Marilyn London lit a cigarette and smiled.
11
Andre Perchenkov didn’t always work as a serial killer. In the old Soviet Union, young, brash and arrogant, the KGB served as his private playground.
Good fortune faded when Mikhail Gorbachev opened the door to democracy. Russia’s newfound freedom melted into catastrophe and chaos. The haves got more, the have-nots turned desperate for the simplest necessities. The new administration found itself buried in regional military conflicts, a worthless currency, and an uncontrollable beast-the Russian mafia.
Money came quickly, but to Andre’s dismay, his brother, Vladimir, kept his hands in politics, supporting an underground movement set on restoring Communism. Soon, Vladimir caught the eye of the West, who labeled him a threat. Andre tried to persuade Vladimir to leave Russia by organizing the biggest heist in Russian history.
Hidden deep in a bunker outside Moscow, near a small town called Tula, lay a billion dollars in flawless counterfeit one hundred dollar bills.
From time to time, the phony money bought weapons on the black market, or financed terrorism around the globe, and proved a target grand enough to entice Vladimir away from the CIA’s gun sights.
Forty-eight hours after stealing the money, bone-jarring gunfire riddled Vladimir’s compound. Andre, knocked unconscious, awoke the next morning unharmed, but couldn’t find Vladimir. No body, no blood, not a trace.
Months later, the London Times reported the capture of a notorious Russian mafia drug czar. Vladimir Perchenkov. Wanted by the Americans, extradition came swift, conviction faster still. A federal judge sentenced his brother to two consecutive life sentences he’d never serve. They found Vladimir, wrists slit, dead in his cell.
Distraught, Andre plunged into a depression. When he recovered, the killing began. Andre left his Brentwood Park townhouse for copies of USA Today, the Washington Post, New York Times, and a cafe latte. America he hated, but loved her creature comforts.
He no longer spent time tilling soil in Judge Patrick’s garden. Citing security reasons, the Secret Service asked her to reduce the yard crew.
Andre got the ax, but managed to scam the layout of Judge Patrick’s home and intimate details of her life.
Brentwood Park, a typical, quiet suburb, proved the perfect place to hide. Andre’s clean-cut “white boy” facade blended in nicely. No one questioned his comings, goings, or how he managed to afford such an expensive townhouse. He kept to himself, rarely entertaining visitors, except for the occasional prostitute he’d sneak in during the middle of the night.
Andre paused in front of his townhouse and skimmed the front page of the Times. His heart raced. SUPREME COURT CHIEF JUSTICE DIES OF HEART ATTACK. PRESIDENT TO APPOINT FIONA PATRICK.
“Mr. Bardoff! Mr. Bardoff! How are you this morning?” His neighbor, Gloria Parsons, an attention starved redhead, waved to him from her front door. Still in her nightclothes, a pink sheer robe, she motioned with one finger, inviting him over. The sunlight lit her silhouette from behind. Andre wondered why she wore anything at all.
“Sorry Ms. Parsons, but I’m in somewhat of a hurry this morning,” he said, in his best Eastern European accent.
“Now, now, Mr. Bardoff, I’ll have none of that,” she continued, making her way over to him. “We Americans appreciate a good neighbor you know.”
Scintillating in the morning glimmer, her forceful, rich green eyes said today’s excuses would not go over without a fight. Her hair, usually pulled back into a conservative bun, draped her shoulders like red strands of silk. Propped up on long, alluring, milky white legs, her breasts full and firm, (not the work of a surgeon), her thick dark nipples, like him, were hard, erect. Smiling, she put her hands on her hips and shook her finger at him in jest. “You’ve turned down my invitation for coffee every time mister, and quite frankly, I’m insulted.” Her robe fell open, and a white lace thong snuggled where he now longed to be.
“I’m sorry Ms. Parsons. It’s just that I’m so busy and…” She snatched him toward her place. He didn’t put up much of a fight.
“ Pussy can do what ten men with machine guns can’t, and with not nearly the mess.” Vladimir’s words rang in his ears as she pulled him inside and shut the door.
Gloria pushed Andre back against the door and kissed him hard. His instincts said stop, leave, but his erection offered a different opinion. He kissed her back, his thoughts drifting to Fiona Patrick.
He spun Gloria around, pushed her up against the door, snatched off her robe, and tore off her thong. He licked her body and sucked her breasts hard. “That a boy!” she said, wrapping a long leg around his back. “That’s what mama’s been waiting for.” Andre threw her down on the couch and quickly undressed. Gloria licked her lips. He closed his eyes and saw himself choking the life from Fiona Patrick’s body. The thought excited him. He straddled her, angrily thrusting and ramming hard.
“Oh! You’re a bad boy!” Gloria shouted. He flipped her over and sodomized her. “Not so hard honey, it’s been a while.” He felt Gloria’s muscles tighten. She pounded the couch and screamed. Unsatisfied, he grabbed her by the hair, and forced her down to her knees. He felt the back of her throat, imagining how he’d do the same thing to Judge Patrick. His orgasm erupted, knocking Gloria to the floor.
“Honey, you’ve got to come over here more often,” she said, gasping for air.
“Sorry,” he said, catching his breath. “It has been a while for me too.”
Andre slipped into his slacks, staring at the newspapers now strewn across the floor. A picture of Judge Patrick, shaking the President’s hand, blanketed the inside page of the Washington Times.
“I think she’ll do great on the Supreme Court, don’t you?” asked Gloria, picking up the paper, not bothering to dress. “Not bad looking either.”
“I don’t concern myself much with your politics.” Andre took the paper from her and folded it under his arm. Outside, he looked around to see if anyone was watching.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Gloria shouted. She winked, smiled, and closed the door.
In his living room, Andre leered at the picture of Fiona Patrick. The article promised a quick confirmation. Fine with me. The faster she’ll die. First, I’ll send her a little message.
12
Robert’s cell phone vibrated.
“I need to see you right away,” said Barbara Veil. “Stop by as soon as possible.”
He tried to put it off for a few days. “Mother, I’m busy.”
“No, I want to see you today.”
“What’s it about?”
“I’ll explain when you get here.” Click.
Robert hit Interstate Fifteen towards Great Falls, Virginia. The image of Charlie, dead on his living room floor, elbowed its way into his thoughts.
They wrapped the corpse up in sheets and an old rug, hauled it down to Thorne’s Rover, and had it cremated by a mortician who owed Thorne a favor. On their way to the office, his partner tossed the ashes in a dumpster. “He’d want it this way,” she joked.
Charlie’s videotape confession now worthless, Robert focused on the evidence hidden somewhere in the city. It might as well be at the bottom of the ocean. Thorne stayed at the office compiling a list of cemeteries and mausoleums..
Robert growled and slammed his fist on the dashboard. The Mustang swerved, almost hitting another car. A grandmother in a shiny red Volvo blew her horn, and gave him the finger.
Interstate Fifteen merged onto Route Eighty-Nine. Robert exited Twenty Second Street into Great Falls. Five miles later, he swung into the driveway of a modest red brick colonial with ice white shutters. He shut off the engine. Where do we start? Popeye. I’ll start with Popeye.