Missing Rebecca by John Worsley Simpson

Author:John Worsley Simpson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BookBaby
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

APRIL 3

Alexei Fyodorov was even less pleased with the phone call he got from Vladimir Fitsov, one of his thugs, than he had been when the same fellow told him Liam Peters had made fools of them and escaped.

“I have bad news, Colonel,” Fitsov said in Russian.

“Speak English, idiot. If you don’t speak English, how are you going to improve? So, what is the bad news. No wait, don’t tell me: my daughter has said she doesn’t find you the most repulsive creature she has ever encountered? Or, wait-wait-wait-wait, I know, they did a brain scan and they found you actually have one. What a frightening discovery that would be—and definitely bad news.”

“No, nothing like that. I’ve never met your daughter, sir.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut up, you idiot. What is it? What is this bad news?”

“Well, sir, you know that we put a transponder on the man, Peters’s, car, the racing car?”

“Sports car.”

“That’s right.”

Fyodorov sighed. “What about it?

“Well, we followed the car. It went along the New York State motorway.”

“TheThruway?”

“Yes.

“Go on.”

“We followed the car right to the end of the—Thruway. And then it kept on going, and we kept on going and then it stopped and we kept on going until we found it. It was on Long Island.” He pronounced Long as if it had “uh” at the end of it.

“Yes?” Fyodorov said.

Fitsov was silent for a time.

“Well, speak.” Fyodorov could hear Fitsov sigh.

“It was at a car dealership. The car was on the back of—It was on the back of what the Americans call a wrecker, a towing truck.”

Fyodorov said nothing for some time. He looked at his fingernails. He looked at a corner of the ceiling in the Buffalo condo on Lakefront Boulevard that a business associate had lent him while he resolved his current difficulties. He looked out across the mouth of the Niagara River to Canada, to Fort Erie, Ontario. He took a sip of red wine. Finally, he said:

“I need.” He paused. “I need more information. What do you mean, the car was on the back of a wrecker? Was it in an accident? Did Liam Peters have an accident? Or did the car break down? Is that what you’re saying, Vladimir. Please explain.”

Fitsov sighed again.

“The car was not in an accident, sir. The auto dealership is one that sells and rents out the kind of car that Liam Peters drives, the Maserati. It sells other kinds of cars, too. It’s quite a very high-class dealership, and—”

“For god’s sake, I don’t want a sales pitch about this fucking dealership.”

“Sorry, sir. Okay, well. We went to see the people in the dealership and asked them about the car, and they asked us if we wanted to buy it, and we said no, but, anyway, we said how comes is the car on the towing truck and they said it was re—how do you say?—”

Fyodorov turned his head slowly to the left and slowly back again to the right, and then he raised it and looked off into space.

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