by William Cook
She grasped his hand and accompanied him through the door, her heart pounding.
A dark-suited man stood right outside the door. “Sir,” he said, with a crisp nod of his head.
I’m under guard, she thought. “Good morning. My name is Patricia.” She flashed her most flirtatious smile at him, with eyes that suggested, “Maybe later?”
Ethan pulled at her hand. “Don’t talk with the help. Just get your ass in gear. You said you wanted to see the place.”
As they walked down the long, wood-paneled hallway, Patricia counted three more doors. “Are those more staterooms?”
“Yeah, but none like yours.”
“What about this? It looks like an elevator.”
“The quickest way between decks. The main deck is just above this one. There’s two more decks below us.”
She detected a note of pride in his voice, the arrogance of opulence. Good. I can play to that.
The hallway ended in a large open space with a cathedral ceiling and an assortment of upholstered chairs and sofas. A large bar occupied one wall, complete with koa countertop, leather bar stools, and shelves full of every imaginable spirit. Two walls sported sixty-five-inch television screens. The glass wall directly in front of them looked out over the harbor to the hotel beyond.
“It’s so beautiful, Ethan. I’m at a loss for words. Congratulations.” Elevator past three doors. Don’t know if anybody else is in those rooms, but I’ll bet not. No other staff around. Main deck one floor up. From the view, the gangway must be on the starboard side. Starboard? How nautical of me!
“C’mon. We gotta go back. I’ll see you tonight. And like I said, you better be ready.” She noted that his smile bore a trace of malice.
On the way back to her stateroom, she risked turning her face away from Ethan and smiled again at the guard, pouting her lips. In moments, she heard the lock click.
“Tonight,” Ethan called through the door.
Now what to do about the guard?
33. Legerdemain
Paul’s car was lurching down the logging road. He was wet and tired from dragging Gideon’s body to the cliff on the other side of the pond and dropping him to his final rest. Will this work? Will they really think my brother and I burned the place down and ran? In his heart of hearts, he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps his spur-of-the-moment scheme was all for naught. How soon before they come looking for me? he wondered. Do I have a few minutes to go back and get my comic books? And what about this damn car? They’ll be looking for it for sure. First the comic books. Then ditch the car. He looked at his watch and pounded the steering wheel.
Once off the dirt road, he used side streets back to Driftwood, rather than driving the quicker, but more exposed, route 101. I only need five minutes, he told himself. The rain refused to let up.
“Why are we back here, Pavel? He will not return. And the police will be here soon. They know who owns the warehouse. They are coming. I do not want them to find us sitting in his living room.”
“Be patient, Oleg. He will come back for the comic book. You saw how much it is worth. And you said he had more upstairs. He will not leave them behind.”
“You do not think he died in the fire?”
“He and his brother burned down their warehouse. They are frightened of the police. Destroying evidence. But they will not leave without his treasures.”
“No matter what they are worth, they will not be able to spend it in prison, comrade.”
Just then Pavel put a finger to his lips. He heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway alongside their own.
Paul saw the black Mercedes at his house. “What the hell?” he said aloud. No one was in the car, so he assumed the driver had broken into his house. “My comics!” He stopped the car and got out, wincing as the cold rain beat down on him. He cursed under his breath at his dilemma. He couldn’t call the police, could get no help. He would have to face the robber himself. He had no gun, only his wits and his butterfly knife, which he patted in his pocket to reassure himself.
He opened the front door and shouted, “Who’s in my house? Get out now and I won’t hurt you!”
A voice came from the living room. “We did not wish to alarm you, Mr. Drake, that is why we left our car where you could see it. We are emissaries just arrived from Mr. Volkov in Portland. Pardon us for letting ourselves in uninvited, but you should invest in a better lock.”
Paul stalked into the room, clothes soaked to his skin, shivering with cold. “Just what do you think you’re doing here?”
The men stood up. Paul noted their expensive suits and ties. One of the men looked like a giant, while the other looked too small and pretty to be a henchman.
“I am Oleg and this is Pavel. We are here on business from Mr. Volkov. Perhaps your brother is with you so we can tell you both about Mr. Volkov’s latest request?” Oleg sounded as though he might have some sympathy for the plight of the wet and dirty man before him.
“Gideon isn’t here, but I can call him. He’s at our warehouse in Depoe Bay.” He studied their faces as he spoke. Oleg blinked twice, and Pavel’s lips frowned briefly, then returned to their neutral expression. They know! The bastards know the warehouse burned down, but they’re pretending they don’t! He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to decide what to do next. He had to keep them talking. “What does Volkov want?”
“Mr. Volkov has a newer, better boat waiting for you in the Port of Newport Marina. He wants you both to engage in greater ventures for him south of here. He has asked us,” he motioned toward his partner, “to escort you to the harbor for your final approval.”
“Tell me about this boat.”
Pavel hesitated, then stepped forward. “It is about twice the size of your current boat—Smaug? Am I right? Bigger engine. The best electronics money can buy. You will need it for taking longer voyages.”
“Longer voyages? Where?”
“I am not at liberty to say, but I can assure you that you will be richly rewarded for your labors. Mr. Volkov values loyalty in the service of his enterprises.”
“You want to take me and Gideon to check out this boat in Newport?”
“Yes. We will drive you there.”
Alarms went off in Paul. His heart rate increased as perspiration beaded his forehead, and he clenched his fists to prevent his hands from trembling. He had seen too many movies. If there was any trope worse than walking downstairs into a darkened basement in a horror movie, it was getting into a car with bad guys in a mob movie. He approached the men and stood between them. Has Volkov turned on us? What did Gideon say the last time he talked with him? Is the Russian afraid we’re a security risk all of a sudden?
Instinctively, he knew what he had to do. My Rubicon, he thought. There will be no turning back. Neither man had drawn a gun, so the element of surprise was on his side. He would have to be quick and decisive. Legerdemain, he thought. Sleight of hand. Distract them and strike.
“Do you like my comic book?” he said, as he gestured toward it with his left hand. In a motion almost too fast for the eye to see, Paul withdrew the balisong from his pocket with his right hand and flipped it open. Spinning to his left, he slashed the big man’s throat. Continuing his turn, he plunged the knife into the smaller man’s left eye, penetrating his brain. Both men collapsed in a fountain of gore.
The killer stood over them, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to, but you made me do it.” He sighed audibly. There would be no hiding this godawful mess. He only hoped he had enough time to clean himself up and get away.
“It’s all over but the shakes and wiggles, huh guys?” he said over the twitching corpses. “That’s what you get for underestimating me. My brother underestimated me, too, and look what happened to him. Everybody underestimates poor little tagalong Paul. Poor little momma’s boy. A good disguise for a Dragon like me. Now let me have your wallets and phones. No sense making things any easier for the cops than we have to. Oh, and the car keys.” He rolled the bo
dies over. “Very good.”
He leaped up the stairs two at a time to the bathroom and sponged the blood from his face and hands. Dropping his bloody shirt and pants to the floor, he ran into his bedroom and put on fresh ones. Then he opened an overnight suitcase and shoved clean clothes into it. With loving hands, he removed the framed Amazing Fantasy No. 15 and Detective Comics No. 27 from the bedroom wall and inserted them into a large portfolio case, along with other comics in plastic sleeves. With the portfolio in hand, he grabbed his empty backpack and the overnight bag and dashed back downstairs to the living room. He took down the Superman comic, revealing the wall safe behind it. Opening the safe and placing the backpack under it, he slid the neatly stacked bundles of hundred-dollar bills into the bag. As he prepared to leave, he put the framed comic book into the portfolio with the others, looked around the room a final time, and snorted in disgust.
“I liked living here, you assholes. You’ve gone and ruined everything.” In moments he had loaded the portfolio, the suitcase, and the backpack into the Russians’ black Mercedes.
He sped away toward Portland International Airport.
“Guys! Guys!” Chiara was shouting into the radio.
“We’re in a diner in Depoe Bay, getting warm. What’s up?” Whitehorse got his partner’s attention.
“The Russians are back at Paul’s house. Paul’s there, too. I think something terrible just happened.”
“What?”
“I think he just killed them.”
Esperanza broke in. “No friggin’ way!”
“He said everybody underestimates him.”
“Goddamn it! We’re on our way. Call Forensics in Newport and get them up here. Some of them may be at the warehouse. We sure are keeping them busy.” Whitehorse threw a twenty on the table as they ran to their cars.
The policemen rushed north on 101, sirens blaring to clear the traffic in front of them. Once they got to within a mile of Paul’s house, they went silent. Both pulled to the side of the road about a block from their destination.
Rain pelted on the brims of their caps as they gathered at the front of Esperanza’s cruiser. Steam rose from the hood where the rain fell on the hot metal. “That’s his car in the driveway. Do you think we just got lucky?”
Whitehorse drew his pistol, and Esperanza did the same. “Nothing about this case makes me feel lucky.” He turned to his partner and smiled “Let’s go see.”
They approached the house with caution, watching the windows for any sign of a potential shooter.
“Car looks empty,” Esperanza said.
They reached the front door and stood on either side of it.
Whitehorse raised his eyebrows. “Shall we knock?”
“Allow me.” Esperanza lifted his boot and slammed it into the door with all his strength. The door buckled inward, and the policemen followed. “Police! Put down your weapons!”
Guns raised, they quickly scanned the vestibule. Whitehorse signaled with his hand for Esperanza to enter the living room, while he rushed down to the kitchen. Finding it empty, he ran upstairs to the bedroom and bathroom. “Clear!” he shouted to his friend.
“Come on down, Charley. We got quite a mess here.”
“Got some bloody clothes up here is all. Whaddya got?” He came to his partner’s side. “Holy hell!”
“Nothin’ holy about this. Jesus, this guy is a regular Jack the Ripper!”
The two stood stunned. Blood spattered the walls and furniture, and spread in a large pool around the two bodies.
Whitehorse was shaking his head. “You think you’ve seen everything. Then this. Looks like a goddamn slaughterhouse.”
“And the comic’s gone. Check it out. Look what was behind it.” He pointed to the empty safe.
“His little nest egg, I suppose?” He pursed his lips. “His car’s still here, so either he took his brother’s truck, or he grabbed whatever ride these guys came in.” He called Chiara at the station. “Hey, girl, you were right. The Russians are here, deader than doornails. Find out what car they were driving and put out a bulletin for it. Paul is either driving their car or his brother’s truck. Get hold of the Coroner and send her along. Forensics on their way?”
“As we speak, Boss.”
“Thanks. See you soon.” He looked at Esperanza. “I’d love to check their wallets and phones, but we probably shouldn’t touch anything.”
“Yeah. Let’s just wait till they get here.”
Fifteen minutes later, two vehicles pulled up out front. Whitehorse greeted the Coroner, Louise Benneton, at the door and let in the Forensics team behind her. Benneton was tucked into a white, hazmat-style suit that gave her a pixie-like appearance. Her innocent, boyish face belied a mouth as foul as any Whitehorse had ever heard. “She gives lessons to Marines” had been the joke around local police and fire departments.
“What the fuck do you have for me, Charley?” she said with a huge grin. “I hope it’s something good, making me come out in this fucking weather.” She shook the rain from her umbrella.
“Depends on what you mean by ‘good.’ Let me show you.”
He brought her into the living room and motioned with his arm toward the bodies on the floor.
“Oh, this is good,” she said, eyeing the gore on the walls and floor. “Fucking-A! Worth the trip all right. Know who they are?”
“Oleg Kuznetsov and Pavel Morozov. From beautiful downtown Portland.”
“Guess we still don’t have our goddamn immigration policies worked out, do we? And what brings these cocksuckers to our fair city? Oh, hey there, Tony. Nice to see you again.”
“Business with two of our local crabbers, who just happen to be the owners of that warehouse in Depoe Bay.”
“The fire? No fucking way! Well, this gets more interesting by the minute. Let me take a look at these motherfuckers. Glad I got my plastic suit on.” She pulled rubber gloves over her hands and stooped by the larger of the bodies. “Ouchy, mama! Got his whole goddamn throat cut down to the bone. Looks like one quick slash, real clean, no jagged edges. One helluva sharp blade.”
She shifted her position. “Now let’s check this other sonofabitch.” She rolled Oleg over so she could see his face. “Oh, fuck! That had to hurt. I’m guessing it was the same blade, clear through his fucking eye into his brainpan. We’ll have the Medical Examiner give him a thorough going over just to make sure.”
She stood and turned to the policemen. “No rigor mortis. Bodies aren’t even cold yet. Fresh-baked murder, gentlemen. I’ll let the M.E. know. I’ll be done here and out of your hair in a minute.”
The Forensics team was busy taking blood samples, looking for the murder weapon, capturing fingerprints. Whitehorse asked his acquaintance Mark to check the wallets and phones on the corpses.
“Pockets are empty, Charley. Sorry. Do have a couple Glocks in holsters though.”
Whitehorse put his arm on Esperanza’s shoulder. “That SOB is so fast they didn’t even get their guns out. Remind me not to get too close to him when we take him down.” He exhaled a deep breath. “Not much more we can do here, buddy. Let’s head back to the ranch.”
“I’m with you.”
Ten minutes later, they were back at the department. Chiara was busy at her computer. She looked up and greeted them as they walked in and hung up their coats. When she saw their glum faces, she said, “Bad one, huh?”
Esperanza met her gaze. “Yeah. Bad like let me hurl my lunch into the nearest toilet.”
“Yikes. Well, I’m afraid I’ve got news, some good and some bad. Which do you want first?”
Whitehorse looked at Esperanza, then back at Chiara. “Let’s get all the bad over with so we can move on.”
“OK. There are no cars registered in the names of our Russian friends.”
Esperanza shook his head. “Shit! What gives?”
Whitehorse answered his question. “We know they worked for Volkov. One of his many dummy corporations probably owns a fleet of cars. He
just loans one out when he needs a job done.”
“Well, that sucks. Our little bird flew out of here in an unidentified car? Where the hell do you think he’ll go, Charley?”
“I’ve been chewing on that on the ride back here. I think the choices are south into Mexico or north to the airport.”
“I’ll send alerts to the border and to PDX,” said Chiara. “And I’ll see if we can get a ping on Drake’s phone.”
“Good girl. Now you said you had some good news, too?”
“Uh oh, Charley. She’s got that Cheshire Cat grin on her face again!”
Chiara stood and took a bow. “I’ve found Elysium.”
34. The Dancer Decides
“Well, you were thinking it was a boat, right? That made the most sense. So, I Googled how you register a boat in Oregon and found out it’s through the Oregon State Marine Board. I called them and found out there’s twelve boats registered in Oregon with that name. I tracked down each one of them. And guess what?”
The policemen were hanging on her every word. “What? What? Tell us!”
“None of them really fit what we’re looking for.”
Whitehorse knit his brow. “What are we looking for?”
“Something big. These are just little inboards, cabin cruisers—fishing, water skiing. Owned by people who can barely afford them. Strictly weekend stuff. If they were into human trafficking, they could just float into the marina here themselves without needing the crabbing boat as a go-between. Make sense?”
“Yeah, but it’s still a stretch. What did you do next?”
“Called the Washington State Department of Licensing. They do the boat registrations up there. Again, six boats with that name. I scratched five off the list. Number six is our baby.” She looked like a magician who had just made the scantily-dressed lady appear in the previously empty box. “Ta da!” she exclaimed as she pointed to her monitor.