Black River (24 page)

Tuesday, October 24

2:51 p.m.

M
arie Hall read through the script again.
“I don’t know if I can do this.” She brought a hand
to her throat. “I’m so nervous.”

“That’s good,” Corso said. “You
ought to be nervous. You’ll sound authentic.”

“What if he—”

“Just follow the script.”

Corso attached the microphone to the telephone and
checked the tape recorder volume. “Ready when you are,” he
said.

She took a deep breath and began to dial. After a
moment, a cheerful voice said, “Weston Hotel.”

“Room Twenty-three fifty,” she said.

“Thank you,” the voice said.

The phone rang twice. “Yes.”

“Mr. Ivanov?”

Silence.

“I saw your picture in the paper
today.”

“Who is this?”

“You came to my house.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“You put a gun to my head.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”

“You and those other two men. Last year. You made
me call my husband at the hotel.” She waited a minute.
“You remember. I know you do.”

“What do you want?”

“The paper says you and that baby killer are
gonna get off.”

“What do you want,” Mikhail Ivanov said
again.

“I want a hundred thousand dollars,” she
said, “and I want it tonight.”

“You must be crazy.”

“Crazy,” she said, nearly in a whisper.
“I’ll show you crazy when I tell the goddamn cops. You hear
me? I’ll go right now. Don’t you think I
won’t.”

Ten seconds of silence ensued before Ivanov said,
“Perhaps we can reach an area of accommodation.”

“We better,” she said.

Tuesday, October 24

3:09 p.m.

M
ikhail Ivanov dropped a ten-dollar bill
onto the room-service cart as the waiter rolled it toward the door.
“Thank you, sir,” the man muttered. Ivanov walked over and
held the door open. The waiter thanked him again and disappeared.

Nicholas Balagula generally napped right after lunch,
so Ivanov’s presence in his room at this time of day was unusual.
Balagula wiped the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin.
“So?”

“We have a serious problem.”

“Oh?”

“The woman whose husband—the one who became
unburied.”

“His wife.”

“Yes.”

“What about her?”

“She called. She says she saw my picture in the
newspaper. Says she recognized me from when the Cubans and I went to
her house.”

“And?”

“She’s demanding one hundred thousand
dollars for her silence. She wants it today or she says she’ll go
to the authorities.”

“The timing is awkward,” Balagula said.

“Couldn’t be worse.”

Balagula shook his head. “What makes these people
think they can hold me up?”

“Greed seems to run in this woman’s
family.”

“She takes no lesson from the Barth
fellow?”

“Apparently not.”

“She cannot be allowed to interfere,”
Balagula said. “This farce ends tomorrow.” He looked up at
Ivanov and shrugged. “Set something up. Send our Cuban
friends.”

“That’s also a problem.”

“What problem is that?”

“I can’t reach our Cuban friends. They
don’t answer their phone.”

“Since when?”

“This morning. An hour ago, I had the maid at
their hotel check the room. They didn’t sleep in their beds last
night. I also had the bellman check the parking lot for the
car.”

“Not there.”

“No.”

Balagula rose from the chair and paced around the room.
“The problem must be handled,” he said, after a minute.
“We’ve come too far to allow anything to
interfere.”

“I know.”

Nicholas Balagula stopped pacing and shrugged.
“It appears, Mikhail, that you’re going to be forced out of
retirement.”

“Yes…it does.”

“She’ll be alone,” Balagula said.

“You think?”

“If she’s foolish enough to try to hold me
up, she’s foolish enough to want to keep the money for herself.
If she brings anyone, she’ll have to split the money. No,
she’ll be alone.”

“She said she’d call back tonight with
where she wants to meet.”

Nicholas Balagula thought it over. “Get the
money. If the situation allows, kill her. If not, pay her and
we’ll send the Cubans for her later.”

Tuesday, October 24

11:03 p.m.

M
ikhail Ivanov recognized her from half a
block away. She’d gained a bit of weight, but even under the
streetlights she still had those narrow blue eyes like his
mother’s. He recalled the look of terror in those eyes when
Gerardo put the gun to her head and led her into the bedroom, and how
she couldn’t stop crying as she listened to her husband’s
voice on the phone. He’d never have guessed she had the nerve for
this.

She’d chosen her ground poorly: some sort of
open-air church monument, three fluted stone columns standing at the
edge of a bum-infested park. He’d been nearby for an hour and a
half and, while the car traffic was unrelenting, the foot traffic was
spotty. Those who did walk down Pine Street favored the opposite side
of the street, where they did not have to cross freeway on-ramps. He
was confident his task could be accomplished.

The bum was the only problem. Curled up asleep on the
bench closest to Pine Street, he’d be no more than thirty feet
from where Mikhail Ivanov envisioned making his move. During the past
hour and a half, the tramp had risen three times: twice, early on, to
stumble down into the park and relieve himself, and finally, half an
hour back, to cross the street to the market and buy three tall cans of
what appeared to be malt liquor. Since downing the contents of the
cans, he had been snoring contentedly away. Perhaps if all went
according to plan, he would awaken to find a bloody knife in his
hand.

She wandered into the far corner of the park and looked
around. Silhouetted against the black sky, she appeared to stand in
some ancient ruin, left to rot amid the urban squalor. Mikhail Ivanov
shifted the black athletic bag to his left hand and started forward,
only to have a baby stroller nearly run over his feet.
“Sorry,” he mumbled to the thickset woman who acknowledged
his apology with a smile and a nod. Watching her swinging her hips for
a moment as she moved downhill, he breathed deeply and collected his
wits. Satisfied with his state of composure, he waited for a lull in
the traffic and then started across the street.

She was walking in small circles, staying just where he
wanted her, on the Pine Street side, where it was dark and the traffic
sparse. The half dozen cars, trucks, and vans along the curb had all
been in place when he’d arrived and were probably parked for the
night. Even better, Nico was right. She’d come alone. His right
hand fondled the flesh peddler’s stiletto in his overcoat
pocket.

As he stepped up onto the sidewalk he began to
visualize the move, the embrace of death he’d learned so long ago
in the prison yard, so smooth and easy that, under the proper
conditions, the victim could be leaned against a wall or a fence,
standing up, stone dead.

As he passed the sleeping bum, he hesitated, leaned
over, and looked down into the filthy face. A tiny piece of pink tongue
hung from the side of the mouth. He was snoring quietly. Satisfied,
Mikhail Ivanov strode across the uneven stones toward the woman moving
among the columns at the far side.

He saw her eyes widen as she recognized him in the
darkness. Saw her search her soul for courage as he came close. A final
peek over his shoulder revealed the bum still unconscious on the
bench. Across Pine Street, the woman had stopped walking and was
making adjustments to the baby. On the Boren Avenue side, the
sidewalks were bare.

He lengthened his stride, walked right up in front of
her and set the bag on the bench. As he’d hoped, so much money,
so close, was too much for her to ignore. She reached down and grabbed
the bag’s handle, at which point he slipped his arm under hers
and drew her tight against his chest. His left hand was now on the back
of her head, forcing her face hard against his coat, muffling her
cries, as he brought the stiletto forward and up in a motion designed
to eviscerate. She grunted from the force of the knife’s impact.
Had he not been holding her, she would have dropped to her knees. And
yet…something was wrong. He could feel it.

He felt the knife penetrate the coat, but that was all.
The sudden lessening of tension when a knife penetrates the
body’s outside wall, when the hand can feel the blade, wet and at
large in the innards…it wasn’t there. The point had
somehow been deflected.

He drew the knife back and plunged again with all his
might. Again she grunted. Again her legs buckled. Again the knife was
deflected by something beneath her coat. Then he heard the scrape of a
shoe, followed by the sound of a door sliding open, and before his eyes
the street came alive around him. With all his strength, he tried to
pull the blade upward.

A hand grabbed his wrist: the bum. The bum’s
other hand grabbed him around the waist and began pulling him backward.
From the corner of his eye, he could see the woman with the stroller
sprinting his way with a gun in her hand. He released his victim and
turned to face the tramp. He lashed out once with the blade, heard a
wail, and dropped the knife on the stones. His hand was on the
automatic in his pocket when he felt the kiss of cold steel on the side
of his face.

“Don’t move a fucking muscle,” the
voice said. Ivanov shifted his eyes toward the sound. The man had
thinning black hair and a scar running the length of his left cheek. He
also had a sawed-off shotgun pressed to the side of Ivanov’s
head.

“Fucker cut me,” the bum wailed. Marie
Hall’s mouth hung open as she struggled to her feet. She walked
unsteadily over to the bum, pulled the scarf from her head, and began
to wind it around his damaged wrist.

“Goddamn it. Goddamn it,” the bum
chanted.

Another hand grabbed Ivanov’s arm and began to
pull it from his coat pocket.

“Better be clean when it comes out of that
pocket, buddy,” Shotgun said. Ivanov relaxed his hand and allowed
it to be pulled from his pocket. He felt fingers slide into his pocket
and remove his gun and then felt the steel bracelet snap around his
wrist. The shotgun ground harder into his temple as his other hand was
forced behind his back and cuffed. “Go over him good,”
Shotgun said.

The woman dropped to one knee and began to frisk her
way up to his groin. Took her five seconds to find the Beretta strapped
to his left ankle. She set it on the uneven stones and completed her
search.

“I want to see an attorney,” Ivanov
said.

In the darkness, someone laughed. Ivanov turned toward
the sound. Frank Corso stepped out from behind the nearest pillar.
“He’s clean,” the woman pronounced.

“Let’s go,” Corso said, picking up
the athletic bag.

The shotgun was pulled away. The woman grabbed his
shackled wrists and pushed him forward, toward the red minivan sitting
at the curb with its sliding door agape. Behind him, he heard
Corso’s voice.

“Mary Anne, you and Marie take Marvin to
Harborview.” When Ivanov tried to turn and look, Shotgun grabbed
him by the arm and forced him forward, causing him to stumble on the
rough stones and nearly fall.

Shotgun got in first, all the way back in the third row
of seats. The woman helped Ivanov up onto the big bench seat and then
rolled the door closed. Outside in the park, the tramp cradled his arm
like an infant. Marie Hall had shed her coat and was in the process of
removing a Kevlar vest. The yawning barrel of the shotgun rested icily
on the back of Ivanov’s neck as Corso climbed into the passenger
seat. A capped figure at the wheel put the van in
DRIVE
.

Tuesday, October 24

11:17 p.m.

T
he
driver pulled the van to a halt.

“What’s this?” Ivanov demanded.

The street was deserted. Corso swiveled the passenger
seat around to face him. “This, Mr. Ivanov, is the proverbial
offer you can’t refuse.” He gestured with his head.
“That building across the street is the King County Jail.”
He held up a video camera. “I’ve got your attempt to murder
Marie Hall on tape.” The camera dropped from view and was
replaced by a small gray tape recorder. Corso pushed the button. Marie
Hall’s voice said,
I’ll show you crazy
when I tell the goddamn cops. You hear me? I’ll go right now.
Don’t you think I won’t.

Ten seconds of hissing silence, and then Ivanov’s
voice:
Perhaps we can reach an area of
accommodation.

We better.

It will be difficult to obtain
that much money at this time of day.

Don’t start with me.
I’ll go right to the damn cops.

I didn’t say it
couldn’t be done, merely that it will be difficult. Perhaps
if—

Corso snapped it off. “Sounds a lot like you, to
me.”

“What do you want?”

“Nicholas Balagula,” Corso answered.

Were it not for the barrel pressing against the back of
his neck, Mikhail Ivanov would have thrown his head back and laughed.
“Be serious.”

“You’ve taken the fall for him twice
before. You gonna do it again?”

Corso turned to the driver, who until that moment had
neither turned Ivanov’s way nor spoken.

“He’s looking at how much for jury
tampering and attempted murder?” Corso asked.

The driver reached up and removed the blue baseball
cap, sending a wave of brown hair cascading down onto her shoulders.
She turned and looked directly into Mikhail Ivanov’s eyes.
“They’ll call it twenty to life. He’ll serve a
minimum of sixteen years in a federal facility,” Renee Rogers
said. “Minimum.”

“You’ll be nearly eighty when you get
out,” Corso said. “That going to work for you, Mr. Ivanov?
We combine what we’ve got on tape with Ms. Hall’s
testimony, and this is a slam dunk. You willing to spend the rest of
the time you’ve got left behind bars to protect Nicholas
Balagula?”

Ivanov was visibly shaken by the sight of Renee Rogers.
“You can’t,” he stammered. “This
isn’t…”

“I can and I will, Mr. Ivanov,” she
snapped. “I’m not playing by the rules anymore. If this is
what it takes to bring Nicholas Balagula to justice, that’s the
way it’s gonna have to be.”

“So make up your mind,” Corso said.
“You’re either going to help us nail your boss or
we’re going across the street right now and deliver you to the
local authorities on charges of jury tampering and attempted
murder.”

“It’s up to you, Mr. Ivanov,” Rogers
added.

Ivanov turned his head and looked out the side window
for a moment. “Go to hell,” he said finally.

“Okay,” said Rogers. “Let’s
take him in.”

Corso stepped out into the street and pulled open the
sliding door. He took Ivanov by the elbow and started to pull him out
onto the pavement. Suddenly Ivanov jerked his arm free and said,
“Wait.” He looked from Corso to Rogers and back. “And
you—what—cut me some sort of deal? A plea
bargain?”

“You disappear,” said Rogers.

Ivanov’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Into
your silly Witness Protection Program?” He made a rude noise with
his lips. “I think not.”

“You walk,” Rogers said. “On your
own. You gather up whatever you have and you disappear.”

Ivanov’s eyes narrowed. “Just like
that?”

“Just like that,” Rogers repeated.

A garbage truck roared to a stop across the street.
Amid the clatter of a pair of emptying Dumpsters, Ivanov said,
“Since we were boys….”

“What?” Rogers said.

“We’ve been together since we were
boys,” Ivanov said sadly.

“And in all that time,” Corso said,
“if there were risks to be taken, you took them. If somebody had
to go to jail, you were the one.”

“I was—”

“Has he ever, even once, stepped into the breach?
Come forward and taken the beating for you? Ever?”

“ ’Cause he’s certainly not going to
do it now,” Rogers added. “He’s going to walk out of
that courtroom tomorrow a free man, and he’s going to disappear
before we think of anything else to charge him with, leaving you
rotting in jail.”

Ivanov took several deep breaths. “You want me to
say what?”

“We want you to testify that you were present
when the scheme to fake the concrete samples was implemented,”
Rogers said quickly. Before Ivanov could reply, she went on. “We
also want you to confess to arranging the murders of Donald Barth,
Joseph Ball, Brian Swanson, and Joshua Harmon.”

Ivanov nearly smiled. “I clean up all your loose
ends at once for you, eh?”

“One more thing,” Corso said.

Ivanov turned his face away, shaking his head in
disgust.

“You also confess to having personally killed
Gerardo Limón and Ramón Javier, in an attempt to clean up
your own loose ends.”

“All at Mr. Balagula’s behest, of
course,” Renee Rogers added.

Slowly, Ivanov swiveled his head around until he was
staring Corso in the face.

A look of admiration swept over his features.
“Really,” he said. He nodded twice, as if agreeing with
himself. “I told Nico you were a dangerous man. But I had no
idea—”

“Well?” Rogers prodded.
“What’ll it be?”

“But I didn’t—” Ivanov
began.

“We don’t care,” Rogers said.
“When you walk out of that courtroom tomorrow morning, you have
seven days to leave the country. We will keep your murder confessions
confidential. But if you ever show up again on our radar screens,
we’ll prosecute you for three murders. Other than that, we will
formally agree not to seek your extradition from whatever country you
might choose to live in.”

Ivanov shifted his gaze to Rogers. “You have the
authority?”

“I do,” Rogers lied.

“In writing?”

“Yes.”

“Comes a time a man needs to look out for
himself,” Corso added.

Across the street, the garbage truck roared off,
swirling diesel fumes and bits of airborne refuse in the night air.
“You know what the joke is?” Ivanov asked.

“What’s that?” said Corso.

“The hospital wasn’t our fault. All we did
was reduce the concrete by ten percent. We’ve done it a hundred
times before.” He shook his head sadly. “It was those two
inspectors, Harmon and Swanson.” He looked up at Corso.
“They took out another ten percent of their own. Next thing you
know they’re driving sports cars and buying houses in Marin
County.”

“Greed’s a terrible thing, isn’t it,
Mr. Ivanov?” Corso gibed.

Ivanov didn’t answer, merely looked away.

“You agree to our terms?” Rogers said.

Ivanov dropped his chin to his chest.
“Yes,” he said.

Renee Rogers slid out of the driver’s seat and
stood in the street, pushing the buttons on her cell phone. Then she
spoke, first identifying herself and then demanding, “Two U.S.
marshals to the corner of Fourth and Cherry. Pronto.”

Joe Bocco pushed the jump seat forward, stepped out of
the van, dropped to one knee, and jacked three rounds out onto the
pavement. After pocketing the ammunition, he slid the sawed-off shotgun
into a sleeve sewn into the lining of his raincoat and got to his
feet. “If you guys don’t mind, I think I’ll pass on
the marshals.” He nodded toward the van. “He ain’t
going anywhere.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Corso
said.

“Thank you, Mr. Bocco,” Renee Rogers
said.

He gave her a silent two-fingered salute and walked
off. Corso and Rogers stood together in the street, watching until Joe
Bocco rounded the corner on Spring Street and disappeared from
view.

She put her hands on her hips and sighed. “This
doesn’t feel nearly as good as I imagined it would.”

“How come?”

She looked toward the van and Ivanov. “I
can’t believe we’re letting this slimeball go. He’s
every bit as responsible.” She shook her head. “It’s
just not right.”

“What’s right got to do with it?”

“I like to think it has everything to do with
it.”

“You gotta stop confusing justice and the
law.”

“Oh, pleeeease—”

“Lawyers…the courts…you
guys…you dispense the law. Justice is dispensed on the ends of
piers and in back alleys.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s what the
cliché says, isn’t it?”

“It got to be a cliché by being
true.”

The muscles along the edge of her jaw rippled. She gave
a grudging nod and jammed her hands into her pockets.

“I think this is where I came in,” Corso
said.

She swept her eyes over his face. “You’re
not coming to court tomorrow?”

“I’ll catch it on the news.”

They stood uneasily for a moment before Renee Rogers
stepped forward and gave him a hug. He hesitated and then slowly
wrapped his arms around her.

“Thank you again for saving my life,” she
said, and let him go.

“I told you—” he began.

She reached up and put two fingers over his lips.
“I know, Mr. Hard Guy was just saving himself.” She held
his gaze. “I had my eye on you that night, you know.”

“Things got a little out of hand,” Corso
said with a shrug.

Her eyes crinkled into a smile. “At least I was
wearing my good underwear.”

“Your mother would be proud,” Corso
said.

She managed a tight smile and turned toward the van and
Ivanov.

“See ya,” Corso said, and strode off up the
street. He walked about twenty feet and then stopped and turned
aroud.

“Hey.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Hey
what?”

“You know what Ivanov was saying about Harmon and
Swanson buying themselves houses in Marin County?”

“Yeah.”

“I had a guy say the same thing to me about the
Joe Ball character. About how he and his wife just bought a house.
Seems like every place we go people are buying real estate after they
get involved with Balagula and Ivanov here.”

Her spine stiffened. “So?”

“When you get Ivanov spilling his guts, ask him
about how they got the jury list from the last trial. I’ll bet
you dollars to doughnuts the name Ray Butler gets bandied
about.”

She was silent for a long moment. “Sometimes
I’m not sure I like you,” she said.

“Join the club.”