by Bob Hamer
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'll never understand what you ever saw in me. I can only attribute it to bad eyesight."
"You are such a romantic. You always know how and when to say the sweetest things. Honey, you were the first man I dated who had a real job, a regular paycheck, and a guaranteed pension. What's not to like?"
"Now who's being romantic?" said Matt.
A Pacific storm forced the waves to crash on the shore, breaking in rapid succession. The protection of the restaurant's plate-glass window provided a perfect dinner setting.
"So what's up?" asked Caitlin.
"What do you mean?"
"Matt, your undercover shtick never works with me. The fanciest place you ever take me is Chipotle's and then only with a coupon. You never take me anywhere with cloth napkins unless there's an angle. So what's the angle? I'm assuming it's not divorce or bankruptcy. It must be a new undercover assignment. So spit it out. Let's get it over with so I can at least try to enjoy the rest of dinner."
"For an elementary schoolteacher, you're pretty street-smart."
"You think you survive a Los Angeles School District second- grade classroom merely on the training you receive at some teacher college, get real, Cowboy. Now quit stalling."
"Okay, you win. I had a successful meeting this afternoon with a white supremacist. Looks like it could go somewhere so we're going to take a run."
Matt saw a look of concern overtake her face. Her countenance went from a carefree dinner date to a worried spouse.
Caitlin took several bites of food before she responded. "Well, at least promise me you'll take a shower every morning."
"I wish you understood."
She put down her fork and reached across the table to take his hand. "I keep hoping someday you'll announce you've taken a desk and I need to start ironing a white button-down, collared shirt every night."
Matt laughed. "You do believe in miracles, don't you?"
"It just always seems so dangerous. Couldn't you find some quaint little stock manipulation scheme at an AARP convention?"
Matt smiled, "Not much of a thrill targeting octogenarians. Besides, you've seen my investment skills. We're living in a condo because I thought gold would never rise above $475 an ounce."
"Does this have anything to do with Flip Mitchell's wife?"
"We think so. We hope so anyway."
"Well, if it's family, then I guess you have my blessing, but I'm serious, can't you find an assignment a little less dangerous? I'm ready to try again. I want to start a family, but it scares me to think about children as long as Jack Bauer here keeps wanting to tempt fate. Why can't you put on a coat and tie like every other agent in the office?"
"Not much fun in that."
"But, Matt, I really do worry. It just seems like with each assignment you take on more risk."
"Maybe I'm an adrenaline junky, and I keep chasing the dragon."
She released his hand. "I'm serious. You're not the one lying home in bed every night praying God will continue to wrap his protective arms around you. You aren't on your knees every morning asking for my peace and your protection. I love you, Matt, and I want us to grow old together. I wish you would have taken the supervisor slot they offered last year. I guess I just don't understand this insatiable desire to play a real-life James Bond."
Matt took a sip of his Pellegrino and looked out toward the ocean. He was gathering his thoughts as he turned back to Caitlin. "You ever sweat?"
"What?"
"I don't mean perspire. I mean sweat."
Caitlin tilted her head and gave him an inquisitive look.
"You ever have adrenaline dripping from your pores? Sometimes when I'm on my way to meet somebody I know to be truly dangerous, I begin to sweat. I actually tingle and maybe even shake. I can feel the adrenaline pulsating through my body. It's nerves. It's fear, but it's a rush. It means I'm hitting on all cylinders, and it means I'm taking it to the edge. There is absolutely no comparable thrill."
Caitlin reached back across the table and touched his hand. She may never completely understand, but she appreciated his sharing his most intimate thoughts. Then a huge smile overtook her face, "What about on our wedding night?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Within hours of Dawn Platt's telephone call at the hospital with Mickey Donovan, the bad-boy biker was stopped on his motorcycle for a moving traffic violation. The young LAPD patrol officer who pulled him over ran the usual routine check before approaching the vehicle. The 10-29 came back "Warrants on File." Donovan's infractions were minor, but the multiple "failures to appear" on previous traffic tickets made him a guest of the county until Dawn could post bail.
The Denny's restaurant on Sunset Boulevard just off the Hollywood freeway was open twenty-four hours. The clientele reflected the working demographics. The noontime diners were from the studios, even an occasional executive. After midnight the roaches came out, the night crawlers who roamed the poor side of Tinseltown.
It was late and Dawn Platt was seated in a booth on the east side of the restaurant away from the other customers. From inside the restaurant she could hear the roar of the Harley as it pulled into the parking lot. Dawn turned and peered out the window as she watched Mickey Donovan dismount and walk to the front entrance.
Denny's was convenient. It was close to the methadone clinic on Hollywood Boulevard where she received treatment. Mickey knew the location. A message from either saying, "Meet me at Denny's" meant only one spot.
She jumped up as soon as Mickey approached the table and threw her arms around him. The square-jawed biker had movie-star good looks but the morals of a twice-convicted felon.
"I'm so glad you're out," said Dawn as she gave him a kiss.
"Thanks for coming up with the money, but what took you so long? A few lousy tickets and you'd think they arrested Al Capone."
"I'm sorry, baby. I did some things I didn't want to do, but I got the money. I even missed two days of work. I called in sick. I just hope my PO bought it."
"Well, I'm out. That's all that matters."
"I got the information you needed," she said.
"Let me have it," said Mickey.
"It was the FBI who brought Bobby in. He got ripped on a drug deal. He busted his ankle pretty bad trying to run."
"He always was an idiot and a loser."
"He's not in the hospital anymore. I checked last night."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. I called the county jail, and I called down to Terminal Island. Nobody's heard of him. Did I do good calling around trying to find him?"
"Yeah, you did good. I bet he's working off a beef. He's probably on the Feds' payroll by now. What about the woman? Did you find out about her?"
"I think it's the right one. She was brought in the same night as Bobby with two gunshot wounds. She's still in the hospital. I peeked in the room last night, and it looked like someone did a number on her face."
"That's her."
"Her husband is an FBI agent."
"What?"
"Yeah, I was talking to the agent guarding Bobby, and he said she was married to an FBI agent."
"Are you sure? How many other gunshot victims did you have that night?"
"I don't know, Mickey. I just deliver food trays. I'm not the admissions counselor."
"Don't get smart with me?"
"I'm sorry, Mickey, let's get out of here. Let's get married and go someplace else. I talked to a producer the other day."
Mickey interrupted, "Where'd you meet a producer?"
"He was downtown at the Hilton."
"So why were you at the Hilton? Forget it, what did he say?"
"He said Hollywood is moving out of state. Too many taxes and a lot of incent
ives in other places like North Carolina, New Mexico, even Detroit. I know you could get work there. I'm tired of all this. We're both gonna keep slippin' if we stay here. Please, Mickey. My PO would let me leave. He'd be glad to get rid of me. Save the state a few bucks. What do you say?"
"Would you just shut up? I'm not going anywhere. If you want to go someplace else, then go. I'm not leaving. I got stuff going here. I can make money with Boris. L.A. is a gold mine as far as I'm concerned, and this is the only place to be if you want to make it in Hollywood. If you don't like our arrangement, then leave, but don't be talking marriage or even hooking up."
Dawn broke down and cried, tears flowing down her face. "Dump Boris. He's no good for you. He's no good for us."
Mickey stormed out of the restaurant without saying another word.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Matt heard the car pull up in the parking lot. He looked out through the tinted office windows and walked to the rusted metal door, unlocking the double deadbolt. He welcomed Jason Barnes and Pamela Clinton as they entered the rundown warehouse.
"You didn't have to dress up on my account," said Matt as he ushered in the two FBI administrators. Both looked out of place in their business attire as Matt was comfortably dressed in faded blue jeans and a worn sweatshirt. "Welcome to my humble abode."
"So this is what I have been signing off on for the past three months, just so you can hang out here," said Barnes as he surveyed the scene.
"I need to use the ladies room," said Pamela Clinton, not even offering a hand or a smile. She headed for an open door, obviously housing bathroom facilities.
Matt almost let her walk in and close the door but thought better of it and said, "Wait a sec." He walked over to his desk and grabbed a roll of toilet paper, tossing it to her, he said, "You might need this."
She bobbled the throw and chased the roll as it bounced across the floor.
"You can't keep a roll in the restroom?" asked Pamela.
"It's just another way to screw with the clientele. I like to watch them scramble after they finish their business and realize they don't have sufficient paper to complete the task. Tends to humble even the most hardened," said Matt.
"You are disgusting."
Matt spotted Jason Barnes out of the corner of his eye and thought he saw the slightest twinge of a smile.
"Dwayne should be here any minute. He called just before you two showed up. Want to see the setup?" offered Matt.
"Yeah, give me the nickel tour," said Barnes.
Matt proceeded to show him the office, pointing out three hidden cameras, secreted in the ceiling, as well as a hidden compartment where guns were stored should extra firepower ever be needed. The small reception area was dark as was the hallway leading to the warehouse.
The ADIC followed Matt as they explored the warehouse, an area large enough to accompany most of the contraband any criminal wanted to store. Matt pointed out the loading dock, the infra-red cameras, and the alarm system.
"Not bad. I've seen more sophistication in some of our intelligence and terrorism off-sites, but this fits the bill. Where do you store the monitoring equipment?" said Jason Barnes.
They returned to the hallway, and Matt pointed to a beat-up filing cabinet extending from the floor to the ceiling, next to the restroom. He flipped the center light switch three times, and the cabinet slid to the left revealing a room large enough to house two people but crammed with audio- and video-recording equipment.
"Now that's more like it. That's the kind of 007 sophistication I was hoping to find."
The toilet flushed as Matt closed the opening to the monitoring room by flipping the light switch once. He watched Pamela storm from the bathroom, shaking her hands. "You're out of paper towels," she said.
"That's because you haven't signed our latest requisition. It's been sitting on your desk since last Tuesday. Wipe 'em on your pants, that's what we do most of the time anyway."
Matt saw her eyes piercing through him with a look signaling her intention to get even for embarrassing her in front of the ADIC.
Just then the door opened, and Dwayne Washington walked in. "Hey boss, Pamela, sorry I got held up."
Pamela was still shaking her hands dry.
"Out of paper towels again?" asked Dwayne.
"Yep," said Matt, "I offered to let her wipe 'em off on my pants leg, but she demurred, as the lawyers like to say."
Jason Barnes stifled a laugh as they walked into Matt's office.
Matt decided it might be best to play the proper host. "You guys want something to drink? I just put on a pot of coffee. We've got diet and regular Pepsi. Anything?"
No one responded.
"Guys, I'm trying to be polite. You have to work with me. Come on Pamela, I want to make up for the paper towels."
Dwayne said, "I think we better get down to business. I'm sure the boss has other meetings today."
"This is important. I'll make the time. I'm interested in your plan," said Jason Barnes.
Matt interrupted, "Drinks? I'm getting something."
Matt stood up and headed for the refrigerator
"Sure, Matt. I'll take a Diet Pepsi."
"You got it, boss. Anyone else?"
"I'd like coffee," said Pamela. "Cream and two sugars."
"Okay and, Dwayne, I know you want a diet."
The ADIC's cell phone rang, and he answered, stepping out into the hallway. He returned a few minutes later. "Sorry, I needed to take that. Headquarters was checking on Lydia's condition."
Matt served everyone as Dwayne pulled out pictures from his briefcase. "This is Jesse Himmler, the cousin of our informant Bobby Himmler. Every law enforcement intelligence unit in L.A. County says Jesse is the real deal. In any other situation Jesse would be a worthy target. I guess you could call him a registered independent. He doesn't fly the colors of any outlaw biker group or wear the flag of a neo-Nazi organization, but he runs guns and drugs. He did time in Lompoc on a weapons charge and hung with the Aryan Brotherhood when he was in. He's sold guns to the Monguls and MS 13. Yet according to a sheriff's department source, he's moved stolen motorcycles for the Hell's Angels and smuggled speed into prison for the Mexican Mafia."
"So he's covering all the bases," said the ADIC.
Dwayne nodded and continued, "He appears to be respected by all. But our real interest is his association with Boris Gregorian, the owner of the Russian Veil."
Dwayne passed out surveillance photos taken of the front of the bar over the weekend.
"Based on what Bobby Himmler told us, Boris seems to be at least indirectly tied to the attack on Lydia Mitchell. Jesse is one of Gregorian's closest non-Russian associates."
Dwayne then pulled out a surveillance picture of Gregorian and showed it to Barnes and Clinton.
"He looks like one of Vince McMahon's aging superstars, kind of a fat Russian Hulk Hogan," said Barnes.
"Yeah, he's a big boy. We're carrying him at 6'4" 300 pounds," said Dwayne.
"That was his playing weight a few years ago. I think he's gone a little soft since then so we might want to tack on another twenty or thirty pounds," added Matt.
"Without the shirt he's pretty tatted up," said Dwayne who pulled out another photo showing him at the beach in a bathing suit.
Matt shook his head, "This is borderline obscenity. How can anyone say a picture of a fat guy in a Speedo has any redeeming social value? Where's the Supreme Court when you need them? Surely, the ACLU wouldn't defend this on First Amendment grounds?"
Dwayne looked at Matt who was trying to goad Pamela Clinton into a comment. Rumors circulating recently in the bullpen have her dating a rather large-boned, corpulent attorney. Someone saw them walking hand in hand on the beach below The Chart House in Malibu. She wasn't taking the bait.
"Are you done?" said Dwayne.
Matt waved his arm as if to say, "Continue."
"What do we know about him?" asked Barnes.
"He was a Russian military officer before the breakup of the Soviet Union. CIA claims he was with the Twelfth Department."
"What's that?" asked Pamela.
"Nuclear weapons," said Barnes.
"He came here legally in the early nineties. From all we can tell, he's a gangster capitalist, but we don't have any proof," said Dwayne.
"Anything more?"
"None of the alphabet agencies report anything on him."
"But has anyone targeted him?"
Dwayne nodded, "ATF had an informant into him a couple of years ago, but before they were able to introduce an undercover, the informant disappeared."
Matt interrupted, "No one knows if he went south or took a dirt nap. One day he missed a meeting with his case agent and that was that. Based on what Bobby said, people who cross Boris don't hang around to tell their stories."
Dwayne added, "He's off the grid. His rap sheet is clean. No arrests. He's had some minor liquor violations at the bar but all civil in nature, nothing criminal."
"Can you get to him?" asked Barnes, examining the pictures again.
"We think so. Matt had a very productive meeting with Jesse Himmler, and Bobby's still onboard. They both hang out at the Veil. We need to work our way up to Gregorian. If we are patient and luck breaks our way, we could get there."
Barnes looked concerned even though he knew it was often a circuitous path to success. "That seems like a long shot. First you have to convince Jesse Himmler you're for real. Then you have to convince him to introduce you to Gregorian and hope he believes you. How does that get us close to solving the murders and the attack on Lydia?"
"That's what I've been trying to say since this started," said Pamela.
Matt ignored her, not even looking in her direction when he spoke. "We didn't burn the warehouse with our operation last month so it's still good to go. I'm going to open it up to Jesse and let him know it's available for whatever he might need. Bobby says he's always looking for places to store his swag overnight and . . ."