The Prince's Gamble (6 page)

Jim tapped the edges of his papers on the table to even them out. “The prince’s life is a complicated one. There are things best left private.”

Unfortunately, as long as she had not definitively ruled out Alexander as a suspect, nothing about his life could remain a closed book. But she could make one promise to the security chief, since he seemed genuinely concerned about his employer.

“Whatever I learn about Alexander remains with me and my team. I’m not some tabloid reporter eager to sell his scandals to the highest bidder.”

It seemed she would not have the last word on the subject. “The Ivanov family has not survived this long without safeguarding its secrets.”

“Then how is it that
you
seem to know why that photo upset Alexander?” she persisted, needing to understand the dynamics between the two men almost as much as she needed to understand Alexander. There was more history there than she had suspected.

“I know because I’m his friend. And because I’m his friend, I’ll warn you now. Don’t hurt him.” To signal that their discussion was done, Jim tucked the file under his arm and marched toward the door.

“Why do you think I can hurt him, Jim?” she called after him, nonplussed.

Jim paused with his hand on the knob and faced her. “You’re too smart not to see it, even though you’re trying to deny it.”

He didn’t give her a chance to respond, leaving her alone to ponder his words, as well as Alexander’s uncharacteristic reaction. The photo had struck him hard. She needed to find out why…and how it might impact her investigation.

That was the bottom line here. Her investigation.

Nothing else mattered.

She gathered the materials Jim had provided and hurried to her room. She had a lot to put into action by later tonight.

Her team had photos of the various escorts who were apparently involved in the laundering. With more people on the ground, they might be able to track some of them down and discover who was giving them the small bills which became chips, and then were once again exchanged for larger bills or transferred to the secret Cayman Island bank accounts.

If they could catch even one such money exchange, it might lead to some clues as to why Vanessa was missing, or if her disappearance was just a coincidence. Although Kathleen didn’t think so.

Vanessa had been spooked the night she disappeared. Probably by the man with the Russian mob tattoos, Kathleen figured now. The money laundering fit right in with the kinds of illegal activities in which the mob engaged. White slavery was another, and she hoped for Vanessa’s sake they had decided to make some money by selling her rather than just killing her outright because she had recognized one of them. Kathleen didn’t know what would be the worse fate, but she knew which she’d rather face herself…

But time was against them. The longer they took to make the connections between the escorts and whoever was providing the dirty money, the lower the odds of finding the missing hostess.

Aware of that, Kathleen rushed off to get things moving along. By that night she wanted her team on active surveillance of the casino and restaurant. She also planned on having agents back at the office review the man’s tattoos to see if they could provide any information about their possible suspect.

Finally, she had one last thing to do. She had to reach out to Detective Roman. Maybe he had some knowledge about the Russian mob’s activities in the area.

Chapter Seven

The bar where Detective Roman had asked Kathleen to meet him was well off the path beaten by tourists to Atlantic City. The neighborhood was like an over-the-hill actress, painted to try and look new, but beneath that layer the sagging and cracks were hard to miss. The bar was no exception. At one time it had had real windows, but now plywood painted black replaced the glass. She wondered if the damage had occurred during the hurricane and if so, why it hadn’t been repaired after so many months. In the meantime, someone had tried their best to write the name of the establishment in white across one panel, but the paint had faded and smudged into an almost illegible blur.

Roman leaned against the stained stucco exterior, tossing what looked like caramel-covered popcorn into his mouth.

She wondered how he managed to keep so trim with all the crap he ate.

“Detective Roman. Nice place you’ve chosen for lunch,” she said as she approached and inclined her head in greeting.

He finished off the last of the popcorn, crumpled the bag and flipped it through the open window of a nearby car. His, she assumed. Hoped. Glancing around at the assorted unsavory types loitering nearby, she said, “Aren’t you going to lock it up?”

He shook his head. “They know it’s my ride. None of them would be foolish enough to snatch it.”

Without waiting for her, he pushed through the door of the bar and over to one of the booths. Despite the early hour, a good number of patrons sat at the long wooden counter and at the booths around the perimeter. More surprising to her was the fact that inside, the place was actually spotless and filled with enticing smells.

Roman plopped onto the bench in the booth and she took the seat opposite him. The leather of the bench was worn and patched in spots with vinyl, but clean. A waitress quickly came over, and he said, “One order of the fried pierogi, one boiled, and one onion and cheese.”

With a nod, the waitress strolled away to place their orders.

“I hope you don’t mind,” the detective belatedly said, and there was something about his actions that reminded her just a little too much of Alexander. Princely, and a bit imperious.

Narrowing her eyes, she considered him more closely. “So, remind me. What’s your relationship to Alexander Ivanov, again?”

That he wasn’t inclined to answer was evident as he said, “I thought we were here to talk about your tattooed man?”

She nodded. “I understand you have some information on the local mob.”

“I do, and I have a suspicion as to who the man in the photo might be, but I just want to confirm it,” he said, and looked casually toward the door of the bar. She turned in that direction as a mountain of a man plowed in, barely clearing the door frame. He wore a tank top that strained against the thick muscles of his chest and his solid beer belly. The skin exposed by his shirt showed a number of tattoos similar to those she’d seen inked on Russian mobsters.

“Give me a second, will you?” Peter got out of the booth and walked toward the man, who had a good half a foot of height and girth on the detective. Despite that, Roman laid a hand on his massive shoulder and guided him toward their booth.

He was too big to fit in the space, so Roman stood beside him and gave her a go-ahead look. “This is Ivan. An old friend. Show him the photo you sent me.”

Kathleen yanked out her smart phone and pulled up the image. She handed the phone to Ivan, who nodded.

“
Da
, that’s him. I’d recognize the tats anywhere.” His deep voice was flavored by a thick Russian accent.

Kathleen looked over at the detective. “You know who it is?”

“I suspected it was Igor Stravinski, but Ivan knows him better, right?” he said, and clapped the huge man on the back.

Ivan wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something foul. “What do you want with him?”

“We think there’s some connection to a missing hostess at Russian Nights,” Kathleen said.

Ivan shook his head and let out a low whistle. “Not good. Not good.”

The waitress brushed past the two men to place plates heaping with pierogies smothered in sweet-smelling onions on the table. “I’ll be back with the rest in a second,” she said, and walked away.

Ivan smiled and smacked his hands together, the sound like a thunderclap. “You got these for me, right, Pyotr?” he said, using the Russian pronunciation for the detective’s name. A low rumble in his deep tones.

“Sure. Have a seat,” Roman said and slipped back into the booth.

Ivan immediately grabbed a nearby chair and sat at the end of the booth, his body almost as wide as the large slab of the wooden table. Kathleen suspected his bulk and ham-sized fists would be just as hard as that surface and was thankful he appeared to be on their side. She suspected he could crush the life out of her even if she managed to get off several rounds into him.

A moment later the waitress swooped in with another plate of pierogies and bowls with a mound of sour cream.

After she left, Kathleen resumed the conversation. “You said it wasn’t good if Stravinksi has the hostess. Why?”

“You see these?” Ivan pointed to the various tattoos on his body.

“I understand the tats are a history of a criminal past.”

“I was a political prisoner. I became a made man to stay alive. But Stravinski just likes to hurt. He is one crazy motherfucker.”

Was that the reason for Alexander’s reaction? Had he recognized the tattoos and known the man associated with them? And if he had, why hadn’t he said anything?

She thought of Vanessa and, knowing what she now knew about her likely captor, her worry for the young waitress tripled.

“Thank you for sharing that,” she said, sensing that beneath the tattoos and intimidating size, Ivan was not what he appeared to be.

He jerked a thick finger in the direction of the plates. “Ladies, first.”

She smiled and as a courtesy, she took his plate and served him a large portion of the pierogies and onions, bringing a smile to what might otherwise be a butt-ugly face.

“Thank you.” He grabbed his fork and jabbed it in Roman’s direction. “You and Sasha, you take care of this lady, understand?”

Roman smiled indulgently. “I understand, Ivan.”

Kathleen mentally filed away Ivan’s comfort with Alexander’s nickname. As the meal progressed, she used a cautious line of questioning to find out more about not only Stravinski, but also about Ivan. There was a secret buried there somewhere, between him and Roman and Ivanov, and she wanted to know what it was.

When they were done and rose to leave, Ivan surrounded her with his tree-trunk arms and gave her a gentle squeeze. With the power she sensed in him, it occurred to her that he could have just as easily broken every bone in her body.

After the good-byes, she and Roman exited and walked back toward their parked cars. Before she drove away, however, she had a few more questions for the detective that she hadn’t wanted to ask in front of the other man.

“How do you know, Ivan? Have you arrested him?”

Roman shook his head. “He’s been clean over here, but his reputation preceded him. He’s kind of a folk hero to some.”

“Because he was a political prisoner?”

Roman nodded and walked over to his car, leaned against the fender. “He fought for freedom and survived. Many didn’t.”

She detected the hint of admiration in the detective’s voice, but worried that he was allowing his emotions to overwhelm his objectivity. Despite that, the read she had gotten on Ivan was that he had no love for his crazy tattooed countryman.

“Why are you keeping an eye on Stravinski? Is he part of the Russian mob?” she asked.

“Not as far as we can tell. He’s a loner. Mostly petty stuff. Drug running. Prostitutes.”

“Somehow I don’t think those girls think what’s done to them is petty. And maybe they weren’t just prostitutes,” she suggested, tamping down her anger over the injustice of it all. “Maybe he was recruiting them for other, nastier things, which might explain Vanessa Wilson’s disappearance.”

Roman nodded. “If she was young and pretty.”

“Very much so,” Kathleen confirmed grimly.

“If Stravinski needs her gone, I wouldn’t put it past him to try to make a buck by selling her off to one of the slavery rings. That is, if she’s lucky.”

Kathleen didn’t think losing your freedom was so lucky. But then again, the possibility gave her hope that the hostess might still be alive. Continuing with that train of thought, she said, “I guess we have maybe a week at the most from the night she was grabbed until Stravinski can arrange to get rid of her.”

“Good guess,” the detective said. “He wouldn’t want to hold her for too long and risk being discovered.”

Which left only a few more days before Vanessa was likely sold into slavery. If she was even still alive.

“Who does Stravinksi answer to? Who’s his boss?” she asked.

Roman circled his index finger close to his temple. “Crazy, remember? No one wants him in their crew so he works alone.”

Maybe he didn’t work with any known mobsters, but that didn’t mean he was totally on his own. “Any chance he’s got a connection to Alexander Ivanov?”

The detective’s reaction was emphatic. He straightened like a shot. “No way. I already told you, Alexander is squeaky clean.”

“Any reason for Ivanov to be afraid of this man?” she pushed, recalling Alexander’s very visceral reaction to his photo.

Roman’s response this time was not as certain. “Rumor has it the Ivanov family had a run-in with some mob types, but it was quite a long time ago.”

“Care to elaborate?” The detective obviously had information that he wasn’t sharing.

“I don’t care to spread gossip. Why don’t you ask the man himself?”

With a nod, Kathleen said, “I’ll do that.”

She just hoped Alexander would be honest with her. She truly wanted to find a way to trust him completely. She was getting there, but her instincts were still humming. There was something he was hiding from her. She could feel it in her gut. And Roman’s hedging only confirmed it.

She took a step to walk away, but Roman reached out and gently took hold of her arm.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think Sasha is involved in whatever is going on.”

“It’s my job to bark, Detective.”

With a quick thanks, she hurried toward her car. She had a meeting with her ADIC and the rest of her team in less than half an hour, and then it was back to the casino.

If all went as planned, they would have additional boots on the ground by that night, watching for any signs of the escorts or Stravinski. She genuinely hoped the mobster was planning on making a buck off of Vanessa. That would mean she was still alive.

But her time was running short.

Kathleen needed to find her, and quickly.

…

“This is inexcusable,” a man at the check-in desk shouted. Alexander and Jim approached him in tandem. The man had been creating such a disturbance that one of the people working the desk had called for the chief of security. When Alexander had heard the man’s name, however, he knew he should be nearby himself, in case the situation got worse.

“I’ll be here if you need me, Jim.” He gave the go-ahead to approach the check-in desk and waited out of view to avoid immediately escalating the problem. He and Petrov, the man making a fuss at the desk, were familiar with one another, but not in a good way. They were of a like age and had attended school together at one point. Both their families were wealthy, but that was where the similarities ended.

“Mr. Petrov, pardon me,” Jim said, and walked toward the man cautiously, obviously aware of the curious and concerned glances of the other patrons in the area, and of the hotel staff manning the desk.

Petrov pivoted on one heel and glared at Jim, his nose lifted petulantly, spoiling what might otherwise be his handsomeness. Although as Alexander observed him more carefully, Petrov’s blond good looks seemed to be showing signs of wear. From a few feet away, one large man who had been guarding a mound of bags, peeled away from his companion and swaggered toward them in response to Jim’s approach. The goon was big, but from what Alexander could see, he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

“What do you want?” Petrov asked, his loud, condescending tone carrying across the distance.

The security chief forced a smile to his face and held out his hand. “Jim Reynolds. Prince Alexander sent me down to make sure you were being taken care of.”

A lie, but a necessary one. Alexander suspected that Petrov would not appreciate that someone had called security on him.

“Well, I’m not being taken care of.” He mimicked Jim’s words in nasty tones. “I find it hard to believe that an establishment like this doesn’t have accommodations free for their best patrons.”

“I understand. Let me see what I can do.” Jim walked to the desk where the harried clerk stood, now flanked by the hotel manager. Alexander couldn’t hear what was being said, but he suspected Jim was asking the staff to expedite a room for Petrov.

The young desk clerk nodded and laid a pair of key cards on the counter.

Jim walked back to Petrov and held his arm out, inviting him to return to the check-in desk. “It’s all set. I hope you enjoy your stay with us, sir.”

Nose still held high in the air, Petrov brushed past Jim silently.

The security chief shook his head and walked back toward Alexander, his features stiff and unyielding.

“He was berating the desk clerks because it was taking them a little too long to find accommodations for ‘a man of his importance.’ His words, not mine,” Jim clarified, confirming what Alexander had already suspected was the problem.

Although not royalty, Petrov and his family counted themselves amongst Russia’s richest citizens. Unlike Alexander’s family, however, the Petrov empire was rumored to have been built on less-than-honest labor and money.

“I’m assuming we found suitable accommodations for my old friend?” He faced Jim as he said it, unable to disguise his lack of love for Petrov.

“We did, but there’s something else that was in the files on our biggest gamblers that we gave to Kathleen this morning. Petrov deposited a large marker in your Monaco casino just a few days ago.”