Steve’s Shorts: Russians, Part Three of Five…
Russians
Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore
Part Three of Five
Once inside the houseboat, Jan and Boris went around closing blinds and shutters. He turned on the old TV set. He left her watching, found a liquor stash with a few bottles that weren’t empty—why keep the empty ones?—and poured generous servings into some heavy water glasses he had rinsed out. He joined her on the sofa and handed her a glass.
“I’m not twenty-one.” He shrugged. She took several swallows of the Canadian whiskey. “This is a nightmare. I’m wondering when I’ll wake up.”
“You’ll get through it. We’re going to—” She grabbed his arm and pointed. A red banner was displayed at the bottom of the screen that said “Breaking News.” He turned up the volume.
“Police are looking for assailants who put another coed in the hospital this evening. Viewers will recall that university student Janet Connors was shot on campus a few days ago. One of her roommates has been missing since then, and another roommate has been attacked and is an induced coma. Police are looking for Ms. Connors. Two witnesses testify seeing her running through from her apartment building. They are looking for Ms. Connors and one of her math professors, Boris Vashchenko, who is also missing. A police spokesperson is saying that Dr. Vashchenko is a prime suspect.”
Jan and Boris traded glances but then continued to watch. When the TV station returned to its regular programming, Boris turned the TV off.
“That’s not why we’re here,” he said to Jan.
“I know that. The police probably just want the public to be on the lookout for us. I guess they won’t get much from poor Mary Sue for a while. At least she’s alive.”
“Because you called 9-1-1. They might soon figure out that you fled to my apartment, though, and start a search for my VW.”
“Is that why you parked it behind that warehouse?”
“Maybe. I was acting on instinct.” He took a long sip of his whiskey. He eyed the amber liquid. “Not bad, considering. I’m not sure where or how to begin figuring out what’s going on.”
“That TV reporter didn’t mention the thugs. You’d think those witnesses would have seen them too.”
He smiled, found a pad, and wrote down a number. “The SUV’s plate. I memorized it. I’m calling Fonseca.”
“They can trace the call.”
“I’ve disabled everything trackable. Do you have a cellphone?”
“Back at the apartment, in my purse.”
“So not with you. This one will go overboard as soon as I finish the call.” He found Fonseca’s number. The call went to voicemail. “He’s probably at your apartment.” He held up a finger. “Hello. You might want to be looking for a black SUV with the following license plate number.” He read off the number and hung up.
He walked to a window that overlooked the brackish waters of the marina, opened it, and tossed the phone into the night. “If we have a chance, we’ll buy some of those cheap cellphones.”
“You’re good at this.”
“I don’t watch movies, but I read a lot. I figured out that you were talking about Ludlum’s book, by the way. It was written before cellphones existed, of course.”
“You mean The Bourne Identity?” He nodded. “I’ll have to read it. I only saw the movie.”
“I still don’t know who Franka Potente is, but you’re looking much better than you did after your ordeals. You’ve been through a lot. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
***
Fonseca didn’t listen to the voicemail until he returned to the precinct. Another witness? The voice was low-pitched but sounded familiar. Anonymous callers to the police often tried to disguise their voices. Voice characteristics were as telling as fingerprints or DNA unless a scrambler was used, though, but the police had the same problem with them: unless you had another sample from the person speaking, with a known ID, nothing could be determined until after that person was found. CSU data often only helped in a trial.
Many times callers remained anonymous because wanted to stay under the radar. If this one was using a cellphone, though, Fonseca knew he could get lucky. He made a call to his favorite CSI. “Mark, I need a trace on a call made to my cellphone.”
“I’ll be right up, sarge. I heard the news. Do you think the professor is a perv?”
“One theory at least, but in that case it’s hard to explain why that kid Vlad is missing.”
“Maybe unrelated.” I heard that one before, from the alleged perv! “How’s the victim doing?”
“Induced coma. Docs think she’ll be fine, though.”
And I’m not telling him that the beating was a slow one. Torture? No rape? That’s a strange perversion, if that’s what it is. He had the gut feeling, though, that Boris wasn’t guilty of anything besides being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He called DMV. When he hung up the phone, his puzzled expression had intensified. The plate corresponded to an eighty-five-year-old man in Camden, NJ. That sounds like a cover! That also meant the SUV either belonged to some acronym in the U.S. government or criminal elements like drug dealers, gun traffickers, and so forth. He sighed. Why is life so difficult?
He made another call. “Stella, I need some computer sleuthing from you. Call every government agency with local offices and see if the following SUV is owned by them.” He gave her the plate number. “Something’s awry here. I doubt that an octogenarian is driving an SUV, but you never know with the DMV. They still have deceased people driving.”
Stella laughed. “I’ll get right on it. Is this about that girl who was brutalized?”
“You got it. Right word too. This wasn’t just a crime of passion, by any means. Someone methodically worked her over.”
In two hours’ time, he had answers from both Mark and Stella. The CSI couldn’t trace the phone. “Someone went to great efforts to make it untraceable,” said Mark, “which is a little suspicious. Most people are pretty careless about that and don’t bother much with personal security. The phone’s no longer on either.”
Stella’s answer was more troubling. “That SUV belonged to the Russian consulate in New York City. They reported it stolen just this morning.”
Great! More Russians! So why doesn’t it have diplomatic plates?
Fonseca smacked the top of his desk. What had these kids become involved in? Is Boris Vashchenko a Russian spy? It wasn’t a paranoid question anymore. Not too far west of them, in the city of Montclair, authorities had discovered a Russian spy ring, their members living under the radar as good, solid American suburbanites.
The new Russia was attacking America on all fronts, from seeking economic advantage through industrial spying, to trying to control the electoral process and attacking American athletes in retaliation for the 2016 doping scandal. Fonseca suspected it was all done to please that narcissistic Russian dictator. Maybe even on his orders?
That bit of conspiracy thinking didn’t help him do his job, though. He needed to figure what was going on and make some arrests. And I sure hope diplomatic immunity doesn’t get in the way!
***
Boris had caught a few Z’s on the couch while Jan slept in the double bed. She’d winked and said she wasn’t quite ready to jump into the complete Marie-role yet, but he’d never thought of taking advantage of her. He’d enjoyed the goodnight kiss on the cheek, though, remembering Natasha.
Jan was still sleeping, so he wrote her a note and went to look for breakfast. When he returned, she was in the shower. He whipped up scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. The small refrigerator was now stocked.
Lost in one of Gerry’s old bathrobes, she eyed him over the coffee mug’s brim. “Why do I have the idea you’ve done this before? And I didn’t receive the night-before benefits.”
“Russian men can cook when they have to do so. We do just the basics. That’s about all anyone can do in Moscow. Only the oligarchs eat well. I’m not sure what you mean by benefits.”
She laughed. “Never mind. What’s today’s agenda? Did you buy hair dye and scissors to change my appearance?”
“Why would I want to change your appearance?”
“To hide from the bad guys.”
“You really have to start taking this more seriously. What we really need to do is channel Sherlock Holmes. Something is afoot, and I’m not sure that Detective Fonseca can figure it out.”
“Oh, so we’ll be like Remington Steele. You do look a bit like Pierce Brosnan. Smaller, maybe.”
“Again, I have no idea what you’re talking about. We know where Mary Sue is, and presumably she will have police protection, so she’s safe. We need to find Vlad. He can tell us what’s happening, I’m sure.”
“Good luck with that. He’s so spacey, I could hardly find a free memory stick on his desk. And he might be the cause of this whole mess, if Fonseca’s right about their keeping me from returning while they were searching his room.”
Boris thought a moment. “Did you say memory stick? Did you take one from his desk?”
“I didn’t have any left, and I needed one for a report. Our color printer was out of ink, so I had to print it in the IT center. I did that before I came to see you.”
“Do you still have the stick?”
“It just has my report on it. ‘An Analysis of Pre-War Japan’s Economy.’ I guess it’s in my purse.”
“Which is back in your apartment. We’ll make a trip there tonight.”
“What if the cops are still there?”
“They might have police tape or something, but I bet they’ll be through with their forensics work. We’ll park down the street and check it out.”
“I might like to have my purse, but I think you’re wasting your time with the memory stick.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing else on it?”
“Just the usual stuff they sometimes put on to set things up and make it easier to use. They’re so cheap now, I don’t pay attention to those freebies anymore. I put a file with a few kilobytes on an eight-gig stick and then toss it. I guess that’s why I always run out.”
He nodded. “We won’t know until we take a close look.”
Boris could see the wheels turning. Always thinking, calculating. This is one smart woman.
“Why wouldn’t they just gather up all Vlad’s stuff?”
“They might have been in a hurry, not knowing if your sniper would keep you from going home. They took Vlad instead.”
“Where is all that stuff now?”
“At the precinct station, I’m sure. They’ll be combing through all his emails and so forth to see if he had any threats. Yours and Mary Sue’s too, I suppose. The police are often methodical and thorough even if ineffectual.”
***
Fonseca peered over Stella’s shoulder. “Got anything for me, sweetheart?”
“Nothing your wife would be happy with, sergeant.” She buttoned her sweater. “Cold in here, isn’t it?”
“Hey, I might be old, but I’m not dead. Sorry.” He took a seat and smiled. “When are going to marry that jerk?”
“That’s none of your business, but I won’t marry him until I know he can hold down a job for more than a few months.” He nodded. “And I don’t have much, except that we’re missing a computer.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The computer we have from Vlad’s room is an old one. Hardly anything on it except for some great old video games. He wrote some of them, by the way. The machine has a pretty good graphics card driving a pretty good CRT, but I don’t think it was his main toy.”
“He had more than one?”
“Maybe three or more. These guys buy them and keep them around. Even the old parts. Small wonder he had the biggest room.”
“You think someone stole his pet machine?”
“I’d bet on it.”
“That might mean that they’re looking for computer files or something.”
“Or something. If he blabbed to other game developers, one might have wanted to steal his code. You just never know.”
“I think this is a lot more than another nerd stealing his code.” Fonseca did a drumbeat with his fingers on a portion of Stella’s desk. “But I have to cover all the bases. Do we have someone here with a connection to that community?”
“You’re looking at her. Or, at least her tits.”
Fonseca blushed. “Please don’t tell my ex-wife. She caught me ogling Pam at the Christmas party and would have divorced me all over again if she could.”
Stella smiled. “She married an Italian. What does she expect?”
“Do I have a bad rep?” said Fonseca.
“You’re better than most cops around here. That’s one of Jimmy’s positive qualities. He’s more of a hip man.”
“OK, I think we’re getting a wee bit too explicit.”
“Take it as camaraderie, sergeant. This is a tough case.”
“Don’t I know it? I thought I was a good reader of body language, but I might be wrong. Maybe that professor is a perv and much more. He might be a sadistic torturer and murderer.”
“Then you’d better collar him.”
“Back to the missing computer. The professor or whoever didn’t find what he needed, so they came back and went after Mary Sue. They might still be back. I’m putting two detectives on surveillance.”
Stella nodded.
***
In libris libertas…
