“You’re watching the house?” I said. He nodded, and I said, “The green Oldsmobile, right? With the South Carolina plate?”
Cody raised his eyebrows and shook his head slowly. “We don’t have anyone in vehicle surveillance.”
“Oh, come on,” I said.
“No, really,” he answered. “I won’t disclose the location of our surveillance team, but we don’t have anyone in a car.”
I looked at Joe. “That means they rented a house,” I said. “These Russians are more important than we thought.”
“What’s this car you were talking about?” Swanders asked. “Someone else was watching the house?”
“And talking to the neighbors,” I said. “Flashing a badge and saying he was a cop. Called himself Detective Davis.”
“You kidding me?” Swanders sat up, not happy about this at all. “Some asshole is talking to those neighbors and pretending he’s one of us? Who the hell is he?”
I shrugged. “If he’s not FBI, and he’s not a cop, it would probably be worth finding out.”
“Did you get a good look at the car?” Cody asked.
Joe nodded. “I’ve got the plate number and some photographs. I assume your surveillance team will have him, too.”
“I’ll ask about it,” Cody said. “Mind if I use your phone?”
Joe slid it across the desk to him, and Cody called someone and asked about the green car. He nodded grimly and hung up.
“They saw it,” he said, “but they said it’s gone now. They’ve got the plate number, and I told them to run a check on it. Apparently he was on the street for about an hour and then left. Never got out of the car.” He chewed on his lip and stared at the phone. “I don’t like this.”
We didn’t speak for a few seconds, and then he shook his head and grunted, tearing his thoughts away from the phony cop and bringing them back to us.
“Now, would you tell us what happened between you and Rakic and Krashakov today, Mr. Perry?”
I told them. When I finished the story, Cody looked at Swanders, a question in his eyes, like maybe he thought-or hoped-I might be making it up just to mess with him. Swanders shook his head and sighed.
“You pretended to be going door to door for charity?” Cody said.
“You took twenty dollars from them?” Swanders said.
“For AIDS research?” Kraus said.
“Yes,” I said.
“I suppose,” Cody said eventually, “it could be much worse.” It was the type of statement you might hear from a man who’d just been told his cancer was fatal only in ninety percent of its occurrences. “I’m not happy with that interaction, but it could have been worse.”
“It could have been avoided easily enough,” I said. “If Swanders and Kraus had been straight with us in the beginning, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Hey,” Kraus said, “the FBI’s been calling the shots here. They told us to blow you off, so we blew you off. Nothing personal.”
“It’s nothing personal,” Cody agreed. “But we needed this to be quiet. And now that you’re involved, we can’t allow you to jeopardize this investigation.”
“So you plan to order us off the case?” Joe asked.
Cody frowned. “I’m not ordering you off the case. I’m just asking you to avoid engaging these men. We want them to be relaxed. The more relaxed they are, the more likely they are to make a mistake. And then we’ve got them.”
“Not to be a wet blanket,” Joe said, “but it doesn’t sound like you’ve got shit.”
The frown remained on Cody’s face. “We don’t have much,” he said, “but we plan to change that. For now, we’re concerned with Wayne Weston. Our investigators haven’t been able to find any sign that the man was a legitimate private investigator. He was licensed with the state, of course, but there’s no indication he ever accepted clients. We’ve found numerous stories of clients who went to other agencies in town after being turned down by Weston.”
“You’ve got no idea who he was working for?” Joe asked.
“None. Do you?”
Joe’s eyes flitted in my direction briefly, and then he nodded. “Jeremiah Hubbard.”
“Jeremiah Hubbard?” Cody echoed in astonishment.
Joe explained what we knew, including the details of our visit with Hubbard, as well as the checks from various Hubbard-owned companies that Weston had cashed. Cody listened thoughtfully, and I could tell the idea that Hubbard was somehow connected to the Russians wasn’t a pleasing one to him.
“We’ve got hundreds of names of people believed to be Belov associates,” he said when Joe was through. “Hubbard has never come up, nor any of his people.”
“If he’s associated with Belov, he’d definitely want to keep it under the radar,” Joe said. “Hubbard’s about as big a man as there is in this town.”
“No kidding,” Cody said. “He’s the legitimate version of Dainius Belov.”
We all sat in silence then, as the wind whipped around the building, making the old windowpanes rattle. Another cold front was sweeping in, driving out the small touch of spring that had settled during the day.
“How long have you had surveillance on Rakic and Krashakov?” I asked.
“Several months.”
“The night Weston was killed?” I said, letting the rest of the question hang unspoken.
Cody shook his head. “They were home,” he said. “That doesn’t mean they didn’t authorize the hit. It just means they didn’t carry it out personally.”
“What do you think happened to Weston’s wife and daughter?” I asked.
Cody leaned forward, braced his forearms on his knees, and looked at the floor. “Several years ago,” he said, “when the FBI was trying to bring down John Gotti in New York, their wiretap picked up a conversation in which one of Gotti’s thugs was threatening an associate. He also warned this man about crossing the Russian mob, which was apparently involved somehow. He said, ‘We Italians will kill you, but the Russians are crazy-they’ll kill your whole family.’ ” He kept his eyes on the floor.
“So you think they’re dead,” Joe said.
“Yes,” Cody said. “I think they’re dead.”
CHAPTER 9
IN THE six months prior to Wayne Weston’s murder, Jeremiah Hubbard had been a busy man. In late fall, he began to buy property in the river district downtown known as the Flats, and he announced his intention to build an “entertainment plaza” to rival anything found in New Orleans or any other river town. It would feature a five-star restaurant, two nightclubs that would host the nation’s top performers, and a sports bar. The whole thing would be built along a beautifully landscaped river walk, and Hubbard promised it would become the hottest destination in the city. The Flats had already been transformed from an area of dingy warehouses and blue-collar bars into a popular nightlife district, but Hubbard’s plan would take that to a new level. The only problem with this idea was that his vision was ten years late. Real estate prices in the Flats had soared as the area was rebuilt, and now it was going to cost Hubbard significantly more money.
In February, he took a great step toward his dream when he acquired three lots of prime property from a man named Dan Beckley, who owned a small restaurant, a gift shop, and a parking lot in the Flats. Beckley had initially balked at the idea of selling out to Hubbard, but he settled a few weeks later, apparently for much less than his initial asking price. Hubbard already owned some of the adjoining property, and he was now much closer to his goal. His next mission was to acquire property on either side of his current holdings. To the north, his property was bordered by a seafood restaurant that was pricey, well known, and always busy. It wouldn’t be an easy deal for anyone to swing, even Hubbard. To the south, Hubbard’s land met a strip bar called The River Wild: A Gentlemen’s Club. It had been in existence for about six years, and the owner reportedly was making a good profit and had no interest in selling. The bar had received some unfavorable publicity a few years back, when an underage and intoxicated kid wandered away from his fraternity brothers, fell off the deck, and drowned in the river. It hadn’t hurt the club’s business, though. Nothing generates a steady cash flow quite like lap dances, apparently.