Beck smirked.
Vanessa took a drink of coffee.
"OK. Last question," Beck said.
"Shoot."
"Polanski and Adamczuk. Where would you say I would be able to find them?"
"You're at fourteen hundred bucks. You know that, right?"
Beck nodded. He finished his coffee and laid his mug down on the glass coffee table. The bottom of the mug clanked against the glass. He drew his wallet from his pants and a wad of bills from the bill slot. He peeled fourteen hundred dollars from the roll and laid them down on the table. "One hundred a question. Fourteen questions," he said. "Fourteen hundred bucks. Now, give me your fifteenth answer."
She stared at the cash for a long moment with wide, admiring eyes and a smile on her face. It was the easiest money she had ever made. And she knew it.
"Vanessa," he said.
"Right," she said, regaining her focus. "Amaranth or Magenta. Polanski is at them all the time. Day and night. It's like he never sleeps. He'll either be in the office or outside in his limousine. But one thing's for sure, he won't be sober. No matter the time of day, he'll be drunk on champagne. And Adamczuk, you'll find at one of them, too. But only at night. And always on the dance floor. Sometime after midnight. That's where and when he deals."
Beck nodded and smiled. He peeled another Ben Franklin from his wad and laid it down on the pile of bills on the coffee table.
Vanessa smiled, money on her mind and dollar signs in her eyes. "You want to know anything else?"
"No. I already have all I need. I'll be on my way," he said and stood from the sofa, then walked through to the kitchen and out to the hall toward the front door.
"Wait," Vanessa called, sensing the opportunity, following after him, allowing her robe to slip down her shoulder, exposing a thin white bra strap. "You sure you don't want anything else?" she asked, a smouldering look in her eyes, and bit down on her bottom lip.
Beck noticed. He glanced down at her shoulder and flicked his eyes down her perfect body, then traced a path back up it and looked into her eyes. He smiled. "You said you don't do home calls, remember?"
"Ah, but..."
He cut her off. "Ah, but, what? But that was before you knew I was going to pay you fifteen hundred bucks to answer fifteen questions?"
She said nothing.
"So, now, you're thinking you’ll try and get me to throw in a few hundred more for a quick ride?"
She remained silent.
"Considering how much I've already paid, you would have thought that would be thrown in for free,” he added, sarcastically.
She scrunched up her face. "See, it's men like you that are the problem."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. Assholes who think of women as nothing but objects and playthings."
"Let's not forget who sells their body, here, and let's not forget who made the offer."
Rocco emerged from the lounge on the right. He padded into the hall and walked over toward Beck and pawed at his feet.
"Get out, you asshole," Vanessa said.
Rocco barked. "Woof."
Beck laughed and leaned over and clapped him, then turned and walked out the door. She slammed it shut behind him as he made his way back down the driveway to his car in the icy air. He climbed inside and drew his cell phone from his coat. Opened up his Google search app and typed 'Polanski Amaranth Magenta Detroit' into the search field and hit the search icon.
THIRTY
As Darius Adamczuk and Arshavin hauled David Maus's chicken wire wrapped dead body out of the trunk of the black Impala down by the side of the Detroit river and slung him into his final, chilling resting place, Vladimir Polanski was sitting on a pink leather sofa inside the office of Amaranth, drinking more champagne.
The office was just as eccentric as Magenta’s, having a neon pink carpet and vibrant pink walls, but there was no desk or tank full of tropical fish. Just the pink leather sofa with two black leather chairs on either side, the uncomfortable cube shaped kind with hard arms and a cushion like a slab of concrete, and an oval black glass coffee table in the middle.
Content with Kanchelskis and Kuznetsov going after the boy, Malenko on the case to locate the security guard and following a text message from Trudeaux confirming that the meeting with the bank to expand his operations was about to start, the anger from the David Maus mix up had left him. His skin tone had returned to a peachy red and the veins in his head had sunk back into his skin like worms burrowing back into a soft soil. He was calm and relaxed, because he knew, things were going to work out. It was a matter of time.
Salenko and Zurawski were standing opposite him by the door. Both men had their arms folded across their sternums. They cut imposing figures, but they were cagey and still unable to look him directly in the eye through fear of the possible repercussions of their mistake. They just stared straight ahead at the wall above his head, their eyes trained on a painting fixed to the wall. It was a white canvass stroked with pink and purple and black streaks in a variety of different widths.
Polanski sat forward on his seat and looked at Zurawski, then Salenko. "The photo of the boy. Do you have it?"
Salenko nodded. "Yes." He fished it from his pocket and stepped forward and handed it to him. "Here it is, Boss. Baby Josh Hefter."
Polanski took it from his hand and flicked his eyes over the little boy's picture. He imagined the agonising way he was going to have him killed and took a sip of champagne. He smiled, grimly. Then, felt his iPhone vibrate in his pocket. He laid the photograph down on the sofa, drew his iPhone from inside his suit jacket and glanced at its screen. Chief Malenko's name was across it as an incoming caller. Polanski swiped to answer the call.
"I followed up on the number," Malenko said. "It turns out it's a VPN."
"A VPN?"
"A virtual private number. Basically, a telephone number without an associated line. They can be hired and programmed to forward incoming calls to another line other than the actual phone they go to. They're an effective way to allow people to call, but keep yourself anonymous. Without a proper warrant to access the records of the telecom provider, they're untraceable. Even by us."
Polanski took a breath. "So, what you're telling me is, you don't know who or where he is?" he asked and took a sip of the champagne. It had gone too warm and tasted bitter. He put the flute down on the black glass table and glanced up at Salenko and Zurawski and gestured for them to get him another glass.
They did. They both left the room.
"No. I'm telling you that number was a VPN. But I looked around online and found the identity of the person behind it. It looks like it belongs to a guy named Joe Beck."
"Joe Beck?"
"Yeah," Malenko answered. "A private detective. From Nebraska."
"Nebraska?" Polanski asked, a quizzed look on his face. "What the hell's he doing in Detroit?"
"God knows," Malenko answered, then continued. "He operates as an LLC registered in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Promotes himself as a detective service. But he doesn't appear to be registered. He's an unlicensed rogue. Probably a vigilante who roams around and looks into things. And he's got history.”
“What sort of history?”
“Used to be a cop." Malenko answered. "Did a stint on SWAT. Then, became a detective. At least, that was all before he spent a year inside the Nebraska State Penitentiary for being found in possession of counterfeit credit cards."
Polanski nodded as he listened. "OK. That's enough. I don't care who he is. I just want to know where to find him."
"Ah, that's the hard part. Guys like him, they often don't want to be found.”
"What do you mean? Are you telling me you can't locate him?"
"No. I'm just telling you it's not as easy as you might think. Now, like I said, I did a little digging. His LLC has a rental agreement with Dakota Executive Vehicles, also in Sioux Falls. They've currently got a black Chevrolet Camaro on lease to him."
"So?"
"Well, I have its license plate
number. And I've ran it against federal government and private corporate databases. I've passed it through about fifteen different systems and all traffic cams around Wayne County. And I got a match."
Polanski said nothing. His eyes widened with glee. He willed Malenko to tell him where he is.
"He was picked up at a Speedway gas station up in Auburn Hills."
"What do you mean was?"
"He was there about forty-five minutes ago. But that's the thing about a moving vehicle. There's no one place it's at. Which makes it hard to find. Unless you have our resources. Cameras, radios, technology infrastructure. What it'll take is a couple of guys on the road and me in command. I can watch the cameras and track his movements, as and when the cameras pick him up, while they close in for the kill."
"OK. I can send a couple of my men out on the road," Polanski said. "You can direct them by phone?"
"That won't be necessary," Malenko replied, figuring he trusted his own people to handle it better. "The murder we had this morning, Harper and Strand have just finished up with it, freeing them up. I'll send them out in a squad car. They'll have a direct radio link to me. I'll track his movements and tell them where he is, and they'll pick him up. We can bring him down to the station house and throw him in a cell, hold him here for your men to come give him his sentence."
Polanski beamed into the phone. Malenko's words were music to his ears. "Yes. Do it. Make it happen," he said, a villainous grin on his face. "And, Malenko, there's one more thing.”
“Go on.”
“Naomi Hefter, I want her cell phone number."
"Consider it done. I'll text her number through and let you know when we have Joe Beck in custody," Malenko said and ended the call.
THIRTY-ONE
The top search result was a headline from an old article on the Detroit Free Press website. It said, ‘Polish Entrepreneur Opens New Club Between Ferndale and Eastpointe.’
Beck tapped the link. The article loaded. He took a moment to read through it in silence.
The article's headline repeated what the search engine result page had pulled through. Nothing new there, but the body was like a treasure trove. It was filled with information about the guy and his business dealings.
Vladimir Polanski, owner of a vehicle salvage yard in Rockwood, Michigan, and the Magenta nightclub in Detroit, Michigan, opens a new nightlife spot on outer Detroit's redeveloping Eight Mile Road. The new nightclub occupies a vacant building formerly occupied by Michigan Meat Packing LLC, a packaged meat supplier that went out of business just over 18-months ago citing unfair and unpayable credit terms as forcing its forced liquidation and the compulsory lay-off of one hundred staff.
The grand opening of the new hotspot, know as Amaranth, comes after a $100,000 investment in refurbishing and refitting the building to bring it up to compliance with the city’s safety code standards and also meet the lofty demands of a high-end entertainment venue. In a boost to the local economy, it also comes with the hiring of more than 20 staff, including bartenders, promoters, photographers and security personnel.
Vladimir Polanski, the successful Polish immigrant entrepreneur, spoke to us in a lavish skybox at the new club, which offers a spectacular aerial view of the dance floor and rose gold bar area in the club below. He said, “I hope Amaranth will become the destination of choice among Detroit's young professional demographic. Alongside Magenta, not only will it be the place to be in Detroit if you're aged twenty-one to forty and you're looking to spend some money, it'll be the most exciting place to be.” He, then, sat back, almost smugly, slowly sipping flutes of a $4,000 dollar bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal, according to Amaranth's price list, while he talked us through the refurbishment process, on which, he said, no expense was spared - like with the glass of Cristal he sipped.
When asked, as a former laborer and bankrupt, how he had managed to accumulate the level of wealth required to own a chain of nightclubs without employing even a dime of debt financing, he was deliberately coy, mentioning that he had been very successful at dated vehicle salvage, only noting that he had an eye for spotting diamonds in rough and that body stripping was lucrative business. He preferred to steer the conversation onto the plans for Amaranth, outlining an agenda of live music and entertainment offerings including live performances by some of Michigan's top local musical talent among flamboyant theatrical performances with dancing pink bikini-clad women and flamingos, in a move, he said, would further differentiate the new nightclub from the rest of the bars and clubs in and around the Motor City.
Aside from its eye-catching rose gold bar, which Polanski assured us was made from the real McCoy, the new nightclub features distinct bright pink lighting and pink-tinted non-breakable drinking glasses, giving it a unique, almost chic feel and further setting it apart with the rest of the city's more demur, traditionally-colored joints, but keeping it consistent with Polanski's other establishment which features a vividly bright pink color scheme, adding to its larger-than-life grandiose allure.
Beck allowed a moment to elapse whilst he processed the information, his cell phone screen fading to black. After a beat, he smiled. Unlike the newspaper, he had a fairly good idea as to how Polanski had managed to fund his business ventures. And he was about to bring all those money-making schemes to a crashing halt. All he had to do was go where he would find him: Amaranth, Magenta or the salvage yard mentioned in the piece. It was a one-in-three shot. One or the other or the other. And if it was the other, he would just go there next. He couldn’t lose.
He recalled Vanessa say Amaranth or Magenta, and sifted out the salvage yard, quickly pondered it and settled on Magenta. He typed 'Magenta Detroit' into his Google search app and got the nightclub's address: 1680 Michigan Avenue, Detroit. He made a mental note and nodded, slowly, as he laid his cell phone down on the seat, then, car all gassed up and ready, started the Camaro's engine and slipped it into gear, moved off from the curb and pushed his foot through the floor.
THIRTY-TWO
Chief Malenko was sitting behind a wooden desk in his office inside the Rockwood Police Department. It was standard issue. Magnolia painted walls and a thin navy blue carpet with a chrome standing lamp in the corner of the room behind his desk.
He was a fat guy in his late fifties. He had a tanned wrinkled face that was dominated by a large hooked nose, a thick bushy white moustache and eyebrows to match. His hair was short and swept back. It was a light shade of grey. Almost white. He was wearing a white shirt and a brown tie. His tie was held neatly in place by a thin gold tie bar. He was drinking coffee from a white Styrofoam cup and he was eating vanilla custard pastries while sitting staring at a thin black computer screen that sat on the surface of the desk.
On screen was a still image from the Automatic License Plate Recognition system. It was a shot from a traffic camera showing the back of a black Chevrolet Camaro. Joe Beck's Chevrolet Camaro. His licence plate was blown up in prominence with the word 'match' beside it in green capital letters and below it was his last known location. The traffic camera on North Opdyke Road.
Malenko took a bite of the sweet, sticky pastry and washed it down with a slurp of coffee and allowed a moment to elapse. Then, he pushed the F5 button on the black computer keyboard that was on the desk in front of the screen.
The screen refreshed. It showed the next hit. A still image of the back of Beck's black Chevrolet Camaro as it passed underneath a traffic camera on I-75, heading southbound toward Detroit.
There was a black radio sitting on the desk by his left forearm, next to the keyboard. It was dialled in to a black Dodge Charger, a Rockwood Police cruiser that Lieutenant Harper and Sergeant Strand were in, heading north according to Malenko's commands. He lifted the radio and pushed the green button to speak.
"He's still heading south. He's now on I-75," he said.
"Copy that," Lieutenant Harper replied. "We're on route toward him, heading north along Fort Street. Keep us posted on movements and we'll close in and interc
ept him before he gets to wherever he’s going."
"Affirmative, Harper," Malenko said and silenced the radio until it was time for the next periodic update.
The repeated the routine, updating each other on the black Camaro's location and the black and white cruiser's progress, every five minutes over the next thirty-five until Harper and Strand were within a one mile radius of their target.
Malenko finished his second pastry and slurped some coffee and hit the F5 button on the keyboard.
The screen refreshed. This time, showing the still taken of the back of Beck's car as it passed the traffic camera on Rosa Parks Boulevard at the intersection with Michigan Avenue.
Malenko lifted the radio and pushed the green button.
"He’s turned onto Michigan Avenue," he said. "You should be right on him."
The radio crackled, then Harper confirmed what Malenko had just said. "Copy that, Chief. We are. We have a visual. We saw the Camaro turning at the intersection. It’s just gone past us. We're turning around now and we’ll get right behind him and move in for the kill."
THIRTY-THREE
Almost an hour after leaving Vanessa's home in Auburn Hills, sometime around three-thirty in the afternoon, Joe Beck turned onto Michigan Avenue. He could see Magenta up ahead on the left. It stuck out against the derelict backdrop like a hammer-stricken thumb. It was easily fifty feet tall and clad in pink stainless steel.
A black Dodge Charger with red and blue flashing lights on its roof sped on past on his left. He figured it was some sort of police cruiser on route to a crime and thought nothing of it. He headed toward the nightclub. He pulled the Camaro to a halt at the side of the road a few hundred yards from the turn to club's parking lot and killed its engine. He unclipped his belt and put his right hand into the front right pocket of his coat, his palm cupped around his Smith & Wesson and opened the door and stepped out of the car.
The icy chill hit him square on the face, but before he could get any further forward or even fill his lungs with another frosty breath, he caught another glimpse of the red and blue flashing lights from the corner of his left eye, and heard the loud ringing sound of a siren. A police siren.
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