Murder One by Robert Dugoni Read Free Book Online

to split the seams of his slacks; there was no way he could cross his legs.
    “I’m sorry about this fucking heat,” Vasiliev said.
    The portable office, located at the back of his Renton used-cardealership, was little more than a construction trailer with cheap wood paneling and fluorescent lights, and it was barely tolerable. With the heat and humidity the past three days, it had become unbearable. The air-conditioner broke, and the trailer had become a sweatbox even with the windows open.
    Chelyakov again raised his hand. Smoke filtered from between his fingers, weaving upward. “A man cannot control the weather.”
    “No—”
    “But he can control his business.”
    They had reached the purpose for the visit. Those to whom Chelyakov answered were not happy with the U.S. attorney’s investigation. They considered it the direct result of poor business practices, using a man with outstanding warrants to pick up the car at the auction. Chelyakov’s visit was to determine whether to continue doing business with Vasiliev.
    “Everything is under control, Sunyat.”
    “Is it?”
    “We have altered the shipments and the transport. And we are no longer using a landline. Everything now is discussed outside of this box and only on TracFones. I can assure you there will be no further problems.”
    “Except payment, of course, for the shipment you lost.”
    The drugs were supplied on credit and payment made upon subsequent sale, with the profit reinvested in the business—in this case, the half a dozen used-car dealerships through which Vasiliev helped to launder the organization’s money.
    Chelyakov blew smoke from his nostrils. He looked like a bull. “And what of the attorney?”
    “She is not going to be a problem, Sunyat.”
    “No? It seems Ms. Reid has a boyfriend, a wrongful-death attorney of some repute,” Chelyakov said.
    “Wrongful death? What is this?” The string of red, white, and blue flags strung from the corner of the building and crisscrossing the lot flapped in a light breeze but just as quickly fell silent.
    Chelyakov sucked on the cigarette, his whole face pulling in the nicotine. “He sues others when someone is killed.”
    “For money? How is this possible?”
    “It is America. Anything is possible.” An infrequent smile revealed teeth too small for his mouth.
    Vasiliev slapped the desk. “Whitlock did not mention this,” he said, referring to his criminal defense lawyer. “He said the charges would be dropped, that I had nothing to worry about.”
    “He did not consider it.”
    “For the amount I fucking paid him, he should have considered it.”
    Chelyakov took another drag. The tip glowed red. Smoke escaped his nose and mouth as he spoke. “The amount you paid?”
    It pained Vasiliev to take orders from a man like Chelyakov. Who was he to be giving him orders? Who was he? A fucking farm boy who spent his youth buggering the family ox. Vasiliev was a multimillionaire. He brought the organization tens of millions of dollars, a hundred million some years. So who was Chelyakov to be giving orders?
    “Do not forget who you work for,” Chelyakov said.
    And therein lay the problem. Vasiliev knew very well who he worked for, and even more so, who Chelyakov worked for: Petyr Sakorov, the Russian billionaire. But that was not his problem at the moment. His problem was the lawyer.
    “You think she plans to sue me for money?”
    “She and this lawyer have become familiar.”
    “Then Mr. Whitlock will have to defeat him, too.”
    Chelyakov shook his head. “Whitlock is not a civil lawyer.”
    “Someone else, then.”
    “You’re not listening, Filyp.” He crushed the butt of the cigarette beneath a foot as wide as a salad plate. The chair creaked as he gripped the arms and stood. His head nearly brushed the ceiling tiles. “I think Mr. Sloane should know it would not be wise to do business with Ms. Reid.”
    L AW O FFICES OF D AVID S LOANE
O NE U NION S QUARE
S EATTLE , W