kind, round face plus an authentic New York accent.

Mike looked from Crowley to Tobias. He said, “Maybe one of you will tell me why both of you are here.”

“I'm here to close the book on your Russian buddy, Akimov,” replied Crowley. “The one that got boffed right here in this office.”

“He's dead. Doesn't that close it out?”

“We'd kinda like to know who shot him. Maybe you got some new ideas on that and would like to tell me about them. Besides, Alex here is looking into the shooting of the guy that interviewed you. What's the name? Sulzberger?”

“I've told you everything I know. Right now, I've got a business to run and—”

“And I've got my business to run, too, Mr. Carson. Just'cause you're a citizen doesn't mean you've got special rights to keep information from the police.”

Tobias leaned forward, his ruddy complexion a deeper shade of red than when he had entered Mike's office. “I don't hear Mr. Carson refusing to cooperate. The facts are that a friend was killed, an employee stabbed, and a journalist shot. That's a heavy load for anybody.”

“Hey look, I'm just doing my job. You asked me to meet here and turn over what I got on the shooting. So, I'm doing that. Okay?” He pitched a folder onto the table. “Copies in there of all we got.” Crowley faced Mike, tilted his head, and aimed a thumb at Tobias. “You want any more, see this guy.” At the door he turned, said, “See you around.”

Tobias watched him leave, slapped his hands together in mock applause. “I apologize for saying it, Mr. Carson, but that is what you call a perfect ass.”

“Ass, yes. Perfect, no.”

Tobias said, “I know you're busy but let me tell you why I'm here.” Mike was a good listener, and seemed to enjoy Tobias's gravelly voice and colorful speech.

“We're dealing with a major problem with the Russians,” Tobias said. “God knows, most of them are trying to get a new start over here. But there's a bad element that's found its way into every criminal activity where they can make a dishonest buck. Right now, the FBI's got a twelve-man force working on Russian organized crime. And, hell, that's just the New York office.”

There was no doubt that Mike preferred the company of Alexander Tobias to Peter Crowley. The older detective came complete with a comfort package and the clear impression he knew what he was doing. That was important to Mike. He said, “I'd like to hear what you think of the shootings.”

“Pretty lousy is what I think. You mean Lenny, or the Russian?”

“Lenny's going to be all right. But Sasha's dead. “You got any thoughts on that one?”

“Don't know enough to have any thoughts worth repeating. I'll tell you when I do.”

The phone rang. “No calls, Edie. I'll be tied up for . . .” He glanced at Tobias, who held up his hand, all fingers extended. “Five minutes.”

“Thanks,” Tobias said. He emptied Crowley's folder. “Here's a report from the Englewood PD that I received two days ago. And a copy of
the Akimov autopsy that confirms everything in the Englewood report. Crowley wrote a couple of paragraphs on a close-out file.” Tobias glanced at Mike. “So much for Peter Crowley.

“Let me see if I can give you an answer to your question about the shootings,” Tobias went on. “No conclusions, but a fast run-through of recent events might help both of us. Twelve days ago a Russian named Akimov was shot in this office by a young woman, and minutes later one of your employees was stabbed by a man. Both were wearing Carson Motors uniforms. Three days later Lenny Sulzerger was shot by a woman with a Russian accent and his notebook was taken. Two days after that, Akimov died from an overdose of sodium pentobarbital.”

“That's as simple as you can make it,” Mike said, “and I think it's all tied together. Do you agree?”

“I always leave myself some wiggle room, but there's no question those events are connected. The interesting wrinkle is that we have two eyewitnesses. You saw the woman who shot Akimov, and Sulzberger saw the woman who shot him. In fact he sat next to her in a restaurant and says he smelled her perfume. Swears he could make a positive ID.”

Mike said, “Akimov was transferred to the Englewood Hospital without a hitch. I saw him fifteen minutes after he arrived there. Everything seemed normal. But a few hours later, he's dead. How did that happen?”

“That one's pretty easy. The male nurse who took Akimov to the pre-op room says a nurse, or someone pretending to be one, was sweet-talking Akimov as if she was some kind of Russian Florence Nightingale. It seems she was the one who poked a needle in Akimov's IV tube and pumped a load of sodium pentobarbital into him.”

Tobias shoved Crowley's papers back into the folder. “Years ago I worked homicide, but now I leave that stuff to the young guys. These days I'm usually chasing after a stolen painting or an art forger. But some guys are on vacation and they threw this crazy ball in the air and damned if it didn't land in my lap. They think I should take a whack at it because I got the experience and have pals in Treasury and in the marshal's office.” He smiled. “That and a buck-fifty gets me on the E train.”

Tobias took a card from his shirt pocket and dealt it across the table to Mike. “Here's my phone and fax. Give a holler if something comes up. The Englewood police aren't interested in chasing down a Russian who might have killed another Russian. It's a family feud as far as
they're concerned. Nassau County has signed off because, technically, Akimov was killed in New Jersey. At least we don't have to put up with Peter Crowley anymore. The book is still open on who knifed Dennis LeGrande.”