“These guys are affiliated with him?”
“One of our senior prosecutors-a woman named Winters, if you care-told me the FBI had tagged those three as low-level foot soldiers for Belov. And, to clinch the deal, guess who Belov’s attorney of choice is?”
“Adam Benson.”
“Circumstantial evidence might not hold you in court, but I find that’s pretty convincing.”
I knew a little about the Russian mobs, but not much. The Italian Mafia, while still being glorified in movies and shows like The Sopranos, has been severely crippled-not just in New York but across the country. The Cleveland families, reasonably powerful in the Pizza Connection days of the seventies and eighties, have pretty well disappeared. Since the fall of the Soviet Union, the Russian mobs have become a far more powerful force in American organized crime. I knew the local FBI had an organized crime task force that worked with some of the Cleveland police detectives, but I’d never been among them. If I’d ever heard the name Dainius Belov, it hadn’t stuck with me.
“You know anything about these guys?” I asked. “When they came here, who they associate with, things like that?”
“Not really. The case was a while ago, and like I said, we dropped charges fast.”
I hesitated then, wondering what else I could try to get from Sellers. I wanted to ask if he’d ever heard of a connection between Jeremiah Hubbard and Belov, but I didn’t want to be responsible for sending that rumor ricocheting through the corridors of City Hall. If the Russians didn’t kill me for it, Hubbard would probably suffocate me under a pile of hundred-dollar bills. I thanked Sellers for his time and hung up.
Joe and I had worked an insurance fraud case shortly before signing on with John Weston, and I spent the afternoon completing that report and sending it out along with a bill. I had the feeling we’d need to clear the deck as completely as possible for the Weston case. Joe got back late that evening, and he came by my apartment to talk. Apparently, the Sandusky trip hadn’t been a total waste.
“Turns out Kinkaid didn’t leave Weston by choice,” Joe said, looking around my apartment and frowning as if the décor didn’t please him. I knew that wasn’t it, though. I’d moved some things around, and he sensed the change and was trying to place it. That’s how Joe is-incredibly observant, and incredibly irritated by anything that doesn’t match his expectations and memory. Once he notices something that doesn’t fit, he won’t let it out of his mind until he has determined the source of the irritation.
“Weston fired him?” I asked, trying to bring his focus back.
“I don’t know if you can call one partner asking the other to leave a ‘firing,’ but, yeah, Weston bailed on him. After three years in the business together, Weston suddenly decided he wanted to run it solo. Kinkaid was pissed, because they’d built-up a decent client base and were making money, but Weston bought him out and let him take all the clients he’d handled. Kinkaid isn’t investigating anymore. He’s more focused on security now, runs a guard company up in Sandusky. But he still has some hard feelings for Weston.”
“He must not have put up much of a fight.”
“Would you really want to stick with a partner who said he didn’t want you?” His eyes were locked on a brass floor lamp with a round glass table that sat next to the couch.
“Good point.”
“So I started out by asking him about Weston, you know, just basic things about their relationship and how long he was with him-” He cut himself off in midsentence and pointed at the lamp. “You moved that, didn’t you?”
Since Joe’s last visit, I’d rotated the lamp maybe two feet, moving it just enough to eliminate the glare it had placed on the television screen.
“Yeah, I moved it, maybe a year ago,” I lied. “You’re getting old, Joe. Memory’s starting to fade.”
He gave me a look that let me know he wasn’t buying it, then continued. “So, anyhow, I kept it to the basics for a while, but then I decided to go ahead and ask him about the gambling and the Russians.”
“He know anything?”
“He’d never heard of the Russians, and he said if the cops are really buying this gambling theory they’ve got their heads up their asses. According to him, Weston was anything but a serious gambler. Liked going up to Windsor for the shows and the atmosphere of the casino but never gambled much. Bet on sports just because he was a big fan, always thought he should have been a broadcaster or a sportswriter-you know, another armchair expert. Kinkaid said the guy actually was pretty good when it came to picking winners, but he never put up big money.”
“Maybe he got carried away in the last few years.”
Joe shook his head. “I threw the same question at Kinkaid, and he blew it off. He said Weston was too much of an accountant, too fussy about budgets. Said the guy used to check his bank accounts daily and review the company books every week. And he apparently was never more aware of his money than when he was gambling. Always allotted a certain amount of what he called ‘mad money’ for betting and vacations, that type of thing.”
“I see.” I put my feet up on my old coffee table and stared at my scuffed sneakers. It was time for a new pair, but that would require going to the shoe store and having some kid dressed like a referee try to coax me into buying the hot new style. Maybe I could get a few more months out of these. “Just because a guy had his gambling under control six years ago doesn’t mean he did six months ago. Anybody who gambles regularly runs the risk of getting carried away with it.”
“I suppose.”
“Kinkaid have anything else to say?”
Joe nodded, smiling. “I asked him about Jeremiah Hubbard. Apparently Weston worked a case involving Hubbard just before he told Kinkaid he wanted to cut out on his own.”
“Maybe Hubbard wanted him as his personal lackey but didn’t want to have to pay Kinkaid as well,” I suggested, thinking of the frequent checks to Weston from Hubbard.
“That would have been an odd turn of events,” Joe said, “considering Hubbard had never been a client. He’d been a target.”
“A target?”
“You got it. Wayne Weston’s first association with Old Man Hubbard was working for Old Mother Hubbard.”
“Speak English, Aesop.”
“Aesop didn’t write about Old Mother Hubbard. He wrote fables, not nursery rhymes.”
I sighed. “Save it for Jeopardy, Joe. Just tell me what happened.”
“Weston and Kinkaid worked for Mrs. Rita Hubbard, Jeremiah’s beloved wife. She suspected he was having an affair and wanted to prove it. Weston and Kinkaid didn’t like cheating-spouse cases, but with money like that involved, who could turn it down? So they took the case, with Weston doing the majority of the work on it. And they worked a hell of a case, apparently. Kinkaid told me they had taped interviews with hotel employees who saw Hubbard and his mistress; they had photographs, video, and even some audiotapes, which must have been a real treat. A beautiful, full-service job. They were paid handsomely by Mrs. Hubbard.”
“The former Mrs. Hubbard, I assume?”
He shook his head. “Nope. She was apparently prepared to threaten divorce, but it never happened. I’m not real surprised about that. Jeremiah would probably agree to damn near anything as long as he didn’t have to lose half of his fortune in a divorce settlement, and the wife probably wasn’t real eager to give up her status. And you know how those big-money couples are; they hate the idea of a public scandal. Better to live in private misery than in public disarray.”
“Any chance Weston was still working for her?”
“Doubtful. Here’s the interesting part: Apparently Hubbard called Weston about a month after the case. Jeremiah Hubbard, I mean, not the wife.”
“Pissed off, probably.”
“You’d think so. Weston met with him, and all he told Kinkaid about it was that Hubbard told him he’d drive him out of business if he ever tampered with his life again. I guess the wife gave Hubbard Weston’s name, or maybe he found out himself.”