by Ana Valen
“Goddammit, James. Someone murdered my brother. I don’t care about being trampled. I need to find out what happened.”
“I’m telling you, Claire. If you work with the detectives, they’ll discard you once your usefulness is done. And they won’t care if that leaves you high and dry.”
“I considered that. That’s why I wanted to meet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Again, I need to figure out what happened. But I don’t know anything about investigations. The police obviously do, but like you said—and I agree—I should avoid them. That leaves criminals. That leaves people who do the luring and killing.”
“So a hitman? You want to hire a hitman?”
“Not a hitman per say. But someone familiar with that type of work.”
He rubbed his jaw. “That’s not bad idea. But why are you telling me this?”
“Take a wild guess.”
He dropped his hand.
“I don’t know any criminals,” she followed. “You do. You defend them.”
“I already told you. This isn’t like the movies. I don’t participate in secret meetings where we plan murders and drug shipments. I spend my time haggling with prosecutors and filing paperwork.”
“Right. But you’re closer to this element than I am. So put me in touch with someone.”
He leaned back and bit his lip.
“What?” she asked.
“What do you think? I’m not exactly keen on making this introduction.”
“Why not?”
“Because I care for you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Why would it? I won’t rat out anybody to the cops. On the contrary, I specifically don’t want the cops to find out.”
“I get what you’re saying. But these people don’t take chances. If they deem you a liability, they’ll silence you.”
She looked away. Damn. That was a legitimate risk. She refocused. “I appreciate your concern. But I’m willing to chance it. This means everything to me.”
“You’re that serious?”
She nodded.
“Alright. I’ll talk to someone.”
“Who?”
He looked around before refocusing. “A mob boss. He leads an organization that smuggles high-end clothing into the country.”
“That doesn’t sound too nefarious.”
“You wouldn’t think so. But the Russian mafia is behind this, and they don’t think twice about eliminating their competition. Plus, he engages in other forms of activity.”
“How do you know him?”
“Jessie and I have done immigration law for him and his associates.”
“And he’ll take this on?”
“Not personally. But he can get you in touch with someone.”
“Alright. Go ahead and set this up.” She made to rise.
“How are you doing?”
She paused and resettled herself. “I’m fine. Well, as fine as can be.”
“I’m here for you. I hope you know that.”
“I do.”
He worked around his lips. “I also still love you.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“You don’t feel the same way towards me?”
“Somewhat.”
“But not enough to give us another chance?”
She shook her head. “Not after what happened to me. When that occurred, the relationship part of me also died.”
He tilted his head back.
“Why are you upset?” she asked. “I’m sure you have tons of prospects. You’re young, good looking, wealthy.”
“I don’t care about any prospects. Ever since high school, I knew you were the one. And you felt the same way towards me.”
“I did. But that changed.”
He tightened his mouth.
“James, this change wasn’t your fault.”
“I know. But I’m the one suffering for it.”
“You’re not the only one suffering. Ever since the incident, I haven’t been the same.”
“But we can fix it. If we work together, we can mend the damage.”
She closed her eyes. “James, this can’t be fixed.” She refocused on him. “The damage is permanent. And I didn’t only hear this from one doctor. I heard it from five. Hell. I blew half of my inheritance looking into this.”
“If you need money, I have money. I can—”
“I just need your support. I just need your assistance with this situation.”
“And afterward?”
She paused. “Afterward, we can consider our situation.”
Hope flashed in his eyes.
“But afterward,” she repeated. “Right now, you get me in contact with this person.”
“Alright. Consider it done. To keep our chances alive, I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Good. I’ll keep that in mind.”
She rose and started for the exit.
Chapter 8
Raven sat at her cubicle observing a police report. The report was one of several on her desk, all of which pertained to the Jessie Jacobson murder scene. Going through these reports always helped. They acted as puzzle pieces—pieces that generated an image of what happened. They also let her know which pieces were missing. This time around, she performed the exercise with halfhearted interest.
Raven mainly listened to Adams. He sat in the adjacent cubicle observing similar paperwork. Any second now, he would call the company that operated the hiking trail security cameras. He finally picked up his desk phone and started dialing. That was her cue.
She grabbed her personal cellphone, went into her notes, and brought up the procedural steps she assembled last night. These steps were a plausible way to learn about Jessie’s girlfriend, Susan Wright. Raven needed to follow these steps on a work computer, because that would document her efforts for the prosecutor, the defense attorney, her stickler partner, whoever.
On her work computer, she opened an Internet browser, navigated to Facebook, and logged into her fake account. She brought up Jessie’s profile, clicked on his photos, and selected an image of Susan. Through the image, she linked to Susan’s profile. She then brought up Susan’s photos, and clicked on an image that showed her house, including her street address.
There. A believable way to obtain Susan’s place of residence.
Adams leaned over. “Hey.”
She looked to him. “What’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with Aegis Security. They’re not ready.”
“Jeez. How long does it take to pull the footage?”
“Apparently, more than one day. They said something about needing to format the data.”
“What a crock of shit.”
“I agree.”
She faced Adams head on. “Where’s their office?”
“Mid-City. Why?”
She smiled. Mid-City wasn’t far from Susan’s Brentwood home. “Since the office is close by, I say we head over and give them some motivation.”
“Hmm. What do you mean by motivation?”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to clip their balls to an electric generator.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Yeah. I’m just going to break a few fingers.”
Adams shook his head and rose. As he grabbed his jacket, she likewise stood and grabbed hers. With their tops on, they headed out of homicide.
Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at Aegis Security Solutions. Raven parked the Crown Vic along the street, and she and Adams exited.
Inside the building, they approached an empty reception desk. She eased past the desk and leaned into a doorway. Beyond the door was the work area, where employees carried computer equipment, sat at workstations, or conversed in small groups.
“Hey,” she called out.
Some of the workers looked over. The closest person approached.
“Hi, there,” he said. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m Detective Stacy Raven. This i
s my partner, Detective David Adams. We’re here about the Jessie Jacobson case.”
The worker furrowed his brow.
“I called earlier,” Adams said. “I spoke to someone named Ahmed.”
“Oh, right. Ahmed mentioned that. I’ll take you to his station.”
“Thanks,” Adams replied.
She and Adams followed the employee into the work floor. After walking to the far end, they stopped at a station.
“Ahmed,” said the employee. “The cops you spoke with are here.”
Ahmed turned in his chair. “Mr. Adams?” he said from behind a thick beard.
“Detective Adams,” Adams corrected.
“Right. Sorry. As I said over the phone, I need more time to compile the video footage. Our data doesn’t operate like—”
“Like video recorders,” Adams cut in. “I remember. Everything is digitally captured, so it needs formatting.”
“Right. I’m still working on that.”
“And we’re working on an active homicide case. The homicide was recent, and we’re in the critical window. We need that footage.”
Ahmed shrugged. “My computer equipment can only run so fast.”
Adams huffed out air. “How much longer will it be?”
“A few hours. And for making you wait, I’ll take the disc to your station.”
“Or you can find a faster way,” Raven said.
“Ma’am, like I told your—”
“Detective,” she corrected.
“Detective, like I told your partner, my computer equipment can only run so fast.”
“Is your computer the fastest one here?”
“No. But—”
“I’m glad you didn’t lie to me. Because I know it isn’t the fastest.”
Ahmed stayed silent.
“I’m familiar with this place. Specifically, I know that a few months ago, one of your cameras captured a Hollywood mogul with an underage girl. But when the LAPD asked for the footage, you said it was corrupted. We didn’t press this because we had other evidence. But maybe we should investigate and see if your company engaged in obstruction.”
Ahmed held up a finger. “One second.” He stood, walked to the center of the room, and approached a man standing by a large terminal. “Jim, I need Tremor.”
“What?” Jim asked. “No way. I’m working on that Beverly Glenn project.”
“Goddammit, I need it now. I’ll explain later.”
Jim grumbled. “Alright. Fine.”
Ahmed turned and walked back. “Okay. I’m transferring your project to Tremor. That’s our flagship computer.” He reseated himself, grabbed his mouse, and halted a program.
“How long will it take?” Adams asked.
“Two minutes.”
Adams pinched his lips. Raven tried not to smile.
“I’ll check on the project,” Ahmed said. He again rose and walked off.
Raven crossed her arms. That was bullshit. Ahmed just wanted to get away from them. No surprise there.
She looked around while waiting. Most of the workers shot nervous glances towards her and Adams. That didn’t surprise her either.
A minute later, Ahmed returned with a plastic CD case. Inside was a silvery CD.
“Here you go,” he said.
Adams took the case. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing. If you need anything else, just let us know.”
Raven smiled. “We will.”
She and Adams started for the exit.
Back inside the Crown Vic, she fired up the engine and got on the road.
“You brought up the Miller case,” Adams said. “Do you know where that case stands?”
“Yeah. He pled guilty.”
“Right. So we don’t care what Aegis might have done.”
“True. But they don’t know that.”
Adams shook his head.
“Hey,” she said. “We’re allowed to lie. We can fabricate to determine what a suspect knows. That’s in the rules.”
“Yeah. But that allowance is limited. We can lie about timeframes, the size of a knife, the model of a gun—all to see how a suspect responds.” He jerked a thumb. “Back there, you issued a subtle threat.”
“I merely incentivized them.”
Adams lowered his arm. “I hate to see what you do when I’m not around.” He examined the disc. “But at least you saved us some time.”
“Damn. Are you finally satisfied with my work?”
“Only mildly.”
She smirked. “Speaking of the case, I have someone we should visit.”
“Who?”
“Susan Wright. She was Jessie’s girlfriend.”
“How did you find out about her?”
“I checked out Jessie’s Facebook page. There were tons of messages between them. That’s how I pieced together that they were a couple. That’s also how I pinned down where she lives.”
“She posted her address?”
“Not exactly. She posted a picture of her home that shows her address.”
Adams chuckled. “Not smart. Where does she live?”
“Brentwood. And since we’re close, should we pay her a visit?”
“Let’s do it. Showing up unannounced will catch her off guard.”
Raven looked over. “That’s very antagonistic of you. I didn’t expect that.”
“I can be antagonistic. I can also get physically aggressive. That said, I operate within the confines of the law.”
She faced forward. “Me too.”
Silence.
“What?” she asked.
“I’ll go on pretending that you do. Similarly, I won’t ask any more questions about how you got Susan’s information.”
She smirked once more. Damn. Adams was good.
Chapter 9
Claire arrived at the Bayside Clothing Warehouse. She pulled into the parking lot, parked in an empty slot, and shut off the engine. After exiting, she started for the building. She also looked for the entrance. James said her contact would be waiting there. However, she couldn’t find it. She only spotted a loading dock.
A man stood outside of the loading dock—tall, muscular, wearing a black suit. Was that her contact? Hopefully not. He didn’t seem overly friendly. With nobody else around, she slowly approached him.
“Hi,” she tentatively called out. “Are you Mr. Kovalenko? I’m Claire Jacobson.”
The man silently studied her. That didn’t tamp down her unease.
“I’m Claire,” she repeated. “Claire Jacobson. I have a meeting with Mr. Kovalenko. James Reed sent me.”
The man gestured towards the warehouse and started walking. She tightened her jaw and followed him.
Inside the warehouse, workers carried boxes, operated forklifts, and pushed racks of clothing. Everyone spoke in Eastern European tongues, perhaps Russian. The man she followed hadn’t said a word, but he probably spoke the same.
They entered a corridor and kept walking. With every step, the warehouse noises quieted. Before long, the sounds died off completely. That only increased the tension. It certainly didn’t help that more suited men walked around, all of them with the same unwelcoming dispositions. At least they didn’t pay her any mind.
The man stopped at a door, opened it, and gestured inside.
Claire didn’t move. “Where are you taking me? I need to see Mr. Kovalenko. James Reed sent me.”
The man gestured once more, this time with less patience.
“Okay,” she said. “But James Reed sent me. If there’s a problem, you need to contact him. Alright?”
The man didn’t respond. He simply stared at her, his patience at an end. With her nerves ramped up, she entered the room.
She found herself in a reception area but there was nobody here. Was that good or bad? Either way, she stopped and waited. She kept waiting and nothing happened.
She looked around and spotted another door. Was she supposed to go there? She didn’t know. Her square-jawed escort hadn’t said
anything.
She crept towards the door and placed her ear against the discolored wood. Silence. She moved her head back and softly knocked.
“Come in!” someone chirped, speaking with an Eastern European accent.
She took a preparatory breath, grabbed the knob, and slowly opened the door.
Inside were two men. One sat behind a desk, and the other stood in the corner. She paid closer attention to the one standing. He was huge, probably six-foot-four and two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. Just as alarming were his enormous hands that he kept clasped to his front.
She looked to the man behind the desk, obviously Kovalenko. He looked about mid-forties, was tall and thin, and had messy grayish hair that flowed into a messy grayish beard. Given his beaming smile, he was clearly the one who greeted her.
“Claire!” Kovalenko continued, getting to his feet. “It’s so good of you to come.” He gestured towards a guest chair. “Please, have a seat. How was the drive?”
She made her way over and planted herself. All the while, she tried not to focus on the bodyguard, who for some reason kept staring at her.
“The drive was fine,” she responded. “Thanks.”
“Really? No freeways traffic?” Kovalenko reseated himself.
“I didn’t take the freeway.”
“Of course! How silly of me. Your Westwood condo isn’t close to any freeways.”
Shit. How did Kovalenko know about her Westwood condo?
“So,” he cheerily continued, “I’m ready to start this meeting. But before I do, I want to offer my condolences for your brother. Jessie Jacobson was a fine man. Whenever we needed his services, he always performed marvelously. True, we didn’t always get what we wanted—the feds off our backs—but he did more than enough. He will be sorely missed.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you thought so highly of him.”
“I certainly did. However, please don’t think that my positive feelings towards Jessie transfer to you. I don’t care about you one way or the other.”
She furrowed her brow. What did that mean?
“So!” he enthused. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? What can I do for you?”
“I—I need someone to figure out how my brother was killed.”
“And I can see why you would want that information. But aren’t the police already looking into this?”