And Every Man Has to Die

NINE

0913 hours

Day Shift

Battaglia waited until Carson’s breath evened out with sleep, then he slipped out of the bed. He scrounged around for his clothing in the darkness. He found his jeans balled up near the head of the bed, and his T-shirt lay in the doorway next to his shoes and one sock. He searched for the second sock for a little while, then gave up.

He dressed in the living room. He knew he should probably shower before leaving; if Rebecca wasn’t busy, she might get close to him before he could get into the shower at home. And she’d smell what he’d been up to.

Battaglia pulled his shoe on over his sockless foot. She might ask him about that, too. Still, a missing sock was easier to explain than the scent of another woman’s sex on him. If she caught a whiff of that-

“Fuck it,” Battaglia muttered. So what if she did? Maybe he wanted her to. Maybe that would push things in the direction he wanted them to go-irrevocably toward divorce. He knew Rebecca could forgive him many things, but he was pretty certain that screwing around on her wasn’t one of them.

He pulled the front door shut behind him. Out of habit, he checked to ensure it was locked. Then he turned and trudged toward his Chevy.

He headed home, already rehearsing the lie he might have to tell. Which one would it be this time?

I got popped with a late burglary call with a ton of evidence to put on the books.

I had to back up a day shifter on a late domestic violence situation.

The sergeant had me babysitting a natural DOA until the detectives sent someone from Homicide to confirm.

Or how about: I used to be the star third baseman and you were the brain. Now I’m the star patrol officer, but you’re getting way too smart for me with this poetry and college classes and shit, so I decided I’d start fucking my coworker B.J.

Maybe he should just tell her. They weren’t a good fit anymore. They’d grown apart. She didn’t excite him. Whatever. It wasn’t like divorce was the worst thing that could happen. Hell, he knew a dozen guys on the job who’d been through it. Women, too. It was a bear at first, and there was a considerable financial hit, but people survived it. Kahn was living proof-he had at least three ex-wives.

Battaglia frowned. Now he was comparing himself to Kahn? That was a sad day.

Besides, what about the kids? He thought of Maggie and little Anthony. The idea of hurting his kids made his stomach tighten. But plenty of kids went through it, didn’t they? It wasn’t like he was moving to Turkey or something. Divorce might not be good, but it wasn’t death. He could see them on the weekends. Hell, he might end up being an even better dad than he was now. And he was sure B.J. would-

No. Battaglia stopped. He might be able to talk himself into believing that he and Rebecca weren’t right for each other. He might even be able to find a way to believe that falling into bed with B.J. was inevitable or excusable. But he would never even try to convince himself or anyone else that getting a divorce was somehow going to be a good thing for Maggie or Anthony.

The image of two badly burnt bodies lying on the grass outside of the house on Grace sprang unbidden to mind. He clenched his jaw but couldn’t force it from his mind.

Is that what he was doing to his family? Setting the house on fire? Burning up a life that they all shared?

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Or why he was doing it.

Before he knew it he was pulling into his driveway. He turned off the engine and sat in the truck, staring at the white house with its dark trim. He remembered how excited Rebecca had been when they found it. “This is our home,” she’d said. “This is where we’ll grow old together.”

He didn’t think much about the statement when she made it. It was just some mushy chick thing for her to say. But now Battaglia shook his head. She probably believed it, but he doubted her prediction would come true now.

The whine of a garage door opener kicked in and the white door rose slowly. Rebecca’s green Subaru backed out. Her hair was drawn back into a ponytail. Little Anthony’s hands reached into the air above him. That made Battaglia smile. The little guy loved the garage door opener.

Rebecca spotted him in the driveway and stopped. She pressed the button and rolled down the passenger window. “Hey,” she said, smiling.

“Hey.”

“You’re home late,” she said.

He looked for suspicion in her eyes, but found none. “Late call,” he said.

She seemed to accept his answer, giving him an easy nod.

“Where’s Maggie?” he asked, not seeing her in the Subaru.

“Having some Grandma time,” Rebecca said. “Mom’s taking her to Riverfront Park to go on the carousel and feed garbage to the mechanical goat.”

It was Battaglia’s turn to nod. “Where are you going?”

“Grocery shopping. You need anything?”

He shrugged. “Maybe some beer.”

“Already on my list.Anything else?”

He thought about it and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Then I’ll see you when I get back.”

“I’ll probably already be asleep,” Battaglia said.

“I figured.” She gave him a sly smile. “But if you’re still awake when the Great Bambino here goes down for his morning nap…”

Guilt stabbed him in the gut. He forced a weak smile. “Yeah, sure,” he said.

Her eyes widened slightly. “Yeah sure?” she repeated. “Jeez, Anthony. Don’t sweep me off my feet or anything.”

“Sorry,” Battaglia said. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Well, then, get some sleep,” she said, her tone turning brisk. “I’ll see you later.”

“Rebecca-” he started to say, but she pushed the button to roll up the window. He didn’t bother trying to talk through the glass. He kept staring at her as she backed out of the short driveway and onto the street. Then, as she pulled away, she gave him a little wave.

All is forgiven, he thought. That’s what her wave meant. She probably wouldn’t check to see if he was still awake come nap time, but she wouldn’t be mad at him when he woke up, either. He knew that because he knew her.

Battaglia started the truck and pulled it into the garage. In the bedroom he undressed, mixing his clothes in with all the other dirty clothes in the hamper. Then he climbed into the shower.

By the time he got out, sleep was gnawing at the edge of his consciousness like a gray mist. He settled into bed, trying to push away thoughts of Rebecca, burning houses, or hairless porcelain dolls lying on the grass. It didn’t work. So instead he thought about B.J. The memory of scents and sensations from just a couple of hours ago invaded his mind, and he carried them with him into an uneasy sleep.

1549 hours

Katie MacLeod rubbed her tired eyes. She glanced up at Renee, who was engrossed in a police report, probably her hundredth of the day.

“Do you really do this all day, every day?” Katie asked.

Renee smiled without looking away from the report. “It’s the only way I know to do good analyst work.”

“How do you remember all this stuff?”

“I only remember the important things,” Renee said.

“How do you know what’s important?” Katie asked, motioning at the huge stacks of police reports. “There’s a ton of information.”

Renee paused, crinkling her brow. “I guess I don’t rightly know how. Things sort of jump out at me, I suppose. I read through the reports and things just seem to… connect somehow.”

“Sounds like magic to me,” Katie joked.

“It’s not magic. Or if it is, you could do it, too.”

“I don’t have this kind of brainpower,” Katie said.

Renee shrugged. “I think it’s the same way you know when a suspect is lying even though you can’t prove it just yet.”

Katie considered. “Yeah, okay. But it’s still a special knack, what you do.”

“Thanks.” Renee pointed at the stack in front of Katie. “Now get back to reading.”

Katie chuckled. “A stern taskmaster, too, huh?”

“Those reports aren’t going to read themselves.”

“I wish they would. Why can’t we just feed them into a computer and let it spit out an answer for us?”

Renee gave her a chastising look. “Seriously?”

Katie shrugged. “No, not really.” Then she added, “But why couldn’t we?”

“No computer will ever replace a human analyst,” Renee said tersely. “Computers may be able to compile data more quickly, but analysis will always be a human endeavor.”

Katie raised her hands. “Whoa. I didn’t mean to say-”

“That I could be replaced by a computer?”

“Uh…”

“That’s about as likely as RoboCop replacing you.”

Katie stared at her for a moment, trying to gauge whether or not she was wholly serious.

Renee broke out in a grin. “Got ya.”

Katie grinned back, relieved. “You had me going for a second, but I wouldn’t say you got me.”

“If you’d have seen your face, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

“Maybe,” Katie conceded.

“Definitely,” Renee said. Then she motioned toward the stacks of paper in front of them both. “You’re right, though. Someday, a computer will help us weed through this. It will give us more information, more quickly. I’ll still be around, though. Someone has to interpret the raw data.”

“What is there to interpret? I haven’t seen any reports that help make heads or tails out of the drive-by shooting. No witnesses. No informants coming forward with anything. Detective Browning’s investigation is at a standstill.” She shrugged. “What’s to analyze? There’s no data.”

“There’s always data. You just have to listen to what it says.”

“All I hear is silence.”

Renee shrugged. “Even silence tells you something. Look,” she said. “It’s clear that the drive-by shooting on DeShawn Brown’s home was committed by Russian gang members. Later that same day, Esteban Ruiz, leader of the Dean Avenue Diablos, is stabbed to death in front of Broadway Foods. Both very public, orchestrated events.”

“So?”

“So, couple that with the fact that neither the Crips nor the Diablos are even talking to investigators and what do you get?”

“Typical gangster behavior?” Katie guessed sarcastically. “It’s not like these guys ever talk to us when it’s gang-on-gang.”

“Fair enough. So when they don’t talk to you, what are they telling you? That it’s a gang-on-gang crime. That’s something.”

“It doesn’t get us any closer to solving the crime, though.”

“Sure it does. It narrows the field. Plus, I got an interesting FI from Battaglia a few days ago.” She pushed her chair away from her desk and slid to a table a few feet away, where she shuffled through some papers for a few moments. “Take a look at this,” she said, handing the field interview to Katie.

Katie read through the FI. “So the Russians are pushing the envelope on traffic stops, too. They refuse to cooperate, call for other cars, whatever.” She shrugged. “I mean, I see the officer safety issues here, but-”

Renee held up a finger. “There’s more. The FBI has an informant from inside the Russian Mafia here in River City. He confirms what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying, Renee?” Katie asked, exasperated.

“The Russians are making a major play to control organized crime here in River City,” Renee pronounced solemnly.

Katie stared at her for a long moment. “Can you prove that?”

“Nope. In fact, I don’t even know who the major players are for sure.”

The two women sat in silence. Finally, Katie sighed and motioned toward the piles of police reports in front of them. “Back to the stacks?”

“Yep,” Renee answered. “There’s an answer in there somewhere.”

1843 hours

Valeriy Romanov sat at his coffee shop, reading through the River CityHerald. Coverage on the recent gang shootings was prolific. In addition to the straight news piece below the fold on page one, there was a feature on the migration of gangs into River City in the regional section. He was pleased to see that his people received little mention. Most of the concern was still over black gangs from California and white supremacists from Northern Idaho.

He also read a letter to the editor decrying the inability of the police to handle the situation, putting most of the blame squarely on the shoulders of the relatively new police chief.

The newspaper was off base on the true nature of the situation, of course. But he suspected that the police had at least a general idea that he and Sergey-especially Sergey; they must have known he was the leader-were making a concerted move at consolidating the local gang structure under their control. He didn’t think it would hold. Criminals resented authority by nature, even when it came from the brute criminal force that they knew and respected. Someone would buck the system. Possibly the young black who called himself Murder. Or maybe the Mexican, looking for some kind of revenge.

It didn’t matter. If history had shown anything, it was that you can always repress people but repression will never last forever. His country had lorded over most of Asia and all of Eastern Europe for almost fifty years, but it had come to an end. This was no different.

The only difference is that Val wanted it to fail. And Sergey with it.

They would go from controlling a minority of the criminal action to a majority, only to be “beaten” back down by the police and rival gangs to something twice as large as what they started out with. Let the other gangs have their small, spoon-fed victory. Let the police capture their kingpin in Sergey. Val and the rest of the operation would shrink back into relative anonymity but still be greater than before. There was plenty of grain to harvest; there was no need to own every farm.

It was not the way Val would have done things if he had been in control from the very beginning. But he was not. Sergey was, and he had to contend with the man’s ego and desire for power. So he had devised this strategy to take advantage of Sergey’s reach exceeding his grasp.

Plans within plans within plans.

The door dinged. Val glanced up out of habit. Instead of going to Pyotr at the counter, the man who entered looked directly at Val. He held the stare long enough to convey that he was asking for permission to approach.

Val lowered his paper and nodded.

The man’s expression broke into a deferential smile. He hurried to Val’s corner table and stopped next to the chair opposite Val.

Val motioned to the chair. “Sit, brother.”

The man shook his head. “Thank you, but no. My business will take but a moment of your time, Valeriy Aleksandrovich.”

Val shrugged and waited, his expression impassive.

The man shifted his feet, then smiled again. “My name is Vladimir Petrovich Malkinov,” he said.

“I know you,” Val said quietly. “You are the custodian at the grade school in West Central, near the river.”

The man’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he nodded. “Yes, yes. Fillmore Elementary.”

“What is your business that is so brief you do not even wish to sit down?”

Malkinov’s expression grew concerned. Val was glad to see it. It was better to be feared than respected, though he believed he had achieved both in the Russian community.

After a moment Malkinov leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “My wife works at the Quality Inn on Division,” he said. “She told me something last night that I think you will want to know.”

“What is it?” Val asked. For Malkinov’s sake, it had better be good. He was already tiring of this conversation.

Malkinov smiled. “She tells me that there are two policemen staying in room 420. They have a guest.”

“A guest?”

Malkinov nodded. “Yes. A Russian guest.”

Electricity shot through Val’s body. This could only mean one thing.

Oleg, you bastard, he thought. You’re dead now!

He kept his outward composure. “This is very interesting,” he told Malkinov. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a roll of money. “Let me please pay for the cost of your trip to see me today,” he said, peeling off several bills. He handed them to Malkinov, who took them gingerly.

“Thank you, Mr. Romanov,” Malkinov said, eyeing the money and trying to hide his disappointment. “You are very kind.”

Val forced a cold smile. Did this idiot think he carried enough money in his pockets to pay the bounty on Oleg? Or that he would pay in full without verifying the information?

“Give Pyotr your address,” he told Malkinov. “Perhaps later I will send a loaf of bread to your home as well.”

Malkinov’s worried expression disappeared and a smile spread across his face. “Oh, thank you very much, sir. Thank you.”

Val nodded dismissively and picked up his paper. Malkinov got the hint. He gave Pyotr his address and scuttled out the door while the fat manager was still scribbling. Val ignored them both, staring at the newsprint in front of him but reading nothing.

Oleg. We have you.

He let the exhilaration flow through his body, then forced himself calm. He waved Pyotr over. The manager brought him the slip of paper with Malkin’s address on it.

“Send Natalia out here,” Val told him, folding the piece of paper and putting it into his pocket. Pyotr nodded and disappeared into the back. Val flipped opened his cell phone and dialed Black Ivan’s number.

“Yes?”

“Pick me up at the coffee shop,” Val said. “We have work.”

“Yes,” Ivan replied.

Natalia emerged from the back of the store, wiping her hands on her apron. She approached with an expectant, hopeful expression. “Yes, Valeriy?”

“Go home,” he told her. “I may come to see you later. Even if I don’t, you will tell anyone who asks that I was with you from eight-thirty onward. Do you understand?”

She nodded, smiling. “Of course. Would you like me to cook for you, or-”

“Just go home,” Val told her.

Crestfallen, she turned to leave.

He flipped open his phone again and dialed Sergey’s number. While it rang, he admired the curve of Natalia’s hips and her trim calves. Who knew? Maybe he’d finish in time to have dinner with her. Or that something more she was trying to snare him with.

Sergey answered his phone. “Hello?”

“We need to talk,” Val told him. “It is important.”