“Anchorage?” Volodin said. “There will be people looking for us at the airport.”
“I have a friend,” Kaija said. “A girl who lives in a small village northeast of here. If we can get to her, she will help us. It will be out of the way, but according to her, the authorities do not check identification on small aircraft within the state. We can get to Anchorage without raising suspicion.”
“How do you know this girl?” Volodin said.
Kaija fell back in her bed, laughing. “You are such an old man, Papa. The Internet makes it possible to have friends all over the world. We will find a flight out to my friend, Polina, in the morning. She will help us.”
“So I should not turn myself in?” Volodin said.
Kaija gave an exasperated sigh. “No, Papa, you should not.”
Volodin stared into the darkness. She was angry with him again. They had been arguing about something, but he could not remember what it was.
Chapter 16
“NYPD!”
A blue-on-blue shooting — catching an acci dental bullet from another officer — was a constant danger to any law-enforcement officer in plain clothes. Bowen had been on the other end of the gun in the same situation and knew he was a hair away from catching a volley of bullets in the back. He let his pistol fall to the rooftop, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw Thibodaux was smart enough to do the same thing.
“We’re on the job!” Bowen yelled over his shoulder without turning around. Considering all the blood and bone the responding cops had walked by on the floors below, there was no doubt they would be a little twitchy on the trigger.
Bowen could feel more than one officer behind him and knew even without seeing them that several muzzles pointed in his direction. He’d felt the feeling before, and it was not an easy thing to forget. Thankfully the officers were well-disciplined and absent the melee of contradictory commands that were often issued under stressful confrontations.
“Step away from the guns!” a voice barked. It was deep and sure, accustomed to giving orders. “Hands away from your sides!”
A moment later both Bowen and Thibodaux were bum rushed by a swarm of police. Bowen caught glimpses of blue windbreakers and gold shields swinging from neck chains as he was forced face down. Detectives, Bowen thought. That made sense.
“U.S. Marshals,” Bowen said as the handcuffs ratcheted closed at the small of his back. His voice was muffled. He tasted tar from the roof. “My creds are in my left jacket pocket. Badge is inside my shirt on a chain around my neck.”
A hand reached around to retrieved the black credential case. “Wearing your badge inside your shirt is a good way to get yourself ventilated,” the authoritative voice behind him said.
“Can’t argue with that,” Bowen said. “This thing went from interview to shitstorm before we knew it.
“They got a way of doin’ that around here,” the detective said.
Bowen chanced a look over his shoulder. When no one kicked him in the head, he began to relax.
A stocky man with a flattened nose from one too many fights stood back a few feet, perusing both sets of credentials. From the way the other men seemed to look to him for direction, Bowen guessed he was the detective in charge.
“They’re good.” The man nodded to the contact detectives. He snapped the black leather cases closed, apparently satisfied. “Go ahead and take the cuffs off and help them up.”
Bowen and Thibodaux brushed the dust off the front of their clothes and took back their credentials in turn. The lead detective raised a blond eyebrow at Thibodaux. “What in the hell is OSI?”
The Marine shook his head. “I know, right?” he said, not bothering to explain.
“Detective Sean O’Hearn,” the detective said. “Sixtieth precinct organized crime squad. I’m assuming you guys came to speak to the mope in 307.”
“We did,” Bowen said.
O’Hearn rubbed his face. “Well, said mope has recently started keeping company with people who are on our radar.” He suddenly looked directly at Bowen. “Looks like you been on the wrong end of a fist.”
“You should see the other guy,” Bowen said, rubbing his wrists, but deciding not to go into detail.
“What do the feds want with the Wolf?”
“Who?” Bowen said.
“It’s Petyr Volodin’s fighting name,” O’Hearn said. “Petyr the Wolf. I know, he’s a dumbass. Anyhow, what do you guys have on him? I didn’t notice any warrants in NCIC.”
“Oh, you know,” Thibodaux gave a noncommittal grin. “National security stuff.”
“Of course it is,” O’Hearn grunted. He turned to walk toward the stairwell. “I got a shitload of blood in his apartment that looks like the floor of a butcher shop — and no Petyr.”
“I’m guessing you haven’t seen the two bodies in the Dumpster yet,” Thibodaux said.
O’Hearn spun in his tracks, interested now. “I have not. The babushka in 309 was up nursing her gouty arthritis and spied you two through her peephole when you were breaking into 307. We grabbed the call from the uniforms when we heard the location was Volodin’s. We barely had time to clear the apartment before we heard you two clomping up the stairwell. Is one of the bodies the Wolf?”
“They’re faces are pretty caved in,” Bowen said. “But I’m guessing them to be two Middle Eastern males.”
“No wonder the feds are involved.” O’Hearn unclipped a radio from his belt. “Ramos, do me a favor. The marshal says we got two dead in the basement Dumpster. Secure them until CSU gets here.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, sending the rest of his squad down to help.
“Roger that, boss.” Ramos’s voice crackled back. “I’m on my way down there now from the lobby.”
O’Hearn pointed the radio antenna at Bowen, giving him a wry look. “This leaves me wondering who it was you chased up the stairs.”
“Not sure,” Thibodaux said, “but he’s long gone. Some dark-complected dude with a black beard and short hair. Neither of us got much of a look at him. We were hoping to grab some security video and run it through facial recognition if you have anything street-side.”
“I’ll see what we got as far as cameras,” the detective said. “But don’t get your hopes up. The local gangs take ’em out with BB guns and paintballs as quick as we put ’em up.”
“Mind if we tag along on the investigation?” Bowen said. “We promise not to get fed gunk on anything.”
“Fine with me.” O’Hearn shrugged. “I got thirteen open homicide cases attributed to the wannabe Russian Bratva mobsters we got around here. Feel free to help me out all you want. I gotta tell you though, I don’t like Petyr Volodin for this one. He’s a hell of a fighter in the ring, but outside… he’s kind of a mook.”
“We need to talk to him in any case,” Bowen said.
“No doubt.”
“Any suggestions about where we start?”
“His girlfriend Nikka,” O’Hearn’s shoulders shook in a mock shiver. “She’s a stripper off Surf Avenue. A place called Cheekie’s. You’ll want to wear protection when you talk to that one.”
“Protection?” Bowen grimaced.
Thibodaux’s brow peeked out above his eye patch.
The detective gave a pensive chuckle. “I’m only half kidding. This broad fights us every damn time we make contact with her. Don’t tell him I said this, but Ramos — the guy checking the basement for me — he’s kind of sweet on her. She’d be kind of a looker if she wasn’t so mean. No kidding though, you should wear some kind of sunglasses when you talk to her. She slings spit like a St. Bernard dog when she gets mad.” The detective leaned in as if to drive home his point. “And it don’t take much to piss her off.”