The Metronome (The Counterpoint Trilogy Book 1) Page 9

  “What did not add up?”

  “OK, let’s start at the beginning. Back to the basics, so to speak.” He pulls a thick file from the middle of the stack on his right. “As you can see, the file is still on my desk. John Brockton, born 1965, blah blah blah, Harvard Law School 1989, joins Millennium Mutual in 1992, in 1995 moves to Moscow to run the Russian Leveraged Equity (LRE) fund. In 1996, the fund was up 71%. In 1997, up 192%. In 1998, down 86%, investors wiped out. But the smart guy Brockton left in July 1998, right before the Russian devaluation and crash. Earned $4 million in 1996, $22 million in 1997. Bought a ranch near Santa Barbara in 1999. Killed in 2003, together with his girlfriend Natalya Streltsova. With me so far?”

  I nod.

  “Jeff Kron, the convicted murderer. In 2003 he turned 21. Was a student at San Francisco State, dropped out due to financial difficulties. His father, Stanley Kron, killed himself in 2002. It is believed he was depressed over his financial losses; he lost a lot in the LRE’s wipeout, then took a mortgage on the house to finance Jeff’s education. Was laid off in the recession that followed the dot-com market crash of 2000. The mortgage loan reset to a higher rate in 2002, he lost the house and had nothing left.”

  Rozen flips through the file pulls out a photo and looks at it without showing me.

  “John Brockton and Natalya Streltsova were killed with a knife. The knife was found near their bodies, with Kron’s fingerprints. Kron was stopped for reckless driving the night of the murder and immediately arrested. He was incoherent, had blood on him that was later shown to belong to the victims, and had a gun in his pocket. A parking ticket would prove that he’d been ‘casing’ the Brockton’s house for days. As you said, open and shut case, right?”

  I shrug, already know that the case is anything but.

  Rozen continues, “Well, the prosecutor certainly thought so. Plus, such a high profile case is a rare opportunity to get a name recognition, perhaps start a political career. So the whole show was staged pretty dramatically. The murderer was actually portrayed as a sympathetic but misguided person, no death penalty was requested. Jeff Kron was represented by a well-known attorney but would have been better off with a public defender: the well-known one took the case to get his name into the limelight, his pompous defense only turned off the jury. Jeff Kron is now serving a life sentence about an hour from here; with a good behavior he might get out in twenty years.”

  “But Kron never admitted his guilt?”

  “No. He admitted that he was watching the house and went there to scare Brockton; he wanted Brockton to know that Stanley Kron’s blood was on his hands. But he claimed that when he walked into the door, Brockton and Streltsova were already dead, lying in pools of blood. And that someone grabbed his neck from behind, he lost consciousness, and when he came to he was lying next to Brockton and Streltsova with a knife in his hand. He dropped the knife and ran to his car.”

  I shudder at the mention of Kron’s neck being grabbed from behind.

  “Anything wrong?” Rozen picks up on my movement.

  “No. I did not follow the case, but this seems to be the official version. The jury did not believe Kron. Did he not also get around the bodyguard?”

  “Brockton did have a bodyguard, Alexander Shchukin, but that day of the week a local restaurant had a veal special that Brockton and Streltsova liked, so they sent Shchukin for takeout. As a matter of fact, this has been done four weeks in a row – a pattern.”

  “It sounds to me like you believe the Kron’s version?”

  “It’s not that I believe it out of some vague feeling,” demurs Rozen. “It’s that there are quite a few little things that don’t fit the official version.”

  “Like what?”

  “For one, in the official version Kron went to the house with both a gun and a knife. That’s unusual given that he was a student, not a professional assassin. Moreover, I would have expected him to use a gun. Kron is a big, strong guy, but still, to quickly kill two people with a knife is not an easy task unless you are trained for this. And there was nothing in his background to indicate such training.” Rozen pauses for effect. “Streltsova used to be an anchor and an investigative reporter on the Russian TV station Telenovostiy. There was practically a war in Russia between different oligarchs, and Telenovostiy was owned by the oligarch Sosnovsky that fell out of favor with the new Russian president. She had enemies, and it’s possible that she was the intended target, not Brockton. In which case, Kron had no motive for the murder.”

  “I remember this possibility was raised but never went anywhere.”

  “No, but your father thought this was worth looking into. I think that’s why he came here. There were other things that did not quite add up. We checked against the insurance records and some of the expensive jewelry items were missing. Kron did not have these items when police stopped him. Where did they go? Why was the door of the house open and Kron able to just walk in? And last, but not least: Streltsova’s computer was not in the house.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Nowhere. We did not find it.”

  “Perhaps she did not have a computer at the moment. Had it repaired in a shop or something?”

  “She was seen with her laptop just two days prior, and we checked all the computer repair places in the area. The last big investigation she worked on was that of terrorist bombings in Moscow in 1999. It was blamed on the Chechen separatists, but she questioned and raised a possibility of the Russian security services, the FSB, as being behind the bombings. That also made her a potential target.”

  This all is pretty confusing, but the mention of the FSB really gets my attention. Did my father find something that the FSB did not want him to?

  “Detective, to my earlier question: You don’t believe the official version of Kron killing Brockman and Streltsova, do you?”

  Rozen sits up, all serious. “As I said, these unanswered inconsistencies bother me. Each can be explained away, but there are just too many here for my taste. And if your father was killed over this, then all the more reason to believe that the truth did not come out and someone is trying to keep it that way. Besides, I might be wrong but Jeff Kron never struck me as a killer. Sometimes you just have to trust your judgment. Do you want to form your own? He is less than an hour drive from here. Your father had met with him.”

  When stated this way, it’s hard to refuse.

  “Of course. But don’t you have to schedule an appointment in advance?”

  “I am a police detective, I don’t need much of an advance. Meet me here at 10 a.m. tomorrow.”

  I return to the hotel and check my e-mails. Months ago, I was getting hundreds of e-mails a day. Now they are in the low dozens, and only a handful are not junk. A message from Jennifer, asking me when I am coming to Laguna Beach, ending with “Dad, can’t wait to see you!” and a hug emoticon. A “how are you” message from Sarah, ending with “miss you” and a kiss emoticon. Perhaps this is becoming more than the FWB thing between us?

  And then a message from Nikolai Pemin, wondering why I left Russia in such a hurry, reminding me that I am a suspect and should get in touch with them. I puzzle for a second how he got my e-mail, then remember that they had no problem finding my new and unlisted cell phone number.

  I make my way back to State Street, stroll around enjoying warm summer night, sounds of people laughing, music drifting from some of the restaurants. Come to a quaint outdoor shopping mall with tiled pavement and outdoor seating. It reminds me of Malaya Sadovaya Street. I grab a small table at a Hawaiian-themed restaurant, order fish tacos and a glass of syrah, and watch people saunter by.

  A couple stops to look at the posted menu. A woman tentatively offers “This looks OK,” but the man is having none of it: “I want a place where I can order a good rare steak.” He is heavy and breathing hard from walking. His high-pitched voice bothers me as if he is scratching a blackboard with his fingernails. I am old enough to remember blackboards and chalk. Another scratchy voi
ce pops into my head: “The colonel’s orders were to take the package and let him be.” The recognition that was at the back of my consciousness comes rushing to the front: Petr Saratov, the man at the cemetery. It was him directing others in a dark passageway off the Leninskiy Prospekt. He must have followed me on the same flight from St. Petersburg to Moscow. If only I was paying more attention instead of trying to hide, in fear that they’d stop me. They did not want to stop me, they wanted me to go and retrieve the package.

  Who can I talk to who may have an insight into my father’s work? I search through my wallet, find the card of the “very interested” Evgeny Zorkin. It’s 8:45 p.m. here, so before 8 a.m. in St. Petersburg; he might still be asleep. I dial the number.

  It rings and rings, and then a sleepy and unhappy voice comes on:

  “Allo?”

  “Mr. Zorkin? This is Pavel Rostin.”

  The voice changes, it now oozes a delight at being woken up. “Pavel Vladimirovich, so nice to hear from you! Have you given any thought to our conversation?”

  “Yes, I have. But I do have a small favor to ask.”

  “Please, anything.”

  “Do you remember the old man with a cane at my father’s burial? His name was Anton.”

  The voice is now less sure about the favor. “No, I am afraid I don’t remember or know the gentleman.”

  “Can you find him for me?”

  “Pavel Vladimirovich, I can greatly expedite the transaction, I have wonderful connections in the City Hall…”

  “Mr. Zorkin, at this time I don’t need to expedite the transaction, I need to find that old man.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “You told me, you are a resourceful man. I promise to negotiate exclusively with you at this time. Do you want to buy the apartment or not?”

  Half a world away, I can sense fear and greed fighting within Evgeny Zorkin. The fear of getting involved in something dangerous, the greed of the whole third floor of a Malaya Sadovaya building being his. “All right, Pavel Vladimirovich, I will look for him. Should I call you back on this number?”

  As I expected, greed wins out. “Yes, please.”

  “You understand, I can’t promise anything.”

  I hang up without responding, to make him think that the old man is his key to the apartment. I have no idea if this is a complete wild goose chase; the old man knew my father, and Vakunin prevented him from talking to me. That’s a sufficient reason to find him.

  I take a slow walk back to the hotel. I like the names of the streets: Anacapa, Canon Perdido, De La Guerra. It’s a slow Monday night, the streets off the main drag are empty. I pause at a light to cross the street, and my brain suddenly registers a scary quiet. Scary because I just heard steps, and they abruptly stopped. I take a quick look behind me; there is no one there. I start walking again, and the steps resume. I turn to my left to cross in the other direction and steal a glance. I see a figure in the shadow on the opposite side. A knot forms in my stomach, and I hurry back to the hotel while listening intently. I hear steps, but they don’t come closer. When I get to my room, I lock and latch the door. I need a few minutes to regain normal breathing.

  Tuesday, June 13

  When I come out of my room in the morning, I scan the street. There are people out, but nobody seems to be watching me. I am not sure whether someone was following me last night or if I was just being paranoid, but I still tell Rozen about this.

  I’ve never been to a prison, not even as a visitor. The ugly building announces “United States Penitentiary” in giant letters, as if someone can be mistaken into thinking it’s a normal residence. We are taken to a visiting area. Along the way, Sal Rozen informed me that Jeff Kron is lucky to be here in a medium security facility, only because they have a “special housing unit.”

  Having just met someone, people often say afterward “He was not what I imagined.” Well, Jeff Kron is pretty much what I imagined: tall, thin, blond, looking unsure and scared. He appears confused when a guard escorts him in and points to me, but then he sees Rozen and smiles.

  “This is not a regular visiting day, so I was wondering who came to see me,” he says. “I am glad it’s you, Detective Rozen.”

  Kron looks at me expectantly, Rozen makes an introduction. “Jeff Kron – Pavel Rostin.”

  “Rostin? You are, you are…”

  “He is the son of Vladimir Rostin, the man you saw last year,” Rozen finishes for him.

  “Oh, wow! How is he?”

  “I am afraid he is dead,” says Rozen, without going into details.

  Kron exhales, puts his right hand on his heart, tears well up. “I am so sorry.”

  “Jeff, I know you’ve done it many times before, but please tell Mr. Rostin what you were doing the night that Mr. Brockton and Ms. Streltsova were killed?”

  Kron swallows hard, continues in a soft voice. “I was outside of their property. I just wanted him to see the picture of my dad, to know what he’d done, to feel a little bit of what we felt…I don’t know why, but I was obsessing to know if he cared even a little bit about those he ruined. I moved to Santa Barbara a month before, worked in a fast food place, gathering the courage to talk to him. I was coming to the place for three weeks; a few times I would park my car and walk around.”

  “And that evening?”

  “I saw the other guy leave, the tall, strong one. I figured that was my chance. I climbed over the fence, went to the door, and rang a bell. There was no answer, and I pushed the door open. I took a few steps inside, and then on the right, in the kitchen, I saw a big dark spot on the floor. I went toward it, and I saw a woman’s leg.”

  Kron stopped, hesitated. Rozen made a hand movement, encouraging him to continue.

  “I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye, I tried to turn but someone grabbed me from behind, squeezed my neck, and everything went dark. When I came to, I was lying on the floor between two bodies, a knife in my hand. I dropped the knife, ran out of there, climbed over the fence, got into my car and drove down the hill. There were two police cars driving up, and then another one at the bottom stopped me.”

  “Why did you have a gun on you?” asked Rozen.

  “I would have been too scared to go there otherwise. I just wanted him to see my father’s picture…”

  When we left, I asked Rozen, “Did he have his father’s picture?”

  “Yes, it was in his pocket.”

  “Who triggered the alarm?”

  “We don’t know, it was never explained. Hey, it’s almost noon, and there is a great Mexican restaurant on the way; how about some lunch?”

  We’ve come to a very casual taqueria, with predominantly Latino faces and everyone speaking Spanish. As we walk in, the only blond woman in the place waves to us, “Sal!”

  Rozen and the woman hug each other, then Rozen introduces me:

  “Melissa Korn – Pavel Rostin.”

  “You are…” we both exclaim in unison, and Rozen enjoys the effect.

  “Yes, Melissa is Jeff’s sister, and Pavel is the son of Vladimir Rostin.”

  “I have not met your father, but Sal told me about him,” says Melissa. She is older than Jeff, I guess in her late 20s, with a pretty but severe face. Melissa is the only one in this place dressed in business attire.

  “How is your dad?” she asks.

  “He is dead,” I say.

  “He may have been killed,” says Rozen.

  Melissa covers her face, breathes heavily and almost falls but for Rozen’s supporting arm.

  We sit down.

  “How many must die?” Melissa now has her hands in her lap and sways back and forth, tears streaming down her face.

  I try to be objective. “We don’t know if there is a connection here. I am just trying to retrace my father’s steps.”

  She shakes her head, not dissuaded.

  Rozen orders us lunch. While we eat, I find out that Melissa is a lawyer. Last year she finished law school in Chicago and m
oved to Lompoc to be near her brother because “I am all he has” and because he needed “an attorney that cares.” Their mother outlived their father by barely a year, Melissa and Jeff were the only ones left from the family. She is doing legal paperwork for local wineries (“It’s not much of a business, but I get free wine”) and sees Jeff twice a week, the maximum allowed. Melissa is, of course, completely convinced of her brother’s innocence. She rattles all the reasons why her brother did not do it, I heard them all except for one: the camera.

  Rozen nods solemnly. “Yes, I forgot to mention the camera. The house had a number of security cameras, and the one in front shows Jeff coming in and then running away. It does not show anyone else. But we found the camera trained on the rear door stuck in a position that does not show the actual entrance.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Don’t know. Could have been a malfunction with suspicious timing.”

  “It was not a malfunction,” protests Melissa. “Someone disabled the security camera and walked in through the back door.” She turns to me. “I am so sorry about your dad. I believe the answer to this murder is in Russia. Your dad may have found it and was killed.”

  I don’t bother correcting her; I don’t know if my father was killed or took his own life.

  She gives me her card as we leave. “If you find something to help in my brother’s defense, please let me know. But, most of all, please be careful. I don’t want any more people to die.”

  In the car, I turn to Rozen. “Why did you bring me to see them?”

  “Your father came here to meet him. He believed, like I do, that it’s important to see the accused.”

  “And his sister?”

  “I try to see her when I come here. And I thought it was important for her to know that someone was possibly killed for investigating this case.”

  “You really believe Kron is innocent?”