“And a script writer.”
“That too. But Columbo, he wasn’t hiding behind a laptop. He was out there in the trenches, digging up evidence, pitting himself against the criminal masterminds who thought he was no match for their genius.”
Even in the dim interior of the car, Brian’s skepticism radiated like the sun. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
“It’s been suggested from time to time.” Jesse looked out the window. The night was brisk and clear, with stars scattered like diamond chips across the black velvet sky. Down here on earth, the scenery was considerably less poetic. They were parked a couple of blocks away from The Shady Lady, a bar whose origins dated back to the days when Savannah’s waterfront was rife with shady characters doing even shadier business, though it had changed names, owners and incarnations dozens of times since then.
Most recently it had been purchased by the same dummy corporation which also controlled the Fluff and Fold where Losevsky’s body had been found.
Seafarers still frequented it, as Savannah was a busy international port. It was likewise popular with adventurous tourists, as the building was rumored to harbor the ghosts of the pirates who’d once used the underground tunnels to shanghai unsuspecting patrons.
SCAD students and denizens of the local counter culture also congregated here, hence Jesse’s transformation into a stereotypical hipster. The bar had a reputation for being an outlet for drugs – particularly hallucinogens – but much to the frustration of the Counter Narcotics Unit, they never could seem to find the evidence they needed to make a major bust.
Jesse wasn’t interested so much in the drugs as he was in the person responsible for cooking and peddling the stuff, primarily because he was a stone cold killer. Losevsky was far from upstanding, but the image of his brutalized corpse was permanently imprinted on Jesse’s brain. And he couldn’t stop thinking about the girl – Irena. Taken away from everyone and everything she knew, forced to perform degrading and dehumanizing acts for someone’s sick enjoyment and someone else’s profit. Failed by those who should have been protecting her.
For Irena, if for nothing else, he wanted to take this bastard down.
“I don’t know what you think we’ll find,” Brian muttered. “The undercover narcs haven’t been able to score any deals recently, let alone any information on the distributor. After Irena escaped and brought the organization to the cops’ attention, they seem to have locked things down pretty tight. Nobody knows nothing about nothing. And after what happened to Losevsky, I doubt that any of his employees, however peripheral, will even fart in the direction of someone who looks like a cop.”
“Luckily for us we don’t look like cops.”
“You know what I mean. I don’t think we can expect anyone to roll over, no matter how dire our threats or how tempting our incentives.”
“Consider this a fishing expedition,” Jesse said. “We don’t know if they’re biting, but we know they’re here. You can’t expect to catch anything if you never venture near the water.”
“Waste of time,” Brian muttered.
“Maybe. But interviewing the laundromat employees and neighbors got us nowhere. Forensics is still processing the evidence from the scene, but I’m not really counting on a stray hair. The car washes are self-serve, so there’s no one to talk to. We’ve got Bristol working on following the money, but digging through all those layers is going to take a while. I have no doubt the massage parlor will relocate and reopen under a different name, but so far the business permit applications I’ve sorted through haven’t sent up any red flags. This is the last ‘legitimate’ business that falls under the umbrella of the dummy corporation.” He paused. “And it’s the one that Losevsky referenced on the back of Jillian’s business card.”
Brian’s jaw tightened as he stared out the window. “You haven’t found anything connecting her to any of this.”
“No, I haven’t. And I’ve dug pretty hard to compensate for what Mateyo and the SCMPD detectives see as your bias. Whatever the reason for Losevsky having her card, I don’t think she was lying when she claimed not to know him.”
Brian’s gaze shifted toward Jesse. “I feel like shit deceiving her. Not telling her straight up that I’m involved in this case. That you are, too.”
“The alternative would have been to agree to let Axelrod and Gannon take the lead with her. Gannon would have been his asshole self, she would have lawyered up, and you would have been sidelined because you have a relationship with someone who is now seen as a hostile witness, or possibly a suspect. Handling it this way wasn’t as… straightforward as it could have been, but I got to be present at the interview, observe her behavior, without her realizing I was part of the process.”
Brian continued to stare. “Are you going to try to start something with her now that she’s no longer a person of interest?”
Jesse snorted. “Oh hey, and by the way, I’m actually an FBI agent. I’m sure that would go over well.”
“You’re attracted to her.”
More than he wanted to admit. “I have eyes, don’t I?”
Brian shook his head. “Katie’ll kill me if you just ditch her. She called me the other day, all excited over the fact that you two were having coffee. Which I don’t recall being part of the plan.”
“I bumped into her. She was planning to walk several blocks in high heels. Offering her a ride seemed like the polite thing to do.”
“Polite. Is that what they’re calling it these days.”
More than finished with the topic, Jesse made sure the overhead light was turned off before he opened the door. “I’ll take the bar. You can crush some poor fools’ egos at the pool table in the back room. Anything comes up, text me. Otherwise I’ll meet you back here.”
Jesse took one route, Brian another. He moved purposefully until he passed by an alley, found himself stopping. Backing up.
He glanced at the street signs just to be sure, but this was the place. The alley Jillian had been dragged into, beaten, nearly raped.
The dumpster from a nearby seafood restaurant leaned against one wall, the smell coming from it just as Jillian had described: old frying oil and rotting fish. There was no puddle in the alley but he could picture one there, in the depression in the pavement. Picture Jillian’s beautiful hair, delicate face in the filthy water.
He’d read the reports. He’d known what happened to her, because he’d made it his business to know everything he could, to try to find some sort of link to Losevsky or the organization he’d worked for.
But hearing it from her lips made it so much more personal. So much worse.
And him so much angrier than he really had a right to be. After all, justice had been served. The perpetrators convicted, and either doing or had done time.
And he still wanted to track each of them down and rip them limb from limb.
“Definitely better to stay away,” he muttered to himself, recognizing that in the few times they’d been together, it had somehow become more than a simple attraction. There’d been a click, almost audible, the first time he’d laid eyes on her, standing on Brian’s back porch, looking charmingly uncertain.
And a click was not something he needed or wanted right now. Especially not with this woman.
Putting Jillian out of his head, Jesse finished making his way toward the Shady Lady. The building was old – parts of it still boasted the wavy glass typical of the eighteenth century. The unassuming wood and tabby construction looked like what it had been then and now: a den for both pirates and criminals of the landlubbing variety.
Jesse opened the heavy wooden door, strolled in.
The bar area occupied the oldest part of the structure, and as such consisted of low, beamed ceilings and thick plaster walls. Smoking was prohibited in enclosed public spaces in Georgia, but the stain from years when that law had not been in effect darkened the walls. The scent of stale tobacco still clung to the wooden ceiling. In the corner stood a statue of a female p
irate complete with corset and ample cleavage rising above it as a nod –albeit a slightly sexist one – to the history of the place.
But judging by the skimpy costumes on the female wait staff, Jesse didn’t think that political correctness was high on the management’s priority list.
He ambled over to the bar, took the vacant stool near the end. A blonde waitress lifted her chin in acknowledgement of his presence as she poured a draft for another customer, and then popped up in front of him a couple minutes later.
“Hi,” she said, looking him over. “What’ll it be, handsome?”
It was faint, very faint, but Jesse thought he detected a hint of an Eastern European accent. “What’s good?”
Her lips twitched and she leaned on the bar, showing off cleavage to rival the make-believe female pirate’s. “That depends on what you’re in the mood for.”
Jesse allowed his gaze to dip lower while he considered the best course of action. He’d likely lose her if he tried to garner any information up front, so instead he’d wait and see how far he could get after flirting with her for a while.
“I’m in the mood for a lot of things,” he said “but I’ll start off with a beer.” He named his choice, watched her shake her hips as she strolled off to fill his order. He glanced over his shoulder when the door opened again, saw Brian walk in, looking big and mean and far more like a street thug than a federal agent.
Jesse turned back around, feigning disinterest, and smiled when the bartender slid his beer in front of him. “Thanks.”
“You need anything, you just call me. My name’s Yuliya.”
“Yuliya. I won’t forget it.”
Especially since Yuliya had been Jillian’s mother’s name. Jillian was an English derivative. The coincidence jarred him a little, causing his brain to swerve into the corner where he’d shoved all thoughts of his attraction for the time-being. Since mental detours weren’t productive, he forced his attention back to the matter at hand.
He studied the bartender while she wasn’t looking. A very attractive woman with her ample assets on display, he wondered if the flirtation was an act. He thought of Irena, of the other women like her who’d been forced into a life of sexual slavery in a country far from their own. Despite the hint of accent, Yuliya’s English was as good as his own, and she didn’t have the haunted, vacant look in her eyes that he’d seen previously with victims of human trafficking. And there’d been no indication from any of the other local law enforcement agencies that sex was an item on the Shady Lady’s menu, despite the provocative costumes. Maybe she was encouraged to flirt with the clientele, maybe she did it because it earned her bigger tips, or maybe she did it because she wanted to. But he didn’t get the impression that she was acting against her will. But then he didn’t think the man they were after was dumb enough to put sex slaves who spoke English well enough to ask for help in a position of communicating with the general public.
He’d come back to Yuliya later.
Jesse turned around on his stool, surveyed the other patrons in the bar. An eclectic mix, with the majority of the crowd involved in the pursuit of nothing more than having a good time, or perhaps drowning their sorrows. Gannon and Axelrod had already interviewed the staff about Losevsky, whom all of them claimed not to know. The bar – conveniently – had no security cameras, and none of the man’s credit card statements placed him here.
But the handwriting on the back of Jillian’s card was his. And given who he’d worked for, Jesse had no doubt that Losevsky’d been here multiple times. So someone here had to know something.
The sound of groans coming from the back room indicated that Brian had just cleaned up at the billiard table. He’d win a few games, establish himself as someone to beat, and hopefully draw the attention of the regular sharks. He’d win again or maybe throw a game, depending on the temperament of the people he was playing. Offer to buy a round of beers, start shooting the breeze instead of pool. If they were people who hung out here often enough, they were bound to have seen something.
It was a thin hope, but until they had the forensic results and the money trail untangled, Jesse figured it was more productive to chum the waters a little.
He brought the bottle to his mouth, took a drink as he scoped out a trio of men in a nearby booth. Then the door opened again, and Jesse choked on his beer.
Jillian stood in the doorway, wearing the same expression of uncertainty she’d had on Brian’s back porch.
Then she squared her shoulders, walked purposefully toward the bar.
And all Jesse could think was: Fuck.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JILLIAN’S heart kicked like a mule against her ribcage, but she forced herself to move. The bar was crowded, the light dim, both of which served to make her feel less conspicuous but also less secure.
She was crazy to do this, but she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since the detectives’ visit the other night. Why did that man, Losevsky, have her card?
If his surname hadn’t been Russian she probably could have – would have – brushed it off as exactly what she’d claimed it was: a coincidence.
But what if it wasn’t?
What if… well, she was here to see about the what ifs, wasn’t she?
All of the barstools were taken, so she squeezed through the crowd, made her way over to the very edge of the bar top. It took several minutes, but one of the bartenders – a blonde female in a ridiculously small corset that made Jillian’s own breasts ache in sympathy – finally appeared in front of her.
“What can I get you?”
Jillian hesitated. The woman had a hint of an accent, which both relieved and frightened her. She hadn’t been sure what to expect. But this was what she’d come for, so she laid her hand on the bar with the twenty dollar bill visible beneath it. She risked offending the woman, having her laugh in her face or – more likely – losing the money because she wouldn’t know what the hell Jillian was talking about or wouldn’t tell her even if she did.
“What I’d really like is a little information.”
The woman stared at her out of blue eyes much shrewder than the platinum blonde hair and corset might have suggested.
She took the twenty, slipped it into her pocket in a move so quick and subtle that Jillian would have missed it if she hadn’t been looking.
“Make it quick. We’re slammed tonight.”
Jillian glanced around. Most of the bar’s patrons were locals at this time of year, and the conversation was being conducted primarily in English. Her Russian wasn’t great, and she took yet another risk in using it, but she really didn’t want to be overheard.
I’d like to know if there’s been anyone in here… asking about me. My name is Jillian Montgomery.
Something flared in the woman’s eyes, whether surprise at the fact that Jillian had spoken in Russian or recognition of the name, Jillian couldn’t say. Or maybe Jillian had misjudged and the woman didn’t speak the language. Or maybe she did and Jillian had flubbed it up, despite practicing it before she came here. Or –
Two Savannah detectives, the woman answered. I don’t remember their names. They showed your photo, wanted to know if you’d been in here, if you’d been with a man named Losevsky. She paused, and then said something that Jillian didn’t quite understand.
I’m sorry. I didn’t understand the last thing you said. My Russian isn’t very good.
The woman smiled a little. It’s not bad, though your pronunciation needs work. “I called them pig dung,” she explained in English. “Which is probably something you wouldn’t have learned in a language course.” And I told them that I had never seen you before.
Jillian released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you.” She hesitated again, but figured while she was here and had the woman’s attention she might as well go for broke. Has there been… anyone else? Asking about me?
The bartender’s expression went from mildly friendly to guarded. “No.�
� And better for you that way. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
Jillian watched her walk away and then simply stood, staring blindly at the wall behind the bar. When her gaze refocused, she realized she was looking at her own reflection in a mirror. She looked startled, frozen. Richard Adams, in his book Watership Down, coined the term tharn to describe a rabbit that was made immobile by shock or terror.
If she’d been a rabbit, tharn would be an accurate word to describe her at the moment.
And she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all.
Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, Jillian pushed her way back past the other patrons who were waiting their turn for drinks, shoved open the door, practically ran into the cold, clear night. She needed to clear her head, needed to think through the implications of what the bartender had meant by that, if anything.
A warning? Against what? Whom?
Or maybe it was just a toss away comment, like no worries. But she’d spoken in Russian, when the rest of her sentence had been in English. Surely that was significant.
Maybe she should go back in, try asking her what she’d meant, but somehow Jillian didn’t think she’d talk to her again. There’d been a sort of finality in her tone before walking away.
Which meant Jillian was both relieved and disturbed by the brief conversation. She’d expected the detectives to ask about her – sensed that Gannon in particular wanted her to be guilty. Of lying, and therefore obstructing an investigation, if nothing else. It made her feel oddly better to have her suspicions confirmed, to hear what the bartender told them. There were other employees, and Jillian had no doubt the detectives had also talked to them and possibly even to regular patrons, but she couldn’t track down every one of them and ask them. Talking to one would have to be good enough.
But regarding the other… And better for you that way. Was she reading too much into things to feel like that was some kind of warning?
“Jillian.”
Jillian’s hand went automatically to the canister of pepper spray on her wrist, but a strong hand clamped over hers, preventing her from releasing it. “Hey,” said a familiar voice. “It’s me.”
The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set Page 8