Beyond Suspicion

He didn’t answer right away, though he recalled it well. “I said, if I was going to kill an old girlfriend, would I really do it in my own house?”

“It’s a logical defense. You think Theo was smart enough to give it to you?”

“It’s not that smart. I said the same thing to Sam Drayton at the U.S. attorney’s office. He tore it to shreds, asked me if I thought it up before or after I killed Jessie Merrill.”

“Theo’s not a prosecutor.”

“Theo’s not a lot of things, and he’s especially not a murderer.”

“I hope you’re right. But if you’re going to look for him, which I know you are, let me ask you this. You call him a friend, but how well do you really know Theo Knight?”

Jack’ first reaction was anger. Serving time for a murder he didn’t commit had forever put Theo in a hole. But he was no saint, either, and Jack knew that.

“Jack, you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Honestly. How well do you know him?”

“Do we ever really know anyone?”

“That’s a cop-out.”

“Maybe. I’ll let you know what I find out.” He said good-bye and hung up.

54

•

It was almost midnight, and Yuri was ready to make a move. He and Vladimir had spent the last six hours in their favorite hotel on the Atlantic City boardwalk. The Trump Taj Mahal was renowned for its understated elegance-but only if you were a Russian mobster. To anyone else, it was flash and glitz on steroids. Fifty-one stories, twelve hundred rooms, and restaurant seating for three thousand diners, all complemented by such subtle architectural details as seventy Arabian-style rooftop minarets and no fewer than seven two-ton elephants carved in stone. The chandeliers alone were worth fourteen million dollars, and each of the big ones in the casino glittered with almost a quarter million pieces of crystal. Marble was everywhere-hallways, lobbies, bathrooms, even the shoe-shine stands. Miles of tile work had actually exhausted the entire two-year output of Italy’s famous Carrera quarries, Michelangelo’s marble of choice for his greatest works of art. There was even a ten-thousand-dollar-a-night suite that bore Michelangelo’s name. Fitting. It was impossible to walk through this place without wondering what Mich would think.

“Let’s go,” said Yuri.

“What’s your hurry?”

“Enough fun and games. It’s time we got what we came for.”

Vladimir grumbled, but he didn’t argue. Blackjack was considered a house game, and for the past two hours he’d conducted himself as the perfect house guest. He was down almost twenty grand at the high-limit table. He gathered up his few remaining chips and stuffed them into the pockets of his silk suit. Then he ordered another drink for the woman seated beside him, a statuesque redhead with globes for breasts and a tear-shaped diamond dripping into her cleavage.

“I’ll be back,” he said with a wink.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Yuri grabbed his elbow and started him toward the exit. They were in the Baccarat pit, a special, velvet-roped area in the casino where the stakes were high and drop-dead-gorgeous women sidled up to lonely men with money in their pockets and Viagra in their veins. No one seemed to care that most of the babes were planted by the hotel to encourage foolish wagering.

“You think she’s a prostitute?” asked Vladimir.

Yuri rolled his eyes and kept walking, making sure that Vladimir stayed right with him. He made a strategic decision to avoid the temptation of the craps tables by leading him through Scheherazade restaurant. It overlooked the Baccarat pit, making it one of the few five-star restaurants in the world where you could eat lunch and lose your lunch money at the same time.

“These guys aren’t the kind of people you keep waiting,” said Yuri.

“We’re not late.”

“Not being late ain’t good enough. You get there early and wait. It shows respect.”

“Sorry. Didn’t know.”

They hurried down the long corridor and ducked into one of the tower elevators just past the Kids’ Fun Center. An elderly couple tried to get on behind them, but Yuri kept them at bay.

“All full,” he said as he pressed the close door button. He punched forty-four, and the elevator began its ascent, the two of them admiring their reflections in the chrome door. Then Yuri turned and straightened Vladimir’s tie.

“Just do what I say from here on out, all right? This meeting is too important to fuck up.”

“What should I say?”

“Just answer the questions asked. That’s all.”

Vladimir rearranged his tie, making it crooked again. “I look okay?”

Yuri gave him a friendly slap on the cheek. “Like a million bucks.”

The elevator doors opened and Yuri led the way out. Vladimir seemed almost giddy as they walked briskly down the hallway.

“Bratsky Krug,” said Vladimir. “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” said Yuri.

“I laid eyes on one of these guys only once before. I ever tell you that story?”

“Yes.” Only a thousand times, the guy who plucked him out of the Kamikaze Club in Moscow, the bare-knuckled fights to the death. Bratsky Krug was Russian for “circle of brothers.” It was the ruling council of the vory, a powerful alliance of Russian mobsters. It didn’t have the power or structure of the Italian Cosa Nostra, but it had been known to settle inter-gang disputes. Yuri hadn’t promised his friend that the council would settle the viatical disagreement between Miami and Brighton Beach. For someone as starstruck as Vladimir, he knew, the prospect of meeting one of these “brothers” was reason enough to make the trip.

The corridor was quiet. Door after door, the whole wing seemed to be asleep. Most of the rooms were under renovation and unoccupied, which was precisely the reason Yuri had chosen the forty-fourth floor for the meeting. He stopped at 4418 and inserted the passkey.

“You don’t knock?” said Vladimir.

“You expect them to pay for the room? Like I said, we get here early, they come to us. We’re the ones who wait.”

He pushed open the door, then stepped aside, allowing Vladimir to enter first. It was dark inside, the entranceway lit only by the sconces in the hallway. Vladimir took a half-dozen steps forward and stopped. Yuri was right behind him. The door closed, and the room went black.

“How about some lights?”

Yuri didn’t answer.

“Yuri?”

With a click of a lamp switch on the other side of the room, bright white light assaulted his eyes. Vladimir reached for his gun.

“Don’t,” said Yuri as he pressed the muzzle of his silencer against the back of Vladimir’s head.

Vladimir froze, then chuckled nervously. “What’s-what’s going on, man?”

Yuri watched the expression on Vladimir’s face as a man stepped out from the shadows. It was Leonid, the Brighton Beach mobster whom Vladimir had thrown out of his strip club.

“What the hell are you doing here?” asked Vladimir.

Two more thugs stepped into the light. Instinctively, Vladimir went for his gun again, but Yuri pressed the pistol more firmly into his skull.

“I wouldn’t,” said Yuri.

Vladimir lowered his arm to his side. All color seemed to drain from his face as the reality of the setup sank in.

“Yuri, what’s this all about?”

“Leonid told me about the meeting he and his banker from Cyprus had with you at Bare-ly Eighteen. Seems you were extremely rude.”

Vladimir squinted into the spotlight. “They canceled our contract for no good reason. We skimmed a little blood, used a virus they didn’t like. What’s the big deal? You don’t walk out on a deal over little shit like that.”

“I hear different. Seems the straw that broke the camel’s back was the Jessie Merrill hit.”

“We didn’t have anything to do with Jessie Merrill’s death.”

“No,” said Yuri. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. You, I’m not so sure of.”