“But?” His gaze sharpened a little.
“Generally speaking, I don’t bring men back to you alive, and if he’s run… well, sir, I’m not a private investigator.”
“But you will,” he said.
There wasn’t a lot I could say to that. “Yes, sir.”
“Then I will tell you what I know of him.” The charge between us ebbed slightly. “The man you will be searching for is named Vincent Manelli.”
My eyebrows arched. It was not unheard of for people to move from one organization to another, but it was much rarer for blood family members to do so. “Manelli? A relation… one of John’s sons?”
“Yes. The youngest. Vincent humbly defected from his family in eighty-eight and became a critical ally of George Laguetta. He is a personal friend of the Santos Twins, the brothers who run the cartel in Cali that supplies our operation.” Lev rose again, pacing aimlessly. “The likelihood of Vincent’s return to his father is very low. George is the sole possessor of whatever sensitive matter drove Vincent out from his family in the first place, and he assures me that his return is impossible.”
“I see. When did you last speak to him?”
Lev paused, and briefly, his expression fell. “I only talked to him recently, yesterday. He was concerned about his safety, so I had my contact put him up with protection.”
My eyes flicked over Lev’s face, then down. While I was thinking about these things, I couldn’t watch people’s faces. They moved too much. “When you sent someone to his house to find out what was going on, was his bodyman absent?”
Lev’s whole face sharpened. “Yes.”
“Out of interest, was it Yuri? Yuri Beretzniy?”
Lev’s gaze bored into me with renewed focus. I could feel it, even if I wasn’t looking directly at him. “I know we call you Charivchik for a reason, Alexi, but didn’t know your ability extended to fortune-telling.”
“It doesn’t. If he disappeared from his home, it’s natural that his bodyguard would either have been killed or taken with him. Otherwise, he’d have informed you straight away.” I glanced up but couldn’t look at Lev’s face. I chased the breadcrumb trail of events with a sense of faint exhilaration. “Yuri was your bodyguard before Mikhail, a trusted resource. He is supposed to be on shift. The only reason he would accept a work assignment was if his charge was coming with him. Vincent was scheduled to meet with you while Yuri was on the floor, and they would have gone home together.”
“When you put it like that, it seems obvious, doesn’t it?” Lev’s voice held a hint of genuine regard. He folded his arms across his stomach. “Yes, you are correct. Yuri was guarding him, and neither of them were at Vincent’s house when the driver went to pick them up. He was to be assigned a safe house tomorrow. Do you think you could find him?”
It wasn’t really a request, and my reply wasn’t entirely truthful. I hate lying, and the honest answer was really “maybe,” but I knew fishing when I saw it. Lev was fishing for one answer, and one answer only. “Yes, sir.”
“Yes.” Lev smiled a tense smile. “You’ll be well paid for it. And incidentally, I should mention… Sergei will be back later this month.”
Lucky us. Even so, I was surprised to hear it. Lev seemed… glad. If I were Avtoritet in place of a ten-year-absent landlord, “glad” is not the response I would see myself having. “I see.”
“I intend to put in a good word for you to him.” Lev dipped his chin. “There will be something of a reorganization when I return the leadership.”
My heart lurched. That was as much a threat as a promise. Regard from Sergei was worth a great deal, and if anyone could wrangle it, it was Lev. By the same token, if I failed… well. I had failed Sergei once, and only once, and that had been enough for me to never want to do so again. “How much is Mr. Manelli worth?”
“Three hundred thousand to find Vincent. Another ten for Yuri.”
I blinked, once, and managed to control my expression. It was difficult. I didn’t care much for money—not, say, compared to something like Das Rote Buch. I’ve driven the same old Mercedes since Sergei gifted it to me on my eighteenth birthday. Three hundred grand was nearly ten times my normal fee.
“Well…” I cleared my throat in the pregnant silence that followed. “That is generous of you, Avtoritet. I will begin with the contact who helped arrange the money and safe house, if you will give me his details.”
“Her name is Jana Volotsya,” Lev said, as he went around the desk and took his seat. “Of Moskalysk, Volotsya and Goldstein.”
Chapter 5
The waiting room of Moskalysk, Volotsya and Goldstein enfolded my senses with cool, perfumed solace. I’d gone home after the meeting, tried and failed to sleep, and ended up throwing back three antacid pills with a cup of coffee and calling it a night. Mentioning Lev’s name got me a nine a.m. appointment, which left plenty of time to talk to Jana and hopefully get a proper day’s sleep.
The lawyers at Lev’s firm were rarely available to the public. He and the other two partners were constantly booked, with waiting lists that accepted no new clients. Their client list—Sergei, our bankers, and high-level American trustees—filled up their time with more than just court appearances.
Jana had a private consulting suite, and the door had a brass plate bearing her name and a shortened list of her degrees. Tetyana Volotsya. I read her full name over as I knocked, leather-covered knuckles thumping on wood. Six syllables that tripped nicely over the tongue.
“Let yourself in.” Her voice was faint through the walls.
Jana’s office was immediately, overwhelmingly white—white and cream and light beech wood. Poised, pale, and elegant, the attorney stood by a small beech-and-glass flower stand, dressing and arranging a bunch of fresh lilies, their waxen buds and petals still untouched by the heat of the day.
“Good morning, Mr. Sokolsky, a pleasure.” She turned her head and paused in what she was doing, smiling gracefully. Jana had a strangely proportioned, but not unattractive face, heart-shaped and strong-jawed, with green eyes a shade brighter than Lev’s. Her Russian was thick, a prominent American accent coloring her words. “Come in and take a seat. I won’t be long.”
I inclined my head stiffly and took the edge of a chair in front of her desk, cataloging the details of the room. It had the vaguely sterile feeling of a doctor’s office, with high shelves ironically laden with books on criminal law. Everything was built of light-colored wood; her desk was topped with a cream leather desk pad, and it was immaculate, no ink stains or pencil smears. Jana herself wore a pantsuit of the same eggshell color, with sharp shoulders and solid, low-heeled shoes. I found myself watching the back of her head while I waited for her to finish. Her flossy blonde hair was braided up in a coil like a girl’s, a tight halo around the back of her skull held firm with a tortoiseshell pin.
“There we go. Sorry… you caught me just as I had them out of the paper.” Jana took her seat in the other guest chair across from me like a counsellor, rather than behind her desk. The scent of the flower arrangement followed her passage, spreading the thick smell of lilies throughout the room. With her knees pressed together, her hands folded in her lap, she mirrored my pose. This piqued my interest immediately. I was dealing with someone who had trained in the art of manipulation for many, many years.
My gaze flickered down momentarily. A single ring—platinum—on the wrong ring finger. She had very clean nails, polished like the inside nacre of a seashell. “It is hardly a problem, Ms. Volotsya.”