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No doubt that Ryan had his man. He saved all the photos and the two profiles to his hard drive, with the intention of running these new tattoos by Hutch.
With both killers identified, Ryan went for gold.
“Let’s try one last thing, Yoda,” he said aloud. “Let’s see what we can come up with using Slava Petrovich’s photos. I’m sure he’s a hell of a lot smarter than the other two morons. But you never know. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll get lucky again.”
This one was a bear. No girlfriends, friends, or family members with Facebook profiles linking to Slava.
Ryan wasn’t about to give up. He picked out the best front-on shot of Slava he’d taken as Bruiser walked into the RusChem office building. Using that as a base, Ryan fine-tuned it until you could practically count the guy’s nose hairs. Then, he uploaded that into his program and let loose.
Long minutes ticked by. And then it happened. A telltale bing. Ryan had an email. And the email had a link.
Clicking on it, Ryan waited—and the photo came up.
He’d hit the jackpot.
The profile belonged to some girl named Delores Lamb. She was a twenty-eight-year-old paralegal at a Chicago law firm. Ryan focused on the specific photo he’d been directed to. Evidently, Delores and her friends had gone to a club for a TGIF night out. The picture showed them, gathered together in a group pose, while some bartender—given credit in the comment beneath the picture—had taken the shot.
Ryan barely glanced at the group of women. What his gaze was narrowed on was the trio of lowlives sitting together with their “dates” at a nearby table.
In the background or not, Ryan could see with utter certainty that he was looking at Slava, Alexei, and Vitaliy—each one wrapped around a woman who had to be a prostitute, based on the cash Slava was shoving into their hands.
He had his link. Slava Petrovich was connected to the two killers who’d murdered Julie Forman.
Saving and printing everything, Ryan grabbed his cell phone.
His chair was still swiveling as he raced out the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It was after eight that night when Hutch reached the FI brownstone. He was beat. He was really enjoying his job at the New York Field Office, but it was new and it was intense. So his days were swallowed up by briefings, phone calls, and observation of fieldwork. Today he’d also tracked down his buddy who worked the Eurasian Criminal Enterprise squad, and reviewed all the tattoos Casey had forwarded him—the original three and now the three new ones that Ryan had uncovered. There were no surprises to the conversation. The tattoos and what they represented were exactly as Hutch had researched them. It was what they implied that worried him.
He punched in the dummy Hirsch pad code he’d been issued by FI and stepped inside.
“Good evening, Supervisory Special Agent Hutchinson,” Yoda greeted him politely.
“Hey, Yoda.” Hutch shrugged out of his jacket. “I need to see Casey right away.”
“Certainly. She’s on the second floor in the main conference room with Ryan.”
“Thanks.” Hutch loped up the stairs and knocked on the half-opened conference room door. “It’s me.”
“Come on in,” Casey called. She gave Hutch a half-smile as he walked in. He wasn’t fooled. Her chin was set, her brow was furrowed, and she was in work-solution mode.
Ryan was pacing around the room, arms clasped behind his back, looking as intense as Casey did. He paused to shoot Hutch a wave, then continued pacing.
“Grab a cup of coffee and join us,” Casey said.
Hutch nodded, heading over and pouring himself a cup of much-needed caffeine, then perched his hip against the credenza. He had a feeling this investigation of FI’s was getting more and more complex. Well, he wasn’t about to make things any easier.
“I ran everything you sent me,” he told Ryan without preamble. “It was pretty straightforward. Nothing, I’m sure, you didn’t pull off the web. The cobweb on your criminal’s shoulder indicates he’s a drug addict. The cat on his forearm is the mark of a thief. And the dagger through his neck is—no shocker—the sign of a murderer. The six drops of blood dripping from it mean he’s killed six people.”
“Yeah.” Ryan nodded. “That’s what I got online. Did you talk to your friend?”
“Sure did. He verified my suspicions. The KGB was known to use this particular Russian mob offshoot to do ‘special projects.’ In other words, you’re dealing with hard-core criminals here, not street gang members. These pigs go way back. They’ve done major time in prison. They’ve murdered people in cold blood. They’re scary, and the people they work for are even scarier. They’re well-connected, including now, through corrupt channels in the FSB.”
“Dammit,” Casey muttered.
Hutch could read her thoughts. She’d heard him loud and clear. She was well aware that the FSB—the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation—was the main successor agency to the former KGB. And she was beginning to realize just how shark-infested the waters were that her team was wading in.
