by Eddy Will
Jack gave each file a cursory look then laid them out on the bed in neat piles according to content. Most of the documents were case files of divorce proceedings: motions, briefs, addenda, notes, affidavits and sometimes photographs attempting to prove a spouse’s guilt. Stacks of sordid details about disintegrating marriages, but nothing that helped Jack’s search. He found an envelope which contained one small key, the number 113 stenciled on one side, and the words ‘Union Station’ on the other. Jack laid the key aside and continued his search through the documents. His heart sank as he did not find what he was looking for: irrefutable proof that Todd Ashley had been involved in his wife’s disappearance. He had hoped the lawyer had been shaken enough to remove incriminating evidence from his office after Jack had barged in demanding answers and hurling accusations. But it seemed Ashley had not.
Jack picked up the small key and stared at it for a long time. Would Ashley have deposited proof of his crime and culpability in a public locker at a railway station? It sounded absurd, a cliché. But then again, he was in Hollywood, the home of clichés, he thought. Key in hand he left the hotel room and the briefcase with its content on the bed. He entered Union Station into the GPS and followed the directions to Downtown Los Angeles. It was Sunset Boulevard all the way. The drive took him on a tour of Los Angeles and through parts of town few tourists ever saw. But Jack Storm did not notice the opulent wealth rubbing shoulders with abject poverty and the despair of the homeless and cast-outs. He arrived at the iconic railway station and strolled into the vast lobby of the fully restored station. The large halls bustled with travelers and tourists alike, visitors from all over the world admiring the original art deco architecture.
Jack walked down long rows of stacked lockers and found number 113. The small metal door was locked. Jack suddenly was nervous. It was not his locker, not his key, not his right to open the locker. But the owner of the key was dead. Jack glanced around, expecting someone to be watching the locker, someone to be waiting for him to show up and give himself away by inserting the key into the locker. Jack moved along, scanning all angles that had a view of the locker for suspicious characters. Someone who did not belong, someone engaged in an activity that did not belong: the woman sitting on a bench, knitting. Who knits at a railway station? Or the man standing against the wall reading a newspaper? Does anyone still read newspapers? And then there was the young man who carried a photo camera with a large, long lens. Does anyone still use those? There was the older gentleman wearing a wide brimmed hat. Does anyone still wear those? Jack was seeing the enemy everywhere. The hawk-nosed man with large dark sunglasses: sunglasses? Indoors?
Jack finally gave up. He was seeing evil everywhere and the more he studied people, the more he saw a trap. The child playing with a yoyo. Who plays with a yoyo anymore?
Jack returned to the locker. He did not care who might be watching, he would open the locker and look inside. He inserted the small key and turned the lock.
“Excuse me, sir,” a voice said.
Jack spun around, his eyes wide. A disheveled young man stood behind him, a grubby bag in his hand.
“Yes,” Jack said, swallowing hard. The homeless man. Why didn’t he think of that? Of course, it is always the homeless man. The one person to whom no one pays attention. Jack felt like a fool. He should have known. And now it was too late.
“Can you spare some change for a cup of coffee?” the man said, his eyes pleading, red from too little sleep or too much alcohol.
“Change?” Jack said, incredulous.
“Like a dollar, maybe,” the young man pressed on.
Jack dug into his pocket and put a five dollar bill into the man’s hand.
“Have a cappuccino,” Jack said.
“Don’t like those frou-frou drinks, but thanks,” the man said and walked away, stuffing the bill into his pocket.
Jack stared at the back of the young man, his shoulders were too broad to be living on the streets, the fabric of the jacket stretched by strong muscles.
‘Stop it,’ Jack told himself.
He opened the locker. It contained a carry-on size travel bag. Jack pulled the bag from the locker and closed the metal door. Glancing around and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he hurried to his car and quickly climbed in. His heart pounded and sweat soaked his shirt. He felt like a criminal about to get caught. He searched the parking lot for men running in his direction, scrambling to catch up with him, to stop him from leaving. No one came. Jack opened the zipper of the carry-on, flipped open the lid and stared at the content: stacks of used hundred dollar bills, neatly bundled and stacked. The bag was full of money. Jack rifled through the bag, bundles tumbling to the floor. He was looking for the envelope, the thin file containing Todd Ashley’s secret world that shed light on Anna’s fate. But there was nothing but hundred dollar bills.
Jack slumped in the seat and stared into the night.
Thirty minutes later he was back in his motel room. He had counted the money. It was exactly seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It must have been Ashley’s non-traceable slush fund or maybe it had been the lawyer’s getaway cash. Whatever the purpose, Ashley would have no further need. Jack searched every pocket, every square inch of the bag, but found no secret document, no thumb drive containing incriminating evidence of illicit dealings. Yet, there was no doubt in Jack’s mind that the lawyer had been involved in activities far beyond legal wrangling to separate unfaithful spouses from their fortunes. Jack stood at the edge of the bed and studied the piles of paper and legal documents.
‘Why would Ashley have taken all this paperwork from his office?’ he thought. This had not been an ordinary day for the lawyer and it seemed unlikely Ashley was going to spend a long night pouring over hundreds of pages of legal mumbo jumbo. Jack was certain, Ashley would have been working on covering his tracks, for no matter how well prepared the lawyer might have been, there was always something to sanitize, something to get rid off.
Jack ordered pizza from a local delivery service and made coffee from the in-room coffee maker. He had nothing else to do, nowhere else to turn. If there was anything in the stacks of paper, he would find it. He had to believe that the attorney had taken the stuffed briefcase for a reason that had to do with his connection to Anna.
He started with the briefcase itself. Made from nice dark leather, it looked expensive. It had not seen a lot of use and it did not appear that is was regularly overfilled. The compartments would have been stretched to accommodate more paper than it had been designed to hold. But there were no such telltale signs of abuse or overuse. Todd Ashley had not struck Jack as a person who invited clutter into his life. His office had been meticulous, the desk practically devoid of any sign of work. And the condition of the briefcase reflected such a state of mind. This meant the overstuffing of the briefcase was an aberration and maybe done to distract? Jack turned his attention to the stacks of paper arranged on the bed.
He picked a file and placed it on the small writing desk and began reading. It was a case file concerning the divorce proceedings of Janet and Robert Henderson. Jack read slowly, focusing at once on the detail and content as well as on the larger picture. He needed to understand the specifics in order to see discrepancies on the macro level. A loud knock on the door announced the pizza delivery. When he opened the door he was surprised to see that the motel which had been quiet and deserted hours earlier was now busy with unlikely couples in search of privacy for an hour or two. Jack tipped the grey-haired man and locked the door. He tore into the cheesy pizza. He was famished. He ate and paced in the small motel room, his mind summarizing the cases he had read, the pages of a yellow legal pad filled with notes and summaries of each document. He would have to read hundreds of pages in order to find what he was looking for, if indeed it was there.
Jack was sure of one thing: the overstuffed briefcase carried more than mundane legal documents from Todd Ashley’s office.
Chapter 27
London, England,
August 2, 2012, 11:32 PM
The cab pulled up to Styx’s apartment building in East London. As far as Styx was concerned they could not arrive soon enough without running the risk of being arrested for indecent public displays of affection. The women untangled and Maria picked up her purse to pay the driver. Styx rolled her eyes at the smirking reflection of the driver in the rearview mirror. Maria pulled bills from the purse and leaning forward, she passed the money to the driver. Styx glanced down and froze.
She was staring at a handgun in Koshkova’s purse. It was small and dainty, but a firearm nonetheless. Maria Koshkova sat back and Styx quickly looked away, her eyes focusing on the wet sidewalk outside, but her mind unable to let go of the image of the gun in her lover’s purse. Why did Maria have a gun? And why did she carry it around in public. People did not go around London carrying guns, did they? Styx climbed out of the cab and stepped onto the sidewalk. She watched Maria exit the taxi. Did she know this woman she was about to let into her flat? Yes, Koshkova could make her feel like no one else had, but beyond that, Styx became more confused. Late night phone calls, unsettling conversations, hard-faced men following Maria, and now she was carrying a gun.
Who was Maria Koshkova?
“Thank you,” Maria said and shut the cab door. She smiled at Styx, cocking her head. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said, stepping close.
“Thoughts? What do you mean,” Styx said, lying, buying time.
“You looked pensive,” Maria said. “It doesn’t suit your carefree spirit.”
“It’s nothing,” Styx said, “I was just trying to remember what time my rehearsal was tomorrow, you know, band practice.”
“Let’s get you out of the rain and out of these clothes,” Maria said, her warm breath caressing Styx’s face. Styx sighed and the thoughts in her mind evaporated with Maria’s breath, disappearing in the air, washed away by rain and lust.
Styx was powerless against Maria’s charm and oozing sensuality, as were most men Maria encountered. Moments later the two women raced up the steps to Styx’s flat giggling like teenagers. Styx fumbled with the house keys, while Maria fumbled with Styx’s belt buckle. The women stumbled into the apartment, Styx kicked the door closed, her hands busy removing Maria’s jacket. The women scrambled in a tangle to the bedroom. A large futon bed, placed in the middle of the brick-walled room and a long sleek dresser against the rear wall below tall factory windows made up the entirety of the bedroom furnishings. A converted street lamp hung from the high ceiling above the futon bed.
The walls were bare except for a large canvas containing the red letter A as in Anarchy.
Maria dropped her purse and tore at her jacket. Consumed by lust and desire, Styx caught another glimpse of the small handgun with the ivory handle. But for the time being she could not care less about Koshkova’s secrets, the presence of a real gun rather enhancing the excitement.
Chapter 28
Hollywood, California, August 2, 2012, 8:32 PM
The cheap bedspread and much of the stained carpet was covered with legal documents, laid out like pieces of a puzzle ready to be put in their proper place to create the picture that was waiting to emerge. Jack gingerly stepped over the neat piles of papers and poured more coffee. His mind was racing fueled by caffeine, juggling dozens of pieces of information he had gleaned from the paperwork. He moved to the door and looked at the documents covering the floor and bed. The piles of papers had now been organized by case. There were eight different divorce cases that Todd Ashley had taken from his office. None of the cases was particularly unusual or had sent up a red flag. They were mundane bread and butter cases. Jack sipped coffee, when a thought struck him. He had been looking for a common denominator, a red through-line that connected these cases. But how did each of these divorce cases differ from one another? Jack set down the brown mug bearing the name of the motel. ‘Let’s line them up chronologically,’ he thought. He proceeded to re-arrange the stacks according to the month and year when they were handled, starting with the most recent. What he discovered was interesting. Each case occurred in a different year, starting with the present year and going back seven years. Why would Ashley have taken a seven year old case home? Or a six year old, or a five year old case? He re-checked the names of parties involved, searching for a repeating name. Did all these cases involve one person or a group of people that were connected in some way? He picked up the most recent file and thumbed through the pages. There were the original filings, motions and correspondence between Ashley and the opposing legal representation. There were financial spreadsheets detailing assets and holdings, income and expenses. There were lists of contacts pertinent in the litigation, the divorcees, family members, employers and employees, household help, and family friends, stating names, addresses, phone numbers and email, where applicable. Todd Ashley kept meticulous records to be sure. He had taken these cases from his office for a reason and that reason was connected to what had happened today, was likely connected to why he was killed earlier today. Jack zeroed in on the contact sheet, the long list of names typed in neat rows. The top of the list contained the divorcees, their addresses and phone numbers. One address inadvertently would be a house, usually in Beverly Hills or another enclave of wealth in Los Angeles. That would be the family home. The second address was an apartment as identified by an apartment number. This would be the husband’s temporary residence after he moved from the family home. It was all very predictable, Jack thought. His eyes ran down the list, carefully reading each name, and the information attached. Jack’s eyes stopped at one name towards the bottom of the list, among household help and maintenance. Some of these families employed a small army, assuring smooth operations on their vast estates. He was looking at the case of Margaret and Frederick Monthouse. It seemed that Margaret had in her employ a pest exterminator. What struck Jack was that this contractor had made the list of pertinent parties on Ashley’s contact sheet. Yet, he did not see painters, plumbers, carpenters or electricians. Jack laid out each contact sheet from each of the eight divorce cases and was astonished to find that each divorcing couple had employed the same exterminator, one Sergey Tarpov, and he had made it onto every list of pertinent contacts. Using a yellow highlighter he marked the name, address and phone number of the exterminator. He then jotted down the information on the legal pad.
‘Certainly unusual,’ he thought. But what did it mean?
Jack studied every name on each list and he soon found another interesting idiosyncrasy. Each contact sheet contained one phone number in London, England and while the area code was always the same, the actual phone numbers varied, as did the description of the person associated with the number. Jack thought it odd that every divorce case from Ashley’s briefcase included one contact in London, England. It was too much to be a coincidence. He wrote down the eight names and numbers with the international area code. Another oddity.
Jack put the contact sheet aside and compared the eight case files page by page, laying them out on the bed chronologically. He flipped each page of each file and walked back and forth along the bed, comparing the pages as he turned them. He was leafing through print-outs of detailed email correspondence, carefully filed by the meticulous Ashley when he stopped, puzzled. He was looking at an email print-out containing long rows of numbers and nothing else. Too many numbers to be bank account numbers, each block contained up to a dozen or so numbers with no particular order or sequence. Each of the eight case files contained a similar page displaying long rows of blocks of numbers. Jack’s eyes moved to the top of the email and checked the sender of the emails. It was Tod Ashley. He had sent these emails to himself. The numbers varied from email to email. Jack discovered no immediate pattern. He stepped back and gazed at the eight pages arranged on the bed. Scratching the stubble on his chin, he was lost. Each email started with the letters JGTKAM, but that is where the similarities ended, the blocks of numbers seemed to run randomly, but there had to be an explanation. Todd Ashley would not hav
e sent himself emails made up of random numbers. But the more Jack stared at the pages filled from top to bottom with blocks of numbers, the more they were just that: blocks of numbers. An explanation eluded him. He could not make sense of them.
He poured more coffee and summarized his findings. Firstly, each divorcing couple had made use of the same exterminator and Ashley had thought it important to include the rodent killer in each contact sheet as a pertinent party to the divorce proceedings. Secondly, each couple had had in their employ a person with a contact phone number in London. And thirdly, Ashley had compiled an email for each divorce file made up entirely of rows of blocks of numbers with no apparent rhyme or reason and had sent it to his own email address.
It was not what Jack had been looking for. It had shed no light on Anna’s disappearance or Ashley’s involvement. And for all he knew, he was connecting dots where there was no connection.
Jack was tired, he needed a break. He checked his watch. He had been sitting in the small motel room too long. An argument had ensued outside his door about not paying for a service, a woman’s angry voice hurling insults and a man’s subdued voice trying to hold his own. Jack studied the exterminator’s address and punched the particulars into the GPS. He made a snap decision. Too jacked on coffee to sleep, he needed to get out of the room. He stacked the thick case files on the desk, leaving the emails containing the inexplicable blocks of numbers on top. Then he stuffed the remaining items into the briefcase. He paused when he held the well-thumbed copy of the Grisham novel. A lawyer reading a legal thriller. He tossed the paperback into the briefcase.