Graveyard Bay Page 21

  Sounds like Bogdan Tolbonov.

  “You said he was muscle. Not anymore?”

  Her head moved from side to side slightly. “Before he was with Wolfline, he was working for the Brotherhood.”

  “Merlin Finn’s crew?”

  “Before I met him, Charlie did two years in Lockport for assault. He joined the Brotherhood while he was in prison. When Charlie got out, he got a job working for Merlin Finn.”

  “Then Finn went to jail for murdering two of Wolfline’s men.”

  She nodded nervously. “With Merlin gone, everybody in the Brotherhood took a job with Wolfline. Charlie worked directly under Bogdan Tolbonov. But then Merlin Finn busted out of prison. Charlie told me that he wanted back into Finn’s crew again. That’s what we argued about the night he took off.”

  “He’s still missing?”

  She leaned in, tears gleaming in her brown eyes. “The police aren’t doing anything.”

  I wasn’t entirely surprised. Charlie Tomasso didn’t sound like a very nice guy. “How can I help you?”

  “When I read your story online about finding Bogdan’s body, I felt like you must be really well connected. Maybe you know where Charlie is.”

  I didn’t even know what he looked like. All I had was the description in the police report. “Do you have a picture of Charlie?”

  She bobbed her head and dug around in her brown Dooney & Bourke handbag until she found what she was looking for. When she handed me the photo, I noticed the Cartier watch on her wrist.

  Being muscle must pay well.

  I took the picture from her and studied it. It was from their wedding. “How long have you and Charlie been married?”

  “Two and a half years.”

  The man smiling next to the bride was very tall and broad in the shoulder. His chest filled the tuxedo shirt and strained the buttons on his coat. His hair was buzzed tight to his scalp, his cheeks were rosy under the lights, and he was smiling into the camera. For a bad guy, Charlie had a baby face. A gold tooth glimmered in the camera flash.

  “Has Charlie ever been gone this long before?”

  “No. He’s gone off on a bender a couple of times but only for a day, maybe two tops. He’d always come back with a killer hangover and with his tail between his legs.” She smiled. “And he’d always bring me a present. One time, it was a new Corvette.”

  I sat back in my chair. “Do you have any idea at all where Charlie might be?”

  Her hands clasped and unclasped in her lap. “I called one of his old Brotherhood buddies who’s still working for Wolfline. I asked if he knew where Charlie might have gone off to. He said that Merlin Finn was lying real low, picking off members of the Wolfline crew one at a time.” She was dead silent for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “I think Charlie wanted to get back into Finn’s gang again. He was willing to do most anything. I think Charlie might have killed Bogdan Tolbonov.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Since Lorraine Moretti was at least temporarily out of the picture, Ben asked if I would take on some of the editing duties. I stayed busy punching up the two pieces that Marty Graff turned in. One on that new brewery and the other on the annual story of Christmas sales in Sheffield spiking this year.

  “Did anyone touch anything on my desk, Genie?” Marty had asked when he came in out of the cold.

  I grinned internally as I recalled seeing the mink coat draped over his desktop. “I didn’t see anybody touch anything, Marty. Are you missing something?”

  He stared at his pens and files and started fussing with them. “No, but everything is askew.”

  “Askew,” I mumbled under my breath and punched up Mike Dillon’s number.

  He recognized my number. “Hey, Genie, what’s up?”

  “Anything more on finding Merlin Finn?”

  “No, but it looks like the FBI is doubling their efforts.”

  “Because of what he did to Bogdan?” I would have thought they would have been grateful for the helping hand.

  “Partly. By the way, they told me they’re convinced the Tolbonovs are getting out of the business.”

  So, Decker was telling the truth.

  “The FBI claims they’re pulling back on surveillance on the Wolfline operation and focusing exclusively on Merlin Finn.”

  “But?”

  “They don’t have a clue where he is.”

  “Makes it hard to keep an eye on him, now, doesn’t it?”

  “Is that guy still shadowing you?”

  “John Stillwater? Yes, he’s still on me.” I purposely used the double entendre. I was still stinging from his new relationship with the Realtor.

  After half a beat, Mike said, “Stay safe.”

  I glanced at the clock on my computer screen and it, along with my rumbling tummy, told me that it was nearing lunchtime. Knowing that I didn’t have my car parked out back, I entertained the notion of ordering a corned beef and rye from Pete’s Deli. Their sandwiches were kick-ass and they delivered.

  As if on cue, my phone pinged. I picked it up off the desk and glanced at who had just sent me a text.

  Eric Decker.

  It read:

  Mr. Tolbonov has respectfully asked for your presence over lunch. He said to bring Mr. Stillwater if you like.

  I hesitated. If there was one person who frightened me more than Bogdan Tolbonov, it was his older brother, Valentin.

  How does he know John’s been looking out for me?

  I met Valentin last October while I was searching for a missing high school girl, Bobbi Jarvis, one of Caroline’s best friends. I dropped in on him unannounced at his place of business in Greenwich, Valentin Diamonds, an exclusive, hyperexpensive jewelry shop catering to the one percent. Locked doors, no windows, armed guards all over the place.

  He had denied that he was directly involved with running Wolfline Contracting. By the time our conversation was finished, however, I was convinced that he was the capo running the Russian mob in the tristate area.

  He’s inviting me to lunch?

  This scared me right down to my pantyhose. But how could I say no? If there was one man in the world who knew what the game was in this part of Connecticut, it was Valentin Tolbonov.

  I texted back.

  When and where?

  The reply:

  Quattro at 12:30.

  I started to punch in John’s phone number when I saw how badly my hand was shaking. I took a breath and made the call.

  “Hey, Genie. Do you need a ride somewhere?”

  “Yeah.” Even I could hear the nerves in my voice. “You and I are meeting with Valentin Tolbonov in about a half hour.”

  He was silent for a few moments as the news sunk in. “I’ll be at your office in ten minutes.”

  I sat at my desk and worked to control my heart rate and my breathing. I wouldn’t be any good to anyone if I couldn’t at least appear not to be frightened. I emailed Ben that I had a lunch meeting.

  He emailed me back. “With who, your new boss?”

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I threw on my coat, hung my bag from my shoulder, and marched deliberately to the back of the building. Pushing open the door, I stepped out on the concrete landing and saw that the black Mustang was sitting at the foot of the steps, idling.

  I slid into the passenger’s seat, and John asked, “Where?”

  “Quattro. It’s a chichi restaurant in Westport.”

  “Know how to get there?”

  “Hop onto the Merritt, get off on the Westport exit, turn onto Route 1 until we take a left on Main Street.”

  “Who sent the invitation?”

  “Decker. Have you ever actually met Valentin Tolbonov, face-to-face?”

  John kept his eyes on the road and slowly shook his head from side to side. I saw him glance at me. “Are y
ou nervous?”

  “A little.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  I lied. “Nah.”

  “If you were smart, you’d be afraid.”

  * * *

  I’d never eaten at Quattro. It was much too pricey for a newspaper salary.

  Quattro was a stand-alone building with large windows fronting a brick facade. A quaint, green canvas awning offered the doorway protection from the elements. As we pulled into the parking lot, I saw that the window blinds were shuttered.

  There were three other vehicles in the parking lot in addition to ours, all black, a massive Chevy Suburban and two Escalade SUVs parked on either side of it.

  John and I looked at each other. He asked, “Ready?”

  “No.”

  Then he opened his door and got out.

  I did the same. As we both walked up to the front door, there was a sign in the doorway that proclaimed, “Closed—Private Party.”

  As we stepped onto the front porch and under the green awning, the door swung open, and a man emerged wearing an ankle-length, black leather coat. He was tall, trim, and clean-shaven, and his hair was cut military style tight to his head.

  As we stepped past him, we were greeted by two more men, nearly identical to the first. The taller of the two stared at John. His voice was crisp, businesslike. “Are you carrying?”

  John nodded and pulled open his coat, showing the shoulder-holstered Glock.

  The second man pointed at it. “I’ll need to hold on to that for you.”

  John shook his head. “No thank you.”

  The three men glanced back and forth at one another, unsure what to do next. The one who had opened the door for us wordlessly walked past us though the dark, empty dining room until he disappeared through a doorway in the back of the building.

  We all uncomfortably waited in awkward silence.

  I took the opportunity to study the dining area. There were about twenty tables all covered with deep-blue tablecloths and centered with glass vases of fresh flowers. In the doorway of the kitchen, a man stood, wearing a white chef’s jacket, with his hands held loosely behind his back. Another man, in his twenties, wearing a red apron over a white shirt, stood motionless behind the well-stocked bar.

  The restaurant was ready for a lunch crowd that wasn’t coming.

  I took a look at the two remaining thugs and silently wondered what kind of firepower they had hidden under their long leather coats. I’d be willing to bet it was massive.

  Finally, not abiding the silence anymore, I spoke up. “So you eat here often?”

  The man closest to me cracked a smile and rolled his eyes.

  The third thug came back through the empty dining area and fixed John with his eyes. “You can keep the weapon, but you’ll have to stay out here.”

  John bobbed his head. He understood. “I’ll stay out here, then.”

  I suffered a brief panic attack. “Can I have a word with my associate?”

  One of the men gestured that we could adjourn to the corner of the room, out of hearing range. We slid behind one of the four-top tables, and I hissed at John. “What do you mean you’ll stay out here?”

  “I’m not giving up my gun.”

  “What are you going to do? Something goes wrong, you gonna shoot it out?”

  He leaned in. “I keep my gun, it’s less likely something goes sideways.”

  “So I’m facing Tolbonov down by myself?”

  “You did it once already.”

  “And I said I’d never do it again.”

  “Look, you’re a reporter. You’ll know what to ask and what to say. He’s less likely to talk honestly in front of me anyway. I’ve been dogging him for a couple of years now. We’re both looking for a reason not to sit down at the table together.”

  I stepped back. He was right, of course.

  I can handle this.

  “Wish me luck.” I waved my hand at the thug who had told John he could keep his gun but needed to stay in the dining area. “Lead on.”

  I followed him through the dining room, around the many tables and chairs, until we got to the open doorway in the back of the restaurant. We entered a much smaller dining room with four tables, each with four chairs. One of them was occupied.

  Valentin Tolbonov was seated at the table by himself. When he noticed that I’d walked into the room, he stood up. He was tall, had a full head of curly red-and-gray hair. He was in his mid-forties and was trim.

  His face was all angles, high cheekbones, and a sharp, patrician nose softened by a closely cropped beard, which, like his hair, was rust-colored with hints of silver. Thick eyebrows accented his piercing, dark-brown eyes.

  His attire was immaculate—black slacks cut perfectly to his ankles and waist, a white shirt, and a subdued blue tie. I noted that a matching suit coat was draped over the back of the chair where he’d been sitting.

  There was a solitary drink on the table along with his cell phone. When I’d come in, he’d been scrolling through something on the screen.

  Although Valentin was at his table alone, he was far from being the only one in the room. Once my guide left to go back to the front entrance, I counted four more men in the room. They were all dressed in gray slacks, white shirts, and black sports coats. It was easy to spot the shoulder holsters they all wore.

  When Valentin spoke, it was without a trace of any accent. “Miss Chase, I’m told you were the one who found my brother. I believe I owe you fifty thousand dollars.” His voice dropped. “I always pay my debts.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Glancing behind him, Valentin barked, “Dante, please get Miss Chase’s coat.”

  One of the gangsters stepped forward and helped me out of my coat, draping it over his arm.

  Valentin shifted his eyes, looking at the bag over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Miss Chase, but Pavel needs to search your bag.”

  I felt a tiny nugget of anger swell in my chest. “Why? You asked me here. Don’t you trust me?”

  The hint of a smile played on his thin lips. “You? Yes. Your bag? No. Please indulge me.”

  Feeling my face redden, I handed my shoulder bag to a second man who stepped forward.

  Good luck pawing through that, dumbass.

  Pavel simply upended the contents of my bag onto the table in front of Valentin. I was appalled when out spilled pens, car keys, tissue, wallet, assorted cosmetics, lipsticks, breath mints, tiny chocolates, my cell phone, my recording device, two airplane-size bottles of vodka, tampons, and loose change.

  Christ, how embarrassing.

  The thug poked through it all and checked to make sure my recorder and phone weren’t listening in on our conversation.

  He cocked his head at his boss. “Looks clean.”

  Valentin said nothing. He stared at the contents lying naked on the top of the table. Finally, he reached out and picked something up. “What’s this?”

  Heaped on top of my anxiety at meeting with Valentin, I now had an additional kick of adrenaline. I didn’t answer.

  Pavel took a quick peek at what was in the Russian’s hand. He answered. “GPS tracker. We use them all the time.”

  Valentine put it back in with my loose change. “Is that so Mr. Stillwater can keep track of you?” His eyes strayed to the doorway.

  I remained silent again.

  He nodded to his henchman and waved his hand in the air. “Help Miss Chase put all of this back.”

  I picked up my empty bag. “I’ll get it.” Then I held my bag at the edge of the table, and with my hand on its side, I swept everything back into it, unmindful of where it all fell. I took a breath. “So how can I help you, Mr. Tolbonov?”

  He gestured to a chair. “Please, let’s sit down. Pavel, get Miss Chase a drink, Absolut and tonic.”

  As the man le
ft our room, heading for the bar, Valentin and I sat down. I started. “I’m sorry about your brother.” Part of that statement was true. Part of it was a lie. I was relieved because a very scary man was dead. But they were brothers, and no matter how bad these guys were, another member of the human race was grieving.

  “Thank you.” He reached behind him and fished an envelope out of the inside pocket of his suit coat, which he placed on the tabletop. “Everything I’m going to tell you must be off the record.” He glanced again at the doorway. “You can share our conversation with Mr. Stillwater and Miss Neese, if you like, but it must never become news.”

  “Off the record.”

  Pavel returned quickly and placed the drink in front of me. Then he took his place behind Valentin with the other three men and remained motionless, as if part of the furniture. They were four silent, attentive statues, one still holding my coat over his arm.

  “Would you like something to eat?” Valentin offered. “I know the owner. The food here is very good. The roast duck is the chef’s signature dish.”

  I noted that he had nothing in front of him except a glass of red wine. “Are you eating?”

  He sadly shook his head. “No appetite.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  Valentin took a swallow from his wineglass and began the discussion. “Bogdan and I were half brothers. I was older than him by twelve years. Both of my parents were pediatricians in Moscow. Russia was still part of the Soviet Union, and by standards at that time, we had a good life. Plenty of food, a nice apartment, a car.

  “However, my father resented authoritarianism and was quietly critical of the party. That was a very dangerous thing back then.”

  My finger drew a line in the condensation on the outside of my glass. “From what I understand, being critical of the Putin regime still is.”

  He fixed me with his dark eyes. “When I was only eleven, a man quietly broke into our house in the middle of the night while we were sleeping, a party official, a neighbor, a brute. He stabbed and killed my father, then shoved my father’s body off the bed and raped my mother.”