The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(28)
While at Chabon’s apartment, Arkhip received a second call from uniformed officers who had obtained the address for Pavil Ismailov, Eldar Velikaya’s bodyguard. Ismailov lived in an upscale condominium complex, also in Yakimanka, but light-years away from Chabon’s apartment in terms of condition and cost.
Ismailov did not answer his door, though his neighbor in the adjoining apartment did open his door. The middle-aged man, holding a yappy dog, complained that Ismailov played heavy metal music at all hours of the day and night. After a three-minute rant, Arkhip got in a question and learned Ismailov was not at home, at least the man had not heard the music or Ismailov’s footsteps late the prior evening or early that morning. He said it surprised him because Ismailov’s car was in the underground garage and “The man clomps around like a draft horse.”
Arkhip found Ismailov’s car in the garage, an expensive black Mercedes. He found Ismailov in the trunk, with a bullet hole in the back of his skull. If Arkhip were a betting man, he’d wager Ismailov had been shot as he opened the trunk, then pushed inside, dead before he knew what had hit him. Much easier than trying to lift a man of Ismailov’s size. Arkhip had the entire car, including the body, towed to the forensic team at Petrovka Street for processing.
Either Arkhip was in the midst of a mob war, or someone was cleaning up a mess. What mess, exactly, Arkhip didn’t have a clue. But he would.
He always did.
Twenty minutes later, Arkhip waited in one of the Criminal Investigation Department’s windowless, seven-foot-square interrogation rooms. A table and three chairs dominated the space. The chairs had nicked and scarred the pale-green walls, and years of traffic had worn the uneven linoleum squares. A high-powered fluorescent light bulb hung over the table, as bright as day. When left alone, a suspect could hear the tube buzz, like an annoying fly. Everything was intended to intimidate by simulating the cramped confines and loneliness of a cell. The room held the aroma of body odor and fear, poorly masked by a chemical disinfectant.
Arkhip could have opted for more comfortable surroundings—one of the division’s conference rooms, or a table in the cafeteria—but it was well known the vory, Russian mafiya, had informants on their payroll working inside the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and the shit would hit the proverbial fan soon enough. The longer Arkhip could keep news from the press, the more opportunity he had to obtain information untainted by bribes and favors. As it was, two of his three witnesses had already been silenced. He needed to find the unknown third man quickly, but first he needed to better understand what he was up against, and that was the reason for this meeting.
The door pushed in without a knock. A man, balding in a horseshoe pattern, stuck his head in the door as if uncertain he had the right place. “Senior Investigator Mishkin?”
“Arkhip, please. You must be Investigator Gusev. Please come in. I would stand but it seems that space is at a premium.”
Gusev stepped to the side to shut the door, and the two shook hands. Gusev’s eyes roamed the room as he placed a thick maroon file on the table.
“Ah. Good. You brought your file on the Velikayas.”
Gusev smiled, but it was patronizing. “I would need to be a magician to bring you the files on the Velikayas. They would not all fit in this room. This is my personal file.”
“Of course,” Arkhip said. “Please take a seat.” The linoleum squealed as Arkhip pulled the table toward his side of the room to allow Gusev space to sit.
“You have worked for the organized crime control department for many years?”
“OCC,” he said. “And yes, for more than two decades.”
“Then you are familiar with the Velikayas.”
Another smile. Also patronizing. “We’re all familiar with the Velikayas. It is Moscow’s largest crime family,” he said, as if it were an entity more than a family. Gusev adjusted his paisley tie and pressed it against his dark-blue shirt.
“Yes, of course. Perhaps you can give me a synopsis; I am interested in the hierarchy.”
Gusev laughed. “How much time do you have?”
Since his wife’s death . . . “All the time in the world, Investigator Gusev, but perhaps today a short version.”
Gusev let out a breath. “Okay. May I ask what this is about?”
“In time.” Arkhip offered nothing more.
After a few seconds of silence, Gusev got the hint. He chuckled and looked at his watch. “Do you want to record this?”
“Yes. Of course.” Arkhip patted his sport coat and removed his notepad and pencil. “Thank you for reminding me.”
Gusev grinned. “I meant do you wish to record our session?” He looked up at the camera in the ceiling corner. “Are we being recorded?”
“No.” Arkhip smiled. “We are not. And my notes will be sufficient.”
Arkhip learned early in his career that a tape recorder was a crutch. Investigators depended on the recording and failed to listen to a witness’s answers. Without listening, there was no hearing; without hearing, one could not ask intelligent follow-up questions. Opportunities not taken were opportunities lost. Arkhip took notes and maximized his intuitive abilities. With years of practice, he could recall almost verbatim what a witness had said. “Please begin.”
Gusev took a moment, then told Arkhip that the vory dated to tsarist times. The word meant “thief”—a general term used for an underworld member. The Velikayas emerged from the Khitrovka, a notorious slum just a ten-minute walk from the Kremlin.