367 Hampton Place
"So Arthur's dead," Nikita Rivstoy said quietly. "I was hoping it wouldn't be so soon."
"But he knew it was coming."
"Yes. Anokhin wouldn't let him live much longer," he paused, glancing at John. "I suppose you two belong to the police."
"Who's Anokhin?"
"That depends on who's asking."
"Let's just say we have evidence that wouldn't make your life any easier," Sherlock said, handing him the ledger. "Recognize it?"
"No," he said, flipping through the pages. "I can't say I do."
"Didn't think so. Can you identify the handwriting?"
"Looks like Anokhin's," he said, handing the book back to Sherlock. "I suppose he tried to frame us for murdering our own members."
"Us?"
"Yes. My half of the Bratva. It means…"
"Brotherhood," John said. "It's Russian for brotherhood."
"Yes. The Russian mafia, as you call it. Each band is known as a Bratva."
"So you belonged to Anokhin's Bratva at one time?" Sherlock asked, standing up from his chair and walking over to the window.
"Yes. Until our brotherhood split into two…oh, what's the English word…"
"Factions."
"Yes. Factions. Vladmir Anokhin remained the leader in his. I led the others in rebelling against him."
"Why?"
"He and his followers believed that one of our founding members was a spy for some of our rivals. Arthur Novikov." Rivstoy sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I didn't believe it, so I remained loyal to him. I still don't believe it," he paused, shaking his head. "But that does not matter so much anymore, I suppose," he chuckled. "He was a good man."
"When did all of this happen?" Sherlock asked, turning to Rivstoy.
"Not but a month or so ago," he said, glancing at Sherlock. "Both of our factions have fallen apart since." He sighed, looking out the window. "Poor Grace. I wonder if she knows."
"Grace?"
"Grace Novikov. His daughter."
"Were they close?"
"Yes, very close," he said, pausing as he examined the ground. "He never wanted this life for her."
"Do you know where Anokhin is now?" John asked.
"No. Good luck finding him," Rivstoy said, shaking his head. "He's a ghost when he doesn't want to be found."
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Rivstoy," Sherlock said, adjusting his scarf. "Come on, John. We've got ourselves a murderer to catch."
Scotland Yard
"So why were you at Nikita Rivstoy's," Lestrade asked, sipping his coffee as he leaned back in his chair. "And you still haven't answered my first question."
"Are these really necessary?"
"Yes, since whenever I want to ask you anything regarding, let me remind you, my case, not your case, Sherlock, you seem to conveniently disappear," Lestrade said, watching as Sherlock continued to fight with the metal cuff attached to his wrist. "Now let's try this again
"I have the murderer," Sherlock said, fumbling with the clasp.
"What?"
"I have the murderer."
"He does," John said from his seat in the corner of the room. "Wouldn't shut up about it in the car."
"Enlighten me. Why am I still attached to this?" Sherlock said, trying to free himself by putting the clasp between his feet.
"Who is it?"
"Who's who?"
"The murderer, Sherlock."
"I have my rights."
"No, you don't."
"I'm chained to a desk."
"Exactly my point. Now please…for once in your life, be agreeable."
"You can't make me," he said stubbornly, struggling with the chain.
"Really now? Because if I know you well enough, you won't be able to keep it secret for much longer. You're too proud," Lestrade smirked, stirring more cream into his coffee.
"Fine. If that helps you sleep at night."
"So if I closed this case and said that Nikita Rivstoy was responsible for the death of Mikhail Losev, Samuel Dawson, and Arthur Novikov, that wouldn't bother you at all…"
"But he didn't do it," Sherlock said slowly, eyes narrowing. "It was Vladmir Anokhin."
"Who the hell is…"
"Leader of the other faction of their Bratva, and he's going to get away if you don't unchain me from this…"
"Where does he live?" Lestrade asked, leaning forward in his chair.
"He's not going to be there. He'll be long gone before you leave headquarters."
"Well at least we'll have something that will point us in the right direction."
"90 Sumter."
"Donavan, look that up for me. And get my car."
"Yes sir."
"You'd better not be fooling with us this time, Sherlock," Lestrade said, grabbing a file from his desk.
"I don't make the same mistake twice, Inspector," Sherlock said, smirking.
"Good," he said, working his key into Sherlock's handcuffs.
"Thank you sir, and good day," Sherlock said, reaching for his scarf. "Come on, John."
"Aren't you coming?"
"Not this time. Send a cab for me tomorrow morning around eleven, and I'll see what I can do."
"We don't have time. By tomorrow morning, he'll be halfway to…"
"Trust me, Inspector," Sherlock said, smiling to himself as he headed for the office door. "I'm rarely wrong about these things."