Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery) by Michael Koryta Page B
Book: Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery) by Michael Koryta
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Authors: Michael Koryta
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his eyes on the ceiling for a few seconds and then rolled his head back down, smiling now.
"I'll tell you what," he said. "How about we put a spotlight on you two, give you ten, maybe fifteen minutes for the comedy routines? Youcan take shots at my employer, my wife, my mother, whatever. When you've completed the first act, I'll applaud real politely, and then maybe we can get down to business."
Kraus laughed, and Joe shrugged. "Let's just get down to business, Cody."
He nodded, then leaned down and opened his briefcase. He withdrew a manila folder and took four eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs from it. He spread them on the desk, facing us. I immediately recognized two of the men in the pictures; they were Rakic and Krashakov, the Russians I'd spoken with earlier in the day. The other two I didn't know. One was a heavyset man with a thick mustache, fleshy chin, and small dark eyes. The other was younger, with dark hair, a goatee, and a nasty scar across his left temple.
"Recognize them?" Cody asked.
I nodded. "These two," I said, pointing at Rakic and Krashakov. "I don't know the others, though."
Cody leaned back in his chair and studied us. "How did you two connect those men to Wayne Weston?"
"Who says we did?" I said.
He sighed. "Gentlemen, I thought we were past this stage."
I looked at Joe, and he nodded, indicating that I was free to talk. We were being paid to bring the case to a conclusion, and the FBI had resources that could help us do that. There was no sense in stonewalling them or acting like we were competing with them.
"April Sortigan," I said, looking at Kraus. "She turned out not to be such a dead end after all. Sortigan told me Weston had asked her to do background checks on three men. She gave me the names, and we started to check them out ourselves. From what I've gathered so far, they're foot soldiers for the Russian mob."
"Who told you that?" Cody said.
"We're investigators," I answered. "We investigated. Now, do you want to tell us what this is all about?"
He nodded. "The Russian mafia in this city--and in the rest of thecountry--is growing," he said. "It's the most powerful organized crime syndicate in the world; nothing else even comes close. They have ties to eighty percent of the banks in Russia, so money laundering is no problem, and now they're spreading their claws across the globe. Cleveland is one of those new destinations."
He jabbed his finger at the man with the fleshy face and the mustache. "That is Dainius Belov. He's the don of the Russian mob in this city, and it doesn't pay to underestimate his power. He's got more weight than any of the Italian gangsters in this city ever dreamed of." He pointed at the photograph of Krashakov. "Alexei Krashakov is one of Belov's lieutenants. Rakic and Malaknik work closely with him. They're a little too wild for Belov's liking, so their power is limited, but they're busy boys. They've got ties to heroin, cocaine, insurance scams, prostitution, illegal weapons trafficking--you name it, they're involved." Cody's voice had taken on a haggard, weary tone, and I thought he'd probably spent too many hours poring over photographs of these guys, looking for a way to bring them down.
"We're particularly interested in the weapons trafficking," he said. "These guys are moving some serious contraband through the city, and we intend to stop it. Assault rifles, machine guns, and hell, even missiles. And they're very good at it. They're very good at all of it. Because they're pros. Half of Belov's boys were special forces soldiers in Afghanistan in the eighties. Some of them even have ties to the KGB. We've got a task force working on them, a joint effort between Bureau agents and CPD detectives." He sighed. "And, so far, I'll admit that we're not having much success."
"How's Wayne Weston involved?" Joe said.
Cody slid the photographs together and tapped them on the desk, straightening their edges before returning them to the manila
"I'll tell you what," he said. "How about we put a spotlight on you two, give you ten, maybe fifteen minutes for the comedy routines? Youcan take shots at my employer, my wife, my mother, whatever. When you've completed the first act, I'll applaud real politely, and then maybe we can get down to business."
Kraus laughed, and Joe shrugged. "Let's just get down to business, Cody."
He nodded, then leaned down and opened his briefcase. He withdrew a manila folder and took four eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs from it. He spread them on the desk, facing us. I immediately recognized two of the men in the pictures; they were Rakic and Krashakov, the Russians I'd spoken with earlier in the day. The other two I didn't know. One was a heavyset man with a thick mustache, fleshy chin, and small dark eyes. The other was younger, with dark hair, a goatee, and a nasty scar across his left temple.
"Recognize them?" Cody asked.
I nodded. "These two," I said, pointing at Rakic and Krashakov. "I don't know the others, though."
Cody leaned back in his chair and studied us. "How did you two connect those men to Wayne Weston?"
"Who says we did?" I said.
He sighed. "Gentlemen, I thought we were past this stage."
I looked at Joe, and he nodded, indicating that I was free to talk. We were being paid to bring the case to a conclusion, and the FBI had resources that could help us do that. There was no sense in stonewalling them or acting like we were competing with them.
"April Sortigan," I said, looking at Kraus. "She turned out not to be such a dead end after all. Sortigan told me Weston had asked her to do background checks on three men. She gave me the names, and we started to check them out ourselves. From what I've gathered so far, they're foot soldiers for the Russian mob."
"Who told you that?" Cody said.
"We're investigators," I answered. "We investigated. Now, do you want to tell us what this is all about?"
He nodded. "The Russian mafia in this city--and in the rest of thecountry--is growing," he said. "It's the most powerful organized crime syndicate in the world; nothing else even comes close. They have ties to eighty percent of the banks in Russia, so money laundering is no problem, and now they're spreading their claws across the globe. Cleveland is one of those new destinations."
He jabbed his finger at the man with the fleshy face and the mustache. "That is Dainius Belov. He's the don of the Russian mob in this city, and it doesn't pay to underestimate his power. He's got more weight than any of the Italian gangsters in this city ever dreamed of." He pointed at the photograph of Krashakov. "Alexei Krashakov is one of Belov's lieutenants. Rakic and Malaknik work closely with him. They're a little too wild for Belov's liking, so their power is limited, but they're busy boys. They've got ties to heroin, cocaine, insurance scams, prostitution, illegal weapons trafficking--you name it, they're involved." Cody's voice had taken on a haggard, weary tone, and I thought he'd probably spent too many hours poring over photographs of these guys, looking for a way to bring them down.
"We're particularly interested in the weapons trafficking," he said. "These guys are moving some serious contraband through the city, and we intend to stop it. Assault rifles, machine guns, and hell, even missiles. And they're very good at it. They're very good at all of it. Because they're pros. Half of Belov's boys were special forces soldiers in Afghanistan in the eighties. Some of them even have ties to the KGB. We've got a task force working on them, a joint effort between Bureau agents and CPD detectives." He sighed. "And, so far, I'll admit that we're not having much success."
"How's Wayne Weston involved?" Joe said.
Cody slid the photographs together and tapped them on the desk, straightening their edges before returning them to the manila
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