Deadly Assets Read online

  An old, old man with a face like a mask.

  Twenty-Five

  Thomas Svengetti had gone to some lengths to stay out of sight. Mia would have tried calling first, but Svengetti’s number was unlisted, so Mia had relied on a paid background check, which only provided an address. She wasn’t even sure it was the correct address. Google Maps led her to the top of a mountain in the Poconos, to a long dirt driveway that snaked from a rural route into the woods.

  Mia idled her truck and debated what to do. She’d come this far, although no one—not even Jamie—knew she was here. And did she really know whether Benjamin Gretchko was trustworthy? But if the landfill and the Gretchko family were dead ends, she wanted to know that up front. Based on Benjamin Gretchko’s reactions, she was pretty certain that the family still had Russian Mafia ties. And she wasn’t sure who Svengetti was, although she had a hunch, but if the dearth of public information about the man’s current whereabouts was any indication, he was keeping a low profile for a reason.

  After a few minutes, Mia shifted from neutral to first and started up the driveway. The trees formed a canopy so dense that all light was blocked, making the dirt road nearly impossible to navigate. She flicked on her headlights and sat forward in her seat, trying to watch the winding path before her for fear she’d derail into the woods. She was thankful that the Toyota had four wheel drive.

  At the top of a steep embankment, dirt gave way to pebbles and the driveway entered a small clearing. A turnaround and a wood pile the size of a small house, its contents neatly stacked, were on one side of the clearing.

  On the other side stood a trailer home. Its vinyl exterior, once white, was now a mottled gray. A white Toyota pick-up, not much different than her own, was parked next to the house, facing the road. Ready for a quick getaway?

  Mia noticed the hum of a window air conditioner. She looked at the turnaround. No fresh tracks. So Svengetti’s home, Mia thought. Or someone is.

  She took a deep breath, willing herself calm, and climbed out of the car. She’d worn jeans and a plain black sleeveless blouse, and her wild curls were pulled into a tidy twist. Neat and nondescript. She pulled her bag closer to her body and made her way toward the door. Mia was three feet away when the front door slammed open. She stopped, frozen.

  A male voice said, “What do you want?”

  He stepped into the light. In his early sixties, the man had a neatly-trimmed beard and full head of graying brown hair, also carefully cut. Fit and tall, he wore a plaid flannel shirt, despite the summer heat. But most noticeable of all was the pistol he held in his hand, pointed at her.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. His voice was rough, hoarse, with the raw edge of someone who didn’t spend much time talking. “Goddamn it, answer me.”

  With incredible effort, Mia found her voice. “My name is Mia Campbell. I’m here to talk about the Kremsburg landfill and the Gretchko family.”

  “Go away.” The man started to slam the door, seemed to think better of it, and pulled it open again. “Who sent you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Nobody? Then how did you find me?”

  “I was researching the Gretchko family. Someone mentioned your name. I can’t tell you who. I traced you here.”

  “I don’t talk to journalists.”

  “I’m not a journalist.” Mia dropped her purse and held up her hands palms down and open, heart hammering. “Please. If you could put the gun down, Mr. Svengetti. Truly, I want nothing from you other than to talk. A girl is missing. Only eighteen. I know what it is to lose a daughter, I just want to help.” Mia’s words came out in a tumbled rush. She saw Vaughn, the echoes of past terror in his eyes. She thought of Jamie, of the fact that justice did not always serve those most deserving of its salve. And she forced herself to hold this man’s stare even if every nerve in her body said run.

  And when she looked up at Thomas Svengetti, she saw distrust and fear, but also pain. This was a hurting man, and that tugged at the part of her that was irreconcilably wounded, too.

  “Please,” she said again.

  Svengetti sighed. “Fine, I’ve got nothing else on my social calendar today. Your purse stays outside. And you need to open your shirt. I want to make sure you’re not wired.”

  Well, that’s a new one, Mia thought to herself. But she unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it to the side, showing him a lavender bra and a bare midriff.

  He nodded brusquely. “If you know anything about me, Mia Campbell, you know that people around me tend to drop like flies. You’re taking a risk just being here.”

  Svengetti swung the door out, then followed her inside. The trailer was tiny. Mia entered the living room. One brown recliner, a small folding table, and a flat-screen television on the wall. A brownish rug covered the floor, its piling rubbed bare in spots. A half-wall separated the living room from the dining area, which consisted of a small table and one chair.

  A galley kitchen looked scrubbed and outdated. That was her overall impression of the trailer: clean, drab, and old.

  Svengetti pulled the dining room chair into the living room. “Sit down.” He motioned to the recliner, but Mia opted for the dining room chair. He sat on the edge of the recliner, alert and poised to move. “So, what brought you here? You don’t look like a lady from these parts.”

  Mia smiled. “I’m helping a friend, Mr. Svengetti. Her client is eighteen years old. She disappeared last week. No one has heard from her. Her parents don’t know where she is.”

  He shrugged. “So what does that have to with me? With the landfill?”

  “Her father works there. And so does her boyfriend’s father.”

  “So?”

  Mia pulled out the papers Jamie had given her on Scott Berger’s record. She handed them to Svengetti. “So something smells. The parents don’t want police involved, the boyfriend’s father has a mile-long record with minimal time spent in prison, and things keep leading back to the damn landfill.”

  Svengetti raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about the landfill?”

  “Its prior owner, Katerina Tarasoff, was my client once upon a time.”

  He smiled, but his look was bitter, not happy. “Katerina.”

  “A real bitch,” Mia said, and they both laughed. “So, I know of the family. I know that Katerina’s father was a Mob affiliate, and it makes me wonder what, if anything, this girl’s disappearance has to do with the Kremsburg landfill operation or the family’s business.”

  “And someone gave you my name?”

  She nodded. “Someone no longer connected to the family.”

  “So you think.”

  Svengetti stood. For a moment, Mia thought he would ask her to leave. Instead, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out two Michelobs. He opened both, came back into the living room, and handed one beer to Mia. The other he placed on the folding table. Mia thought it a girly choice of beer for a guy like Svengetti, but she decided to keep that particular opinion to herself.

  With his back to Mia, he said, “You should stop asking questions, go home, and be done with this nonsense.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

  “Then you are either very brave or very stupid.” He turned back around. “But I am neither. So I need you to tell me three things about yourself that I can verify online using public records.”

  Mia smiled. “First I need to strip, then I need to give you personal information?”

  Not so much as a smirk. “You’re free to leave at any time.”

  Mia glanced out the window, then back at Svengetti, deciding how far to go. “One, I own a fourteen acre farm in Sunnydale, Pennsylvania. The property was sold to me almost five years ago by Mark and Louise Birch. Two, I used to own an image consulting business on the Main Line. If you look, you will still find references. I sold it to Allison Campbell, my then-daughter-in-law
, four years ago.”

  “And three?” Hard eyes bored into Mia’s. Unconsciously, she brought her hand to her neck. “My daughter died in a car accident almost five years ago. She was with her father, Edward Campbell. He was drunk. You’ll find news articles. It was a human interest story.” The last words burned like bile.

  “Stay there. But understand I can see you.”

  Svengetti disappeared into a rear room and came back seconds later with a laptop. He placed it on the dining room table. After a few minutes of painful silence and constant keyboard tapping, he snapped the computer shut.

  “You sold the business almost five years ago, not four. Otherwise, you check out.” He sat back down on the recliner, looking a hair more relaxed. Mia’s eyes strayed to an old dog cushion, wedged behind the recliner, against the wall.

  Svengetti followed the direction of her stare. “I had a German Shepherd. Rocky. Big, smart dog. He stayed with me at night, but during the day it was everything I could do to keep the damn dog inside. He had an independent spirit. Liked to roam.”

  Svengetti rubbed his face with one beefy hand. “Rocky’s dead, ma’am. He was poisoned. Convulsed to death right outside my house, where that woodpile is.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as I. Rocky was my third dog. All poisoned. I have no neighbors for a mile in any direction, no businesses nearby, no factories or streams that would have run-off. How have three of my dogs been poisoned?”

  Mia wasn’t sure he expected a response. She stayed quiet.

  “But that was nothing compared to my Emily. She died three years ago. Car accident. Hit and run. The perp was never found. Know why?”

  Mia shook her head.

  “Because it was the same fuckers who killed my dogs. Them. The Russians.”

  “The Russian Mafia?”

  He nodded, eyes clouded with grief. Mia said softly, “Were you a police investigator?”

  “Retired from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Organized Crime Strike Force.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I can’t. I can tell you this, the Russian Mob continues to operate in Northeastern Pennsylvania. Don’t believe the official bullshit—excuse my French—that the Mafia has been eradicated from the area. The Mob may be keeping a lower profile these days, but they’re still around.”

  “Gretchkos?”

  “Gretchkos and any number of others. The landfill is still a money laundering hot spot, I’m sure. It’s one of the things the Russians do well, even better than the Italians.”

  “If the Gretchkos or others are still operating in the region, why is the official bullshit, as you say, that they’re gone.”

  “Because if there is no crime, Ms. Campbell, then there are no criminals to go after.”

  “And no one wants to mess with the Russians?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Then how simple is it?”

  Svengetti stood. His tall, broad frame strode across the room, toward the picture window. He kept his back to her. “There was a big clean-up operation years ago. Tarasoff was arrested, his men jailed. After Tarasoff died, his widow and daughter swore that connections to the Russian Mob in New York were finished. Nevertheless, the daughter, Katerina, had married Andrei Gretchko, a wealthy businessman with ties to mobsters in Russia, some of whom go back to the old Soviet Union hierarchy. Since Tarasoff’s death, they’ve kept their noses cleaner. But that just means they’ve gone further underground.”

  “In what way?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  “I thought you were retired.”

  Svengetti walked toward the rear of the living room and disappeared into what Mia assumed was his bedroom. During this short conversation, he’d dropped the hick façade and she was now talking to a learned and sharp federal employee. But she smelled desperation. And anger. And she was well aware of what a dangerous combination that could be.

  He returned a minute later with a stack of file folders. While he sorted through them, he said, “Used to be just the Italian Mob. Now we have others—Asian, African, Balkan, Russian, Middle Eastern, even youth gangs. Everyone wants in on the action. The Russians often launder for other Mafia groups. The Italians, for one. It’s my hunch that Gretchko is still dirty, but he’s covered their dealings so well that they’re virtually impossible to unearth.”

  “Is it possible the Gretchko family has gone straight?” Mia asked.

  Svengetti snorted. “As likely as the Pope converting to Buddhism.”

  “Then why aren’t the Feds on it?”

  “Maybe they are. Maybe there is some tacit agreement to publicly say the Mob is dead in this area so that the Gretchko family and their henchmen will get lazy, soft.” He shrugged. “I’m not part of that world anymore, so I don’t really know.”

  Mia pointed to the files. “But you’ve been busy gathering information.”

  Svengetti stared at Mia for a moment. His eyes narrowed. “Know what separates the Italian Mafia from the Russians?”

  Mia shook her head no.

  “Boundaries. Believe it or not, the Mafioso has respect for boundaries, for honor. Generally, they don’t go after journalists or prosecutors. There is usually some regard for conventional societal structure.”

  “Not so with the Russian Mafia?”

  “They make the Italians look like nuns. My wife, my dogs? Retribution for my role in putting Tarasoff away. They waited until I was retired, until there didn’t seem to be a direct correlation between what was happening to me and my role in the investigation.”

  “Were others targeted?”

  Svengetti shifted his eyes. “Maybe. They’re smart. It’s hard to know what was an accident and what was connected.”

  Mia looked at the files, thought about the time that must have gone into researching and following the Mob’s activity. She looked around at the tiny trailer, and the simple way Svengetti lived. Looked like Svengetti had a vendetta of his own.

  “So, if the Feds have cooled their investigation, and if the Russian Mafia is so cruel and vindictive, why are you still after them?”

  Svengetti smiled. His eyes took on a manic glaze. “I have nothing left to lose, Ms. Campbell. Nothing.” He held up the files. “When I go, my last act will be to bring those fuckers down with me.”

  Twenty-Six

  At one-thirty that afternoon, Vaughn received the call they knew was inevitable. They were on their way to the Benini factory where Maria had been killed the day before in the hopes that someone would talk to them. About a mile from the plant, Vaughn’s mobile rang. Detective Butch Razinski. He wanted to meet with Vaughn and Allison as soon as possible.

  “He’s up here, in Ithaca. He suggested a coffee shop a few doors from Moosewood, that vegetarian restaurant. We’re meeting at three.”

  “Did he say anything specific?” Allison asked. Although the look on Vaughn’s face said the detective had said enough.

  “Nothing that bears repeating.” Vaughn glanced at her from across the BMW’s interior. He shrugged. “Maybe the police are as stumped as we are.”

  Or maybe they’re not, Allison thought. She gave her friend a reassuring smile. She wished she could do more.

  Mia was on a roll. She’d left Thomas Svengetti’s house with potential contacts. After an email to Jamie with her whereabouts and a call to a neighbor who agreed to feed the chickens and sheep and let Buddy out of the house, she pulled onto Route 380 and headed west, into Scranton.

  First stop was Brian Frist, former IRS agent. A call from Svengetti had secured a thirty minute interview. With a head shake, he’d warned her that the man was surly on a good day. She’d said “thank you” and hugged Svengetti good-bye, surprising herself as much as him. But he’d hugged her back. Two veterans of heartbreak.

  Mia found Frist a
t his office on Wyoming in downtown Scranton. Now a part-time accountant, Frist lived his days quietly helping taxpayers recognize the loopholes in the laws that he’d once enforced. But Frist and Svengetti had worked together on the Tarasoff case, and, according to Svengetti, no one knew more about the family’s financial dealings outside of their own accountant.

  The second she laid eyes on Frist, Mia knew Svengetti was right. Not a people person. The man mumbled a hello without meeting her eyes. He was a stoop-shouldered fifty-something with a ring of white hair that horse-shoed around a reddened, bald pate. Green checkered pants had been paired with a pressed white button down shirt and a brown tie. A rust-colored mustache hid a thin upper lip.

  “Thanks so much for your time, Mr. Frist.” Mia held a hand out but was rebuffed. Instead, Frist sat down at his desk. He didn’t offer for Mia to sit in the chair across from him, but Mia sat anyway. Frist watched her, his expression taciturn.

  “I promised Svengetti I’d give you a half hour of my time. I didn’t promise I’d tell you anything.”

  “Then why bother to meet with me?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Getting down to business already?”

  “Half hour, I told you.”

  Mia smiled. “Wow, once IRS, always IRS.”

  He stared at her. “What do you want to know?” he asked again.

  Mia sighed. “Andrei Gretchko.”

  Arched eyebrows. Mia thought she saw a flicker of emotion cross those dead eyes. “What about him?”

  “If, hypothetically, he still maintained connections to the Russian Mafia, what might Gretchko be doing?”

  “Doing?”

  “Hypothetically speaking, what could Gretchko—and the landfill—offer the Russian Mafia?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Svengetti thought you might.”

  “Svengetti’s wrong.”

  “We’re talking hypothetically, Mr. Frist. Where might the Gretchkos fit in the Russian Mob hierarchy?”