Wild Card
Page 8
“Not to worry. You do look a bit frazzled. Are you okay?”
“Oh, yes. It’s nothing. But I didn’t want to let the chance to give you a hug pass without its fulfillment.”
“How’s Analiese?”
“And her three children.”
“Three?”
“Two girls and one lunatic.”
“Do I detect a sexist attitude here?”
“Wait until you meet him before you head down that road. He’s three, he never stops talking, his sisters are terrified of him, and I’m embarrassed to add that so is his mother. Have you ever heard the expression Holy Terror?”
“And he’s the one you love best?”
“How did you know?”
“Because in some circles, you’re referred to as a Holy Terror yourself.”
“Moi?”
From her desk, Craig Leonard emitted a loud, theatrical cough.
“Duty calls,” the judge said.
“It’s always a treat to see you.”
“You realize that were it not for your own lunacy, I’d now be your mother-in-law.”
“Lunacy?”
“You’re still unmarried, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Determinedly so, right?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“I rest my case.”
“You know what the only thing was that frightened me more than marriage to Analiese?”
“No. What?”
“Having you as a mother-in-law.”
She swatted at me, a big grin breaking out on her face. “You should only be so lucky. Now get out of here. Can’t you see how busy I am?”
No sooner had I gotten into the Wrangler than my cell phone started ringing.
“Buddy Steel,” I answered.
“Sheriff Steel?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“Wendy Kassel. You may not remember me, but I work for James Morrison. The Coastal Commissioner. Or should I say ‘worked for him.’ We met once when you were in the building.”
“What can I do for you, Ms. Kassel?”
“I suppose you know about James.”
“I know he’s no longer a Coastal Commissioner.”
“Do you know why?”
“Only the rumors.”
“I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”
“Because?”
“I’ve been warned not to.”
“Warned?”
“You have no idea as to what happened, do you?”
“I’m guessing I don’t.”
“Things aren’t as they appear. James has gone into hiding. I’m about to follow.”
“What is it you’re saying?”
“Commissioner Morrison’s resignation was influenced.”
“By money, I heard.”
“You seriously believe James Morrison accepted a bribe?”
“That’s the rumor.”
“It wasn’t money that influenced him.”
“What, then?”
“They broke both of his thumbs.”
“Excuse me?”
“Two Russian men went to his home. They gave him a choice.”
“Choice being?”
“Disappear or suffer the consequences.”
“Which were?”
“I’ll leave that to your imagination. Breaking his thumbs was for openers.”
“You’re suggesting that Boris Petrov’s men scared him off.”
“So much so that he was gone in a day and no one knows where he went.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because he phoned me from the road and suggested I do the same.”
“Leave town?”
“And go into hiding.”
“And he suggested this because?”
“Maybe you’re not as smart as he gave you credit for. I worked with Jimmy for years. I know what really went down. And that knowledge has put me in danger. So I’m forced to leave. Please don’t try to find me.”
She ended the call.
I pulled onto the shoulder of the road and sat quietly for a while, contemplating what I’d just learned.
James Morrison had been scared off. Because he wouldn’t accept a bribe. And as a result of his refusal, he suffered a brutal consequence. KGB tactics. As administered by Petrov’s tortuous thugs.
Clearly, the stakes were higher than I had imagined.
Greater than just restricting access. What, though? What could be so important that Petrov is willing to resort to violence to keep it under wraps?
What’s really going on with him?
TWENTY-EIGHT
“They broke his thumbs?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Ouch. Talk about painful.”
My father and I were having lunch out, a rare experience for him these days. But he was feeling better, so he suggested it.
“What the hell,” he had said, “why not?”
He had chosen The Freedom Country Club and its casual, members-only dining room overlooking the first hole of the Arnold Palmer-designed golf course.
He was heartened by the number of fellow members who stopped by our table to offer him their best wishes, many of them enjoying the chance to needle him, as well.
He was a popular figure in Freedom, known for paying heed to the less fortunate as well as those in the chips. He had once dreamed of the governorship and when he found that calling elusive, he started dreaming of it for me. Even when I was inching toward becoming an LAPD homicide detective.
Despite my resistance, he believed that by dint of his personality, he could persuade me to seek the office. He’d phone me regularly with campaign ideas. Slogans, even.
For a while I let him believe I was taking it seriously by way of ameliorating him. When I finally admitted I had no wish to run, it angered him.
For several months he churlishly referred to me as Governor Steel. As in, “How would the Governor like his eggs this morning?” Or, “When is the Governor planning on visiting his family?”
When he realized he had succeeded only in deepening the chasm between us, he reluctantly relented. I wondered if he would ever come to accept me for who I am.
The answer to which is why I’m currently in Freedom. Hopeful but wary.
“Something’s rotten in Denmark,” I said when things had quieted down.”This Petrov thing has spiraled into a much bigger deal.”
“Meaning?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know what it means.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’d like to have another chat with Vlad Smernik.”
“He being?”
“One of the Petrov goons who threatened me.”
“What good would that do?”
“He offered to provide information.”
“Boris Petrov information?”
“Yes. He said there was more there than meets the eye.”
“Which means?”
“I’m thinking it means there’s something questionable taking place on his property that Petrov doesn’t want anyone to know about. Otherwise, why would he maintain such a sizable security staff? What’s so important that he needs that many guards? It’s not like he’s on the outs with the Kremlin and he’s afraid Putin’s going to poison him. He’s a loyalist. So what’s he hiding? Why is he so intent upon sealing off public access? What’s going on there?”
“And you think this Smernik character is prepared to tell you about it?”
“Can’t hurt to find out.”
“Where is he?”
“Likely in an ICE holding pen.”
“In Los Angeles?”
“Yes.”
; “And you think he’s a horse trader?”
“Possibly.”
“What have you got to trade?”
“His freedom.”
“How would you arrange that?”
“I wouldn’t. You would.”
“Me?”
“You’re the Sheriff.”
“Hold on a second here, Governor. Don’t be thinking I can help you arrange for this Russki to skate.”
“If the information he delivers is useful enough, you can and will.”
“You give me way too much credit.”
“Don’t go all self-deprecating on me, Burton. If this guy provides a leg up on a possible prosecution of Boris Petrov, there’s no one better at negotiating a Get Out of Jail Free card than you.”
“That’s what you say.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
TWENTY-NINE
Once she saw I was off the phone, Marsha Russo sauntered into my office and sat across from me.
“Breaking news,” she announced.
“Hit me.”
“He’s in the Metropolitan Detention Center on Alameda Street in downtown Los Angeles.”
“I know it well.”
“From which perspective?”
“Funny. How would you feel about setting up an appointment for me?”
“Business or social?”
“What difference would it make?”
“I don’t do social.”
“It’s business.”
“How do I know?”
“Because I want to meet privately with an inmate at the detention center.”
“Male or female?”
“What difference does that make?”
“I wouldn’t want to be involved in any conjugal thing.”
“You know, Marsha, sometimes you can be a royal pain in the ass.”
“I know. It’s in my gene pool.”
“Vlad Smernik.”
“He’s who you want to meet with?”
“Yes. And it has to be private. Outdoors, preferably. No bugs. No hovering supervision. You’ll need to arrange it with Captain Rodger Pike.”
“When for?”
“Tomorrow morning, if possible.”
She stood and lumbered toward the door. “I’m on it.”
I called out to her. “What’s up with the other thing?”
“I’m on it, too.”
“And?”
“I’m weeding stuff out.”
“Meaning?”
“You have no idea how many unsolved homicides there are. I’ve narrowed the search to serials but even at that, it’s a ball breaker.”
“How soon?”
“Soon enough. I’m getting warmer. It’s a good thing I like you, Buddy.”
“Because?”
“It serves as a reminder as to why I’m doing this.”
“Cheese?”
“Excuse me?”
“Would you like some cheese with that whine?”
She stared at me for several moments, then turned to leave. At the door, she chided me over her shoulder, “Not even remotely funny.”
THIRTY
Captain Rodger Pike was homegrown, having risen in the ranks from his beginnings as a street cop nearly two decades ago.
His was a measured ascendency, one rank at a time, his experience gathered in a multitude of precincts located in a plethora of districts. When he reached Parker Center, then the LAPD headquarters, he was a seasoned veteran and an accomplished leader.
Now on the command staff, ensconced in the new Police Administration Building on First Street in downtown L.A., he was frequently mentioned as a potential candidate for Commissioner.
He stood when I entered his office and uncharacteristically, wrapped me in a bear hug and slapped me heartily on the back.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Buddy.”
“Rubbing the blarney stone this morning, are we, sir?”
“We miss you around here.”
“That’s very kind of you to say. Thank you.”
He pointed me to the conference table located in a corner of his spacious office, overlooking the downtown corridor and the westside beyond it.
“So,” he said once we were seated. “Are you liking it up there?”
“It’s a challenge.”
“But are you liking it?”
“Some days, perhaps. It’s a small town freighted with small-town politics.”
“The welcome mat is always out for you here, Buddy.”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
He smiled. “We’ve set up the meeting with this Smernik character. What is it you want from him?”
“You’ve heard of Boris Petrov?”
“Only what I read in the papers.”
“He’s violated the Coastal Commission rules regarding beach access, and the San Remo Sheriff’s Department has been assigned the task of straightening him out.”
“And?”
“He’s defiant. He’s thrown up every conceivable roadblock. Far greater than you can imagine. Actions above and beyond the norm.”
“Which raised your hackles, no doubt.”
“No doubt. The point is not so much his desire to maintain privacy. That’s no different from any of these other self-entitled beachfront billionaires who do the same. But this guy is over the top. Way beyond the pale. Which makes me wonder what’s really going on. What’s he hiding?”
“Hence, Smernik.”
“He was sent to deliver me a message. Rough me up a little. Warn me off. He and another goon. A pair of inept bozos in over their heads.”
“So?”
“When I subdued him and we were waiting for the backup to arrive, he volunteered to share information with me regarding Petrov’s activities.”
“In exchange for his freedom, I’ll bet.”
“Yes.”
“So you’re here on a fishing expedition.”
“I am.”
“Well, it’s set up as you requested. No one will be any the wiser. Hopefully, you can wrestle something worthwhile out of him.”
“Not likely, but it’s worth the effort. Many thanks for your help, sir.”
“You’ll let me know how you fare?”
“Be my pleasure.”
THIRTY-ONE
I hoofed it to Alameda Street and the Metropolitan Detention Center where I was greeted by Sergeant Tony Ciavatta, himself a crusty relic of the department of yore.
“Where you keepin’ yourself these days, Buddy?” he inquired.
“Freedom.”
“A place or a state of mind?”
“Both.”
“Well, you’re lookin’ fine, that’s for sure.”
“Not as fine as you, Tony.”
“Still the bullshitter, eh, Buddy?”
“Takes one to know one.”
He laughed and led me to the offices of the chaplain, where he ushered me into a tiny reflective garden where I found Vlad Smernik. The security guard assigned to watch over him nodded to me and stepped inside. “I’ll be on the other side of the door,” he said.
Smernik stared at me as if he were trying to remember exactly who I was. He was sitting on a bench next to a gurgling fountain, designed to override the sounds of the city and private conversations. Limestone pavers were scattered amid green St. Augustine grass. Christmas cactus and philodendron blossomed in large ceramic planters. Brick walls were overrun with abundant English ivy. The effect of the small garden was calming and peaceful.
“I know you,” Smernik said.
“Buddy Steel.”
“The guy who busted me in San Remo?”
“One and the same.”
“What are you doing here?”
Smernik was dressed in an orange jumpsuit and his hands were cuffed behind his back. He appeared tired, dispirited, forlorn.
“You made me a proposition.”
“So?”
“Perhaps I’ll take you up on it.”
“Perhaps? What perhaps?”
“You provide information I find helpful, I’ll see about getting you out of here.”
“You mean you pay after you eat?”
“Something like that. Yes.”
“No deal.”
“You have anything better?”
“What’s to prevent you from just walking away?”
“Nothing.”
“So why should I sing for you?”
“Listen to me, Vlad. I’m your only ticket out of here. You give me what I need, your ticket gets punched. You’ll have to trust that I’ll do what I say I’ll do.”
He stared at me. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything there is to know about Boris Petrov.”
He sat silently for several moments. Then he said, “There’s a drug lab on the property.”
“Go on.”
“He’s got chemists working there. They invented some kind of synthetic substance not dissimilar to Fentanyl, and they’re manufacturing it in large quantities.”
“The opioid.”
“A variant of it. Lethal. Some guy sampled it out there and didn’t live to tell about it.”
“What does he do with it?”
“Boats come to take it away.”
“Boats?”
“Speedboats. Every week. They load up and ship out.”
“Going where?”
“I wouldn’t know. I only know about the manufacturing because a friend of mine from St. Petersburg is involved with the shipping part. Schmuck. He’s so filled with himself that he couldn’t help but brag about it.”
“About his involvement with the opioid shipments?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s the lab?”
“Somewhere inside the mansion. It’s a huge place, you know. There’s plenty of room for it.”
“This is very helpful, Vlad.”
“So am I free to go?”
“Not yet. But you will be.”
“Why not yet?”
“Verification.”