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by Corbeau -------- Back to Part 2 SVS2-03: Into the Woods by Corbeau, Part 3 -------- Jim was so quiet on the ride home that Blair wondered if he really was pissed after all at being dragged out of the loft tonight. He had done his usual bitching on the way over to Little Moscow, but that had clearly not been sincere, merely Jim entertaining himself. There was no doubt that he'd enjoyed the hamantaschen. For a while there, Blair was afraid he'd have to start reminding him that pastries were not on the bottom of the food pyramid. The visit with Micki had gone well... although it was too bad about Katrina. Maybe he was just feeling sorry for Micki. Or maybe the poor guy was just tired. It had been a long day, slogging around trying to get a useful lead on Morisov's murder. Blair magnanimously decided that an early night would be best, and vowed to behave himself when they got home. No jumping his partner. When they reached number 307, Jim suggested locking up for the night then and there, and Blair congratulated himself on an accurate diagnosis. Jim claimed the bathroom first, and after the usual nightly ritual, turned off most of the lights and went upstairs. Blair went next, beginning to understand Jim's choice of hamantaschen as he brushed poppy seeds out of his teeth. He turned out the last of the lights downstairs, and climbed toward the bedroom, which was still washed by the soft light of a single lamp. Expecting Jim to be at least half asleep already, Blair wasn't prepared for a surprise attack by a six-foot octopus when he reached the top of the stairs. The man suddenly seemed to have way more hands than he was entitled to, and a mouth that clamped onto his younger partner like a black hole sucking matter from a nearby star. By the time Blair adjusted to this unexpected development, several layers of his clothes seemed to have disappeared. What remained was in serious jeopardy of turning into dust rags if he didn't forestall his lover's frantic movements and get rid of the final few garments himself. He found himself naked and flat on his back on the bed before he was quite sure how he'd gotten from point A to point B. Before he had a chance to express either surprise or pleasure -- both of which he was definitely feeling -- Jim was on top of him, once again devouring him. This time his whole body got into the act; Blair was caressed not just with hands and mouth but with every part of the man. Jim's feet slid up and down Blair's legs as his hands roamed over arms and sides; lips tasted every inch of the younger man's face. All the while the rest of his torso was moving over Blair's, skin and flesh sliding, rubbing, pressing. With every shift and slide, Jim's growing erection would press against another part of Blair, a heat-seeking missile not yet fixed on its target. Well, he's certainly not tired, Blair thought briefly. Maybe he was just really horny. Before long, complete sentences were beyond him, even in thought, as Jim's loving assault set every nerve to singing. Why did the man need words, after all... his mouth was communicating a clear message, kissing its way down Blair's torso, thoroughly devouring each nipple in turn, moving downward... engulfing his cock in a slow, sweet poetry of lips and tongue -- but only briefly. Once, twice; a soft, wet kiss on the very tip... then abandonment. Blair moaned at the loss, reaching for his tormentor, wanting that mouth back now. Through an erotic haze, he dimly realized that Jim hadn't gone far, merely leaned over to grope in the nightstand. Oh yes, yes... his legs began to open further in anticipation, but they were trapped by Jim's weight on his thighs, by the long legs that wrapped around his own. He gripped the sheet, bunching the fabric in his hands, anticipation so keen it sliced along his nerves like pain. He moaned again... maybe his lover's name, maybe just an inarticulate sound of need. When he suddenly felt the smooth slide of latex on his cock, guided by Jim's fingers, he cried out, bucking his hips off the bed. Oh, God... the hand came again, slick with lube, coating, caressing. He reached for Jim, ready to turn them over, when Jim loomed above him like a tsunami, a sudden storm, a force of nature, and began to take Blair inside himself before his lover realized what was happening. "Omigod, Jim! Jim..." It was all he could do to keep from bucking upward, but he held himself in check, letting the larger man set the pace. As the inner ring of muscle relaxed, Jim sank all the way down, thigh muscles visibly flexing, a deep sound of satisfaction escaping his lips. This wasn't something they did very often, Jim was so much heavier... but oh, it felt good! It was like fucking a redwood tree, a monument. Blair rested his hands on Jim's sides, supporting him, guiding him. The sculpted torso slid through Blair's hands as the powerful legs thrust Jim up and then controlled his descent, letting him ride Blair's cock from root to tip, again and again. Blair wondered if it was possible to die of this, as he found himself engulfed over and over by the hot, tight channel. He was mesmerized by the sight of Jim above him, sleek body glistening, face contorted in ecstasy as he plunged downward, seeking the jolting pleasure at the end of each stroke. Taker and taken blurred as their two bodies moved together faster and faster, seeking the same goal. Blair slid one hand from Jim's side, along his belly and down to his cock. Jim cried out when his lover's hand gripped him and began to pump, and he thrust himself down even harder and faster. Blair felt surrounded by Jim -- not just his cock but his whole body, his whole self. There was nothing but Jim's weight pressing him down; Jim's elegantly spare face and body filled his eyes; Jim's sounds of pleasure were all he could hear. Blair pumped hard one last time, and an animal cry filled the loft as Jim's creamy essence began to spill over Blair's hand, belly, chest... with a final upward thrust into that pulsing channel, Blair poured out his own completion, crying out in loss and fulfillment all at once. He slipped out of Jim as the larger man bent forward, the strength suddenly gone from his legs. He arched over Blair, powerful arms still supporting him, like some ancient carving of a sky god spanning the earth. Then he lowered himself slowly, capturing the mouth below him in a slow, sweet kiss that seemed to last forever. "Love you." Jim wrapped his arms tightly around Blair, turning them on their sides, spooning up behind his still-stunned lover. He pressed up against Blair's back like the smallest empty space between them was an affront, and buried his face in a cloud of curly hair. Almost immediately, he sank into a deep sleep. It was a challenge getting the condom off and tied when he was, in essence, restrained, but Blair managed. Still bemused, he cleaned himself up as best he could with a stray pair of boxers that was fortunately just within reach, and dumped the whole mess on the floor. Like Scarlett O'Hara, he'd worry about it tomorrow. The lamp on the dresser still bathed the room with dim light, but he couldn't bear to disturb the man who lay at his back, arms and legs wrapped around him. It wouldn't keep him from sleeping, but he was surprised it didn't seem to bother Jim. Praying to the gods of energy conservation for forgiveness, he closed his eyes and gave himself up to sleep.
"Well, boys, you look happy this morning." Megan leaned on Jim's desk with a slightly prurient smile. "Like to tell me why?" "Hamantaschen," Jim replied smoothly. "Bless you." "Now that you've satisfied your curiosity, have you actually got some useful information for us? Or would you like our beauty secrets next?" Blair's mouth twitched as he hunched over Jim's computer, typing and mousing industriously. Megan huffed a bit as she opened the file she held. "Well, everything I found out confirms that our vic was an all-right bloke. His employers said he was a slogger, and dependable. The shoplifting thing happened when he was between jobs and pretty strapped. He was well enough liked around the county that the store -- some local 'mom-and-pop' -- let him off with restitution. The Sheriff confirmed that he was an easygoing fellow, no trouble." Blair raised his head from the computer screen. "What about the cousin?" "One Teodor Zavorov. He's been in the U.S. for quite a few years now, so most of what he knows about Morisov's recent activity in Russia is from the guy himself, or letters from his Russian relations. He pretty much confirmed what I've heard from everyone else about the sort of fellow he was. As for Morisov's life in Russia... the vic used to be in the Red Army. Seems he leaped into capitalism with both feet when the Communist government collapsed, and started a series of small businesses." "Legit ones?" Jim asked. Megan made a little so-so motion with her hand. "As legit as anything else in Russia at the time, I suspect. No guarantee that some of his merchandise didn't come from the gray market, or even the black market, but that's pretty much SOP from what I understand." "So why did he emigrate?" Blair wondered. "Didn't like the way things were going. If you didn't want to play ball with the Russian Mafia, it was getting hard to do business. Not very lucrative any more, either, what with all the bribes and protection money and whatever." Blair leaned back, stretching, hands behind his neck. Megan looked on appreciatively. Jim didn't dare look. "So, he decided his entrepreneurial talents would have more scope in the West." "Right. Zavorov said he had every intention of getting back into business in this country as soon as his English language skills improved. He moved to Cascade to work, even in a blue-collar job, because he figured he'd get farther, faster, in an urban area. Maybe even start a business that catered to the Russian community, where good English wouldn't be essential." Jim nodded. "Thanks, Connor. That confirms the picture we've been getting of this guy from other sources. A swell guy, no enemies. Not the sort to get himself murdered." "This was all over the phone, of course," Megan admitted. "If you think it's necessary to interview the cousin in person, I could..." "No you couldn't, Connor." Simon loomed up behind her. Jim and Blair had seen him coming, but had kept mum. Now they both grinned as she jumped up, startled. "Sir?" "I'm not paying for you to travel halfway across the state to interview a witness for background, not at this stage of the investigation. No matter how it might improve your love life." "Captain, my offer had nothing to do with --" "Don't kid a kidder. Now, don't you have a few cases of your own to work on?" Megan sighed. Jim could almost see her visions of dalliance among the apple orchards fly away. "Yes, sir." Simon turned to the two grinning men behind Jim's desk. "And wipe those smiles off your faces. We may have to send her yet if we don't get some decent leads on this case. You have no murder weapon, no suspects, and no motive at this point, am I correct?" Jim's good humor dissipated quickly. "Correct, sir." The snap of Blair's fingers caused brought Simon's attention to focus on him. "You find something on Trans-Pacific, Sandburg?" "Still working on that, Captain. Nothing definitive so far. But about motive... could it have been a carjacking? The guy had a brand new Mercedes, after all, and it seems to have disappeared." Simon chewed his cigar for several seconds. "What do you think, Jim?" The detective was quiet a moment. "I wouldn't completely rule it out, but it's unlikely. Carjackers don't usually take the trouble to dump their victims in the woods. It's a quick, violent crime -- all they want to do is separate the driver from his vehicle as quickly as possible and get moving. Sometimes the car's owner gets killed in the process, but the body is usually left at the scene, or tossed out by the side of the road." Simon removed the cigar and pointed it toward Jim. "True enough. Doesn't mean the car wasn't stolen anyway. What's a little bit of grand theft auto when you've just committed murder? Or the killers could have abandoned it and someone else pinched it." "Burglary has the info on the car model and serial number," Blair offered, "and they're keeping their eye on the local chop shops for it -- for all the good that'll do. If it was stolen, it was probably already out of Cascade or in pieces, or both, before the body was discovered." "So what's your plan, gentlemen?" "We have a call in to Trans-Pacific about the job offer and the forty-five thou," Jim explained. "The guy we need to talk to is in a meeting and is supposed to call me back." Blair broke in smoothly. "However, everything I've been able to find on Trans-Pacific so far suggests it's a legitimate firm. They're a young company, a bit unorthodox, and eager to expand into foreign markets, especially Russia and China. They've hired recent immigrants with similar backgrounds before, to give them an edge in those countries." Jim drummed his fingers on the desk. "It's frustrating that so much of our information is second-hand. We've got leads on some of the victim's associates and plan on interviewing them and most of the neighbors today. And I thought I might email Inspector Major Vaslova, see if she can add anything on the Russian end. The cousin hasn't been there in five years. Katrina's likely to know more." "Katrina, is it?" Simon raised an eyebrow. "I'm so glad you two have bonded. I thought you were going to create an international incident during the Gordievsky thing." "We've gotten to know her a lot better since then. She's actually human when she relaxes a little. Except for her methods of interrogation, she's a good cop." "Besides, Simon," Blair pointed out, "email doesn't cost the Department anything." Simon visibly brightened. "Music to a Captain's ears. Do it."
Blair watched Jim surreptitiously from the passenger seat as he drove through Cascade's mid-day traffic. His partner wasn't a happy camper; the deepening line between his brows made that all too clear. "Penny for your thoughts, love." Jim smiled briefly at the endearment, but soon sank into gloom again. "This case is driving me nuts, Chief. It's going nowhere." Blair shook his head. "Slowly, but not quite nowhere. That guy at Trans-Pacific confirmed that the forty-five thousand was a combination retainer and relocation package." "Which only reinforces the notion that our victim was on the up-and-up, just like Katrina's email did. All of which leaves us with no obvious motive. We're worse off than we were yesterday." "We did get to talk to all the neighbors but those truckers." "And they were no help at all, except to tell us what a nice guy he was. We've got zip." Jim slammed his hand against the steering wheel. "OK, but what about --" Blair's fruitless attempts to cheer up his partner were interrupted by the bray of his cell phone. Shrugging at Jim, he pressed the button. "Hi, this is Blair Sandburg... Chris? I didn't expect to hear from you so soon... you what? Sure you can tell me." Blair could feel Jim's eyes boring into him as he listened to Christine Hong's explanation. "No, she wouldn't have to come down to the station, we could come there if necessary. But we don't need to do that right away. Why don't you fax us a copy of the paperwork, and we'll set it up for later if we need to. And thanks, this could help a lot." He pressed the hangup button and turned to Jim. "That was Christine Hong." Jim frowned. "Your old girl friend? I thought you said she was engaged." "Jim, I find it flattering, in an irritating sort of way, that you're so paranoid that you think every woman I've ever dated still has designs on me years later. You didn't listen in?" "No, I don't want you to feel like you have no privacy. Although I was tempted." "Chris was calling from her fiance's shipping company. One of the shipping clerks there recognized the car. It was dropped off Sunday afternoon by a Russian guy -- for shipment to Russia." "No shit?" The frown melted away, replaced by complete attention. "Give me the details." "The clerk is a woman who's nervous about the police, so she went to Chris first for advice. She knew Chris had a friend in the Cascade PD and figured she'd know what to do. Apparently the woman -- a Mrs. Wu -- is fluent in Chinese and Russian but her English tends to desert her when she's nervous. We'll probably need to talk to her officially at some point, but we'd better take an officer who can speak Cantonese." "I think Liu is off for a few days, but we could probably borrow Chen from Vice if we need to." "Chris offered to translate, but I told her we needed somebody official." "What was that about paperwork?" "She's faxing us copies of the forms the guy filled out, which include the time and his signature -- Vasily Morisov." Jim swiveled his head to look at Blair, then quickly returned his attention to the traffic. "The victim shipped the car? I thought he was driving it to California. Did she give a description?" "Yeah. It's vague, but could fit Morisov. Wish we had a better picture than that old mug shot, something that showed him after he shaved off his beard." Blair suddenly remembered something. If he hadn't been restrained by a seatbelt, he would've bounced up and down. He managed a bit of it anyway. "Hey, I have an idea about the car. I just remembered something Jack Kelso told me. There's a big black market for cars in Russia, especially luxury cars. I'll bet a car like Morisov's could be sold for enough there to make a profit, even with the cost of shipping factored in." Jim began drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. "That might explain why Morisov blew most of his retainer on a new car. Mrs. Strejska thought he just wanted a new one because he was planning to drive all the way to California." Blair chuckled. "And here I thought he just wanted to make a big impression. In Russia, only the top dogs would have a car like that." Jim nodded. "Makes sense. But it sounds like he was just being a good businessman. Selling that car would give him a nice little nest egg to start his new life. He got a nice lump sum and parlayed it into more." "So there goes the stolen car theory." Blair's satisfaction at tying up a loose end quickly disappeared. Jim's animation disappeared with it. "Damn. It wasn't much of a motive, but it was all we had." "We've still got interviews to do. Maybe we'll get something." "Yeah. Maybe." Blair sighed. Looks like he'd better plan on Jim-jollying duty tonight. That might require not only a really good dinner, but mind-blowing sex afterwards. He settled back into his seat with a little smile. A Guide's work is never done...
Jim tried to wipe the scowl off his face when he knocked on the door of a third-floor walk-up in the heart of Little Moscow. The building was as ugly outside as the one Micki lived in, but not as well kept. He could hear skittering sounds inside the walls that he chose not to examine too closely. The door, still chained, opened a crack. "Da?" "Mr. Navolonsky? Alexei Navolonsky?" He held up his ID. "We're from the Cascade PD. We'd like to ask you a few questions." "Questions? Uh... OK." The door closed and Jim could hear the rattle as the chain slid over and out. He could feel the guy's heart rate shoot up, but that didn't mean much in this part of town. People were almost always guilty of something, hiding something, or just paranoid about cops. The legacy of life in a police state, as Blair was fond of reminding him when he bitched about it. The apartment was small, and marginally better kept than the public spaces in the building, such as they were. They'd learned that the guy worked as the night clerk in a 7-11. Not a lot of money there, and it was almost as dangerous as being a cop. Navolonsky looked like he'd just gotten out of bed, which he probably had. Jim introduced himself and Blair, and they sat gingerly on the sagging sofa while Morisov's ex-roommate slumped in a nearby chair. "You knew Vasily Morisov?" The man nodded. "Are you aware that he's been murdered?" Another nod. "Heard yesterday on radio. Very sad... Vasily was OK guy." Blair jumped in, his voice all velvety with sympathy. "You must have known him well. He lived with you when he first moved to Cascade, right?" "For couple weeks only, until he found place of his own. He was, how you say -- old Army buddy." "Did you keep in touch? When was the last time you saw him?" "Sunday, noon -- maybe early afternoon." "You don't sound so sure," Jim said. "Was not feeling well. Had party for Vasily Saturday night at a bar. Very late, much vodka." "Did Vasily leave the party with anyone?" "We walk him home that night, singing old Russian songs. Then we meet him Sunday at Nicolai's place. Had lunch, then he drove away." "Nicolai? Is he the other man who was with you Saturday night?" Jim got up and quietly began walking around, examining the small room. "Da. Nicolai Pruchevsky. Also friend of Vasily." With a quick glance at his partner, Blair continued the questioning. "Can you give us the names of some of the others who were at the party?" Jim watched as Blair scribbled down the Russian names as Navolonsky rattled them off. Good thing he 'knew something about the Slavic languages.' Jim shuddered at the thought of trying to spell all those Russian surnames -- it'd take him all afternoon to get them right. He stopped in front of a table by the window and pointed to a picture, one of several grouped there, all in cheap drugstore frames. "Mr. Navolonsky, who's in this picture, besides you?" Navolonsky turned to look where Jim was pointing and gave a little start. "That is Nicolai. And... and Vasily." "Would you mind if we borrowed it? We have no recent pictures of Mr. Morisov." "It would help us a lot," Blair added. "To find your friend's killer. We'll return it as soon as possible." "Uh... sure. Is OK." Jim carefully removed the picture from the frame and tucked it into his pocket. "One last thing... where were you Sunday afternoon and evening?" "With Nicolai in afternoon, helping his cousin move into new house. She made us big dinner, we talked, watched TV. Then I go to work at 7-11 on Spruce Street, midnight until eight Monday morning."
"Well, was he telling the truth?" Blair scanned the streets, trying to read the Russian shop signs as they drove to Pruchevsky's apartment. "Hard to tell. His vital signs were all over the map, even when he admitted to his own name. He could have been lying, or just scared shitless on general principles." "If Morisov took the car to be shipped Sunday afternoon, he's in the clear, presuming his alibi checks out. It should be pretty easy to verify." "Why don't you give Simon a call, see if he can spare somebody to interview Pruchevsky's cousin right now, and maybe swing by the 7-11? Let's get this damn investigation moving." Blair did as his partner suggested, and Simon agreed to send out Rafe and H if they didn't get out of court too late. Jim was going to be a bear until they turned up a lead, but it was hard to think of what else they could do. Usually at least one of the big three was obvious early on -- motive, or means, or opportunity. Without a decent suspect, opportunity didn't mean much. The condition of the body made it hard to be very specific about means. Dan had found some evidence of blows to the head that had broken the skin, but they hadn't done any substantial damage to the bones of the skull, and couldn't have killed him. Insects and animals had done such a number on the upper part of the body that it was impossible to tell what kind of weapon had been used. And motive -- Jim was right, they had less idea of motive now than when they'd started. Blair was jolted out of his reverie when the truck stopped. They were right at the edge between the Russian district and an old industrial park. Prochevsky's address was not an apartment, as Blair had expected, but a small cottage surrounded by commercial buildings. It looked like the sort of housing companies had often built for their workers early in the last century. Logging towns and mill towns had been filled with them once, though few survived. Cascade still had some left, but most of them had been moved to better neighborhoods and gussied up as guest cottages or picturesque little shops. This one looked like it had survived exactly where it was first built. "Kind of a lonely place to live," Jim observed as they strolled up the weedy sidewalk. "Great place to murder someone, though. Could you tell? You could smell the blood, right?" "Simmer down, Junior. Practically every place that's been lived in smells like blood, you know. People have nosebleeds, cut their fingers slicing bagels, kids scrape their knees. Unless there's a lot of it, it doesn't mean anything. Besides, we have to have something that will stand up in court." "Yeah, I know. Forensics isn't going to haul out the luminol just on your say-so. Looks pretty quiet. Is he home?" "I can hear someone talking in what sounds like Russian, but only one heartbeat." "So he's either on the phone or he talks to himself." "Let's hope it's the former." "Very funny. Like you can't tell. Who's on the other end of the phone?" "Some guy talking in Russian. Might be Navolonsky, but I'm not absolutely sure." Jim knocked on the door. "Sometimes people's voices sound different when they're speaking another language." Prochevsky was much more lively and outgoing than Navolonsky had been. Maybe he just had a better head for vodka. As Blair sat on yet another battered sofa taking notes, the man confirmed Navolonsky's account of events, adding that he'd spent the night at his cousin's new house, too tired to drive after a day of moving furniture on top of little sleep the previous night. His memory of Saturday night's party allowed them to add a few more names to their list. Apparently Morisov was a popular guy. At this rate, they'd be checking these names forever. After a pretty fruitless half hour, they left. Blair was about to open the door of the truck when Jim's soft-voiced command stopped him. "Stay there a minute, will you Chief? And take off your shirt. Slowly." Blair stared as Jim walked around to open the driver's door, reaching for something behind the seat. Was the guy nuts? The temperature was back to normal, fifty-something. He'd been wishing he'd worn a jacket, and the last thing he wanted to do was remove any layers. Was the man slipping into some kind of erotic fugue state? Had he totally lost it? God, it's not like Jim wasn't getting enough! Maybe he was getting too much -- maybe he'd become a sex addict, or... "Earth to Sandburg! Get a move on, will you?" Jim had opened the passenger door from his side, and was glaring impatiently. OK, better humor him. Blair took off his flannel shirt slowly, as ordered, shivering in breeze that sent dry leaves and debris skittering down the almost-deserted streets. "Now fold it up, inside out, and hand it to me. Then get in." While he complied, Blair reviewed the names of all the therapists he knew. Jim would die before he'd go to a police shrink, but maybe he could his partner into going to some nice, no-nonsense type who wouldn't set him off too much. Maybe Jane Carlin, she could get along with anybody. Or Don Umana, he'd put in a lot of years at the VA Hospital, was used to military types. Maybe Jim was developing some kind of late-onset PTSD. It was a miracle he hadn't before now, actually, and Blair had theorized that being a Sentinel must confer some kind of protective effect. There went one more theory out the window. "Put it in here." Jim handed Blair his shirt and a bag, then started the truck and made a smooth U-turn, heading back toward downtown. Blair stared at his hand. A bag. A plain brown bag... the kind you put evidence in. "Jim -- what's going on?" He put his shirt inside and folded over the top. "That godawful sofa in Prochevsky's living room was orange." "OK, the guy has no taste in furniture whatsoever, but that's not a crime, even though sometimes I think it should be." "You remember those unusual t-shaped orange fibers I found on Morisov's body?" The light dawned. "Shit! You mean these are the same ones?" "Bingo. I could tell as soon as I sat down." "So why did I have to take off my shirt? It's freezing!" "Poor baby -- I'll put the heater on. You're the one wearing flannel, and I'm the one wearing a leather jacket. Flannel picks up a lot more fibers. We're heading back to HQ now. You can borrow my extra jacket; it's in my locker." Jim grinned. "Meanwhile, you've got your love to keep you warm." "Fat lot of good you're doing over there. As long as you're driving, I'm stuck with just your heater. 1969 was a good year for guides, but let me tell you -- it was not a vintage year for Ford heaters."
Jim closed the file, leaned back against the arm of the sofa, and closed his eyes. His sock-clad feet were in Blair's lap, being rubbed. He was well fed, warm, dry, and loved... but he was still pissed. This damn case was getting to him, and it shouldn't. This was his job, he did it all the time. Been doing it for a long time. It wasn't the first case he'd had in his career that went nowhere at first, until something broke. If worse came to worst, it wouldn't be the first case he'd failed to solve... although there hadn't been too many of those since a certain anthropologist joined the Cascade PD. Ah, well, pride goeth before a fall... "I'll offer a nickel this time." Jim opened his eyes. "What?" "For your thoughts. Inflation, you know." "Not worth a nickel. Just thinking that this case is a real pain in the ass." Blair nodded. "This wasn't the most exciting afternoon I've spent... tracking down all those Russian names, matching them up with addresses. If not for Micki's help, it would have taken even longer." "Calling them, getting even more names -- but no useful information whatsoever." Jim indulged himself in a deep sigh. "And I can't help feeling the whole thing will be a waste of time." "Too bad Prochevsky's alibi checked out. Something about him bothered me." Jim smiled and wiggled his feet. "Sure you're not just pissed about the shirt thing? Still?" "Hey, it was damn cold in that truck." "But the fibers did match; Forensics confirmed it. And they're not common ones. And yeah, if Morisov was there for lunch you'd expect him to pick up fibers, but on his underwear?" "Just because I didn't get any past my first two layers doesn't mean Morisov didn't. He was there longer, and most people don't wear as many layers as I do." Blair grinned. "I'll never forget the look on Simon's face when you told him you had to check out my skivvies in the men's room." "Hey, we let him come along as a witness, didn't we? No hanky-panky, all business." It had been a priceless moment, one that Jim wouldn't soon forget. The pleasure of the memory was short-lived, however. "I know what you mean about Prochevsky, though. The guy was a bit too slick. My cop instincts say that guy has a rap sheet somewhere, maybe in Russia. I think we should ask Katrina to check him out." "He set off your cop sense, but not your Sentinel lie detector." "That's not infallible. There are guys that are so good at lying they can beat a polygraph." "Or a human polygraph." Blair's rubbing now extended beyond Jim's feet; his elegant hands found their way up his calves. "That trucker couple comes back tomorrow, we can talk to them. And there's still that woman at Yan Shipping." "To hell with the case. Let's forget the damn thing until tomorrow." His voice took on different timbre -- deeper, rougher. "Except..." Blair's eyes caught his. "Except what?" Jim's abdominal muscles rippled under his tight t-shirt as he sat up suddenly. "I'm going to have to examine your underwear again." His hand slipped under Blair's waistband. "From the inside this time."
"I'm getting really tired of this building," Jim observed as they approached the apartment next to Morisov's. "Yeah. Too bad Cassie took that job in Chicago. She and I could redecorate it." Jim gave a mock-growl and knocked on the door of 2C. "How'd you like me to redecorate your ass?" "Thought you did that last night," Blair replied softly. Higher brain functions took a short vacation as a vivid sense-memory flooded Jim's brain. He quickly recalled them to duty as the door opened. "Cascade PD." He flipped open his ID. "Mr. Wardinski? Could we ask you and your wife a few questions?" The slender middle-aged man who motioned them in looked more like an accountant than Jim's idea of a trucker. Under the scents of soap and aftershave, however, there was a distinct undertone of oil, gasoline, vinyl, strong coffee... he certainly smelled like a trucker, but one who'd done his best to wash off the ingrained grime of the road. "I suppose this is about poor Mr. Morisov next door? Mrs. Strejska told us what happened." A sturdy woman about the same age as Wardinski came out of the kitchen, and introduced herself as Stella. "Yes, I'm afraid it is. We were hoping one of you might have seen something, heard something, that would help us figure out why he might have been killed. We have a pretty good idea of his movements Saturday night, and later in the day on Sunday, but there's a gap early Sunday morning. He was probably in bed asleep, but it would be nice to have that confirmed." The Wardinskis looked at each other; both visibly relaxed. "So he was alive Sunday afternoon?" Mrs. Wardinski asked. Her husband patted her shoulder. "See, honey, you were worried for nothing." Jim tensed like a hunting dog smelling a distant fox. "You had reason to assume he was killed earlier?" "Well..." The woman seemed embarrassed now. Blair's soothing, encouraging voice captured her. "Please, anything you know may be valuable. Tell us." She took a deep breath. "I thought I heard sounds next door, early Sunday morning. Somewhere between two and three. It sounded like... well, a scuffle. Then a kind of a thudding sound." Jim was practically vibrating; he felt Blair's hand against his back. "This didn't concern you?" "We were both exhausted, we've been on the road for days --" the husband began. His wife patted his hand. "Detective, Stan's right. I was only half awake, not even sure I wasn't dreaming. Vasily was more than a little fond of his vodka, and I convinced myself the next morning that he'd probably just had a late, boozy night and was none too steady on his feet." "Did you hear anything else?" Blair asked. "I thought I heard Vasily moving around after that, which is another reason I didn't worry. I fell asleep again almost immediately, and slept like a rock until late morning." They asked a few more questions, trying for more details, but the woman wasn't able to be more specific. Thanking the couple, they left. More accurately, Jim left like a shot, and Blair did the thank-yous. Blair caught up with Jim as he strode down the hallway. "Hold it a minute, will you! What's next? That wasn't exactly a smoking gun." Jim stopped and turned to face his partner, a glint in his eye. "Maybe not, but I've got a feeling about this. Didn't something bother you about Morisov's apartment when you first saw it? Seem unusual?" "Well, it was damn clean for your average bachelor, even one who was moving out and wanted his cleaning deposit back. The only bachelor apartment I ever saw that was cleaner was yours." Jim smiled. "Ex-bachelor. What if Morisov didn't clean it?" "You mean, what if somebody else cleaned it -- because there were bloodstains, or other evidence? Fat lot of good it'll do them. If more people watched Secrets of Forensic Science our work would be harder." "So let's get Forensics over here." "Ah... now it's time to haul out the luminol!"
"It's blood all right." Jim and Blair sighed in unison as Miyoko's light revealed a clear spatter pattern on the wall behind Vasily Morisov's bed. "There's not much of it, but the pattern is unmistakable... exactly what you'd expect if the vic was hit as he started to rise." "So he was killed here," Blair concluded. "But I thought Dan said the blows to his head weren't enough to kill him." "True," Miyoko agreed, "but they might have been enough to stun him. Wasn't his hyoid bone broken?" Jim nodded. "It's a lot easier to strangle someone when they're not fighting you." Blair shivered, hoping Jim didn't know that from personal experience. Not someplace he wanted to go. He was in this for better or for worse, but the less he knew about the 'worse' part, the happier he'd be. "They could have wrapped the body in bedclothes or a rug and nobody would notice anything missing, since Morisov was moving out anyway." Jim and Blair left the forensics team to complete their work and headed back to the truck. "So." Blair glanced sideways at his partner. "Now it looks like we know where. But the when doesn't match up. If what Mrs. Wardinski heard was Morisov getting killed in the wee hours on Sunday, how could the guy be alive that afternoon? We've got three witnesses who say he was. Even if Navolonsky and Pruchevsky are covering for each other, we've got Mrs. Wu at Yan Shipping telling us the same thing." "Have we really?" Jim asked as he leaned on the roof of the truck. "Get in, Chief. I think it's about time we had a talk with Mrs. Wu, up close and personal." While Jim drove back to the PD, Blair called ahead to make sure Julie Chen was free. Fortunately she was, so next he called Yan Shipping to set things up. Paul Yan himself was there, and promised to make sure Mrs. Wu was available to talk to them. He mentioned how eager he was to meet Blair. Clicking off the phone, Blair guessed that he had a list like Jim's -- ex-boyfriends of his fiancee that he could check off as 'no threat.' Yeah, scion of one of the best-known families in Cascade and heir to lucrative business, versus semi-employed thirty-year-old grad student. Not to mention, as Willow would say, 'Hello -- gay now.' Maybe Chris had been too discreet to share her obvious conclusions on that score. Another thing Chris hadn't mentioned, Blair mused as he shook hands with Paul Yan. The guy was as tall as Jim, and handsome. Blair could practically feel himself getting scratched off the list. Their meeting certainly put Paul Yan in an expansive mood. He, as well as Julie Chen, did a great job of calming the clearly nervous Mrs. Wu. God knew what experiences she'd had in her life that made her so wary of authority. "Ask her to tell us what happened when the man brought the car to be shipped Sunday afternoon." Julie Chen relayed the question and Mrs. Wu's lengthy answer. The man had been happily surprised that she knew Russian, since he was more comfortable talking in his native tongue. The car was exactly like the model in the picture the police had circulated, and it looked new -- just a little dusty from being driven. He had the title to the car, and filled out the paperwork without a problem. Jim pulled out the picture he'd borrowed and placed it on the counter in front of Mrs. Wu. "Ask her if she recognizes the man who brought the car." Even before Julie could translate her reply, Mrs. Wu's answer was clear. She pointed excitedly to the picture, her reluctance to speak English momentarily forgotten. "Yes, yes. This man." "I'll be damned," Blair exclaimed, turning toward Jim. His partner looked back with a wide, feral smile. She was pointing to Nicolai Pruchevsky.
"Jim, you have no actual physical evidence that ties Pruchevsky to the murder." Jim paced in front of Simon's desk like a caged cat, ignoring his partner's half-hearted attempts to calm him. "We will soon, when 5-0 boards Yan's ship in Hawaii and their forensics lab checks out the car. I'm sure of it." "Maybe. Until then, can you spell 'false arrest'? How about 'lawsuit'?" "Captain, he and Navolonsky were the last people seen with the victim." Simon sipped his coffee calmly. "As far as you know. We haven't yet talked to everyone who was at that party Saturday night. Your damn name list looks like a casting call for a War and Peace mini-series." "The fibers --" "Pruchevsky knew the victim, he'd probably been in that cottage many times. Any halfway competent defense attorney would have you for breakfast on that one. And do not, I repeat, do not even bring up Sandburg's underwear." "Sir," Blair broke in, "what possible reason could Pruchevsky have to lie -- by omission, I'll concede that -- about shipping the car? The document examiner hasn't had time for a full examination, but she compared Morisov's signature on the original shipping contract to that on the sales contract we found. Her preliminary conclusion is that the former is forged. That's a crime." "And what if he admits it? It's still only forgery -- maybe car theft -- not murder. You haul him in, he gets a low bail, he's out of here and you never see him again." Simon put his empty cup down and leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "Look, gentlemen, I admit this stinks like week-old mackerel. But until we can prove Morisov was actually dead before Pruchevsky's very lovely alibi kicks in, I'm unwilling to authorize an arrest. So unless you --" With an un-Captainly expletive, Simon picked up the phone. "Rhonda, I thought I told you no... what? Yes, you're right, except for that. Put him through." Simon hit the button for the speaker phone and leaned back. "Dr. Sadakian. Rhonda tells me you have important information for us." "Yes, Captain. The immature specimens of Cynomyopsis have completed their life cycle. I was quite fortunate, really. I had excellent weather data for that area, since there's a weather station at the community college very close to the crime scene. I was able to compare their readings to my hygrothermograph data, apply a bit of regression analysis --" Jim was ready to explode, and looked it. Simon was no explosives expert, but he was no fool either. "Doctor, you could just give us the conclusion now, and save the rest for your written report? We'll look forward to reading it." Liar, Blair mouthed silently. "Yes, yes, of course. The entomological evidence establishes the time of death very precisely. Or more accurately, the time the body was deposited where it was exposed to insects." "And that time would be?" Jim almost shouted. "Ah, Detective Ellison. Approximately dawn on Sunday. No later." Simon thanked the entomologist and broke the connection. He glared at his best team, who were high-fiving each other. "Well, gentlemen, what are you waiting for? Don't you have an arrest to make?"
Epilogue: Blair stood in front of the loft windows, watching rain drench them and the balcony beyond. The brief warm and dry spell now seemed like a distant memory of summer. Hard to believe it had been less than two weeks ago. The week since Pruchevsky's arrest had been relatively quiet. It wasn't clear there was enough proof to get Navolonsky on anything but accessory at best, giving false information at worst. Jim seemed content to pull up the drawbridge when they got home each night. They'd make more ambitious dinners than usual, watch TV, read. Blair would work on his diss -- only one more of those anxiety dreams, not bad -- or plow through his stack of journals. They'd go to bed early most nights, and make love -- sometimes long and slow, sometimes hard and fast. Damn close to a perfect life, actually. If only Jim weren't so quiet, so broody... Blair walked over to the couch where Jim lay sprawled, reading the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. He sat down next to his long, elegant legs, resting one hand on a lean thigh. "Hey, love -- is the Morisov case still bothering you?" Jim closed the magazine and tossed it onto the table. "Yeah, I guess." "You're not worried about getting a conviction, are you? The forensics people in Hawaii did a great job... Morisov's blood in the trunk, and the murder weapon, with hairs from Pruchevsky's head... pretty damning. And forensic experts in two states are ready to testify that the only way Morisov could have gotten those fibers onto his underwear was a transfer from somebody's clothes. Somebody wrapping up a body, for example." "No, I'm not worried about putting at least one of the bastards away." He reached for Blair's arm and tugged gently. Blair lay down on top of Jim, settling himself into a familiar configuration, head tucked into the angle of his lover's neck and shoulder. He began to stroke the breadth of chest beneath his hand, letting the silence build for a little while. "So, what's bothering you?" The chest rose high and fell beneath Blair's hand, as a profound sigh escaped. "You're a persistent little shit, you know that?" "People have mentioned it to me once or twice. Even people other than you." "It's just that... Jesus, Blair, those guys were supposed to be his friends, and they killed him for nothing but a goddam car. Not rage, fear, lust, passion, politics... those I can at least understand. But to kill a decent guy like that for nothing but a car." "Yeah, well, it was a car worth almost two hundred grand in Russia. I couldn't believe that last email of Katrina's... I had no idea the profit margin was that good. Let's face it, Jim, a lot of people would find that much money worth killing for. For Pete's sake, kids have been known to kill each other for a pair of shoes." "If this is supposed to cheer me up, it's not working." "You're just thinking about it too much because it's been a quiet week. Not enough adrenaline." Blair unbuttoned his lover's shirt so he could slip his hand inside, caress the smooth skin, soothe with his touch. "Yeah. You're probably right." But Jim still stared out the windows, into the dark, watching the rain.
Author's Note on Sources: |
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SVS2-04: Witnesses by Toshua
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