by Dave Stanton
I shook her shoulder. “Go get some rest,” I said.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how you stay awake.”
“You didn’t miss anything.”
“Okay,” she murmured, trying to blink the sleep from her eyes. I watched her go into her unit before I drove off to my hotel. When I got there, I wondered if Cody was shacked up with Abbey’s boss in a nearby room. I would have bet on it, but I was too tired to care, and I fell into bed and slept fully clothed until the gray hues of dawn invaded my room and woke me from a dreamless slumber. That gave me the opportunity to make sure my cell phone was off, and then I didn’t wake again until eleven in the morning.
CHAPTER 10
Sometimes, after a long sleep, I’ll awake with a newfound clarity, as if my subconscious has sorted through the prior day’s events and drawn ready conclusions. But when I got out of bed and peered out the hotel window, the sunless skies were pallid and the distant ridges were obscured by a wintery haze. My mind felt the same way, sluggish, my thoughts blurry and listless.
I showered, brewed coffee, and went downstairs to buy a couple of energy bars. It took until noon for my head to clear. Then I sat at my computer and began updating my case file. Fifteen minutes into it I stopped and dialed Melanie’s cell number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Melanie, it’s Dan. How are you?”
“Fine,” she said haltingly. “Do you have something good to report?”
“Not yet, but remember when you said the picture I showed you could have been Jeff’s father?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know how I can reach him?”
“Hmm, that’s a tough one. Jeff hadn’t spoken to him in years that I knew of.”
“How about Jeff’s mom?”
“They were divorced.”
“Maybe his brother or sister would know,” I said.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“You told me you thought Bur Jordan worked for the government and might have been a spy.”
“That’s what Jeff told me.”
“Do you have phone numbers for any of Jeff’s family?” I asked.
“No. I mean, we never had any contact with them. Except for Kenny, Jeff’s brother. He called a couple times, about a year ago, trying to borrow money.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch,” I said, walking to where my duffle bag sat in a corner of the room. I found Jeff Jordan’s cellphone in a zipped pocket and plugged it into my charger. When the power came on, I began searching through his contact list. Within a minute I saw phone numbers and email addresses for Jeff’s mother, Elaine, his brother, Kenny, and his sister, Janice.
Elaine Jordan’s number had a San Jose area code. I called her first.
“Hello, who’s calling?” a whispery voice said.
“Mrs. Jordan, my name’s Dan Reno, private investigations. I’ve been hired to look into your son’s murder.”
“Hired by whom?”
“Your daughter-in-law’s parents.”
“So, what do you want from me?” Her voice was hushed and barely audible.
“I believe Jeff may have been in touch with his father shortly before he was killed. Do you know how I can reach Bur Jordan?”
“I haven’t spoken to him in years.”
“I understand he worked for the government as a spy,” I said.
“He worked for the CIA,” she replied. “I have no idea if he still does.”
“Do you have a phone number or address where I might find him?”
“No.”
“I’m trying to find the men who killed Jeff, Mrs. Jordan. They need to pay for their crimes.”
“Good luck,” she whispered, and hung up.
“Really?” I said, tilting my head. Her lack of interest in her son’s death and her brusque end to our call made me curious about the severity of her mental health issues. Melanie had said Elaine Jordan suffered from depression and never left her darkened house. It was possible she kept her voice low as a mechanism to minimize her engagement with the outside world. Maybe she felt speaking at a normal volume would invite people to intrude on her fragile state. In that light, I was fortunate she took my call, and even more fortunate she’d revealed that her ex-husband worked, or had worked, for the CIA.
Next I dialed the Denver area code number for Kenny Jordan.
“Yo, Kenny.”
“Hi Kenny, Dan Reno, investigations.”
“Great, it’s about time. Have you got the probate thing figured out yet?”
“The what?”
“The will and all that probate crap. Russ Gilmore from the state department said you’d be calling.”
“Kenny, I’m a private investigator hired by Melanie Jordan’s family to find out who killed your brother, and possibly his daughter.”
“You’re not with the state department?”
“Afraid not.”
“Ah, crap. I’ve been waiting almost two months now.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For the paper work to get sorted out so I can get my inheritance.”
“From Jeff?”
“Jeff? What are you talking about? Jeff didn’t leave me anything. It’s from my dad.”
“Bur Jordan died?”
“And you call yourself an investigator? Don’t you read the obituaries?”
“I’ve only been on the case for a week. When did your father die? How did he die?”
“He was shot in November. They caught up to him in L.A.”
“Who caught up to him?”
“Who knows? Whoever he was spying on over in congo-bongo land.”
“Bur Jordan was working for the CIA in Africa?”
“Most recently, yeah. Before that it was Russia.”
“I see,” I said slowly. “Do you know who his boss was at the CIA?”
“Nah. He never talked about that.”
“So, you think your dad made enemies in Africa?”
“He was an agent of the U.S. government, a white man, working in a black man’s land that happens to be rich in resources. You tell me.”
“Was your father murdered before Jeff?”
“Three days before. The same bastards killed them both.”
“How do you know?”
“They both were shot and had one of their arms hacked off. That’s about all the CIA has told me.”
“The CIA’s investigating both murders?”
“Don’t act so surprised. These people take care of their own. They’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“I’d like to speak to them if I could. You got a name I can contact?”
“The only guy I have contact info for is Russ Gilmore, but he’s not CIA. I did talk to one CIA guy, but that was only once, and it was pretty brief. He quizzed me on a few things, and said if we needed to talk again, he’d call me.”
I squinted out the window. The clouds over the eastern ridgeline had become darker. “Kenny, I’m gonna text you a picture. Can you confirm it’s your dad?”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you the executor of your father’s will?” I asked.
“It was originally Jeff, but now it’s passed to me. That’s part of the delay. Hold on, I’m pulling up your pic. Yeah, that’s him. He was a good looking guy, I’ll give him that.”
“Did your dad have a big estate?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
We hung up, and I began typing the details of the two calls into my case log. Then I stopped and considered Kenny Jordan’s remarks, or more so, his attitude. He didn’t express the slightest remorse his father and brother had been killed. He didn’t even make a pretense of it. His interest was solely in an inheritance. It was hard to imagine a person could be so emotionally detached from the recent murders of two members of his nuclear family. Regardless of how minimal his relationship had been with them, I expected he would convey some sense of shock, anger, or maybe fear, if not outright grief. His cavalier tone seemed pathologically deviant, but if he
was somehow involved, he surely would have been more guarded with me. I shook my head. Maybe he was just extremely self-centered.
I finished typing, then contemplated the prospect of contacting the CIA. I knew an agent in California, from a case a year ago. I had been of value to him, and he’d admitted as much, but that didn’t mean he’d help me or even take my call. Before calling him, I needed something to barter with.
I stood and started toward the door, then sat back down and Google-mapped Towne Auto Salvage. I clicked on the Earth tab and zoomed in until the entirety of the business filled my screen. The aerial view showed three buildings, two near the entrance, and one in the back of the property, beyond rows of wrecked cars that covered at least ten acres. I expanded the images until they became fuzzy, looking for anything out of place.
Five minutes later I was at my truck in the parking garage. I unlocked the box behind my cab and fitted my lead sap into my jacket pocket. Then I removed my coat, strapped on my bulletproof vest, and checked the load on my .40 cal Beretta automatic. I slipped the shoulder harness over my head and put my jacket back on, feeling the weight of my pistol on the left and the sap to the right. After grabbing a few lighter items, I got in my truck and started the engine, but before pulling out, I texted Cody: Hey, Lance Romance, how was your date?
It took fifteen minutes to get to Towne Auto Salvage. I drove through the open gate and parked in their customer lot. I could see the rows of wrecked cars behind a chain-link fence, but to gain entrance I had to go into the main building first, a single story structure with a tar and gravel roof. The room was unheated and the three employees wore heavy coats. An overweight white woman sat aside a U-shaped counter, collecting entrance fees, while two Latino men behind the counter quoted and charged customers for parts they had pulled.
To my left was an adjoining room, which I could see into through two large sliding windows. In the room were metal filing cabinets and two desks. At one of the desks sat a middle-aged man, punching the keys of an old fashioned adding machine and penciling numbers onto a ledger.
“Three bucks entry,” the woman said as I approached. Her jowls were deeply creased, and she had dark circles under her colorless eyes. She smelled of unwashed clothes and cigarette smoke. I paid her and proceeded out the opened rear of the structure, into the yard.
I walked by two green outhouses and looked over the wrecks. I started down one row, then retreated and walked further out. The cars were organized by brand; Fords, GMs, Plymouths, and past the American models were acres of Japanese junkers. I kept walking toward the back of the yard, and found a European section where Audis, Mercedes Benzes, and BMWs had found their final resting place.
It was a cold, sunless day, and there were perhaps a dozen customers scattered about the place. They wore coveralls and had their own tool boxes, and some lay in the dirt wrenching on rust bucket wrecks, trying to remove suspension pieces or brake calipers or axles. None of the cars were late models; most were from the eighties and nineties. It was hard to imagine the demand for these parts could keep a business afloat. At best, they might pull in a few thousand a week.
I was nearing the rear fence line when I saw the third building on the property. It sat in the corner farthest from the entrance, and when I’d seen the overhead view on my computer screen, I thought it might have been a storage unit. But it was an old Streamline trailer, resting on cinder blocks and two flattened tires. Its rounded shell was coated in peeling white paint dotted with rust spots. Two propane tanks were mounted to a V-shaped trailer hitch beneath the front window. From the window I could see a dim glow of light.
I crouched behind the battered hulk of a Mercedes sedan and took a few pictures of the trailer. Maybe it was the residence of a watchman, although I doubted there was much here worth stealing. But what other purpose would a trailer out here serve?
I walked toward the back fence, keeping my eyes averted until I reached the end of the row nearest the trailer. I was now within ten yards of it. The windows were screened and opaque, but didn’t appear reinforced. The door between the windows looked rickety, and the lock was one that could easily be broken by a crow bar or even a firm kick.
I continued staring at the trailer. If Mia Jordan was being held against her will, this would be an unlikely place. Even a ten-year-old girl could break out, or at least break a window and scream at someone. But my gut told me something wasn’t right about this decrepit old trailer, an eyesore even in a place as dismal as a junkyard. Add in that the Volkovs coerced the junkyard from its former owners, and the potential was something I couldn’t ignore.
I turned and looked back toward the front of the yard. The nearest people were almost a hundred yards away.
There are moments in every investigation where certain choices must be made. In this case that meant risking a move from the shadows and into plain view. So far, the Volkovs had no idea I was watching them. Once that changed, my investigative tactics would need to adapt, and rapidly.
I walked to the trailer and stood at the two wooden stairs before the door and rapped my knuckles on the aluminum frame. I was hoping no one would answer, and then I’d break in and search the place. As a second choice, if someone answered and provided a reasonable and benign explanation for their presence, I could leave with no harm done.
I heard a sound, and as soon as the door opened, I knew neither of my choices were options.
The man looking down at me was about my height and few years older. He was black, and the deep tone of his skin showed no hint of racial mixing. He wore slip-on loafers, yellow socks, and his red pants were too short. His belt was beaded and colorful, and square-knotted in the front. His sole concession to the near freezing weather was a camouflage army jacket.
“What you doing here?” he barked. His fingers were scarred, the knuckles gray, as if the pigment had been scraped off over a long period of time.
“Uh, looking for a bathroom?”
His eyes flashed, and he glowered at me, his thick lips flattening against the sharp contours of his face.
“Back there, stupid boy,” he said thrusting his hand outward.
But before his arm reached full length mine was already moving forward. I grabbed him by his knotted belt and pulled forward, then slammed my right fist into his gut. The uppercut blow knocked him off his feet, and I jumped up and shoved him through the doorway before he could fall onto me. The door swung shut behind us.
He lay gasping on the floor. I tried to force him flat on his stomach so I could zip-tie his hands, but he fought back, his elbow clipping my mouth and bringing blood. I countered with a strike to the neck with the meat of my hand, and that stunned him long enough for me to hogtie him. Then I tied a black strip of cloth over his eyes.
“What is this?” he hissed.
“I’m going to ask you some simple questions. You’ll give me simple answers. I don’t have a lot of time, so we’ll have to make this quick. What’s your name?”
“Allassane Ouattara.”
“Nice try, but isn’t he the president of Nigeria? Or is it the Ivory Coast?” I rose from my knees and began searching through a set of drawers next to his bed. I pulled out all his clothes and threw them on the mattress, looking futilely for a driver’s license or a passport. I didn’t find a single scrap of paper.
I went back to him and checked his pockets. No wallet or keys, but I did find an inexpensive cell phone in his coat pocket. It was the type commonly available at discount stores, and probably had service through a prepaid provider, which meant it could be used anonymously and was mostly untraceable. I stuck it in my coat, then continued searching him, and felt a square object in his chest pocket.
It was a pack of cigarettes. The brand was Pacific Blue.
“You’re not a citizen of this country, are you, buddy?” I asked pleasantly. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
He laughed and said something in a foreign language. I ignored him and went into the kitchenette and found a trash bag und
er the sink. I spilled it on the floor, carefully picked out a few cigarette butts, and placed them in a plastic baggie. Then I emptied the drawers, and removed every plate, bowl, cup, and glass from the cupboards. The area to be searched was small, and it only took a minute. Finding nothing, I stepped over him and stripped the sheets from the bed, then flipped the mattress. I doubted I’d find paperwork, but I was hoping to see a large knife, perhaps a machete.
There was no blade under the mattress, but I did notice a torn section about four inches long that had been sewed shut. I ripped it open with my finger and felt a plastic bag. When I removed it I saw it contained a stack of Polaroid photos. Some had blurry ink notations on the flip sides.
“I’m gonna ask you once more,” I said. “Your name, and what you’re doing in this country. Give me the wrong answers and you’ll regret it.”
“Soon you’ll regret being born.”
I kicked him in the ribs, hard enough to make him seriously consider his next answer.
“Where’s the little girl?”
His body stiffened, and he spat, “You gonna die.”
“You like cutting people, don’t you, dirt-bag? Tell me about the people whose arms you hacked off in L.A. and Utah.”
“You can learn yourself, when I do it to you.” He was flexing against his restraints, and his teeth were clenched.
“I’ve got to go soon, good buddy. So I’ve just got one more question, and if I don’t like your answer, I’m gonna stomp on you until I break every one of your ribs. One will probably puncture your lungs, then you’ll suffocate on your own blood. Is the girl alive?”
When he didn’t say a word, I kicked him in the same spot as before. This time saliva sprayed from around his teeth.
“She’s alive,” he said.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do the Volkovs have her?”
“I have nothing to do with her.”
“Last chance,” I said. “Where’s the girl?”
He took a deep breath, then bellowed from deep in his lungs, loud enough for anyone within a hundred feet of the trailer to hear.
I kicked him again and his yell turned into a cry as a rib cracked. Then I pulled the lead sap I called ‘Good Night Irene’ from my coat and slapped him behind the ear. His body went limp.