by Ana Valen
Raven shook this off. “I don’t think it was a robbery. I think it was staged to look like a robbery.”
Shit. She didn’t expect that.
“What gives you pause about the robbery angle?” Claire asked.
“Jessie was on a hiking trail in business clothes. He was also there at a time when nobody goes.”
“So what do you think happened?”
“I think someone lured him there and took him out.”
Fuck. She didn’t expect that either.
“So,” Raven continued, “do you know of anyone who might have wanted to target him?”
“No. I can’t think of anyone who hated Jessie.”
“Don’t only think about that.”
“Why?”
“Because hatred isn’t the main reason why people kill others. They kill others when there’s something to gain.”
“Is that why you brought up our inheritance?”
“That’s right.” Raven took another sip. “But just so you know, I don’t think you killed him for money.”
“What’s make you so sure?”
“Because as of this morning, you’re still paying off your car and condo.”
Claire smirked.
“Well,” Raven continued, “you can’t think of anyone?”
Claire considered this. “What about his girlfriend?”
“What girlfriend?”
“Susan Wright. They weren’t together long, but they were head over heels in love.”
Raven pulled a pen and notepad and jotted something down, probably the name. “How much in love? Enough to have joint bank accounts?”
“I don’t know. But I know she was pregnant.” Claire sipped. “You think she was behind this?”
“Too early to tell. But in these instances, close associates are usually involved.” Raven put away her pen and notepad. “For them, that’s good and bad.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you’re close to someone, it’s easier to target them. You know their routines, their habits, and you can use their trust. At the same time, the more contact you have with someone, the more investigators can connect. If these people were smart, they would hire a hitman.”
Claire looked away. A hitman. Holy crap. That’s how she could resolve her new problem.
“What?” Raven asked.
Claire looked back. “Nothing. Was there anything else?”
“Claire, what just popped into your head?”
She kept quiet.
“Remember what I said,” Raven added. “This relationship goes both ways.”
“Fine. But this time, you answer something first.”
“What?”
“Why are you here without your partner?”
Now Raven stayed silent.
“Trust is a two-way street, remember?”
Raven leaned back slightly. “Adams and I don’t always see eye to eye.”
“Why not?”
“He operates according to the book.”
“And you don’t?”
“Not always. That doesn’t mean I’m some trigger-happy vigilante. It just means that I’m focused on achieving justice for the victims. For me, that matters over everything, including the guidelines.”
“Why do you feel that way?”
Raven shook her head. “Nope. That’s a personal question, and therefore not part of our information agreement. Now, what popped into your head?”
Claire took another sip. “Someone has been making threats against my brother.”
Raven clenched her jaw. “Were you not going to mention this?”
“That depended.”
“On?”
“On if you would use the information against me.”
“Huh?”
Claire leaned in. “Do you know what my brother did?”
“Yeah. Criminal defense attorney.”
“Right. He protected shady characters. And his association with these people gives you leverage over me.”
“You mean like us letting it slip that you’re cooperating?”
Claire nodded.
“Look,” Raven continued. “I’ll protect you. And that’s no bullshit.”
“I know. Because me turning up dead is bad for your case.”
“No, because I’m serious about working on behalf of victims. If you take anything away from this meeting, at least take that.”
Claire nodded once more.
“Here,” Raven said. She pulled her pen and notepad, jotted something else, and tore off the paper. “This is my personal cell. If anything comes up—threats, people looking at you funny, something like that—call me.”
“Thanks.” Claire took the slip of paper and placed it in her jacket pocket. “Do you want my cell number as well?”
Raven stood and grinned. “No need. I already have it. Thanks for your cooperation.” She exited the seating area and slipped into the semi-crowded night.
Claire likewise stood and departed.
While heading back to her car, Raven’s statement lingered in her mind—these people should hire a hitman. Maybe that was how she could navigate this new problem. But first, she had to find one.
Chapter 6
Back in his Nissan, Harlan left behind Brentwood Heights. He drove along Melrose while heading towards West Hollywood. After passing a string of tattoo parlors, clothing stores, and music stores, he arrived at the Bayside Clothing Warehouse.
He pulled into the parking lot and nestled the Maxima in an empty slot. With the engine off, he disembarked and started for the loading dock. He passed through one of the loading dock openings and encountered the expected sight—workers carrying boxes, beeping forklifts, and racks of clothing. None of the workers looked at him. They kept their focus on their immediate task. That was also expected.
He pushed deeper into the warehouse and eventually reached a spate of offices. Men in suits traversed the hallways, all of them speaking in foreign tongues, probably some Eastern European language. He continued to a far office where two more suited men stood by. One of them eyed Harlan, but not with ill content. Actually, his grizzled expression softened to respect. The man nodded at Harlan, but Harlan didn’t nod back. He simply stepped through the door, crossed an empty reception area, and entered the office of the chief executive.
Two more men were inside the office. One was a muscle-bound bodyguard standing in the corner. The other was tall and thin, and seated behind his desk—Alexander Kovalenko. A Ukrainian gangster, Kovalenko used this warehouse as a business front. He also made the upper echelon dress the part by wearing designer suits. Kovalenko dressed the same, but he never wore a jacket or tie.
Kovalenko leaned back in his chair with his cellphone pinned to his ear. A moment later, he jerked forward and shouted into his phone. He emphasized his foreign words with a stabbing finger. He ended the call, slammed the phone onto his desk, and ran his fingers through his curly grayish hair. He then dragged his fingers down his grayish beard.
“Goodness gracious,” Kovalenko groaned, speaking with accented English. “You do someone a favor, and when you ask for something in return, you would think they would assist. Instead, all you get is protest. What’s the point of a relationship when it is not reciprocal?”
Harlan didn’t answer. He simply stood there.
“Apologies,” Kovalenko told him. “I don’t mean to bore you with my problems. Now, Mr. Harlan, how can I help?”
“The mission is done. The target has been eliminated.”
Kovalenko beamed while turning to the bodyguard. “You see?” He pointed at Harlan. “This man right here. This is what I’m talking about! Why can’t everyone be like him?” He looked back to Harlan. “Right. I forgot. Igor doesn’t speak a lick of English. Don’t you, Igor?”
The muscle didn’t move.
Kovalenko waved this off. “Bagh. No matter. Alright, Mr. Harlan, please give me the details.”
Harlan pulled the burner phone from his pocket. “I waited outs
ide of the target’s home and verified that he was alone. I then infiltrated the home and confronted him. I ended him with one round.” He brought up the pictures and extended the burner.
“One shot?” Kovalenko took the phone. “Good God. One shot. Right in the Goddamn head.” Still observing the phone, he took a remorseful breath while. “Oh, Yuri. I had given you everything. An easy job, plenty of pay, low risk. But that wasn’t enough. You wanted your own thing. And that would’ve been fine if you hadn’t tried to screw me over in the process. Now look at you. What a waste.” He looked back to Harlan. “Isn’t this a waste?”
Harlan remained silent.
Kovalenko beamed once more. “Right. I forgot. You’re the man who does not feel.” He shivered. “Harlan, you are the only person I am afraid of. That’s why I’ve told you over and over—if anyone hires you to kill me, I’ll pay you double to kill them.”
Kovalenko waited. Harlan waited as well.
“Tyrion Lannister!” Kovalenko blurted. “From Game of Thrones! A brilliant man. You can learn everything there is to know in life from him alone. Isn’t that right, Igor?”
Igor grunted.
“Bagh,” Kovalenko said once more. “Igor was always partial to The Mountain. Who is your favorite character, Harlan?”
Harlan waited a beat. “Do you have any more work for me?”
“Ah, yes. Strictly business. Another reason why I like you.” Kovalenko opened a desk drawer. “Alas, there is nothing else lined up. Only your payment.” He retrieved a brown envelop and placed it on the desk. “Twenty thousand. Like always.”
Harlan waited once more. “You don’t have anything else?”
“Nope. Everyone who needed to die is now dead. Imagine that. God bless the USA.” Kovalenko pushed the envelope forward. “Please, Harlan. You earned it.”
Harlan stepped forward and took the envelope. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“That’s up to you. I say you take a vacation. Go somewhere sunny and warm. If you like, I’ll set you up with some female company. That should finally put a smile on your face!”
“I’ll consider it.”
“Wonderful. And as always, spasybi.”
Harlan didn’t respond. He simply turned and walked out.
***
Harlan drove back towards his Mid-City apartment, though not to go home. His apartment was on route to his destination—the Santa Monica Pier.
He drove down Santa Monica Boulevard, reached the ocean, and made a left. Shit. He didn’t anticipate such a large crowd. Still, this shouldn’t pose a problem.
He parked along the oceanfront, exited, and walked towards the pier. After stepping onto the wooden planks, color and noise pressed in from all sides.
The pier was a cacophony of artificial light, chattering voices, and rumbling rides. He disregarded all of this. In fact, he barely noticed it. The entire spectacle was background noise—the ceaseless drone of the universe.
He walked to the pier’s far end where less people gathered. After approaching an empty section of railing, he leaned over and checked below. Nobody was down there. Only the waves crashing against the pillars.
He reached into his sweatshirt pocket, pulled the Sig he used on the target, and tossed it over the side. The weapon was untraceable, but he never took chances. In the same vein, he would burn the clothes he wore. Then what?
Kovalenko didn’t have any more work. That was bad. The last thing Harlan wanted was idle time, which always bothered him. He only felt comfortable when preparing for an assignment or carrying one out. When not doing either, unease took hold—an unease whose origins he couldn’t pinpoint. And he couldn’t avoid this no matter what he tried. Drinking, drugs—none of that worked. Actually, drugs and alcohol magnified the unease by giving it awful new faces. No. He needed something to do. But what?
“Excuse me?” said a man with an Asiatic accent.
Harlan looked over and spotted the person—upper forties, somewhat diminutive, smiling wide.
“So sorry,” the man continued. “Can you please take picture of me and my family?’
Harlan looked behind the man to four additional people—a wife and three children.
“Mister?” the man repeated, still smiling.
“What?”
“A picture, please. One with the rides in the background.” The man extended his cellphone.
“Sure,” Harlan said, only to rid himself of the group.
He took the cellphone that was already in photo mode. The man bowed, backed up towards his family, and spoke in their native tongue. The family members arranged themselves, then all of them cast similar smiles.
“Ready?” Harlan called out, forcing liveliness into his voice.
“Hai!” the man said.
Guessing that meant yes, Harlan hit the capture button. With the picture saved, he lowered the phone and started nearing.
“One more!” the man said. “With camera…” He made a twisting motion.
“In landscape?” Harlan asked.
“Hai!”
Harlan finally experienced an emotion—annoyance. He turned the cellphone, stepped back, and prepared to take another shot. Only he didn’t.
He stood there observing the family through the viewfinder. The target he killed had a family, something Harlan learned while going over their dossier. But why did this fact just pop into his mind? And why did it suddenly bother him?
“Mister?” the man asked.
Harlan shook away his thoughts. “Sorry.” He lifted the camera and snapped the picture.
The man smiled wider and stepped forward. “Thank you very much.”
Harlan nodded and handed back the phone. The upbeat family looked at the images, smiled even wider, and reentered the pier’s noise and laughter. Harlan, however, stayed put.
Things were worse than he thought. He had only gone thirty minutes without work, and unwanted thoughts were already surfacing. What would happen later tonight, while lying in bed, the darkness creeping around him?
He turned back to the railing and gripped the upper bar. Seconds later, he pulled his cellphone and dialed his boss.
“Mr. Harlan,” Kovalenko chirped. “We speak again! So, have you changed your mind about that vacation?”
“I need work.”
“Come again?”
“I need work.”
Kovalenko took a moment. “I already told you. Nobody needs permanent silencing.”
“I need something, anything… please.”
Another pause.
“Very well!” Kovalenko enthused. “Normally, I only hire you for a specific purpose. But I will find something else. Keep your phone handy, okay?”
“Okay.”
He disconnected, slipped the phone into his pocket, and started back towards his car. Good. Kovalenko would find him something. Unfortunately, that probably wouldn’t happen by tonight. That was bad, because he could already feel the troubling darkness waiting inside his room.
Chapter 7
The following afternoon, Claire walked into Mel’s diner in Santa Monica. She approached the hostess and stopped. “Hi. My friend should already be here. Can I go inside?”
The hostess smiled. “Sure thing.”
“Thanks.”
Claire entered the crowded seating section and looked for James. He sat by himself in a street-facing booth. She started making her way over.
“Hey,” she called out.
He looked over and smiled. “Hey.”
He stood and reached out for a hug. She wished he wouldn’t have. She embraced him nevertheless, recalling that she needed his assistance. After detaching, she gestured towards the booth and they sat.
“I haven’t ordered anything,” he said. “I was waiting until you arrived.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Some of his cheer drained. “You already ate?”
“No. I’m just not hungry.”
“You sure? I’ll pay.”
“Really. I�
��m fine.”
“Okay. So what did you want to tell me?”
She leaned in while placing her hands on the table. “I figured out how to uncover what happened.”
“What happened with what?”
“What do you think? With Jessie.”
He took a small breath. “Why are you even getting involved?”
“Because someone killed him. That’s why.”
“I understand your motivation, alright? And that isn’t hollow sympathy. Jessie was my best friend, which makes me want to get involved. But the police will be looking into this. If they find you snooping around, that won’t end well.”
“I need to do something. That’s especially true since the detective’s investigation probably won’t go very far.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I met with one of the detectives.”
He nodded. “I know. You went with them to identify the body.”
“That’s not what I’m referring to. I met one of the detectives later that night. We had a one-on-one conversation.”
“You what?”
“Hi, there,” said a waitress. “What can I get you two?”
James turned to her. “Um, we’re not too hungry. Can you just bring us some appetizers?”
“Some chicken wings and veggies?”
“Yeah. That’s fine.”
She smiled. “Anything to drink?”
“Unsweetened iced tea, please.”
The waitress scribbled that down and turned to Claire.
“Just water,” Claire answered.
“No problem. I’ll be right back.” She turned and walked off.
“Well?” James continued. “What happened with that cop?”
“She clued me into the case.”
“And?”
“And she thinks someone lured Jessie to the hiking trail and killed him.”
James sighed.
“But they don’t have any evidence to substantiate this. They’re going to follow up with Jessie’s associates.”
“Fine. Let them. And cooperate if you have to. But don’t volunteer yourself. Remember, the cops only care about closing the case. They don’t care who gets trampled in the process.”