The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(31)

Amazing. Incredibly intrusive, but amazing.

Arkhip hit “Play” and all four video images came to life in squares on the screen. Cars passed along the darkened street. Arkhip looked down at the keyboard and pressed the arrow to fast-forward the tape, stopping when Pavil Ismailov parked a large black Mercedes at the curb outside the bar. He let the tape proceed at regular speed. Ismailov exited the driver’s side. Though the street was not well lit, that did not impact the cameras. Arkhip used the buttons on the keyboard to put a box around Ismailov’s face and hit “Enter.” Within seconds, a two-inch-by-two-inch picture appeared in a box on the screen above the name Pavil Ismailov and listed a criminal record for petty crimes—drunk and disorderly, driving under the influence, and solicitation.

Ismailov opened the rear passenger door of the car and a man emerged, followed by a woman. Eldar Velikaya and Bojana Chabon. Velikaya wore a light-colored suit, his tie removed, the buttons of his shirt open to his waist. He took a moment to pull his pants together, zip his fly, and buckle his belt. Chabon stumbled out on red platform heels, nearly falling. Her white dress concealed almost nothing. Arkhip didn’t have to be a chief investigator to deduce what Velikaya and the prostitute had been doing in the back of the Mercedes.

The woman teetered on the sidewalk curb and reached out, grabbing the lapel of Velikaya’s suit jacket to regain her balance. He slapped her hand away with an angry look and appeared to yell at her. Arkhip again stopped the video and centered on the woman’s face. Within seconds her mug shot appeared below Pavil Ismailov’s mug shot, along with her name, a list of known aliases, and multiple arrests for prostitution, possession, and solicitation of drugs. He repeated the process for Eldar Velikaya, but the database revealed no prior convictions.

“Doubtful,” Arkhip said.

He hit “Play.” The threesome entered the building.

He pressed “Fast-forward” until a man approached along the sidewalk and entered the bar. Arkhip backed up the tape and hit “Pause.” He zoomed in and moved the square to the man’s face. He hit “Enter.” The computer did its magic, but this time it produced no photograph or record. “Net sovpadeniy.” No match.

No criminal record, at least not in Moscow.

Arkhip used the computer mouse to snap a copy of the photograph and sent it to his desktop. He pulled up the camera angle that focused on the alley just west of the bar and fast-forwarded through the tape until the bar door to the alley swung open. The two men and the woman stepped outside. Arkhip zoomed in closer. Velikaya gripped the back of the woman’s head. He pushed her up against the stucco wall, then gripped her throat, choking her. Pavil Ismailov stood with his back to the camera. Watching.

Arkhip took a deep breath. The abuse was difficult to stomach. On the second panel, the one displaying the bar entrance, the unknown third man exited and proceeded down the sidewalk to the alley. He certainly walked with a purpose. Remarkable, given that Velikaya was not small, and Ismailov a giant.

Arkhip leaned forward as the man stepped into the alley.

The screen went black, as if someone had pulled the plug on all four cameras.

Someone certainly had. This was not a computer error or an operator error. Someone had gotten to the tape, and that someone was likely Stepanov.

Arkhip left the terminal and returned to the counter.

“All done now, Mishkin?” Stepanov asked, a smug smile on his lips.

“No. I am not. I would like to know who checked out that film before me?”

“That particular film. The odds would seem less than likely.”

“Yes, they would,” Arkhip said. “Seem less than likely. Please confirm it.”

Stepanov typed on his computer screen, then pursed his lips together and shook his head. “No one,” he said.

Arkhip smiled. “That’s very interesting, don’t you think? Of all the cameras in all of Moscow, and the one tape of a murder is suddenly blank? What do you calculate those odds to be?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Stepanov said, still wearing his smug smile. “An unfortunate malfunction, it would seem. It is, however, well known that you have very poor luck with computers, which increases those odds substantially.”

“So would a payment. A payment from the Velikaya family to someone within this office. Someone in this office early this morning. I don’t see anyone else here but you, Stepanov.”

“Go ahead,” Stepanov said, shuffling papers and tapping them on the counter but looking a little less sure of himself. His face had become a crimson red. “File a complaint. See how far you get, Mishkin.”

“I will. You see, I’ve already spoken with the organized crime control department and they expressed keen interest in any matter involving the Velikayas. They asked me to keep them informed,” Arkhip said. “Be sure that I will do so.”

Stepanov looked to be eating his words but said nothing. He stepped away from the counter to his interior office.

Arkhip left. He knew Stepanov was right; lodging a complaint would do little. He could only hope fear might motivate Stepanov a little more.





13


Do or Dye Beauty Salon

Moscow, Russia

Twenty minutes after Petrekova had slipped into her cab, Charles Jenkins, sweating beneath his disguise and the heat baking Moscow, climbed off his bike and carried it down four steps to the Do or Dye Beauty Salon’s basement door. He hid the bike behind wooden shelves containing an assortment of supplies, then crept up narrow interior stairs at the rear of the salon. The room contained two deep sinks with extended nozzles for washing clients’ hair. A Chinese folding panel separated the area from the remainder of the salon, which consisted of two stylist chairs on a black-and-white checked floor, a small waiting area, and a counter with a computer monitor. The salon smelled of hair chemicals.