Read Online SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) by Lawrence de Maria - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lawrence de Maria
Ads: Link
got back to Poland, he resigned his commission and entered the priesthood. The discipline must have been comforting for a military man. And an ex-spy would find the machinations and secrecy of the Catholic Church very familiar. And don’t forget, there was then a Polish Pope, the first non-Italian since the 16 th Century. It was a heady time for Poles.”
“Now they have a Kraut in the Vatican.”
It was Kalugin, who had been silent up to then.
Marat laughed.
“My Maks is not overly fond of the Germans.”
Kalugin grunted and resumed his silence. Lara came out with the coffee and served us and went back to the wall.
“Zapotoski came to me with this rather ridiculous story of murders in his parish,” Marat Rahm said as we sipped the strong coffee. “Apparently he got nowhere with his superiors or with the police. I’m not surprised. The reputed victims all seemed to have died from natural causes, without any hint of foul play. You have seen his files?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you think.”
“There’s nothing really there. The age of the three men bothered me. They were all fairly young, and apparently in good health.”
“Three deaths of men in their 60’s is not a massacre. Zapotoski had nothing.”
“He is, or was, a trained intelligence officer.”
“Many years ago. His skills have rusted.”
I mentioned how the good father had trailed me professionally in the mall.
“Bah. Play acting. He is nowhere the man he used to be. None of us are.” I remembered how a few moments earlier Marat had apparently forgotten that I knew his daughter. “He is tilting at windmills.”
“Then why did you recommend me?”
“Professional courtesy.”
“To him, you mean.”
Marat laughed.
“I see your point. But don’t be insulted. I know it’s hopeless. I also know you are one of the best investigators I’ve seen. And in your own way a decent man. You won’t humiliate the old fellow. I told him that if you can’t get to the bottom of it, no one can. So, you see, this will let him down gently. I promised him I would help, but there is only so much I can do. It would be awkward for me to send my men to make inquiries of widows and some such.”
“You don’t think Maks has the necessary style.”
At the mention of Kalugin, both Rahms laughed. Even the family assassin grinned.
“You see what I mean,” Marat finally said. “Please, humor me, and look into Zapotoski’s situation. Send your bill to me.”
I had no intention of sending an invoice to the Russian mob, but I said, “Sure.”
***
Arman and Kalugin walked me out to the car.
“I know you won’t send a bill,” Arman said, laughing. “Don’t spend too much time on this. You have to make a living. And I appreciate what you are doing.”
“A little pro bono work for the Catholic Church won’t hurt. Might chop a few thousand years off my stay in purgatory.”
“You may break even in that department, considering you are doing a favor for my father.”
“How is he really doing, Arman.”
He looked pensive.
“Not well. He has prostate cancer. We thought it was arthritis.”
“He seems sharp enough, except for that bit about your sister. Was he putting me on?”
“Perhaps. But sometimes he can be vague. It comes and goes. I’m glad you didn’t say anything. Eleni always asks for you, by the way. She’s in Italy, making commercials.”
“What about your father’s cough.”
“An infection of some sort. The chemotherapy has made him vulnerable.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes. Well, my father is a tough man. As you know.”
An understatement. Beneath the surface of his courtly demeanor, Marat Rahm was the dispassionate hands-on killer of many men, first as a KGB operative and, more recently, a mobster. The occasional loss to assassination aside, the Rahms were survivors. And opportunists of the first order. Originally Rahmanovs, the family had adapted to whatever political wind was blowing, shedding their
“Now they have a Kraut in the Vatican.”
It was Kalugin, who had been silent up to then.
Marat laughed.
“My Maks is not overly fond of the Germans.”
Kalugin grunted and resumed his silence. Lara came out with the coffee and served us and went back to the wall.
“Zapotoski came to me with this rather ridiculous story of murders in his parish,” Marat Rahm said as we sipped the strong coffee. “Apparently he got nowhere with his superiors or with the police. I’m not surprised. The reputed victims all seemed to have died from natural causes, without any hint of foul play. You have seen his files?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you think.”
“There’s nothing really there. The age of the three men bothered me. They were all fairly young, and apparently in good health.”
“Three deaths of men in their 60’s is not a massacre. Zapotoski had nothing.”
“He is, or was, a trained intelligence officer.”
“Many years ago. His skills have rusted.”
I mentioned how the good father had trailed me professionally in the mall.
“Bah. Play acting. He is nowhere the man he used to be. None of us are.” I remembered how a few moments earlier Marat had apparently forgotten that I knew his daughter. “He is tilting at windmills.”
“Then why did you recommend me?”
“Professional courtesy.”
“To him, you mean.”
Marat laughed.
“I see your point. But don’t be insulted. I know it’s hopeless. I also know you are one of the best investigators I’ve seen. And in your own way a decent man. You won’t humiliate the old fellow. I told him that if you can’t get to the bottom of it, no one can. So, you see, this will let him down gently. I promised him I would help, but there is only so much I can do. It would be awkward for me to send my men to make inquiries of widows and some such.”
“You don’t think Maks has the necessary style.”
At the mention of Kalugin, both Rahms laughed. Even the family assassin grinned.
“You see what I mean,” Marat finally said. “Please, humor me, and look into Zapotoski’s situation. Send your bill to me.”
I had no intention of sending an invoice to the Russian mob, but I said, “Sure.”
***
Arman and Kalugin walked me out to the car.
“I know you won’t send a bill,” Arman said, laughing. “Don’t spend too much time on this. You have to make a living. And I appreciate what you are doing.”
“A little pro bono work for the Catholic Church won’t hurt. Might chop a few thousand years off my stay in purgatory.”
“You may break even in that department, considering you are doing a favor for my father.”
“How is he really doing, Arman.”
He looked pensive.
“Not well. He has prostate cancer. We thought it was arthritis.”
“He seems sharp enough, except for that bit about your sister. Was he putting me on?”
“Perhaps. But sometimes he can be vague. It comes and goes. I’m glad you didn’t say anything. Eleni always asks for you, by the way. She’s in Italy, making commercials.”
“What about your father’s cough.”
“An infection of some sort. The chemotherapy has made him vulnerable.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes. Well, my father is a tough man. As you know.”
An understatement. Beneath the surface of his courtly demeanor, Marat Rahm was the dispassionate hands-on killer of many men, first as a KGB operative and, more recently, a mobster. The occasional loss to assassination aside, the Rahms were survivors. And opportunists of the first order. Originally Rahmanovs, the family had adapted to whatever political wind was blowing, shedding their
Similar Books
