Cold Hit

Chapter 47

As we walked up the stone path to the lobby building, I glanced over at Emdee. "Don't you think since you speak Russian, you'd be better equipped to handle this?"

"You get in a crack, I'll help ya out. But I don't put out a good Granny vibe. I look like I skin goats for a living, so old ladies mostly hate me on sight."

"Listen to the man. He knows his shortcomings," Broadway said.

We entered a linoleum-floored waiting room furnished with several green Naugahyde couches, bad art, and a long vinyl-topped reception desk. An old man with a turkey neck and two-inch thick glasses peered at us over the counter as we approached.

"Ain't seen you folks before," he announced, loudly. "Means you're either guests, undertakers, or family of our next resident victim." Then he smiled. He had most of his lowers, but not much going the other way.

"We're here to see Marianna Litvenko," I said.

"Ever met her before?"

"No, sir," I said.

"Then get ready to be disappointed. Whistler's mother with more wrinkles than a Tijuana laundry. And to make it worse, the woman is a communist."

He picked up the phone and started stabbing at numbers, made a mistake, and started over.

"Can't see shit anymore," he growled.

"Are you employed here?" I asked, a little surprised at his demeanor.

"Hell, no. Volunteer. I'm Alex Caloka of the Fresno Calokas. Not to be confused with the San Francisco Calokas who were all fakers and whores."

He finally got the phone to work. "Folks to see Russian Mary," he bellowed into the receiver. Then he waited while somebody spoke. "I ain't shouting!" he said, and listened for a minute before hanging up.

"Unit B-twelve, like the vitamin. Off to the right there. She's getting massage therapy. If they got her clothes off and ya don't wanta puke, cover your eyes."

We walked out onto the brown lawn that fronted the paint-peeled cottages and turned right. The single-story, shake roof bungalows were arranged in a horseshoe. A few frail-looking, old people with blankets on their laps, sat in wheelchairs taking the sun.

"Be sure and sign me up for this place after I retire," Emdee told Roger.

B 12 was identical to the other units. The only difference was the color of the dying carnations in the flowerbed out front. We went to the door and knocked.

"Just a minute, not quite finished," a young-sounding woman's voice called out.

We waited for about three minutes, listening to occasional hacking coughs, which floated across the lawn from the row of parked wheelchairs. Finally, the door opened and a thirty-year-old blonde goddess in gym shorts and a sports bra came down the steps carrying a canvas therapy bag.

"You're her guests?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Broadway and Perry answered in unison, both of them almost swallowing their tongues.

"You're lucky. She's having one of her good days."

Then the goddess swung off down the walk using more hip action than a West Hollywood chorus line, and headed toward another cottage.

"As long as we're here, maybe I oughta see if I can get that painful crick worked outta my dick," Perry said, admiring her long, athletic stride.

We stepped inside the darkened room and stood in the small, musty space for a moment waiting for our eyes to adjust. Then I saw her sitting in a club chair parked under an oil portrait of a stern-looking baldheaded man.

Suddenly, she leaned forward and pointed a bony finger at Emdee Perry. "Dis is man who stole my dog," she shouted, loudly.

"I'm sorry?" Emdee said, taking a step back. "Took Chernozhopyi. Right out of yard."

"Chemoz. .?" Broadway said, furrowing his brow, unable to finish the word.

"Means black-ass," Emdee said.

"Beg your pardon?" Broadway sputtered.

"You ain't bein' insulted. Probably was a black dog. So don't go sending no letter to them pussies at the NDouble-A-C-P."

"I want dog back!" She yelled.

Perry looked chagrined and took another step back, glancing at me.

"Your witness, Joe Bob."

I moved forward. "Mrs. Litvenko, we're police officers."

I turned to Broadway and Perry. "One of you guys show her your badge."

They both pulled out their leather cases, and as soon as she saw them, Marianna Litvenko shrank back into her chair like a vampire confronted by a crucifix.

"Ma'am, this is about your nephew's murder in nineteen ninety-five," I said.

"I no talk. You go!" she said, her voice shaking.

"Ma'am, Martin Kobronovitch was an L. A. police officer," I pressed. "This is never going to be over until we catch his killer."

"No." Her lower lip started to quiver. "Not again. Please."

I moved over to her and kneeled down looking into dark eyes.

"Mrs. Litvenko, we're not here to hurt you," I said gently.

"Please, I have nothing left. They have taken everything."

"Why didn't you tell the detectives who talked to you before, that your husband owned the gas station on Melrose next to the parking lot where your nephew was shot?"

"No good will come of this," she whispered.

"I know you cared about Martin. The other detective told me how upset you were."

"Martin is dead. We cannot help him now. We can only save those who still live."

"Your family was threatened? That's why you kept quiet?"

She put her wrinkled hands up to her face. "These men, they are gangsteri."

"Russian Mob," Emdee clarified. He had retreated to a spot behind the screen door on the porch, where he now stood with Broadway, looking in.

"Mrs. Litvenko, this is America. It's not the old Soviet Union. We're not KGB. The police are not your enemy. We're here to protect you."

"Did you protect Baba?" she challenged.

"Your husband?"

"Killed. Murdered! Did the police stop that?"

"Ask how he was killed," Broadway coached through the screen. Marianna looked up, angrily. "They must leave. I will talk only to this one." She pointed at me.

I walked to the door and looked out through the screen. "Why don't you guys go get that physical therapy?"

I closed the door on them and turned back.

"Mrs. Litvenko, I want to find out who shot Martin. I know now, he was at the gas station, not the market, when it happened. I understand you're frightened, but whoever is threatening you, I will protect you. This is America. You'll be safe. You have my word."

She shrank further into the upholstered chair and then, the dam broke. Tears rolled down her face. It was as if a decade of anguish was flowing down those wrinkled cheeks. Finally after several minutes, her crying slowed. I found a Kleenex box and gave her a tissue.

"How did Boris die?" I asked.

"He owned six Texacos," she said, haltingly. "Very smart. He work hard, my Baba. Then one day, the mafiozi come. Boris say one of these men is huge and ugly. They want to buy stations. Boris say, 'This is Land of Free. We can dream here.' These men laugh. They tell him he has one week to sell. Boris is very frightened. He tells Martin, who is policeman. But Martin say he can do nothing without proof. Then Baba goes to be checking his two stations in Bakersfield. He is coming home; a big truck swerves and there is accident. Boris only one to be dead."

"And you don't think it was an accident."

She snorted out a bitter laugh. "Martin, he start to investigate after work. He find out man who drove truck is named Oliver Serenko from Odessa. Odessa. This is a place of many evil men. Serenko was never arrested. He just disappeared. Martin, he goes to Boris's gas station on Melrose. He talk to people, try to find someone who saw the gangsteri. That night, they come again. The manager of our station, Akim Russaloff, he tells me Martin is angry, threatens the men and then the ugly one with the broken face, shoots him."

"Where is this manager?"

"Disappeared. A week later. Dead."

She sat quietly now, looking away and remembering. "There was nothing we could do. I could not help Martin then, and I cannot help him now."

"They forced you to sell all six stations?"

She nodded. "They threatened my sister's babies. These are men who keep their promises. I had no choice."

I looked at the guilt in her eyes. That's why she cried when Cindy questioned her. Martin had been at the gas station because of her. She felt guilty about his death, but could do nothing without risking the lives of her sister's children.

"Who were they, Mrs. Litvenko? Who killed your husband and your nephew?"

"No. They will kill my grandnieces."

"You give me their names and I will see that they all get protection."

I held her hand again. "This has gone on long enough. Only you can make it stop."

The tears started flowing again. I stayed beside her until she was finished crying. After a few more minutes, she had no more tears.

"Please, Mrs. Livenko," I pleaded. "It's time to finish this."

"Nyet," she whispered.