by Dave Stanton
I sat across from him. I assumed he knew, at least in part, why I wanted him here.
“Good morning,” he said, but he didn’t offer his hand, nor did he bother with any further pleasantries. “Let’s start with your investigation of Jeff Jordan.”
“Are you recording this?”
“Yes.”
I suspected he had a microphone hidden in his lapel. I began speaking, providing an outline of my investigation, leaving out any activities that stretched the boundaries of the law. I measured my words and condensed the details. He didn’t question me until I got to the Volkovs.
“How did the African meet the Volkovs?”
“I think it was prearranged. Someone in Angola, maybe a clan leader, knew them.”
“Which clan are we talking about?
“The only name Serj Volkov said was Savimbi.”
Stillman leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes probing and scrutinizing. “Jonas Savimbi was an Angolan kingpin. He died fifteen years ago.”
“Did he ever do business with Russians?”
Stillman didn’t answer, but nodded in the affirmative.
“Maybe this will help,” I said, and took from my pocket the plastic baggie of Polaroid photos I’d found hidden in the African’s mattress. I handed them to Stillman, and he looked at each picture, handling them carefully by the edges.
“I found these in the African’s possession,” I said. “Anybody look familiar?”
“Maybe.” Stillman pocketed the photos.
“Did the U.S. government have any affiliation with Savimbi?” I asked.
“That’s none of your concern.”
“I imagine Savimbi had relatives, or associates, that stayed in the game.”
“Like who?”
“Beats me. But I bet Bur Jordan knew them.”
When he didn’t respond, I added, “Seems the Volkovs knew them too.”
Stillman leaned back and ran his hand over his salt and pepper hair. “Any idea why Bur Jordan would give diamonds to his estranged son?”
“Why do you assume they were estranged?”
Stillman tapped his fingers. “Because Jordan said so. At least that’s what was in his file.”
The waitress approached and poured me a cup of coffee. I took a sip, and said, “A couple possibilities. Maybe he had pangs of conscience over being an absent parent.”
“Or?”
“Maybe he was using his son to launder the stones.”
Stillman looked away, and I saw a twinge of sadness on his face. “I’d say that backfired,” he said.
“You’re betraying yourself.”
“What?”
“You have kids, right? A son?”
He straightened in his chair, his body rigid. “My personal life is of no bearing. I think we’ve covered what we need to.”
“Was Bur Jordan a good agent?”
Stillman reached into his jacket and fiddled with a hidden device. Then he straightened his coat and motioned for the check. When the waitress left it on the table he calculated the tip and left exact change on the table.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I said.
He nodded and said, “Jordan served his country well. It’s always a shame when a good agent goes off the tracks.”
“Any theories why he did?”
Stillman eyed me for a long moment. “He spent two decades living in countries where the corrupt exploit the dirt poor on a daily basis. There’s no fix for it. I suppose he felt it was time to take something for himself.”
He stood, but before he walked away, I said, “Hey, Greg, I’d like to ask a favor. If the Feds or the state police try to hold me or Cody Gibbons, I could use your help.”
I followed him out to the sidewalk, waiting for his reply. We were directly across from the police station, where a trio of dark Ford sedans were parked.
“You better get over there,” he said. Then he held out his hand and we shook. His grip was firm and there was a tiny hint of amusement in his eyes.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be around,” he said.
******
It didn’t take long after entering the station lobby to see that the morning would be a three ring circus. First, the Cedar City Chief of Police tried to bring me to an interview room, but he was accosted by an overweight Utah State detective, and then two FBI agents in their trademark dark suits asserted their authority, and took me by the arm.
At that moment, Cody, Abbey, and Melanie walked in. The Cedar City chief tried to escort Cody away for an interview, but the state detective and the Feds intervened, and within short order voices were raised, and some ugly words were exchanged (the youngest of the FBI agents called the Utah State cop a fat son of a bitch). Cody and I stood next to each other, trying to repress our smiles. Then Cody raised his arms, as if he were a Grand Poohbah presiding over an unruly, drunken club meeting.
“Order in the court!” he shouted, and every cop in the room went silent and stared at him.
“We’ve got to be on the road in an hour, so you all need to get organized, if that’s not too much to ask.”
“Who are you?” one of the FBI men asked.
“Cody Gibbons, licensed private investigator, ex-San Jose PD.” Cody walked forward, extending his hand, towering over the perplexed agent. “Let’s assign each of us witnesses to a room and get started.”
The older of the FBI agents nodded and said, “Make it happen, chief.”
Within a few minutes I was seated in an office with the two Feds, who had chosen to take me first. It became clear from the onset of their questioning that their primary interest was in the Volkovs.
“What evidence do you have that the Volkovs kidnapped Mia Jordan?” the underling agent asked.
“I found her locked up in a secret room in the Café Leonov in Vegas. The Volkovs own the joint. Igor Volkov tried to stop Cody Gibbons and me from rescuing her, then he tried to get away. But Vegas PD took him into custody.”
“I heard he was shot,” the other agent said.
I shrugged. “He shot first.”
The agents exchanged glances.
“Here’s some more for you,” I said. “The Volkovs rent a duplex in North Vegas where they keep women they’ve coerced into prostitution. And next, check out Towne Auto Salvage out near Nellis Air Force Base. The Volkovs muscled in and the legit owners fled. The Volkovs use the business to launder their crooked money. Go shut it down.”
They interrogated me for another fifteen minutes, each question probing deeper into what I knew about the Volkovs. When they were satisfied I’d told them everything I could, I moved to the office of the Chief of Police, which was being used by the Utah State detective.
He was a fat, mustachioed man with eyes that looked small in his fleshy face. He wore suspenders and a .38 in a shoulder holster rested on his overflowing midsection. His girth was wedged into the chief’s leather chair, and I could smell his garlic breath from six feet.
“I’m Detective Leonardo,” he announced, his tone reminding me of cops I’d met who commanded respect but had not earned it.
“You know, I need a calculator to keep track of all the dead bodies you’ve racked up,” he said. I looked for a hint of levity on his face, but all I got in return was a hard stare.
“I bet math was never your best subject,” I said.
“Don’t give me that smartass shit,” he said, rising from the chair.
“Do you have any specific questions for me, detective?”
“I’ve got plenty,” he said. He put his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Let’s talk about dead body number one, two bullet holes in the chest, out in front of the Jordan’s house.”
“He came at me with a pistol in his hand. I was quicker.”
“What do think this is, the Wild West?”
“What would any cop do in that situation? Shoot, or wait to get shot?”
“Let’s get one thing clear: you ain’t a cop, not by a long shot. You’re a pissan
t private dick scrounging to make a buck.”
“Thanks for the glowing appraisal.”
“Was there any witness to your murder of this man?”
“Murder? My partner Cody Gibbons was there. It was self-defense, and he’ll testify to it. The gunman was also a member of the Volkov crime family, so maybe you can start drawing conclusions.”
“I’m drawing conclusions, all right. Let’s move on to victim two, the man in the kitchen who was shot to shit.”
“That’s Lexi Voronin. He’s a Volkov hitman. He fired at me first. There’s still a slug in the wall if you want to go dig it out.”
“Any witnesses?” he asked, smirking, the corners of his mouth hidden by his jowls.
“Yup. Cody Gibbons.”
“Oh, wonderful. I’m familiar with his background. I’m sure a jury will find him real credible.”
“Cody Gibbons has put away more criminals than you ever will, detective, so you ought to check your attitude.”
His beady eyes widened, and his mouth moved silently, as if he couldn’t quite find the words to express what he was feeling. But I saw blood rise in his face, then he shouted, “Hands behind your back, you’re under arrest!”
“On what charge?”
“Murder, to start, tough guy.”
“It won’t stick and you know it.”
“You’re coming with me to Salt Lake,” he said. “I hope you have a good attorney.”
“Neither the FBI nor the Cedar City PD will back your play.”
He laughed, his teeth gray and small. “What makes you think I need anyone to back my play?”
“Because I solved a murder and kidnapping that the state police basically ignored. And the Feds and the Cedar City cops know it. And if you bring me in, I’ll call the newspapers and make sure the whole damn country knows it.”
“Jesus Christ, are you mentally retarded?”
“It’s not only the Feds, the CIA’s also involved. They’re here now, taking possession of one of the bodies. Would you like me to call them?”
He yanked his cuffs from his belt loop and began coming around the desk. I pulled my cell and hit Stillman’s number and moved away from the obese man, toward the opposite side of the desk. My phone rang, once, twice, and now I was behind the desk, and the cop was pointing at me and following. I let him get within a step, then I darted back to the front side.
“Reno? What’s up?”
“Could use a little help. Got a Utah State detective trying to arrest me.”
“Where are you?”
“The Chief of Police’s office.”
“Hang tight,” he said.
The cop pulled his .38 and pointed it at my face. “Don’t move a muscle or so help me god I’ll blow you away.”
I dropped my cell in my coat pocket and raised my hands. He came around the desk and said, “Hands behind your back.”
I turned, conceding for the moment, but a second later the door opened.
“Good morning,” Stillman said.
“Who the hell are you?” the cop said.
“Greg Stillman, Central Intelligence Agency. Holster your weapon now and don’t make me ask again. Why are you harassing this man?”
“Harassing?”
“Provide your ID and step back, please,” Stillman said, wrinkling his nose. “I need to contact your supervisor.”
“What for?”
“To report misconduct. I’m aware of the details of this case, which has national implications. Do you understand what national means?”
“I do, but why should I care?”
“Dan Reno is innocent of any crime, you moron. Frankly, I’m amazed and disappointed that the great state of Utah has stooped so low to hire the likes of you. You are clearly unfit.”
“You have no right to say that,” the cop sputtered.
“Dan, take a picture of his ID card, please, and send it to me. I’ll decide promptly whether a full investigation of this poor excuse for a policemen will be conducted. You better hope you’re squeaky clean, detective. Because the CIA can find out things about your life that you don’t even know exist.”
The fat cop dropped his head, his feet splayed, and his frame looked like it could barely support the flab that hung below his beltline. I was sure his corpulence was paid for by dirty money. He knew it, Stillman knew it, and I knew it.
“Have a nice day,” I said, and followed Stillman out.
“I don’t think he’ll cause you any problems,” Stillman said, as we walked down the hallway.
“Appreciate it. You’ve got a way with words.”
“Even the CIA gets to have fun sometimes,” he replied, and for the first time I saw him smile. “Try to keep your nose clean, huh?”
“Do my best,” I said.
******
It wasn’t quite noon when we piled into the Hellfire Hooptie and set sail for Las Vegas. Melanie and Abbey sat in the back, where they chatted amiably, as if all we’d witnessed the previous day was impermanent and of little gravity. It may have just been a temporary respite, but I was glad to hear their light patter. I told myself that their spirits were resilient, and the intrusion of evil upon their lives would leave no permanent scars. I knew better, but sometimes you need to let optimism carry the day.
Cody, on the other hand, seemed in a dour mood.
“I guess I should see if Denise will take my call,” he said.
“Did you ever send her the flowers?”
“When would I have had time?”
“Last night.”
“Well,” he said bitterly, “I guess I forgot.”
“No worries, buddy. I’ll do it from my phone. You got her home address?”
“She never gave it to me.”
“Screw it then, let’s send them to the station. Worst that can happen, she’ll be a little embarrassed.”
Cody smiled, then he laughed. “I’m sure she can handle that. Send the biggest freaking bouquet they got.”
I spent a minute on my phone, and said, “It’s done. I put a rush on it. Should be there by two o’clock.”
“What do I owe you?”
“They’re on me, old buddy.”
“Why, that’s very sweet of you, Dirt.”
“Well, I probably owe you a few bucks for gas money.”
“Step on it, would you, Dad?” Abbey said, leaning into Cody’s ear. “Melanie wants to see Mia sometime this century.”
Cody looked at me and I shrugged. “She asked for it,” I said. Then he downshifted and we rocketed forward, blasting through the arid flats and eating miles like a starved hound, all the way into Las Vegas.
CHAPTER 14
When the McDermotts met us at the LVPD station lobby, we were standing in a quiet corner, away from a line of people on the opposite side of the room. We were waiting for an officer to bring Mia from a room where she was speaking with a trauma counselor.
As soon as they spotted us, Walter rushed forward. “Oh, Melanie,” he said, embracing her in a hug. Lillian followed him at a measured pace. “Stop making a scene, Walter,” she said. “This is a public place.”
Walter ignored her and turned to me. “You came highly recommended, and by god, now I see why,” he gushed. “Thank goodness we found you.”
“You’re making a fool of yourself, Walter,” Lillian said, her syllables dripping with derision.
Walter squared his shoulders and his posture became rigid. When he turned to face Lillian, I could see a vein pulsing in his neck. He took two quick steps in her direction, and though he tried to hush his words, I heard everything he said.
“I’ve taken all I can take of your bitchiness, Lillian, and I won’t hear it any more. You need help, and you better get it, because I’m done with this. Do you hear me?”
“How dare you address me in that manner.”
“I’ll address you as I see fit, so you better get used to it.”
Lillian stepped back, and the stunned expression on her face was almost comical.<
br />
“Now,” he continued, “I’m going to have a private word with Mr. Reno, while you wait here with your mouth shut.”
Walter motioned to me, and I followed him out the front door. We walked toward the end of the building until we were looking out at Las Vegas Boulevard.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he said. “It’s been a long time coming.”
“She does have quite an attitude,” I said.
“I don’t mean to burden you with this, but I think you have a right to know. Lillian had a tough upbringing. She was raised in Kentucky, in the Appalachian Mountains. Her parents were part of a hillbilly clan, and for all intents and purposes, they were white trash. Lillian eventually rose above it, but one can never completely leave their past behind.”
We watched a pair of squad cars bounce up the curb, then he continued. “Lillian was sexually abused as a child, and then her first husband abused Melanie.”
“You’re not Melanie’s biological father?”
“No, I’m her stepfather. Lillian divorced her first husband shortly before he died of liver disease, when he was only forty years old. He was a horrible alcoholic, which explains Lillian’s abhorrence to drinking. But I’m afraid her deepest scars are related to being molested by her father, and her guilt over Melanie suffering the attentions of Lillian’s lecherous husband.”
A jet took off from the nearby airport, and I waited until the roar of its motors subsided before I said, “That would explain Melanie’s multiple personality issues.”
“I suspect so,” Walter replied. “I’ve been researching the subject since you brought it up. I have no doubt Melanie is harboring great pain from her past. But perhaps she doesn’t consciously know it.”
The wind blew a cloud of dust from an adjacent field, and it settled over the street traffic. “I hope Melanie can get the help she needs, Walter,” I said. “I think she’s a hell of a woman.”
“Indeed. And thanks for saying so.” He reached out and firmly shook my hand.
When we went back inside, Melanie was sitting with Mia on her lap, while Lillian sat apart, alone with her thoughts. Cody and Abbey stood near Melanie, watching over her. I started toward Lillian, but paused when a delivery man came into the lobby carrying a huge floral display overflowing with red roses. He looked at the line of people on the far side of the lobby, then he stopped a passing patrolman, who nodded and spoke on his radio.