Bad Faith (Mason Ashford Thriller Series Book 1)

by Nick Stevens

  Sal’s lip quivered. “I got suspended for excessive use of force against some of the suspects charged with his murder. All DCR bangers.”

  Harrison muttered, “Two died in police custody. The other gets to live in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. No charges were filed.”

  Launching to her feet, Sal jabbed a long finger into his face. “Spare me your ivory tower bullshit, judge. They tied him to a chair, put a tire around his neck, soaked him in gasoline and torched him! Couldn’t even use dental records to identify the body. They had to use DNA.”

  Borisov got to his feet and worked his way between Sal and the deflated judge. “This isn’t helping. The point is - the case against Miller is in front of Harry’s court. He thinks Miller had Chloe kidnapped to influence the case.”

  Sal cleared her throat, surveying the tension on Harrison’s face. “That sounds pretty advanced for a group of gang bangers, doesn’t it? Kidnapping the daughter of a judge?”

  “It’s happened before,” Mason offered. “The Latin Princes kidnapped a district attorney’s son in El Paso five years ago. They found that boy in pieces all over the I-10 corridor for months. The DA killed himself.”

  Harry’s head fell into his hands, shoulders quaking as tears landed on the cushion between his knees.

  Borisov put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He glared at Mason, frowning at his callousness. The Chief Justice reached for a cell phone, bringing up a picture of a young woman with brunette hair framing dark eyes. Petite, upturned nose and full lips completed the picture.

  “Chloe’s been missing for over ten days. She was last seen at a bar in Adams Morgan.”

  Mason stared at him, his eyes wide. “Ten days? She’s been missing for ten days and you haven’t called the police or your own protection detail? You called me and a suspended cop?”

  Borisov waved a hand at Harry. “I just learned about this. He didn’t know what to do. Given your history and Sal’s gang experience, I figure you’re the best hope she has.”

  Mason turned to Harrison. “Has there been a ransom demand? Any activity on her social media? Any contact at all?”

  The man shook his head. “I even tracked her phone. Nothing since the night she disappeared.”

  Mason looked to Borisov and shrugged. “It’s been well over a week. Any trail is cold by now, and neither of us,” Mason pointed to himself, then Salome, “Are police. We can’t get warrants, track phones, or legally question anyone.”

  Borisov clenched a fist. “That’s never stopped you before.”

  Mason saw how Borisov’s hand didn’t fully close. Despite repeated surgeries, he’d never regained the full use of the injured hand.

  “I’ve had something to go on before,” Mason nodded to Borisov’s twisted hand. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do But Sal and I aren’t in this together. Her involvement is up to her. Sal?”

  She stared at her feet. “Mason’s right. We’d be risking a lot. Cops don’t like vigilantes. We’re not private investigators, and missing persons aren’t my beat. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  Sal stood to leave, her shoulders stooped. “I’m sorry, Judge.”

  “I’m sorry as well,” Mason said as he stood, showing silent solidarity with Sal.

  Harry stared up at them from the chair, eyes red and swollen. “Please, help me get my baby back.”

  Mason reached for his hand. “Judge, call the police.”

  Chapter 4

  Sal glanced at Mason from the driver’s seat. Few cars clogged the streets on Sunday morning, and they made good time through the empty streets.

  “What did the Chief Justice mean about your background? He said you were a security guard at a nightclub when he asked me to pick you up.”

  Mason turned, seeing her in profile for the first time. Her mocha skin was flawless, with a delicate upturned nose and sharp chin with a slight dimple in the center. Hazel eyes rested above high cheekbones.

  “Not merely a nightclub security guard. I’m the head of security at a nightclub. Impressed?”

  She smiled, exposing a gap in her armor. “Not really. You know my story. I’m a bad cop with anger issues. What’s yours?”

  “Former deputy marshal.”

  “Why former?”

  “What can I say? All the glamor of guarding judges and arresting fugitives was too much for me.”

  “That how you met Borisov?”

  “That’s right. Do you remember a few years back, when a district judge got kidnapped by a bunch of white supremacists in Idaho?”

  “Vaguely. Enlighten me.”

  Mason swallowed hard. “That judge was Jonathan Borisov. He sent a bunch of their clan away for life after they blew up a school bus filled with kids outside their ideal race profile. They killed most of his protection detail and proceeded to torture him for a while until rescue arrived. Maybe you saw how his mangled left hand? Their handiwork.”

  “I remember the school bus story in the news, but lost track after that. How do you come into it?”

  A line of perspiration formed on Mason’s forehead. He hated this story.

  “I was the guy that rescued him. They killed a deputy marshal and three court security officers, and they thought they’d killed me too. I got lucky. My vest caught most of the blast, but my shoulder wasn’t so fortunate. Borisov was mine to protect. That made him mine to get back.”

  Mason drifted back to the farm outside Coeur d’Alene where then-Judge Borisov was held. He remembered the screams from the barn where they’d tortured him.

  He shook his head, hoping to escape the memory.

  “What happened to them?”

  “They didn’t see the inside of a courtroom, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Jesus. Then you left the Marshals Service?”

  “Eventually. Realized law enforcement wasn’t for me.”

  “Now that you’re a glamorous security guard, what’s your take of Harry Stewart?”

  The car raced southeast on Connecticut Avenue, past the retail and fast-food chains dotting both sides of the street. Mason examined a crowd of people lined up in front of a shoe store, its glass and polished steel reminding him of Gridlock.

  “I think Judge Stewart is a crook. Who doesn’t call the police when your only daughter goes missing?”

  “Somebody that doesn’t want to tell the cops something. You’re likely right, but if he’s not going to the authorities, what happens to the girl? Chloe?”

  “No idea. Somebody, or somebodies, took her for ransom or influence. Could’ve been random.”

  Mason knew the chances of anyone finding the girl still alive were abysmal. Outside of twenty-four hours, missing persons cases turned into body recovery cases.

  The car lurched to the left, then back into its lane as Sal dodged a Toyota Prius attempting, and failing, to parallel park.

  She stole a glance at Mason. “She doesn’t fit the profile for trafficking. Too rich. Too white.”

  They both knew trafficking wasn’t like the movies. Girls wrapped up in human trafficking didn’t have people come looking for them. They were poor and desperate. Many even volunteered after buying the story they’d become nannies or work in salons. Then the traffickers saddled the girls with mountains of imaginary debt and threats of violence if they didn’t pay up. Sometimes, traffickers threatened their families back home, wherever home was.

  Mason yawned. Too little sleep was catching up with him. The Honda rolled to a stop in front of Mason’s ground floor apartment. He reached into his back pocket, taking a card from his wallet.

  “Here’s my card. First round is on me if you want to come by Gridlock. Thanks for the ride, Sal, and good luck with Metro.”

  She dropped the card into the cupholder, then she reached across him, opening the glove box. Mason caught the faint scent of jasmine from Sal as she sat back in the driver’s seat.

  Sal passed over a beaten up business card with the Metropolitan Police Department logo and
contact information for Detective Salome Peterson.

  “The number’s still good, even if nothing else is.”

  Palming the card, he got out of the car, waved goodbye and watched her pull away.

  The door squeaked on ancient hinges as Salome bumped it open with her hip. Overflowing grocery bags filled her hands, making her sway with their momentum.

  “Ruthie, honey, is that you?” The voice echoed from inside the small apartment, crisp against the Price Is Right turned to an ear-splitting volume.

  “No, Gran. It’s Salome.” Sal dumped the bags on the yellowed laminate countertop in the kitchen. A pile of dirty dishes waited in the sink, a mix of crusted pasta sauce and eggs covering the plates and bowls. She guessed they hadn’t been washed since the nurse’s last visit.

  Sal walked into the living room, turning down the television so people in the next city couldn’t hear it. Delivering a quick kiss to her grandmother’s forehead, she plopped down on the couch, its mustard-colored fabric singed with old cigarette burns. She’d tried replacing it several times over the years, but Gran wouldn’t have it. Too many memories tied in an old piece of furniture.

  Gran ran a critical eye over Salome through thick glasses. “You’re so thin. Aren’t you eating?”

  “I eat all the time, Gran.” An avid marathon runner, Sal ate endless amounts of calories to keep fuel in the tank. Not that she cared what she ate. She saw everything as carbs, protein, or fat. “But I brought over groceries. We can make a casserole.”

  “As soon the Showcase Showdown is over. This girl’s been on a roll. Then we’ll make a couple casseroles in case Ruthie shows up. You girls can take one home.” Even half out of her mind with dementia, Gran still put out the best food Sal had ever had.

  Sal’s freezer held half a dozen casseroles from the last month. She couldn’t eat them fast enough, even with her runner’s metabolism.

  Sal leaned back into the couch, letting the cushions swallow her. Her grandmother’s dementia had been stable for the last year. The latest round of drugs helped, but nothing stopped her from asking about Ruth. She expected Ruth to run through the door, her braids bouncing as she regaled Gran with another story she’d invented. Ruth took the stories from whatever book she’d been reading, but Gran smiled and asked probing questions, always encouraging her granddaughters.

  Sal was fifteen when her sister disappeared. Two years older than Ruthie. She vanished on an early spring day, somewhere in the four blocks between the library and home. Gran called the police an hour after the library closed when Ruth still hadn’t returned. When the uniformed cops showed up, they took Gran’s statement and a picture of Ruth, promising detectives would follow up.

  The detectives never showed. The neighborhood responded instead, forming a search party covering block after block of their small enclave in Richmond. They combed parks, drainage ditches, and abandoned buildings on the outside of town.

  After days of searching, the only thing they found was one of Ruth’s coveted black and white saddle shoes. She’d drawn a small butterfly on the tongue of the shoe next to her name.

  Sal thought about Ruth’s disappearance every day. She became a cop because of it, to help those in need. A part of her wanted to set a better example than the police that failed her sister.

  As Gran deteriorated, she asked about Ruth more often, still expecting that joyous girl to burst through the door, telling tales that weren’t her own.

  Sal's thoughts turned to another missing girl. Chloe Stewart. Abandoned by her father until the situation turned hopeless. She knew Mason was right. Finding a missing person after twenty-four hours was rare, if not impossible. Still, Sal thought, if Chloe were alive and held against her will, shouldn’t someone look for her?

  She took Mason’s card from her pocket, turning it over and over. He’d made a poor first impression, but he’d managed to charm her, at least a little. Tapping on her phone, Sal entered his contact information into her phone. A check on social media turned up a few tagged photos from Gridlock, the club where he worked. A broader search uncovered dozens of stories about his rescue of Jonathan Borisov. More than a few articles cast Mason as a criminal for his use of force during the rescue.

  Each story used the same duty picture of Mason. Sal lingered on the photo on every link. His dark eyes stared back at her from the small screen of her phone. Yes, she thought, I’ll take him up on that offer for a drink.

  Another group of stories talked about Claire Ashford, killed over three years ago in the Metro terrorist attack. About the same time he resigned as a deputy marshal, she realized.

  A sharp clap woke Sal from her reverie. Gran laughed. “I knew she’d get the better of that guy!” Gran disliked the new host on Price. She wanted Bob Barker back.

  “Come on, Salome. Let’s whip up some food for you and Ruthie.”

  Strolling into The Capital Grille in Tyson’s Corner, Paul Edwards smiled at the petite hostess. She smiled back, pulling out a thick menu. “Good afternoon. Just one today or will more be joining?”

  Spotting her name tag, Paul responded, “Hi Sandy, I’m meeting some people. They may be here already. Mind if I check?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Peeking into the dining room, Paul spotted his customers seated around a table. Their bodyguards sat nearby, the table covered with plates of steaks and salmon. Heaping bowls of macaroni and cheese and shrimp cocktails accompanied the indulgent meal.

  As Paul approached the table where Captain Khang Bon-Hwa and Senior Lieutenant Hwang Haneul sat, the stocky bodyguard glanced up from his meal long enough to recognize Paul, then resumed eating. Paul didn’t recognize the younger man at the table but guessed his age at seventeen or eighteen. The boy didn’t look up from his burger and fries. Grease and mustard covered his face.

  Shaking hands with the captain and lieutenant, Paul sat. “Gentlemen. Always a pleasure.” Thumbing a finger to the young man, Paul asked, “You have a new team member, I see.”

  Captain Hwang leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “That’s my wife’s sister’s son, Kim Wook. He is a junior lieutenant, just out of military university. My wife asked me to get him a job working for me. First time in America, as you can see from how he eats.”

  Paul nodded, “Wives are the same the world over, it seems.”

  Finding a bottle of Château Corton Grancey Bordeaux on the table, Paul poured himself a glass and toasted his business partners. “Geonbae, gentlemen.”

  The two men smiled at Paul’s use of the Korean equivalent of cheers and touched glasses. The South Korean phrase made its way north into the DPRK nearly twenty years before, replacing the traditional toasts around party loyalty.

  Haneul sipped and set his glass down. “Where are we on delivery, Mr. Edwards?”

  Paul shifted from Bon-Hwa to Haneul. The man’s severe features, with grey teeth, hooked nose, and prominent cheekbones, made him look like a thing of North Korean nightmares instead of the influential officer of Office 39. Office 39, a secretive part of North Korea’s Reconnaissance General Bureau, focused on bringing foreign currency into the DPRK, largely for the benefit of party leadership.

  Uncovering who these men worked for required substantial work and years of building trust.

  Tearing into a bread roll and popping a piece into his mouth, Paul replied, “We are on schedule for delivery in two weeks.”

  Wiping his mouth, Bon-Hwa shook his head. “Our timeline has moved up. We need delivery this Wednesday. The party leadership has changed its requirements.”

  Chasing the bread with a gulp of overpriced wine, Paul coughed. “That’s too soon. I won’t have a chance for conditioning. You’ll just be getting someone off the street. Harder to control. I have many other assets I can deliver, today, if needed.”

  Haneul finished the rest of his fourteen-ounce dry aged rib eye. “No, we need this specific asset. Our leadership believes she is more valuable as leverage. Her father is an important man, and our leadership wants
to use her to influence him immediately, before the next round of high-level talks.”

  Paul considered their request. If the men needed the girl sooner, he’d deliver. Before he spoke, an idea popped into his mind.

  “Okay, gentlemen. This shouldn’t be a problem. But the rushed timeframe will drive up my costs.”

  Haneul’s foot pushed a small briefcase to Paul. “That should cover it, Mr. Edwards. Consider it a deposit, with more to come.”

  “Then I’ll see you gentlemen Wednesday night, at the usual location.”

  Haneul rolled his eyes as Paul stood. “You’re making us go all the way out there again?”

  “It’s safest for me and the rest of my assets.” Paul winked at the men. “Perhaps I can entice you to try a few things while you’re there.”

  Bon-Hwa stood, shaking Paul’s hand. “Wednesday.”

  Paul nodded. “Wednesday. After eight at night. Gives me time to get everything in order.”

  Stepping into the late afternoon sunlight, Paul sent a frantic text to Aaron.

  The midnight blue Lexus coasted to a stop near the mouth of an alley, its headlights turned off. Aaron put the car into park and surveyed the scene across the street. The clock on the dashboard read a few minutes before two in the morning. The alley, like the surrounding buildings, was pitch black. Aaron, confident no one could see his car, flicked off the interior dome light.

  Reaching into the front passenger seat, he lifted a two-foot piece of steel rebar he’d stolen from a construction site. The security guard, or whoever the man might be, inspired the driver with his use of the baton the other night.

  Tugging at the driver’s side door handle, he held his breath, hoping he’d flipped the right switch to extinguish the interior lights. The inky black interior stayed dark as the door swung open.

  Stepping into the alley, Aaron picked up the sour scent of the garbage bins lining the east side of the alley. Scratching along the brick wall caught his attention. Rats, looking for a meal.