The evidence is building against him, and there doesn’t seem to be much hope for him at the moment. I know, deep down, I should feel happy about this. I gave solid evidence. I performed well under pressure. I survived and thrived in my undercover assignment and put a Russian mafia kingpin into custody. Those are all laudable feats, to be sure.
But instead of reveling in a job well done and raking in the kudos, my life has only been steadily unraveling ever since I first arrested Misha. First, my boss basically ripped me a new one for doing my damn job, propositioned me like the slimy jerk he is, and threatened my career.
Then, I got that fateful phone call from the San Francisco police department informing that my beloved baby sister is gone without a trace.
And that call from the kidnappers still echoes around in my head, the entire conversation replaying over and over like a broken record. The calm, calculating tone of his voice. The faint chatter in the background of a voice I could almost recognize. It feels like the answer is in my head somewhere, batted around between the stress and panic. I can’t clear my head. Not even a brisk morning jog around the neighborhood where my hotel is located could shake these dark thoughts away.
All I can think about is Samantha… and Misha.
After I decided that talking to Misha would not do me any favors and would possibly count as a conflict of interest, I went ahead with my original gut-instinct plan: to fly out to San Francisco and do some investigating of my own.
I haven’t taken a sick day or vacation day in years, so I have a little time saved up. Without much explanation, I called the secretary desk at Las Vegas Vice and informed him that I will be taking some time off. Personal time.
He asked for more information and pressed me to stay, since my case involving Misha and the Russian mafia is currently underway and they need all hands on deck. Especially me, since I am the one who arrested him and gathered the most intel. As much as it pained me to tell him no, to walk away from the case that could be the one to make or break my career in the force, I had to do it. I told him I was leaving and hung up the phone.
Ten minutes later, I boarded a last-minute flight to San Francisco, without even packing a bag first.
I knew that if I had gone home first to pack and prepare for the trip, I might lose my nerve and cave in. Besides, I am the kind of woman who prepares for anything and everything, so I keep a go-bag in the trunk of my car, complete with tiny toiletries and a few changes of clothes. So I eliminated any opportunity to rethink my plan.
I drove straight to the airport. I got on the plane and spent the whole flight nervously staring down at a crumpled photo of Sam and me as little kids. It has faded over time, but it’s still easy to see the two of us grinning in our bathing suits, both holding our noses, wearing swim goggles. I can remember that day like it happened yesterday. We were at a resort in the Nevada desert meant to resemble an oasis paradise, complete with a water park. My sister and I were about to jump into a pool without floaties on our arms, the pay-off after a summer of swimming lessons at the community pool in our hometown. The photo captures us in a state of pure innocence, joy, and excitement. Jumping into the deep end of a pool, hand in hand, finally unafraid to swim freely.
It’s a photo I’ve always kept in my wallet, a memory I treasure dearly. As a police officer, I know how dangerous it can be to keep personal items like that so close by. If a criminal were to snatch my wallet, they could find out a lot of information about me, including my weakness: Samantha. In fact, it seems like that is exactly what these kidnappers have done. They have stolen away the one truly bright spot in my life, the only person alive who still genuinely cares about me. And now I can’t seem to track down any clue that might lead me to her.
From the moment I landed in California, I have been on the move. The past two nights I have barely slept, staying up late making clue boards, which in the light of morning just look like the ravings of a lunatic. I have been poring over old memories, checking her social media accounts obsessively, trying to dig up any clue as to where she might have last been seen.
Of course, I have not notified the San Fran police department that I’m here. I don’t need them telling me to back off and let them handle it. It’s just better if they don’t know.
Besides, I’m not here so much as a cop as a concerned relative. I just happen to be a concerned relative with police training who is pretty damn good at tracking down people who don’t want to be found. At vice, I’ve spent a lot of time tracking down fugitive drug lords and following breadcrumb trails to uncover the fraudulent accounts and offshore hoards that gamblers keep on retainer. I’m a damn bloodhound when I have a scent to follow.
Only this time, when it matters most, I keep coming up empty.
All day I have been running around town, chasing down leads that glimmer like a mirage of hope in the distance, only to dissipate into nothing when I get close enough to look. It’s infuriating. Maddening. All the clues should be here, somewhere, in this godforsaken beautiful town. I thought when I sent Samantha off to university here, she would be much safer than she could have been in Vegas. I know Vegas. I know its dark secrets, its dangerous underbelly, its ugly truths. And that is partly why I was so relieved when Sam told me she wanted to attend college in California. I thought to myself, well, this will be a good fit for her. She’ll be away from the neon lights and fast living of Las Vegas.
But I guess I was wrong. One thing I am learning as a police officer and as an adult navigating this harsh world is that there is no real safe place. There is no city on the planet where one can be totally free from fear. I used to think becoming a cop would make me feel fearless and powerful, but instead, I just feel small. And never more than right now, chasing after ghosts.
Last night I spent hours and hours tracking down the full name and contact information for Sam’s college roommate. I know their address, roughly, but I wanted to know more about the girl my sister has been living with for months. I scoured Samantha’s Facebook account, looking through every single photo uploaded, every comment posted, every status update for the past six months. Finally, I managed to find a photo she uploaded a month ago with a caption that reads: BEST ROOMIE EVER!!!
It’s a picture of my sister with her chin-length dark hair and brown eyes standing with her arm around another girl, who is taller, blonde, and equally pretty. My heart raced at the sight of those two smiling young women, and my hands were shaking as I hovered the cursor over the blonde girl’s face. To my relief, a name popped up. She is tagged in the photo.
The name: Alyssa Folger.
So, naturally, I spent the rest of the night scouring Alyssa’s social media accounts, looking for an email address or a phone number. Sure, I could have just messaged her via Facebook, but I wanted a more direct link to her. Finally, after hours of looking around the Internet, I settled for her school email address. I sent her a message, asking if we could meet up to talk about Sam.
And thank god for how tech-obsessed the kids are these days, because she answered me within hours with the promise of meeting for a coffee on campus in the morning. I fell asleep at my laptop right after receiving the message, but still managed to wake up on time to drag my exhausted body out of the hotel and down to the campus.
I’ve been sitting in this crowded cafe overrun with nervous freshmen carrying huge stacks of books, looking terrified, for hours. I keep checking the time on my cell phone, waiting for Alyssa to show up. I might be a little early — by an hour — but still. I don’t have time to wait on her. My sister is out there somewhere, in trouble. Possibly hurt. Or worse.
Just when I’m about to give up and walk out, a tall, pretty blonde girl comes into the cafe. She’s looking around everywhere, squinting like she’s searching for someone. That has to be her. I stand up and gesture for her to walk over. She gives me a nervous smile and comes to sit down across from me.
“Hi, are you Alyssa Folger?” I ask, holding out my hand for her to shake.
“Yeah. I’m Sam’s roommate. You her sister?” she says, shaking my hand.
“Yes. I’m Nicole,” I answer. “Do you want anything? Coffee? A muffin?”
She shrugs. “No, thank you. I’m okay. I actually don’t have much time. I have a class starting in twenty minutes,” Alyssa admits, looking apologetic.
“Oh. That’s okay. That’s fine. It shouldn’t take too long. I just have some questions about where you think she might have disappeared to,” I explain, lowering my voice. “When was the last time you saw Sam?”
Alyssa bites her lip, thinking it over. “Oh, probably four days ago, I think?”
“Four days,” I repeat under my breath, my heart racing. “So she’d already been missing for two days when the police filed a missing person’s report?”
“I guess so,” Alyssa answers. She looks nervous, like she’s in trouble or something. It dawns on me that Samantha probably told her that I’m a police officer, so I might be a little bit intimidating to her.
“Hey, listen. You’re not in trouble,” I assure her, forcing a sympathetic smile. “I’m not mad at you and I don’t blame you for anything. I just wanted to talk to you because you seem like someone who was — is — close to my sister. Were you good friends?”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “Sam is an awesome friend, great roommate. She always does her dishes and mine, even if I don’t ask her to. She knows I hate doing the dishes, but I don’t mind doing laundry, so we split those chores.” A faint smile crosses her face, and I can tell that Samantha’s disappearance has done a number on her, too. I feel a twinge of kinship with this almost complete stranger, bonding over how amazing Sam is. She’s always been the most patient, kind, and thoughtful person I know.
“Sounds like a good system,” I say, folding my hands in front of me on the table. “So, what do you think happened? Did you guys have a fight or something? The police here seem to think she’s a runaway. But that just doesn’t seem like the Sam I know.”
“No, we’ve never had a fight, actually. I’ve never had a roommate I get along with so well before. In freshman year, I had to room with this girl who would leave her dirty clothes all over the bathroom floor. It was gross,” Alyssa says, wrinkling her nose.
“Sounds awful,” I agree, although at the moment I honestly could not care less. “So in the days leading up to her disappearance, was she acting funny?”
“Funny?” Alyssa asks, tilting her head to one side.
“Like, was she more moody than usual? Did she seem depressed or anxious? More quiet than usual?” I pressed her.
Alyssa shook her head vigorously. “God, no. If anything, she seemed happier than usual. I mean, she’s always in a good mood, but she just seemed really excited about something.”
“Like what?” I inquire, hoping this could lead somewhere.
“I don’t know,” she admits with a sigh. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could give you more information, but I just wasn’t paying that much attention. I have exams coming up, so I’ve been studying pretty much nonstop.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, leaning back in the chair. “It’s not your fault.”
“I really miss her already,” Alyssa confesses. “The apartment feels so empty and quiet without Sam. I hope she comes back soon.”
“Me, too,” I sigh. I glance down at the time on my cell phone. “Well, it looks like you need to be getting to class soon. Sorry to interrupt your morning.”
“It’s no problem. It was really nice to meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances. You know, Sam talked about you all the time. She really loved you a lot,” she says, standing up and pushing in her chair.
I can feel the tears stinging in my eyes. I wish people would stop referring to Sam in the past tense. She’s still alive. It’s only been four days. There is still hope.
“Thank you, Alyssa. Good to meet you, too. If you think of anything else—”
“I’ll message you,” she answers with a quick smile. “Bye.”
“Bye,” I reply, waving as she rushes out the door. I stare down at the espresso in front of me, wondering what the hell else I’m supposed to do now. I’ve already called the police department from a pay phone to ask for more information, so they wouldn’t know it’s me. I’ve walked all over campus, looking for clues, asking random strangers if they know Sam. I’ve done an in-depth tour of her neighborhood. And now I’ve interviewed her roommate.
I’m at a complete loss. I have run all over this town looking for any sign of my sister. I don’t know what I expected to find when I flew out here, but with every moment that passes, it feels like she’s only getting farther and farther away.
My street smarts, my police training, none of it has led me anywhere useful. I know I still have one lead left untapped back in Nevada, but I am loathe to use it.
Misha.
He’s the only one left I have not interrogated. It feels like a long shot, but at this point, I am starting to wonder if he’s all I’ve got. My only hope lies in a soon-to-be convicted criminal. A criminal I helped arrest. And he’s still there, waiting around, wasting precious hours behind bars.
He’s a captive audience.
I could go back and interrogate him until he cracks. I have the upper hand here, don’t I? I could rattle his cage, stir up some new information that might just point me in a more helpful direction. But after the shitshow our last meeting was, I don’t think I can face him. I may have the upper hand legally, but he’s got something over me, too.
My attraction to him. It’s undeniable. Obvious. And he knows it. If I want to keep my job and maintain my sanity, I need to stay away from him. Even if he is my last hope.
My phone rings and I quickly answer it before the ringtone can disturb my fellow cafe patrons too much. “Hello?” I answer quietly.
“Hi, this is Dave. From vice? Your cubicle is catty-corner to mine.”
I frown in confusion. “Okay. Dave. What is it? If Harden is trying to get me to come back right now, you can just tell him to shove it up—”
“No, no. I’m just calling to tell you that the evidence against, uh, My-shuh Chay… Chay… Kov…”
“Misha Chaykovsky, yes, what about him?” I interrupt impatiently.
“Yeah, him. Uh, the evidence for his case has gone missing.”
“What?” I cry out, slamming my hands on the table as I stand up in shock. Annoyed cafe-goers glare over at me and I sit back down, lowering my voice. “What?”
“Mhmm. A good bit of it is gone. So, looks like they’re going to have to release the guy by three PM on Friday unless you come back to testify.”
“Shit,” I swear, leaning my face into my palm. “Okay. Okay. Just… hold down the fort until I get there, alright?”
“Whatever you say, Officer.”
I hang up and let out a groan of frustration. I don’t have time for this.
Just as I’m about to chug my coffee down and get another one, my phone lights up with a text message. I open it, annoyed, thinking it’s another message from the Las Vegas PD. But when I read the message, my heart sinks.
“Oh no,” I murmur, getting up so quickly I knock over my coffee. Not even bothering to clean it up, I run out of the cafe and jump into my rental car.
I have to get back to Nevada. Now.
Misha
“Are both parties ready to proceed?”
My gaze at the court clerk is even and steady. My orange prisoner’s uniform is in stark contrast to the crisp, starchy suits of the lawyers and officials all around me, but I hold my head high with dignity. I will not be made a mockery of, not even at my own hearing.
“Yes, your honor,” says the attorney to my right. Seated next to her is Nicole, looking professional and composed as ever. She didn’t make eye contact with me when we entered the courtroom, but her face is resolute. I know the look. She means to put me away today.
“Yes, your honor,” my attorney echoes. My lawyer is an older woman with a face like a hawk’s
and eyes twice as ravenous. She’s one of the best in the state. If there’s anyone who could hold a candle to a sting operation like this, it’s her.
The clerk gives a quick nod and sweeps out of the room, leaving us in uncomfortable silence for a few moments. I’m still as a statue. A moment later, the clerk reappears at the door, and behind him, the judge enters, a tall and broad-shouldered man with more wrinkles on his forehead than I could count.
“All rise. Court is now in session with the Honorable Judge McKenzie presiding.”
The judge takes a seat and waves his hand at everyone in the room who stands. It’s a quick, routine entry, and I can tell this is an experienced man.
“You may be seated,” he says in a weary voice, and we sit. As soon as we are seated, he reviews a few papers in front of him before leaning forward into his microphone and pronouncing in a slow, deliberate tone, “I’d like to call the case of The People of Las Vegas v. Misha Chaykovsky, case number 5M55434. The hearing will proceed as follows: Each party will present a brief opening statement telling the court what they intend to prove and why they intend to prove the issue that is to be decided.”
His gravelly tone is rehearsed and practiced, but I feel electricity in the air around me nonetheless.
“After opening statements, the parties will present their evidence. The plaintiff will go first in both cases,” he adds with a nod to the table where Nicole and her lawyer are seated. “They will testify, thoroughly, and call any necessary witnesses and written evidence. As the plaintiff testifies, the defense will have the chance to examine or reexamine statements the witness gives. Afterward, the same courtesy will be given to the defense, who may call witnesses and present evidence in turn.”
Some of my associates are present in court, and my attorney was able to put together a reasonable defense from the handful of my associates who she determined would be able to come forward and present something tangible. But it’s their word against an undercover police officer’s, which the judge will favor.
Vegas Boss: A Mafia Hitman Romance Page 8