The Second Goodbye

by Patricia Smiley

  “Yeah, I was lucky to find the place,” she said, walking toward the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  His fingers loosened the knot of his tie. “If you’re talking alcohol, then scotch. Neat.”

  Davie held up her hand to cut him off. “Let me rephrase the question. How about a glass of champagne? That’s all I have.”

  He tilted his head and smiled. “Let me rephrase the answer. Champagne sounds good.”

  She pulled the Dom Perignon from the refrigerator where it had been chilling since Alex Camden had given it to her a year ago. “Stand back. I’m not good with corks.”

  He reached for the bottle. “I worked as a waiter in college. Shall I open it?”

  “Marry me?”

  Striker’s forehead creased in a frown. “Pardon?”

  Her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she handed him the bottle. “Sorry. It’s a joke. My partner and I … never mind.”

  He raised his eyebrows when he read the label. The foil crackled as he pulled it off and unwound the wire. Davie’s eyes widened as Striker grabbed a dishtowel from the counter near the sink, disturbing the leftover crumbs from her morning toast. Or were they from the day before? Striker didn’t comment, but he was a detective. He must have noticed.

  He looked at her with a steady gaze. “Here’s the only waiter advice you’ll ever hear from me. Tilt the bottle. Cover the cork with a towel. Turn the bottom of the bottle with your hand.”

  While Striker focused on opening the champagne, Davie brushed the crumbs into her hand and stuffed them in her pocket.

  The cork slid off with a hiss.

  “Impressive.” She pulled a couple of juice glasses from the cupboard. “These are lame, but they’re all I have.“

  “They’re perfect.” He filled the glasses and handed her one.

  “Thanks for coming over on such short notice,” she said.

  Striker removed his suit jacket and draped it over the back of a chair at the breakfast bar, exposing his crisp white shirt. He made no attempt to roll up his sleeves, and that left Davie wishing for X-ray vision to read the mysterious tattoo inked on the inside of his right forearm with that word ending in the letter e.

  “I was curious when you mentioned money laundering,” he said, sliding onto the chair. “I’m not an expert, but I worked a case at Metro Forgery before I transferred to Robbery Homicide.”

  Metro Forgery was a unit within the Commercial Crimes Division that investigated white-collar crimes. Both CCD and Robbery Homicide were high-profile divisions. The fact that he’d worked both was no mediocre accomplishment.

  Davie sat across from him and removed the financial statements from the envelope, spreading them across the counter. “This has to do with that year-old suicide case I told you about. I’ve turned up enough evidence to convince my boss there was something suspicious about the victim’s death. He’s not ready to reclassify it yet, but I’m sure he will. If I can’t persuade him with new evidence, he’ll make me stop.”

  What Davie didn’t tell Striker was that she wouldn’t stop, even if it meant investigating on her own time and with her own money.

  “Tough situation, but you’ll figure it out.”

  Davie took a sip of the champagne and summarized in great detail the events surrounding Sabine Ponti’s disappearance and eventual death. She kept talking until she unspooled everything she’d learned in the past few days.

  “Look at this,” she said, pointing to the cash flow statements. “Sabine started working at the Seaglass Cafe in July three years ago, but she didn’t begin keeping this ledger until the following November, which tells me that’s when she noticed something suspicious. That November, the cafe’s monthly income was around thirty-six grand. But look how the numbers doubled starting in December and continued doubling for the next three months. By February, the monthly income had grown to over a quarter-million dollars. There were no entries in March, because that’s when her boss Nate Gillen was killed and Sabine disappeared.”

  She studied Striker’s dark eyelashes as he pored over the documents. His face was motionless except for the movement of his eyes under the lids as he read. His expression seemed placid, almost as if he were sleeping. Davie couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  “It’s possible sales legitimately increased,” he said, looking up, “but more likely Gillen was mixing dirty money with legitimate income.”

  Davie knew banks were required by law to tell the Feds about cash deposits of more than ten grand in a single day. Gillen seemed to have followed those rules to avoid detection.

  The champagne bubbles tickled her nose as she took still another sip from the glass. “I understand the basics of money laundering. You have illegal cash. You don’t want the police to confiscate it or the IRS to tax it. And for sure you don’t want anyone tracing it back to its criminal origins. So, what do you do?”

  “If the money wasn’t legitimate income from the restaurant, then somebody probably gave it to Gillen to launder. Those bank deposits he made are called placement—moving dirty money one degree away from its illegal source.”

  “Once the money is deposited in a bank account, it’s clean, right?”

  Striker shook his head. “Not clean enough. That’s where step two comes in—layering. The goal is to hide those initial bank deposits under layers of paperwork by moving the money multiple times to multiple banks until tracking it becomes difficult, if not impossible.”

  “What about all those payments to LLCs? I couldn’t find information on any of them. They appear to be shell companies. And those wire transfers to offshore banks? They don’t seem like normal business practices for a restaurant.”

  “Those payments and transfers are the final stage—integration. By moving the funds out of the country, Gillen hoped to obscure the source of the money so nobody would ever question it.”

  The champagne was making Davie feel a bit lightheaded. “Wouldn’t the government notice all those foreign transfers?”

  “Not necessarily. The Treasury department has a division called Financial Crimes Enforcement Network. It collects data on all wire transactions, but there are so many that FinCEN can’t possibly monitor all of them. They count on banks to flag suspicious transactions.”

  “What happens if Gillen had too much money to launder through the restaurant?”

  “There may be additional accounts. If he washed more money than we know about now, he’d have lots of options. Gambling for one. Anybody can walk into a casino, trade dirty money for chips. Shoot craps for a while, maybe even lose a few bucks. Take the leftover chips and ask for a check. Now the money is clean enough to deposit in a bank.”

  Jack Blasdel had applied for a license to work in a casino in Atlantic City. Plus, his ex-girlfriend Gerda Pittman claimed he’d scouted business opportunities for a billionaire he’d met there. He also helped Sabine disappear, and later bought the gunstore where she was shot and killed. Davie wondered if he’d been involved in the money-laundering scheme at the Seaglass Cafe, as well.

  Davie’s gaze caught Striker’s. “The big question is, where did the money come from?”

  He shrugged. “Criminals are always looking for ways to wash money through legitimate businesses. Somebody might have made Gillen an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

  “A detective from Florida told me Gillen got business tips from some mysterious advisor, but nobody knows who he is or what kind of miracle advice he gave Gillen to turn the restaurant around so spectacularly. Maybe that person was the source of the money.” Davie pulled out the photo of the three men. “I emailed this photo to Detective Brooks. I also sent it to our facial recognition unit. Gillen is the man in the Hawaiian shirt. I haven’t identified the others. Sabine kept the picture, so it must have meant something to her.”

  Striker studied the photo and then refilled both glasses. The bottle wa
s now empty and Davie was buzzed.

  “There’s still a lot of this story to unpack,” he said. “Are you even sure those are Sabine’s doodles?”

  “I think so. Her sister-in-law told me Sabine had to learn shorthand for a job. I’m guessing not many people use it these days. ”

  “We still don’t know if she was a whistle blower or a coconspirator.”

  “There’s a ten-digit number at the bottom of the last page of Sabine’s notes with a question mark behind it. The number belongs to the FBI’s Miami field office. Looks like she was considering calling them about what she’d discovered. Not sure if she did, but I left a message for someone I know in the Bureau to see if Sabine made contact with them.”

  “Looks like you’ll need forensic accountants and other resources you don’t have at the division. Why don’t you ask the captain to send the case to Homicide Special? The unit can bring you back on loan and maybe borrow a detective from CCD. Lieutenant Repetto would sign off on that in a hot minute.”

  Davie managed a mock frown and wagged her index finger at him. “You trying to steal another case from me?”

  His eyes were alive and receptive. “You do good work, Davie. I thought you might stay at RHD after the Woodrow case. The lieutenant would have made it happen.”

  Davie thought about how to respond. She’d been upset when the captain transferred her case to Homicide Special, even though that brought her closer to Striker. But she loved her job at Pacific and was happy working with Giordano and Vaughn. She also knew her boss was retiring and sensed her partner was restless. It was possible Vaughn wouldn’t stay at Pacific much longer. Truth was, few detectives spent their entire careers at the same division.

  Davie didn’t want to get ahead of the situation, but she knew being in the same unit with Striker could get complicated, especially if their relationship turned personal. Striker outranked her. Technically that gave him power over her. The LAPD considered that troubling. If she and Striker started dating, the department would require them to notify their supervisor. Once that happened, people would be watching for a messy breakup that might jeopardize a high-profile homicide case.

  Davie hesitated but plunged ahead. “How would Lieutenant Repetto feel about you sitting in my kitchen drinking champagne if we worked together?” Asking the question had made her feel vulnerable, and self-doubt crept in when Striker didn’t answer right away.

  He leaned forward with his elbows on the table, his vivid blue eyes within a foot of hers. “You know the lieutenant isn’t one to hold back. I guess we’d find out soon enough.”

  The lip gloss had been a mistake. Davie wanted to say something witty and clever but the gloss seemed to have glued her lips shut. She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see they’d been talking for two hours.

  Striker waited without a word for her next move. The problem was she didn’t have one. A moment later, he took his jacket from the back of the chair and slung it over his shoulder. “I guess I should go.”

  Davie’s body became taut from toe to temple. Her throat felt dry. She followed him to the door while the words don’t go ping-ponged in her brain.

  Striker paused by the door, resting his hand lightly on her arm a little longer than expected. “Thanks for the champagne, Detective. Most enjoyable. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I met a guy from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement at a conference a few weeks ago. I can call him if you need information.”

  Davie hovered by the open door, obsessing about what Striker had meant by that touch. She hoped she wasn’t jeopardizing the Montaine case by brushing off his offer to help, but for now she’d continue pulling threads until she’d unraveled all the leads.

  The taillights of his car turned onto the main road and disappeared. The cottage seemed deadly silent as she cleaned up the kitchen, mentally kicking herself for not asking Striker to stay. But she knew if he’d said no, it would have cut a hole in her self-esteem that no ER doc could repair.

  She emptied the crumbs from her pocket and then washed and dried the thrift store clothes. As she got ready for bed she replayed in her mind Bear’s warning: Don’t date cops. She’d had a toxic relationship with another detective that had nearly ended her career and she didn’t want to repeat that error.

  Before falling asleep, she mentally scheduled a workday that included a high-priority second interview with Jack Blasdel. He was at the center of everything. Sabine had been in Fort Lauderdale for less than a year when she borrowed his sailboat and disappeared into the abyss. Davie had to know whether she’d met him at the marina, at the restaurant where she worked, or somewhere else. Why had they both ended up in L.A.? Was Blasdel lying when he denied recognizing her at the gunstore or were the changes she’d made to her appearance enough to fool him? The biggest question of all: Did Blasdel have a hand in her murder?

  36

  The following morning Davie awoke with a start and reached for her cell on the nightstand. It was five a.m. and for the fourth day in a row there were no messages calling her out to a new homicide. Relieved, she showered and dressed for work.

  As she steered the Camaro south on the 405, she thought about probable cause—her strong suspicion that a felony had been committed and evidence of that felony was contained in the records she wanted to search. That’s what she needed in order to get a warrant for the Seaglass Cafe’s bank statements. So far, all she had were hunches; strong ones to be sure, but no judge would grant a warrant for intuition alone.

  As soon as Davie arrived at work, she walked upstairs and put the clean thrift store clothes in her locker. Returning to her desk in the squad room, she saw a message from the FBI special agent she’d contacted the night before. The agent confirmed they had no open case on Nate Gillen for money laundering or any other crime and there was no record that Sabine Ponti had contacted the Bureau.

  Davie stood and waved to her partner across the gray partition wall. “Hey, Jason. You want to ride with me to the Valley?”

  He looked up from an email he’d been reading. “Is that a serious question? It’s hot over there and smoky as hell from the fires.”

  “I have to interview a witness in Sherman Oaks and I may need backup. Good news? He owns a nail salon. He might give you a free manicure.”

  Vaughn opened his arms wide. “In that case. Take me, I’m yours.”

  On the drive to the San Fernando Valley, Davie filled Vaughn in on the progress she’d made in the Ponti investigation. “It’s an adrenaline rush every time I discover some new piece of evidence.”

  “Does Giordano know all the time you’re spending on this? It’s not even an open case.”

  “He’s totally on board,” she said. “Besides, I’m not giving it preference over other homicides. I’m still looking for Javi Hernandez’s killer.”

  She prided herself on caring about all her victims, but she felt Sabine’s death hadn’t been given the attention it deserved. The pressure was mounting to find answers before the file was forced back into Giordano’s bottom drawer. Still, her partner’s question reminded her to make sure Javi Hernandez got equal attention. Vaughn was busy checking his Twitter feed. They didn’t speak again until she neared the exit.

  Ahead, the sky was dusky from smoke. The wildfire was still devouring dry brush on the hills above Malibu and was showing no sign of containment. Even before she left the freeway, she could see a billow of black smoke, but it wasn’t coming from Malibu. This fire was closer. Her anxiety spiked when she realized it came from the vicinity of the nail salon. She stomped her foot hard on the accelerator, exited the freeway, and headed for Blasdel’s shop. The sudden jolt caught Vaughn off guard.

  “What’s going on?”

  Davie nodded toward the smoke.

  Her partner slid his phone into his jacket pocket. “That doesn’t look good.”

  Behind her, a siren blared. Davie swerve
d to the curb to let a fire department emergency-medical vehicle pass before continuing toward the smoke, passing a group of citizens watching the fire from the sidewalk. Even from a distance, Davie could see the looks of horror on their faces.

  The tires of the detective car squealed as Davie braked a short distance from a hook and ladder truck. Firefighters and EMTs were already on the scene as flames licked at the Salon de Manucure sign above Blasdel’s shop door. Van Nuys patrol officers kept bystanders away from the area.

  She stepped out of the car into a river of water cascading down the gutter. The intense heat of the blaze sucked the oxygen from her lungs and burned her eyes. Ashes rained down around her, casting a gray pallor on the surrounding landscape. She covered her nose and mouth with her hand as she and Vaughn walked toward a makeshift command post that included an LAFD arson team and homicide detectives from the LAPD’s Van Nuys Division.

  Davie presented her badge to one of the Van Nuys detectives, a man named Harper. “Any idea how the fire started?”

  “Not yet. The FD just sent in a crew, so I assume the flames are at least partly contained.”

  Davie pointed to the EMT vehicle. “Was anybody inside the building?”

  He eyed her with suspicion. “What’s your interest?”

  “My partner and I are from Pacific Homicide. We’re here to talk to the owner of that shop about a case we’re working on,” she said, pointing toward the blaze. “His name is Jack Blasdel. He also had several manicurists working for him.”

  He nodded, apparently satisfied with her explanation. “Let me talk to the hose monkeys.”

  Davie and Vaughn waited on the sidewalk as the detective walked around the hook and ladder truck and disappeared from view.

  Vaughn tied his pocket-handkerchief around his face like a bandit. The cloth fluttered as he spoke. “Maybe Blasdel torched the shop to collect the insurance. Isn’t that what he did with his boat?”

  “That’s one theory.”

  Davie’s skin prickled with apprehension as she considered another explanation. Blasdel was a grifter, a failed businessman, and possibly a lot worse. With that kind of history there could be any number of explanations for the fire, payback being one. What she didn’t know was if the blaze was connected to Sabine Ponti’s death.