The Dead Caller from Chicago

Fifty-six

Driving back to the turret, I watched the rearview as much as the road ahead. It was a new habit that had gotten old.

I called Jarobi. “I have news, I think, about the drivers of the cars that tailed Robinson. Two guys in trench coats slugged me earlier today. One of them told me to quit poking around about Robinson. He had a Slavic accent and a tight cluster of three stars tattooed at the base of his thumb.”

“Three stars and a Slavic accent?”

“They mean something to you?”

“Why do you think they warned you to stay away from Robinson?”

“You’re the cop. You tell me.”

“Are you at your castle?”

“Turret, but yes.”

“Walk your cell phone out to the river and look west.”

I went down to the water. Blue police lights flashed down by the dam, just like the night they fished out John Doe.

“See me waving?” he asked.

“Of course not; you’re too far away. What’s going on?”

“Robinson.”

“Drowned?”

“Two shots behind the ear, plus he’d been burned pretty badly.”

“What kind of gun?”

“It wasn’t your Peacemaker, buckaroo, but I have other interesting news. I called your county ME this morning. He was surprised he hadn’t heard anything on the identity of the John Doe, so I called your cops and offered them the use of my own people to assist in their investigation.”

“Our cops are turtles.”

“Not this morning. They called me back within a half hour, with the miraculous news that they’d just identified the floater. He was Dimitri Kostanov, age fifty-three, a midlevel player who moved from a Russian gang in New York to fashion a new life in Chicago. They’re becoming influential here, into all sorts of nasty things.”

“As I said, our cops are turtles.”

“Your cops are liars. Kostanov’s prints were in the system, which meant your cops had him identified right away. Plus, Kostanov had another distinguishing characteristic. Want to know what it was?”

“A tight cluster of three stars tattooed at the base of his thumb, just like the man who slugged me.”

“Rivertown is suffering an infestation of Russians, and that’s making your cops nervous. For some reason, they’ve wanted to keep the floater anonymous. When I forced them to give up the ID, they tried explaining it away by saying Kostanov was simply the victim of a gang rivalry, spilled downriver from Chicago. They also said they were done with the case-and that, buckaroo, is where things get real wrong. It’s an unsolved homicide. They’re supposed to be telling everybody that they’re sifting through leads, putting the word out to the community, the usual nonsense we puke out when we’re utterly nowhere on a case. You’re following me, Elstrom? They don’t want me nosing around. Those Russians who accosted you don’t want you sniffing around, either.”

“Robinson was killed in retaliation for Kostanov?” I guessed Jenny would make perfect sense of it, when she finally called.

“Tit for tat. What’s for sure is my boss is pulling me away from all this, now that Mr. Phelps has shipped his daughter off to Europe.”

When I said nothing, he asked, “You knew that, right? That Amanda Phelps is now in Europe?”

“No, but that explains why she didn’t answer my call.”

“Without her, there will never even be a complaint of kidnapping, and therefore no official file.”

“So Robinson’s case will die like Robinson?”

“I’m not so sure. There’s press interest. Your county ME told me some reporter is hot on the floater. He referred her to the Rivertown PD, probably with a laugh.”

“Her?” I asked, like I didn’t know who she was.

“Some woman. Why? Is there a woman reporter in your life?”

“Go on,” I said, but I said it too slow.

“Be careful, Elstrom. Your crooked little town has always been small-time, right? Stolen cars, hookers, backroom dollar slots, but never murder. Things might be changing. You’ve had a tattooed Russian and now one of your own building inspectors bob up in your river. Another building inspector got shot in his home. Throw in a dead mob boss last seen alive in Rivertown, and you’ve got a crooked little town that’s suddenly gotten quite lively.”

He paused, then said, “Here’s the worry: I can think of only one person who has links to both Robinson and tattooed Russians. Want me to spell out why each side might be angry with him?”

“I suppose not.”

“Keep your eyes open, Elstrom. Dig a moat. Start boiling oil to throw out your skinny windows in case you’re attacked.”

He hung up. He’d meant it well, but he’d been wrong.

I wasn’t the only person who had links to both Robinson and the Russians.