were they built? Skinny? Fat?”
“They both had on overcoats, so I couldn’t really tell. I don’t remember either of them being particularly thin or fat, but the big guy looked pretty strong.”
“Facial hair? Tattoos?”
“The smaller one had a mustache. I think the other one was clean shaven. No tattoos that I saw, but they had their coats on the whole time.”
“Were they wearing black?”
“Yeah,” said Ben in mild surprise, “and so was Zinoviev. How did you know?”
“Russian mafiya types and mafiya wannabes generally dress in black.” Spassky wrote down a few more notes. “Okay. Anything else you can tell me about either of them?”
Ben thought for a moment. “Nothing I can think of right now. If I remember something else, I’ll give you a call.”
Spassky opened his briefcase and put his pen and notebook away. “Thanks. I’ll start working on it this afternoon.”
“How long do you think it’ll take?” asked Ben. “I’d like to be able to subpoena those guys in the next couple of days.”
Spassky stared into space for a few seconds, apparently making some mental calculations. “Putting together a background file on Zinoviev shouldn’t be too hard, but getting names and addresses for everyone you want? That could be tough. With a couple of breaks, I could do it in two days. I’ll do what I can, but I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
Ben appreciated the man’s honesty. “That’s all we ask. Welcome to the team.”
Sergei Spassky made a couple of quick calls to start the processes that would produce Nikolai Zinoviev’s police file (he had no doubt there would be one), credit report, and so forth. That was so routine he could have done it in his sleep. Tracking down Zinoviev’s buyer and the two men Corbin had seen in the courtroom would be harder, and doing it in two days would be harder still. Sergei smiled. It would be a challenge, and he liked few things better than a good challenge.
His first stop was a construction site on the North Side. Workmen had gutted an old warehouse building and were now rebuilding it into a mix of small shops and expensive loft apartments. Sergei stood outside, watching the construction and listening to the men carry on loud conversations in Russian and Polish over the noise of the machinery.
After several minutes, a large man with a sport coat, tie, and improbably good hair emerged. He made a beeline for Sergei and shook his hand, saying in Russian, “Sergei Kirilovich, what brings you to see me?”
Sergei noticed the respectful use of his patronymic and caught the hint of nervousness in the man’s voice. He smiled inwardly. Yuri Filimonov had been known to hire workers whose skills were impeccable but whose immigration papers were not. Federal law-enforcement officials were generally—but not always—willing to overlook this circumstance in return for Yuri’s willingness to provide information from time to time. “What can you tell me about Nikolai Zinoviev?”
He made a dismissive gesture with his left hand. “Nicki? Small-time drug dealer, heroin from Central Asia mostly. The word is that he shoots his own smack, which is stupid and cuts into profits. He’s just a shestyorka doing odd jobs for some local smugglers and drug runners. He’s nothing, but his brother was something, and Nicki mostly lives off his contacts.”
“Who’s his brother?” asked Sergei, a little surprised that there was a Chicago-connected Russian criminal who was “something” but whose name he didn’t know.
“His name was Alexei. High-end smuggler. He died before your time. They found him in the Chicago River.”
Sergei made a mental note to look into that. “Who are Nicki’s contacts?”
“I don’t know,” the contractor said, his eyes darting sidelong at Sergei. “Business has been very heavy, and I don’t talk to people as much as I used to. Sorry.”
Sergei turned back to the warehouse. “It looks like business has been good to
“They both had on overcoats, so I couldn’t really tell. I don’t remember either of them being particularly thin or fat, but the big guy looked pretty strong.”
“Facial hair? Tattoos?”
“The smaller one had a mustache. I think the other one was clean shaven. No tattoos that I saw, but they had their coats on the whole time.”
“Were they wearing black?”
“Yeah,” said Ben in mild surprise, “and so was Zinoviev. How did you know?”
“Russian mafiya types and mafiya wannabes generally dress in black.” Spassky wrote down a few more notes. “Okay. Anything else you can tell me about either of them?”
Ben thought for a moment. “Nothing I can think of right now. If I remember something else, I’ll give you a call.”
Spassky opened his briefcase and put his pen and notebook away. “Thanks. I’ll start working on it this afternoon.”
“How long do you think it’ll take?” asked Ben. “I’d like to be able to subpoena those guys in the next couple of days.”
Spassky stared into space for a few seconds, apparently making some mental calculations. “Putting together a background file on Zinoviev shouldn’t be too hard, but getting names and addresses for everyone you want? That could be tough. With a couple of breaks, I could do it in two days. I’ll do what I can, but I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
Ben appreciated the man’s honesty. “That’s all we ask. Welcome to the team.”
Sergei Spassky made a couple of quick calls to start the processes that would produce Nikolai Zinoviev’s police file (he had no doubt there would be one), credit report, and so forth. That was so routine he could have done it in his sleep. Tracking down Zinoviev’s buyer and the two men Corbin had seen in the courtroom would be harder, and doing it in two days would be harder still. Sergei smiled. It would be a challenge, and he liked few things better than a good challenge.
His first stop was a construction site on the North Side. Workmen had gutted an old warehouse building and were now rebuilding it into a mix of small shops and expensive loft apartments. Sergei stood outside, watching the construction and listening to the men carry on loud conversations in Russian and Polish over the noise of the machinery.
After several minutes, a large man with a sport coat, tie, and improbably good hair emerged. He made a beeline for Sergei and shook his hand, saying in Russian, “Sergei Kirilovich, what brings you to see me?”
Sergei noticed the respectful use of his patronymic and caught the hint of nervousness in the man’s voice. He smiled inwardly. Yuri Filimonov had been known to hire workers whose skills were impeccable but whose immigration papers were not. Federal law-enforcement officials were generally—but not always—willing to overlook this circumstance in return for Yuri’s willingness to provide information from time to time. “What can you tell me about Nikolai Zinoviev?”
He made a dismissive gesture with his left hand. “Nicki? Small-time drug dealer, heroin from Central Asia mostly. The word is that he shoots his own smack, which is stupid and cuts into profits. He’s just a shestyorka doing odd jobs for some local smugglers and drug runners. He’s nothing, but his brother was something, and Nicki mostly lives off his contacts.”
“Who’s his brother?” asked Sergei, a little surprised that there was a Chicago-connected Russian criminal who was “something” but whose name he didn’t know.
“His name was Alexei. High-end smuggler. He died before your time. They found him in the Chicago River.”
Sergei made a mental note to look into that. “Who are Nicki’s contacts?”
“I don’t know,” the contractor said, his eyes darting sidelong at Sergei. “Business has been very heavy, and I don’t talk to people as much as I used to. Sorry.”
Sergei turned back to the warehouse. “It looks like business has been good to
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