Rayborn sent one deputy around the left side of the house, and around the right. Then she walked up the drive, with Zamorra two steps behind and to her left, and Taser and Twelve Gauge behind him. She stepped up to the porch, and as her hand went to the grip nine she registered: cobwebs in the eaves and dust on the side windows and cracks in the plaster and most of the shrubs dying.
She rang the doorbell, heard the muted chime from inside, wait, then she rang again. And again.
Merci was about to turn away when the door opened and a woman in a tight green dress looked at her. Thirty-something, auburn hair pinned up, eyes the shineless green of cash.
'No,' the woman said.
'No what?' asked Merci.
'To whatever you want.'
The woman moved to close the door and Merci straight-armed the wood. 'I'm Sergeant Rayborn, County Sheriff's. We're looking for Zlatan Vorapin, also known as Al Apin.'
Rayborn got her duty boot between the door and the floorboard, swung back her coat to show the badge and the nine. Money-eyes looked impressed. There was a hallway behind her.
'Open this door and invite us in, lady,' she said. 'Get Vorapin. This is about a murder and you do not want to make me angry right now.'
Rayborn looked past the woman's shoulders, ready for movement. The hallway opened to a living room.
'He is not here.' Her voice was strong and thick with accent, but of which language Rayborn had no way of knowing.
'Then you don't mind if we look around, is that what you're saying? That's okay, sure, we'll come in if you say we can, just swing that door open for me…'
'He is only here not very often.'
'My name's Merci. What's yours?'
'Irene.'
'Irene, just let me in, will you, dear?'
'I am leaving.'
'I won't make you late. Just give us a few minutes.'
Irene turned away and Merci wasted not one second, pressing in ahead of Zamorra, then turning to wave in Taser and Twelve Gauge. She kept her palm on the Pachmayr grip of the H amp;K as she followed Irene into the living room.
A lamp turned low, weak light, gray leather sofa and love seat, a glass coffee table. Zamorra moved into the kitchen. Irene watched the big-armed deputies jangle down a long hallway toward the bedrooms.
'You work for him?' asked Merci.
Irene shook her head quickly. 'Yes and no.'
'You help out.'
'I help out.'
'Are you his girlfriend?'
'This is not a word I use.'
'Where is he?'
'Zlatan never tells. He comes when he comes. This house is one he bought for me. There are others. I don't know them and I don't want to know them.'
'Do you make his pickups at the Bar Czar at one and nine?'
'Only sometimes.'
'Tonight?'
'I am not told until.'
Merci flipped on a wall switch and the overhead track lighting came on. She could see that Irene was probably late thirties. Her makeup was half finished, her eyes tired. One pearl earring. Irene looked at her, then away.
'Where can we find him?'
'Always moving.'
'Where does he sleep?'
'I don't know. This is the truth. Sometimes here but not often, time each week, perhaps.'
'And you don't know one single other place he might lay down for the night?'
'I do not.'
'Or one single other place he does business, collects money, hangs out and drinks with his friends?'
'Bar Czar.'
'When?'
'Impossible. I am not often there.'
'What about Cherbrenko?'
'I have met him and seen him with Zlatan. Partners in business
'Show me his room.'
Without a word Irene led her down the hallway to the end, opened a door and flicked on a light. Merci followed down two steps that led to a big bedroom. There was a gaudy brass bed with black sheets and covers, a gold ice bucket on a stand by one side, a huge television rising from beyond the foot of the bed stand. The room smelled of cologne and BO and cigarette smoke.
'Does he have an office here in the house?'
'Yes. This way.'
She led Merci through the bedroom, past a huge master bath with a red-tile shower and whirlpool, toilet and bidet, all with gold fixtures.
'He's got horrible taste,' said Merci.
Irene shrugged.
'Why don't you quit?'
'He knows where to find my daughter.'
'Maybe I'll arrest him for murder, get him out of your hair.'
Irene looked at her, the planes of her face weighted by fear. 'He’s everywhere. You must arrest them all.'
'I'd like to.'
They went through French doors and into a faintly lit back room paneled in dark wood, with a cluttered desk along one wall, a black leather sofa pushed against another. A big TV dominated a corner, viewable from sofa or desk. Irene turned on the lights and a ceiling fan began to turn. More smoke and cologne.
'What's he watch on all these big screens?'
'Shopping channels and pornography.'
'Does he make his own movies?'
Irene actually colored. 'No. They show amputated people and violence.'
'Irene, are you going to tell me where to find this guy?'
'I can not.'
'You can call me as soon as you know where he'll be.'
'I should risk my child for you?'
'He'd never know.'
'He will know, Sergeant. I am not a foolish girl anymore. Please do not behave that way to me.'
Merci walked around the desk and stood by the chair. The seat was adjusted so high it came almost to her hips. The desk legs rested on cinder blocks, apparently spray-painted gold. On the desktop was a clean blotter, a small Russian flag upright in a holder, a notepad, an ashtray filled with butts, a calendar with August's model reclining invitingly in the back of a black stretch limousine. The promotional header above the photograph was of a neon car swooping through the sky. The name of the company was in hot blue text: Air Glide Limousines.
'Air Glide,' said Merci.
'Friends of his,' said Irene.
'No wonder they told me they didn't have any giants for drivers.'
'No one talks about Zlatan. You must understand.'
