Dead Connection Read online

  They both jumped at the sound of a key in the lock. Zoya pushed Grosha’s photograph back into Ellie’s hands. “You must go.”

  “What’s wrong, Zoya?”

  “Nothing. I told you, I saw my sister with that man on your phone, but I did not know who he was. Now, please. Do not cause problems.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Ellie heard the door slam against the closed chain and the sound of a friendly holler in Russian. Zoya released the chain for her husband. Vitali — whom his wife called Vitya — fell silent when he walked into the room and saw Ellie. “Detective. I did not realize we had company.”

  “Not for long. I was just stopping by to apologize for upsetting your wife the other day. In light of some developments on the case, we don’t think the killings are related to Tatiana’s death after all. It’s probably as you said: Guns change hands. I’m just sorry to have brought up bad memories.”

  Vitali nodded and thanked her for the information. Behind him, Zoya stood silently. Ellie apologized once again before leaving.

  Just as she had on her first visit to the apartment, Ellie paused outside the door. She heard Vitali wrestle with their son, Anton. She heard Zoya speak in Russian, then an abrupt response from Vitali. Zoya spoke again, more urgently, then Vitali, sounding angry. By the time Ellie headed for the stairs, the pitch had reached full-scale verbal combat.

  Ellie wondered if the Rostovs were one of those couples who fought around the clock, despite all that talk from Zoya about how lucky she was to have found a loving caretaker. If not, then something about Ellie had that effect on them, and that made Ellie wonder what kinds of secrets Zoya and Vitali Rostov had hidden beneath their happy veneer.

  ELLIE ARRIVED at Brooklyn’s Metropolitan Detention Center just after five o’clock. Evening visitors’ hours had just begun, and a line wrapped around the concrete bunker of a building. As Ellie made a beeline for the security checkpoint, she felt the resentful eyes of wives, girlfriends, mothers, and children fall on the light-haired, light-skinned woman of authority cutting ahead of them in the dark cold.

  The corrections officer at the entrance was a young man with a skin-close haircut, probably just out of an enlisted military stint. “I’m here to see Lev Grosha. Special Agent Charlie Dixon should have added me to his visitors’ list.”

  The guard checked the computer in front of him and nodded. “You need some privacy?”

  “If that’s possible.”

  “I’ll put you in one of the attorney visiting areas. Just be advised. The conversations are monitored by the Bureau of Corrections.”

  “The defense attorneys don’t have a problem with that?”

  “You think John Ashcroft was thinking about them when he changed our regs? Take a seat at one of the tables in the back. Grosha will be right out.”

  The man brought out moments later resembled the man in Lev Grosha’s booking photo but had a roughness to him that she had not anticipated. He was thinner, harder, and more wiry than the pale-skinned, pink-cheeked blond who’d entered MDC eighteen months earlier. As he settled into the seat across from her, she noticed the bottom half of a dark green swastika peeking from a rolled-up shirt sleeve. She waited for the guard to leave.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Grosha. I’m Ellie Hatcher. I’m a detective with the New York Police Department.”

  “And you are sure you are here to see me?” His accent was Brooklyn, still tinged with a hint of the old Russian. “The statute of limitations must have run out on anything I might have done before my arrest. Two years, right?”

  “Sorry. It’s at least five on most felonies.”

  “This is what happens when you listen to jailhouse lawyers.” Behind Grosha’s faint smile, Ellie saw a closer resemblance to the photograph she carried in her purse.

  “Not to worry in any case, because I’m not here about anything you might have done. I’m here regarding some murders that have taken place during your incarceration.”

  “I’d say I have an ironclad alibi.”

  “Yes, you do. We’ve had three women killed in the last year, all of whom were using an Internet dating service called FirstDate. Does that company mean anything to you?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I think I have heard of it. You know, people saying that’s how they met. Some even in here, so maybe that’s not the best advertising. But it does not mean anything special to me in particular.”

  “We have reason to believe that one man killed all three of these women, and we think it might be someone who — well, let’s just say he might be within your circle of professional acquaintances.”

  “And what makes you think I would know this man?”

  She had to be cautious here not to reveal too much about Tatiana’s connection to his prosecution, or her murder’s connection to the recent serial killings. “A piece of evidence that has come up in our investigation bears some relation to you.”

  “What do you mean, a piece of evidence?”

  “The details really don’t matter, do they? What matters is whether you can help me find the guy who’s doing this. A multiple murderer compared to the handful of stolen credit card numbers you swiped? I can get you substantial consideration with the government if you point us in the right direction.”

  Ellie hadn’t actually run this part of her pitch past Charlie Dixon, let alone the federal prosecutors who would need to make the deal, but she was pretty sure they’d be able to swing it if Grosha proved helpful. She also knew she had Lev Grosha’s attention. He did not look like a man who enjoyed prison.

  “All you’ve told me is that some man is killing women, and that a mysterious link ties the two of us together. That does give me a fair basis for helping you.”

  “The man we’re looking for hates women. He judges them. He would be uncomfortable with promiscuity, most likely with women generally. He may also think of himself as religious. He is fascinated with something called the Book of Enoch. You might have seen him reading religious text, or quoting spiritual verse. He may do this either because he truly believes it or is a cynic who uses religion to justify the things that he does. We also know that he has an acumen for computers. He uses public Internet connections so he is not traceable. And — this is right up your alley — he used a stolen credit card to create an account with the company I mentioned, FirstDate. Does any of this remind you of anyone?”

  Grosha was staring at her with an amused expression.

  “I can keep your name out of it. We just need a lead. He’s murdering innocent women.” She placed pictures of Caroline Hunter, Amy Davis, and Megan Quinn on the table in front of him.

  “The only thing that sounded vaguely familiar from anything you mentioned was the use of another person’s credit card. That, as you know, is something I am familiar with. But the people I run with? We are what you might call believers in the capitalist system. We break rules to make our way, to make money. These three women, you said they were innocent. They did not buy drugs or steal or con?”

  “No.”

  “In that case, the men I know? If they saw these women, they might try to fuck them, but hurting them — what would be the point of that, you know? And religion” — he waved a hand dismissively — “I do not know anyone who gives a fuck about that.”

  “How about Vitali Rostov? Do you know anyone by that name? Or he might go by Vitya Rostov.”

  His eyes were calm, but she noticed a slight left-leaning head tilt. “Vitya is what you’d call a nickname for Vitali,” he explained. “But no, I do not know a man by that name. He is the man you think is hurting these women?”

  “No, probably not. Just a name that’s come up. You’re curious for someone who doesn’t even know him.”

  “You have me intrigued. A serial killer. Like Hannibal Lecter, no?”

  “Without the cannibalism or the bad face mask.”

  Grosha laughed, caught off guard by the humor. “Like I said, I do not know anyone like the man you described, nor do
I know any Vitya — what name did you say?”

  “Rostov. Vitali or Vitya Rostov,” Ellie clarified.

  Grosha shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. I cannot help you. But it has been nice to meet you, Ellie Hatcher. You are the kind of visitor that a man in prison does not mind seeing, even under these circumstances.”

  “Well, since you don’t mind the company, and since you asked a question out of mere curiosity, maybe you won’t mind if I do the same.” He gave her a slight nod of consent. “When did you get the ink?” She glanced at the green bars of the swastika on his forearm.

  “Three months after the United States government put me here.”

  “Looks like pretty decent work for a prison tat. Your jacket didn’t say anything about having white ethnic pride.” She used the white supremacists’ preferred euphemism for racism.

  Grosha double-checked the empty area around them before speaking. “I don’t give a fuck what color people are. Even the men you Americans call white look brown compared to me. But inside this place, you cannot be alone. I learned that quickly. The brothers, they do not want to take care of a man who looks like me. This?” He pulled his sleeve to cover the ink. “This was the easy way. I have it removed later. Big deal.”

  “You do what you have to in order to survive.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Not unlike the way you refused to tell the U.S. Attorney’s Office who you were feeding the credit card numbers to after you got them from the motel clerk. That was about survival too?”

  “Like I said, the tattoo was easy. You know that I cannot say any more than I have. But I promise you this. I am telling the truth when I say I do not know any man like the one you are looking for. If I did, you would not need to give me — what did you call it — substantial consideration. I would help you, or I would kill the man myself. Men like that in Russia, they do not get away with hurting women, not like in this country.”

  On the way out of the prison, Ellie stopped to see the young, shorthaired guard at the entrance.

  “Did you get what you needed from your Russian?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately, I didn’t, but I was wondering if maybe you could help me with something. In order to see anyone in here, you’ve got to have your name on the inmate’s visiting list, right?”

  “Yep. It’s got to all be done in advance. No such thing as a pop-in at a corrections facility.”

  “Can I get a list of Lev Grosha’s visitors?”

  “No problem.” He hit a few keys. “It’s a short one.” The printer churned out only five names, including hers. The other four were Russian, two females and two males. One of the women, probably his mother, shared the Grosha surname. The two men were named Ivan Ovinko and Mark Jakov. Neither name was familiar to Ellie, and neither Zoya nor Vitali Rostov was on the list.

  STUCK IN STOP-and-start traffic for over forty minutes on the Gowanus Expressway, Ellie felt too antsy to return to Murray Hill for a quiet night alone in her apartment. She was close to a breakthrough, she could tell, but she couldn’t piece the tangents of her wandering mind into a coherent thought. Tatiana’s sister knew something. Ellie had seen the unspoken concern on Zoya’s face, and knew that it had something to do with her husband. The woman also seemed a little too interested in Ed Becker, betraying more than just idle curiosity when she asked if he’d known about Tatiana’s cooperation with the FBI. And all those connections that Flann had pointed out between Becker and their case — how did they fit in? And how did they relate to FirstDate and all of the women who’d been killed?

  She dialed Flann’s number on her cell. “Hey there, it’s me.”

  “You’re all done seeing the sister?”

  “I talked to her, and I also went to see Lev Grosha at MDC. I think there’s something more to what Zoya knows. She might not know how it fits into her sister’s death, but I said something to her that — I don’t know, confused her or something.”

  “No idea what it was?”

  “She’s hard to read. She said she didn’t recognize Grosha, but it’s possible she’s lying. She remembered seeing Tatiana with Dixon, but I don’t see why that would be so upsetting. The one thing I did find curious was that she asked if Becker knew Tatiana was an informant. At first I thought she was upset because Becker should have told her, or should have connected it to her murder. But I don’t know, she still seemed troubled even when I told her we didn’t know until today. Then Vitya came home, and she basically made me leave on the spot. I’m wondering if maybe Vitya’s involved in whatever criminal activity Tatiana was pointing the FBI to. She gave up a couple of people, but not her own brother-in-law.”

  “And what did Lev Grosha say?”

  “That he’d never heard of Vitali or Vitya Rostov. But, again, I think he was probably lying. He did this weird head tilt.”

  “Ellie Hatcher, human lie detector.”

  “Did you find anything more about Becker’s old cases?”

  “Charlie Dixon was right. Becker and Tendall carried a pretty high clearance rate, and Becker’s remained above average even after Tendall died.”

  “So if he was slacking on Tatiana’s case, it’s not because he’d lost it altogether, like he told us.”

  “Exactly. But, again, as with everything, we still don’t know how it ties into our case. My spidey senses are going off though. That note in Hunter’s binder is about Ed Becker.”

  “Well, I hope you’re wrong. A cop involved in something like this?”

  McIlroy said nothing in response.

  “I’m on my way back from Brooklyn. Do you have time for a drink or something? We can throw all of this around, see if something comes out.”

  “Sorry, I can’t tonight. I want to wrap some things up here at the desk, then I need to go.”

  “Hot date?”

  “No,” he said, then after a pause, “I’m seeing my daughter again.”

  “Oh, Flann, that’s great.” Ellie kept her tone upbeat but the silence on the other end of the line had her wondering. “Well, I guess tomorrow morning it is, then.”

  “Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He sounded distant.

  “Is everything okay, Flann?”

  “Yeah. Just end-of-the-day fatigue is all. Enjoy your youth while you’ve got it, Hatcher.”

  Ellie flipped her phone shut and spent the next twenty minutes of the drive pulling at the threads of information they had. Tatiana was plugged into a ring of Russian criminals who had some connection to FirstDate. Ed Becker — who dropped the ball on Tatiana’s murder, who’d been so eager to give Ellie a hand, whose surname was in Caroline Hunter’s notes. Stolen credit cards — used by Lev Grosha, by Enoch, by Edmond Bertrand six years ago in Boston. Zoya and Vitya Rostov, who saw Tatiana with Charlie Dixon.

  She called Jess’s cell number.

  “Yo, sis. What up?”

  Ellie heard the thumping of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” in the background. “Please tell me you’re at Vibrations.”

  “You don’t think Dog Park should try playing a little Def? I could wear my hair all big, slip into some leather, and ride the eighties revival.”

  “Did you get the picture I e-mailed you?” She wanted to know if the club manager, Seth Verona, recognized Charlie.

  “Hello? Why do you think I’m here? I don’t start my shift for three hours, but I’m trying to catch Seth before he leaves. Who’s the stud muffin?”

  “An FBI agent named Charlie Dixon. Remember when we talked to Seth, he said he remembered a straightlaced guy who would come in and talk to Tatiana? I want to know if that’s him.”

  “All right. I just got here, so give me a while.”

  By the time Ellie reached the precinct and returned the fleet car, she still wasn’t ready to go home. She needed to think about something other than the case. She needed to clear her head and come back to it later. She could think of only one person to call. She found his business card in her jacket pocket, took a deep breath, and dialed his num
ber.

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, the man who called himself Enoch hung up his phone, disappointed. The game was going to have to end earlier than intended. He had planned to wait, at least for a few days of headlines about the FirstDate murders. But now there was a problem.

  He had only now learned that police were asking questions about Tatiana Chekova, not just Caroline Hunter, Amy Davis, and Megan Quinn. They were asking questions about information Tatiana had given to the FBI. They were trying to figure out how Tatiana fit into the pattern.

  He should have realized they would make the connection. It was the one mistake he’d made during an entire year of planning. He needed to put an end to those inquiries.

  Fortunately, there was no harm done if the game had to end early. The letter left in the library would ensure a front-page story the following morning about the FirstDate murders. And he knew precisely how to halt the investigation. He closed the laptop on his kitchen table and thought about what else he needed to bring with him. He was expected on City Island in two hours.

  32

  ELLIE MET PETER MORSE AT HALF KING, A PUB HE CHOSE IN Chelsea. He wore faded jeans, a long-sleeve black T-shirt, and a crumpled charcoal gray blazer that would have looked formal on another man, but worked just fine on Peter. He greeted her with a friendly kiss on the cheek, and Ellie caught a group of women two tables over taking notice. Peter had those kind of looks.

  “Great place,” she offered.

  “A writer friend of mine owns it. They’ve got a regular reading series, and, as you can probably tell, it’s a favorite place for writers to gather and look for inspiration.” Ellie noticed a few customers scribbling in open notebooks. “Me, I can only write in total silence. I come here to eat and to drink.”

  “That makes it my kind of place.”

  “I’m really glad you called, Ellie.” He emphasized the first syllable of her name.