Doing Hard Time (16 page)

Pete Genaro was giving Yuri Majorov a personal tour of the new poker room at the casino.

“Very nice,” Majorov said, as if he couldn’t care less. “But what matters is the quality of the players.”

“Well, this week, we’ve got Memphis Slim coming in for a few days, and there’s Buck Thompson, from Montana. Next week it’s all Texans.”

“Any of them ever win any money?”

“We had a fellow in here a week or ten days ago who took sixty thousand from what I thought of as a hot group. Name of Billy Burnett.”

Majorov stopped walking. “Say that name again.”

“Billy Burnett.”

“From where?”

“L.A., he says, but he’s kind of a mystery man. I ran his identity, and he’s real, but his background is pretty skimpy. Looks like he’s spent his life flying under the radar.”

“I would like to meet this gentleman,” Majorov said, and his tone did not sound like a request.

“I tracked him down to a hotel in Los Angeles, Shutters, in Santa Monica, but then we lost him. I even sent one of our best VIP ladies down to see him, but then he just went
poof.
”

“I’d like you to find him,” Majorov said. “And I’d like to talk to this lady you mentioned. Right now.”

• • •

Charmaine tapped on Pete Genaro’s office door and stifled a yawn. Pete had woken her from a sound sleep.

“Come in.”

She opened the door and walked in. That Russian, Majorov, was sitting on the sofa, and the sight of him gave her the willies. She was afraid of the man; she didn’t know exactly why, but she was.

“Have a seat, Charmaine. You met Mr. Majorov, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she chirped, and took a chair, primly crossing her legs.

“Charmaine, have you heard from Billy Burnett again?”

“Not yet,” she said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if he called.”

“Call him,” Majorov said.

“I tried, but his phone had been disconnected. I think he uses throwaway cell phones.”

“Is there any other way you can contact him?” Majorov asked.

“No, sir; he checked out of Shutters, his hotel in Santa Monica. He flies his own airplane, so he could be anywhere.”

“His tail number is N123TF?”

“Yessir, that sounds right. Maybe you can trace him that way.”

“We’re working on that,” Majorov said. “That will be all, young lady, but if you hear from Mr. Burnett, I want to know about it immediately, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Thank you, Charmaine,” Genaro said.

Charmaine left Genaro’s office, walking fast. She turned into the nearest ladies’ room, stepped into a booth, and threw up into the toilet. She checked her makeup and hair in the mirror, then went back to the little room in the hotel where she rested between shifts. She took a deep breath, then called Billy.

“Hello?”

“It’s Charmaine.”

“Hi, there.”

“That man, Majorov. I . . . I . . .”

“Hey, take it easy,” Teddy said. “Take a few deep breaths and relax.”

She did as instructed. “Pete Genaro called me into his office, and Majorov was there. He started grilling me about you.”

“That’s all right. You couldn’t have told him anything that would hurt me.”

“What does he want with you, Billy?”

“I had a little run-in with some people who work for him. They tried to kill me, in fact.”

“And how did you handle that?”

“By staying alive,” he said. “That’s why I came to L.A., to get rid of them.”

“Majorov said they’re tracking your airplane.”

“Don’t worry, that won’t work.”

“Billy, I got the impression that Majorov is deadly serious about finding you, and they’re putting a lot of pressure on me to help.”

“Then do anything they ask you to do—just let me know about it.”

“At this number?”

“Got a pencil?”

“Yes.”

“Write down a new number.” He gave it to her. “Then wait a little while, and tell Genaro that you heard from me. Give him the number we’re talking on now. They may check your iPhone for recent calls from this number, so delete them all but this one. Find a Radio Shack and buy a throwaway cell phone, then call me at the new number from that phone, next time you want to talk.”

“All right.”

“I think we’d better cool it for a while, until the heat from Majorov is off.”

“I think so, too.”

“Call me whenever you like, but do it from the throwaway. I’d certainly like to know if you have any further contact with Majorov.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Just relax and live your life as usual.”

“I miss you,” she said.

“I miss you, too,” Teddy replied. “We’ll get together again, don’t worry. I’ll call you in a few days on the throwaway number.”

They both hung up, and Charmaine stretched out on the bed and tried to nap, but she couldn’t stop trembling.

Todd German arrived at Los Angeles International, rented a car, and, using the onboard GPS system, drove to Shutters and checked in. He hung up his clothes, then went online and found a Santa Monica funeral parlor advertising basic services and had a short conversation with them about services and rates. He told them he’d call back later in the day.

That done, he went down to the garage and drove to the West Los Angeles police station. He gave the name of the detective he had spoken to, and after a fifteen-minute wait, a skinny, sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties appeared.

“My name is Detective Sanders,” he said. “Please come with me.”

He was escorted to a small room containing only a table and four chairs. He was told to have a seat, and Sanders left. He came back ten minutes later with another man, short, dark, and muscular. Gym rat, Todd figured. The man’s name was Gonzales.

“Mr. German,” Sanders said, tossing a thin file folder on the table, “what is your connection to Igor Smolensky?”

“I believe we went over that on the phone,” Todd replied.

“Go over it again for me,” Gonzales said. “Please.”

“We both work for Amalgamated Enterprises, in Phoenix. Mr. Smolensky was my immediate superior.”

“What kind of company is that?”

“It’s an international conglomerate made up of about three dozen businesses in various countries.”

“Any of these businesses connected to any kind of criminal organization?”

Todd made a show of looking surprised. “Of course not. Neither Mr. Smolensky nor I would be employed there, if that were the case.”

“Reason we ask,” Sanders said, “is the circumstances of Mr. Smolensky’s death fit a pattern associated with criminality. He was lured from his room down into the garage. He left so quickly that he didn’t even bother to put his ID or money in his pockets. He was disarmed—he was found with a semiautomatic pistol—placed in the trunk of his car, and shot in the head with a small-caliber weapon. His death had all the hallmarks of a mob killing.”

“If that’s so, then there must have been a case of mistaken identity,” Todd said. “Igor was a straight arrow. He belonged to the Phoenix Kiwanis Club, for God’s sake.”

“How about you, Mr. German? Do you have any criminal associations?”

“Certainly not.”

“Now that Mr. Smolensky is dead, are you going to get his job?”

“I don’t know—it’s possible, I guess, or they could send someone in from the outside. I’ve been there less than a year.”

“Where were you before that?”

“I was a student at the University of Phoenix.”

“That’s some sort of Internet school, isn’t it?”

“No, but it’s a for-profit university.”

“What did you study there?”

“I got a bachelor’s in economics and an MBA.”

“How old are you, Mr. German?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Where are you from?”

“I was born in Phoenix. I’ve lived there all my life.”

“Where are your parents from?”

“My father was born in East Germany, my mother in Russia.”

“Are you acquainted with something called the Russian Mafia?”

“Only from bad television shows. I’d like to claim Mr. Smolensky’s body.”

“Does he have any living relatives?” Gonzales asked.

“No—at least, not according to his employment records.”

“Wife?”

“No, he was single.”

“Was he gay?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Was he screwing anybody in the office?”

“Not to my knowledge. It’s a small office. There’s only one woman working for us, and she’s married. How do I go about claiming the body?”

Sanders removed a list of names from his folder and slid it across the table. “This is a list of people who checked out of Shutters on the morning that Mr. Smolensky was murdered. Do any of them ring a bell?”

Todd looked at the list: at the top was Billy Burnett. “No, none of them rings a bell. Now, how do I claim Mr. Smolensky’s body?”

“We’ll give you a document,” Sanders said. “You give that to a funeral home, and they’ll pick up the body from the city morgue. After that, what’s done with him is up to you.”

“Was there an autopsy conducted?”

“Yes. The cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head. There were no other signs of violence on the body.”

“Will this murder be solved?”

Gonzales sighed. “I’d say the chances are about fifty-fifty, under the circumstances.”

“What are the circumstances?”

“Out-of-town visitor, no local connections, no witnesses, no DNA, no forensic evidence, except for the bullet that killed him.”

“So you have nothing at all to go on?” Todd didn’t really care, but he thought he should make a show of it.

“That’s about the size of it,” Sanders said. “We were hoping you might give us something to go on. Why was Smolensky in L.A.?”

“I don’t know—he left without telling me, said he’d be back in a couple of days. I don’t know of a business reason for his trip. It could have been personal, I guess.”

“Did Smolensky know a woman here, or a man?”

“I have no idea.”

Sanders took a document from the file folder on the table, signed it, and handed it to Todd. “This is what you need to claim the body.” He gave Todd a card. “Please call us if any further information comes to light.”

“I’ll do that,” Todd said, then he got out of there.

He entered the address of the funeral home into the GPS unit and drove there. He was seen immediately by a gray man in a black suit.

“How may we help you?” the man asked.

“An associate of mine was murdered. His body is at the city morgue.” Todd handed him the document. “I’d like you to collect the body, have it cremated, and deliver the ashes to me at Shutters, a hotel on Santa Monica Beach. What is your customary fee for such services?”

The man took a form from his desk drawer and began checking off items. “Hearse, pickup, body preparation, cremation container . . . Would you like to see a selection of urns?”

“No, thank you, just use whatever container is customary.”

“An urn is customary.”

“Do you have such a thing as a cardboard box of an appropriate size?”

“Yes.”

“That will do.”

The man added up some figures with a small calculator and wrote a number at the bottom of the page. “Twelve hundred and seventy dollars,” he said, sliding the paper across the desk.

Todd counted out the money in cash and was given a receipt. “When will I have the ashes?” he asked.

The man looked at his watch. “By noon tomorrow.”

Thank you,” Todd said, and left as quickly as possible. Back at the hotel, he booked himself on an early afternoon flight to Las Vegas.