by William Cook
“Thanks in large part to you…Honorary Detective. Maybe I should start calling you ‘HD.’”
She smiled at him. “I sure love working here.”
“And I’m grateful you do.”
In his study far above the city of Portland, Vasily Volkov terminated the phone call, looked over the skyline, and snorted. His venture with Hartman had been a colossal failure.
He stood and walked toward the large windows, the TV still bleating in the background. With his left hand, he loosened the blue silk tie at this throat and opened his collar button. Sunlight glinting off the snows on Mount Hood, especially in January, was usually a cause for celebration, but not today. His brow furrowed in thought. He didn’t want Mayor Brown’s exoneration of the policeman to ruin his whole day. What was he to do? He looked over his shoulder at the liquor cabinet but shook his head. Too soon to start drinking. I need a clear head.
A quiet knock sounded on the open study door. “Radnoi, I have brought you a mid-morning mug of coffee and a croissant.” Anastasiya stood there, arms holding out a small silver tray. A leather coat covered her dark brown pants suit. “I am going out shopping, but I did not want to neglect you.”
“Thank you, meelaya. Your timing, as always, is impeccable.” He took the mug and sipped the hot liquid. “Excellent. Did you make this?”
“No, silly. Andrei did. But I wanted to bring it to you myself. I sensed that something was not right. That you are unhappy.”
“Your powers of perception are uncanny. Here, let me take the tray and put it by my chair.” He took a bite of the pastry and turned back to his wife. “My plans have not gone so well as I had wished.”
“Oh?”
“I have a grudge against a certain policeman. He has hurt my business and may have been instrumental in the killing of one of my associates. My attempt to discredit him has not worked. Should I just let it go and get on with my work?”
“You have always told me to strike back—even harder. Otherwise your adversaries might think you weak.”
“Precisely!” A broad smile spread across his face. “I needed your encouragement, Ana. Thank you.”
“Of course, lapachka. Is there anything you need while I am out?”
“No, no. Go. Have a good time.” As she turned to leave, he called out, “Be sure to be home by five. I want to get to the Moda Center early. We can eat dinner there in our suite.”
She waved her arm in acknowledgement.
After she was gone, he sat down and took another bite of croissant. He picked up the remote and turned off the television.
“You may believe you have escaped me, my little mouse. In fact, do believe that. Let down your guard. When you least expect it, I will teach you pain.”
27. The Rally
The steep, tiered seats surrounded a bowl so large and high that patrons often joked that oxygen masks should be available at this level. Red and white and blue spotlights played across a stage festooned with banners that read, THE COURAGE OF DAVID—THE STRENGTH OF STEELE. Thousands of voices blended together in a sound like surf crashing on a distant shore. Though smoking was strictly forbidden inside the Center, Chloe kept getting whiffs of marijuana, masking the smells of perspiration and food from the vendors in the hallways.
“This is like a giant party!” she yelled to her daughter sitting next to her.
“Isn’t it fun?” Kaitlynn smiled at her mother, then turned to her friend Tessa and spoke into her ear. “I think Mom is enjoying herself. I’m glad we convinced her to come.”
Tessa’s curly black hair made a halo around her smooth brown face. “And wait till tomorrow! I’m gonna shop till I drop.”
Just then a squeal of feedback from the stage interrupted the sea of voices. In the spotlight stood a young man with long, brown hair and a Hawaiian-style sports shirt. “Welcome, Portland!” he shouted into the microphone. “And welcome Astoria and Salem and Eugene and Driftwood and Bend and wherever else you’re from!”
The crowd erupted in a deafening cacophony of sound. Arms went up in salute, holding phones turned to flashlights that created a galaxy of stars around the stadium.
“Before I welcome our next President to the stage, we need a few songs. Give it up for a surprise appearance by the band that’s number one on the Billboard charts. Let’s hear it for Damn the Black and Tans! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the DBTs!”
The curtain withdrew like a magician’s cape, and the stage exploded in a burst of pyrotechnics, stunning the crowd into momentary silence. Then an avalanche of drums heralded a shrill riff on the lead guitar, and everyone in the stands was on their feet, screaming their approval.
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Kaitlynn shrieked. “I can’t believe it! The DBTs!”
In a masterful stroke of marketing, David Steele had just won the allegiance of everyone there between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. While Kaitlynn and Tessa bounced in glee, Chloe put her hands over her ears to shield them from the auditory assault.
Three songs later, smoke from the fireworks still hung in sedimentary layers from ground level to the “ear-bleed” seats where Chloe and the girls perched. Lasers sliced through the fog like special effects from the latest Marvel movie. The lead singer put his mouth to the microphone and yelled in this thick Irish accent, “Thank you, everyone, for that glorious welcome. We’ll bring that back to Dublin with us. It is our honor now to introduce to you the man who will save America from the Goliath of Corrupt Government. Here is the one and only David Steele!”
Chloe had thought nothing could be louder than the decibels of the DBTs, but she was mistaken. The roar of thousands of worshippers made her thrust her fingers even deeper into her ears. It was complete pandemonium.
As the band scrambled from the stage, a lone figure approached the podium a stagehand had brought forward. He walked with a slight limp, but held his head high. His blue suit, white shirt, and red silk tie spoke of professionalism and authority. His broad smile beamed like a spotlight over his audience. “Good evening, my friends. May I call you that?”
A booming shout of consent answered his request. He turned toward the side of the stage, where the last of the band members was disappearing. “They’re a hard act to follow, Portland!”
More verbal thunder. The man stood there, basking in the adulation of the crowd. He waited until the shouting began to subside. “This outfit feels too formal for the work we have to do.” He removed his suit coat, loosened his tie, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. “We have a Goliath to beat!”
Chloe held both palms over her ears as the tidal wave of sound broke again. As it began to recede, she leaned toward her daughter. “This is a little scary,” she shouted into Kaitlynn’s ear. The look in response told her Kaitlynn didn’t have a clue as to what she meant.
“What?”
“Later.” Chloe looked round at the faces in her row. All seemed rapt at the spectacle before them, eyes locked on the candidate, hanging on each word. Her discomfort grew with every generalization, every abstraction that issued from Steele’s lips. He’s preening like a damn movie star, she thought. Thank God the election is almost two years away. Plenty of time to stub his toe and fall flat on his face. She looked at the ceiling overhead, where the last remnants of smoke hung like wayward clouds. God save the Republic.
She didn’t listen to the rest of the speech so much as register the ear-splitting responses of Steele’s acolytes. She would talk with Kaitlynn and Tessa in the morning. Taking a deep breath, she looked toward the studio and executive suites that surrounded the stadium. The lap of luxury for those too uppity to share the coach with us plebes, she thought. At $5000 and more a pop, I’ll never fly first class.
“Another Scotch, Mr. Volkov?” asked the young server.
“Why, yes. Thank you.” He watched as she scurried off to the bar in the back section of the suite. The view from where he sat was unparalleled. He turned to his wife, sitting in the leather lounge next to him. “What di
d you think of his speech, meelaya?”
“Marvelous. Simply marvelous.” She adjusted her black evening dress and fingered the delicate pearls at her neck. “I am so glad we came. It is so exciting.”
“Indeed.” He took the glass of Scotch from the returning server and sipped the amber liquid. “Perfect.” His mood had improved as the day proceeded, though he had not yet determined a plan to punish Whitehorse. In due time, he decided. One cannot rush art. He looked at the group of men and women seated around him and raised his glass. “To the next President of the United States of America.”
“To the next President,” they responded in unison.
28. Cat and Mouse
MONDAY, JANUARY 28, 2019. Esperanza blew into his cupped hands to warm them. A damp chill settled from the gunmetal sky and seeped through their overcoats and caps like water through a paper towel. He bounced from one foot to the other as Whitehorse knocked again. A man with sandy hair and wide blue eyes opened the door. The shadow of an old bruise haunted his face. One ear ended in a small red stump where the lobe should have been.
“Mr. Drake? Of Dragon Brothers Fisheries?”
“Yes, I’m Paul Drake.”
The policeman extended his hand. “I’m Officer Whitehorse. This is my partner, Officer Esperanza.”
Drake shook their hands. “What brings you two here today? Is there some sort of trouble?”
“Yes, I’m afraid there is, Mr. Drake. It looks like your warehouse—Mid-Coast Seafood—in Depoe Bay has been broken into, and we’ll need to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”
The expression on his face betrayed his words. “Of course. Right this way.” He escorted them to a small but lavishly decorated sitting room with a white brick fireplace occupying most of one wall. “Please have a seat. I’ll have to call my brother. I’ll only be a moment.” He left the room at a brisk walk.
“Certainly. Go right ahead,” Whitehorse called to his back. He turned to his partner. “Looks like he’s been in a fight.”
“Think he got his nose broken? Ear’s in pretty tough shape, too.” The big man shook his head back and forth. “Maybe I’m stereotyping, but this isn’t the kind of room I expected for a crabber. Those are fine art prints, or maybe even originals. That’s a vase of fresh-cut flowers over on the piano. A Steinway, no less. And this furniture. What gives?”
“A crabber can’t be cultured?”
“Just sayin’. Something nautical? Knotty pine or teak or old oak? A little rough-and-tumble? Instead, it looks like it’s had a woman’s touch. I don’t know. Maybe he has a great housekeeper.” He paused. “And will you look at that?” He pointed to a large, ornate frame hanging on the wall opposite. “That’s a comic book. Action Comics No. 1. We’ll have to ask Chiara what her fiancé has to say about that.” He pulled the phone from his pocket and snapped a picture of it.
Paul returned, looking somewhat flustered. “My brother Gideon is on his way over. He’ll be about ten minutes. Can I get you a cup of coffee? I have a pot already brewed in the kitchen.”
“None for me, thanks,” Esperanza said. “How about you, Charley?”
“I’ve had enough caffeine for a while, thank you.”
“Well, sit, please,” Drake said, motioning to the expensive-looking couch. “Like I said, my brother will be here any minute. Maybe we can wait till he gets here?”
“Oh, we just have a few questions. Won’t take much of your time.” Whitehorse paused as if to gather his thoughts. “What do you use your warehouse for, Mr. Drake?” He pursed his lips. “We’re trying to figure out what might have been stolen. It’s pretty empty right now. What did you have in there?”
“Not much. We do engine repairs. Work on the boat. I think we have some old crab pots over in one of the corners.” Drake was fidgeting in his chair, bouncing one foot up and down as though tapping out the rhythm to a rock song.
“Anything of value?”
“Not really.” He shook his head back and forth. Then he took a deep breath. “Maybe it was just some homeless guy trying to get out of the weather. You know the homeless problem is getting bigger and bigger, even in Depoe Bay.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
Whitehorse studied the man before him. “Big open space like that. You could hold quite a party in there, I’ll bet. Stage a play. Maybe even do auditions for a movie.”
Drake’s foot stopped for one beat, then resumed. Whitehorse saw his left eye twitch.
“We had a party once, a few years ago, I think. Well, you guys may not want a cup of coffee, but I do. I’ll be right back.”
The policemen watched him scurry from the room.
Esperanza smiled at his partner. “Well-played,” he mouthed. He turned toward the kitchen. “You got some real nice stuff in here, Mr. Drake,” he called out. “What’s with the comic book, by the way? Pretty fancy frame.”
Drake walked back in with a mug of steaming coffee in his right hand. He seemed more composed as he gestured toward the object on the wall. “I’ve been collecting for several years now. That’s my prize, but I have others as well. Got that particular trophy a couple years ago.”
Esperanza couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice. “I’ve heard about people collecting comics. Never understood it very much.”
Drake boasted like a proud father. “That’s the first appearance of Superman, from way back in 1938. You’d be surprised what a knowledgeable collector would pay for one in such pristine condition.”
Just then the front door burst open and Gideon ran in. “Hope I’m not too late. I’m Paul’s brother Gideon.” He offered his hand to the men. “Paul said our warehouse was broken into? I just drove by it on my way here, and I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
Whitehorse nodded. “We got the call real early this morning. When I got out there, the door was wide open. I went in and did a quick look around. Place was empty. When I walked back out to my car to call it in, I bumped the door and it swung shut. Locked me out so I couldn’t get back inside.”
Now Gideon was smiling. “That’s a pretty good lock. Any idea how they got in?”
“Not a clue. The lock didn’t look damaged. I was hoping you might tell me.”
Gideon looked up at the ceiling, then back at the men. “I remember last winter finding some tramp in there. He was like camping out. Built a little campfire and everything. Said he cracked the code and got in. That’s when I got a bigger lock with a longer code.”
“Would you two like to drive over there with us now? See if anything’s missing?”
Gideon shook his head. “Waste of time. We had nothing in there to steal. I can double-check later today when I go back home, and I’ll call you if there’s anything wrong.”
“If you say so. Here’s my card. Call anytime.” Whitehorse stood and walked toward the door. Esperanza followed suit.
As they were leaving, Gideon said, “Who called it in?”
“Anonymous call. Haven’t bothered to track it down yet.”
While Whitehorse was sliding into the driver’s seat, Esperanza said, “Those guys are as dirty as John Dillinger.”
“You got that right, buddy.” He smiled.
“Hey, crank up the heater, would you? It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”
“Do you even know where that expression comes from?”
“What?”
“It’s an old sailing term. From when they put iron cannon balls on a brass plate that had little depressions in it to hold them. When it got really cold, the brass would contract, and the cannon balls would spill out.”
“Jesus, Charley. You are something else. You keep coming up with all this shit! And if you grin any wider, your face will pop!”
Whitehorse chuckled. As the fan began to blow, he turned toward his partner. “Suppose a few strands of hair are enough to hold those sonsofbitches? That and her name scratched on a baseboard?”
“Well, we got the Superman clue that links the
ad for the audition to the lock code of the warehouse. But what else? We got no body. No real proof of foul play.”
Whitehorse grimaced. “Could they turn around and say something like, ‘We did the audition thing to try to meet some pretty girls, but it was a bust. Haven’t seen Carmody since she walked out. Said she was going to L.A. where they do real auditions.’”
“Shit, Charley. You’re right. They get some Ferrari-style lawyer and I’ll bet they could walk. Goddamn it.” He tried to lighten the mood. “The prissy one was sure nervous. I loved that look on his face when you mentioned the word ‘audition.’”
“Yeah. That made my day. He’s not very fast on his feet. Did you notice he never even challenged me about owning a warehouse in Depoe Bay?”
Gideon was on another rant. “How the fuck did they know we owned that place? Why did you just roll over like a goddamn puppy dog? You could’ve denied it. Stalled for time.”
“What’s the point? They knew. Why is everything always my fault?”
“Because we hid our ownership. To find out, that asshole cop had to do a hell of a lot of digging. He must know a lot more than he’s letting on. A whole lot more.” Gideon began pacing back and forth. “He was here on a goddamn fishing trip. I’ll bet nobody broke into our place. That was just a set-up.”
Paul shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Barely audible words escaped from his mouth. “He said the warehouse was a good place for auditions.”
Gideon froze. The sentence hung in the air between them like a corpse from a noose. “What the fuck did you say?”
“Auditions. He said the word ‘auditions.’”
Gideon bellowed in rage. “Jesus H. Christ! That asshole is on to us! I thought you deleted all that shit!”
“I did. I swear. It’s not my fault.”
Paul cringed as his brother leaped. Gideon struck a quick blow to his face, and when Paul’s head snapped back, punched him hard in the gut. Paul fell to the floor gasping for breath.