Flame Out by M. P. Cooley Page B

what’s the phrase? All deliberate speed.”
    â€œI’m ready when you are,” Hale said, coming in and shaking Donnelly’s hand.
    I explained to the two men that I planned to revisit any of thewitnesses from Vera’s original missing person investigation who were still alive, plus two additional people Dave had identified on the list I stole from him. Dan Jaleda, who helped brick in Vera back in 1983, was my priority, but calls to his office implied he would be out until late this afternoon. We had more than enough to do until then.
    I wanted to add one more interview to this group, the most important person: my chief suspect. “Can we arrange a visit with Bernie Lawler in prison?”
    â€œI’ll call Defoe,” the chief said. “With such a press heavy case, our illustrious DA will be put out if we don’t include him.”
    Oh, joy. Jerry Defoe. While Jerry had stopped actively trying to undermine me after our success on our last case together, we were far from friendly. The chief read my mind.
    â€œYou don’t want to be here when Jerry arrives. Get out there and do some police work.”

CHAPTER 7
    I SPENT THE NEXT FOUR HOURS LEARNING UKRAINIAN PROFANITIES .
    â€œ Suka ,” Famka, Vera’s friend from grade school called her. Neither Hale nor I spoke Ukrainian, but we guessed by the way she spat out the word that it wasn’t a compliment. Everyone on the list had spent most, if not all, of their lives in the United States. They spoke flawless English, talking about the neighborhood, their home, their family, and even the TV shows they liked in uninflected English. However, the mention of Vera got them back in touch with their roots, and out came the Ukrainian word for “slut.”
    â€œBeautiful woman, so beautiful she had no kindness in her. She slept with my husband.” Famka met our eyes frankly. “He was no great loss. He could not keep jobs, and ran around with loose women. Like Vera. Vera’s husband, Taras, it killed him, her and her . . . drunken behavior.”
    â€œYou knew Taras?” I asked.
    â€œA bit. His sister, much more. Natalya was almost like mother to him. Not like huggy, kissy mother,” the way she twisted her mouthmade clear Famka’s distaste for hugging and kissing, “but like mother bear. Strong, and fierce, and protective.”
    I’d seen Natalya’s mama-bear routine with Dave, petting him and then smacking him around when he got “brainless.” I wouldn’t have described Natalya as fierce, however.
    â€œNo, it’s true. She’s a fifteen-year-old girl, an orphan with a two-year-old brother, and she gets them plus Maxim and Jake Medved and their mother over the border. My sixteen-year-old granddaughter plays shooting video games all day, thinks she’s tough, but she doesn’t know anything. Judge Medved, he always says he’d be dead without Natalya since his mother was a saint but a mouse and would have waited patiently at home for the Red Army to return so they could shoot her in the head and conscript the boys. Natalya got them all into Germany.”
    â€œThe Red Army were shooting their own citizens?”
    â€œThey didn’t consider the Ukrainians citizens. Half of us were ready to join the side of the Nazis.”
    A shocked look must’ve passed my face. “It wasn’t ideological,” she said offhandedly. “The Soviets starved the Ukrainians, and then sent the Black Raven to grab us in our beds in the night. We thought the Nazis would be an improvement.” She rolled her eyes. “Boy, were we wrong. Anyway, it’s good she got her brother and the Medveds onto the American side at the end of the war because she found her way here and saved even more lives. Between her and Maxim, er, Judge Medved, no one ever went hungry. Natalya’s garden overflowed, she said, but I suspect she would go without food rather than let others