by Mark Nolan
Jake tapped his phone and ended the video.
Terrell blew cigarette smoke out of his nose in twin streams. “Good work, Rox. You just found a large-scale drug trafficking operation.”
“I guess Gene thought he could try to blackmail murdering drug dealers and somehow live through it,” she said.
“The SFPD narcotics team has been searching for a gang that buys counterfeit AK-47s from China and trades them to terrorists in Afghanistan in exchange for opium. They turn the opium into heroin, smuggle it across our borders, and then sell it in America. The heroin kills a lot of people here, and the AK-47s are fired at our troops overseas.”
“So the gang is making a killing, while they’re killing Americans?” Roxanne said.
Jake interrupted. “This could be the same gang who sold the heroin to Stuart. What’s the address of that warehouse?”
Cody continued growling and he pawed at the back seat. Jake reached back and patted him on the head, and thought about Stuart and the sound of his loud laughter. They’d been best friends—two war dog handlers who’d understood each other better than anyone else. He wondered once again how his friend could survive Afghanistan and Iraq, and then die in the suburbs of California with a needle in his arm. Jake told himself he should have been there that night, to save Stuart’s life. He had been working on some stupid assignment for his employer and had missed his friend’s call—his last call for help before he died. Jake thought about Norman at the news station and how he wanted to choke the man by the neck.
Roxanne said, “I don’t know the address. Gene Stephens didn’t own any warehouses. No commercial properties at all, only residential homes.”
Jake spat out the window. “Heroin is the devil’s drug. I hate the people who sold it to Stuart, and I need to find them, whoever they are.”
Terrell nodded. “We had a meeting this week. Drug overdoses are now the leading cause of death among Americans under fifty.”
“The supply of heroin coming into this city has to be stopped once and for all,” Jake said. “I don’t care what it takes.”
Roxanne said, “Even if we put this gang out of business, other drug cartels will soon fill the void.”
“Well, at least this would stop a supply line of AK-47s to the terrorists,” Jake said. “Grinds, how many of our friends were shot by AKs?”
Terrell glanced at Jake and saw that his eyes were dark, his jaw was clenched, and he was staring off into the distance. “Rox will find the warehouse, Jukebox, but it’ll be a crime scene for the police to deal with. Don’t go anywhere near there.”
“I can’t just stand around and do nothing. If this is the gang that sold heroin to Stuart they have to pay for that. Cody and I are going to go out searching to see what we can find.”
Terrell looked Jake in the eye. “Just remember to stay on the right side of the law. Don’t cross the line to the other side. Agreed?”
“I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything. Where is that line, anyway? It seems like it’s always moving.”
A uniformed cop drove up in the Jeep and parked. He walked over to Terrell and handed him the keys.
“Thanks, Wilson. I owe you one. Hop in and I’ll give you a ride back to HQ.” Terrell gave the keys to Jake.
Jake and Cody got out of the car and walked down the street to where the Jeep was parked.
Wilson got into Terrell’s SUV and they drove away.
Chapter 38
At the police station, Roxanne sat at her computer. She took a screenshot of the warehouse interior and uploaded it to Google Images. Thousands of results were displayed.
Beth sat next to her. “These warehouses all look alike.”
Roxanne accessed the MLS database and searched for any warehouses that had been recently listed for sale in San Francisco. She studied the photos, but none of them matched the one in the video.
Beth shook her head. “This is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
Roxanne drummed her fingers on the desktop. “Maybe it’s a leased warehouse.” She checked some rental listings but still couldn’t find it. She opened a spreadsheet. “Gene Stephens routinely copied the keys of homes that were for sale, and planted cameras in many of them.”
Beth nodded. “Right, and each key was tagged with the home’s address.”
They both studied the spreadsheet. All the listings were homes—no commercial properties.
Roxanne entered each address into Google Maps and used the satellite view to see what was nearby. Eventually she found one home located in a condo tower that was close to an area of warehouses. “Maybe when Gene visited this condo, he drove past a warehouse with a For Lease sign and stopped to look inside.”
“I’ll call Terrell.” Beth tapped her cell phone.
“Hayes,” Terrell answered.
“Rox found an area of warehouses near one of the condos owned by Gene Stephens.” Beth recited the address.
“I’ll drive over there and look around,” Terrell said.
Beth ended the call. “Let’s go through that file named Payments. Check every video of the blackmailed women performing favors. See if any of them were in a warehouse at the time.”
“Why would Gene do that when he could have had his trysts in any number of million-dollar luxury homes for sale?” Roxanne said.
“Because Gene was effed up?” Beth said.
“Good point. Watching these videos is going to be painful.”
“We’ll put them on fast forward and only look at enough to check the location.”
“Ugh,” Roxanne said, and started going through the videos and taking notes.
Payments by Sharon — furnished home, seller’s bed.
Payments by Val — empty home, on the carpet.
Payments by Melody — empty home, kitchen floor.
On the twenty-seventh video, Payments by Marcia, Roxanne found a warehouse. “Look at this.”
Beth scooted her chair closer.
Gene appeared onscreen in the warehouse, wearing a business suit. Marcia was an attractive young woman, dressed in a short-skirt suit and heels. They walked through the empty warehouse, opened a door, and went into a hallway.
The screen went blank for a moment, and the next video was of the inside of an office, furnished with an oak desk, a black leather executive chair, a matching couch, and two guest chairs. Gene sat at the desk and Marcia sat on a guest chair, her long legs on display.
The office portion of the video had sound. They acted out a steamy office romance with a billionaire boss and his submissive secretary. Marcia asked for a raise in pay, Gene told her she would have to perform extra services for the extra money. Marcia stood up and began unbuttoning her blouse.
Roxanne cursed and stopped the video, then stood up and paced the room. Beth kept quiet and let her think.
She stood in front of a window and looked out at the city. “Marcia didn’t seem aware of the camera.”
“No, I’m sure it was a hidden spy-cam.”
“Gene’s computers were erased, but there has to be a third party with records of his tenants.”
Beth tapped a pen on a pad. “We can try his bank and his accountant.”
Roxanne went back to her desk, where she logged into Gene’s business checking account and searched through it. “No records of rental payments received.”
“Look for his accountant, or a property management company.”
Roxanne scanned through the records and found a payment to an accounting firm. She looked them up online and called their number using the phone on her desk.
Beth picked up her own desk phone and listened in.
When a receptionist answered, Roxanne said, “This is Police Inspector Roxanne Poole of the SFPD. I need a list of every rental property owned by one of your clients.”
“Our attorney will have to call you back tomorrow.”
“I need this for a homicide investigation. I can get a search warrant right now if that’s what it takes.”
>
“Yes, Officer, that’s what it takes. I don’t make the policies, I just know that our attorney handles any law enforcement enquiries, and she insists on an official search warrant in order to protect our company from client lawsuits.”
“I understand. Please have your attorney call me at her earliest convenience.” Roxanne recited her phone numbers and ended the call.
Beth drummed her fingers on the desk. “Property management?”
Roxanne searched again and found a payment to a company that provided electronic lease services to landlords. She checked their website. They offered tenant screening, rental applications, lease agreements, and payment processing.
Beth looked at the display. “That’s it. Nice work.”
Roxanne called their Seattle offices. A woman answered the phone. “This is Inspector Roxanne Poole with the San Francisco Police Department. I need some information on the account of your client, Gene Stephens.”
“What kind of information? I’m sorry, but we have a strict privacy policy on our website.”
“I can subpoena you and your boss, but then your company might become famous in the online media as having aided and abetted a criminal. Why don’t we avoid that, and you can just give me your dead client’s password?”
“Dead?”
“Yes, your criminal client was murdered. You can help us with the homicide investigation, or you can risk being charged with obstruction of justice and subpoenaed to appear in court.”
“Oh, uh, no problem—we’re more than happy to help the police. I’ll have to reset his password for you.” She recited the new password.
“Stay on the line.” Roxanne tapped on her keyboard and opened Gene’s account. “Help me navigate your site. I’m looking for a tenant with the first name of Marcia.”
“The database can be searched by name. Click or tap the green checkmark icon. That will bring up a list of tenants.”
Roxanne opened the listings, took screenshots and sent them to the printer. She then searched for Marcia and found only one listing. It gave her full name, husband’s name, address, email and phone number. “Got it. On behalf of the SFPD, thank you for your cooperation.”
Beth gave Roxanne a pat on the back. “Let’s hear what Marcia has to say.”
Roxanne called the number. A soft-spoken man answered the phone. “Hello? This is Lucas.”
“Sir, I’m calling from the San Francisco Police Department. I need to speak with Marcia.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not possible.”
“Please get Marcia on the phone or I’ll have to come to your apartment, right now. I know where you live.” Roxanne recited the address.
“Officer, if you want to talk to Marcia, you’ll have to visit her grave at the cemetery. My wife committed suicide three weeks ago.”
Chapter 39
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Roxanne said. “I had no idea; my apologies.”
Lucas took a deep breath and let it out. His voice wavered. “Marcia was active in our church choir, but lately she’d been missing recitals and staying home. People were concerned, me most of all. One night when I was out of town on a business trip, she took an overdose of pain medicine and drank a lot of vodka.”
“Could it have been an accidental overdose?”
“No, she left a note.” His voice cracked and he began to cry. “The note said, I love you and I’m sorry … for everything.” He wept and took ragged breaths. “But I don’t know what she meant. Sorry for what? We were happy. She was my angel, and meant the world to me.”
As Lucas wept, Roxanne got a hunch about Marcia’s use of pain meds. She searched through the file titled Drug Buying and found another video of Marcia, this time buying pain pills from criminals who appeared to be Russians. Gene’s notes said that she’d become addicted to the prescribed pain medication and had soon required more and more pills, and he’d recorded drug dealer visits to her home.
Lucas stopped crying and took some deep breaths. “Why did you want to talk to Marcia? What’s this about?”
Roxanne hesitated. He may have to know eventually, but not today. “I’m simply following leads on a case. Marcia is just one of the many people on a long list that I wanted to talk to.”
“While I’ve been sorting out her estate, I found that her savings account was emptied out, and most of her jewelry was missing. What did she spend the money on?”
“I have some ideas, and I’ll talk to you when I know more.”
“Does this have anything to do with our apartment, somehow?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Before my wife died, she began acting strangely and saying she hated living here. She wanted to break our lease, give up our deposit, and move out of this building ASAP.”
“Did she give you any reasons why?”
“Anything and everything—she didn’t like the neighbors, the noise, the location, the traffic, the landlord—you name it.”
“I’m investigating the landlord. Did Marcia have a specific complaint about him?”
Beth grabbed a pen and notepad and started taking notes.
“She said he was a jerk. One time he stopped by unannounced when I wasn’t home and tried to get her to invite him inside for coffee. I got mad, called him on the phone, and yelled that he should never come over here again unless I was home, and only if there was a good reason.”
“Well, he won’t be bothering anybody ever again. He was murdered this morning.”
“Whoa. Maybe a jealous husband did it. I hope I’m not…”
“Don’t worry, Lucas, you’re not a suspect. Thank you for your time, and again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Roxanne ended the call and quickly scanned through the rest of the videos. She found one more where the victim was recorded in the warehouse and office. She repeated the steps on the landlord website to find the woman’s contact information, then called the number and listened as it rang repeatedly and went to voicemail.
She left a message. “Nora, this is Roxanne Poole of the San Francisco Police Department. I need to speak with you immediately. Please answer or return my call. I’ll keep trying until we connect. I get paid to do this and I’ll never stop.”
She hit the auto redial on her desk phone. After several more calls, Nora finally answered. “What’s going on here? You’re calling me at work. When I saw your caller ID I had to go into the restroom to take your call.”
“Ma’am, the SFPD is investigating the murder of Gene Stephens and—”
Nora interrupted. “I didn’t kill that scum, but I want to thank whoever did.”
Roxanne paused and took a deep breath. This was good. An angry witness was a talkative witness. Nora was thrilled that Gene was dead. It was the perfect moment to ask her questions. “I know he took you to a building with a warehouse and offices. I need the address.”
“I wish I could help you. He made me lean my car seat all the way back while wearing a sleeping mask. We drove around for a while, and then I heard the sound of an automatic garage door opener raising and lowering a door. It reminded me of my own garage, but it was louder and it lasted longer.”
“Were you wearing the mask on the way out too?”
“Yes, I was. I have no idea where the building is located. If I did, I might burn it down.”
“I’ve seen a few minutes of the video where you’re inside the warehouse and then in an office. You weren’t wearing a mask then.”
“He made a video of that too? I should have guessed he would. No, I was told to remove the mask once we were inside the warehouse and the overhead door was closed.”
“Think about what you saw inside. Did you notice anything that might help the police find the location? A company name, a vehicle, names on lockers, equipment, paperwork, anything?”
“The warehouse and most of the offices were empty. One office was staged with furniture, the way realtors do.”
Beth wrote a word on the notepad and showed it to Roxanne. Windows?
“Were there any windows? Could you look out and see any neighboring buildings?”
“The warehouse had very few windows, but I remember looking through one and seeing a wall with some Chinese script lettering. There was also a drawing of a fish.”
“I’d like you to sit down with our sketch artist and describe the letters and the fish while he draws them and tries to recreate what you saw.”
“When will this nightmare ever end?”
“With your help, it will end very soon.”
“Maybe I should take the Fifth Amendment and not incriminate myself. Gene blackmailed me for something I did that was against the law.”
“You’ll be given immunity from prosecution in exchange for testimony,” Roxanne said.
Nora cursed. “All right, I’ll meet with your artist after work when I get home.”
“Great, let me know what time.”
“I get off in a half hour.”
“We’ll come to you,” Roxanne said.
“Thanks. I’d prefer that. These days I live in fear. I go to work and come straight home. My mother buys my groceries and brings them to me. I lied and told her I have agoraphobia.”
“I’ll see you when you get off work. Let me know if I can bring you anything.”
“I appreciate that. This never would have happened if I hadn’t become a kleptomaniac. I have thirteen stolen red vacuum cleaners I’ve never used, thirteen pairs of red pumps I’ve never worn, and twelve red blenders in their unopened boxes. I desperately need one more red blender to make it thirteen. It’s a strange addiction and difficult to break.”
“But you managed to quit at twelve blenders? And you’re doing better now?”
“Yes, I got help. But Gene found me when I was at my most vulnerable, and he blackmailed me.”
“The SFPD has a victim’s counselor named Dr. Lang. She’s good. I’ll bring her with me if that’s all right with you.”
“That might be okay. I’ll let you know. See you soon, and could you please bring me a double cheeseburger, a chocolate shake and … a red blender? The number twelve is driving me crazy.”