by Ellen Butler
Sure enough, Karen Ferngull ripped open the car door and slung her purse inside. She followed the handbag, slamming the door. She then proceeded to make a phone call in which a lot of pinched face and hand gestures ensued.
“Whooee, she’s pissed about something.”
“Did you see which house she came out of? I didn’t notice.” I asked, craning my neck to get a better view.
“The one across the street with the rocking chairs on the front porch.”
The car roared to life, slammed into gear, and peeled out. I watched in horror as Karen whipped around the corner so fast, she almost clipped Rodrigo’s back end.
“What the hell! That bitch is cray-cray. Did you see she almost hit my car?”
“I don’t think she even noticed. Should we follow her?”
Rodrigo started the car and took off down the street. Karen had already turned onto the main road out of the community, so her car wasn’t in sight. However, there weren’t too many roads coming into this area, and I had a feeling Karen was headed back to the highway.
“There she is, crossing the tracks. Don’t get too close. We don’t want to tip her off.”
Rodrigo slowed the car to stop at the T intersection and turned left. Our slight hesitation cost us. The railroad crossing lights blinked and the arms descended. A moment later, a freight train barreled through. Rodrigo cursed under his breath and shifted in the seat. By this time, I knew following Karen was a lost cause. It was probably for the best; I imagined we’d just be following her back to D.C. The sign was correct, the engineer didn’t blow the horn. It felt very nostalgic to hear the rumbling click-clack of the wheels on the rails as the graffitied freight, blackened coal and dripping oil cars rolled past. I remember on family car trips it was always an exciting adventure, at least for us kids, when we’d have to stop for trains to pass. I counted seventy-five cars in total. Eight vehicles stacked up behind us while we waited.
The gates moved up and Rodrigo gunned it, bumping over the tracks.
“Whoa, Rodrigo, give it up. We’ll never catch her.”
He slowed down and sighed. “You’re right. Where to now?”
I stared at him. “You’re kidding, right? IKEA?”
“I almost forgot.” He gave a sheepish laugh.
“Well, I, for one, am done playing detective. Take me to the mall, Jeeves. I want to look at closet organizers.”
“Yes, Miss Daisy.” The car remained silent for a few minutes before Rodrigo picked up the conversation again. “So . . . I think we figured out where Finley went on Thursday. Wonder who owns that house.”
Not wanting to encourage his amateur sleuthing, I grunted and turned to stare out my window at the passing neighborhood.
“Why do you think Karen was so pissed?”
“No clue.”
“Are you going to tell your FBI friend what we saw?”
I let out a puff of air. “It’s not as though we really know anything.”
“Come off of it. You think Karen being down here, not a mile from where Finley got hit by a train, is a co-inky-dink?”
“I think there’s very little to go on.” Mike would probably consider this snooping, so it wasn’t in my plans to fill him in. “I also think it’s time to stop sleuthing and start shopping.”
He ignored my hints. “I wonder how we can find out who lives there.”
“Tax records,” I said without thinking.
“Really?”
“Yes, one of a few places we can check.”
“We can do that when we get back to your apartment.”
I’d planned to check on the home’s ownership without Rodrigo so I could snoop without witnesses. However, it occurred to me that Rodrigo was turning out to be rather helpful. We’d both witnessed Elise’s revelations at the Kennedy Center and now Karen’s hasty departure. Even though I’d questioned Rodrigo’s ability to keep his mouth shut, I hadn’t had any of my coworkers goggling at my door, asking questions about Harper’s death. He’d also known about Karen and Nick’s affair and skillfully gotten us into that C2ARM event. Even though we hadn’t been working together very long, perhaps I wasn’t giving my officemate enough credit. I’ll admit, flying solo could be a little exhausting. Maybe having a copilot wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
“Sounds like a plan. Now, remind me, what are you looking for at IKEA?”
Chapter Nineteen
“What’s Troika Star, LLC?” Rodrigo asked as he leaned over my shoulder, pointing at the page of property tax information for the house on the river.
“Don’t know. I’ve never heard of it.” After an afternoon of shopping, Rodrigo and I returned to my condo to check out the house in Virginia. A Google search into Troika Star, LLC came up empty. There were lots of organizations with the name Troika in it, but no Troika Star, LLC. “I wonder if it’s one of those corporate homes that allows executives to stay in it,” I mused.
“Like a corporate benefit?”
“Not dissimilar from the corporate jet, or box seats to a sports game.”
“So, how do we figure who owns the LLC? Can your FBI friend help?”
“I’d rather not ask.”
“Why not?”
I chewed my lip and confessed, “Well, I sort of promised him I’d stop investigating the case.”
My coworker burst into laughter. “And here I am dragging you back into it.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“I’m sorry.” He patted my shoulder and dropped into the dining room chair on my left. “No wonder you’ve been so hesitant. I thought you were hiding things from me. In reality, you simply don’t want to be involved anymore.”
“Well . . . that’s not exactly true. Considering our discoveries this afternoon, I’m still interested. Finding a strange LLC only stokes my curiosity.”
“So, you’re back in?”
I sighed. “I am.”
“Great.” He scribbled down Troika Star, LLC on the pad of paper at my elbow. “Since you can’t go to your FBI friend, I’ll work some of my contacts.”
“What sort of contacts?”
“Never you mind. I have contacts.” Ripping the sheet of paper, he stood and pulled his windbreaker off the back of the chair.
“I may have someone I can ask. . . .”
“Don’t worry. I’m on the case. I’ll see you tomorrow at work. Ta, darling.” He danced out the door on feet lighter than Gene Kelly.
Once he left, I spent another half an hour searching Google for a thread of information on Troika. It yielded nothing more, and I decided to call the next best thing to the FBI.
“Go for Joshua.”
“Hi, Josh, guess who?”
“Karina. Any more break-ins?”
“No. Am I interrupting? Are you on a job?”
“I’ve got a minute. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if your company has research capabilities.”
“What do you need?”
“I’m trying to find out more about a company called Troika Star, it’s listed as a Limited Liability Company. They own a home on the Potomac, down in Woodbridge.”
“I can have someone look into it,” Josh said.
“Don’t spend too much time on it. I just figured you might have access to databases that I don’t.”
“We do. And it’s no problem.”
“Oh, one other thing,” I said, “have you ever heard of a mercenary going by the name of Jablonski?”
“No, why?”
“FBI thinks that may have been who broke into my apartment.”
“I’ll ask around.”
“That’d be great. Thanks, Josh.”
“No problem.”
An hour later, I sat in front of the television, watching the news and eating leftover Chinese, when my doorbell rang. I muted the TV. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that it could be one of my neighbors.
It wasn’t a neighbor.
The man who stood o
n the other side of my peephole I’d only seen twice before. The first time, in the stairwell where he saved my life. The second, in a police lineup where I’d lied to the investigating detective. In his forties, he had cheekbones to die for, short-cropped military hair, and today he sported manly scruff around his jaw. The black leather jacket he wore hid lethal muscles and at a guess, a no-less-lethal gun.
“Batman!” He’d told me his name was Rick, no last name. I’d given him the nickname Batman because of the way he swooped in and out of my life. “This is a surprise. Come in.” I pulled the door wide.
A half-smirk played around his mouth as he passed me.
“Can I get you something to drink? Have you eaten? I have leftover Chinese; shall I get you a plate?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” He remained standing in between my kitchen and family room.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” I indicated the stools at the kitchen island.
“Josh passed your questions along to me.”
“I suspected. Though, I’m surprised. I didn’t think the research would yield an in-person visit. Much less a visit from the boss. So, what’s the deal with Troika Star?” I folded my arms on the countertop.
“It’s a shell company owned by another shell company. We’re digging further to find out more. But that’s not the reason for the visit.” He pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket.
“Okay. What’s the reason?”
He tapped the screen a few times. “Is this the man you know as Jablonski?”
The man had a goatee and fuller cheeks, but I had no problem seeing past the facial hair. That eerie, ice-blue stare and hooked nose were not easily forgotten. “Yes. He didn’t have a beard, and his hair was blonder. Why? Who is he?”
“Naftali Rivkin, former Mossad.”
“Israeli intelligence?”
“Exactly.”
“Why would a Mossad agent be involved in this?”
“He went rogue six years ago. The Israelis disavowed him and put a price on his head. Supposedly, he turned over information to the Syrians that got two agents killed and burned an entire ring of assets. He’s been making money taking jobs on the black market. He’s well-trained and deadly.”
“So . . . he’s a bad man.”
“Very bad. And you’re on his radar. That’s bad too.”
“Actually, the FBI feels he got what he needed by stealing the senator’s phone. So, I can’t see why I’d be in his line of fire.”
His eyes darted around the room. “Did the feds sweep for bugs?”
“Yup.”
“Do you mind if I do so?”
“Knock yourself out,” I said.
Rick pulled a rectangular, black device, about the size of a cell phone, out of a cargo pants pocket at his knee. Extending the antenna, he started sweeping the room.
“The prevailing theory is he came in through the back door,” I offered. “Got the phone and left. Josh’ll tell you. I can’t see how I’d be a threat to him now.”
Rick finished his sweep and tucked the device back into his pocket. “You may be right. Nonetheless . . .” He reached into his jacket’s interior pocket and laid a small, black snub-nosed handgun on the counter. It said RUGER along the side. “This is a nine-millimeter. It fits comfortably in a woman’s hand and uses a seven-round single stack magazine. Have you ever used one?”
I recoiled from the deadly weapon. “Yes, once. In the stairwell. That didn’t go very well.”
“Actually, it wasn’t too bad. You didn’t hit me.”
I delivered a deadpan glare.
“So, that’s a no to the gun? Would you feel more comfortable carrying a knife?”
“No. I have a lovely little pink stun gun that fits nicely in my purse and won’t actually kill anyone. However, I don’t think you understand my situation. My cute little stun gun is currently residing in my office desk, because I can’t carry any of that stuff on the Hill. Which means that seventy percent of the time, it’s left at the office or in my car’s glovebox, because I’m constantly going through security checkpoints. Really, it’s almost more hassle than it’s worth.”
He tapped the weapon. “What about keeping this here at home, for self-defense? Bedside table? I can train you how to use it. We’ve got a gun range at work.”
“Tempting, but no.”
“Then let’s talk home security.”
“Speaking of security, how did you get in?” I tilted my head and produced a frown. “I didn’t buzz you.”
“Followed one of your neighbors. This building is amazingly unsecure. If you’re carrying a Dino’s pizza box, anyone will let you in.”
I bit my lip, knowing I’d held the door for the pizza guy in the past. “True. But at least we’ve got cameras now. That’s a deterrent, right?”
“Maybe to a nickel and dime thug. I suggest you get an alarm system for your apartment.”
I thought of the email links Mike sent last week. I’d printed them out, and they were now buried somewhere underneath the magazines on my coffee table. “Funny you should mention it. My FBI friend made the same suggestion. Who do you recommend?”
“I have two companies for your situation.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of another pocket. “Names and phone numbers are on here. They can have you set up in a few hours, and if you mention Silverthorne Security, you’ll get a discount.”
“Do you think it’s really necessary?”
“You tell me. You want another Jablonski incident?”
“Hell no. But, it’s not as though I’ve got nightly intruders.”
“I made it into the building,” he pointed out.
“Ah, but you wouldn’t have made it past the slide bolt, or my new trusty back door bar.” I made a sweeping motion—à la The Price is Right.
“Trust me.” His eyes tightened as he surveyed the room. “If I wanted to get into your apartment, I’d find a way. There are always the windows.”
“Cripes. You’re freaking me out. Okay, okay.” I rubbed my temples. “I’ll get myself a security system. Happy?”
“I’ll be happy when it’s installed.” His hand splayed across the gun, and he made it disappear back into his jacket.
“I’ll put it on the top of my to-do list Monday morning,” I said, slipping the piece of paper in my purse. “Is there anything else?”
“Not at this time. I’ll have someone get back to you about the shell company.”
“Oh, one more thing,” I said. “Do you know anything about a secret Capitol Hill poker game?”
“I’ve heard tell.” His eyes slid away from mine.
I crossed my arms and waited.
“What kind of information are you looking for?” he asked at last.
“What do you know about it?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” he hedged.
“It moves around?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where it was this past Thursday?”
“Nowhere. They don’t play on Thursdays. It’s the second Wednesday of the month.”
“Always?”
“Unless they have a vote or are working on passing a budget bill. Then it moves to the third Wednesday.”
Made sense. Wednesday was the one day of the week guaranteed to have the most congressmen in D.C. However, this poker game seemed less and less “secret” if so many people knew about it. And, Rick seemed pretty damn sure on what days they met. “How do you know all this?”
“Trust me, I know.”
“Do you provide security?”
He remained mum.
“Did you know Finley’s driver?”
He gave a single sharp nod. “Frank Salovar, we’d met.”
“Does he drink?”
“Not when he’s on the job. Very professional.”
“What do you think about the train wreck?”
He shrugged. “It’s a tragedy.”
Again, I waited for him to elaborate. I waited in vain. To
be honest, this was the most I’d ever heard Rick speak. Our other conversations had been short and to the point. Rick was a man of few words—or perhaps a man who watched his words carefully. I’d pegged him as former spec ops, but it was entirely possible Rick had been a spy. After all, they practically grew on trees here in D.C.
“Do you have any more questions for me? If not . . .” He slid off the stool. “Don’t forget the alarm system. Monday.”
“Why did you come?” I asked. “Why do you care?”
He shrugged. “I owe you.”
“The police lineup?”
“For one.”
I walked him to the door. “Considering your dashing rescue, I imagine we’re even. How are the ribs?”
“All healed.” He pounded his side where the injury happened. “Looks like the shoulder’s in good condition.”
“It is. I keep meaning to find a self-defense class. Can you recommend one?” I asked, opening the door.
“I’ll email you.”
“Do you need my email?”
“Got it.”
Of course, he does.
He slipped around the corner before I could ask him another question.
Two things came out of his visit. First, I still had no idea who owned the house on the water. Second, Rick got me freaked out about Jablonski all over again. That night I placed glass vases in front of all my windows and triple-checked the locks before heading to bed. It was one of the rare occasions I wished for a roommate. I considered inviting my sister Jillian over, but I ruled it out, knowing she’d have to get up too early to get to the middle school where she taught English.
Chapter Twenty
I’d expected Rodrigo to be impatiently waiting at my door when I arrived on Monday. Instead, I had to wait a full fifteen minutes before he graced my office.
“So, something is hinky with this Troika company,” he said, picking up our conversation where we’d left it. “Nobody owns it.”
I nodded and confirmed, “It’s a shell company owned by another shell company. We’re trying to pin down the registrant. I have a feeling it’s some sort of corporate tax shelter.”
Rodrigo’s mouth pinched at my revelations and he gave me the stink eye.
