The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1
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“I want to take this guy down,” Jordan said, “The harder, the better.”
“Damn straight,” Chris replied.
Jordan turned and looked at the blood-soaked bed. “Anyone capable of doing this doesn’t deserve justice,” she said.
“The game will play itself out Jordan, one way or the other,” Chris replied. “And I have a pretty clear idea of how I want it to end for this guy. Especially after what he did to you.”
“I can take care of myself, Chris,” Jordan said firmly.
“I never said you couldn’t. What I am saying is I’ve got your back. When he goes after you, he damn well better know he’s going after me too.”
“I’m tired of being two steps behind this guy,” Jordan said. “It’s time he found out what I’m capable of.”
Chris looked at his partner. “Then show him.”
Jordan nodded. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
90
PREOCCUPIED WITH THOUGHTS of his conversations with both FBI Assistant Director Ridgeway and the guard at Dynamic Life Sciences about Dr. Jason Merrick, Chief Riley Jenkins jumped in his seat when his cellphone rang. The Jeep jerked to the left. A loud vibration shook the vehicle as it caught the shoulder of the road. Jenkins corrected the Jeep and brought it back into the lane. The phone’s display read JACK POOLE. He took the call.
“How goes the field trip, Chief?”
“Interesting to say the least. Tell me you’ve got something good for me, Jack.”
“Looks that way. Doc Kent ran the thumbprint. LiveScan confirms it belongs to Labrada.”
“How did Labrada end up with his fingerprints in AFIS?”
“Some guy broke into his truck five years ago trying to steal his tools,” Poole said. “Labrada caught him in the act. Took a lead pipe to him. Beat him within an inch of his life. The guy ended up with a busted jaw, right parietal fracture, and a collapsed lung. Apparently, this wasn't Labrada’s first time dealing with the cops. A restraining order had been issued against him six months earlier for knocking out his ex-wife’s teeth. Sad… I kinda wish this guy was still alive.”
“Why?”
“So I could beat the crap out of him myself.”
“I didn’t hear that, Deputy.”
“Hey, in my book any guy who’s pussy enough to lay a hand on a woman needs a good old-fashioned beat down. Probably best if it’s calendar scheduled. Once a week would be good. You know, beer with the boys, burgers, fries, bowling, asshole beat down. Wednesdays would work for me.”
“Sorry, Jack,” Jenkins joked. “I missed all of that. Your radio must have cut out. You were saying something about Labrada?”
“Doc figures the pavement paste we found is probably all that’s left of him.”
“Any news on the implant Button found?”
“Yeah. It’s serialized, all right. Doc put a drop-whatever-the-fuck-you’re-doing call into Forensics. Told odontology to expect Byers. Pat’s running it over to the lab as we speak. We should hear something soon.”
“Good.”
“What happened at Dynamic Life Sciences? You talk to this guy Merrick?”
“No such luck. The place is locked down. Merrick’s AWOL.”
“You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“I also got a call from the FBI.”
“The Feds? What did they want?”
“They’d asked the DMV to flag Merrick’s Porsche. Seems when we ran the plates, we tripped an alarm with them.”
“Did they say why they were looking for Merrick?”
“No. They were more interested to know why we were.”
“What’d you say?”
“That something seriously messed up is going on. And that we’re still trying to put the pieces together. That’s not all. The DoD is working with the FBI on this, too.”
“Jesus. The feds and the Department of Defense? Who the hell is this Merrick guy, anyhow?”
“That’s the question of the hour, Jack. And I’ve got a feeling we’re going to know a lot more about him before the day is out.”
“So what’s the next step, Chief?” Poole asked. “What do you want us to do?”
“For now, sit tight. Keep the scene secure. Nobody crosses that tape without my say so. I don’t care what kind of credentials they present. This happened on our turf, Jack. We’re going to be kept in the loop whether they like it or not.”
“Copy that.”
The afternoon sun had started to set. Streaks of purple bruised the sky. “It’s going to be dark in a couple of hours. Have the boy’s tent and light the area. Make sure any evidence we haven’t yet processed is protected. And set up privacy barriers around the perimeter. I don’t want to see a reporter within a thousand feet of the scene.”
“You got it,” Poole replied.
“What’s Labrada’s current status, Jack? Does he have any family we can talk to?”
“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. Fifty bucks says when his wife finds out he’s dead she’ll do a happy dance right 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 would get out quickly. Jenkins knew he wouldn’t be able to keep its gruesome details under wrap for much longer. 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.
91
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 would not 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 raise a red flag 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 a danger 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, especial
ly 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 the penalty for an unsatisfactory answer could be 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 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, a job 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 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 the shoulder of his perfectly tailored Armani suit.
Elena, his personal assistant, tapped on his door.
Verenich watched a tour boat race 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 a personal matter.”
“Of course, sir. Do you wish to be contacted?”
“Only if it’s an emergency. Otherwise just say I’m presently unreachable.”
“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?” Avel asked.
“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 ‘Rosenfeld 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 to this palatial estate nestled high in the Hollywood Hills that police were called in the early hours of the morning, and where the deceased bodies of Dr. Itzhak Rosenfeld, a prominent local physician and entrepreneur, and his wife, Zahava, a retired Los Angeles court justice, were discovered. The affluent couple were well-known for their philanthropic efforts, both locally and internationally, having raised tens of millions of dollars for charity. 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 very frightened.
And very, very exposed.
92
BEN EGAN HEARD the sound of tires screeching to a halt 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!”
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 members 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 and 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…”