“So then Nikita had little to offer you to clear his markers,” Hannibal said, shaking his head. “His death was pure and simple. A mob hit for unpaid gambling debts.”
“Nikita’s death was an accident,” Boris said, his voice now softer. “I did not hate the man, and you know you can’t collect from a corpse. We went to the roof to talk, Nikita and I and two of my associates from the firm. The conversation got rough. I had to discipline him. It was meant to be a beating, nothing more, to show him I was serious. He…” Boris paused for more labored breathing. “I didn’t know how sick he was. How weak he was. It seems his injuries took far more out of him than anyone suspected.”
“Oh, it was an accident, huh? I’m sure that made his widow feel better,” Hannibal said.
“I took care of Raisa.” Boris dropped his fist on the table with all the energy he had. It was a pathetic display of weakness that somehow made Hannibal feel a little better.
“She knew it was you,” Hannibal said, standing.
“She found out somehow,” Boris said. “Nikita left little money behind, but his wife blackmailed me for enough to keep her in her chosen lifestyle.”
Hannibal stood, hands in pockets, staring down at Boris in disgust. “And that’s why you had to kill her too.”
Boris rolled back from the table, his shadow just reaching Hannibal’s toes. He stared at his own knees, then held his palms wide and stared up into Hannibal’s face as if preparing himself for crucifixion.
“Look at me,” he said through clenched teeth, and then louder, “look at me. Who could I kill?”
Hannibal had to admit this truth. Within the last week Boris Tolstaya could have no more slipped into Raisa Petrova’s house to shoot her than he could have hunted Dani Gana down in Rehoboth Beach.
“Nikita’s death sounds more like manslaughter than murder, so why not just come clean and explain. Why should I keep your secret now? If you talk to the police, you can go to a decent facility where they can care for you properly.”
“You will keep my secret because you know that whatever the police know, Ivan Uspensky will know soon. He believes that Renata and I both know the location of the missing fortune. Even if I am in custody he will find her and torture her for information she does not have.”
“How selfless of you,” Hannibal said.
Boris smiled, making it clear that he did not miss the irony in Hannibal’s dry tone. “That is your reason for keeping my location to yourself. For myself, I prefer to keep my reputation intact until the end. Let them all think I am a killer. Renata can take care of me well enough between now and the end.”
“How nice for you. But doesn’t the Petrova girl deserve some justice?”
“Justice?” Boris breathed, and choked. “Really, Mr. Jones, what possible purpose could it serve for me to be in prison? Is it not sufficient that I am a prisoner of this chair?”
“Which brings me to the one remaining thing I don’t get,” Hannibal said. “Now that I know what she knows, I don’t understand why Queenie is still here. She loves you far more than you deserve.”
“You think so?” Boris turned his chair to face the back door more directly. “You have listened to my story, but not paid much attention to what you know about her. Renata believes that I know where the missing money is. And she believes me when I say that I will share that information with her just before I die.”
Hannibal looked back toward the door. “You didn’t kill Dani Gana. You never even found Dani Gana. You don’t have any idea where the money is, do you?”
Boris gave him a sly smile and turned his chair away from Hannibal and the house. Hannibal realized this sad, sick man was right about one thing. He was being well punished for whatever his crimes were during his life. It made him feel good to know that the random vagaries of fate didn’t just strike the innocent.
With his back to Hannibal, Boris said, “I wish you luck, Mr. Jones. If you locate the money, at least my Renata and the Petrova girl will be left in peace. Now, would you please ask my wife to bring out my lunch? I’d like to stay out here in the sun.”
“Lunch. Damn.” Hannibal checked his watch, cursed under his breath, and moved quickly toward the house.
Austin Camacho
Russian Roulette
31
Hannibal’s phone was calling Cindy’s office before he pulled into traffic. The ringing didn’t give him enough time to berate himself for letting the case push their lunch date out of his mind. He would have learned all the same information if he had arrived at Boris Tolstaya’s rented house two hours later. Viktoriya would have still been under Ivanovich’s watchful eye and the three victims would still be dead. But he would not have been calling Cindy more than an hour late.
When the phone clicked over to Cindy’s voicemail, Hannibal hung up and called the office general number. After three more rings, the receptionist answered. He pushed under a yellow light, his mind elsewhere.
“Hello, Mrs. Abrogast. It’s Hannibal.”
“Hello, Mr. Jones,” Abrogast said in her deceptively old-lady voice. “I’m afraid Ms. Santiago isn’t in this afternoon. And I must tell you, she was not happy with you when she left here, young man.”
“My fault,” Hannibal admitted. “What did she say, Mrs. Abrogast?”
“Oh, something about being stood up, I believe. She remarked that she had canceled a lunch meeting with that nice real estate fellow to go with you instead.”
“Really? Well, I sure feel bad about that,” Hannibal said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Yes, well I don’t think it will be a big problem,” she said. “She’ll meet him for dinner instead. At Bobby Van’s, I believe. Nice place. Would you like to leave a message?”
“A message? No thank you, ma’am. Have a nice afternoon.”
As he cut the connection he felt cold inside. A message? What message could he possibly leave? Mrs. Abrogast was right. Bobby Van’s was not his idea of casual dining. It was expensive and classy, and well known for its top-notch prime rib. For a moment he considered hunting her down at court or wherever she was, but knew that would be close to impossible. Besides, if she was working, she would not appreciate his interruption. And besides all that, he was working too, damn it. He was on a case.
Or was he? No one was paying him to find the murderers or to protect the orphaned survivor. In fact, who knew how much paying work had passed him by while he was chasing Russian ghosts. Worse, this pro bono pursuit of answers no one else wanted was costing him the closeness he deserved to have with his woman. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt obligated to share what he learned from the Tolstayas with Aleksandr Ivanovich. After that, he decided, it was time to return to his own life. Right then, he defined his own life as Cindy Santiago.
The drive back to Viktoriya’s motel was uneventful despite the bank of dark clouds that slid across the sky to park overhead. Hannibal pulled between white lines among the very few cars in the motel lot and strolled to the building, scanning his environment as he climbed the exposed stairs. He didn’t see Ivanovich during his long trip between his car and the door, but he was certain that Invanovich had seen him. A sharp breeze sliced through his suit jacket as he stood on the landing. He gave the door a couple light taps when he reached it.
Dr. Sidorov opened the door just enough for Hannibal to enter and closed it without locking it. Viktoriya handed Hannibal a mug of tea poured from the little coffee pot they had moved from the bathroom to the round table. Her dark eyes were still a little drowsy, as if they had not yet pushed all the way out from under the sedative. Having never seen her calm and relaxed, Hannibal looked at her as if for the first time.