White Mountain Read Free Page A

last words had been spoken in fluent and perfect Russian.
    He cursed beneath his breath as he started across the street.   All he could do was hope he would find a clue in Walton’s hotel room that would keep him in good standing with the powers that be.
    A few minutes later, he entered the hotel and headed straight for the elevator, confident that he would not be noticed.   He’d followed the old man more than once, so he already knew the floor and room number.   There was no one in the hallway when he exited the elevator, so he headed straight for room 617 without hesitation.
    Once inside, he began a thorough sweep of the room, hoping to find something that would give answers as to why Vaclav Waller had faked his own death, as well as what he had been doing for the past thirty years.   All he found were some out-of-style clothes and a plane ticket to Braden, Montana.   The flight was due out at 9:45 a.m. tomorrow.
    He stood for a moment, contemplating the wisdom of what he was thinking, and then a slight smile broke the somberness of his face.   He had Walton’s ID.   It would be a simple matter to substitute his picture for Walton’s and fly back to Braden on Walton’s ticket.
    He nodded to himself, slipped the plane ticket into his jacket pocket and began methodically packing Walton’s clothes into his suitcase.   It wouldn’t do to have the hotel put out an alarm when the old man went missing.   All he had to do was leave the room key on the bed and walk away with Frank Walton’s things.   The hotel would assume the man was gone, bill the room to the credit card he would have had to show when checking in, and no one would be the wiser.   Less than an hour later, room 617 was empty and Rostov was gone, taking the last vestiges of Frank Walton’s presence in Brighton Beach with him.
    Detective Mike Butoli was nursing a hangover and a broken toe when he came in to work.   The coffee he’d purchased from the coffee shop on the corner was too weak for the condition he was in.   He needed some of his father’s recipe this morning, with a healthy shot of the “hair of the dog,” and then he just might be able to make it through the day.   However, his father had been dead for years, and thanks to a weak moment last night, he was going to have to start all over on a new sobriety day.
    He’d made it almost six months this time and was pissed at himself for giving in to temptation.   When he drank, he had blackouts, so he had no idea which had come first, the broken toe or the first drink, and from the way he was feeling, it didn’t really matter.   His goddamn foot hurt almost as much as his head.
    “Hey, Butoli.   You look like hell.”
    Butoli glared at Larry Marshall and thought about tossing the sorry-assed coffee on the prick’s clean white shirt, then decided against it.   He had yet to figure out how the man had ever made detective.
    “You should know,” he mutter, as he set his coffee down on the desk and started to remove his suit coat.
    “Don’t get too comfy,” Marshall said.   “Flanagan is looking for you.”
    Butoli pivoted without stopping and headed for the lieutenant’s office, limping with every step.
    “Hey, Lieutenant, you wanted to see me?”
    Barney Flanagan looked up, then frowned.   Butoli was a damned good cop when he laid off the sauce, but something told him Butoli had suffered a “weak moment” last night.
    “Are you drunk?” Flanagan growled.
    “No, sir.   Not now, sir.”
    “Then why in hell are you leaning against my door?   Stand up straight, damn it.”
    “I broke my toe.   This is as straight as I can stand.”
    Flanagan muttered beneath his breath as he laid a file on the opposite edge of his desk.
    “Sanitation found a stiff in the alley behind Ivana’s Bar and Grill.   Go do you thing.”
    Butoli took the file without comment and started out the door.
    “Butoli!”
    He stopped and turned.   “Yes, sir?”
    “I don’t give a damn