White Russian Read online

  “Tempting,” Vic said. “But he'd be out in a couple hours, soon as his lawyer got downtown, and we'd waste more time on the paperwork than he would sitting in a cell. Nah, let him sweat where he is. I got ten bucks says he makes a move in the next twenty-four hours. The LT's got a couple units from Brooklyn staking out the place.”

  “No bet,” Erin said.

  Erin tried to get to sleep that night, but it wasn't easy. She kept replaying the confrontation with Vlasov, trying to think if she'd missed anything and to figure what would happen next. She should've frisked the bodyguards. She was sure they'd been armed, and there was no way they'd have valid licenses to carry. It wasn't much, but they could've pulled a couple of Vlasov's muscle guys onto the sidelines.

  She turned over on her bed and sighed. Rolf shifted and sleepily nosed at her. She rubbed the base of his ears.

  She didn't like it. Vlasov didn't give the usual signals of a criminal facing down a cop. Maybe Vic was right and he was just a bully, but she wasn't so sure. Carlyle had warned her about the Russians, more than once, and he was a man who didn't waste his words. In this, she trusted the Irish mobster's instincts more than her fellow detective's.

  So what would Vlasov do? If they'd spooked him, he'd either make a run for it or he'd lash out. She wouldn't put it past him to have one of his guys take a shot at her or Vic. Vic had identified them by last name, but their addresses and phone numbers were unlisted, to prevent exactly this sort of thing. And Vlasov's gang’s activities were confined to Little Odessa. It wasn't like they had their fingers in Manhattan. Then, O'Reilly wasn't the most uncommon name in the NYPD. He wasn't about to turn up on her doorstep.

  If that was all true, why was she worried? She felt really jumpy, like a dog when a thunderstorm was on the way. She opened her nightstand drawer and verified that her Glock was within easy reach.

  “Stupid,” she muttered. A two-bit pimp wasn't about to declare war on the NYPD. She wondered what her dad would think of her, jumping at shadows and staring at the ceiling at midnight.

  She put an arm around Rolf. She’d never admit it at the precinct, but it sure was nice having a partner she could cuddle. His furry body gave her the reassurance her own thoughts couldn't, and she gradually drifted off.

  Chapter 13

  They spent the next day building a file on Peter Vlasov. Jones worked her computer magic and found out that, in addition to Matrushka's Restaurant, Vlasov owned two nightclubs and probably ran an online escort service.

  “Hard to tell for sure,” she said. “But the IP address goes to the apartments over the restaurant, and I'll bet the whole place is full of his guys. I'm guessing some of the hookers live up there too, or at least do their business on site.”

  “Can we get a warrant, you think?” Webb asked.

  Jones shook her head. “We can run it by Vice, see what they say, but this is way too thin. I mean, everybody knows online escorts are prostitution fronts, but they've got just enough legal cover that we can't move without proof of illegal activity. The best thing to do is probably to set up a sting, send in an undercover.”

  “I'll ask Vice for a guy,” Webb said. “But that'll take time.”

  “I could do it,” Vic said.

  “Not a chance,” Webb said, before Erin could open her mouth to say the same thing. “You've been face-to-face with Vlasov, and plenty of his guys may have seen you. You'd get made the instant you stepped inside.”

  “What about the nightclubs?” Erin asked.

  “Nothing there, either,” Jones said. “They're legitimate businesses. Probably fronts for the prostitution biz, but again, we can't prove it. The guy's slick.”

  Web sighed. “Sting it is,” he said. “I'll call Sergeant Brown.”

  Brown agreed to put one of his undercover officers on the case, but warned it would take a couple of days to get him into action. They didn't want to rush it and risk the guy's safety. In the meantime, Jones worked Vlasov's financials, looking for a hit. Vic called the Russian consulate to see if he could get any movement on Vlasov's Russian police files. He was on the phone for an hour and a half, first in English, then Russian. Finally, he hung up, stared at his desk for thirty seconds without speaking, then clenched his fists and hammered them on the desktop.

  “No good?” Erin said. She'd been scanning police reports for any sign of Ludmila Petrovna, hoping the girl might've been stopped by a Vice sweep, or maybe had some other minor infraction. Anything that could show a connection with Vlasov or any of his guys. Once they had a link, they could get their warrant. Then they might find weapons, get DNA samples, find the hard evidence that could close the case.

  “They've assured me my request will receive special consideration,” Vic said. “Don't hold your breath.”

  “Sure would be easier if we could do it like the old KGB,” Jones said to him.

  He snorted. “You mean, put Vlasov in the basement and pull out his fingernails? You think that'd work on a guy like him? These guys wouldn't talk to the Russian police, and they won't talk to us. You can't beat a confession out of Russian Mafia. That's fighting by their rules, and they're better at it than us.”

  “Besides which, it's against the law,” Erin said. “And just wrong.”

  “O'Reilly's right,” Webb said. “And the last thing we need is a soundbite like that, so can it. Even in the department. This is a clean office, and we're keeping it that way.”

  Jones grinned at Erin. “Guess that's the problem with being on the side of the angels, huh?”

  The day slipped away in a haze of computer reports and research. A little after five, they packed it in. Nothing had happened.

  Erin went by Vic's desk. “You want to grab a drink on the way home?” she asked.

  “I could use one,” he said. “This is giving me a headache.”

  “Count me in, too,” Jones said.

  The three of them, with Rolf in tow, went to a cop bar called Anonymous Tips just down the street from the precinct house. Erin got a Guinness, Vic had a screwdriver, and Jones went with a strawberry daiquiri.

  “Daiquiri,” Vic said. “You sure that isn't too manly for you? Maybe get a virgin Bloody Mary instead?”

  “Okay, Vic I admit it,” said Jones. “Your dick is bigger than mine. Slightly.”

  Erin had chosen the wrong moment to swallow, and almost choked on her beer.

  The one drink turned into two, then three. All of them were glad to get out of the office and relax a little. Jones turned out to be a lot of fun off-duty, tossing one-liners back and forth with the others. Even Vic's sour mood was gradually improving. They ordered burgers and fries. The sun went down outside, and they hardly noticed.

  In the middle of a funny story from Jones's gang squad days, Vic's phone rang. He looked at the screen, then held up a finger to Jones and answered.

  “Hey there,” he said, smiling. There was a pause, then the smile fell right off his face. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

  Erin and Jones exchanged a worried glance. Erin put down her third beer, half-empty.

  Vic was still talking into the phone. “Okay. No, you need to get somewhere safe. Look, I'm in Manhattan, but I can be there in less than an hour. Hey, no, don't... it's gonna be fine. I'm on my way.”

  He hung up and shoved the phone into his pocket. “I gotta go.”

  “What's the matter?” Erin asked.

  “Anna's in some trouble,” Vic said. “Forget about it.” He started for the door.

  “Wait a sec!” Erin said. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Some guy spooked her at work,” he said. “She got scared. Just needs someone to hold her hand. It's fine, Erin. I've got this.”

  “We'll get your tab,” Erin said as he left. “You can get the next one.”

  “Who's Anna?” Jones asked.

  “Girlfriend,” Erin said.

  “No wonder he's in a hurry,” Jones said. “Y'know, it's always the big, tough guys who get wrapped 'round the girl's little finger.”<
br />
  “I hope she's okay,” Erin said.

  “Civilian problems,” Jones said. “I'm sure she's fine.”

  Erin picked up her beer again with a shrug. “You're probably right.”

  “So, how about you, O'Reilly?” Jones asked. “Your love life in good shape?”

  Erin laughed. “On life support. You don't even want to know about my last date.”

  “Disaster?”

  “You could say that,” Erin said, thinking about Corky Corcoran. “Nice enough guy, in his own way, but the whole thing kind of blew up in my face.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” Jones said. “I haven't gotten laid in months.”

  They nursed the drinks and kept talking. Jones had a lot of interesting things to say about working the gang task force. To Erin's surprise, she was an advocate for legalizing drugs.

  “Not in a free-for-all kind of way,” Jones said. “Regulated, like tobacco. We can't get the drug dealers off the streets, they just get replaced by new ones. And we can't stop people taking drugs, because people are basically idiots. So we try to keep them safer. Get health screening, clean needle availability, take the supply away from the dealers and put it in legitimate hands. I'm telling you, it'd break the power of eighty percent of the street gangs in North America.”

  “And give us ten million new addicts to deal with,” Erin said.

  Jones shrugged. “At least the prisons won't be full of them.”

  “You can't change the law just because people aren't obeying it,” Erin said.

  “Why not? We did with Prohibition,” Jones argued. “That's why we're sitting here drinking while our partner goes running off to save his damsel in distress, hopefully not picking up a DWI in the process.”

  “He was under the limit when he left,” Erin said. “He's a big guy and he wasn't drinking fast.”

  “Say, have you met this Anna chick?” Jones asked.

  “No,” Erin said. “But Vic seems to like her. She's a Russian girl, interested in him. She pretty much fell into his life, he told me. What's not to like?”

  “Hard to believe any girl would be that interested in him right away,” Jones said. “I mean, I'm not saying the guy wouldn't be attractive to the right girl, but the way he looks... God, your average girl doesn't go up to a guy like him and start chatting him up. Not if she's got self-preservation instincts. Erin, what's the matter?”

  Erin's mind was racing. “Shit,” she said. Everything had just fallen into place. She jumped out of her seat and fumbled for her phone. “Shit,” she said again, punching Vic's number.

  Jones put a hand on her shoulder. “Erin, what the hell is going on?”

  Erin ignored her.

  The phone beeped. Vic's voice came into her ear. “Vic Neshenko. Leave a message.”

  “Vic? This is Erin,” she said. “Listen, don't go to the meeting. It's a trap. Call me the second you get this.”

  “A trap?” Jones was utterly confused.

  “Come on,” Erin snapped. She tossed a couple of bills onto the table to cover their tab and ran for the parking lot.

  Jones followed. While Erin loaded Rolf into his compartment and got into her Charger, Jones hopped into the passenger seat, leaving her own car in its space. Erin peeled out, drawing an irritated honk from a taxi she cut off. Once she got on Broadway she turned on the siren and put the hammer down, flooring the accelerator.

  “Jesus Christ, Erin,” Jones said. “Will you just tell me what's happening?”

  “We were waiting for Vlasov's move,” Erin said. “This is it.”

  “Vic's girlfriend? What's she got to do with anything?”

  Erin couldn't explain completely. She just knew it made sense to her. She gave it her best shot. “Russian girl, lives in the same building with Ludmila. Vic's in Little Odessa, asking questions about the shooting.” A couple of cars and a panel truck were blocking their lane. She laid on the horn, siren still wailing. The truck slowly moved out of the way. She shot through the gap and kept hauling ass south. “This girl shows up out of nowhere, all interested in him. Now, right after Vic gets on Vlasov's case, she calls him and says she's in trouble, she needs him to come get her? No way it's coincidence.”

  “Why isn't he answering his phone?”

  “He must be in the tunnel,” she said. “No cell reception.”

  “I'll call Brighton Beach, get some uniforms,” Jones said.

  “And send them where? Vic didn't tell us where he was going!”

  “Then what the hell are we going to do?”

  Erin gripped the steering wheel, watching Lower Manhattan flash past them. “Try Vic's phone every couple minutes. We'll try to catch up to him on the way. At least we’ll be close when the shit goes down.”

  The tunnel slowed them down a little, with a crush of traffic that couldn't, or wouldn't, get out of their way. They lost their own reception under the river. Erin squeezed the steering wheel hard enough to leave finger marks. Rolf, picking up on his partner's mood, wagged his tail and whined quietly.

  The instant they cleared the tunnel on the Brooklyn side, Jones tried Vic again. “Nothing,” she said. “I dunno. Maybe he's in a dead zone.”

  “Keep trying,” Erin said. “No, wait. Call Dispatch, put Brooklyn on alert.”

  “Didn't I just say that?” Jones said.

  “Sorry. Little distracted.” Erin swerved around an oblivious minivan. She merged with 278 and kept screaming south.

  Jones shook her head and got on the horn to Dispatch, giving them the short version. Judging from her reaction, she wasn't getting much help. Jones sighed and disconnected. “They'll do what they can,” she said. “But Brighton Beach is pretty big. We've already got a unit by Ludmila's building. They're probably our best bet. They'll call if they see Vic. Does anyone know what this girl looks like?”

  “Vic does,” Erin said unhelpfully. She cut left onto the Ocean Parkway exit. A Camaro honked and crowded in on her, ignoring her flashers and siren. “How much paperwork would I need to fill out if I ran this asshole off the road?”

  “Too much,” Jones said. She was gripping the dashboard. “Do you really need to go this fast?”

  Erin didn't bother to answer. “Try Vic again,” she said instead.

  Jones did. “It's ringing,” she said. Then, a few seconds later, “It's still ringing. Does the stupid son of a bitch have it silenced?”

  “Okay,” Erin said, trying to think. “Call the precinct. Have them ping his phone and zero it in.”

  “On it,” Jones said. “Should've thought of that.”

  It took a couple of minutes to get through, but the good news was that once she did, she didn't have to wait for a trace. That was Hollywood bullshit. With a live phone tied to Vic's name, and with GPS info built into the signal, they had his location instantly.

  “He's at the corner of Brighton Beach Ave and Seventh,” Jones announced. She checked their own position. “Take Ocean all the way to Brighton Beach, hang a left under the train tracks.”

  “Got it,” Erin said. “Is he moving?”

  “Don't know. He might be at a stoplight.”

  “How close are we?”

  “A minute or so. Watch the turn. It'll be sharp.”

  Erin saw the train overpass ahead. She throttled down and swung into a hard left turn, tires screaming.

  Jones had her phone to her ear again. “Vic? Vic!” she shouted. “Hey! Where are you?”

  Startled, Erin fumbled the siren off so her passenger could hear. She left the flashers on and kept going.

  “Vic, you've got to get out of there right now!” Jones snapped.

  Vic's reply was so loud that Erin could hear it. “I'm fine! Anna, come on. We're leaving. What? Get down! NYPD!”

  “Shit,” Erin whispered. She heard gunshots.

  Chapter 14

  There were three distinct pistol shots, very close to Vic's phone. A man cried out. There was a crunch as the phone hit the ground. The connection went dead.

&
nbsp; Erin reflexively punched her radio. “Dispatch! 10-13, shots fired, Brighton Beach Avenue and Seventh!” She rattled the words off as she tried to push the Charger's accelerator through the floor. They were only a couple of blocks from the corner. The nearest streetlights were out. She could see muzzle flashes in the dark under the train tracks.

  “Erin!” Jones said, her voice pitched a little higher than usual.

  “Not right now,” Erin growled.

  “Erin, I don't have my vest!”

  Erin wasn't wearing hers, either. It was in the trunk of her car. She hadn't taken the time to get it out before they started driving. Rolf, of course, wasn't wearing his. They'd been relaxing after work, for Christ's sake, not gearing up for World War III.

  No time to take care of it. She scanned the shadows, trying to figure out what was going on. There were at least three shooters and the muzzle flashes were big. Those weren't handguns. The men were using automatic rifles.

  “Get the rifle,” Erin snapped at Jones. She had an AR-15 in the car, though she'd always been better with her Glock. At least the bad guys were still shooting, which meant Vic was probably still alive.

  Jones grabbed the rifle. Then they were on scene and there was no more time to think. Everything was action, training, and reflexes.

  Erin slammed on the brakes, bringing the Charger squealing to a stop, angled half onto the sidewalk. She hadn't turned off the flashers, and the car was attracting all kinds of attention. Even as she unbuckled her seat belt and opened her door, she saw the flash of gunfire to her front. In a strange slow-motion daze, she saw a ragged line of bullet holes chew their way diagonally across her windshield. The first one was at the height of her eyes, but the recoil of the rapid fire pulled the follow-up shots higher, tracing an arc just over her head.

  She had her door open. She slid sideways onto the asphalt, keeping the door panel between her and the shooter. Erin was uncomfortably aware that the door might stop a pistol round, but an assault rifle would punch right through. It was better than nothing, but not much. At least being behind the headlights would make it difficult for the bad guys to pick her and Jones out as targets.