“Well,” Egan said, “If you’re going to make a list…”
The Sergeant raised a second finger. “Grand theft auto…”
“You can’t be serious,” Egan replied. “That old van? I’d hardly call it grand, plus it pulls to the left.”
A third finger. “Unlawful trespass…”
“That’s not entirely my fault. There aren’t many places to stay around here. You know what this town really needs? A Motel 6.”
“Breaking and entering…”
Egan shrugged. “Prevailing circumstances being what they are, I suppose I’ll have to give you that one.”
“And the cherry on top,” Brewer said, pointing to the wood drying kiln. “Violation of Penal Code 236: False imprisonment, intentional and unlawful restraint, detention, confinement.”
“I prefer to think of it as a ‘time out,’ Sergeant,” Egan said. “They were very, very bad boys.”
The arresting officers held Egan by his arms. Brewer motioned to them to walk him out of the factory.
“These gentlemen will escort you to your new accommodations,” the Sergeant said. “I’ll do my best to come up with a few more charges for you along the way.”
“You are nothing if not thorough, Sergeant,” Egan replied.
Brewer shook his head and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. To the officers, he said, “Get this joker out of my sight.”
The burly officers nodded. “You got it, Serge. Let’s go, buddy.”
Egan looked at the officer. “Buddy…” he replied. “We’re friends now?”
“Move your ass, sunshine,” the officer replied.
“Now you’re just being disrespectful,” Egan said.
The second officer scoffed. “As if a piece of crap like you is gonna get any respect from us.”
“I can understand how you guys must feel,” Egan said as they crossed the factory floor. “I was just hoping for a little small talk. So, how’s the job going? The department treating you okay?”
“Shut up.”
Egan glanced over his shoulder. Colin and his gang were giving their statements to Sergeant Brewer and Officer Palmer. Colin pointed his hands at the ground, raised them slowly to the ceiling, then dropped them quickly to his sides. Puzzled, Brewer looked at Egan, then back at Colin and the gang. He scratched his head. Whatever story he was being told it was evident he wasn’t buying any of it.
“How’s the comp plan?” Egan asked. “Let me guess. Minimum wage, plus all the donuts you can eat?”
The officers exchanged glances then lifted him off his feet. “Exactly what part of shut up don’t you understand, asshole?”
Egan tried to walk, couldn’t. His toes skimmed the floor. “I’m just trying to make conversation, boys.”
“Screw you.”
“What about the benefits package? Any good?”
The officers looked over their shoulders. Sergeant Brewer’s back was turned to them. He was looking up at the ceiling, listening to Lenny’s account of the story. The men seized their opportunity and drove their fists hard into Egan’s kidneys. The force of the dual blows lifted him off the ground.
“Damn,” Egan said. “Was that supposed to hurt?”
The officers didn’t reply.
“Now, where were we?” Egan asked. “Oh, yeah. Benefits. You guys have decent long-term disability?”
Egan felt the officers tighten their grip on his arms. They were preparing to deliver a second, more powerful punch.
The band around his wrist began to glow.
The policemen suddenly experienced a rush of white-hot heat in their hands. “What the hell?” one of them yelled. They let go of Egan, stepped back, and watched as the handcuffs fell off the wrists of their prisoner and clatter on the factory floor.
Massaging his wrists, Egan turned and faced them. “I gave you guys every opportunity to play nice,” he said. “You should have listened.”
93
JORDAN AND CHRIS waited for LAPD to open the massive iron gate. The reporters outside the entrance to the Rosenfeld estate rushed the sedan, cameras and boom microphones pressed against the windows. As soon as they were clear of the entranceway Jordan accelerated.
Chris glanced back at the stately home as they rounded the cul-de-sac and headed for the main road. “Want a good deal on an estate?” he said. “There’s nothing like a double-homicide to send a property’s value straight to the basement.”
Jordan smiled. “In this neighborhood? Not a chance. Just wait. With no family to inherit it there’ll be a bidding war on the place by the end of the week.”
“That’s pretty sad,” Chris said.
“No,” Jordan replied. “That’s L.A.”
Verenich Law was located in a luxury office tower in downtown Los Angeles on West 7th Street, a twenty-minute drive from the Hollywood Hills home turned brutal murder scene. The firm occupied the penthouse floor. An ultra-modern stone reception desk anchored the space. Dozens of civic awards, letters of appreciation, plaques, photographs, autographed sports memorabilia, and military service honors were tastefully arranged in mirror-backed display cases. A glass dividing wall permitted an unencumbered view of the Pacific. In the boardroom, behind the see-through wall, a heated exchange between colleagues was taking place.
The agents approached the receptionist, whose nameplate on the corner of her desk identified her as Elena and presented their credentials. In the boardroom a man looked at the visitors, walked across the room, then touched a small panel on the divider. Instantly the glass transformed into a mirror-wall and reflected the reception area.
“May I help you?” Elena asked.
“My name is Special Agent Jordan Quest. This is Special Agent Chris Hanover,” Jordan said. “We’re with the FBI. We’d like to speak with Mr. Taras Verenich, please.”
“Certainly.” Elena pressed a button on the phone and spoke quietly. While they waited, Chris walked to the display cabinet and admired the impressive collection of gifts and awards.
The receptionist smiled. “Mr. Verenich will see you now. This way, please.”
Elena escorted the agents down the hall to Verenich’ office.
Taras rose from his desk, smiled, and shook their hands. “A visit from the FBI,” he said. “I’m honored. How can my firm be of assistance to the Bureau?” He pointed to a small conference table in the corner of his office. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
“Thank you, Mr. Verenich,” Jordan said. “I hope this isn’t too much of an intrusion.”
“Not at all,” the lawyer answered, “Just as long as you’re not here to tell me that I’m in some sort of trouble!” Taras laughed. “Perhaps I should call my attorney?”
Jordan smiled. “No sir, that won’t be necessary. We were hoping you might be able to help us with a case we’re working on.”
Verenich leaned forward and folded his hands together. “I’m happy to help in any way that I can. Ask away.”
“Perhaps we could start by learning a little about your practice,” Chris asked.
“Of course,” the attorney said. “We specialize in immigration law. I own the practice and have for ten years now. There are seven associates whom I will admit do the majority of the work around here these days. Which permits the time to play a little golf now and then. I also employ three clerks who take care of the more mundane tasks, plus two administrators, and my right hand, Elena, whom you’ve already met, and without whom this place would most certainly fall to pieces.” Taras laughed.
“Your clientele,” Jordan asked. “Where are they coming from?”
“Russia, for the most part,” Verenich answered. “But we also represent individuals from other countries such as Guatemala, Honduras and Argentina.”
“And the emigration side of the practice?”
“College graduates, mostly. You know what today’s young people are like. They’re restless. They want to travel, see the world, experience different cultures. Fortunately for them, as long a
s their skills are in demand, they can work in any country of their choice. Japan and the United Arab Emirates are popular choices today.”
“And what skills might those be?” Chris asked.
“Teaching. English mostly, plus math and science.” Verenich hesitated. “But you asked me how I could help you with your case. Perhaps in the interest of time we can address that matter?”
“Of course,” Jordan said. “We’re interested in learning more about a particular individual.”
“And whom might that be?” Verenich asked.
Judging by the abrupt change in the agent’s body language it was apparent that the conversation was about to take a different turn, one Taras sensed he might not be entirely comfortable with. He suddenly felt as if he was being backed into a corner. He felt his face flush.
“Itzhak Rosenfeld,” Jordan said.
Verenich shifted in his chair. “I’m sorry, Agent. Am I supposed to know this man?”
“Do you?” Chris asked.
Verenich ignored Hanover and directed his reply to Jordan. “Who is this Mr. Rosenfeld?”
“Dr. Rosenfeld,” Chris corrected.
Verenich glanced at Chris. “Very well,” he replied curtly, “Dr. Rosenfeld.” To Jordan, he said, “I’m not familiar with him. Is he a client of my firm?”
“We were hoping you could tell us that,” Jordan said.
Verenich stood. “I’ll be happy to check into that for you.”
“Thank you,” Jordan said. “That would be greatly appreciated.”
“As soon as you return with a warrant,” Taras answered.
“And this was going so well,” Chris said.
Verenich stood. “I’m sorry, Agents,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t know your Dr. Rosenfeld. Unless you think it would be wise for me to make that call to my attorney, I’d like to suggest we draw this meeting to a close.”
Jordan stood and shook Verenich’ hand. The psychic connection was immediate and powerful: Rosenfeld and Verenich… arguing… the lobby of the mansion…
Chris recognized Jordan’s reaction.
“Thank you, Mr. Verenich,” Jordan said. “We appreciate your time. It was…”
“Stimulating,” Chris finished.
“You’re most welcome,” Verenich said. He walked to his desk and pressed the reception call button on his phone. The click of high heels on granite was followed by muted footsteps on the carpeted hallway. Elena entered Taras’ office.
“My secretary will see you out,” Verenich said. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
The attorney waited for the agents to leave then picked up his phone. “Avel,” he said. “Where is the package I ordered?”
At the front desk, Elena excused herself and wished the agents well. All incoming phone lines were lit up. She attended to the calls.
Chris whispered to Jordan. “You made a connection back there, didn’t you?”
Jordan nodded. “He and Rosenfeld knew one another,” she said. “No doubt about it.”
The elevator call button rang. The doors parted. Chris stopped Jordan from entering the car. “Hold on a second,” he said. He walked over to the glass awards cabinets.
“Take a look at this.”
He pointed to an engraved plaque:
Presented to Verenich Law
In Appreciation of Your Financial Support
FreeSurge International
“I think we need to take Mr. Verenich up on his suggestion,” Jordan said.
“You mean to apply for that warrant?” Chris replied.
“Precisely.”
“You’ve got to give the guy credit,” Chris said. “He’s staying true to the stereotype.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s easy to tell if a lawyer is lying.”
“How’s that?”
“His lips are moving.”
94
MERRICK EXPLORED THE souvenir stalls, casual shops, fashion boutiques and surf shacks along Laguna Beach. A group of seniors walked past, laden with purchases from the local vendors. On the ocean, a surfer executed a perfect aerial off the crest of an ill-tempered wave and flew through the air, only to be forced to bail into the churning backwash. On the beachfront basketball court, competitive tempers flared. What had started out as a friendly game of three-on-three had escalated into an all-out shoving match.
Merrick was confident that whatever matter Commander Egan was attending to in the factory was of minor concern and no cause for alarm. The mind-to-mind neural connection provided by Channeler was complete, and the assignment understood.
The boardwalk leading back to the Chevy Suburban was busy with pedestrian and bicycle traffic. Merrick watched a police cruiser enter the parking lot, cruise past the truck, stop, back up, idle and park. Two LAPD officers stepped out of the squad car. One of the cops spoke into his shoulder microphone as he walked to the front of the Suburban while his partner cupped his hands against the tinted window and peered inside. Merrick stepped off the pathway and stood behind a large palm tree, observing the officers. Their extreme interest in the Suburban told him his Porsche had been found. New transportation would be necessary. Having found the vehicle, they would probably assume there was a good chance that he was still in Laguna Beach. Merrick looked around. There were too many cops for his liking occupying the beach. This was not the place for a showdown with the authorities.
And there was still so much to be done.
The cop Merrick had earlier seen chatting up the young women on the beach now pedaled his bike toward the officers who were investigating the stolen truck. One of the policemen pointed down the walkway in Merrick’s direction. The bike cop nodded and began riding along the path, scrutinizing the crowd. They were looking for him. They would have his DMV photo on their computers and phones. Which meant more police might soon arrive. He needed to leave the area as quickly as possible.
He walked back in the direction of the shops, cognizant of his pace, being careful not to draw unnecessary attention to himself. A crowd of exuberant gray-haired tourists stopped on the boardwalk to mingle and chat. Merrick eased his way into the group as the bike cop rode past. He turned as the cop looked in his direction, then watched him as he went on his way, exiting the path and heading down to the beach. A second cruiser had pulled into the parking lot and turned on its service lights. One of the officers exited the vehicle and walked the parking lot while his partner hustled down the beachfront steps to the path. It was apparent by their actions that they knew who they were looking for. The response to the morning’s events at Dynamic Life Sciences had been swift, though it seemed odd to Merrick that DARPA would enlist the services of the LAPD to find him. He figured they would have preferred to handle the incident internally. If he were to have encountered anyone in the field, he assumed it would have been highly trained DARPA operatives, not the local police. In the greater scheme of things, it didn’t matter. It would still be their mistake. Any effort to stop him would only result in sending good men to their death.
The afternoon traffic was light and moved along Pacific Coast Highway at a comfortable pace. Merrick jostled his way out of the group of seniors, strode toward the shops and stepped inside Ellie’s Floral Boutique.
The wind chimes above the doorway of the flower shop jingled, announcing his entrance. From the back of the shop a voice called out. “Be right with you!”
Merrick peered between the intricate floral arrangements and looked out the front window. A third police car sped into the parking lot. Two officers jumped out of the vehicle and walked toward the Suburban. To Merrick, their actions were clear. A full-scale manhunt was now underway, and he was their person of interest.
Ellie walked out from the back of the shop. She was a stout Chinese woman in her mid-thirties. Her thick black hair was held neatly in place with two decorative chopsticks.
“Sorry to hold you up, hon,” Ellie said. Her voice was devoid of even the slightest trace of an accent. “Something I can help you with?�
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“I’m not quite sure,” Merrick said. “Mind if I take a minute and look around?”
“Take as much time as you need,” Ellie said. “Holler as soon as you’re ready.”
“I’ll do that,” Merrick replied. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, love,” Ellie said. She disappeared into the back room.
In the parking lot, the police officers had organized themselves into two-man search teams. The first team was headed away from him, in the direction of the ice cream and fast-food vendors. The second was walking toward Ellie’s, whose store happened to be the first of the retail shops along the esplanade.
Merrick activated Channeler. Blue light emanated from the device around his wrist and reflected in the window of the boutique. He raised his hand and focused the energy on the road.
Alerted to the sound of screeching brakes, crashing metal and breaking glass, the officers spun around and watched as a car left the road, took flight over the embankment, and headed toward the crowd, its engine roaring. The panicked look on the face of the young driver told them the car was not operating under his control, a jammed accelerator perhaps. The man was wrestling with the steering wheel to no avail. The car lurched to the left, then right, then left again, until finally it slammed into a concrete bench and rolled onto its side.
As the officers instinctively ran to the aid of the driver they suddenly stopped and watched in horror as a second vehicle left the road, following the first, then slammed into it and burst into flames.
Police and passersby ran to the cars to assist the screaming, trapped occupants.
Ellie walked out from the back room as Merrick opened the front door. She stepped out of the shop. Merrick heard her gasp, “My God!”
The commotion caused by the bizarre accident brought the traffic to a standstill. Motorists stood outside of their vehicles, unsure what to make of the sudden catastrophe.
Ellie stood beside Merrick. Together they watched the incredible scene unfold.
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 38