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Then Darya said, “We think the driver was a Kazakh.”

The old woman was shocked. “How can this be? The Kazakhs have no real hatred for the United States. Is this some ploy to ship us all out? Do they want us all to move back to our homelands? We live here, but we’ve never trusted the government.”

I said, “Neither do we. Governments try to trick people. But this isn’t one of those times.”

Then the old man mumbled something. I thought it was English.

I looked at him and said, “Did you say something, sir?”

The old man said it again and I heard it clearly: “Bullshit.”

Apparently, he spoke the essential English words.

Chapter 13

After we talked to several other Russian families with ties to Kazakhstan, I decided to track down a couple of my informants as well.

Darya said, “I don’t understand. If your informants are not Russian, what would they know about this?”

“These are the type of people that hear everything. Small things. Big things. We may get a tip about someone looking for a ride out of the city that could break open the case. The more ears we have listening the better chance we have to hear something.”

“But none are Russian?”

“These people aren’t Russian, but they’re criminals, and criminals often trade in information.”

Darya said, “If they’re criminals why aren’t they in jail?”

I had to shrug at that simple question. “Different reasons. Some are smart

. Some are lucky. Some have good lawyers. You can’t tell me all the criminals in Moscow are locked up.”

“It depends on who is protecting them.”

I laughed. “Here in America, we don’t care who protects who. We just found it’s easier to let most criminals stay free. Keeps me in a job.”

I could tell my Russian guest didn’t agree with my flippant logic. I was curious to see how she reacted to some of my informants.

I added, “I also have some Russian mob people who occasionally help me. But these guys are easier to reach for now.”

The first place I stopped was a gambling house in Flatbush. It was close and not too dangerous. A good test for Darya.

The small storefront on Foster Avenue looked like a simple diner. Busy, but simple. Few people realized that when you ordered one of only five things on the menu, you also got access to a variety of gambling opportunities from football to soccer in Asia.

I heard someone call out, “Hey, Mike.” I smiled and waved at one of the gamblers I knew from somewhere. No one was alarmed to see me. They knew I was a homicide detective and this place was as safe as any in the city.

I ducked into a corridor past a heavy curtain. Darya followed right behind me. When we entered the rear room, a blond man with tattoos smearing his upper arms and neck jumped up in alarm until he recognized me.

He said, “Jesus, Mike, a little notice would be nice. You scared the crap out of me.” Then he took a moment and didn’t hide the fact that his eyes were wandering over Darya like she was a piece of meat for sale in the grocery store. He flashed a charming smile and said, “And who is this?”

Before I could say anything, Darya gave him a dazzling smile. Better than any I had earned. Maybe she was a softy for lowlife attention and cheap compliments.

My informant held out his hand and said, “Edward Lindell, at your service.” Then he winked at her.

Darya grasped his hand and put her left hand over both of them like it was a warm greeting. Then she twisted quickly, put him in an arm bar, and drove Lindell’s head into a table that held thousands of betting slips.

To make the point that she didn’t care for the attention, Darya ran Lindell’s head down the length of the table, using his face to push everything onto the floor.

Then she released her grip and watched him sprawl onto the dirty green linoleum floor that used to be part of the kitchen.

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