Powder Burn

by Ty Patterson

  ‘Yes—’

  He dragged him down the hallway and threw him across the wooden desk and onto the leather chair.

  The broker collapsed in a heap and moaned. A telephone fell to the floor, followed by several folders.

  ‘WHO ARE YOU?’ The broker dabbed at his split lips and yelled at Cutter in fear and anger. ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT?’

  ‘Where’s Panig Janikyan?’

  ‘WHO?’

  He leaned across and slapped the broker again. ‘Panig Janikyan,’ he repeated, ‘the Armenian Bros leader.’

  ‘I DON’T KNOW.’

  He shrank when Cutter made a threatening move.

  ‘I SWEAR. I DON’T KNOW HIM.’

  ‘You don’t know that gang?’

  ‘NO! I’ve heard of them, but I’ve got nothing to do with them. I’M A BROKER.’ His fury burst through his fear. ‘WHY WOULD I WORK WITH THEM?’

  Cutter dropped into a visitor’s chair and gestured at Davidian to take his seat.

  ‘How badly are you hurt?’

  ‘I DON’T KNOW, DUDE!’ the man shouted. ‘MY CHEEK’S BROKEN—’

  ‘It’s not. Your lip’s split. It will heal. Your dignity is hurt, nothing more. How would you like to experience real pain? Slowly?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Davidian whispered, his eyes wide. He dabbed at his mouth with a paper towel and shuddered when he saw the blood on it. ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this?’

  ‘You called Vienna McDonald several times. About selling her house.’

  ‘Vienna—’

  ‘East Hollywood. North Heliotrope Drive.’

  ‘Ms. McDonald! Yes, I know her. She sent you?’ He straightened angrily.

  ‘How could she? She’s dead. Killed a few nights back. Along with her sister.’

  Arek Davidian collapsed in front of his eyes. His shoulders sagged. His face turned pale.

  ‘Dead?’ he asked hoarsely and reached out blindly for a glass of water.

  Cutter thrust it at him and watched as the broker drank hastily. Several drops ran down his chin. He returned the glass to the table and wiped his mouth with a paper towel. Appeared to compose himself, and when he spoke, his voice was calmer.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ he said.

  ‘It was all over the news.’

  ‘I don’t watch it. Fires, politics, that’s all they seem to cover. My business is hard enough without getting stressed out over events not in my control.’

  He’s telling the truth. No reason for him to lie.

  ‘She and her sister were killed in Beverly Hills. Cops suspect it was a gang shooting.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘Armenian Bros operate in this area—’

  ‘And you thought I’m Armenian, so I must be a gangster?’ the broker fired back.

  ‘Yeah,’ Cutter replied bluntly. ‘Or you have gang connections.’

  ‘I don’t. I run a clean business. Of course, I’ve heard of that gang. Who hasn’t? And that Janikyan? I don’t know him, I’ve never met him in my life.’

  ‘You were trying to get Vienna and her neighbor to sell their houses.’

  ‘That’s my business. They’ve been there a long while. Their houses have appreciated significantly. There’s a lot of demand for residences in that area. Dude,’ he said scornfully, ‘do you know anything about real estate?’

  ‘Other than people live in houses, nope.’

  He stared at Cutter, uncertain if his visitor was joking.

  ‘Shooting our clients,’ he said sarcastically, ‘that would be great for business, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘What would happen to the value of those properties? Where the owners were killed?’

  ‘They would drop, dumbass, which would mean less commission for me.’

  ‘Not if the Armenian Bros were the buyers. They would love to get the properties cheaply, or for nothing.’

  ‘Read my lips,’ the broker said savagely. ‘I. Have. Nothing. To. Do. With. The. Gang. I’m gonna sue you. You’ll regret coming to my office. What’s your name? Where do you live? What interest do you have in—’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ Cutter told him and strode out of the office.

  He drove away from the building quickly and went to a fast-food joint, where he ordered food and sat at an umbrella-covered bench.

  That was a dead end. He chewed thoughtfully as he considered Davidian’s interrogation. He felt guilty about roughing up the broker and decided to make up for it. I’ll go back when he’s calmed down. Apologize.

  He froze mid-bite.

  He had to get to Vienna’s house immediately. He would get near-certain proof there that Davidian was telling the truth.

  14

  The car rolled up in the evening, when Cutter was sitting on Vienna’s porch. Drinking tea, watching the world go by, observing the two men climb out and walk up the walkway.

  I was expecting Armenian Bros hitters.

  He had been in his disguise when he roughed up Davidian, but if the broker was involved with the gang, Janikyan would have sent heavies to check out who was at Vienna’s house. That was the only link to the attacker.

  Cops showed up instead. That means Davidian wasn’t lying. He could cross the man off his list of possible suspects.

  Matteo stood at the steps and surveyed the house. He cocked his head at Naysha Sutton, who was checking them out over the garden wall. She disappeared when he bobbed his head at her in greeting. Cruz had his hands jammed in his pockets, whistling tunelessly.

  ‘What will happen to this place?’ the LAPD detective asked around his ever-present toothpick.

  ‘Dunno.’ Cutter shrugged. ‘I’m meeting Vienna’s lawyer tomorrow. Looks like she made a will.’

  ‘You collected the bodies?’ The gel on Cruz’s hair caught the evening light and shone.

  ‘Tomorrow as well.’

  ‘You’ll arrange a funeral?’

  ‘Dunno. Arnedra never wanted one. Vienna … I’ll have to see what’s in her will.’

  They aren’t here to talk about the burials and properties. He suspected what they were after but didn’t hurry them. He had a warm beverage, the evening was getting cooler, he had time.

  Cruz brought it up.

  ‘You met Arek Davidian today?’

  Cutter made a show of frowning heavily. ‘Davidian …?’ he trailed off. ‘Name rings a bell—’

  ‘He’s a real estate broker in East Hollywood.’

  ‘Got him. Naysha gave me his card. He had been calling Vienna, asking her to sell.’

  ‘He was assaulted today by someone who looks like you.’

  ‘Me?’ Cutter wore an innocent look, as if he wouldn’t hurt a fly. ‘I haven’t met him. I was planning to call him but didn’t get around to it. He gave a description?’

  ‘He filed a complaint. That came to us because of …’ Cruz jerked his head at the house to make the connection obvious. ‘Attacker is a tall male, your build.’

  ‘Must be a few hundred thousand men in LA who match that description.’

  ‘There’s only one who would be asking Davidian about his calls to Vienna,’ Matteo growled.

  ‘I’ve never been to his place.’

  ‘Where were you today?’

  ‘Around. Here, at my Sycamore Avenue place—’

  ‘You aren’t staying here?’

  ‘Nope.’ He gave the address of his house. ‘Here.’ He tossed them his cell phone. ‘Location tracking is turned on. See for yourself.’

  Matteo caught the device deftly and swiped through screens as Cruz watched over his shoulder.

  ‘You got any witnesses?’

  ‘Nope. This dude attacked the broker? He must have left hair, skin—’

  ‘Nothing.’ The BHPD cop’s lips thinned. ‘He seemed to be prepared.’

  ‘Back up a moment.’ Cutter sat up straight. ‘You said this person matched my build. You’ve got security camera footage. What did he look like?

  ‘Nothing
like me, right?’ he chortled when the cops remained quiet.

  ‘You could have been in a disguise,’ Matteo said impassively.

  ‘He sound like me?’

  ‘No audio. Video only.’

  Cutter had enough. It was time for the outraged citizen act. ‘Search my vehicle, that’s the Land Cruiser on the street, search my house, this place … arrest me if you find anything, otherwise leave me alone.’

  My ride. They made no mention of a Toyota. Maybe Davidian’s building didn’t have cameras in the parking lot.

  ‘We’ve warned you before,’ Matteo threatened. ‘Don’t interfere in our investigation.’

  ‘Yeah, you told me. You going to arrest me?’

  The LAPD detective glowered at him for a moment and turned away furiously. Cruz, not to be outdone, shot a hostile look and followed his partner down the walkway.

  Cutter couldn’t help grinning at their erect backs and angry steps as they left. He made a mental note to thank the twins for whatever they had done to make his phone look like it had traveled around the city. They must have dummied it, got the fake phone’s signal to bounce various towers.

  He went inside the house and washed his cup. His eyes lingered on the photograph of the two sisters in the kitchen.

  Back down from his investigation?

  Like hell he would.

  15

  Three am.

  Cutter was in a different disguise. Grey-haired wig. Hefty build due to the extra padding beneath his upper clothing. Crooked teeth and brown contacts.

  He had a different ride, too. He had bought two more SUVs, a Tahoe and a Durango, both of them used, black and unstriking in their looks.

  He was in the Chevy, which sported fake license plates, parked behind a truck down the street from Covarra’s house.

  At three-thirty am, he launched the drone from the vehicle. It was a custom-built UAV that Chad supplied to very few customers. Stealth paint to minimize its radar footprint, infrared cameras, thermal imaging, and extra-long flight time. It had a mechanical claw at the bottom to lift or drop light equipment.

  It came with its own screen, split to have finger-touch controls at one side and the camera feed on the other.

  Cutter navigated it high in the air and familiarized himself with its controls before flying it to the house. He had used such drones before, but the one Chad had given him was new to him. Nevertheless, flight controls were similar and he soon got the hang of it.

  A different guard at the front. This one was more alert than the one he had seen during the daytime. The sentry had a weapon by his side and patrolled the front of the gate in a routine.

  Another guard at the back alley, similarly outfitted.

  Cutter nosed the drone over the front yard. Fountains. Lights in the well-maintained garden. A concrete driveway to the door, where there was another guard on a chair. He flew over the house, noted the AC equipment and the water tank on its roof, and went to the back. Another garden. A swimming pool. A line of tall trees at the compound wall that gave the house its privacy. Two more guards.

  He turned on the thermal imaging and counted the shapes inside the house.

  The two men in those bedrooms could be Covarra and Salazar. The smaller figures beside them seemed to be women. Four more men on the ground floor, spread out in the living room and at the back exit. A woman in a separate room to the side of the house. Was she a guard? A doctor? A masseuse? He shook his head. There was no point in guessing.

  Eight guards, nine if he counted the solitary woman in that room. Covarra’s and Salazar’s girlfriends could be in the gang too. That meant thirteen hostiles, if he included all of them.

  I can’t take them all.

  He would have to find a way to draw the leader and his deputy out.

  * * *

  Russ Meehan, of Meehan and Brothers, a family-run law firm in East Hollywood, had a finely maintained mustache. He was in his seventies but moved in a spritely way and had a trim build, a full head of silvery hair. The stache was waxed, trimmed, and highlighted his intelligent-looking face.

  ‘Vienna and I went back several years,’ the attorney reminisced over his coffee.

  Cutter and he were sitting in his office, one wall of which was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. Real books, not fake hardback covers.

  ‘Her broker introduced her to me when she was buying her house. We got close and I ended up managing her affairs. She was a force of nature. Strong-willed, funny, determined. I met Arnedra too, a few times, when she came to visit. The two were similar.’

  Cutter nodded and listened. He had found the attorney’s details in a file Vienna had kept in her bedroom. He had called to set up the appointment and had brought his identification for Meehan to verify his credentials.

  The attorney had called Arnedra’s lawyer in New York, who had assured him that Cutter Grogan was who he said he was.

  ‘So, her will.’ Meehan placed his cup on the table and wiped his lips delicately with a paper towel. He went to a filing rack and withdrew a slim folder. He put on his reading glasses and riffled through papers till he came to the right sheet. Read it swiftly and steepled his fingers as he regarded Cutter over his glasses.

  ‘She left her house to her sister. She had some savings; those will go to the Lintock Foundation. It’s a—’

  ‘I know what that is, sir.’

  Cutter wasn’t surprised by the will. Neither of the sisters had any other family. No kids, no spouses or partners. They had each other, no one else.

  ‘Arnedra’s dead, too, which is a complication.’ There was a strange light in the attorney’s eyes as if he were amused.

  What’s he smiling about?

  ‘Lamar will know what to do.’

  Lamar Jamieson, Arnedra’s attorney, whom Meehan had called previously who confirmed that the sister had left everything to one Cutter Grogan, who happened to be sitting with Russ Meehan that very moment.

  ‘There must be some mistake!’

  ‘There is no mistake,’ Jamieson’s voice boomed out of the speaker phone.

  ‘Sir, I am sure Arnedra was going to will her possessions to Vienna. She mentioned that to me several times,’ Cutter exclaimed.

  ‘That was her intention. She had even drawn up a will to that effect. I planned her estate in accordance. She changed her mind, however. She came to me before she left for LA. She had spoken to Vienna—’

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ he cut in, heatedly.

  ‘What you think doesn’t matter,’ Jamieson chuckled. ‘We called her sister from my office. I recorded Vienna’s statement. I drew up a new will that night. Everything belongs to you.’

  ‘And with Vienna dead, too,’ Meehan said gently, ‘her house is yours, too.’

  That’s why he was smiling.

  ‘You knew,’ Cutter said, dully.

  ‘Yes. What Lamar didn’t tell you is that I was part of that call, too. He conferenced Vienna and me in. They wanted you to inherit if anything happened to both of them. They joked about their dying at the same time.’

  Cutter looked away and blinked furiously as he took it in. Don’t cry, not here, he told himself. And then sobbed and bawled on Russ Meehan’s shoulder as the attorney hugged him.

  * * *

  Russ Meehan read eulogies for both sisters at the crematorium later that day.

  Cutter sat in the front row, Naysha Sutton beside him, her family behind them. There were a few employees from Meehan’s firm who had known Vienna, and no one else at the intimate service.

  ‘Call me, any time and for anything you need,’ the attorney told him when the service was over.

  Cutter nodded and held the two simply-decorated brass jars tightly. Vienna had wished her ashes to be with her sister’s. Arnedra had wanted hers to be scattered in the Hudson. Therefore, Cutter would be carrying both jars back to New York.

  When it’s over, he thought grimly.

  And when he spotted the figure waiting outside, on the crematorium lawn, he k
new it had become more complicated.

  * * *

  ‘Lisa.’ Cutter greeted LAPD’s Chief of Police.

  She’s in uniform. This is not a social call.

  No Matteo or Cruz, just her.

  The crematorium was on Santa Monica Boulevard, an oasis of green in the snarl of the city. In the distance he could see her official vehicle parked on the street, its flashers blinking, her driver lounging against it, watching them.

  ‘Cutter,’ she acknowledged with a head bob and pointed at a bench. ‘You got a few minutes?’

  The way she said it, it wasn’t a request.

  ‘I saw your interviews.’ She removed her shades and swept back her hair.

  ‘You couldn’t have missed me. I’m the best thing to happen to TV the last few months.’

  She remained impassive.

  Cops were like that. Inside, they hollered with laughter at his lines. Outside, they were stoic, like nothing fazed them.

  ‘You need to stop.’

  ‘Everyone seems to be saying that. This is LA, right? Where everything is possible.’

  Her green eyes continued to regard him expressionlessly. A stray curl of graying brown hair escaped from the rest of her styling and waved and danced in the breeze. She’s aged well, he thought as he considered her. The fine lines around her mouth and eyes added to her presence, gave her heft and weight. A passing couple eyed her in her uniform, recognized her with a double-take and whispered to each other as they walked away.

  ‘Vance and Diego are good cops. They will find out who killed Arnedra. What they’re working on is big. You mean well, but the way you go about—’

  ‘I’ve heard that before.’

  ‘You’ll stand down?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  I won’t.

  Her eyes bored into him as if she could read what he was thinking.

  ‘If my task force’s case falls apart because of your interference, I’ll kneecap you.’

  She loved him. She just had a different way of showing it.

  She rose from the bench and headed to her ride without a word. Waved a gloved hand at him when he called out, ‘Tell Jerry I said hi.’