“Both.” Milk leaned back against the elevator wall.
“I was a point guard on my high school team.”
The elevator silently rose through the floors. When it reached the top, Milk tapped Markus on the shoulder. “Must have been a long time ago,” he said, flashing a big grin.
Markus chuckled. “It was, but feels like yesterday.”
The doors opened to a reception area with twenty-foot ceilings and twenty-foot windows revealing a view clear across the city to the bay. Blake McConner had the entire thirty-fourth floor of the building.
Milk shot his hand to the elevator door to ensure Markus could exit without it closing on him. “Thank you,” Markus said, as he passed Milk on his way to the secretary behind the modern white desk.
“Good morning”
“Morning. We have an appointment with Blake.”
The woman looked at Markus, dressed in his green polo shirt and khaki pants. Then her eyes wandered up to take in all of Milk in his black suit. “May I have your names?”
“If you could just tell him Markus is here, he’ll know.”
“Have a seat,” she gestured to small white chairs surrounding a glass coffee table near the giant windows.
Markus smiled, nodded at Milk. “Shall we sit?” Markus took a few strides and was seated. He watched Milk slowly lumber to the chairs with a pained look on his face, as if Milk was trying to decide if he could safely sit on the fancy white chair without crushing it. “If it breaks, we’ll sue him and make a fortune,” Markus whispered.
Another smile crossed Milk’s face. He gently sat in the chair. It held.
A moment later, a thirty-year-old man with short black hair approached, wearing a t-shirt with a marijuana leaf on it, cargo shorts, and flip flops. “Markus, sorry for my attire. I was trying to get to the beach today but had to come in for the proposal.”
Markus rose and shook his hand. “No problem, Blake. This is Milk.” Markus watched Blake’s reaction as Milk stood.
“Hi,” Blake said as he shot out his hand. It was completely engulfed by Milk’s.
“Can we go to your office? Somewhere private?” Markus asked.
“Of course. Let’s go.” Blake led them past several small offices filled with people in business attire.
As Blake entered his office, he tapped a switch and the glass walls separating his office from the rest of the business frosted to afford them privacy.
This was the first time Markus had been inside Blake’s office, he’d been in the conference room twice before. He couldn’t help pausing in awe of the modern splendor that was Blake’s office. The view was even better than it was in the reception area. The black desk perfectly matched the black patent leather couch. The room was big enough to have at least eight people in it for a meeting. “I like your office,” Markus stated.
“Lots of overhead.” Blake sat behind his desk and gestured for them to sit on the couch. “But I’m here all the time so I like having a kick-ass office.”
Markus and Milk sat next to each other on the couch.
Blake looked at Milk with curiosity. “What brings you, both, here?”
“The PB development bid. I’ve got a proposal for you,” Markus said with a soft voice.
Blake looked at Markus warily. “What’s that?”
“This gentleman,” Markus nodded to Milk, “he works for a specialized court system. I understand it’s like arbitration for matters that operate in gray areas of the law. I would like to have their help in deciding this. There’s no reason we should cut our legs out from under each other competing for the bid. We could make so much more profit with an agreement.”
Blake involuntarily snorted a laugh. “You want criminals to help us set a price?” He shook his head in disbelief.
“You’re being summoned,” Milk’s deep voice firmly stated. “Tonight, the Gangster’s Court will resolve this dispute with or without you. And the decision will be enforced.”
Blake froze, staring at Markus. “Did you bring him here to intimidate me? To threaten me?” His voice got a little louder.
“No. Of course not. He’s part of the Court. Let me tell you about it,” Markus said softly, with his hands up in a defensive posture. “My friend brings arthritis medicine in from Canada, some guy piggybacked Oxycontin with it and got busted. The lost shipment was a good chunk of money, and lost profit was a quarter million or more per year. He wanted to take the other guy to court, but couldn’t because it’s illegal to import medicine without a license.”
“We’re not drug dealers. We’re not criminals.” Blake trailed off. “At least I’m not.”
“Blake,” Markus commanded, “If you bid separately, you’ll bid, what, forty million for a property that might be worth fifty?”
“I’m not going to tell you what I was going to bid.”
“I’m not asking. Just think of this. If we each bid twenty, one of us gets it at twenty and there’s an extra twenty million dollars in potential profit so both of us can make some good money. But if we each bid around forty, one of us gets a ten million dollar profit, the other zero.” Markus leaned so far forward his elbows were on his knees. “We’re the only two firms – if we work something out, we can both make a fortune.”
Blake fidgeted with a pen. “Isn’t that crazy?”
“Both of us want the project.” Markus leaned back. “Isn’t it crazy not to get a little help to work together and figure out how to make millions more as friendly competitors rather than aggressive ones?”
“I don’t know. How would it even work?”
Markus looked at Milk.
Milk cleared his throat. “Tonight, at eight, you go to this doctor’s office. We use that location so there’s no chance of being bugged by cops. You meet your judge, someone with legal experience. You both talk, show papers if you want. Bring your witnesses. You agree to do what the judge tells you.”
“Or what?” Blake asked.
Milk shrugged. “Or what never happens. Not a good idea.”
“Wait.” Blake slammed his pen down. “This sounds like some sort of setup. I show up, agree to do whatever your person with legal experience says, but what if it’s to just award you the bid?”
“The Court is legit,” Milk commanded.
Markus reached into his back pocket and fished out a folded slip of paper. He tossed it on Blake’s desk.
“What’s that?” Blake pointed at the paper.
Markus settled back into the couch. “A sign of good faith.”
Blake unfolded the paper, squinting to read it. “A cashier’s check for five million dollars?”
“For you to return after the Court. It’s a good faith deposit to show you have even more leverage than I do.”
Blake dropped the check on the desk. “What’s the catch?”
“I’m confident this court thing can help us like it helped my friend. The fee is fifty thousand dollars and two percent of the net savings. They have an incentive to help both of us save money. So I’d rather give that a shot than fight you in front of City Council.”
“So I can deposit this?”
“Tomorrow, if you feel you’ve been taken advantage of, you can take my five million dollars. If you feel it was a fair shake, you give it back.”
Blake sat staring at the check, rubbing it between his fingers. “I’m putting this in a safety deposit box. Anything happens to me, you’ll never get it back.”
Markus shrugged. “Okay.”
Blake shook his head and shrugged. “Guess I’ll see you guys tonight.”
18
The heavyset Detective Browning entered Jo’s morning traffic calendar with sweat spots seeping into his brown suit. The heavy air conditioning in the large room was a relief.
Browning sat in the back row of the nearly empty gallery and listened to an officer testify about the accused failing to come to a complete stop at a stop sign. His eyes explored Judge Jo Channing and her clerk. He thought back to his early days when he di
d traffic enforcement. Nothing’s changed.
One of the two tan-shirted sheriff’s deputies walked around the perimeter of the hundred-seat gallery towards Browning. He leaned close to Browning’s ear and whispered, “Are you here for a traffic trial?”
“No, to talk with staff,” Browning whispered back. “I’m Detective Browning. Looking for background on Officer Maggiore’s murder.”
The deputy looked around the courtroom. All was calm. “Let’s step out to the hall.”
Browning stood and follow him out of Jo’s ice-cold traffic department and into the warm hallway.
Browning pulled out a notepad and fished out a pen from the inside pocket of his suit coat. “Deputy?”
“Dennis Quinn. Q-u-i-n-n.”
Browning wrote the name. “Did you know Officer Maggiore?”
“Not well. She was in traffic court twenty, thirty times in the past year or two. Exchanged a few pleasantries here and there. But I didn’t know her well.”
“Do you remember a defendant named Marcos Omar?”
Dennis looked up at the Court’s daily docket pinned against the corkboard. He shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
“About two weeks ago?”
Dennis shrugged. “Sorry. Don’t think so.”
Browning reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He tapped around on it, then handed it to Dennis. “Is this face familiar?”
“Oh. I think he was here in a suit. I took a group of people out to the trailers for trial, so Pete or Valencia might remember what his case was about.” Dennis paused. “If that’s him.”
“Short guy. Fit?”
“Probably him. Defendants don’t usually wear suits here, so he stuck out.”
Browning shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Pete?”
“Amberson. Pete Amberson.”
Browning wrote the name down. “Valencia?”
“Damian Valencia.”
“Anyone else you think I should talk to?” Browning scribbled Damian’s name down.
Dennis nodded. “For sure talk to Annette. She knows everything.” He gave a little shrug. “And chat with Judge Channing. She’s nice. And sharp. She might remember him.”
“Thank you.” Browning eyed the door. “How about heading back into that good AC?”
“Sure,” Dennis said, opening the door.
Browning returned to his same seat. Dennis made sure the door closed without banging, then walked back to Browning and whispered in his ear, “Tall one is Pete. The pretty clerk is Annette. The hot judge is Jo Channing.”
“Valencia?” Browning whispered.
“I’ll look for him.”
“Thanks.” Browning settled into the uncomfortable seat, enjoying the cool air and the opportunity to observe those he was about to question.
He watched the proceedings until he was the last visitor in the department.
Judge Jo Channing whispered something to Annette, then called out, “Court is now in recess.” She looked at Browning and called out, “Sir, can we help you?”
Browning stood. “I’m Detective Browning. I’d like to talk with your staff about a police investigation. Annette. Pete. Damian. And maybe you.”
“Sure. Try not to hold them up for their lunch break, I want to start the afternoon session on time. If you need anything from me, I’ll be in chambers.”
“Thank you.”
Jo left the bench for her chambers.
Browning walked down the center aisle toward the lectern before the bench.
The tall deputy approached. “I’m Pete Amberson. How can I help?”
Browning smiled at Pete, then turned to the clerk. “Annette?”
“Yes.”
“Can I talk with you guys at the same time? If I need more, then we can chat one-on-one?” Browning set his notepad and pen on the lectern.
“Sure,” Annette said.
Pete nodded.
Browning got the spelling of both their names, looked at Pete and asked, “How well did you know Officer Maggiore?”
“Not well. A little small talk in Court once in a while. I don’t think I ever learned her first name.”
“Kristen,” Annette jumped in. “I know her name from the paperwork. Didn’t really know her well either.”
“Anything stick out about her?”
Annette nodded. “She would stare at Officer Gecina whenever they were in here together. I think she had a thing for him.”
Browning scribbled on his pad.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Nope,” Pete added.
“Do you guys remember a defendant named Marcos Omar?”
“Fix-it ticket,” Annette said. “I think it was written by Maggiore. I’m not a hundred percent sure.”
“It was,” Browning confirmed. “Anything about his situation that stuck out?”
“Yeah,” Pete said. “He went to see the Judge in chambers after Valencia signed his fix-it ticket.”
Browning froze.
“I think he was a former client,” Pete added.
Annette’s hand went to her chin in thought. “It was something like that. Maybe he was helping a client of hers.”
“And she didn’t recuse herself?”
“For a fix-it ticket?” Annette chastised Browning. “She didn’t sign off on it, Valencia did. Nothing wrong with what the Judge did.”
Browning looked at Pete. “Any idea what they talked about?”
“None.”
“Know how long they talked?”
Pete scratched at his head. “Five minutes?”
Browning looked at Annette, smiling slightly. “You know what Omar does for a living?”
“No.”
“Private investigator.”
Annette leaned back. “Then that would make sense if he knows the Judge like that, from a client of hers that he helped.”
Browning took a deep breath. “You guys know nothing about this Omar guy? Never heard rumors of him?”
Annette shook her head. “No.”
“Nope,” Pete added.
Browning glanced down at his pad. “Was Maggiore here the day when Omar was?”
Pete shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“I can check,” Annette said, tapping at her keyboard. “No, she wasn’t.”
Browning lowered his voice. “What do you guys think of the Judge?”
“She’s good,” Annette said. “Smart as a whip. Fair. Thorough. Hears both the officers and defendants out.”
Browning looked at Pete.
Pete nodded. “Agreed. And she gets us to start on time. We’ll miss her when she moves on. She’s one of the good ones.”
Browning looked at his nearly empty note pad. “Anything with her and Maggiore?”
Annette shrugged. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” She paused. “Last week, Maggiore testified on a speeding ticket. She didn’t lay a foundation for her lidar being calibrated and didn’t give a speed estimate; the Judge found not guilty.”
“Was the Judge wrong?”
“No,” Annette said. “But I’ve seen lots of judges go guilty with worse testimony than Maggiore’s.”
Browning looked at Pete. “Any thoughts?”
“It was a judgment call. I’ve seen judges go guilty or not guilty on that. The defendant told a story about how his sister was killed by a speeder. It was compelling. I would have probably done what the Judge did.”
Annette added, “Oh, the day dragged on because all the other officers repeated the foundation three times to make sure they didn’t make the mistake Maggiore did.”
“Can you think of any real connection between the Judge, Maggiore, and Omar?” Browning asked in a hushed tone.
Annette shook her head. “Seems like coincidence to me. But I don’t know much.”
Pete nodded. “Seems like a coincidence.”
“Pete, you’re a trained investigator.”
“Yeah.” Pete shrugged.
“Officer Gecina,
dead. Officer Maggiore, dead. Omar and the Judge have a secret meeting in chambers…”
Pete chuckled. “Sounds more like a good novel than something that could have happened.”
Would it be so funny if you knew Brad Gecina was Jo’s client? Browning cleared his throat. “Why are you so sure of that?”
“I just don’t see it as possible,” Pete said with conviction.
“Me either,” added Annette.
Browning closed his notepad. “Annette, any chance you could get me a copy of the transcript of the proceedings for the Marcos Omar fix-it ticket and the traffic trial Maggiore lost?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.” Browning pulled two cards from his pocket. “Any facts either of you remember that could be interesting, give me a call?” Browning requested, handing each of them a card.
They agreed to.
“Deputy, can you take me to see the Judge?”
“Let’s go.” Pete led Browning past the bench and through a door to a hallway used by staff. A few seconds later he knocked on Jo Channing’s door.
* * *
Jo heard a knock on her chambers’ door. “Judge, Detective Browning is here.”
“Come in.”
The door opened and Pete popped his head inside. “I’ll be next door if you need anything. Okay, Judge?”
“Thanks, Pete.”
Pete pulled back from the door and Browning entered the doorway. Jo stood and walked to him. “Hi, Jo Channing.”
Browning shook her hand. “Detective Browning. Thanks for seeing me.”
Jo pointed to the couch. “Have a seat.” She took a seat across from him in a wooden chair. “How can I help you?”
Browning opened his notepad. “How well did you know Officer Maggiore?”
“Not well at all.” Jo’s anxiety remained high, she coiled into her chair. “She appeared on my calendar a couple of times. Only times I think I’ve ever met her.”
“Anything unusual with any of her matters?”
Jo shook her head. “Not that I can think of.”
“You found one of her defendants not guilty on a speeding ticket. What happened there?”
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