“Yeah,” Poole replied. “His parole record indicates he remarried a couple of years ago. I’m guessin’ wife number two never thought to have a background check done on him before she hooked up with this loser. But I digest.”
Jenkins laughed. “The word is digress, Jack. Not digest.”
Poole scoffed. “Thank you, Mr. Dictionary. Anyway, Labrada’s got two kids. Wife lives in Norco.”
“Send a unit to interview her,” Jenkins ordered. “Find out when she last spoke to him. Ask her if it’s okay if we take a look around. We need to turn this guy inside out. Call his cell phone provider. Ask them to provide us with a transcript of his calls, emails, texts… the works. Go back a year.”
“You sure we need to go to all this trouble, Chief? An asshole like Labrada probably wouldn’t be missed anyway. Fifty bucks says when his wife finds out he’s dead she’ll do a happy dance right there on the spot.”
“I can’t say I’d blame her if she did,” Jenkins said. “But if there’s a connection between Labrada and Merrick we need to know what it is. I don’t want to come across another body like that again, and sure as hell not in Corona.”
“No argument here.”
“Thanks, Jack. Wait for me. I'll be there in fifteen.”
Chief Jenkins ended the call.
Corona had always been a peaceful town. News of a crime this horrific in nature would get out quickly. Jenkins knew he wouldn’t be able to keep its gruesome details under wrap for very long. It didn't take a genius to know that the Department of Defense and the FBI were already on their way. They would want to go over the Porsche and his crime scene with a fine-tooth comb and he would have no choice but to comply. They were looking for Merrick too. And by the sound of it, their search was already well underway.
Suddenly the fifteen-minute drive back to the Corona Mews Shopping Center seemed too long.
Chief Jenkins turned on his service lights, fired up the siren and stepped on the gas.
He’d be there in ten.
CHAPTER 29
THE VERY last thing Taras Verenich wanted was to be the subject of further scrutiny by The Company. He was already fed up with being under constant surveillance by the two-man detail parked in the lot across the street from his office.
Tomorrow’s visit by Marina Puzanova couldn’t have come at a worse time. She had mentioned nothing about informing her superiors about her trip. Which meant her arrival in Los Angeles wouldn’t go un-noticed. The operatives across the street or another surveillance team assigned by The Company would follow him tomorrow. They would recognize Marina immediately. Her presence in L.A. would be reported to The Company as a matter of operational protocol, and a red-flag would be raised in Moscow. Though a highly-valued and respected asset to The Company she was still several promotions away from being permitted to travel freely around the world. Moscow was her base of operations, not Los Angeles. Questions would be asked. Her action would be viewed as reckless, possibly even endangering to others. Which could lead to deadly repercussions for them both. Though loyal to The Company, Verenich was not about to be dragged into someone else’s mess, especially when it belonged to Marina Puzanova. He considered his options. He could try to get ahead of this and report Marina’s scheduled visit to his superiors before she even left the country. But questions would arise from that: How long had he known about her plans to travel to America? Why did she reach out to him in the first place? Why did he not say anything sooner? Taras knew an unsatisfactory answer could be penalized with a bullet to the head. The Company was a machine with a life force all its own. Its membership served a singular purpose - to further its existence, nothing more. No one was indispensable. Not even the great Marina Puzanova.
The reception area was full of new clients. In the boardroom, couples sat across from their assigned clerk and completed the documents necessary to facilitate the immigration of their family members from Russia to America. Business at Verenich Law was good. In fact, it was excellent. The Company had seen to that. They had paid for his ivy-league education and set him up in practice out of respect for the lifetime of service his late father had given to them. Taras had been the envy of his Harvard graduating class. Within weeks of passing the bar he was given the keys to his new office. The luxurious top-floor suite offered panoramic views of both the city of Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean. One-hundred percent of his clientele were funneled to him, all business owners or professionals who owed a debt to The Company and had agreed to repay it by acting as sponsors for the newcomers. The prospective immigrants all had one thing in common: they were young, female, breathtakingly beautiful and fully aware of the reason why they were coming to America – to pay off their family’s debt by selling their body. But compared to their circumstances in their homeland, life in America as a high-priced escort offered an opportunity for a better life; one of money, designer clothes, expensive cars, luxury homes, the intimate company of the rich and the protection of The Company. To Verenich’ delight, the city of Moscow and its surrounding towns produced an endless supply of exceptional prospects. Taras made a point of personally assessing the talents of as many of the newcomers as possible before introducing them to their new clientele.
The afternoon sun dappled on the waves of the steel blue Pacific. Verenich caught his reflection in the window. He adjusted his tie and flicked a speck of lint off of the shoulder of his perfectly tailored Armani suit.
Elena, his personal assistant, tapped on his door.
Verenich watched as a tour boat raced across the water and slowly let out its safety line. A parasailer, tethered to the craft, climbed higher and higher into the clear, bright sky.
“Come in,” he said.
Elena entered the office. Statuesque and poised, she was as beautiful as any of the escorts in The Company’s employ. In her arms she carried a stack of file folders.
“The information you requested, Mr. Verenich.”
Mr. Verenich. Taras never got tired of hearing the formal pronunciation of his name. “Place them on my desk,” he replied.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be out of the office tomorrow on personal business.”
“Of course, sir. Do you wish to be contacted?”
“Only if it’s an emergency. Otherwise just say I’m unreachable for the moment.”
“Yes, sir.” Elena turned to leave. Taras stopped her.
“Is Avel in the office?” he asked.
“I believe so.”
“Tell him I need to see him. Right away.”
“Yes, sir.” Elena closed Taras’ door as she left his office.
Avel knocked a minute later.
“Enter.”
“You wanted to see me, Taras?”
“I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course.”
“I have a guest arriving tomorrow. She’ll be in town for a few days. She’s requested I make arrangements to assure her stay will be a safe one.”
“Certainly,” Avel replied. He knew exactly what Taras meant by a safe visit. “Does your guest have a preference?”
“Something small and light. Untraceable, of course.”
“How soon do you need it?”
“Immediately. Have it delivered here.”
Avel nodded. “I’ll make a call.” He left.
Verenich walked to his desk, opened his briefcase, tossed in the files, picked up the desk phone and placed a call.
“Dr. Granger speaking.”
“It’s me. We need to meet.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“That won’t be possible. I’ve made plans.”
“Un-make them.”
“Why the urgency?”
“The reason isn’t important. Meeting with me is.”
Granger paused. Taras could hear her drumming her fingernails on the surface of her desk in the background.
“All right. Where?”
“Caridad’s. Six o’clock. We’re expecting
a visitor.”
“Who?”
“Six o’clock. Don’t keep me waiting.”
For as long as Ashley Granger had known him the lawyer had done little to hide his misogynistic attitude. Unless he wanted a woman, that was. In which case she knew of no one more charming and charismatic.
“I’ll be there,” she said. “By the way, have you been watching the news?”
“Should I be?”
“Rosenfeld is dead.”
“What?”
“It happened this morning. What do you think we should --”
Verenich hung up the phone.
Rosenfeld couldn’t be dead, he thought. He raised the screen on his laptop and Googled ‘KTLA News.’ The video clip on the home page showed the elegant mansion and the driveway beyond its iron gate flanked by law enforcement vehicles. Verenich recognized the grand home. He clicked the PLAY button in the middle of the graphic. The report began:
“It was here, to this palatial estate, nestled high in the Hollywood Hills, that police were called in the early hours of the morning, and where were discovered the deceased bodies of Dr. Itzhak Rosenfeld, a prominent local physician and entrepreneur, and his wife, Zahava, a retired Los Angeles court justice. The affluent couple were well-known for their philanthropic efforts, both locally and internationally, having raised tens of millions of dollars for various charities. Police are refusing to comment on the incident or to provide specific details about the cause of the couple’s death and will say only that their investigation is on-going. But if the presence of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Mobile Command Unit here at the scene is any indication, there is more to this story than authorities are letting on. Reporting live from the scene, I’m Mary Beth McDale, KTLA News.”
Verenich closed the computer cover, stood up from his desk, and walked to his office window.
Across the street, the occupants of the silver Mercedes maintained their post.
So, it was true. Rosenfeld was dead.
For him that meant only one thing.
The game had changed.
Taras Verenich suddenly felt frightened.
And very, very exposed.
CHAPTER 30
BEN EGAN heard the sound of tires screeching to a halt outside the factory as additional police units converged on the factory in response to Three Bravo Twenty’s call for backup.
The responding officers rushed in through the back of the factory and surrounded him. He knelt in the middle of the floor, fingers interlaced behind his head, awaiting their instructions. The rookie cop who had been holding him at gunpoint stepped aside as two burly veterans moved in on him from behind and pushed him down, pinning him to the ground. Egan felt the strain on his neck as one of the cops pressed his face into the concrete floor while his partner buried his knee into his back. Handcuffed, now confident their suspect no longer posed a risk to their safety, the two officers pulled him to his feet.
BANG!... “GET US OUT OF HERE!”... BANG!... “CAN ANYBODY HEAR US?”... BANG! BANG! BANG!
Sergeant Brewer yelled at the rookie and pointed in the direction of the noise. “Palmer, open that door! Secure that room!”
“Yes, sir.” The young officer was joined by the backup team. Guns drawn, they approached the wood drying kiln. “Police!” the rookie yelled. “Stand back from the door. Keep your hands in plain sight. DO NOT MOVE!”
A muffled voice yelled back from inside the locked room. “Whatever, man. Just get us the hell out of here!”
Palmer cranked back the steel door latch and heaved it open. The officers shone their flashlights into the dimly lit room and entered quickly, taking the gang member to the ground, handcuffing them. When the last man was secured one of the officers yelled, “CLEAR!” The team helped them to their feet and escorted them out of the room. Once convinced they were hostages and not a threat their handcuffs were removed.
Colin looked across the factory floor and saw Egan. “You!” he yelled. “Motherf--!” He started to run toward him.
Sergeant Brewer removed his baton from his duty belt, stepped in front of Colin and warned him. “Son, unless you want to go right back into those cuffs you better stop right there!”
“That prick tried to kill us!” Colin yelled.
“Actually, Sergeant,” Egan said, “I didn’t try to kill them. It was more like a good old-fashioned bitch-slapping.”
Sergeant Brewer swung the baton around and pointed it at Egan. “I don’t want to hear a damn word out of you. Not one. You hear me?”
Egan shrugged. “Just trying to help.”
“Do I look like I need your help?” the Sergeant replied.
“No, sir. Absolutely not,” Egan said. He raised his cuffed hands. “I’d say you and your men have everything well under control.”
The Sergeant stared at his prisoner then shook his head. “Son, for someone who’s about to have the book thrown at him, you’ve got one hell of a mouth on you.”
“I apologize, Sergeant,” Egan replied. “It’s just that there’s somewhere I really need to be right now. Any chance we can speed this up?”
“Not very likely,” Brewer said. He raised a finger. “Let’s start with possession of stolen property…”
“Well,” Egan said, “If you’re going to make a list…”
The Sergeant raised a second finger. “Grand theft auto…”
“You can’t be serious,” Egan replied. “That old van? I’d hardly call it grand, plus it pulls to the left.”
A third finger. “Unlawful trespass…”
“That’s not entirely my fault. There aren’t many places to stay around here. You know what this town really needs? Motel 6.”
“Breaking and entering…”
Egan shrugged. “Prevailing circumstances being what they are, I suppose I’ll have to give you that one.”
“And the cherry on top,” Brewer said, pointing to the wood drying kiln. “Violation of Penal Code 236: False imprisonment, intentional and unlawful restraint, detention, confinement.”
“I’d prefer to think of it as a ‘time out,’ Sergeant,” Egan said. “They were very bad boys.”
The arresting officers held Egan by his arms. Brewer motioned to them to walk him out of the factory.
“These gentlemen will escort you to your new accommodations,” the Sergeant said. “I’ll do my best to come up with a few more charges for you along the way.”
“You are nothing if not thorough, Sergeant,” Egan replied.
Brewer shook his head and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. To the officers, he said, “Get this joker out of my sight.”
The burly officers nodded. “You got it, Serge. Let’s go, buddy.”
Egan looked at the officer. “Buddy…” he replied. “We’re friends now?”
“Move your ass, sunshine,” the officer replied.
“Now you’re just being disrespectful,” Egan said.
The second officer scoffed. “As if a piece of crap like you is gonna get any respect from us.”
“I can understand how you guys must feel,” Egan said as they crossed the factory floor. “I was just hoping for a little small talk. So, how’s the job going? The department treating you okay?”
“Shut up.”
Egan glanced over his shoulder. Colin and his gang were giving their statements to Sergeant Brewer and Officer Palmer. Colin pointed his hands at the ground, raised them slowly to the ceiling, then dropped them quickly to his sides. Puzzled, Brewer looked at Egan, then back at Colin and the gang. He scratched his head. Whatever story he was being told it was evident he wasn’t buying any of it.
“How’s the comp plan?” Egan asked. “Let me guess... minimum wage plus all the donuts you can eat?”
The officers exchanged glances then lifted him off his feet. “Exactly what part of shut up don’t you understand, asshole?”
Egan tried to walk, couldn’t. His toes skimmed the floor. “I’m just trying to make conversation, boys.”
&n
bsp; “Screw you.”
“What about the benefits package? Any good?”
The officers looked over their shoulders. Sergeant Brewer’s back was turned to them. He was looking up at the ceiling, listening to Lenny’s account of the story. The men seized their opportunity and drove their fists hard into Egan’s kidneys. The force of the duel blows lifted him off the ground.
“Damn,” Egan said. “Was that supposed to hurt?”
The officers didn’t reply.
“Where were we?” Egan asked. “Oh, yeah. Benefits. You guys have decent long-term disability?”
Egan felt the officers tighten their grip on his arms. They were preparing to deliver a second, more powerful punch.
The band around his wrist began to glow.
The policemen suddenly experienced a rush of white-hot heat in their hands. “What the hell?” one of them yelled. They let go of Egan, stepped back, and watched as the handcuffs fell off the wrists of their prisoner and clattered on the factory floor.
Massaging his wrists, Egan turned and faced them. “I gave you guys every opportunity to play nice,” he said. “You should have listened.”
CHAPTER 31
JORDAN AND CHRIS waited for LAPD to open the massive iron gate. The reporters outside the entrance to the Rosenfeld estate rushed the sedan, cameras and boom microphones presses against the windows. As soon as they were clear of the entranceway Jordan accelerated.
Chris glanced back at the stately home as they rounded the cul-de-sac and headed for the main road. “Want a good deal on an estate?” he said. “There’s nothing like a double-homicide to send a property’s value straight to the basement.”
Jordan smiled. “In this neighborhood? Not a chance. Just wait. With no family to inherit it there’ll be a bidding war on the place by the end of the week.”
“That’s pretty sad,” Chris said.
“No,” Jordan replied. “That’s L.A.”
Verenich Law was located in a luxury office tower in downtown Los Angeles on West 7th Street, a twenty-minute drive from the Hollywood Hills home turned brutal murder scene. The firm occupied the penthouse floor. An ultra-modern stone reception desk anchored the space. Dozens of civic awards, letters of appreciation, plaques, photographs, autographed sports memorabilia and military service honors were tastefully arranged in glass display cases. A glass dividing wall permitted an unencumbered view of the Pacific. In the boardroom behind the see-through wall a heated exchange between colleagues was taking place.
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