Closing the Circle: Ania Trilogy, #3

By Frank Zafiro and Jim J. Wilsky

John Pearse is a loss recovery agent for an insurance agency. When a set of crown jewels that his company paid out on resurface in the middle of a Russian/Polish mafia war in Chicago, Pearse is sent in to find and recover the diamonds. Standing in his ways are gangsters, grifters, and cops, but the biggest obstacle will be the sexy Ania, who has managed to stay one step of everyone else...until now.

Andros Krol is muscle for the Polish mafia in Chicago, tasked by his boss to bring back more than just the diamonds. Strong and cunning, Krol is after the money Ania took, but his biggest priority is to deliver brutal justice and a final day of reckoning for Ania.

Pearse and Krol are locked into a race against time and each other as they pursue the wily Ania. The circle is closing on all of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Code 4 Press
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502234476

Frank Zafiro

Frank Zafiro was a police officer from 1993 to 2013. He is the author of more than two dozen crime novels. In addition to writing, Frank is an avid hockey fan and a tortured guitarist. He lives in Redmond, Oregon.  

Book preview

ONE

Wendy

She’s so beautiful, Wendy thought. The bitch.

Anika chuckled at something Richard said, covering her mouth and shooting him a mischievous look.

I don’t mean that, Wendy realized. She wondered how it was possible to feel so many different ways about one person. She stood behind the kitchen door, her conflicting emotions not really confused as much as each one vying for dominance.

Jealousy.

Admiration.

Joy.

The bittersweet loss of what never was and now probably would never be.

Each of these emotions came at her in waves, washing over her as she stood outside the small dining room of the winery. It was late, and all the regular guests and tourists had long since departed, but a single couple still sat at a corner table sharing a bottle of Sangiovese.

Wendy wished she were sitting at that table across from Richard Hightower, sharing wine. Wine was something that he loved almost as much as he’d loved his wife, Constanza. After Constanza’s death almost six years ago, it seemed to Wendy that wine then became what Richard loved most in the world. It was as if his grief for his lost wife became his passion for the vineyard. He focused on it to the exclusion of everything else in life.

Including women.

Including Wendy.

Ten years was a long stretch in any job. Wendy had been loyal to Richard and Constanza. Even though rival wineries had tried to hire her away, she’d never even considered it. She believed in La Pradera as much as the Hightower family did. After Constanza died, her loyalty only increased.

She was in love with Richard, of course. Probably had been since that first year. How could she not be? He was handsome, generous, and loving. She never thought to express her secret affections to him while Constanza was alive, knowing he would always be faithful to his wife. Even after Constanza died, Wendy was reluctant to tell him. She knew how deeply he grieved, and although she thought she might be able to bring him some comfort, she didn’t want to risk destroying the close friendship they’d shared for so many years.

So, she loved secretly, and she waited. And even now, she still wished she were the one sitting at that table with him, toasting the success of this year’s vintage, making him smile easily again after such a long period of grief.

Wendy looked through the small square window in the kitchen door and wished something else, too. She wanted to be the beautiful blonde woman sitting across from Richard, instead of Wendy—the plain, diligent employee who was smart with numbers. No, she longed to be Anika—the mysterious, confident, entrancing woman who seemed to have captured Richard’s heart.

She knew that many women in her position would hate Anika for that. After ten years of loyalty and unrequited love, Wendy watched helplessly as Anika arrived on the scene and Richard fell for her. As much as she tried to at first, Wendy just couldn’t hate her, though.

For one thing, Anika made Richard happy. That was clear. She made him smile genuine smiles again. He had a spark in his eyes, one that Wendy hadn’t seen since before Constanza died. That alone kept her from hating Anika.

But it was more than that. She’d been nice to Wendy, treating her like a best friend from the moment they’d met. She even showed Wendy the beautiful diamond earrings that she’d inherited after her mother and father had been tragically killed in a car wreck less than a year ago.

Maybe that was part of why Anika was so good for Richard. Wendy knew how much he loved Constanza and how much he’d grieved for her, but Anika had been through something similar, even recently. Where Wendy understood Richard’s pain, Anika knew that pain for herself.

Wendy watched Anika through the kitchen door window. She admired how she smiled at Richard in a way that seemed to pour out her whole being through her eyes. It was no wonder Richard loved her already. Wendy wished she could just be like her.

And maybe she could be. Hadn’t Anika said that she felt like Wendy was the sister she’d never had? Didn’t sisters help each other in that way? Sure, Wendy couldn’t hope to take Richard away from Anika; she wouldn’t want to. But maybe with Anika’s help, she could find her true love, too.

In the dining room, she saw Richard had poured the last of the bottle for Anika. Wendy turned away, smiling, and went to get the happy couple another Sangiovese.

TWO

John

Expect the unexpected.

That was the mantra that Lieutenant Colonel Grayson used to preach almost daily, especially during live operations. Be unsurprised, be adaptive, and never surrender. He said those things so many times that at one point, the words had almost lost their meaning. It was just something the commander repeated and harped on. But over time, those tenets became a part of me. I didn’t realize how much so until those hairy moments when the bullets were flying or plans were unraveling.

But those were back in the days when unpleasant surprises could happen almost every day. Before I turned in my uniform. Not like today.

Not anymore.

My phone buzzed at the tee of the fourteenth hole. I glanced down at the screen. Harold Yeats, it read.

You’re up, John, Tim said. He stood next to Fred and the museum director we were all courting. Fred had just shanked his shot and was pouting about it.

I really hated golf.

Gotta take this, I said. I’ll tee off last.

Tim scowled. Mr. Everything-in-Order didn’t like to mess up the rotation.

I stepped away from the three of them and answered. This is John.

You finished schmoozing with our guest? Yeats asked.

Almost.

How’s it going?

Fred’s pouting. Tim’s a Nazi.

And our friend?

Winning.

Good. We could use the contract. He’s the director of seven museums. Two of them good-sized.

I know. You told me.

So I’m telling you again. It’s an important account, if we can land it.

Yeah, I know, I repeated. That’s why I’m here.

For an ex-military guy, you’ve got a serious insubordinate streak.

Insubordination is refusing orders. This is more like insolence.

Yeats laughed. Well, either way, make sure Fred doesn’t mess up this deal.

He’s too competitive.

All salesmen are. That’s what makes them good salesmen.

Sure, I agreed. The thing was, I always figured high-class insurance companies would have high-class salesmen. Fred was an over-competitive crybaby who acted like a used car salesman.

And when you’re done, come to my office. I’ve got a special assignment for you.

Before I could ask what, he hung up.

You believe in second chances? Yeats asked, looking at me from behind his desk.

I shrugged. Not for child molesters or communists.

He smiled. How about for insurance companies?

Don’t they fall somewhere in the middle of those two?

If you ask most Americans, yes. Yeats turned up his hands. But somehow, they all still buy insurance.

Even museums.

Thank God, even them. Yeats slid open a desk drawer and removed a cigar. He offered it to me, but I shook my head. Yeats shrugged and snipped off the end.

An insurance executive who smokes, I observed. That’s got to be…what? Ironic?

Something.

It’s gotta be against the rules.

Yeats fired up and puffed the cigar until he had a strong cherry on the end. Then he reached behind him and slid open the window.

"It is against the rules, he said, smiling around another draw. But some days, it’s good to be the boss."

"Okay, then. What’s the second chance, boss?"

He slid open another desk drawer and removed a thick manila folder. Without a word, he pushed it across the desk to me.

I let it sit. Can you give me the executive summary?

He smiled knowingly. He was perfectly aware that I’d read that file from cover to cover, more than once. But I wanted to know more than what was in the file. I wanted to know what he was looking for. Usually, all he wanted was that the items get recovered. It didn’t necessarily matter how, or if it cost a little bit of grease to make it happen. In the end, there was a certain intangible value to having a particular painting hanging on the right wall in the right museum. That, and reputation. The knowledge that we not only always pay the claim, but most times we got people’s shit back for them.

You’re Irish, right?

I’m American.

Yes, but your family history is Irish?

I shrugged. My last name is Pearse, which is not as Irish as O’Malley, but it’s pretty mick all the same. However, I couldn’t tell Yeats about my family history because I didn’t know the first thing about it. Growing up in an orphanage does that.

Sure, I finally allowed. I’m Irish. So?

So, he said, around another large puff. If some Irish princess had her jewels stolen, and someone could get them back, what do you suppose the Irish government would pay for that?

I took a deep breath and let it out. I liked Yeats. He was a decent boss. He told the truth. He paid me fairly. He didn’t ask me uncomfortable questions. But goddamn if he didn’t take his sweet time getting to his point.

The Irish don’t have royalty, I said. And I suppose whoever wants the jewels would pay what they’re worth. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?

Yeats leaned back in his chair. Golf makes you cranky.

I shrugged again. He might be right on that count.

Here’s the deal, he said. About fifteen years ago, a museum in Philadelphia sold the display rights to a set of royal Hungarian jewels to a sister museum in Chicago. But once the courier landed in Chicago, he got picked off on his way to the museum.

Professionals?

Of the local variety, yes. They made off with the necklace and the earrings. The cops in Chicago figured out who the stick-up guys were and started roping them in. They recovered the necklace and rolled one of the crew into informing on the other two. But they never found the earrings.

So we paid off on the earrings.

Of course.

How much?

A little less than three hundred thousand.

I raised my eyebrows. That was a painful payout today, but fifteen years ago, it must have been a pretty big hit for a mid-sized insurance company to take.

Yeats nodded. Yeah. It hurt, but what are you going to do? We always pay legitimate claims.

Of course.

So, that was fifteen years ago. Nothing happens for all this time. Then, all of a sudden, I get a call from Chicago PD’s Internal Affairs Division. They got a guy on their watch list who had some suspicious computer activity. So they pull him in and—

Let me guess. It’s about the diamond heist from fifteen years ago.

Exactly. This sergeant is looking up all kinds of information on that case, and there’s no reason in the world he should be. The IAD investigators bring him in and they work on him. At first, he denied everything, but after they confronted him with the computer records, he caved.

Didn’t hold up well under interrogation, huh?

It was my understanding that they had some other things to hang over his head that helped the process along. In any event, he finally admits that he accessed all of the information for an ex-cop named Mick Sawyer.

There’s an Irishman for you.

No lie. Now, the thing about Mr. Sawyer is that he was the son of one of the original stick-up men, Garnett Sawyer.

I thought about that. So sonny boy is looking into one of dear old da’s heists?

Exactly. And our sergeant friend tells IAD that the reason is because Mick has a line on the missing diamond earrings.

I nodded. Interesting.

That’s not all. Not by half.

No?

Nope. He drew deep on the cigar and let out a long breath of smoke. Turns out Dad died in prison right about the time this guy Mick is asking the sarge about the diamonds. And then a few days later, it’s Mick who turns up dead, too.

Murdered?

Shot twice through the heart in a hotel room.

Sounds like a country song, I said.

You want to guess who was with him in that room?

Jimmy Hoffa?

Yeats shook his head.

Amelia Earhart?

He snorted at that. You’re not even trying here.

Okay, a real guess then. Some hooker?

Strike three, Yeats said. It was his brother.

"His brother?"

Yeats nodded. His brother. Also found deader than disco, a bullet in the head. He chuckled. It’s like a Quentin Tarantino soap opera, huh?

Something like that, yeah. What’s the brother’s story?

He was an ex-con. CPD said he’d been working as muscle for the Polish mob in Chicago. He just got out of prison himself a few days before the dad died in the can.

So, two dead brothers in a hotel room and no diamonds?

Right.

Sounds like the sergeant double-crossed them or something.

It’d be nice if it were that easy, Yeats said. But patrol cops found the bodies when they were still pretty fresh, and the sergeant had the best alibi any cop could hope for.

I thought about it for a moment. Then I smiled knowingly. He was being interviewed by IAD when it happened.

Exactly.

So we don’t know who killed the two brothers?

No.

Or where the diamonds are?

That’s why we’re having this conversation. He puffed smoke at me and waited.

I considered it. This sounded like a mess, and most leads were probably already cold. But I was salaried, so I’d run down whatever case Yeats asked me to. And things had been slow, so this was way better than babysitting Fred and Tim while they schmoozed clients.

Do the cops have any suspects? I asked.

A few. I don’t know how solid any of them are, but it’s all in the file.

What is the recovery worth?

Our expert puts the value of the diamonds themselves at one point three million dollars.

I let out a low whistle. The one percent finder’s fee on that was thirteen thousand. Nice.

It gets nicer. We contacted the Hungarian government. Turns out the jewels belonged to a duchess who is somewhere in the family tree of their current president. Getting the diamonds back has some significant cultural value to them.

How significant?

Triple.

Triple? That was almost four million dollars. Forty grand to me, and a huge infusion of cash for the company.

Triple, Yeats repeated. He took another draw on his cigar. So, how soon can you leave for Chicago?

Expect the unexpected, I thought.

THREE

Andros

I have never whistled a tune in my life or done a happy little dance when no one was watching. I will not start now. I don’t display my emotions or put on shows of feeling. It is not for me. There is no benefit, no need, no time for that.

I swipe at the mirror, stick my chin up, and turn my head to the left. The straight razor is new, and it glides effortlessly up my neck and over my jaw. I shave each and every morning, precisely at six a.m., no matter what I’m doing or where I am.

Rinsing the razor off, I raise my eyes and stare at myself. The corners of my mouth lift just a little. A small, controlled smile appears. It is the best I can do.

It’s true, though. I am very happy.

Last night, I had dinner with the boss at his favorite restaurant, Staropolska. I’ve never had such fine food. The service was impeccable. They scurried about, back and forth, as they took care of our table. The owner shook our hands on the way out. They knew who we were.

I will never forget this dinner. We had eaten together many times, of course, but not formally like that.

Afterward, I drove us back to the new estate, north of the city. It has a stone wall that encircles the property and an iron gate at the entrance. Tomas, one of the last of the old guard for the Dudek family, waved at me as we slowed to a stop. The gate opened, and we drove up the lane. There are more men around these days than before, and an expensive alarm system has been installed too. It is now a very secure place.

We pulled into the four-car garage, and he began to get out but then stopped. He looked back at me.

"Andros, did you like dinner or not? I mean, what the fuck? You never say a damn thing, good or bad." He was grinning at me.

Mr. Dudek, it was spectacular. I thank you for this invitation.

He stared at me, still smiling and shaking his head. There was a reason for tonight. You deserve it, but you also deserve a promotion. I’m going to start paying you a lot more money.

That moment had been awkward for me. I owe Patrik Dudek everything; he doesn’t owe me. I came from nothing and nowhere. I was born in Tresna, a small rural town in southern Poland. Years ago, he arranged with my uncle for me to come over to the U.S. He has always treated me fairly, and I live well.

Mr. Dudek. Please. There is no need for this.

You’re officially number two in charge.

I just stared at him then.

Not just my number one man or my personal bodyguard or my main guy. No. You are now the number-two man in our organization. Period. He got out of the car, and I followed quickly. I was in shock.

He came around the car then and gave me a hug. You should be proud. Do me proud now. Continue to serve me and this organization like you always have, and we’ll all be very successful.

I jerk back to now. The mirror is completely steamed over. I blink twice and realize the hot water is still running.

Enough of this daydreaming. I’m acting like a fool. Shutting the faucet off hard, I yank a clean towel off the rack with a snap.

I put on my watch and see that it’s almost six twenty. I need to move. I’m always downstairs by six thirty. Always. He never wants anything until eight or so, but I don’t like rushing. I like to have the coffee and breakfast ready for our morning meeting.

Dressing quickly in a pressed blue dress shirt and slacks, I put on my shoulder holster last and grab my sports jacket off a hanger as I head out the bedroom door.

I pass through the large open foyer area with shiny black and white floor tiles, then by the big front doors. The wide curving staircase is on my left, and out of the corner of my eye, I see movement on the rail up there.

I snap a quick look and Patrik Dudek is looking down at me. He takes a slow sip of coffee. The coffee I always bring him every morning. He’s up very early this morning. Very.

This is not good.

Andros, meet me in the study. I’ll be down there in a second. Another sip. And hey, relax a little bit. You’re management now.

Mr. Dudek, I…

Hey. He stares down at me. No smile. "Patrik. You call me Patrik. You ain’t a fucking soldier no more, Andros, so stop acting like one. Michael’s in the kitchen. Get some coffee from him. Tell him what you want to eat. He’s not as good a cook as you were, but he’s getting there."

Yes, sir. I mean, Patrik. I’ll be in your study. Of course.

He lets out a short bark of a laugh and then disappears from the railing.

I continue to stare at the spot where he had been standing. This is going to take some getting used to. I cannot allow myself to abuse this, though. No one will be cooking for me.

Quickly, I say hi to Mike in the kitchen, pour a cup of coffee, and head to the study. I’m not there five minutes before Patrik walks in. He folds