Targets Down

by Bob Hamer

  "Yeah, we're fine," said Matt.

  "It doesn't look fine."

  "I said we're fine."

  The waitress was unmoved by Matt's rudeness. "Honey, are you okay? Do you need me to call someone?"

  Irina looked up. "Yes, I am fine. He is trying to help. Thank you."

  With that the waitress cleared Matt's plate and walked away.

  "I am sorry I cry. I do not want to work any more for Boris. I am so scared. I just want to go home. I have made many mistakes. I want parents to forgive me and let me come home. But I afraid to say anything to Boris, or maybe I be missing like other girls. Can you help me? Please, you are different. Please help me."

  Matt was stunned by the request. He didn't see this coming. The tears at the club should have portended this, but he missed the signs. She was just a teenager. Of course she only wanted to go home. She wanted to undo all she encountered this past year. She wanted to start over, a clean slate. But how could Matt help without undermining the undercover operation? Even if Irina agreed to testify, the FBI wasn't ready to make arrests that evening. Was this a setup? Was Boris using her to see if Matt would admit to being an FBI agent? He was tested once by Boris with the bogus traffic stop. Maybe this was the second phase of the testing process. But the tears appeared real. She's genuine; he was sure of it, but could he take a chance and reveal his true identity?

  Matt took a long sip of his drink. God, give me some answers.

  "Will you help me, please? I want God to forgive me. I want to go home and start again."

  "I believe in a God of second chances." Matt said it like he believed it.

  "So you will help me?" asked a hopeful Irina.

  "I'll help you, but I just don't know how yet. Are you sure Boris had something to do with the others who are missing?"

  "There were three girls who work with me at club this year. Two are missing. The police find Annika shot and thrown off side of road. She, like others, want to leave and tell Boris they will go. The next day they gone, but now we afraid they go like Annika. Boris never say he kill them. I do not think Boris kill them, but I think he tell others to kill. All of us afraid."

  Matt reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out a hundred dollar bill and five twenties. He handed the money to Irina. "Here's two hundred dollars. Rent a room for a few nights until I can straighten this out."

  "Should I stay here?"

  "No, this place will require identification. There's a motel a couple of miles east of here called the El Capitan." Matt took an undercover business card from his wallet and handed it to her. "They take cash and won't ask any questions. Call me tomorrow. I'll talk to Boris."

  "No! You can't talk to him. If he know I leave, he may kill me."

  "He won't kill you. He's a businessman and so am I. We'll work out a business arrangement satisfactory to both of us."

  "But I am afraid."

  The tears that dried a few moments ago came again.

  "Irina, you said I was different. I am. I'll protect you. You will have to trust me."

  "Thank you, Matt." She reached across the table to touch his hand, but he pulled back. This wasn't physical, and he didn't want it to become that. There was a look of confusion or maybe even hurt on her face. Since coming to America, she only knew one way to satisfy a man. Now when she wanted to say thank you, she was rebuffed.

  "You ready to go? I'll drive you down to the El Capitan."

  "I walk."

  "No, I'll drive you. Let's go."

  Matt left money on the table to cover the bill and the tip. As they were walking out, Matt made eye contact with Danny Garcia, but there was no way for Matt to safely convey his next move.

  Matt and Irina exited by the side door, avoiding the main entrance. He pushed the car remote, the lights blinked, and the doors unlocked.

  As Irina entered the car, she said, "You have nice car. You must be important businessman."

  "I've had some success."

  Matt drove out of the lot turning left onto Coldwater Canyon. He took a left at Ventura Boulevard and drove east to the El Capitan. Had he been more alert, he would have spotted the vehicle following him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The El Capitan Motel was built in the forties and at one time catered to the upper class who could afford cars and vacations. Now any out-of-town guests who showed up did so because they believed the Internet ads claiming the motel was in the heart of Studio City "where movie stars are as common as the daily sunshine." The marquee bragged of cable TV and free in-room phones; so much for luxuries. The motel room doors still had conventional locks, and the "lost keys" from decades earlier worked. On many a winter evening the homeless camped out in an empty room merely by acquiring one of the keys circulating on the street.

  Matt pulled to the curb just east of the motel. "This is as far as I go. You can check in on your own. Call me in the morning and stay in the room tonight. Don't go walking the Boulevard, and don't go back to the Russian Veil."

  "I going nowhere. I lock door and stay in room. Thank you Matt for helping me."

  He watched her walk into the lobby and waited until she exited with a room key in her hand. As she walked toward her room, Matt pulled from the curb. He drove east on Ventura, took a left on Vineland, and headed toward the freeway and home.

  STUMP AND JESSE PULLED into the darkened parking area of the horseshoe-shaped motel and stopped in front of room 15. The lot was empty. Most of the traffic was on foot, the homeless who couldn't afford cars and the prostitutes who turned tricks by the hour. It was still early in the evening, and most rooms were empty. Even those occupants in their rooms were probably drunk or high so any eyewitness testimony was suspect. Boris's two employees quickly exited the car and knocked on the door.

  A quiet voice from behind the door said, "Matt, is that you?"

  Stump answered in a near whisper, "Open the door."

  The sound of the chain safety latch being unfastened was heard through the paper-thin doors. The men braced for their entry, predators preparing to strike.

  Irina opened the door, and the two burst in with lightning speed. Irina let out a brief scream, her eyes wide with fear, but Stump quickly covered her mouth as he grabbed her and threw her to the floor. He fell with her and landed on top of the petite teenager. She hit so hard the air forced from her lungs had the power to blow Stump's hand from her mouth. Before she could catch her breath and scream, he hit her with a solid right across the face and repositioned his hand on her mouth.

  Jesse stood by the door blocking the entrance and any possible egress should Irina manage to escape. But she was no match for Stump. He pulled an eight-inch homemade sap from his back pocket. The thin leather sock filled with buckshot was a dangerous weapon in the hands of a skilled technician; Stump was skilled. He beat Irina senseless, slapping her repeatedly across the face. Her head whipped back and forth with each successive powerful strike. The multiple blows fractured the young girl's skull. Within seconds her body lay motionless, the carpet stained in blood. Stump reached down searching for a carotid pulse. There was none. The Ukrainian teenager who begged for Matt's help and received his assurances was dead.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  When Matt arrived home, Caitlin was preparing her lesson for the next day. After ten years in the classroom, she thought she had seen it all, but each day was a new adventure. This morning during recess, for no apparent reason, two boys decided to tie third-grader Isaiah Goldman to a picnic table and pelt him with rocks. Michael Hughes, who weeks earlier called Isaiah a racial slur not knowing the meaning, interceded. He grabbed the rock throwers and banged their heads together, splitting open the forehead of the larger of the two boys. Blood splattered everywhere. Children screamed and panic on the playground prevailed. The paramedics were called, and the principal
was forced to notify the Board of Education who, in turn, called the attorneys. Statements were taken as were photos of all involved. Evidence tape surrounded the "crime scene." It was like an episode of CSI:NY as tears flowed from the victims and the perpetrators. The only one to remain stoic was Michael Hughes. "I did the right thing. They were hurting Isaiah. He needed help."

  The playground monitor, a classified employee, not a teacher, called it "vigilante justice" and wanted Michael expelled immediately. Caitlin took Michael's side. Calm eventually prevailed, but reading, writing, and arithmetic took a backseat to limiting the legal liability of the school district.

  Matt kissed Caitlin and, as he headed to the kitchen, invited a long dissertation detailing her latest educational experience with what he meant to be a rhetorical question, "So how was your day?"

  THE FORTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD MARRIED MAN, father of three from Dayton, Ohio, was on a business trip. He thought he'd chance excitement in the rather mundane world of a computer software salesman. She was standing near the corner, and he succumbed to temptation. An evening of ecstasy two thousand miles from home seemed safe. Who would ever know? He had a condom in his pocket, and his wallet was locked in the glove compartment. To add to the thrill, tonight his name would be Hugh, as in Hugh Hefner. The founder of Playboy would be so proud.

  They drove in his rental car the three blocks from the corner where she was working to the motel. He parked on the street, and the two entered the dimly lit parking lot.

  The thirty-something-year-old prostitute grabbed the key from her clutch purse as she and her trick headed to the room. As she passed room 15, she noticed the door was ajar. She kept walking until she arrived in front of 18. As she unlocked the door, she said, "Go on in, honey, and you get real comfortable. I will be there in a sec to satisfy all your desires. I just need to check on something."

  Rozella walked back to the partially opened door. A quick search of the room might yield cash or something worth pawning down the street. She opened the door and screamed!

  PATROL UNITS FROM LAPD arrived within minutes. The night's darkness was illuminated by the flashing red and blue lights. Paramedic units also arrived shortly after the patrol units were on the scene. The cops cleared the room and secured the site. The paramedics could do nothing but pronounce Irina dead. No amount of medical assistance was going to revive the life of the Ukrainian teenager.

  The software salesman ran at the sound of the screams, but Rozella stayed until the police arrived. She worked out of the El Capitan and was on a first-name basis with most of the patrol officers on night watch. The cops let her work unless she caused problems, which was almost never. On more than one occasion she provided information to the police about the happenings on the boulevard. That was her quid pro quo for working. So even if she had run, they'd be looking for her to learn the street gossip regarding the attack. Besides, the victim's head was so beaten and bloodied, Rozella couldn't tell if the female was one of her friends who also frequented the El Capitan.

  Rozella Johnson sat on the curb sobbing. She knew it was dangerous to work the streets, but never had she seen such a vicious attack.

  A female detective came over and sat beside the prostitute. Before the detective could question her, Rozella said, "Who would do such a thing? Poor girl. I hope you get whoever did this. Nobody deserves to die like this. You promise me, you'll find who did this."

  "We'll do our best."

  "You better mean that. Just cause she may be a working girl don't mean she ain't somebody's daughter. You know what I'm saying?"

  "I know."

  "We ain't throwaways. Somebody cares about that girl."

  "Ames," said a male detective.

  The female detective rose, "I'll be right back."

  The male detective handed Ames the business card found on Irina. She agreed to call the number on the card.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  The undercover cell phone was lying on the night stand and began to vibrate. Matt was reading in bed with Caitlin by his side grading papers. He looked at the number and didn't recognize the 818 area code. He grabbed a recorder and turned it on.

  "Yeah."

  "I'm looking for Matt."

  "Who's this?"

  "Are you Matt?"

  "It depends on who you are?" Matt could now hear a police radio in the background.

  "I'm Detective Ames. I'm with the LAPD, North Hollywood Division."

  "Yeah, I'm Matt. What's going on?"

  "We found your business card on a deceased woman. We have no other type of identification on her. We need your help in identifying her."

  "Deceased? What happened?"

  "Why don't you come down, and we can talk about it?"

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm at the El Capitan Motel on Ventura Boulevard in Studio City."

  "I think I know the place. I've driven past it a few times. I'll be right down."

  MATT RACED DOWN THE 101 Freeway toward Studio City. He put the car on cruise control, set it for eighty, and called Dwayne, who answered on the second ring.

  "What's up?"

  "Dwayne, we've got a huge problem."

  "Now what?"

  "LAPD just found Irina dead in the motel where I left her."

  "What?" roared Dwayne.

  "I'm heading to the motel now to identify the body."

  "How'd she die?"

  "The detective wouldn't tell me," said Matt.

  "How'd they connect you?"

  "They found my business card on her. Apparently she didn't have any other ID."

  "Do you think it's wise to go there?"

  "I don't think I have a choice. I don't want them running a background check and finding all kinds of false flags. If they get too creative, they may blow the whole operation."

  "You want me to run interference?"

  "Not yet. Let's see what they have. Maybe this is a suicide or a drug overdose. I'm not going to out myself, but I think you better call Danny Garcia and give him a heads-up. The Queen Mother's going to love this latest wrinkle. This is all she needs to shut us down."

  "Matt, I'll call Danny now. I think we should get him over there. He can say he got a call from an informant. At least have him on the scene when you get there."

  "Yeah, that makes sense."

  MATT PARKED ON THE street. The parking lot to the motel was crowded with patrol units, unmarked cars, and a coroner's vehicle. Matt spotted Danny Garcia talking with the only female not in uniform. He presumed she was Ames. Rather than look too familiar with police procedure, he approached a uniform officer near the door to room 15. He took a quick glance into the room as crime scene photos were being taken. He saw Irina's bloody and beaten body, and his stomach knotted. Rage loomed but he held his emotions in check.

  "I'm looking for a Detective Ames."

  The patrol officer pointed to the female with Danny. Matt headed in that direction. As soon as he got within earshot, the conversation ceased and both turned to Matt.

  "Detective Ames?"

  "Yeah."

  "I'm Matt Wallace. You called me a half hour ago."

  "Yeah." She turned to Danny and said, "I need to talk with this guy. Thanks for your help. Could you stick around a little longer?"

  Danny nodded.

  She then said to Matt, "Let's take a walk."

  The two walked to the other end of the motel.

  "We've got a dead girl in room 15. She had your business card on her. You want to explain why."

  "I give out my business cards to a lot of people. I run a business. That's why they're called business cards."

  Even though she was four inches shorter and about fifty pounds lighter, Ames immediately took charge. "Hey, I got a dead girl in that room. I don't need your flippant attitude
."

  "I didn't mean it that way. You called me but haven't given me many facts. Does she have a name? What's she look like? I thought you needed my help in identifying her. I came down as soon as you called. I'm trying to be cooperative. I need to see the girl to find out if I know her."

  "We think we have a name. That detective provided some information." She nodded toward Danny Garcia. "Her name is Irina."

  Matt feigned shock. "Irina. Oh no."

  "So you know her?"

  "Yeah, I know her." Matt ran his fingers through his hair. "Look, this is a little delicate. Please understand. I'm married. I've never cheated on my wife, but sometimes after work I stop off for a beer. Irina dances at a club I go to sometimes. I gave her my card a few days ago. She said she was looking for work. I said I could help and to give me a call. I'd put out some feelers."

  "Yeah, I bet you put out some feelers."

  "No, seriously, it wasn't like that. Really, I've never cheated on my wife. Irina was just a young kid. She was from one of those Russian countries. She came to the United States looking to make a better life for herself."

  "In some strip joint?"

  "Dancing paid the bills. You have to believe me. I never touched her."

  "So how'd she get your card?"

  "She came up to me when I was sitting at the bar. We started talking. It was a slow night. She asked me if I wanted a lap dance. I told her no but bought her a drink."

  "You're a big spender, huh?"

  "Look, I felt sorry for her. We talked that's all."

  "And where did all this take place?"

  "The Russian Veil."

  "I know the place," said Ames scribbling the name in her notebook. "You don't look like the typical patron for a biker bar. What kind of business did you say you were in?"