Under the Skin (10 page)

Far more troubling was the suggestion that the family was branching out into drugs. The Colombians had that market pretty well sewn up, and they wouldn’t take kindly to the Russians trying to horn in on their turf. He could see that turning sour, and fast. He might be new to Organized Crime, but he knew all about street gangs and their vindictive tempers.

“Fuck this,” Patrick said, getting a beer out of the fridge. “He made his bed when he threw in his lot with the Volkovs. It’s not my fault if he gets himself killed.”

He had his phone out of his pocket before he even realized what he was doing. When he did, he tossed it onto the couch, frustration with himself growing. He couldn’t call Alexei again. Not after everything that had happened. He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t keep tearing his heart to shreds over a man who would never be anything but a mobster. Alexei might just be hired muscle, although the stars on his shoulders suggested otherwise now, but it was the hired muscle that did the dirty work, not the pampered prince. Plenty of the incidents in the dossier could probably be laid at Alexei’s feet.

And now that he was
vor
and not simply a bodyguard, he’d be in a position to make decisions and give orders, which was even worse. Patrick had worked undercover enough to understand the desperation that led people to turn to gangs for acceptance and income. He knew that the underlings did as they were told for fear of losing their place and the gang’s protection. When Alexei had just been a bodyguard, Patrick had used that knowledge to soothe his conscience, but now….

Setting his beer on the counter, he bent double, stretching muscles tense from sitting too long. He was getting too old for undercover work in the street gangs, but he wasn’t cut out for desk work. He hoped he’d get a case soon, preferably one that didn’t involve the Volkovs, because he could feel his body tightening up from the inactivity.

Straightening and reaching toward the loft’s high ceiling, he arched the knotted muscles of his back. Maybe he’d get up early tomorrow morning and drive to the lakefront for a run instead of his usual routine in Holstein Park. That would at least work some of the stress from his body, even if it couldn’t do anything to ease the turmoil in his mind and his heart.

Retrieving his beer, Patrick dropped onto the couch, glancing at the phone lying next to him on the leather cushion. The temptation to dial Alexei’s number just to hear the deep, rasping tones of his voice message was almost irresistible. He reached for the phone, ready to toss it across the room, but found himself rubbing the surface with his thumb as if he could somehow reach through to Alexei through the plastic casing. “Fuck this,” he repeated, bringing up the Russian’s number and pressing the keys to delete it. “Yes, I’m sure,” he answered the prompt in a bitter snarl before hitting the delete command again and tossing the phone onto the table.

If only his memories of Alexei were as easy to erase as his phone number. Patrick took a deep swallow of his beer and set it on the table, the movement pulling on the bandage at the bend of his elbow. He tugged off the tape and the small pad of cotton beneath it, rubbing absently at the tiny mark where the nurse had drawn his blood for testing. And that, inevitably, drew his mind back to Alexei’s actions on the boat, the reason Patrick needed to be sure he was still clean.
“Now you remember what fuck feels like….”

As if he’d forgotten what a fuck felt like since the first time Alexei took him in the dingy toilet stall in the CTA stop. Sometimes it felt like all he could think about was Alexei moving inside of him. It had been hard enough when it really was just a fuck, but then Alexei had to go and spoil everything by making love to him. Not once, but twice. In the warehouse and on the boat. The first time on the boat, anyway.

Patrick had always been aware of the dangers of his job, and so he’d always insisted on using a condom with his past lovers because he could only be so sure of being safe himself, but he’d dreamed of a committed relationship, one where they could finally forgo those precautions. He hadn’t expected it to happen on Daphne’s boat in a fit of anger, but even then, he couldn’t deny the part of him that had reveled in that moment of freedom, of feeling Alexei’s come drying on the backs of his thighs all the way home.

Only after he’d gotten home and showered had it occurred to him that Daphne’s boat probably had a shower and he could have washed a towel along with the sheets.

Just the memory of it had him hard. He’d tried unsuccessfully to ignore his need for the past two weeks. Maybe a good orgasm would clear his mind. It wouldn’t be as good as when Alexei touched—

“Damn it, I’m supposed to be forgetting about him.”

He needed release, though. Shifting on the couch, Patrick pushed the sweats and boxers he was wearing down to the tops of his thighs, baring his erection. He hissed a little at the cool air, but his palm was hot as he closed it around the thickening shaft. He wished he had some lube handy, but he wasn’t going to move into the bedroom to get it. The thought slipped into his mind that Alexei always had lube when they needed it.

He stifled another curse at his mind’s betrayal, but he couldn’t stop now. He needed this. His hand moved faster, spreading the fluid leaking from the tip of his cock as he worked his erection.

This was how Alexei had gotten him off the first time.

The thought triggered his climax, his semen shooting all the way up to his chin.

Patrick opened his eyes slowly, staring at the phone on the table. It mocked him silently. He might have deleted the number from the phone’s memory, but not from his own. If he dialed it now, he’d bet Alexei would meet him, if only for a fuck.

Even that would be better than sitting at home alone, jerking off like a kid.

Wouldn’t it?

“Not going there,” Patrick muttered, stripping his T-shirt off to wipe himself clean. “I’m not doing this. It’s over. He made his choice and now I’ve made mine.”

He went into his bedroom to change shirts and sat back down at the table to keep reading the dossier. He wasn’t even halfway through, and the captain would expect a report tomorrow.

“S
O
WHAT
did you learn?”

Patrick looked up to see Reba Thames, the OC detective at the next desk. Tall, slender, the epitome of elegance, she was a complete ball-buster with suspects and with anyone who lost her respect, as Patrick had learned within two days of arriving in the department. “That the Volkovs are smart. We’ll have to be smarter.”

“Something’s changing in that family.” She crossed over to Patrick’s desk, her dark-blue slacks and sweater accentuating her figure while remaining professional. Flipping open the folder, she tapped the most recent entries with a manicured nail. “The Russians are usually conservative, even predictable. But Volkov is starting to move into areas they’ve never played in before. It could be the son’s doing—rumor has it he’s a bit of a wild card. Or fresh blood in the organization, though the old man isn’t one to share power.”

He’d shared enough power to lift Alexei from the level of bodyguard to
vor
, but Patrick couldn’t share that without explaining where he’d learned it, and letting anyone know about his affair with Alexei, even after the fact, would have him under investigation, out of a job, maybe on his way to jail if they decided he’d been complicit in any of the Volkovs’ activities. “What do we know about the son? Konstantin, I think I read his name was? Besides that he’s a wild card, I mean. Would he be able to strike out on his own that way?”

“The father—Fyodor—is getting on in years, though he’s hardly ready for retirement yet, or whatever the equivalent is in the
vory
. Konstantin’s thirty-three, and pretty much been in his father’s shadow all that time. Could be he thinks he’s ready to take charge of something himself.” Reba settled a hip on Patrick’s desk, frowning in thought. “From what I’ve heard, he’s a drinker and a partier. There’ve been a few incidents of drunk and disorderly, nothing major, and nothing recent. Supposedly Papa brought someone in to keep Kostya in line.”

“Boczar, maybe,” Patrick said, hoping he played it cool enough. His first meeting with Alexei was a matter of police record, after all. It would be strange not to mention it. “I met him on a case last fall. Of course then he was a witness to a gang shooting, so I interviewed him and that was it, but when I checked him out, he was a new face. No record or anything. Immigration shows he arrived seven years ago from Russia, and we know he’s working for the Volkovs, but he’s squeaky clean. Not so much as a parking ticket. Nobody’s record is that clean, especially not a Russian mobster’s bodyguard.” He had no idea how Alexei had managed to keep such a clean record after all the time he had spent in prison in Russia, but all of Patrick’s searches had led to exactly nothing. And it was no longer his concern. “If Konstantin is a partier and the old man is trying to keep him in line, he could be tightening the purse strings. Could Konstantin be using the drugs to finance his own way?”

“It’s possible,” Reba answered. “Good to see Jacobs brought you in for your brains and not just your pretty face.” Her smile took the sting from the words. “You ought to talk with Cragin or Stachowicz if you want more background on the Russians. They’ve been working the
vory
for the past ten years at least. Actually, you’ll have to talk to Cragin. Eddie hasn’t been around for the last couple of weeks. Either way, though, if the Russians are involved, Cragin knows about it.”

“I’ll do that,” Patrick said. “When I worked with the street gangs, finding out the internal structure of the organizations helped me trace responsibility back to the person who gave the orders, not just the one who carried out the act itself. If we’re going to do more than just arrest low-level thugs, we need the same understanding here.”

He suspected he already knew a lot of what Cragin would tell him, but it would be better to talk to the detective so he’d have a cover for his knowledge until he had some field experience with the Russians.

Finding the older detective proved to be a challenge. Getting him to talk was even more of one. Patrick understood that to some extent. He was an unknown quantity, a rank beginner in the department, even if he’d been with the CPD for nearly ten years. Cragin had worked for all his knowledge. He wanted Patrick to do the same. The only problem with that was that Patrick didn’t have ten years to figure out the
vory
. He needed to figure them out now. If only to figure out if he was right about Alexei.

“Come on, Cragin, toss me a bone, won’t you?” Patrick cajoled. “How am I supposed to be any good to the department if I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“I’ve been tracking the Russians for a decade and still haven’t figured them out.” Cragin was a stocky older man with a receding hairline and a craggy face. Patrick wondered how many of the wrinkles were due to what the other detective had seen during that time. “Just when I think I have a handle on them, they do something I’d never predict, like this drug thing. Until now, they’ve stayed clear of trafficking, but I’m hearing more and more whispers of deals with the Chechens to bring in heroin. The Colombians aren’t going to turn a blind eye to that for long.”

“How do the families work?” Patrick asked, thinking about Alexei’s comments on the boat. “Does the patriarch, or whatever they call him, run things completely, or could someone else in the family have a side thing going? Thames said Konstantin was a loose cannon. Could he be behind this?”

Cragin shrugged. “Konstantin is
vor
, but if he’s striking out on his own, without his father’s knowledge or approval… the old man strikes me as being too wary to start a feud with the big cartels. It’s a battle he can’t win, especially if he doesn’t have the support of the other families behind him.” The older detective ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I wish to hell we could get better intelligence on this. It could turn bloody, fast.”

“I’d offer to go undercover, but I’d never pass as Russian,” Patrick joked. “Do we have anyone on the inside? Or I could pose as one of the Colombians and try to get information that way. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done something like that.”

Cragin’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced at Patrick as if he was about to say something, then shook his head. “I hear you did good undercover work with the enforcement unit, but this is way over your head. No way would we throw someone brand new to the wolves that way. Shit, I wouldn’t trust myself with these guys, even if I could pass for Russian. We’re working on getting intel, and that’s all I can tell you,” he added when Patrick started to speak. “Nothing personal, but the less people know about it, the safer it is.”

Patrick understood that, having been undercover himself, but it rankled nonetheless. He’d been undercover often enough to know how to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t need the older detective shutting him out. He had the passing thought that, until a few weeks ago, he would have had his own potential source of intel, but that was over now. It had to be. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I need to know?” Patrick asked, already certain the answer would be yes and the reality would be no.

“Sure,” Cragin answered, handing a file to Patrick. “And you do the same. You might want to try talking with some of the Polish and Ukrainian businesses in the Volkovs’ territory. Maybe some of them can tell you if they’ve been approached by anyone new.”

Patrick flipped open the file and skimmed it, seeing pretty much what he already knew from his reading the night before. Still, he might see more after a closer look. “I’ll ask around,” he agreed.

He’d started back to his desk when he overheard a fragment of conversation between two other detectives that caught his attention.

“Boczar.”

The name froze Patrick in his tracks, and he stopped to listen, hoping to hear what was going on. He couldn’t go over and ask. He had no reason to need to know, no reason the other detectives would accept, anyway.

“In the hospital.”

“Nearly died.”