The Pain Scale

by Tyler Dilts

  As soon as I was clear, Jen and Marty were in front of me, shoving Turchenko’s face down into the sofa cushions and cuffing him.

  Less than an hour later, he was Mirandized and uncuffed in the interrogation room. He sat there with the same dull glare he’d had on his face since we’d burst through his door. He said only one word. “Attorney.”

  Turchenko’s lawyer was slick and smelled of expensive cologne. He introduced himself as Michael Weathers, and just to see if he’d rattle, I asked him if he was some kind of Russian mob fixer.

  “My client’s not Russian, Detective.”

  “No?” I said.

  “He’s Ukrainian. With all the difficulties in that part of the world these days, I’m sure you understand why this fact is important to him.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’d get all bent out of shape if somebody thought I was Canadian.”

  Jen and I were in the interrogation room with the two of them. The lieutenant was on the other side of the glass.

  “We’re sorry if my partner’s slip of the tongue offended your client,” Jen said. “The truth is that we have his DNA at the murder scene, and unless he has anything to share about his accomplice, we can finish this up right now.”

  Turchenko grunted, and Weathers said, “A moment alone?”

  We gave them the room.

  Ruiz met us in the hall. “Think he’ll give us anything?” he asked.

  “I doubt it,” I said. “What’s in it for him? Best the DA can do is life without instead of the needle. Not much to bargain with.”

  “Is Kincaid the DDA?” Jen asked.

  “Yep,” Ruiz said.

  Jen smiled, but not enough that she wouldn’t have denied it if I said anything. “Well,” she said, “let’s talk to him and see what he’ll go for. There’s the political angle to deal with, too.”

  “And maybe the lab will turn up something else on the samples from Turchenko’s apartment,” Ruiz said.

  Things were falling into place. If we could implicate his partner, we’d have a major win on our hands.

  Almost too easy, I thought as I began to massage the ache out of my left arm.

  Six

  I WAS LOOKING at a real estate website called CalBungalows.com that had some great Long Beach listings when Patrick said, “Check this out,” and motioned me over to his computer screen.

  “What am I looking at?” I asked. On the monitor was a string of text messages and replies. I leaned in and began reading.

  “Turchenko sends a lot of texts to a guy named Taras Shevchuk. He’s got a sheet just as long as his pal’s. They’re all over each other’s call logs. And get this—they’ve been looked at for the same cases twice in the last three years.”

  I scanned the back-and-forth texts until I saw the line from Shevchuk that had caught Patrick’s attention. It said, Everyting readdy 4 Bixby. C you a.m. It had been sent the night before the Benton murders.

  “Am I the only one who proofreads text messages?” I asked.

  He let that go and said, “I think we’ve got the accomplice.”

  Ruiz looked at the photo in the folder Pat had handed him. “Shevchuk? Is that how you say it?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said.

  “He’ll be expecting us. We’ll need to go in heavier for this one.”

  “Should we scout it first?” Jen asked. “If he’s not already in the wind and we do the search before the arrest, we’ll spook him.”

  “Good idea. You and Danny go take a look while I get a team ready to go.”

  We checked in with the OCD and got a copy of Shevchuk’s file. His most recent known address was a 1930s bungalow a few blocks outside of the East Village—a neighborhood on the edge of downtown named with a misguided sense of New York envy—where he was shacking up with a girlfriend. The house wasn’t much to look at, but it wasn’t a shithole, either. The beige stucco was old but well maintained, and the lawn was a semi-healthy pale green. There was a BMW in the driveway, and like the house, the car was fading but not completely past its prime. The place had all the requisites of typical lower–middle class Long Beach.

  We parked Jen’s 4Runner a few doors down on the other side of the street, and while we watched, I called Patrick and had him run the Beemer’s plates. The car was registered to someone named Tiffany Molina, no wants or warrants.

  “Could be a girlfriend,” I said.

  “Yeah. Or it could be he doesn’t live there anymore.”

  “Or never did.”

  “How do you want to play it?” I asked.

  “Let’s just watch for a while. If nothing happens, we can knock on a door or two.”

  Jen is better at sitting and waiting than any cop I’ve ever worked with. For hours at a time, she can remain calm and attentive and seem free of any trace of the numbing boredom I always feel in similar circumstances. She credits years of martial arts training for her Zen-master serenity.

  So the only thing I had to help me cope was trying to crack her shell. As much as I wanted to, though, I couldn’t think of anything that might rattle her.

  My hand tingled. I wiggled my fingers and noticed Jen noticing. I waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. A few more minutes and the tingling had devolved into a deep burn. The more it hurt, the more obvious my movements became. Finally, I decided to say something.

  “It’s been doing better.”

  “But it’s not better now?” Jen said.

  “Not at the moment, no. But working helps.”

  “I’m glad.” She put her sunglasses on and turned her attention back to the house.

  We only waited an hour or so before Tiffany came out onto the driveway, approached the driver’s door of the BMW, then stopped as if she’d forgotten something and went back inside.

  “Did she make us?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so.” Jen leaned forward and looked over the top of her sunglasses. “Let’s give her a minute.”

  Soon Tiffany came back out, a cell phone pressed to her ear, and got in the car.

  “We should front her,” I said.

  “Let’s let her drive a bit first. No point in giving the neighbors a show.”

  Tiffany turned on Sixth, then took Alamitos up to Seventh, where the one-way street ends and you can drive east.

  “She knows the neighborhood,” I said.

  A few minutes later, she stopped at the Starbucks on Seventh and Park, and we had our chance. We let her go inside and get her coffee while we split up and each moved a few cars away from her BMW. Jen took a position by the entrance and faked a text message, and I went down the block toward the trees that lined the residential portion of the street.

  We were only about two blocks from my house. If Tiffany didn’t cooperate, we could work her over in my garage. As if he had read my mind, a squirrel emerged from a hedge and gave me a disapproving look before moving on up the trunk of a eucalyptus.

  Tiffany came out of the Starbucks with a venti something or other in her hand, and I started walking toward her car. We’d get there at just about the same time. Jen fell in behind her, just in case Tiffany didn’t like the look of my badge.

  It was obvious she was aware of me even though she avoided making eye contact. Her shoulders tensed, and her movements became smaller and less fluid. I couldn’t tell if she made me for a cop or just realized that our paths were going to intersect, and I didn’t have time to figure it out. We were about ten feet apart when I reached into my chest pocket, pulled out my badge holder, and flipped it open.

  “Ms. Molina?” I said.

  Turning just enough to see Jen over her right shoulder, she sighed and seemed to deflate an inch or two. “Yes,” she said.

  “What can you tell us about Taras Shevchuk?”

  At the mention of his name, her eyes widened and her exasperation was suddenly layered with trepidation.

  “Who? Who is that? I don’t know him.”

  But, I thought, you know Ukrainian names well enough to know Ta
ras is for boys. Maybe she just liked Gogol. Or Yul Brynner movies.

  “Are you sure?” Jen asked. “Because if you say you don’t know him and it turns out that he just, oh, slipped your mind? That could make things very complicated for you.”

  “This is not cool.” Tiffany looked at Jen. Then at me. “He owns the place I’m staying at.”

  “That much we know,” I said.

  “Is he there now?” Jen asked.

  “No.”

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  I studied her face. My best guess was that she was telling us the truth. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Three days ago.”

  Tiffany was waiting for us in the Homicide Detail interview room. She’d agreed to come in voluntarily to answer more of our questions. We hadn’t threatened her with any charges yet, but she seemed to sense the depth of the water she was treading. Jen and I ran it down for Ruiz.

  “Keep it easy,” he said.

  Jen and I hadn’t discussed an interview strategy yet, but I knew we’d both been thinking the same thing. She was cooperating. There was no reason to start playing hardball until that changed. The question was how much information to give her. The more we told her about our lock on Turchenko, the more we could use her own fear of prosecution for involvement in the multiple murders to our advantage. But it was very unlikely we’d be locking her up, and once she walked out the door, the more information she had, the more she could potentially share with Shevchuk when we released her.

  “What’s your take on her?”

  “She was actually more forthcoming than I expected,” Jen said.

  “Me too,” I said. “I thought she’d shut us down before we even got started. I think she knows how bad these guys are and is looking for an out.”

  “Then give one to her,” Ruiz said.

  “Can we get you anything?” Jen asked, pushing the interview room door closed behind her. “Something to drink? Are you hungry?”

  Ruiz and I were watching through the mirror.

  “I’m fine,” Tiffany said.

  There were only two chairs at the table—the one Tiffany was sitting on and another facing her on the other side of the table. Jen approached Tiffany on the right and reached out for the empty chair. Instead of pulling it straight back, she pulled it sideways and took a seat at an angle to the table so there was nothing between them. She did this with such a practiced fluidity that it seemed normal and natural. If Tiffany noticed the unusual nature of Jen’s movements, she didn’t give any noticeable signs. But I knew Jen had planned it down to the last motion. She wanted to provide the least amount of physical opposition to Tiffany that she could, to make her as comfortable as possible.

  “Thanks again for coming in,” Jen said. “We really appreciate your help.”

  “You’re welcome,” Tiffany said. There was a hint of a question in her statement. Jen knew she needed to make it disappear before she asked anything about Shevchuk.

  “I know this is awkward and uncomfortable for you,” Jen said. “If you can just answer a few more questions for us, we’ll have you on your way as soon as we can.”

  “Okay.” Tiffany looked down at her hands on the table.

  “Oh,” Jen said, following her gaze, “that ring is really cool. What kind of stone is that?”

  I hadn’t even noticed Tiffany was wearing any jewelry.

  “Amethyst.”

  “Is that your birthstone?”

  “Yeah,” Tiffany said.

  “So this month is your birthday?” Jen said, letting a bit of excitement edge into her voice.

  “Next week.” Tiffany moved her hand so Jen could see the ring.

  “Have any big plans?”

  “Well, T said—” She pulled her hand back an inch or two.

  “T” had to be Taras Shevchuk. I couldn’t tell whether Jen had just lost her or if she had actually set the hook.

  “T?” Jen said. “Taras?”

  Tiffany nodded.

  “What did he say you’d do for your birthday?”

  “The gondola boat ride around Naples Island and L’Opera for dinner.” She looked down at her hands again. “I always wanted to go on the gondola boats. I never did.”

  “You don’t think he’ll still take you?”

  “He’s in deep shit, right?” Tiffany’s face had hardened, but she wasn’t closing up. “We wouldn’t be talking here if he wasn’t.”

  “No,” Jen said, “we wouldn’t.”

  They spent an hour and change in the interview. Jen pulled every bit of information she could out of Tiffany, who seemed only then to be realizing just how bad a guy Shevchuk really was. It was clear from her story that he was slicker and probably sharper than Turchenko. Or at least had better social skills.

  After we kicked her loose with a warning not to tell anyone she’d talked to us and Jen’s number programmed into her phone in case she had any contact from Shevchuk, we parked at our desks to go over what we’d gotten from Tiffany. We were getting some good background, but aside from a few names and regular hangouts, nothing concrete that might help us find him. If he was even reasonably intelligent, he’d be avoiding anyplace and anyone Tiffany had just given us.

  We knew Shevchuk had been linked both by the OCD and by legitimate employment records to Anton Tropov’s front company, Allied Consolidation, which was located on an acre of asphalt just a parking lot and a quadruple railroad crossing away from the northernmost edge of the Port of Long Beach. Compared to its harbor-industry neighbors, it was tiny—only a single small corrugated-steel warehouse situated in the rear corner of a lot with two unmarked, dirty green shipping containers and room for half a dozen more, all surrounded by an eight-foot-high chain-link fence topped with rusted barbed wire. There was a black Mercedes SUV parked near an open rolling door on the front side of the building.

  Jen was driving, and we’d parked at the curb across and down the street.

  “Can you get the plates?”

  I couldn’t make them out, so I took Jen’s digital camera out of the glove compartment and turned it on. When the screen came to life, I hit the ZOOM button. The magnification was good enough for me to see the digits, so I read them off to Jen, who then called them in for a DMV record check.

  I took a dozen pictures while we waited the few seconds for a reply.

  She took the phone from her ear and said, “It’s Anton Tropov’s.”

  “How should we play it?”

  “We front him and he’s sure to tip Shevchuk.”

  “Think there’s anything to be gained?”

  “I’d like to get a look at Anton.”

  “Me too.”

  “What if we hit him for background on Turchenko?”

  “He’ll know we’ve already got him in custody.”

  “We could say we’re checking an alibi.”

  “I like it.”

  Jen started the 4Runner and drove up the street and through the gate and parked behind the Mercedes. Along the front wall of the warehouse was a window too dirty to see through and another door that was painted red and coated with a thick layer of dust. It didn’t look like it got much use. I was guessing the crew used the roll-up door the majority of the time.

  We made a wide curve to get a look inside before we got too close to the door.

  A white Ford panel truck was parked inside, with its nose facing the open door. It was a different make than we expected, but I wondered if the tires might match the imprint we found outside the Bentons’ house. To the right of it was an interior wall that bisected the space. There were two doors. The one closest to the front of the building was open and led into a dimly lit office. Behind a computer screen, with his back to the wall, sat Anton Tropov. He looked up as we got closer to the office door.

  “Hello,” he said. “How are you? What can I help you with?” He’d jettisoned most of his Russian accent somewhere along the way and was doing a respectable job
of imitating an average, everyday, run-of-the-mill harbor business monkey. He met us halfway and extended his hand. Jen and I each gave it a perfunctory shake. If I hadn’t read his file, his shtick would have been good enough to stop me from thinking about drawing my gun.

  I badged him and said, “I’m Detective Danny Beckett, and this is my partner. We’re with the Long Beach Police.”

  “Yes, Detectives,” he said. “Please come into the office and have a seat.” He showed us in. Along the wall that separated the office from the interior of the building was a leather couch. It was a bit worn on the arms but still quite a bit nicer than any furniture I’d ever seen in an office setup like this one. Everything in the office, in fact, was in better shape and of a higher quality than I would have expected. The desk looked like solid oak, and there was a matching return and bookshelf, too. The file cabinets in the far corner looked brand-new.

  “This is a nice office,” Jen said.

  “Not what you expected it would be?” Tropov said. “That’s what most people think. The furnishings are a bit better than is usual in this neighborhood. I believe a businessman should maintain a comfortable working environment. I spend a bit more to do this.”

  I nodded, pretending I appreciated his comments.

  “Plus,” he went on, “it helps to make a good impression on clients.”

  “You have a lot of clients here in the office?” I asked.

  “Not many,” he said. “But sometimes.”

  “It’s always good to be prepared,” Jen said.

  “Yes, Detective Tanaka, it is.”

  I’d never told him Jen’s name. He knew who we were. That didn’t surprise me.

  “What kind of business do you do, Mr. Tropov?”

  “Importing and exporting. Consolidation,” he said.

  “I don’t know much about that kind of thing,” I said. “What exactly is ‘consolidation’?”

  “We work with our clients to help coordinate the shipping services of the much larger importers and exporters here at the port. We help to meet the specific needs of individual and smaller businesses with a degree of specialization not possible with major shipping companies,” he said, sounding as rehearsed as an actor on opening night.