Foreign Relations: A Finn O'Brien Thriller (Finn O'Brien Thriller Series Book 2)

by Rebecca Forster

  Wanting no question of impropriety, Finn put down a tip greater than the check. It was only eight o'clock when they called out their thanks and left the restaurant. They stepped out into a warm night that smelled, not like incense, but like diesel and bad brakes. In front of them the Fairfax bottleneck was bumper-to-bumper.

  Behind them they heard the door to The Mercato lock and bolt.

  CHAPTER 10

  Emanuel Dega Abu was in the back seat of the big black car with Oliver. The engine idled as Rada sat behind the wheel, waiting for instructions. Emmanuel gave none. When he finally spoke it was in that voice that frightened Rada, the one that sounded like drought.

  "This was unexpected, was it not?"

  "Not really," Oliver said as he slid the baseball cap emblazoned with the word Ethiopia off his head. "It was bound to happen to the bitch sooner or later."

  "But premature if we do not have what she took away with her, is that not true, Oliver?" Emanuel said this without looking at the man. "I would be most unhappy should she have died without telling us where the thumb drive is. Don't you think that would be a reason to be displeased, Oliver? Displeased with whoever did this to her before we had what we wanted?"

  "Sure," the Aussie answered. "Yeah, I'm pissed. I mean, if I'd got her I would have beat it out of her, sure I would have, mate."

  Rada looked into the rear view mirror when the man spoke and it occurred to him that Oliver lied poorly. Not in posture, but in word. That man did not want to say what he knew or what he had been doing and Emanuel did not press. Rada could not imagine what hold the Australian had over the man he served. Emanuel simply said:

  "That is fine, Oliver."

  What Rada didn't know was that Oliver had no hold over Emanuel. Emanuel favored Oliver because the Australian did not fear him. Even a man of great power needed someone who came close to being a friend. Emanuel also knew that Oliver sometimes took his instructions too literally and that there was every possibility that it was he who killed the woman. That she died was of no interest to Emanuel; that she died and they still did not know where the thumb drive she brought with her to this country was concerned him greatly. He would hate to think Oliver had been so careless, but he was not ready to dispose of his Australian friend just yet.

  "And now that she is dead, that is a problem. I think now we must assume that Aman has what I want. But we don't know where Aman is. What shall we do about that, Oliver?"

  "No worries, chief. We'll get him, and if he doesn't have it he'll know who does. We'll get everything you want. She's just one thing out of the way. I say good riddance."

  Before Emanuel could point out that the dead woman was at the center of his problems and therefore her death made things harder in his estimation, Rada interrupted. He seldom spoke without being asked but this time he could not stop himself.

  "And the police? What shall we do about them?"

  "They're friggin' idiots, Rada. Got their head up their arses," Oliver snarled.

  "Did your mother not teach you to be polite, Oliver?" Emanuel chuckled. "Still, you are correct. The police in America are like children with too many toys and too many mothers telling them which ones to play with. This policeman will give up or be sent to other things. She is only one dead woman and, therefore, not important to them. This is a city of millions of people, after all."

  Rada shivered. Emanuel Dega Abu wanted to believe – probably did believe – that the woman was of no consequence to the American police. Still, Rada had looked into the Irish man's eyes and did not believe that he would give up.

  "It is funny, is it not?" Emanuel finally said. "Not like home, eh? Things are so much easier at home, are they not?"

  Rada answered in the affirmative as was expected. What had been said was true. Things at home were easy for men like Emanuel Dega Abu. For the rest of them, nothing was easy.

  "Take me to the hotel, Rada. I am tired."

  As Rada put the car in gear Emanuel spoke to Oliver.

  "Tomorrow, perhaps, you will go back to visit the family again, Oliver. I think it is time you were more persuasive. That is the word, is it not?"

  "I thought you'd never ask," Oliver snickered.

  As Rada drove, the men in the back seat fell silent. Rada was glad for that. He had much to think about, not the least of which was the picture of a countrywoman dead so far from home and her family who Oliver was to visit and the policeman who wanted to find her people. If Rada had been a different sort, he might tell the policeman about the woman's family so that he could go to the house before Oliver. But Rada was not brave that way and he put the thought out of his mind.

  ***

  The proprietor of The Mercato, his wife and daughter, the cook and the busboy cleaned the restaurant as they always did. They washed dishes, mopped the floors, counted the receipts that would not be enough to pay any of them their wages, but they did not act as they usually did. The cook had meant to complain that he would have to buy teff from another restaurant because the vendor had not brought enough for the month. The wife did not joke with her husband that he was the best coffee maker in all of Ethiopia not just Little Ethiopia. Hali, the daughter who had never even been to Ethiopia where her mother was from or Eritrea where her father had lived for a time when the country was new, was the most silent of all. Now she understood why her father said it was better to starve in America than be fat in Eritrea.

  "Go. Go home," the proprietor said suddenly. Everyone stopped what they were doing, surprised to hear him speak harshly. The proprietor never spoke this way to anyone because he was a gentle man. Feeling them looking at him, he said more quietly, "Go. Go home."

  "But we should decide what to do." His wife spoke what they were all thinking.

  "There is nothing to do," the proprietor answered. When no one moved, he looked around the room at each in turn until his gaze rested on his beautiful daughter. "We will all be fine if we do nothing. He will go back and we will be forgotten."

  "We would be fine if we told the police about her. This is America, husband," the wife said.

  But the proprietor did not want to listen. He walked quickly to the front of the restaurant, unlocked the door and held it open while the cook and his helper left. They would go home to their wives and they would hope that Emanuel Dega Abu had only been joking when he said he would talk to their relatives so far away.

  When the owner of The Mercato locked the door once more, he turned around and saw that his wife sat on a chair with her head bowed. His daughter watched as if she expected something from him.

  "Do you understand now, Hali? Do you? Do you see why you must be silent?"

  The proprietor did not wait for an answer from his daughter. He had been too lenient with her. He had allowed her to think too much for herself. With no other words left to say, he went into the kitchen, leaned against the wall, put his face in his hands and thought of his mother and father at home in Eritrea. He thought of the woman in the picture and her family.

  In the dining room, Hali and her mother finished cleaning. When the mother went to see her husband, to tell him it was time to go home, to tell him that all would be well, Hali picked up her purse from behind the small counter. She glanced toward the kitchen and then walked through the deserted restaurant and into the hall. She looked into the parking lot and saw that it was empty but to be certain she could not be heard she ducked into the bathroom, locked the door behind her and dialed her phone. It rang and rang and on the third ring, just when she thought she would have to hang up and keep this terrible news to herself, she heard:

  "Yep." It was the way the phone was always answered.

  "She's dead," Hali said.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes." The girl's voice shook. "What will we do now?"

  "I don't know," came the answer. Just then Hali heard her mother call. She whispered, "I have to go."

  "Come tomorrow."

  "Yes. When I can."

  The mother called again. Hali put her pho
ne in her purse and opened the door. Together the three of them – mother, father and daughter – went away from their restaurant, each of them thinking about how small and dangerous the world truly was.

  CHAPTER 11

  DAY 2

  "I'm not saying you'd be sure to find something, I'm only suggesting that you might find something. Yes. Yes. I know. I understand but for God's sake, man, can't you just do as I ask? Please. Yes. Yes, please. Ten feet of railing directly above where the underside is scorched. Yes. Thank you. Yes."

  Finn put the phone down, planted his elbows on the desk, dropped his head into his hands and moaned 'Mother Mary save me'. A second later he came up for air and looked at Cori.

  She sat with her feet up on the table she used as a desk, rocking against the back of her chair as she flipped a pencil. She looked like a lawyer in her khaki pants and white shirt except that no lawyer Finn ever saw had quite the assets that his partner did. That poor shirt of hers strained its buttons, but Finn had long ago stopped worrying about a wardrobe malfunction embarrassing her. Cori always said that if what the good lord gave her made anyone uncomfortable it was their problem, not hers. She flipped the pencil higher still and caught it.

  "I don't know why you're all put out. Did you think the techs would be jazzed to go out and dust a rail that's been touched by every person on that bridge ten times since that woman went over? They won't find spit and you know it."

  "I don't know that, and I don't ask for things to be done because I like seeing people chase their tails. They should know that by now," Finn grumbled.

  "You can barely get anyone to give you the time of day and you expect them to know that you're on the up and up when it comes to betting on a long shot?" Cori snorted and the pencil went up again. "That's rich, O'Brien."

  "Benefit of the doubt, Cori. That's what they should be giving me at the very least." Finn dropped his hands hard on the desk and drummed his fingers. "Sometimes it's the oddest bits of work that get you what you want. I want to know who the man was with our woman so maybe – just maybe – we can find out who she was."

  "I'm not ragging on you, just pointing out the obvious." Cori took her feet off the table and spun around. Her knees were together, her feet splayed and her elbows rested on the arms of her chair. Finn thought she looked fetching. She thought he needed a devil's advocate. "If you're thinking it was any of those guys at The Mercato, that's a nonstarter. The little guy wouldn't dirty his hands and even your buddy Number Four would have remembered if it was one of the other two. Those two are standouts."

  "Not if you put a hat and jacket on the Australian," Finn said. "Anyway, I'm not thinking anything except that it was an unusual meeting. It seems I was having coffee with a bona fide dictator last night, Cori. The man runs Eritrea all by his lonesome."

  "La-de-da." Cori gave Finn her full attention. "So he was just out glad-handing a few ex-pats last night? Sort of a waste of time, I'd think. Not to mention the fact that no one looked like they were enjoying the visit."

  "And that's what intrigues me. I'll stop again at the restaurant. Maybe they'll be a little more forthcoming without the special company."

  "Sounds like a plan," Cori agreed. Good people were terrible liars and they both knew that what happened the night before in The Mercato was one huge dodge. "The security tapes are coming in this afternoon from the USC garage and one other building a few blocks down, same street. I asked for the Radisson film, too, just in case."

  "At least we know they came on foot from the west, so we won't spin our wheels looking across the way," Finn said.

  Cori took a drink of her coffee to keep from mentioning that the two people who swore Jane Doe and her friend had come from the west had pointed east. Finn was gobbling up every crumb anyone dropped so she let him feast while she kept on with her list.

  "I got thirty hits on guys named Horace. Of those, seven have been rousted for running girls but only three have violent crimes attached."

  "How many are white?" Finn asked.

  "One," Cori answered.

  "That narrows it down."

  "Yeah, and I'm sure he's probably living in the same place he did two years ago when they arrested him. A guy like that would put down roots for sure." Finn looked at her askance and she laughed. "Don't worry, if Horace exists I'll find him."

  "I have faith, Cori. What I do not have is a match for our lady's fingerprints. That means nothing save that she was law abiding. I've put in an inquiry with immigration to see if she might have a visa or a green card. Maybe they motored to the bridge, so I'll get the bus schedules for an hour on either side of her falling. I would think a bus driver would remember a lady who could barely walk."

  "We can check taxis and Uber. There's always a private car. What I'd really like to know, O'Brien, is why she didn't have a purse? No I.D. no cell noth—"

  Cori held up a finger asking Finn to pause while she picked up the ringing phone.

  "Anderson." She listened for a second and then said, "Yep, send him back." Cori hung up and smiled at Finn. "Someone wants to talk to us about the freeway."

  "Sure, that's some good new—"

  Before Finn could complete his sentence, the person in question presented himself, pausing in the doorway so they could get a good look at his magnificence. He was young and well dressed. His face was movie star handsome under a head of dark, perfectly styled hair. His smile was mega-watt and his eyes lively. He stood no taller than a leprechaun and a half – five six at the most – yet his presence was as forceful as the first jolt of electroshock, painful and life changing.

  "Thomas Lipinski, attorney at law. Lapinski with an 'i'."

  He took two steps forward and then one more. He stuck his hand out. When Finn took it, Thomas pumped it up and down twice, holding the detective's gaze as if the they were the only two brothers left standing on the field of battle. When that was done, he turned to Cori and gave her an up and down, too, but it wasn't just the handshake that was moving. His eyes went from Cori's face to her décolletage that, as fate would have it, was approximately eye-level for the man.

  "Up here, buddy." Cori raised two fingers and pointed from his eyes to hers.

  "Occupational hazard," Lapinski assured her. "It's my job to notice everything, and I'm very good at my job."

  He dropped her hand and lifted his trial case – big as a packing box – onto Finn's desk. Neither detective knew how he did it, but suddenly they were each holding one of Thomas Lapinski's cards and he was introducing himself in full.

  "Lapinski, Thomas. Attorney at law. LLC. I work alone so you never have to worry about being shoved off to an associate. That's because I care. I care here." His fist touched his chest right where a heart should be. "You've probably seen me on the buses, so I get it if you are feeling a little funny about my visit. Why, you're asking yourself, would a man whose face is plastered on every bus in this city, an important man like Thomas Lapinski, be standing here, taking personal time with me? That's what you're asking yourselves, right?"

  "I don't take the bus." Cori tossed his card on her table. "You, O'Brien?"

  Finn shook his head. Thomas Lapinski waved a finger and gave Cori a mischievous grin so that she knew that he knew that she was pulling his leg.

  "You are a very funny, very brave woman. People think that when someone makes a joke at times like this it is because they are tough, but I know it is because they are brave. But bravery does not mean you are invulnerable." Thomas warmed to his subject. His pretty brown eyes darkened as his earnestness heated up. "I'm here to tell you that there are no extra points for bravery when you get to court, Detective Anderson. What you will need is straight out honesty about your condition, or conditions as the case may be. Honesty is what makes a person brave. Do not hold in your hurt and suffering. Seriously, I know what a jury wants and what they want is the unvarnished truth. You will tell it and I will be by your side every step of the way. There is nothing to fear when Lapinski is here."

  The ma
n looked from Finn to Cori and back again. He shook his head a little as if surprised that his audience wasn't applauding. He backtracked, lightening the mood with a little chortle. He bent his knees and used his pointer fingers like six shooters. He plugged Cori and Finn at the same time.

  "But hey, it's not about me right now. It's about both of you." He dropped his hands and scanned the small office. "You're a little light on chairs around here. I'm going to need to sit down while we get to it."

  "Mr. Lapinski," Finn said. "If you'll tell us what it is we can do for you, we'll have you on your way without need of a chair."

  "Ah, I get it." He lowered his voice, put a finger to his lips and tapped them. "Got it. Good. Okay, so you don't want to talk here. No problem. We'll just do the preliminaries now and the real talking outside the office."

  Thomas took a little hop and landed precisely on the edge of Finn's desk, balancing himself on the toe of one of his very expensive shoes. He unbuttoned his well-cut jacket and put one hand on his hip so that they could admire his red silk suspenders. His other hand was flat on the desk as he leaned forward and let his handsome features fall into an expression befitting a physician offering a dying patient a slim bit of hope.

  "I don't care who has talked to you already, I don't care who comes after me. In the end there is no one better than Thomas Lapinski, attorney at law, to get you every cent you deserve for what happened to you on that freeway." He sat back a little and clasped both hands to his chest. " I feel, if you will, your pain. All I'm asking is that you trust me. Put yourselves in my hands. Do that and I promise that I will not rest until justice is served and you get everything that is coming to you."

  Cori groaned and Finn rolled his eyes. They both got it at the same time.

  "Are you telling us that you are a personal injury attorney and that you are under the impression that we are in need of your services?" Finn asked.

  "I am, sir. I am that, and proud to be offering my services to you. I work on behalf of every person who has suffered an injury that needs redress. Young or old, rich or poor, you are all the same to me," Thomas assured him.