I still didn’t have Ingrid Dombrov’s address when I walked out of the diner. But I did have Grigoryev’s, and that was the only one I needed. Was he connected somehow with Carter von Oehson’s disappearance?
All I knew was what Elizabeth knew. Trying to go through “one of his girls” to find out the truth would be like putting a big fat target on my chest. That’s simply how the Russian mafia operated, especially with a pakhan. Shoot first and don’t even bother asking questions. The fact that he was also a protected FBI informant meant that he might even get away with it, too.
May you live in interesting times, goes the old saying.
The pat down didn’t happen in the lobby. After announcing myself to the young doorman—who looked at me dubiously, as if to ask, Are you sure you want to do that, dude? when I told him I was there to see Grigoryev—I was told to wait a minute for one of Grigoryev’s “associates,” which proved to be the kindest description ever in the history of recorded language for the steroid-addled bruiser in the sleeveless muscle shirt who grunted at me from the elevator when it opened. “Get on.”
We rode up in silence to the twentieth floor, the door opening to a room that clearly hadn’t been designed by the building’s original architect. It was an added layer of security, a holding area. The only furniture, a small bench. Next to it, directly opposite the elevator, was a steel door. A camera was positioned over it.
The associate grunted again. “Spread.”
He frisked me, then nodded at the camera. I was clean. A couple of dead bolts snapped, and the steel door opened to a thick, black curtain.
“Welcome, Dr. Reinhart,” said Vladimir Grigoryev, from behind the curtain. “My apologies for the security. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”
I’d come to see the wizard. Accordingly, when the curtain drew back, he wasn’t what I expected.
The accent was a bit rough, but everything else about him was polished, right down to the wingtips. They shined like mirrors. In fact, if it weren’t for the neck tattoos extending up from the button-down collar of the shirt he wore under his three-piece suit, Grigoryev could’ve been a fellow professor in the English department at Yale.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said, trying to hide my surprise.
He motioned for me to follow him to a large living room with two big leather couches facing each other. There was no coffee table or anything else in between.
“Please,” he said, pointing at one of the couches. Like a talk-show host, he waited until I sat down before he did. He folded his legs, and didn’t waste any time. “I understand you want to ask me about one of my employees.”
I suppose that was one way to describe her. “Her name is Ingrid Dombrov,” I said.
“Jade.”
“Excuse me?”
“She goes by Jade,” he said. “What about her?”
There was a certain look on his face when I’d said her name. It was as if he sensed she was the one I’d be asking about.
“Do you know who Mathias von Oehson is?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Grigoryev. “A very, very rich man. But I’ve seen the news. About his boy. He killed himself, yes? Very sad.”
“Yes. A tragedy,” I said. “The reason I’m here is that Ingrid—Jade, as you say—was at von Oehson’s home in Connecticut with his son the day he disappeared.”
Grigoryev squinted. He definitely wasn’t expecting that. In fact, he seemed genuinely confused. “Are you sure about that?”
“Very much so. A security camera outside the house showed her arrival in a red Jaguar,” I said. “A red Jaguar that’s registered in your company’s name, as it turns out.”
The car part was true. The part about the security camera wasn’t. There were some things that I knew, along with how I knew them, which I simply couldn’t reveal to this guy.
Of course, if it’s not already another old saying, it should be. Never lie to a Russian mob boss.
“This is not good,” said Grigoryev.
I wasn’t sure which he was referring to, the message or the messenger. I also wasn’t sure who he was motioning to over my right shoulder. I didn’t see anyone when I walked into the living room, and when I turned around to look I still didn’t see anyone. But someone could see him.
A man dressed similarly to Grigoryev—albeit wearing an off-the-rack suit as opposed to custom made—appeared from the hallway. While he had a similar physique as the Mr. Charisma who brought me up from the lobby, this guy was able to speak without grunting.
“What do you need, G?” he asked.
“Ivan, bring the car out front,” said Grigoryev. “Dr. Reinhart and I need to go somewhere.”
“Somewhere?” I asked. It wasn’t like telling me that we were “going for a ride,” but it felt a little too close to that for comfort.
“I’ll explain in the car,” he said.
“How about you explain now.”
Sociopaths have a love-hate relationship with people standing up to them. They never want to be disrespected, but at the same time they appreciate the pushback because it reminds them of someone they truly love and admire. Themselves.
Grigoryev unfolded his legs, placing a palm on each knee. “God has ten commandments, Dr. Reinhart. I only have two. If you work for me, you never moonlight. That’s my second commandment.”
Okay, I’ll bite. “What’s the first?”
“I got word this morning that Jade didn’t show for an appointment last night.”
“In other words,” I said, “never stand up a client.”
“No. She hasn’t returned any calls made to her this morning.” His smile disappeared. “That’s the first commandment. Never stand me up.”
There you have it. The two commandments of Vladimir Oleg Grigoryev. With both broken by Jade, there was only one thing left to do.
“Let’s go for a ride,” I said.