by R. T. Wolfe
They'd searched the store and found the scene of the shooting. No forced entry. No sign of struggle. He'd been shot in an office in the back of the place. So far, nothing seemed to be missing.
One bullet was retrieved from a large wooden desk. Rickard found the other two in Juracek.
He may have been white as a sheet and lying in an alley, but Nickie easily made a match to a picture on the office wall. In it, he stood next to his father-in-law, Gerald Jackson.
Still, procedure made it necessary for the widow to come in and make a positive ID. Mrs. Juracek had brought her twelve-year-old daughter for the identification. Not that Nickie knew a damned thing about raising kids, but seriously? The girl's whimpers were a sound that was too familiar for Nickie. The mom insisted, citing some shrink who said the sooner the closure the better. It was damned cold.
Her eyes wanted to cross at the piles of paperwork she'd gone through in the past five hours. The ME already confirmed that Juracek did, indeed, die of a gunshot wound to the chest. One went in and out, grazing the side of the lowest rib. It was the bullet lodged in the desk. Another stuck in his shoulder and bounced around some. The one that did him in was one that nicked his heart before bouncing throughout the guy's left lung. She shook her head. What a way to go.
She focused on the next few papers as she went over the evidence in her head. No defensive wounds. No skin under his nails. The body bag was what stuck in Nickie's head. It screamed premeditation. No one could figure out the circular bruises on his chest. There were three of them, just like the three gunshots.
Wait a minute. She stopped and went back to the previous page of the bank statement she'd been combing. A payout entry to an SS8? That didn't sound like a jeweler. Five thousand dollars. It wasn't an odd check amount for a jewelry business, but it still didn't sit well with her.
Waking her desk computer, she searched SS8. Nothing. She dug a little deeper and found the account number of the bank the check went into.
SS8. No physical address. No phone number. Deposits from the Cayman Islands, L.A., Chicago, and as far away as India. All from ordinary names. John Smiths and Jane Does. Not very creative, people.
She punched in Eddy's intercom number on her elderly desk unit.
"Lynx," he answered.
"I think I've got something."
He must have stopped what he was doing, because he came in almost immediately. He glanced at the guest chairs full of files, then to the side of her desk that had three Styrofoam soda empties. He moved behind her. She pointed out the J & JJ check in question, then showed him the SS8 bank records.
"You thinking money laundering? Maybe Juracek was dipping into something?"
She shrugged. "It's time to visit the missus." She rose and they stood nose to nose. He didn't move.
"Oh," he said and sidestepped out of the way.
Duncan's voice echoed in her mind. 'He needs to be pummeled.' She grabbed her jacket on the way out.
* * *
Duncan turned onto the gravel side of the Northridge Police Department staff parking. He noticed her car in the space she deemed her own. Pulling over near a row of parked cars, he took his cell and punched in her number. Before he hit send, he spotted her. Her thigh-length black jacket tied at the waist and gave her female shape an extra punch. She hadn't noticed him yet, and he made no attempt to signal her. He'd seen her use her female shape to her benefit in a plethora of situations. To distract a man assaulting her, give the wrong impression during interrogation, make Duncan insane. She was a complicated mess, and he wanted the whole package. It was a problem.
He recognized the moment her eyes found him. She paused as her expression changed from intense thought to a mixture of contentment and endearment. He opened his door and headed toward her car.
"You're here," she called over to him and started walking again.
He didn't answer, beating her to her car and leaning back against the cold metal.
"It's late. I still have a stop to make and paperwork after that." Her firm body pressed into him. "Can I take a rain check for tonight?"
Her warmth made him forget about the cold metal of her rusty oversized town car on his backside. "Come late." He pulled off a single glove and ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek. "You have a key."
At the mention of the key, she stiffened beneath his hands. He masked the pain it caused him. They'd had this discussion a dozen times and this wasn't the place to have another.
"I've got a case. A murder. I'll be crazy late."
"You're welcome to do the paperwork in front of a fire with Chomsky playing in the background."
Her eyes sparkled as she squinted. "That's what you say when you want me to pose for a painting."
Footsteps clicked along the concrete part of the lot, then crunched when they hit the gravel. He recognized them as belonging to Eddy Lynx. Duncan wished he could forget what they sounded like, but he was never going to forget what anything sounded like. Not in this lifetime.
"Pretty Boy," Lynx called as he swaggered toward Nickie's car.
"Loser." Duncan nodded.
Nickie shook her head and blew out a steamy breath in the cold, the steel gray in her eyes turning sharp. Lynx strutted as he stepped past them and waited by the passenger side of her car.
"I have a stop to make with Eddy," she amended in a low whisper.
Duncan accepted her role as a cop; it didn't mean he had to like each part of it. "He wants you."
"He's harmless."
"Hardly."
"Okay, how about I'll show up tonight if at all possible? I'm in love with you," she whispered in his ear, then kissed him on the cheek. She headed to the driver's side, her eyes moving between Lynx and him.
"I'll take good care of her," Lynx taunted as he opened the door.
* * *
"Thirty-six Mulberry," Eddy said as he fooled with his smartphone. "I'll put it in my GPS."
Nickie flipped on the radio and turned it up so they wouldn't have to talk. She didn't need to talk; she needed to think. Paperwork in her cramped office at the station, or in the master bedroom at Duncan's house? She knew which she preferred, but it seemed too intimate and she didn't do that kind of intimate.
The Juracek house was in the nicest neighborhood in Northridge. Her car stuck out and made her think she should have taken Duncan's Audi. She parked away from the front door and left it unlocked. The path to the house was long and shoveled precisely.
"What are we looking for, Nick?"
"I'm not sure. Something doesn't smell right." She dipped her head around the sides of the enormous door. "Where is the bell?"
Eddy found a button in the knocker. It worked, so Nickie straightened.
A man who looked to be in his early twenties answered. He wore a blue button-down shirt, jeans and sneakers. She leaned back to recheck the engraved address on the brick before introducing herself.
"I'm Detective Savage," she said. "This is Detective Lynx. We're here to see Mrs. Juracek. Is she available?"
The man nodded, walked away and left the door open. She and Eddy entered a giant foyer and shut the door behind them. A white, winding staircase climbed the side of the area and led up to a long second-floor landing. Other than the just-vacuumed smell, it made her think she'd stepped into a scene from Gone With the Wind. Mrs. Juracek came from where the man had disappeared. She wore a dressy coral pantsuit but was pale with puffy, red eyes.
"I'm Detective Savage," Nickie repeated. "We met briefly at the station when you came to view your husband's body. This is Detective Lynx. May we have a minute of your time?"
The woman dipped her chin and led them to a small living room off the foyer. Nickie and Eddy sat in the loveseat that faced a large picture window, overlooking the snow-covered front yard. Lights glowed beneath the piled snow still hanging onto mature bushes and trees after some melting from the above average temperatures that day.
The missus seemed to be in shock. Nickie hated this part of her job. Did
this woman truly deserve a shoulder to cry on? Or was she a great actress who needed forty-five to life?
"We are sorry for your loss, Mrs. Juracek. You understand we need to ask you some questions. We're going to do everything we can to find the person who did this to your late husband." She meant every word whether or not she was staring at the person responsible for his death.
Mrs. Juracek pulled a tissue from her pocket, resting it beneath her nose.
"Do you mind if I record our conversation?"
"No, and please call me Sylvia."
Nickie pressed play on her ancient device, compliments of the ancient NPD. "Sylvia Juracek. Do you give me, Detective Nickie Savage, and Detective Eddy Lynx permission to record this conversation?"
She nodded.
"If you could answer aloud, please. For the recorder."
"Yes, I give permission."
Unfortunately, it helped to judge how much people squirmed at having to recite their name into a recorder. It could be telling. Mrs. Juracek didn't wring her hands, turn red or seem to have discomfort with giving her name, which put her either in the grieving wife camp or the cold-hearted nut job camp. Shoulder to cry on or forty-five to life.
"Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt your husband? Does he have any enemies?"
Mrs. Juracek shook her head. "No. No one. We're just a small town jeweler."
Nickie couldn't help it. She glanced around their home. It was bigger than Duncan's and stuffy. White painted everything. Tall pillars. Marble floors. This is what you get from a small town jewelry store?
"And the business was co-owned by your late husband and your father?"
"Yes. My maiden name is Jackson. Jackson & Juracek Jewelers."
Nickie already knew all of this.
"Do you recognize the name of a business called SS8?"
Oops. There it was.
Mrs. Juracek's eyes darted to hers. "No." She answered a little too quickly.
Nickie didn't do hunches but was smart enough to bank the reaction in a corner of her mind.
"Who takes over the Juracek half of the business at your husband's departure?"
The woman's brows sank as she moved her gaze from Nickie to Eddy and back again. "What are you saying? That I could have had something to do with this?"
That wasn't what Nickie was saying.
"These are all routine questions, ma'am. We would ask them under any circumstances."
"Oh, of course. I'm so sorry. I have a son from a previous marriage. Tommy. You met him when he answered the door. William and my father were discussing leaving our half to him, but I don't know how far my father and he had gotten with the idea."
Nickie started to ask the following question, then stopped as it looked like Mrs. Juracek was considering her next thought.
"I haven't worked at the shop since our daughter was born."
Nickie looked through her notes. "Is that Renee?"
Mrs. Juracek nodded. "Yes. She's the child William and I had together. She's twelve years old." Mrs. Juracek looked to a bookcase that held some photos. In it was a picture of the missus, little Renee and the late Mr. Juracek.
"How old is your son?"
"He's twenty-five. I had him very young."
"Do you know why your husband was out in the early morning hours last night?" Eddy asked. "He was fully dressed in a suit jacket and tie."
Tears trickled over Mrs. Juracek's pale eyelids. "No," she wailed. "I didn't even know he was gone. We don't share a bedroom. He is restless when he..." Her eyes slid to Nickie's. "We don't have anything to hide."
Nickie always thought people who didn't have anything to hide didn't need to say so.
"You can look through the house if you want. His office is back there." She shook her finger toward a hallway.
Nickie stood and Eddy followed. "Thank you for your cooperation. We'll take a look."
The room fit the aura of the home. Big, white painted wood. A large picture window with a view to the spacious backyard.
The electronics were password protected, of course. She would have liked to bring them downtown to IT, but it wasn't time to push a warrant, yet.
"Nick. Take a look at this."
She walked over to the small closet where Eddy stood. It wasn't used for clothing. Shelves held neatly labeled boxes. One was wooden with three Js on the top. He made sure to point out the monogram before opening the lid. In it were stacks of large bills. Several, thick stacks. A velvet bag was opened at the top. Inside were dozens of glittering diamonds.
"Money and diamond laundering," he whispered.
Chapter 3
The partially completed painting of Sophia Colour waited impatiently for Duncan. He was set to fly out first thing Monday morning and deliver it personally. While he was out there, she asked if he would serve as her date for a charity event. He'd done so many times before with several different clients. It gave him the reputation of arm candy and a local title of 'The Taste of L.A.' The title may have been well-deserved at one time in his life, but now...
He would stay a few days in order to create the beginning sketches of the other paintings she ordered. He needed to solidify a few appointments before he could answer her yet about the charity event. Who was he kidding? None of his other appointments would be on a Monday night at nine.
Instead of sitting at his easel, he found himself at the wraparound desk his uncle had made for him. He had three computers up and running. His desk unit sat in the middle, with a laptop to one side and his tablet on the other. The aroma from the black coffee that rested between his forearms helped streamline his thoughts. Unfortunately, it didn't streamline his painting. As he dipped his head closer to the mug, he flicked his gaze to the flaming tattoo that crawled up his arm. The flames flicked as anxiously as his mood.
The names of exactly nineteen victims, twenty-nine johns and fifteen perpetrators lay neatly next to his tablet. The paper list wasn't necessary. The names of those involved in the child trafficking he and Nickie discovered would live in his memory for the rest of his life. Still, he preferred having the physical copy next to him as if he were a regular person doing research.
He'd already done an image and general search on all of the victims. No Zheng. Each girl was average, abducted in a variety of methods—from their homes, bus stops, only one had been homeless, the rest were sheltered innocents. Duncan turned his head and ground his teeth together. That was what the johns wanted. It was what Zheng wanted. That's what Nickie was. He clenched and released his hands before continuing.
The searches on the johns were different. So far, they had either police records or shady connections. Some were judges, politicians, the wealthy. He isolated on each, one at a time, searching for a shot of Zheng in the background of an image, possibly finding some reference to an Asian man.
He took his pencil and made a check mark on his list next to the name of each john as he worked. They would serve as a physical reminder of what was etched in his memory. The check marks were increasing. His hits on Zheng were not.
The perpetrators would be a different story. The men who served as guards over the girls. Thugs who supervised and organized the trafficking. The ones who catered to the men who got off on abusing children.
Were they, also, sexually interested in the young teens? Or were they only interested in making a dime? He pounded the side of his fist on the top of the desk a half-dozen times, each hit harder than the last, nearly spilling coffee over his keyboard. His detective. He rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. She'd been put through this for eighteen months of her life when she should have been wearing braces and going to school dances.
Pushing away from the desk, he stood and paced. He gave in and allowed the images to run through his mind like a slide show. The night Nickie risked her badge and broke into the governor's assistant's property. The girls they saved in the cold. As he and Nickie hid them, one at a time, in Duncan's SUV. Naked, drugged, frightened. Just as Nickie was sixtee
n years ago.
Inside the SUV, Nickie had covered the girls in blankets. He shook his head as if the scenario didn't make sense. Why would they need blankets in the blazing heat? Would they serve as cover from the sand as it whipped around in the chopper?
Cries rang out as they were hit. Blood covered every inch of metal as the Chinook twirled toward the ground, the vast sea of light-colored desert approaching fast. "How many girls are dead?" his commander yelled through the sound of the wind and fire. Duncan looked around at the bodies of his platoon. "All of them," he said.
Grabbing the back of the closest chair, he dipped his head and sucked air. A line of sweat trickled down the fire tattoo on his forearm. Nickie. He went to the window and looked out at his drive. His were the only tire tracks. "Okay," he said. "Okay." Stepping away from the window, he ran his hands through his sweaty hair. A swim. The constant rush of water over his ears and the unmoving straight lines at the bottom of his pool would help muffle the sounds and sights pounding his head.
* * *
Nickie wasn't about to park in the garage. No more snow was forecasted for the next few days, so there was no reason. She tapped her thumb on the steering wheel and sighed. Parking in your boyfriend's garage was creepy. Flopping the back of her neck against her seat, she stared at the roof. What a head case.
Lowering her gaze, she slammed the heel of her hand on the steering wheel and looked around. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head clear and got out of the damned car. It was well past midnight. She welcomed the first deep breath of crisp air as it burnt her lungs.
The moonlight and the snow lit the area almost as much as the porch light he'd left on for her. Nearly subconsciously, she stopped in front of the granite steps that seemed to go for miles up to his house.
She'd let him give her a drawer, hadn't she? Hung clothes in his closet and had his key hanging from her key ring. Figuratively, she patted herself on the back.
Something took a step in the woods to the west side of the house. She jerked her head in the direction of the movement, then let out a breath that was half-laugh and half-huff. It was late. With the four hours of sleep she'd had the night before, she was letting herself freak over wildlife in the trees.