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Despite everything, I couldn’t hate him.
I clenched my fists, wanting to pummel whoever did this to him.
It was clear he'd been beaten almost to death. I stood be
side his bed for a few moments and watched him sleep. I didn't plan on waking him up. I truly didn’t want him to know I'd been there, but I’d had to check on him myself after getting Celia's texts. She'd been increasingly distraught and so I thought I had better check it out myself.
Satisfied that he was alive, I left the room and smiled at the nurse on my way out of the ward.
I didn’t text Celia.
I didn't want to deal with her.
Seeing her at the funeral almost a year earlier had sent me into a funk that lasted a week, where I’d spent my nights in an alcohol-induced haze, regretting everything, resenting that I had to give up my life and return to Boston. I didn’t plan on repeating that mistake.
The next day, I spent time on the phone trying to get more info on what had happened to Graham. I called Pete Barnes, a cop in Boston PD who was friends with Donny and asked about the case.
"What can you tell me? How are the cops doing on finding the suspects?"
Barnes took in a breath. "Let me get the file."
I heard him flip through some papers on his desk. "We have a vehicle make and model, as well as a partial license plate given by the business partner. We know they're Russians, but nothing more."
"Who found him?"
"According to the police report, his partner found him in the back alley. Apparently, he'd met with some shady looking men in his office. There was shouting, from what our witnesses tell us. Then he went outside and got into a van with one of the men who had a Russian accent. He was gone for an hour. The partner found him in the back alley, unconscious and badly beaten badly, less than an hour later. Major Crimes interviewed Graham briefly yesterday, but he couldn't tell them anything specific about his assailants. Get this. Whoever did it carved '7 Days' on his chest."
"Holy shit." An image of Graham's bloody chest popped into my mind's eye. "Russian-sounding shady guys, you say?" I asked, wanting to know how close they were to finding the suspects. "I may know a few of those type of shady guys."
"I'm sure you do," Barnes said with a chuckle. "They're not even close to questioning anyone."
"I'll let my contacts know."
"Give them my regards," Barnes said. "Maybe you and I can have a drink after work sometime."
"Sounds good. Call me any time," I said and ended the call.
Then I called Misha Rabinov, one of the lower-level thugs I had cultivated in the Romanov family. The man had a taste for pretty blonde college students, so I made sure to invite several I knew to the club whenever he was there.
"I'm wondering about an old enemy of mine and whether he might have been given a visit lately about outstanding bills."
"Got a name? I can run it and see what I come up with."
"Graham Parker," I said. "Investment banker type. Runs an investment business in Boston."
"I’ll let you know. Hey," Misha said, his voice expectant. "Any chance of partying at the Venue tonight? I got a bonus for my amazing skills and feel like living it up."
"I'd be glad to have you," I said, smiling to myself. "You can fill me in on what you find out about Parker. We can have a few drinks."
"Deal," Misha said and ended the call.
I sat back and wondered what his investigation would bring up. I was sure he'd be able to find out who was involved. It wasn't like these wise guys were trained in counterespionage. They loved to brag about their exploits. Gain points on each other about how close to death they'd brought some poor bastard who was in debt to their boss and behind on payments. It was a badge of honor.
Later that night, I finished up at the gym and went to my apartment for a shower and to get ready for the evening at the Venue. I didn’t relish spending it with Misha, but he was a useful idiot. I stood in front of the mirror and pulled on my shirt, buttoning it up while I contemplated the evening. I usually spent my weekends at one of my uncle's clubs, overseeing the place to make sure everything was running smoothly. Tonight, it was the Venue. Next weekend, it would be another one of the three clubs for which I was now responsible.
When I was finished dressing in a fresh white shirt, dark suit, and tie, I ran my hand through my hair, which was in dire need of a cut, and considered my face.
I looked as tired as I felt.
