Skin Game

CHAPTER 25

Detective Sagorski was a fat fuck, Serrano thought—a waste of space. Doubtless he would milk the system for five more years, and then retire to drink beer on a hearty pension and the taxpayer’s dollar. He’d been asking pointless questions for the last ten minutes, as if somebody like him could get Serrano to spill his guts.

His cheap brown polyester jacket strained at the seams, his shirt was badly wrinkled, and his tie sported a mustard stain. The asshole kept referring to his notebook, as if he couldn’t remember what Serrano had said a few minutes before. He had bloodshot eyes and heavy hanging jowls that gave him the look of a tired basset hound.

Serrano tried to restrain his impatience. “Is there anything else I can do for you, detective?”

A spark of irritation showed in the other man’s tired eyes. “I still have a few questions, if you don’t mind.” Though the words were polite, his tone wasn’t.

“Go ahead.” For the first time, a prickle of unease skated across his calm.

But Serrano hadn’t gotten where he was by rattling easy. They’d have to do a lot more than send some toothless old dog on the verge of retirement to scare him.

“When was the last you saw Lou Pasternak and Joe Ricci?” The guy got to the point at last.

He pretended to think about it. “At a . . . gentleman’s club. I can’t remember exactly how long ago, though.”

“Yes.” Sagorski named the place. “I have the date. Wit nesses say you exchanged heated words before you left.”

That was a little too close for comfort. How the hell did they know to look at him for this? It didn’t matter, he told himself. He was clean. He’d just done a little digging, made a few phone calls . . . and used the Russians as his trigger-men. Nothing could be traced back to him. Even the Russians didn’t know who had tipped them off.

“Nothing serious. They were just ribbing me a little bit.”

“Over your recent romantic failure? It’s too bad. We watched that video down at the precinct. One of our CIs gave us the heads-up.”

Serrano’s jaw clenched. “Probably. I can’t remember.”

“There’s a lot you can’t remember.” In dogged persistence, Sagorski revealed he had the nature of a bulldog, not a basset, and once he sank his teeth into something, he wouldn’t let go.

“Only criminals think they need to have an alibi ready,” he said blandly. “I’m a businessman. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

As if he didn’t know.

At that, the detective reached for his briefcase and withdrew a folder. “Sure. Pasternak and Ricci were found dead in their homes, three nights ago.”

“That’s too bad,” he said. “This used to be such a nice town. Family friendly.”

Sagorski ran his hands through thinning hair, leaving it standing on end like baby chick fluff. “Thing is, they were both shot twice in the back of the head.”

He kept his expression neutral. “Strange coincidence.”

Anybody with half a brain knew that was an execution-style shooting. You could pull some mope off the street and he’d tell you the same. That was the problem; everybody watching CSI thought they knew something.

The detective’s mouth tightened. “We don’t think it’s a coincidence, Mr. Serrano. They were business partners, so we think they got into something they shouldn’t have.”

Like laundering for the Armenians?

He raised his brows and leaned forward on his heavy mahogany desk. “How do you think I can help you with this, detective?”

“We’re just beating the bushes.” Sagorski tossed the folder on top of some paperwork Foster had brought him to sign the day before. “Hoping to find some leads. Go on, open it.”

With growing trepidation, he did so. Glossy photos spilled out.

Jesus.

He’d understated the nature of their deaths. Serrano had seen some rough corpses in his time, but these sent a cold chill through even him. Remind me never to get on the wrong side of Odessa. Sagorksi had kindly provided both dorsal and ventral view. Whatever weapon they’d used had blown the back of their heads clean off. It had to be high caliber. Overkill, really.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Their hands had been hacked off at the wrists and stuffed into their mouths, and some crazy son of a bitch had carved Russian characters all over their bodies. Serrano didn’t read Russian but he could guess what the letters said.

“Damn.” There was no need to feign shock. Barayev was 100 percent crazier than he’d envisioned—and he had a good imagination.

“They did it while they were still alive,” Sagorksi went on. “We’re guessing they used a meat cleaver for the amputations. We think the knife work is meant as an object lesson. These men suffered a lot.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” He was, actually. “They didn’t deserve to go out like this.”

Serrano would’ve been content with two shots to the back of the head, but he supposed the Red higher-ups felt there was some need to make an example of them. He could understand the reasoning; he worked in a similar fashion himself, though he’d never gone to such extremes. Quieter methods worked just as well for him since he didn’t have a huge network to hide behind. That would entail trusting too many people with both his secrets and his money.

“So you don’t know anything about this?”

They’d gotten a tip, he realized. There was no other reason they’d be looking so hard in his direction. Fury sparked through him. When Serrano found the son of a bitch who’d dimed him, he would make him so sorry. Then reason asserted itself. If their informant went missing after they talked to him, it would just persuade them he’d been telling the truth, even if they had no proof. He didn’t need an army of law enforcement poking into every crevice.

“I wish I could be more help,” he said. “Is there anything else, detective?”

“Actually, yes.” Sagorski collected the pictures and tucked them back in his briefcase. “Do you know anything about Wayne Sweet? He was last seen in your company.”

His polite smile froze. Holy fuck. Who had this bastard been talking to?

“He went to Switzerland with me,” he answered readily enough. “To provide security. He met some ski bunny . . . they seemed to be having a good time, so I told him he could change his ticket and keep the suite for a week. Why? What’s wrong?”

“He never made it home,” Sagorski said. “His great-uncle . . .” He consulted his ubiquitous notebook once again. “ . . . a Joseph Geller, reported him missing when he didn’t show up to see him. Mr. Sweet visited once a month on Sunday, like clockwork.”

Goddammit. Foster had checked his record and said he had no next of kin. Well, no fucking way. He wasn’t going down for Wayne Sweet. They might suspect, but they didn’t know.

“That’s too bad. I’ll send the old gent a fruit basket.”

“Apparently Wayne was the only family poor Geller had left. He isn’t going to shut up until we find him some answers.” Though couched in innocuous terms, Serrano recognized that for a warning.

Sagorski may as well have said: I’m onto you. I’ll be digging in your trash, and I’m gonna keep coming until I find something.

“I’d want to know, too,” he said politely. “But if there’s nothing else, I have work to do.”

The cop rose, and with an effort, buttoned his suit jacket. “We’ll be in touch. If you think of anything that could help, let us know.”

“I’ll do that.”

Rage coiled through him, but Serrano waited a full five minutes before he picked up the lamp and hurled it at the door. His assistant came running, and she looked at the wreckage with wide eyes. “Everything all right, sir?”

“Fine,” he gritted. “Get maintenance up here, will you? Damn thing had a short.”

She scurried out as if she suspected he might launch something at her head next. Serrano swore over scaring her. He liked Sandy. The woman was a little timid, but she was efficient, and she didn’t pester him with things she could handle herself. More important, she was reliable and loyal; she’d worked for him for fifteen years.

He called Foster and left a message when the asshole didn’t answer his cell. “I want you up here as soon as you get in tonight. We need to talk.”

If he hadn’t been dumb enough to fall for Rachel Justice, Sweet wouldn’t have posted that video. Pasternak and Ricci wouldn’t have needed to go down for disrespecting him. They’d been his friends, once. Every rotten thing that had happened in the last six months could be traced directly to that bitch. And such irony—he’d wanted to go straight for her. Focus on his legitimate business interests, start a family. He hated how much he missed her, even now.

But she’d pay. And that would make everything else worthwhile.