Page 82 of Savage Roses
“Considering you just told me he’s dead, that means nothing to me. Whoever he is.”
“It is my life on the line if you get that tape. And he finds out. It is… it is me who will be… it is me who will pay.”
“And how’s that?”
She clenches shut her eyes, a pained expression on her face. “Because it… it was me. I was the one who filmed it.”
I release Lena and take a step back.
Now that she’s made her confession, it makes sense given everything I know.
From what I’ve seen of that night—from what went down on the first half of the tape—Lena stood out like a sore thumb—some young Russian escort in a room full of mostly Italian Mafia and their women. As everybody socialized the night away, Lena hovered in the background with shifty eyes, always seemingly on edge. I’d assumed it was because of her age and discomfort with being around people she couldn’t understand.
“You filmed it,” I repeat slowly. “For what reason?”
She nods, straightening her coat. “I was hoping to blackmail Mr. Mancino.”
“And how did that work out for you?”
“Not quite so well. I suffered many years for what I did.”
“Prove it. Tell me something only the person who filmed it would know.”
“I set the camcorder inside the vase of flowers across from their table to capture their conversation during dinner. The second one I put in the interrogation room. That was for the confrontation I knew would happen.”
My eyes narrow into a scrutinizing appraisal. “Where is it?”
“The old police station on Warren and Thelm. That is where it was being held as evidence.”
“If we find out you’re lying, you’ll be sorry.”
Those are my parting words to Lena as me and my men leave her standing where she is in the middle of Voronezh. We’ve wasted enough time on her when I don’t know for sure if she’s been fucking with me or if what she’s said is reliable.
For half a moment I considered forcing her along, then changed my mind the more I thought about it—I don’t like the idea of involving her too deeply in our operation, even if she’s the one who supplied us with the information in the first place.
But make no mistake, if she lied to me, she’ll pay.
For real this time, by the blade of my Balisong.
* * *
Lena Burtka—or Volchok—chose death.
We follow her lead only to discover the bitch was lying. We scope out the old police station on Thelm Boulevard only to find the evidence lockers empty. As an extra precaution, we explore the rest of the cob-webbed station riddled with unused office furniture and dimmed ceiling lights powered by some backup generator.
“Now, what?” Arturo asks, wiping dust from his hands.
I grit my teeth. “We pay the bitch a visit. I told her what would happen if she was fucking with us. She only has herself to blame for the pain about to come her way.”
“We’ve got her address. She’s only a few blocks away,” says Omar.
We waste no time confronting her—busting in the door to her shitty apartment in Northam’s East Village.
With somebody that’s a wild card like Lena, none of us know what to expect. She might scream and cower, plead with us to spare her life. She might have some sort of trap set up, luring us deep into trouble. Or she might have done something elusive and unpredictable, knowing we’re coming for her, and skipped town.
None of these things are what she chooses to do.
We barge into her apartment and come across her seated at a foldable table by the window. She’s calm, though rosy splotches mar her pale skin. In one hand she lifts a cigarette to her lips and in the other she clutches a bottle of vodka.