Retribution

He left the young man spread-eagled on the bed, restraint free, of course, on his belly, purring and grinning.

* * * *

Leaving the townhouse and climbing into the unmarked cop car Hardesty had parked next to a hydrant, confident there would be no ticket because beat cops had lists of the license plate numbers of unmarked cop cars, he looked around to see if a black Escalade was still monitoring his movements. It was. He wondered if these guys would follow him now or would stay parked. They remained parked as he pulled away from the curb. But, as he moved down the street, he whistled, seeing that a black side-door van pulled out of a parking space down the street and was following him now. A tag-team operation? How did he rate such attention, he wondered.

He needed to do some thinking. There were too many candidates floating around for shooter in this case, and some of them were government and some of them were international goons. He had to go over all of it in his mind again. Instead of going directly back to the department, he drove over to the nearby Georgetown boathouse. The boathouse was closed for the winter, so he could wander around the scene of the crime and down to the water's edge by his lonesome. The university was out of session for Christmas week and there was no boating run from the boathouse in this season anyway. Talmadge had been an exception. Those managing the boathouse said that he had gone out in his kayak nearly every day of the year no matter the weather and had special privileges at the boathouse, having keys and being able to get all of his gear himself.

Talmadge was a special privileges kind of guy. So why was it, Hardesty wondered, that he had wound up dead, with a bullet in his back, in the shallows on the Virginia shore of the Potomac? Was it espionage or something domestic? The accompanying deaths of his Russian gofer and of a rent-boy had to play out logically in the scenario. Talmadge had his boating gear on when they found him. What would be the sequence of him in the act of shoving off into the water with his kayak, with his Russian gofer at his side, to take a bullet and slip under the ice and yet there to be a rent-boy in the backseat of his car, naked, and shot in the act of sex? Would Talmadge have left a dildo up the young guy's ass and a sounding rod in his penis, gotten dressed for exercise, and be ready to go into the river when Leslie was shot in the car? Would Leslie have left the dildo and sounding wand in place after Talmadge had played with him and left the car? This didn't all fit together.

When Hardesty was ready to leave, he realized that he had been wandering around the scene of the crime and thinking it through—without being any more clear of events than when he'd come here—for over an hour. He was cold as ice and he saw that the black van was still lurking about. He was not a happy camper.

When Hardesty got back to the squad room, Glen Whitehall was sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, with his feet on his desk, and looking all fat and happy. There wasn't much new in that, though.

"Was she as good the second time?" Hardesty asked.

"Better. She rode me," Glen responded, a Cheshire cat expression on his face. "And rode me and rode me."

Hardesty's attention went to what was laying on Whitehall's desk blotter: a pistol, with a silencer—a Ruger SR22, to be exact.

"Where's that from?" he asked, giving Whitehall a sharp look.

"Just where you suppose it's from. It's from the nightstand next to Maria Talmadge's bed."

"You know it's not legal—it won't hold up in court, if that's the murder weapon—that you took it to check it out."

"I didn't take it illegally. I found it while she was in the bathroom and when she returned, I quizzed her about it. She said she's scared—and she certainly acted like she was. And I know why too. But I read her a line. I told her it wouldn't do her any good the way it was now, that something had happened to it the last time it was fired. It needed some work on it to be able to fire again. It was a load of bull, but she swallowed it. She let me take it to fix for her and return it."

"So, why haven't you sent it for a ballistics check yet?"

"I wanted you to see it—to gloat a little bit about the sacrifice I had to make to get it."

"Fuck that. You enjoyed the hell out of screwing her."

"I enjoyed her screwing me more. Drains a man dry. But it was all for the job. I was busy pursuing why she was so scared. She's not who she was pretending to be."

"I know that. Talmadge's live-in punch, Kim—who is male, by the way, of the small, blond rent-boy type—told me she wasn't really Talmadge's wife."

"She's more than that. I had her prints run quick quick, and—"

"How'd you get that done so quick? It's only been a couple of hours."

"Thanks to you. I told Larry you needed the prints run yesterday, and after the slight embarrassment, he got them run immediately."

"Small embarrassment?"

"Her print was on an open condom packet."

"Ah," Hardesty said, and laughed.

"As I was saying, the print was run quick quick. She isn't Maria Talmadge. The name came back on a Russian who came here on a tourist visa four years ago and was never recorded leaving the country. Her name—get this—is Nadia Stanislova. Get it?"

"No, what's the kicker?"

"Stanislova. Same name as Victor's real name, taking Russian forms into account—Pieter Stanislov. Sister or wife, maybe? More controllers of Talmadge than servants, maybe? Russia or the Russian mob?"

"Shit," Hardesty said.

"Yes, shit. What have we gotten ourselves into, Hardesty?"

It wasn't something Hardesty could answer. He was still mulling it when he hit the pavement to drive out to Wesley Heights and have another go at Maria, or Nadia, or whoever she was. Thus, he wasn't sharp enough to observe until it was too late that a black van with side sliding doors pulled up beside him on the street; the door opened; two goons dressed in black jumped out and grabbed him, pulling a hood over his head and handcuffing his wrists behind his back; and pulled him back into the van, which sped on down the street, hardly having stopped at all for the grab. They slammed him to the floor and he felt the weight of four size thirteen shoes pinning down his twisted body.

* * * *

He could have been handled more delicately to be sure, but the ride was to a building, with a familiar sound in the background and not to the edge of a river, so he wasn't in the mood to complain much. He was dragged out of the van and into a building and plopped down on a folding metal chair. He didn't have any trouble discerning where he was. He knew what the sound was of a bowling alley, and that he heard the roll of the ball start in the farther distance and hit pins in the nearer distance told him that he was somewhere behind the pin-setting machines.

The hood was pulled off and he was sitting, facing a big, fat thug, with two goons, younger and in better shape, standing to either side of him and between him and the desk that the thug was sweating behind. They all looked Slavic. The Russian mafia element was revealing itself. And they were all trying to look mean but not terminally mean—terminally for him. He sensed this was more of a social call than a last-ride meeting.

"Good that you could join us, Detective Hardesty," the thug said. The goons hadn't said anything in the van—they'd put him on the floor under their legs, with someone else driving—and they didn't say anything now. "I won't keep you long. I just wanted you to know that I am sincere in what I'm going to tell you."

"OK, I'm listening," Hardesty answered. He checked out the pieces the two goons were packing. They both were lovingly caressing .357 Magnums, the revolver of choice for thugs everywhere, especially Russian ones. It wasn't the caliber Hardesty was shopping for in this case.

"You being here in my house, where I could do as I like with you means you can believe what I say."

Yeah, if you can convince yourself so, Hardesty thought, but it's not what he said. "Shoot," is what he said. He only thought later that that might not have been the best choice of words.

"I'll only say it once. There are rumors that you are liking my guys for icing the old spy and the guy named Victor."

"You mean Pietr? Pietr Stanislov?"

The thug looked a little surprised. "Whatever," he said. "You need to know that this wouldn't have been in our interests. We were happy with Talmadge, and Victor was one of ours. So, we need to be looking elsewhere for who's behind those hits."

We? Hardesty wondered what that meant but didn't pursue it. He was more interested in trying something else out. "And Nadia Stanislova too? Is she one of yours? A babysitter for Talmadge?"

"I think we've discussed enough," the thug said. "And you can just sit back and watch now. This hit was in my house, and we can take care of it faster and more quietly than the D.C. cops can. So, don't get in our way."

"It's my case. I don't really want help."

"I was afraid you'd need some convincing. You live in a fancy apartment across the river, don't you?—with your son."

My son? Hardesty thought. These guys are dumber than I imagined. "It's not any of your business where I live—and who I live with."

"Your son's a hooker. Did you know that? I'm gonna have my men here take you home and give you a taste of what we can do. After that maybe you'll take us serious and stay out of our way."

Hardesty was about to say something smart back to him, but whatever he said was muffled by the hood coming back down over his head and him being hustled back out of the building and onto the floor of the van.

At his apartment door, he refused to produce a key, so Goon Number One just pulled him around in front of the peephole and Goon Number Two rang the door buzzer. And then again. After the third ring, the door opened to Toby, dressed just in a silk robe, starting to say "Forgot your key?" before, .357 Magnums waving in the air, the goons pushed Hardesty into Toby as they threw themselves into the apartment. Toby was pushed as far as the ottoman, where he landed on his back. Goon Number Two landed on top of him, between his legs, and it was immediately evident he was going to stay there for a while.

Goon Number One pulled Hardesty, his arms still tied behind his back over to where they stood by the kitchen counter. "You get to watch this a while," the goon said.

What "this" was was Goon Number Two holding the barrel of his .357 Magnum to Toby's head and unzipping himself and pulling out his own gun, which was erect, as the goons probably knew what they planned to do before they got here. It wasn't hard to gain access to Toby's ass, as he'd only been wearing a short, silk robe anyway. Toby didn't fight the goon as the man, crouching between Toby's thighs as Toby lay on his back on the ottoman, positioned himself, spiked Toby, and began to plow him. The goon got into the fuck so much—and Toby was taking it so well—that the .357 Magnum found its way to the floor beside the ottoman.

Goon Number One only forced Hardesty to watch Toby being fucked for a few minutes before he started pushing Hardesty over toward a couch. "Now you," he said. "Bend over the arm of the couch. It's gonna be me and you."

Now Hardesty did panic. He wasn't a bottom. He had fleeting thoughts of trying to get to the gun he kept on a shelf on the other side of the kitchen island, but he was being shoved in another direction from that, and there was the little problem of his wrists being tied behind his back. Goon Number One had him bent over the sofa arm and was lying on top of him and pulling his trousers and briefs off his buttocks, when the situation changed.

"OK, let's stop this party right here," a voice boomed out from across the room. Paul, naked as a jay bird had come out of the show bedroom. He was holding a revolver of his own that trumped where the goons had theirs. He approached Goon Number One and pulled him off Hardesty while rummaging around in the seat cushion where his revolver had been dropped in his excitement and quickly had possession of the one Goon Number Two dropped beside the ottoman as well.

"Now, you two stand away, over by the door."

Toby piped up, though. "Aw, Paul, I think this one is about to blow. Let him finish first."

So Goon Number One was hustled over to the door, Paul released Hardesty's wrists and gave him one of the .357 Magnums, and they all stood around humming, as Goon Number Two resumed humping Toby to an ejaculation. When he was done, Toby pushed the goon off him, surprised him with a pop in the mouth with his fist, and growled, "That's for not asking nicely."

"Just to call a truce, I'm going to let both you boys go home in one piece," Hardesty said, restoring their revolvers, without the bullets, ushering them—embarrassed—out of the door with a "You don't need to tell your boss you didn't fully accomplish your mission. But my son enjoyed Egor's attentions. Looks like he has a nice cock and a decent backswing. He fuck you well, son?"

"Yes, he fucked me very well . . . Dad," Toby answered as the men were hustled out of the apartment and the triple locks were thrown.

Toby was giving Hardesty a funny look, but it was Paul who asked, "Son?"

"You had to be there," Hardesty answered and then laughed. "But did we interrupt something going on in the bedroom."

"We were waiting for you," said Toby.

"Not really," Paul answered. "But we're happy to cut you in. Jan's back in the bedroom too."

It was the first time Hardesty and Paul shared in doubling, doing Jan first and then Toby.

* * * *

It was still dark and had only been a couple of hours since the Russians retreated, but Hardesty had dozed off and was awakened by the buzzing of his cell phone on the night stand. The lamp on the stand was on, set on low, so it wasn't totally dark in the room. Hardesty was stretched out on his side next to Jan, who was on his back, his arms stretched over his head and his wrists tied of on the headboard. His ankles were tied together too. He was asleep and didn't waken at the sound of the cell phone. It was likely that he was exhausted. The open box containing sounding wands rested on the other side of his thighs from where Hardesty was stretched. Five of the wands were out of the box and scattered around on the bed. Hardesty had used five of them before Jan had shot his load, and Hardesty had stroked himself off in sympathy.

The bed was swaying again. Toby was lying on his back on the other side of Hardesty, his butt on the edge of the foot of the bed, and his heels rubbing on Paul's hips, as Paul crouched over him, fists buried in the sheets on either side of Toby's biceps, and was fucking Toby in long, languid, smooth strokes.

Hardesty reached up and released the restraints on Jan's wrists and continued his hand motion over to the cell phone. Putting it to his ear, he growled, "Speak."

"It's Glen. Time for another trip back to the yellow house in Georgetown. I think it's the guy you called Kim. Shot between the eyes in his bed. Pretty messy. It looks like he was tortured first."

"Shit," Hardesty whined as he started crawling over Jan's still-sleeping body.

Chapter Six: All Fall Down

"What's your guess on the caliber of the weapon?" Hardesty asked the medical examiner. They were standing in the bedroom where Hardesty had that afternoon been playing sounding games with the victim. Kim was back in his black silk lounge suit—at least the top half of him was. He was posed on the bed on his back, propped up by pillows, with a pillow under the small of his back, and his legs spread and bent. It was like he'd positioned himself to receive a lover—a male lover. His first problem was the assortment of items scattered around on the bed that had been used on him as dildos. His second problem was that there was a bullet hole in his head between his eyes.

Hardesty had castigated himself during his race across the district into Georgetown at dawn the second day after Christmas. Had he embarrassed the Russian mafia goons so badly that they'd immediately taken Kim out, out of spite, thinking the young man was the shooter in the Talmadge case? He hadn't been high on Hardesty's list of candidates for that. But if the Russians thought Toby was his son, they may have screwed up who had killed Talmadge, Victor, and Leslie, as well.

"What are you looking for?" the ME asked.

"I'm thinking about whether it could have been a .38—maybe a .357 Magnum," Hardesty answered.

Glen Whitehall gave him a quizzical look. Hardesty hadn't mentioned his encounter with the Russians yet. "Or a .45. We have the possibility of a G30S involved in the case."

"A Glock G30S?" the ME said, with surprise. "Isn't that mainly a government gun?"

"Yeah," Hardesty said. "I'm afraid we haven't ruled out government involvement if this is related to the Talmadge shooting—and it's hard to think it isn't involved."

"Well, both a .38 and a .45 would be messier than this," the ME said. "My guess is a .22. I'm told that's what the slugs were that were taken out of the three bodies in the Talmadge case. So that would seem more likely if this killing is connected."

"Yeah, except we've had the suspect .22 weapon sitting on my desk in police headquarters since this afternoon," Whitehall said.

"Which leads to the question of time of death," Hardesty said. "Within the last couple of hours." He was still looking at the Russians as having done this after they let him loose earlier in the evening.

"No, no," the ME said. "This guys been dead for a good ten or twelve hours. Shot sometime yesterday afternoon."

Both his and Whitehall's cell phones sounded off. Whitehall answered his. Hardesty was a bit in shock and let his ring.

"Shit," Hardesty exclaimed. He'd been here fucking Kim's dick with a sounding wand in the afternoon. It must have happened shortly after he'd left. The black Escalade that had dogged him to Georgetown from Wesley Heights but that remained at the Georgetown townhouse when he left came to mind.

He was about to ask another question when Whitehall broke in with a "shit" of his own. "Gotta go, Hardesty. A shooting at the Wesley Heights house. A very messy one."

* * * *

The sun had just made an appearance and they could see that there were two areas roped off with yellow tape at the front of the Wesley Heights house as Hardesty and Whitehall drove up, not just one, and they'd already been told that Maria Talmadge (or Nadia Stanislova) had been shot inside the house, not outside. They passed the first taped off area, a black van, parked half a block down from the house. Despite the head shots, Hardesty recognized the two goons—the two Russian goons he'd danced with the previous evening. They were leaning into the respective windows in the front seat, looking all surprised and very dead. Neither would be doing any more dancing.

Crane was in the front yard of the house, along with a dozen assorted detectives and cops, standing around another dead guy who was rimmed with yellow tape. This one was dressed all in black, was spread-eagled all akimbo just at the bottom of the steps up to the front door, and had several front-loaded bullet holes in him. Hardesty didn't recognize him, but he recognized the black Escalade pulled up at an angle on the sidewalk in front of the house and looking like a ride set up for a quick getaway that didn't happen. Hardesty wondered if the body went with the Caddie.

"You slowed down passing the van down the street," Crane said to his two detectives as they walked up the incline of the lawn to him. "Recognize them."

"Yeah, I did," Hardesty said. "They are part of the Russian mafia mob in this area. Connected with Victor, who we now know was really named Pietr Stanislov. Probably also connected with Nadia Stanislova, purported wife of our mysterious CIA vic, Curtis Talmadge, who was going by the name of Maria. She inside?"