Chapter Text
January 2019
Wolfbird Bar in Boston, MA
Inside one of the busiest pubs in downtown Boston, Ilya found himself sitting alone at the far end of the bar, nervously chucking down a bottle of beer. The familiar downtempo jazz music was playing throughout the establishment. The air was filled with opulent perfume and imported alcohol. He kept glancing over his shoulder as other patrons were pouring in. Everyone was looking for a great night out, except Ilya.
Just an hour ago, he did something horrible and in his cowardice, he came to this place to hide from the world and delay facing its consequences. The friendly bartender, Kip tried to chat him up, but he hadn’t processed a single word. Ilya fished out a twenty dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it on the bar. He needed to go home to clean up his mess.
Sitting in the heart of Brookline was a spectacular gated community called The Cottage. Many athletes and celebrities who wanted a private and peaceful life had chosen to settle in this location. Ilya purchased a two-story full brick home here shortly after winning his first Stanley Cup in 2011.
“Good evening, Mr. Rozanov,” the gate guard greeted him askance. With a wry smile, Ilya nodded as he pulled through the gate. A few of his neighbors were out in their front yard chatting away. Yet, they all abruptly stopped their conversations once they saw his car rolling in. In replacement, quiet whispers and skeptical glances were thrown his way. He swallowed down his nerves and continued to press home.
Then, Ilya saw it. Blue and red lights flashing through the cul-de-sac. Several cop cars, EMS, and white vans were parked right in front of his property. Yellow barricade tapes wrapped around the perimeter, all the way to the front lawn. Normally, his house embraced the quietness of the community, but today, it became the main attraction to everyone in the neighborhood. Ilya halted the car as he watched two police officers slowly approach his vehicle.
Byat (fuck). Ilya tapped the phone icon on the infotainment screen. The call was answered in two rings. “Elle, I need your help.”
*************
BREAKING NEWS!!!
Hockey star Ilya Rozanov was named a person of interest in his ex-wife’s homicide.
The victim, Svetlana Vetrova, was found dead inside Rozanov’s home located in Brookline. The cleaning crew found her lifeless body in the living room when they came in for a weekly service. Mr Rozanov was interviewed by the Boston police and was released within 24 hour.
If you have any information regarding this case, please contact the police at 888-888-8888.
*************
Boston Police Headquarters
Shane tossed the newspaper in the trash bin near him. The news about Ilya Rozanov clearly traveled at the speed of light. Earlier this morning, he was hired by an anonymous client to investigate the hockey star’s alleged involvement in the murder. They paid Shane a retainer fee twice the amount he usually required, which was already a five digit number. Hence, this case had been his sole focus. All other works were promptly reassigned to his partner, Spencer Reid, and two other junior investigators.
The winter in Boston was always so brutal; yet, Shane chose to wait outside the police headquarters for the last fifteen minutes. He drew a cigarette from behind his ear and placed it between his lips. As he fished out a lighter from his coat pocket, a familiar voice from behind startled him,
“You’re not supposed to smoke here.”
“Please fuck off. I’m not in the mood,” Shane grumbled as he lit his cigarette. He didn’t have to turn around to recognize who was approaching - Hayden Pike, a good friend of Shane and also a diligent homicide detective.
“Well…I guess you’re no longer interested in the Rozanov’s case, huh?” Hayden stopped in front of Shane, looking him up and down while crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“What you got?” Shane took a drag of his cigarette, then nodded at the file folder Hayden was holding.
“Multiple stab wounds were inflicted in the central chest and upper abdomen by a kitchen knife,” Shane commented as he flipped through the documents Hayden produced.
“Yeah man, the witnesses’ preliminary statements indicate Rozanov was with the victim for the hours leading up to the murder. And one of the fruit knives was missing from his kitchen.” Hayden stepped aside to lean back against the wall.
“Rozanov was interviewed late last night. He denied his involvement, but couldn’t provide his alibi,” Hayden continued.
“I’m assuming he has a lawyer?” Shane asked.
“Yep, he’s represented by Elle Woods.”
Shane let out a small sigh. Of course, the hockey star could afford the best defense attorney in Boston. Hayden opened his mouth to say something more, but Shane promptly shoved the file folder into his chest, and darted to the parking lot nearby. Waving a two-fingered salute without looking back, Shane drove off in his jet black 1969 Mustang Mach 1.
*************
S&S Investigations Office
On his way back to his office, Shane stopped by a Vietnamese restaurant, called Cơm Nhà. A couple years ago, he purchased a two-level building in the center of Roslindale, and leased out the first level to a Vietnamese family. Since then, their restaurant had become a hotspot for Vietnamese food among the locals. His investigations office sat on the upper level.
Shane carried two bags of to-go food to the office. His junior investigators, Carter and J.J. immediately jumped up in excitement. They gave him a fist pump before diving into the food. Shane turned to Spencer, and beckoned him over to his office. He closed the door behind him as Spencer settled in the guest chair across the desk. They had worked together on numerous cases over the last three years, and not once, Shane hesitated speaking his mind to his colleague. Yet today, he was off his game. Sensing Shane’s dilemma, Spencer spoke first.
“How’s the Rozanov’s case going for you?”
“It’s going...slowly. Need to interview a few witnesses while waiting for the autopsy report and forensic evidence to come through…” Shane rambled.
“Would you mind asking your ex-fiancé to let me have an interview with Rozanov?” Shane finally blurted out.
Spencer narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t seem to be bothered by the request. Shane purposely avoided Spencer’s gaze by pulling out a binder and absently flipping through the reports. After a few minutes of silence, Spencer took out his phone and called Elle Woods. To Shane’s surprise, they seemed to be cordial and professional. The call ended with a promise of a ring back from Woods after she spoke with her client. Spencer quietly smiled at his phone as he rose to his feet. Before walking out of the room, he declared, “I’m going with you to the meeting.” Shane lightly rubbed his forehead as he leaned back into his chair.
*************
InterContinental Boston - Ambassador Suite 1410
On a lounge sofa near the floor-to-ceiling glass windows looking out to the Boston Harbor, Ilya had been planted here since he came back from the interrogation. The glass of vodka in his hand had remained untouched. He stared blankly at a spot on the carpet floor, lost in his thoughts. Ilya knew eventually the police would pin this murder on him, because Svetlana’s lifeless body was found in his home, stabbed by a fruit knife from his knife block.
Memories of Sveta flashed through Ilya’s mind like a movie. She was so gorgeous, smart, and witty. Most importantly, she had always been there for Ilya through ups and downs. They knew each other since childhood, and she stood behind Ilya in each and every important life decision. Without her, he wasn’t sure if the hockey star Ilya Rozanov would even exist in this world. Now she was gone. And Ilya was responsible for it. His shoulders tensed up to his ears and tears just kept rolling down his cheeks. The ambassador suite suddenly became too small to contain his sorrow.
On the coffee table nearby, his phone had been buzzing nonstop. Ilya sniffed and gasped for air as he came down to himself. Another ping came through with a text, “Let’s meet” along with a picture. Stillness and silence swallowed him whole as he stared at the photo. The heartbeat in his chest was becoming louder and louder. Another buzz with the location and time. He dragged his hand over his face, then down to the Russian Orthodox cross chain hanging beneath his shirt. Tracing over the pendant with his index, he mumbled to himself, “Mama, please, tell me what to do.”
As the sun set over the Boston Harbor, Ilya finally stood up from his chair, and crossed the room to grab his keys and wallet lying on the nightstand. A decision was made.
*************
Behind a dark alley somewhere in Boston
“What do you want?” Ilya growled at the man in front of him as soon as he made an appearance.
“I have what you need to get out of this mess. And I only need a fraction of your fortune as a payment.” The man held up a USB, waving it in the air.
Ilya scanned the surrounding area as he spoke, “How much?”
“One million. In cash.”
The man appeared to be in his late 50s, skinny and much shorter than Ilya. He looked dwarfed by a dark trench coat draped over his shoulders. It was late at night, so most stores in the area had already closed. Ilya could hear cars passing by in the distance, but nobody seemed to be nearby. Being blackmailed was the last thing Ilya wanted to deal with at the moment, especially by a greedy dirtbag like him.
“Why were you following me?” Ilya fished out a cigarette from behind his ear as he treaded to the adjacent brick wall. He leaned back against it while tapping the cigarette on an engraved brass Zippo before lighting. Old habits.
“Someone from Russia hired our team to surveil and report your daily activities to them.”
“How long?” Ilya took a deep puff of his cigarette and blew a smoke.
“Since 2009,” the man said lightly.
“Who else was on this?”
“Nobody else. Look, if you pay up, you’re a free man.”
Anger pulsed through his gut, Ilya walked over and stepped into his space. In close distance, Ilya could see the old man had a crooked nose and a raised scar across his upper cheek. Ilya stared down at the man and spat out, “you think I’m fucking stupid?”
“I think you’re a smart businessman, Mr Rozanov.” His lips curled up into a stupid smirk while his eyes locked on Ilya.
“What about the rest of your team?”
“I’ll drop off the map, and so will everything else pertaining to you.”
“I’ll contact you.” After a few minutes, Ilya said.
“Not too long, Mr. Rozanov.” The man turned and disappeared into the quiet night.
Ilya stumbled backward and slumped down onto the pavement near a dirty snowbank. He dropped his head into his hands and pulled at his own hair. The tight knot in his chest was becoming too much. He wanted to scream, but nothing ever came out.
The cigarette fallen next to his feet slowly died out - one tiny spark at a time.
*************
S&S Investigations Office
Dressed in a gray double-breasted blazer with notch lapels, layering on top of a white dress shirt and a steely tie, Shane wore matching straight-leg slacks that pooled over his murky oxfords. He looked like the 90s heartthrob movie star Hudson Williams, whom his late mother loved so much. His movies were a staple in Shane’s household and inevitably, he adopted Williams’ fashion style. As soon as Shane walked through the door, he was teased by Spencer, who was neck deep in work just a minute ago.
“Good morning sir, the wedding chapel is in the building right over there,” Spencer pointed to a crimson brick masonry building across the street.
“You look pretty.” J.J. chimed in while Carter chuckled in the background.
“I was born pretty. I’ve been pretty. I stay pretty.” Shane boasted. Briefly, a bittersweet smile pulled at his lips. Someone used to look him in the eyes and gave him the exact same compliment.
“Are you ready?” Spencer wrapped his purple lambswool scarf around his neck and pushed out the front door. Reluctantly, Shane followed his footsteps.
“Didn’t take you as the dress to impress type.” Spencer winked at Shane as he pulled open the Mustang’s passenger side door.
Shane got into the driver’s seat and deliberately turned his face to the left, hiding a sheepish smile forming on his face. He turned on the signal and pulled out of the parallel parking. It took them forty minutes to arrive at the Legally Blonde Law Office in downtown Boston. Just as Shane reached the front door of the building, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tall lean man dressed in a dark pinstripe suit approaching. Shane went rigid and just stared. Blonde curls, blue-hazel eyes, and a distinct beauty mark on the left cheek. The silhouette of a certain Russian man that was imprinted in Shane’s mind since eighteen. Suddenly, a cold gust of wind swept through. Not as cold as Rozanov’s eyes glared back at Shane.