The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
rich. Anyway, Sickle also threatened large and expensive suits for slander if
any of this information ever leaked to the press. I suppose I’ll expect a subpoena
any day now. Agents searched Pühapäev’s phone records, his home,
his office—Sickle let them do it on a weekend night—but the only thing connecting
him to Khlopikov was Khlopikov’s say-so. No case, no prosecution.
The end.”
“I want to talk to that thief,” said Joe.
“You do? Never pegged you for a séance man.”
“Dead?”
“Boy got his throat cut in a prison fight two days after sentencing. Assailant
or assailants unknown.”
Joe sighed and scratched his head. “So what we got here is a guy who with
no apparent means of financial support, no known friends or relatives except
this music teacher Paulie’s keeping an eye on, and ties to Russian jewel
thieves, probably mafia-related.”
“Why mafia-related?” I asked.
“I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that the snitch is low-level Russian mob.
They got a presence in Boston.”
“Let me ask you something else,” I said. “The theft happened in January
1995. That was also when Pühapäev was arrested for the first time for shooting
his gun out the window. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”
“No such thing as coincidence in a criminal investigation, son,” said
Gomes. “Not unless you’re a defense attorney.”
“This professor ever leave his house except to go to work?” asked Joe.
“Only to go to this bar out in Clougham,” I said.
“Clougham between here and Hartford?”
“That’s right. The bar’s called the Lone Wolf.”
“Lone Wolf, huh. You been there?”
“I have. Scrubby little neighborhood place. Totally unremarkable. The
owner didn’t really take a liking to me.”
“What do you mean?”
I told him about Albanian Eddie and his warm farewell.
“Albanian Eddie, huh? Sally, this worth a trip?”
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