WOLF: A Jessica James Mystery

Chapter 2

A harsh Lake Michigan breeze stung his cheeks and smarted his eyes as Dmitry Durchenko hurried toward the university parking garage after working his regular night shift at Brentano Hall. When Dmitry reached the garage, he hesitated at the elevator, trying to remember where he’d parked. He reached into the pocket of his windbreaker, but instead of his parking stub, he found the napkin Vanya had threatened him with the night before at Pavlov’s Banquet. Hands shaking, he turned it over and read what was written on the back in thick blocky Russian letters: “Little thieves get shot, but great ones escape.”

He pushed all of the elevator buttons, figuring he could stick his head out at each floor until he spotted his van. At least he remembered parking it across from the elevator. When the door opened on the fifth floor, he saw a distant glowing ember and the silhouette of a man in the passenger seat of his Toyota minivan. He took a deep breath and headed toward the van.

All his muscles tightened as he opened the driver’s side door and a wall of smoke slammed into his face. Vanya Ivanov may be only Shestyorka, the lowest-ranking card in the Russian deck, but sometimes the lowball could really mess up a good hand. The wiry little punk was covered in tattoos popular among Russian criminals, the most distinctive on his left shoulder, the face of a cat with crazy eyes and razor fangs. He also had a red rose carved into the back of his right hand, a symbol of acceptance into Bratva, the Brotherhood. Dmitry’s stomach sunk thinking about the t*****e and pain inflicted in the name of “fraternity.”

Shestyorka“What do you want, Vanya?” Weak-kneed, Dmitry dropped into the driver’s seat. His cousin ignored him and flicked the ash from his cigarette onto a disgusting pile of bent butts on the floor. Black beads had formed on the synthetic fibers where the carpet was charred.

“Could you please quit burning holes in my floor?” He knew he couldn’t turn a wall into a door just by pounding on it, but he tried anyway. Dmitry opened the ashtray. “Come on. Use the ashtray or get out of my van.”

Vanya dropped his lit cigarette onto the pile, ground it into the carpet with his Italian lace-up, lit another one, then inhaled deeply and blew out a series of concentric smoke rings. “The Pope wants to know why you’re keeping secrets from him,” he said in Russian, his gold grill reflecting the fluorescent lights in the otherwise dark parking garage.

“Why would I do that?” Dmitry wondered which secret he meant. Of course he kept secrets from Bratva. Some of them could get him killed.

“Keeping secrets bad for health.” Vanya said in broken English, playing with his Porsche titanium lighter, flipping the lid open and shut. Click, Click, Click.

ClickClickClick“I’m not in the mood for games. Just get to the point.”

“Little birdie told us you give teacher friend something that belongs to the Pope,” Vanya continued in English. He grinned and stamped out another cigarette. “The Pope wants them pictures. You better give him pictures if you know what’s good for you.” Vanya may be his cousin and just an errand boy for Bratva, but that didn’t make him less dangerous. If anything, it made him more unpredictable. He had something to prove. Little honey badgers were known to attack big lions.

Dmitry put both hands on the steering wheel to steady himself. The smoke was making his eyes burn. “If you cared about my health, you’d quit smoking so much.”

“Just friendly warning, chuvak.” Vanya’s smile had disappeared. “For now, Pope needs you. Not always.” He opened the van door, stepped out, and then ducked his head back inside. Slowly the corners of his mouth turned up. “Pope needs you,” he said with a sly smile, “but he don’t need your bigmouthed teacher.” With that, he flicked his lit cigarette at Dmitry and slammed the van door shut.

chuvakWhat did the Pope know about the paintings? Dmitry would have to head into the lion’s den, but first, he needed to warn the professor. He thought of what his mother always said whenever he cut himself, “Dimka, scars are time’s alphabet.” If so, his body was covered in poetry and his soul contained an entire encyclopedia of pain and loss. Now that Bratva had finally found him, the writing was on the wall. It was only a matter of time before they snuffed him out the way they had his brother.

What did the Pope know about the paintings?