It took close to an hour to make the drive from Yashin’s house to Freedom. We swung south onto Highway 101 and hugged the shoreline for most of the drive.
Yashin sat silently staring out the window. He appeared to be freighted with the knowledge that his life had indeed changed, and the worry that the change might result in a lengthy incarceration.
I felt his stare. “How do I earn this so-called immunity?”
“You fully cooperate.”
“And if I do?”
“You’re a small fish in this affair, Mr. Yashin. The government is likely to offer you liberty in exchange for information that leads to the conviction of Boris Petrov.”
“I don’t know a whole hell of a lot. I’m a minor cog in the wheel and my knowledge of that wheel was restricted to the pharmacology part.”
“You were involved in the manufacture of opioids, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And you were paid for that.”
He nodded.
“How were you paid?”
“In cash.”
“Did you receive a tax form?”
“For what I was paid?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Did you file with the IRS?”
“Yes.”
“For the full amount?”
He remained silent.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Did you and Petrov ever talk?”
“Once or twice.”
“About your work?”
“About the weather. We never discussed work.”
“Why?”
“He said the less I knew, the better. He was a very close-mouthed guy.”
We pulled into the Sheriff’s Department parking lot, where were met by P.J. Lincoln and Marsha Russo.
“What happens now?” Yashin asked.
“You’ll be ushered to a cozy accommodation where you’ll remain until it’s convenient for us to access the Petrov property, and you can lead us to the hidden laboratory.”
“How long will that take?”
“As long as it needs to take.”
He nodded, his face a portrait of despair.
I asked P.J. to read him his rights. P.J. nodded and led him away.
Once they were gone, I said to Marsha, “Please arrange for a forensics team to scour Yashin’s apartment from top to bottom. Confiscate his cell phone and any computers he might have. Print everything of interest on them. This son of a bitch is going down.”
“He looks like a little lost lamb.”
“A little lost lamb who manufactured enough synthetic Fentanyl to wipe out a major city. We’ll be leading this particular lamb to the slaughter.”
“But he doesn’t know that.”
“No.”
“And he’s going to spring the lock on the hidden door for you.”
“So he says.”
“For which he thinks he’s going to be rewarded with some kind of clemency.”
“He does.”
“Which you suggested to him.”
“Yes. But I lied.”
“Is that cricket, Buddy?”
“Cricket? This guy is a reprehensible lowlife. Responsible for untold numbers of deaths. He willingly applied his pharmacological skills to the service of despicability. I’m going to do all I can to make certain he’s held accountable.
“Cricket? Talk cricket to the grieving families whose loved ones died as a result of his actions.”