Soon, three men came out. Two of them wore hooded tops beneath heavy coats, but Leonid recognized them as fighters from Grom Boxing. They were scowling as they were accosted by the third man, who was gaunt and covered in sores. He didn’t have a coat and shivered as he capered around the two boxers. His face was grubby and pinched and his hollow eyes spoke of years of drug addiction. He chattered away, oblivious to the boxers’ rising anger, and even at a distance Leonid could sense the desperation of an addict.
Finally, one of the boxers ferreted in his coat pocket and produced a small plastic bag, which he handed to the gaunt man in exchange for crumpled notes. These two boxers were dealing drugs, and unless Leonid was very much mistaken, they were doing it with Erik Utkin’s approval. Sitting in his BMW, the man had watched the trade without emotion.
The addict ran off, and the two boxers approached Utkin, who opened his window. Clouds of vapor escaped their mouths as they exchanged greetings in the cold, and after a minute or so of chatter, Utkin popped his trunk. One of the fighters went to the rear of the BMW and removed a plastic bag from the car, while the other man handed Utkin an envelope.
Erik Utkin was giving these men more than his approval; he was supplying them with product.
Leonid pulled his phone from his pocket and made a call.
“Dinara,” he said when she answered. “I think I’ve found Erik Utkin’s secret. It looks like he and his men are dealing drugs.”
“But the Black Hundreds would crucify him if they found out,” Dinara replied. “They kill dealers.”
“I know. He’s gambling his life,” Leonid agreed. “Which is why he didn’t want us digging around. You want me to stay on him?”
“Can you arrange for someone else to pick up his tail?”
“Of course,” Leonid replied. “Why?”
“We could use your expertise,” Dinara said. “Meet us at Ernest Fisher’s apartment as soon as possible.”
“OK,” Leonid said, hanging up.
Sava Efimov was due to relieve him at 3 p.m., and almost certainly wouldn’t appreciate being summoned early.
“Da,” Sava grunted as he answered the call. He’d been one of the previous night’s biggest drinkers.
“I need you to take over early,” Leonid said. “Duty calls.”
Sava groaned. “I should never have agreed to help. This is why I left the force.”
“You left the force because someone shot you in the gut and you got pensioned off,” Leonid corrected the man. “You love this and you miss it.”
“You’re a jerk, Leonid Boykov.”
“I’m also right,” Leonid replied. “Hurry up and get dressed. Head for Kapotnya. I’ll call you with the final location when you’re nearby.”
“OK,” Sava said, and Leonid hung up.
Up ahead, Erik Utkin bid the two fighters farewell and drove away. Leonid followed. He’d stay on the man’s tail until Sava arrived.
Maybe that’s why you do this, he told himself. Same as Sava, you love it and you’ll miss it when it’s finally gone.
CHAPTER 62
DINARA AND JACK waited in Feo’s UAZ Pickup. The larger-than-life former cop had insisted they take his truck, and Jack had agreed but only on condition Private paid a fair hire charge for it. They were parked behind Ernie Fisher’s building, waiting for Leonid to arrive, and they’d exhausted all their small talk. Neither of them had addressed what had happened the previous night, and Dinara wished she could take it all back. The rush of emotions she’d experienced after escaping from Veles, combined with the vodka, had impaired her judgment, and Jack Morgan—handsome, strong, successful Jack Morgan—had seemed irresistible. But he was her boss, and they had a job to do.
“How do we handle billing this?” Dinara asked, trying to re-establish their professional relationship. “This truck, the surveillance team, any other costs we incur. Maxim Yenen has terminated our contract.”
“I’m going to cover everything personally from here on,” Jack replied. He turned up the heating, which was preventing the windshield from misting over. “Maxim Yenen hired you to investigate a woman whose blog was just used by the people who killed Ernie Fisher to try to discredit Private’s investigation into the deaths of Karl Parker and Elizabeth Connor. I don’t know whether that was opportunism, or if the two investigations are connected. Until we have answers, we’re keeping both cases live.”
Dinara nodded. She didn’t dare ask what would happen after these cases. Partly because she didn’t want to add to Jack’s concerns, partly because she was afraid of the inevitable answer. Without clients, Private Moscow couldn’t stay in business. Dinara didn’t want to think about how she’d deal with what would be a serious personal and professional failure. Jobs like this were hard to come by, particularly for people who ran their last business into the ground.
“There he is,” Jack said, indicating Leonid’s old Niva, which was turning onto Rochdelskaya Street.
Leonid parked a few cars away, hurried over and climbed in the back. “Feo loaned you his truck?” he asked in Russian.
“For a price,” Dinara replied in English.