by James, Ed
“Wish I could.” Elisha looked up. “Rosita seems clean. Story checked out no matter how I get her to run it. Front, back, sideways. Her cell never left the house by the looks of it. And she just seems genuinely upset by what’s happened to Ky.”
“What about this San Quentin link?”
“I’ll chase it up, but I don’t know. I mean, what David’s saying isn’t exactly likely, but you never know.”
“Son of a bitch knows exactly how to play into this. Keep a careful eye on him.”
“Jackpot!” Tyler clicked on both hands, basking in the glow of attention. He jabbed at the screen. “That car belongs to a leasing company registered in Tacoma.”
“You got the owner?”
“Just a sec…” Tyler grunted. “It’s leased to… Ah hell. It’s a company in the Caymans. Glasnost Washington 2018 LLC.”
Elisha craned her neck around. “Seriously?”
“I’m not lying.”
“That’s the company that owns Pravda.” She swung her laptop around. “I did some digging into it; turns out we’ve got some good intel on it. It’s owned by one Boris Zangiev.”
Eighteen
KAITLYN
21:16
My stomach growls as I climb the steep ramp, my heart thudding.
They narrowly missed me back there. That was close. Way too close. But that woman was right. I’ve got to be strong and improvise.
I take a deep breath and step into the terminal’s ticket office and it’s mercifully quiet. I let myself breathe properly again.
A couple in matching Seahawks sweaters argues over who’s messed up the card machine. A young woman rests on her walking cane as she tries to get a ticket from the woman behind the counter. Doesn’t seem too happy. She snatches a ticket and charges off at a fast limp.
My turn, so I step up to the counter, balancing Ky on my hip. “Single to Bremerton, please.”
“Eight sixty-five, ma’am.”
I hand her ten, then take the ticket and my change. As I walk off, the older couple barge into me and knock me out of the way. The man shouts at the woman behind the counter, ignoring me. “Your goddamn machine sold us the wrong goddamn ticket!”
Exactly what I want—a distraction, someone else causing a scene, taking the focus of the other passengers.
So I get out of their way and walk toward the terminal. It’s still set up for the summertime rush, the three long roped-off lanes set up for about six passengers. The number of times I’ve been here with Mom, or with friends from school, or with boys… I follow the Bremerton line through into a departure lounge like a good girl.
The woman with the cane is buying candy from the vending machine. She smiles at me, then hits another button, harder.
Both the Bremerton and Bainbridge gangways are roped off, so I wait in front of the turnstile, singing to Ky. I keep glancing back for any approaching FBI agents, for any cops or any security.
A worker unhooks a rope and opens the turnstile. Looks like the Bainbridge ferry is going first. The board says another twenty for Bremerton.
The woman starts shouting. “They’ve sold me the wrong ticket!”
The Amber Alert flashes up on the screen. I feel all the other passengers watching me, judging me.
But do they see a child abductor, or just a desperate mom out too late?
That woman’s words burn into my skull. Always be prepared to improvise. So I walk over to the woman. “Hey, she give you a Bremerton ticket too?”
“No.” The woman rocks forward on her cane. “Bainbridge.”
“Well, that’s where I’m going, but she gave me Bremerton. You want to swap?”
The woman thinks it through. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Thanks.” I take my new ticket and join the short line for the Bainbridge ferry, all the time watching behind for feds.
Nineteen
CARTER
21:25
Even at this time, there was solid traffic. Elisha was behind the wheel of Carter’s SUV, so he sat back and watched East Madison slide past, still climbing the hill. Upmarket homes with large yards zipped past. The plot-to-price ratio that even Bill Gates or Jeff Bezos would struggle to afford these days. Really showed the change in Seattle in the last twenty years, becoming more and more like the Bay Area.
Elisha pulled up opposite the target address. A grand old building sitting diagonally to get the view across the lake. Three floors of brick and set in mature grounds. It definitely would tempt people as a hotel. And maybe not as old as it liked to portray. This was Seattle, after all. Nothing was that old. Four porticos held up a balcony. Few years ago, the Russian flag flew from there. Now it read Pravda in spare white text on a gray background matching the color of the rest of the building.
And there was clearly something happening inside. A loud noise of chatter and clinking wineglasses and music bled into the night air.
“You want me to lead in here, Max?”
Carter let his seatbelt whiz up. “Okay.” He stepped out onto the street and waited for a line of traffic before crossing.
The entry system dug into the gate was a relic of the consulate. Elisha hit the button and they waited. The brick wall only made it halfway up, the rest of the ten feet made up by black metal spikes. The heartbeat thump of dance music spilled out.
The speaker crackled. “Yes?”
“FBI.” Elisha leaned in close. “Looking to speak to a Boris Zangiev.”
“One moment.”
Thick foliage blocked much of the yard, but Carter was sure he could sense a security presence in there. At least one armed guard in the distance.
“Come in.”
The gate buzzed and Carter pushed it open, but let Elisha go first. Only about twenty steps to the door, but they were met by a pair of security goons in black tie. Slight bulges under their arms. Handguns. Possibly worth pursuing permits, especially as this was no longer Russian soil.
The one on the left—short blond hair and silver-gray eyes—held out a paw. “ID.” A statement rather than a question.
Elisha showed her badge. “How’s that for you?”
A curt nod.
“So, Mr. Zangiev?”
“Inside.” The goon’s gaze went back on the street, like a giant robot from the future scanning each passing car for a threat. “You can enter.”
Elisha went first, muttering: “When Arnie retires, that guy can take over the Terminator franchise.”
The thud of music came from a room on the right. Stripped-back walls showing bare brick. Marble floor filled with tables. The music was a tasteful background, like being in an upmarket furniture store, with no sign of the racket they heard outside. Must be upstairs.
“Agent Carter?” The slightly accented voice come from behind then. Another room, but roped off for VIPs. A small man sat at a table on his own, sipping ice-cold vodka from a shot glass. Expensively tailored, his artfully messy black hair paired with an elaborate beard around his mouth, like it was sculpted rather than shaved. “I am Boris Zangiev. Pleased to meet you. Take a seat, my friends.”
Another goon, similarly sized to the gargoyles out front, let them through the rope. Zangiev drained his glass and poured from the bottle, still frosted. He held it out, eyebrow raised.
Elisha took the proffered seat but Carter stayed standing. “We’re on duty, sir.”
“Why does the FBI want to speak to me?”
Elisha glanced at the henchman, then took in Zangiev again. “You know a Landon Bartlett?”
“And his brother, Chase.”
“You hear about Landon’s kid?”
“What?”
Elisha pointed at the high-end Samsung face down on the table. “That just for show, or did you receive the Amber Alert?”
Zangiev stroked his beard for a few seconds, then picked up the cell. He squinted as he read, then set it down again. “And you think I have something to do with someone abducting a baby?”
“You or your employees.”
“Mr. Carter, I will only speak to you. Please don’t bring this woman in here again.”
“She’s one of my best agents.”
Zangiev smirked. “And that must be a big concern to you.”
“Whoever took him faces at least twenty years inside. No parole. Applies to accomplices too.”
Zangiev tilted his head back and laughed. Then he stared at Carter as he threw the drink down his throat, then wiped his lips. “Why do you think I am involved?” His voice was as cold as his vodka.
“We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have solid intel.”
“My friend, all day I was in my office near the Space Needle. I’m sure you know the address.” Zangiev leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard. “I finished off some paperwork on some pending deals, then I was driven to the Bartlett Foundation dinner. Afterwards, I came here. At no point did I steal anyone’s baby.”
Carter finally took the offer of the chair, taking great care to scrape the legs across the marble floor. “We understand you threatened Mr. Bartlett at that dinner.”
“Did I speak to Landon? Yes.” Zangiev grinned, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “I congratulated him on the announcement of his new cancer center.”
“You didn’t threaten him with his son’s life?”
“For what reason would I do this?”
“Hoping you could tell me.”
“I grow tired of this, Mr. Carter.” Zangiev drank his third shot of vodka. “Whatever happened to Mr. Bartlett’s son, he has my deepest sympathies, but this is not of my doing. I have no idea where Ky is. I didn’t take him.”
“Mr. Bartlett’s home is just a few blocks from here. Easy to go on the way back from the gala dinner.”
“We drove direct from downtown along Madison. No diversions.”
“Anyone who can back that up?”
“My driver.”
“Anyone not employed by you?”
“Well, I was on a telephone call with my lawyer.” A reptilian grin filled his face. “While the contents of a lawyer–client conference is confidential, I’m sure your Department of Homeland Security has a log of the call on a server somewhere, including the GPS data?”
If Carter really wanted, he could get forensics involved, have them pull out location information. “Did you pay someone to take him?”
Zangiev slumped back in his chair. “I’m actually upset that Landon would think I could do such a thing.”
“Didn’t say it came from him.”
A frown flashed across Zangiev’s forehead. Then he grinned. “And I can reassure you that, if I had done this, I wouldn’t act so quickly.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“I shouldn’t joke, but you shouldn’t take things so seriously. Landon and I discussed a business opportunity. One of my many businesses provides security services. He asked us to submit a tender for their new hospital. But you should know that there’s always a threat against someone like Mr. Bartlett. He’s in bed with some very bad people. He worked in the venture capital business. It’s like the mafia, but worse.”
“You have knowledge of both?”
“I grew up in Moscow, my friend.” Zangiev licked his lips. “The mafia runs the city and most of the country. When I moved to America, I worked with venture capital companies. Seattle is like the new San Francisco. So much money, so many opportunities. And so many snakes in the grass. Mr. Bartlett thought he left the game, but he’ll always be looking over his shoulder. But whoever did this would get him to do something for them. Mr. Bartlett isn’t a strong man; he’d cave incredibly quickly. You should ask him.”
Carter looked at Elisha, knowing that it made perfect sense, that Landon’s earlier denial of receiving any threats was likely to be false. He reached into his pocket for a print of the screenshot. “Mr. Zangiev, we have a sighting of a car belonging to your organization parked outside Mr. Bartlett’s home around the time of the abduction.”
Zangiev stared hard at the print for a few seconds. Then he nodded with a wry smile. He passed the page back. “Marcus Edwards, yes.”
“You going to tell me why he was there?”
“Marcus was supposed to deliver some contracts to Mr. Bartlett that needed signing. My organization is to provide security at the gala launch of Mr. Bartlett’s cancer center next month. So many dinners, so many times these people have their begging bowl out.”
“And you can give me copies of these documents?”
“Not signed, no, as Mr. Bartlett didn’t have the opportunity to autograph them. And there’s a certain corporate sensitivity around them. But my attorney will release the files.” Zangiev stroked his elaborate beard, flattening down the thick bristles. “Mr. Carter, could Chase Bartlett be the abductor?”
“What do you mean by that?”
Zangiev smiled at him. “Well, brothers are brothers, but those two have a long and dark history.”
Carter didn’t know what to think. Chase was certainly hiding something and, after his stupid fight with Landon, anything was possible. Certainly a contender. While Carter was an only child, he’d seen enough trivial bullshit between family members escalate into tragic scenarios. He hoped this wasn’t another one.
But again, Zangiev was tossing him a bone. To distract? Or because it was a genuine offer to help? Could be both.
“What are you hiding from me, Boris?”
“I heard some rumors a while ago.” Zangiev chuckled. “Nasty tales about how Landon was sleeping with Chase’s wife and he caused their divorce. Tut tut.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That is all I know. You should ask them, not me.” Zangiev’s grin widened. “Or maybe you could ask Jennifer. After all, she used to be married to Chase.”
Twenty
KAITLYN
21:48
I climb the stairs and step out onto the passenger deck, facing back toward the receding city. The icy wind slices through me, so I tug my hoodie tighter, hug Ky closer, but it’s doing less than nothing. I’m the only person out here. We’re the only people out here.
A helicopter zooms across the Sound. Probably nothing to do with us, but I’m not sure.
A tinny announcement plays, but it’s lost to the wind.
Buoys dot the water every so often, lit up in the dark. Near one, a seal pops its head up but ducks straight back down.
Another ferry drifts past, presumably the Bremerton ferry. If they’re on to us, my trail leads there, not here. By the time they realize, I’ll hopefully be on Bainbridge Island. Away.
We’ll be there. Funny how one becomes two.
I push the door open and walk back down the stairs into the passenger deck. A wide-open space filled with people. Kind of like the terminal at SeaTac, but downmarket. I take a seat near a guy with a thick hipster beard sipping a can of IPA, his pink beanie hat tucked low over his ears and eyebrows, dark shades doing the rest.
Behind us, two early-twenties women chat in hushed tones over giant Starbucks beakers.
Over by the window, a mom and pop in their seventies are sitting with their daughter and her husband, his baseball cap tucked tight and low. Mom is on a phone call, talking incredibly politely, but it sounds like she’s being swindled. Her daughter doesn’t seem to care.
Outside, some teenage girls do the Titanic thing at the end of the rain-soaked deck. The first one has her arms out, the second holding them. Then they swap places in a fit of giggles.
No threats, nobody calling 911 on me. On us.
The ferry rumbles as it slowly comes in to the other side. Rain dots the glass and I can’t even see the murky water outside, but there’s already a line forming. I get up and carry Ky over.
The guy in front of us wears those massive headphones, his fingers twitching around a rolled cigarette, itching to smoke it. The guard laughs at something then helps a blind guy up the gangplank. A woman drops a Pepsi cup and ice spills everywhere.
The happy guard just laughs. “I’ll clean
it up in a minute; don’t worry.” He grins at me as we walk up to him. “That’s a cute kid, ma’am.”
“Thanks.” Then I’m off the ferry and onto dry land. Bainbridge Island.
No FBI, no cops.
Free again.
And I see a car rental place down the block.
Twenty-One
CARTER
21:50
Carter got out onto the street, and a sharp breeze cut through him. Corporate Seattle still bustled on the busy downtown street, office workers hurtling around in their expensive cars, deep voices booming through dashboard speakers as they called to say they were on their way home. He pushed through the revolving door into the building’s lobby and walked over to the elevator.
“Max!” Bill was sitting in the waiting area, legs crossed, fidgeting like Kirsty when she needed to go to the bathroom.
Carter hit the call button. “Not now, Bill. I’m super busy.”
Despite his illness, Bill was still quick as a fox, and he got over there in seconds. “I checked with the hospital and my treatment’s been canceled.”
“But this was all arranged. What happened?”
“I told you, Max. The insurance.” Bill scratched his chin, avoiding eye contact. “I’ll die without it. The last time, they said I—”
“I’ll figure it out, okay?” Carter gripped his shoulder and pulsed, trying for friendly, but maybe some of his anger seeped out and he grabbed too tight. “Go home and relax, okay? Need me to drive you in tomorrow?”
“I was thinking of getting a cab. You’re busy…”
Didn’t stop Bill coming in here tonight, did it?
“I really am. Now, please. Get some rest. I’ll work something out.”
“Son, I really need you to—”
“Bill, I don’t know why you think you can just show up here. I’m working a child abduction. A baby. Now, I’ll speak to HR when I find some time. Okay?”