I STOOD ON STAGE, overlooking the three hundred guests who listened intently to Mark Ashford speak. He was receiving an award on behalf of the Vancouver Wolves, for all the community work we did as a team. Krista thought it’d buy some goodwill with Ashford, so she had volunteered me to stand on stage with him, representing the players on the team. It would take more than one award to get on Ashford’s good side, but I’d take what I could get.
My eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, and I worked not to run my hand over my face. I hadn’t slept in close to 36 hours. Last night, I had been heading to bed, when Andrusha texted me, inviting me to one of his famous poker games. Andrusha was my childhood best friend. We had grown up, side by side, in our small Russian village. When we turned 18, we served our mandatory year in the military together in the same unit. For my entire life, his friendship had been a lifeline. He was more family to me than my own.
Andrusha had been the one to follow me to Canada. I joined the Vancouver Wolves, and he joined the Vancouver sect of a Russian gang known for their heavy involvement in organized crime. Six years later, he was now in charge. I didn’t condone how he made his money, but I resolutely looked the other way. He did his best to hide the less than savory aspects of his work from me, and I didn’t ask.
Andrusha had been the one to realize that my reputation couldn’t afford an association with him, and he had insisted that our lives no longer intertwine regularly. I had fought him on that, but he was unwavering in his decision. With the rare exception, we no longer associated with each other. I both resented and respected the sacrifice he made on my behalf, but I missed him. He was the one person in this world who felt like home.
Last night was the first time I had heard from him in months, and wild horses couldn’t have kept me away. Like every other night with Andrusha, we drank a lot of vodka, played a lot of cards, laughed and reminisced.
The crowd erupted in applause, pulling me back to the gala. Mark Ashford turned to look at me, a smile on his face. I dutifully stepped forward while someone walked across the stage with an award. Together, Mark and I stood, jointly holding the award, while cameras snapped.
Movement caught my eye. Between the tables walked three men who looked completely out of place.
Oh fuck.
I recognized one detective from this afternoon. Detective Wallace. The crowd gasped as he got on the stage and walked towards us.
“What the hell?” Mark Ashford asked under his breath.
The master of ceremonies rushed forward to intervene, but paused mid-step when the detective flashed his badge at him.
The detective stepped up to Mark and myself, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
“Mica Petrov?”
“Yes.”
“What the hell is going on?” Mark Ashford interrupted.
I knew exactly what was going on. Early this morning, I had been sleeping off our late night in Andrusha’s office. That was when the police had raided his dock warehouse. Which brings me to the real reason I was late to the hotel. I was handcuffed in the back of a police car for most of the day while they searched the warehouse. When they had found nothing, they had reluctantly let me go.
The detective ignored him and stared up at me. “We’d like to take you back to the station for questioning.”
“What is this about?” Mark sputtered. “We’re in the middle of an awards ceremony.”
“Am I under arrest?” I asked, my voice dead calm.
The detective held my gaze. “Not yet. But if you’d like us to haul you down to the station in handcuffs, I’d be obliged.”
“Go,” gritted out Ashford. “Don’t make more of a scene.”
I handed the award to Ashford, and the crowd gasped as I followed the detectives through the crowd. Behind me, Ashford was doing damage control into the mic.
“No reason to be alarmed. One of our players, Mica Petrov, witnessed something, and they require his help. Have a good night, Mica. Thanks for helping our city’s finest.”
Krista was standing, her phone glued to her ear, as she watched me walk by.
THEY PUT me in a holding cell and left me for the entire night. Not ideal, but I sat on the cement bench, crossed my arms and slept. I frequently traveled as a player and had gotten good at falling asleep no matter the circumstances.
A buzzer sounded, waking me up. I watched through slitted eyes as the metal cage door slid open with a clank.
“Wake up, sunshine,” a uniformed officer said from the doorway.
I stood up. “Where are you taking me?”
He ignored me as he led me down two long cement hallways before ushering me into a windowless room that sported a table and four metal chairs.
“Have a seat.”
“What, no breakfast service?”
He glowered at me. “Smart-ass.”
It didn’t take long before Detective Wallace walked in with a thick file. He slapped it down on the table and sat down across from me.
“How are you doing?”
I answered him with a dark look.
“Do you know why you’re here, Mica?”
I played dumb. “You’re the fashion police, and you don’t like my tux.”
“What is your association with Andrusha Sokolov?”
“He’s a friend.”
“What kind of friend?”
I studied the man before me. I understood he was just doing his job, but if he thought I would flip on my friend, he was delusional. “We grew up together.”
He made a note in his file. “Where did you grow up?”
“Russia.”
He made a noise. “And what was the nature of your business with him last night?”
I shrugged. “He invited me to his warehouse to play some cards and drink some real Russian vodka.”
“Are you aware that Mr. Sokolov is the leader of one of Vancouver’s more notorious gangs?”
I feigned shock. “No way. Not Andrusha. He runs an import business.”
“Do you know what he imports?”
“He ships mineral fuels to China.” I knew this as fact. Andrusha fronted his gang business with a legitimate shipping business.
“Your friend runs with a group of unsavory characters responsible for trafficking a large amount of illegal substances through the ports. He only uses his mineral oil shipping business as a front.”
“I know nothing about that.”
The detective frowned. “You’re telling me you had no idea about his criminal activity?”
I shrugged again. “I don’t see Andrusha that often. We get together maybe once or twice a year.”
He checked his notes again. “You play for the Vancouver Wolves. Defenseman, right?”
“That’s right.”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’d think someone of your position would be more careful about the friends you keep company with.”
I shrugged. “Like I said, Andrusha is an old friend. From my past. We barely hang out.”
“We’d like your help.”
I worked to keep my expression impassive. “With what?”
“We’d like to set up eyes and ears on your friend.”
I didn’t move a muscle.
“That guy is one bad dude. And if you’re not with us, we will believe you’re against us.”
“Like you said, someone in my position should be more careful about the company I keep.”
“We’d like to offer you a deal.”
I scoffed. “I have no interest in getting involved with your job or his. As far as I know, he runs a legitimate business.”
“Someone in my position can make your life difficult.”
“Are you threatening me?”
He lifted his hands. “Trying to be real with you, dude.”
I leaned forward. “Are you arresting me?”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
I stood up. “Then this interview is over.”
“I didn’t say you could leave.”
“Then I’d like to speak to my lawyer.”
His eyes narrowed on my face before he nodded. I moved towards the door and someone on the other side opened it for me.
“You should find somewhere to go for a while other than your home,” he added.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Why?”
He stood up and handed me a folded piece of paper. “Because we’re in the process of searching your home.”
I took the paper from his hand. “Search away. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
I tucked the paper into my pocket on my chest. “Have a good day, officer.”
“Detective.”
I turned to go, but his voice followed me. “We’re watching you, Mica Petrov.”
I DROVE by my place and winced as I took in the five police vans and swarms of cops in white coveralls standing on my front driveway. Those guys didn’t fuck around.
I drove to Dewey’s and, unsure what to do next, I called Ryan.
“Ryan here.”
“Ryan, it’s Mica.”
“What’s up, man?”
“Could we talk?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“No, in person.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
His voice changed. “You okay?”
“I fucked up.” I looked around the bar.
“How bad?”
“Real bad.”
Concern clouded his voice. “Where are you?”
“At Dewey’s Pub.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Thanks.”
I ordered a water and debated my options. This is exactly what Andrusha had been trying to prevent. He knew that if anyone got wind that I associated with him, it could damage my career. Standing with Mark Ashford before being led away by three detectives was more than damaging. I didn’t even want to think about how Ashford would react.
I wondered what happened to Andrusha, but I knew better than to call him. When he had a chance, he’d contact me.
My phone rang.
“Krista.”
“Where the fuck are you?” Her shrill voice punctured my eardrum.
“Why?”
“I’m at the central police station with Mark Ashford’s lawyers, and they said you left.”
“They let me walk.”
“Where are you?”
“Meeting Ryan at Dewey’s.”
“Why are you drinking at a bar? Mica, this is serious. We have to get in front of this.”
“The police had a search warrant for my home. They won’t let me in.”
“Fucking hell.” Moments ticked by while Krista thought her way through this. “I’m putting the lawyers on this. Meet me at your place.”
She hung up on me before I could respond.
I dialed Ryan’s phone.
“Ryan here.”
“Buddy, I’m sorry to do this to you, but I will need to catch up with you later.”
He sounded concerned. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I need to meet up with Krista.”
One reason I loved Ryan was he took everything at face value. “That’s cool. Call me if you need me.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
I felt like hell. I was still wearing my tuxedo, and all I wanted to do was have a shower and crawl into bed.
WHEN I PULLED up to my place, there was only one van left. I parked on the street and strolled up the driveway.
“Can I get in?” I spoke to a guy wearing a white paper jumpsuit.
“We’re just finishing up now.” He pulled his white hoodie off his head. “Give us a few.”
I watched as two more guys carried out brown paper bags of evidence and loaded them into the back of the van.
“You can enter your premises now,” the man said, as he marked something off on a clipboard.
I stepped inside the front door.
“Holy shit,” I breathed as I looked around the place. It looked like a tornado had hit. They had pulled every item of food out of my cupboards. Dried pasta, flour, sugar, coffee, rice bags had been sliced open and dumped without ceremony onto the counters. It looked like they had cleared out the fridge, dumping most of the food in the sink.
Behind me, in the living room, they had slit every pillow and every couch cushion open with a knife and pulled out the stuffing. A foot of white fluff now covered the floor of the room. They had taken every painting off the wall, flipped them around and sliced the backs open. Black powder smudges showed how they had tried to lift fingerprints.
I walked down the hallway towards my bedroom. They had pulled every single item of clothing out of my closet and dumped it in piles on the floor. In my bathroom, they had squeezed my toothpaste into the sink, and a pile of shaving cream billowed like a soft cloud on the top of my counter.
I swallowed the bile that rose in the back of my throat. Anger flowed through my veins. I felt violated, and that made me want to rage. I wanted to hit. I wanted to maim and destroy.
“Mica?” Krista called.
It took me a moment, but I swallowed all those emotions down until nothing remained on the surface. Off the ice, emotion control was something I specialized in. The only place where I let myself act on my emotions was the rink.
I walked back out to the kitchen. The second time I saw my kitchen was no less shocking than the first time.
“Holy fucking hell.” Krista’s eyes were wide as she looked around. Charlie stood behind her, holding a pile of files. Her face was white and her expression filled with sadness as she looked around.
“Welcome, ladies.” I smiled, acting like I didn’t give a shit. “Anyone need a drink?”
Two sets of shocked eyes turned towards me. I stepped over a barstool that lay on its side and pulled open my freezer drawer. To my surprise, the cops had left the unopened vodka bottle alone.
I lifted it up. “Surprised they didn’t dump this out of spite.”
“They destroyed your place.” Krista, who normally remained emotionless, sounded devastated.
“Seems that way.” I found three shot glasses in the cupboard and lined them up on the counter. Without asking if either of them would join me, I filled each shot glass.
“Mica, we need to talk,” Krista tried.
“Come here.” I motioned with my head. “Have a drink first.”
She stepped forward. I looked over her head at Charlie, who stood off to the side, her big brown eyes on my face. I wondered if she could see how I really felt inside.
“You too, Charlie. Get in here,” I said in a light tone.
She stepped up to the counter, set the files down and picked up her shot glass. Her honey-blonde hair was coming out of her messy braid.
“To life.” I raised my glass before tossing back the burning liquid. After drinking all night with Andrusha, and operating on an empty stomach, no food and limited sleep, my body almost rebelled against the shot.
Krista did her shot and then went into work mode.
“Want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
I watched as Charlie sniffed her shot and then gingerly put it to her lips. She tipped her head back and for a second I thought she might cough. She swallowed the entire shot, but her big brown eyes watered.
“Want another?” I asked.
Her eyes met mine, and she shook her head. For no other reason, than to see if she’d drink it, I poured her another shot.
Krista snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Petrov. Focus.”
I pulled my attention away from Charlie and looked at Krista. “I was playing poker with a friend.”
“Which friend?”
“His name is Andrusha Sokolov, and I grew up with him. I almost never see him, but we get together and hang out once in a while.”
“And?” Her voice was impatient. Out of my peripheral, I could see Charlie lift her shot glass and toss it back. I don’t know why that impressed me, but it did.
“And his place of establishment got busted. I was sleeping off my hangover in his office when the police raided the place early yesterday morning.”
“For fuck’s sake, Mica.” Krista looked pissed. “Do I even want to know what kind of establishment he runs?”
For the first time in my life, I lied to Krista. “As far as I know, he runs a mineral oil shipping business. Anything else he does, I don’t know about.”
She looked around my place. “Well, apparently he’s doing something illegal.”
“The police held me overnight, probably to take the time to get a warrant for my place. They first warned me off my friend and then suggested I spy on him on behalf of the police force.”
“You mean, become a police informant?” Krista’s voice went up two notches.
“I told them to fuck off.”
“I don’t have to tell you that this is a fucking disaster. This is a PR nightmare. This is so bad, I can’t remember when, in the history of my career, a client was so far up shit creek as you are right now.”
I blinked at her. “Don’t sugarcoat this for me.”
She huffed. “Your image is in shreds. You were already hanging by a loose thread before last night, but this is cataclysmic.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and sat down on what remained of my couch. “My reputation wasn’t that bad.”
She ticked off the offending items on one hand. “The houseboat party last summer that got out of control and involved the coast guard. The crazy situation at that waterfront restaurant where one of your guests threw a table off the balcony. The prank you played on one of your teammates that resulted in your chartered flight being delayed and the entire team being late for a game.”
All true. All mostly not my fault. I liked to party, but it usually wasn’t me who got too wild. It was my crazy-ass friends. “I thought that was all forgiven.”
She pinned me with another one of her looks. “Ashford may have forgiven you, but he never forgets. You’re damn lucky you’re so talented on the ice, but this situation will make the houseboat incident look insignificant.”
I felt like throwing up. I leaned my head back and shut my eyes. “So what do you suggest?”
“I’m thinking.” The shrill sound of her cell echoed through the room. “It’s Mark Ashford. Don’t fucking move.”
I listened to the sound of her heels disappear out the front door.
