Chapter 1
I got up from my desk and went to the window. Six floors below, at the corner of Fourth and Main, a young woman dressed all in black stood, arms outstretched, with her face lifted to the gray afternoon sky. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, she began to twirl around in the rain, until her thick brown dreadlocks flew out to the side of her head. Since this was downtown Portland, no one paid her the slightest attention.
I heard a soft knocking at the office door and returned to my desk. Reaching inside the top drawer, I pressed a button. An audible click indicated the door was now unlocked. “It’s open,” I said.
A slightly-built young woman, clutching a small black purse in front of her, walked into the office and stopped short. She wore an emerald-green track suit, clunky black shoes, and a bright yellow rain hat. She looked to be in her early-to-mid thirties. “Mr. Grady?” she asked. “You are an investigator, yes?” I recognized the accent from my days working the road in southeast Portland. Russian, or maybe Ukrainian.
“Call me Dave.” I gestured toward the visitor chairs. “And yes, I’m a private investigator. Please come in.”
The woman hesitated. Maybe she was put off by the office décor, which a client once described as Early Cheap. Admittedly, the furnishings were modest – an old oak desk, a battered chair behind the desk, two slightly less battered chairs for visitors, three identical gray metal bookshelves – but the office was reasonably clean and adequately lit.
I indicated the chairs again. “Why don’t we have a seat?”
Still the woman hesitated. Maybe it was me she found off-putting. “Can I rely on you?”
I had an ex-wife who would have been happy to answer that question, but she wasn’t around. “Absolutely,” I said. “I didn’t catch your name, Miss….”
“Larisa.” The woman shut the door behind her and walked toward me. When she took her hat off, a shock of honey-colored hair tumbled to her shoulders. Once she’d sat down across the desk from me, I studied her face – fair complexion, light blue eyes, and high, sculpted cheekbones. She wasn’t wearing makeup, as far as I could tell, but she didn’t need any.
“My name is Larisa Volkova.” She glanced down at her purse, as if to make sure I wasn’t helping myself to its contents. “Mr. Grady, I have a big problem. My husband and I….” Her voice trailed off. “I don’t know what to do. It’s a terrible situation.”
“Well,” I said, “thank you for coming in.” Up close, I could see she had beautiful, unblemished skin. “Let’s talk about this and see if we can’t sort it out. First of all, you say you have a big problem. What exactly is the nature of the problem? And again – please call me Dave.”
“The problem is my husband.” Larisa Volkova chewed on her lower lip with small white teeth, and the office suddenly felt warmer. She took a business card from the holder on the desk and examined it. “Better to say, the problem is that my husband is doing some very bad things. For this reason, I need your help. When I decided to talk to someone, I remembered your name, from the newspapers. You’re FBI, yes?”
“I was FBI,” I corrected her. There was no mention of the FBI on my business card, but I was well-known in Portland – some might say notorious - thanks to a series of front page articles in the Oregonian. More specifically, a series of articles about how FBI agent Dave Grady shot and killed a kid named Pedro Alvarez, on a foggy St. Patrick’s Day morning in a part of town you won’t find in the guidebooks. “I left the FBI about a year ago. Now I’m in business for myself.”
Larisa Volkova stared at me, frowning. “So,” I went on, “you were telling me about your husband. What is his name, by the way?”
“My husband is Slava Volkov.” Larisa Volkova paused, as though waiting for a reaction, but I just shrugged. The name didn’t mean anything to me. “Slava Volkov?” she said again, incredulous. “You don’t know who he is?”
“Slava Volkov,” I repeated, just in case, but the name didn’t ring any bells. I shook my head. “No. Sorry. I never heard of him. No big deal – I’m sure you can fill me in on all the details. First things first, though – explain to me what your husband is up to. What sort of bad things is he involved in, in other words? Then we can figure out what, if anything, I can do for you.”
Larisa Volkova leaned forward in her chair until her chin almost touched my desk. “There are so many girls,” she said. “I don’t know what to do. It’s a terrible situation. I’m worried about what might happen to me, too. You must help me.”
So many girls. I’d heard that one before. “So your husband is cheating on you?”
She shook her head. “It’s not like that,” she said.
“What is it like?”
“I can’t tell you unless you agree to help.”
“I can’t agree to help unless you tell me.”
Larisa Volkova sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap.
“Look.” I picked up a Holiday Inn pen from my desk and twirled it with my fingers. “I went through a divorce myself, so I can understand how you must be feeling right now. The thing is, I don’t do divorce work. I didn’t enjoy mine very much, so I decided when I started doing this job that I wouldn’t get involved in anyone else’s. However, I would be happy to give you the names of several competent investigators, any of whom can ably assist you. I know them all personally, and I can assure you their work product is excellent.”
Larisa Volkova had begun shaking her head about halfway through my little speech. Now, she heaved a theatrical sigh, stood up, and walked toward the door. I thought she was going to leave; instead, she stopped in front of a tired-looking potted fern that stood to the left of the doorway. Above the plant hung a framed photograph of the Portland skyline at sunset. The photo was a going-away gift from my FBI colleagues. It was covered with inscriptions, not all of which were G-rated.
“You don’t look after this poor plant. It’s dying.” Her voice quavered a little, but I detected a hard, underlying quality as well. Even with her back turned to me, I could see she was fishing around in her purse, and it suddenly occurred to me that the lovely Larisa Volkova might have a not-so-lovely gun close at hand. I reached for the top drawer of my desk, where my own gun was inconveniently located, while at the same time trying to turn myself into a very small object. Then Larisa Volkova turned to face me, and I saw that she was holding her bright yellow rain hat. I exhaled, slowly.
“Do you know what the sunflower is, Mr. Grady?”
I nodded and removed my hand from the desk drawer. “Yes, I do. But that’s a fern, not a sunflower.”
Larisa Volkova twisted her hat, as though wringing it dry of moisture. A look of what might have been despair passed across her face. “I am sorry, Mr. Grady. My visit here will be dangerous for you.”
It was my turn to look confused. “Dangerous? Why do you say that?”
“You don’t understand.” Larisa Volkova was moving backwards now, toward the door and away from me. She pulled the rain hat down tight on her head. “My husband and his people…they will find out I was here. They will be very upset to know that I talked to you.”
I stood up. “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I can take care of myself. It’s you I’m concerned about. Do you have any other family or friends in town?” She looked at me without answering. “No? That’s okay. Let me help you find a place you can stay for a few days, while you get things squared away.” I leaned forward and reached for my Rolodex.
“What kind of surname is Grady?” She was at the door now, still facing me, reaching behind herself for the doorknob.
This woman was all over the map. In addition, her English was an odd mixture of fractured syntax and perfectly formed phrases straight out of an English 101 grammar book. The overall effect was a bit disconcerting. I pulled a card labeled Women’s Shelters from the Rolodex and squinted at the names. A couple of them might still return a phone call from me. “Irish,” I said. “Grady is an Irish name.”
“You are from–“ she paused, frowning “–Irlandiya?”
I looked up and smiled. “You mean Ireland? No, not me. My grandparents on both sides of the family came to the States from the old country, a long time ago. But my parents were born here, and so was I.” I waved the card in my hand. “Now don’t just up and leave, Mrs. Volkova. Let’s get you some help.”
Larisa Volkova pointed a finger at me. Her light blue eyes regarded me with a mixture of sorrow and contempt. “I asked you for help already, Mr. Grady.” She turned away, opened the door and walked out of the office without looking back.
“Aw, come on,” I said to an empty room. “I’m Irish, remember? We’re very likeable.”
There was no reply. Larisa Volkova was already long gone.
#
Wednesday morning looked a lot like Tuesday afternoon – plenty of rain, no clients. I was at my window, looking down on the wet city streets, when a loud knocking interrupted my thoughts. I walked to my desk, reached into the top drawer, and pushed the button. Click.
“It’s open,” I called out.
Two men dressed in dark suits and raincoats walked in. The shorter of the two, a heavyset Asian with a shaved head, held up a hand in greeting. “Howdy, Dave,” he said. “It’s been a long time. I’d like to say you’re improving with age, but….”
Sam Hong and Reed Hamilton were Portland Police Bureau homicide detectives. Hong was a smart cop and a decent guy. His partner, Hamilton was a smart cop, too, but I’d never heard anyone accuse him of being a decent guy. Plus, he looked like his name sounded, from the tailored suit to the fancy haircut all the way down to the handmade shoes. Within the department, Hong and Hamilton were known as the Sam and Ham Show, in part because of their frequent appearances on Portland television screens. Rumor had it that the Sam and Ham Show weren’t above giving local crime reporters a heads-up every now and again in exchange for face-time on the various local news broadcasts.
“It has been a long time,” I said, forcing a smile. Hong was okay, but I wasn’t crazy about unannounced visitors, especially the non-paying kind who lobbed insults in my direction. “When’s the last time you shaved, Sam? Your whole head has a five o’clock shadow.” I waited for a response. Nothing. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you two doing here? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your next close-up? ”
“We’ll get to that,” Hamilton said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Sit down.”
I folded my arms.
Hamilton narrowed his eyes, but Hong just shrugged. I figured he was used to Hamilton pissing people off. “We’re here about Larisa Volkova,” Hong said. “Anything you can tell us about her? How you met her, when you last had contact with her, that sort of thing?” He paused. “Anything at all.”
“Larisa Volkova.” It took me a couple of seconds to place the name. “Okay, yeah.
The Russian woman, right? Very attractive. She was in here yesterday, looking for help with a divorce. I said thanks but no thanks. I tried to give her a referral, but she wasn’t interested.”
I held up my hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. “I can’t say I know her, really, but we met and talked for a few minutes. I mean, the first and last time I had any contact with her was yesterday afternoon. I’m not sure there’s much else I can tell you.” I waited for a response, but nobody was tripping over himself to fill in the blanks. “What’s the story?”
“The story.” Hamilton snorted. “She told you she was getting divorced? You sure about that?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sure.” Actually, on second thought I wasn’t so sure, but fat chance I was going to admit that to Reed Hamilton. I looked out the window, at the brilliant green grass in the park and the wet, empty benches and the parade of cars on Fourth Avenue. “I used to be a cop, too, Reed. Remember?” In another lifetime, I might have added. “So quit dicking around and let’s get on with it. What’s up?”
“You know, Grady–“ Hamilton started out, but Hong cut him off.
“Larisa Volkova was found shot to death early this morning,’ he said. “ In the parking lot of a strip joint off Powell. Your business card was in her purse.”
I thought for a minute. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
I meant it, too, but the unfortunate fact is that bad things happen to people all the time, and no one knows it better than cops. The cops who can’t accept that fact, or don’t want to face it every day when they come to work, are the ones who wind up selling insurance or teaching social studies or, more often than anyone wants to admit, eating their gun. “Obviously, she was having problems at home. She didn’t seem scared of her husband, exactly, but…something was going on. She told me his name. Slava, I think it was. Slava Volkov.”
The Sam and Ham Show stared at me. Outside, an ambulance siren cut through the dull rumble of everyday traffic. “There’s a little more to it,” Hong said. “She’d written something on the back of your card. We’re confident it was her writing because we’ve already had it compared it to some known exemplars.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
Hamilton pulled a black notebook from his suit coat and flipped it open. He jabbed an index finger in my direction. “She wrote, ‘Grady threat’ and ’one hundred thou.’” He let that hang in the air for a few seconds. “’Grady threat’ and ‘one hundred thou.’ Why in the hell would Larisa Volkova write those words on the back of your business card?”
Hamilton was starting to get worked up. For some reason, I found myself wondering if he was a big drinker. He didn’t look like it, but you never know. I turned to Hong. “Twenty-four hours ago, I’d never heard of Larisa Volkova,” I said. “I know nothing about her except for what she told me during the brief time she was here. She suggested before she left that I would be in danger as a result of her coming to my office. Maybe that’s what ‘Grady threat’ refers to. I have no idea what ‘one hundred thou’ might mean. She didn’t say anything about money, and I didn’t, either.”
“Danger?” Hong glanced at his partner. “You didn’t mention that. How could a visit from Larisa Volkova put you in danger? What kind of danger?”
“The bad kind, I assume.” I moved away from the window and sat down. I didn’t invite anyone to join me. “Let me make sure I’ve got this right. Larisa Volkova, a woman I’d never met until yesterday afternoon, was found dead this morning in Southeast. One of my business cards – which she took from that holder on my desk, by the way - was in her purse. Now you two are in here, making tough-guy noises and asking questions I can’t answer.”
Hamilton shook his head, as though in disbelief. Or maybe disgust. “Maybe you need to try harder.”
“Maybe you need to ask better questions.”
Hong shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. “Get smart, Dave. We’re just doing our job. It looks like you’re one of the last people she saw before she was killed, so of course we’re talking to you. Tell us what we need to know, we’ll cross you off our list, and everybody’s happy.”
“Except Larisa Volkova,” I said.
“Yeah.” Hong made a face. “Except Larisa Volkova.”
“Look, Sammy.” I drummed my fingers on the desktop. “When your partner is through trying to bust my balls, I’ll be happy to continue this conversation. Until then, I think we’re done.”
Hamilton shoved the black notebook inside his overcoat. “I haven’t even started to bust your balls,” he said. “And for your information, Grady, you haven’t been crossed off my list. Not by a mile.”
The idea that I would be considered a suspect in Larisa Volkova’s death was laughable. There was just one problem - the Sam and Ham Show weren’t laughing.
“Give me a call,” Hong said, moving away from my desk. He put a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder and gently pushed him toward the door. “Let’s get this figured out.”
Hamilton opened the door and walked out of the office without looking back. Hong paused at the doorway. “Anybody else, Dave, I’d be leaning pretty hard. As it is, I’m doing you a favor. You don’t want to be in the middle of this.”
“That’s the first thing you’ve said today that’s made any sense.” I held up a hand and waved. “So long, Sam.”
Hong shook his head and slammed the door behind him.
I stared at an old scar on the back of my right hand. Larisa Volkova had been murdered, shot dead within hours of leaving my office. According to Portland’s finest, I hadn’t been ruled out as a suspect. I could wait for the Sam and Ham Show to do their thing, keep my fingers crossed, and hope for the best. Or I could do some digging myself, put the cops on the right track, and try to forget that my inaction had contributed to a young woman’s death.
I heard rain beating against the window, but I didn’t bother to look. I’d seen it plenty of times before.
