The Pain Scale

by Tyler Dilts

“Just the usual. The regular exercises. I think work is helping.” I thought for a moment about going into detail about the specific ways in which it was helping, but I still wasn’t comfortable talking about it.

  “Has the pain level been lower overall since the last time you were here?”

  “A bit, yes.” As long I have innocent murder victims to think about.

  “Did you get a guitar?”

  “Well—”

  “You better not say no.”

  “Kind of.”

  “What does that mean? How do you kind of get a guitar?”

  “I didn’t get a guitar, I got a—”

  “I knew it.”

  “I got a banjo.”

  “A banjo? Who gets a banjo?”

  “A friend gave it to me.” I explained to her about Harlan, about his illness, about the gift.

  “He’s right,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “The banjo. It will work.”

  Outside of her office, in my car, feeling relaxed and with my pain only a low hum in the background of my awareness, I thought about calling it a day. Going home and relaxing. Maybe watching one of the Netflix DVDs that had been gathering dust on the shelf under the TV for the last few months.

  It didn’t take long to convince myself that even though that sounded tempting, it would be better not to allow my awareness to drift too far away from the case. I decided I’d treat myself to carne asada at Enrique’s and then get back to it. I left messages for Patrick and Jen, asking if they’d like to join me.

  As I drove east on Broadway, I thought about where to go next. We needed to talk to Bradley. If there’d been even a slight chance of getting a crack at a real interrogation, I would have jumped at it. But in his condition and with his level of legal representation, there was no way we were going to get that kind of crack at him.

  Still, after I turned off PCH onto Loynes and into the shopping center where the restaurant was located, I gave Campos a call.

  “Detective Beckett, hello,” he said. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard from you I was starting to get worried.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Julian. I’m calling to see how Bradley’s doing.”

  “Still struggling quite a bit, I’m afraid. But he is improving. Not a great deal, mind you, but some.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Do you think he’s ready to try our conversation again?”

  “I’ll certainly ask him, Detective.”

  “Please do,” I said. “Is he still staying at his parents’ house?”

  “He spent a bit of time at his own house, but it was too painful for him. He’ll be staying with his family for the time being.”

  “Thanks for your help, Julian.”

  I hung up and went inside to put my name in for a table. Enrique’s wife, Michelle, greeted me and said, “You look like you’re in a good mood tonight. Haven’t you been coming in for breakfast lately?”

  “Yes, I have. It’s wonderful. Best in Long Beach.”

  “I hope you’re telling people that.”

  “Every chance I get.”

  “Good. It hasn’t quite caught on yet.”

  “I’ll keep spreading the word.” Even though I didn’t like the thought of having to wait to be seated every morning, too.

  Twenty minutes later, while I was sitting on the carved wooden bench reading the “Ask a Mexican” column in the OC Weekly and waiting to be seated, I saw Patrick’s Mini pull into the lot and squeeze into a spot between a Range Rover and a Chevy Silverado.

  Just as he was about to sit next to me on the bench, the hostess leaned out the door and called my name.

  “Perfect timing,” Patrick said.

  They seated us at a booth in the back, and we ordered without looking at the menus.

  “Anything to report?” I asked him.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I’ve got a mountain of data to sort through. Cell phone records, location logs, personnel records from Sternow and Byrne. Even some case files. Their security is nowhere near what it should be. There’s got to be something worthwhile in there.”

  “How do we find it?”

  “I’ve got some programs running, searching all of it for a few dozen keywords and terms. Names, addresses, numbers, e-mail, stuff like that. That will help with some of it. I’ll do some other data crunching, too. That won’t get everything, though.”

  “What will?”

  “The only way to catch everything is going through it page by page.”

  “How many pages are there?”

  “About a hundred thousand so far.”

  Before I could respond, the waiter was at our table with the food. “Be careful,” he said. “These plates are very hot.”

  Seven

  AT HOME THAT night, after I’d gone over the case files looking for any connections we might have missed, and after I had watched what I think was my favorite video of Bailey—the one where she read Horton Hears a Who! to Sara, who was behind the camera saying to her daughter every few pages, “Sound it out”—three more times, I sat in the living room and strummed the strings of the banjo with the back of the nail on the middle finger of my right hand. I practiced hitting each string by itself, then in various combinations. There was really no purpose to it, and I had no idea what I was doing. But as I gradually became more adept at hitting the string I was aiming at, I noticed something that surprised me.

  I was beginning to like the sound.

  But it didn’t do anything for the pain that was coiling up my arm and into my deltoid and trapezius muscles. I microwaved the hydroculator for four and a half minutes, wrapped it in a hand towel, then went back to the couch and draped it around my neck. It was too hot, but I fought the burn and left it in place because its pain was different, and sometimes a different pain is welcome, if only because the novelty itself is a kind of relief.

  As the heat dissipated, it penetrated into my muscles, and the burning sharpness flattened out into a dull and heavy ache.

  I turned on Craig Ferguson, drank three glasses of Grey Goose and orange juice, and when I felt the alcohol beginning to take hold, I went to bed.

  It was sometime close to three when I went to sleep. I knew because the BBC World Service broadcast on KPCC had ended and I had listened to Steve Inskeep and Renee Montagne knock off a couple of Morning Edition stories each before my awareness began to fade and I finally nodded off.

  When I’d been asleep just long enough for the dream of the saw to return—this time with Megan and my father standing in for Bailey and Jacob and imploring me to cut away their pain—my phone rang. In the midst of the hazy half consciousness that resulted from being jarred awake in the middle of a dream, I thought I heard Lieutenant Ruiz telling me that the Long Beach Harbor Patrol had found Anton Tropov’s body. He repeated himself and my attention sharpened and my feet were on the floor and I was fumbling for the light switch.

  Less than half an hour later, I was standing on the harbor’s edge not far from Tropov’s warehouse. Ruiz had kept things quiet. There were only eight people at the scene. Jen would be number nine when she arrived.

  The body was stretched out on the asphalt. He hadn’t been in the water long. There was no doubt it was Anton. He must have come back to his home turf and found someone waiting.

  The officer who had found him had been responding to a report of a gunshot. Judging by the center mass through-and-through wound and the tissue damage caused by the round, it had almost certainly come from a rifle. Was it a sniper?

  “Who called in the report?” I asked Ruiz.

  “A guy working late up the block.”

  “Anybody talk to him yet?”

  “No, Stan’s with him. Waiting for one of us.”

  “You have Stan’s cell number on your phone?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Get him for me.”

  “You don’t want to interview him face to
face?”

  “No time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have an idea.”

  The lieutenant saw something in my face that convinced him not to ask any more questions. Ruiz dialed and handed me his phone.

  Stanley Burke is a veteran uniform with more than twenty years on the job. Back in my uniform days, I’d shared a cruiser with him on a few occasions.

  “Danny?” he said.

  “Yeah. Can I talk to the guy?”

  “Sure.” He spoke to the witness before he took the phone away from his ear so I would know the man’s name. “Mr. Santiago, a detective would like to speak to you.”

  “Hello? What can I do for you?” Santiago had a firmness and confidence in his voice. And an alertness, too, one I wouldn’t have expected at four in the morning.

  I introduced myself and told him I needed his help.

  “First, would you just describe what you heard?”

  “A rifle shot, coming from the east.”

  “A rifle, specifically?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be sure it was a rifle and not some other kind of gun?”

  “I was in the war. I know a rifle shot when I hear one.”

  Good, I thought. If I’d had time, I would have asked what war. I was guessing Vietnam. “And you said it came from the east?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do when you heard the sound?”

  “I turned off the light in front and went outside to take a look.”

  Santiago was smart enough to make himself less of a target before checking things out. Good. “When you went outside, did you see or hear anything else?”

  “No. We’re far enough away from most of the overnight harbor traffic that it’s pretty quiet here.”

  “Did you see any headlights or hear any cars close by?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “How long did you stay outside?”

  “Two or three minutes. I wanted to be sure there was nothing else going on.”

  “And there wasn’t?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you think you would have heard a car a block away?”

  “I think so.”

  “How about two?”

  “Depends on the car. Maybe.”

  “Mr. Santiago, thank you; you’ve been a tremendous help.”

  I hung up and gave the lieutenant back his phone.

  I took a look around. The edge of the canal was fairly open, at least ten yards from the nearest building. There were structures in every direction. Dozens of ideal places for someone to watch Tropov’s property without being seen.

  “What is it, Danny?”

  “Nobody rushed to get out of here. Whoever shot Tropov wasn’t in any hurry to flee the scene.”

  “Sniper,” he said.

  “Yeah. He wasn’t close enough to confirm the kill.”

  “So what’s your idea?”

  “Call an ambulance. We have a gunshot victim who needs to be rushed to the hospital.”

  In addition to the ambulance, he called the deputy chief, who in turn called an administrator at Long Beach Memorial. Anton Tropov would be rushed to the trauma center. The records would indicate he was in critical condition.

  “So what’s the point of this, exactly?” Jen asked.

  “Well, it gives us the chance to plant information. If they think Anton’s still alive, maybe they’ll try to hit him again.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “Whoever hired Anton and his two thugs.”

  “You think they’ll try to get to him in the hospital?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s a long shot, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Patrick thinks it might shake some information loose.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “He’s monitoring Bradley and the congressman and Kroll. Phones and computers. And Sternow and Byrne. Maybe we’ll get something.”

  “And the lieutenant went for this?”

  I nodded.

  “Are we really this desperate?”

  A sharp pain stabbed at the base of my neck. Jen saw me tense up and raise my shoulder toward my ear. “Seven,” she said. She saw all the confirmation she needed in my expression. “Did it come out of nowhere,” she asked, “or was it already there and it just got worse?”

  “It was there. But I wasn’t as aware of it.”

  “Is the pain constant? Is it only your awareness that changes?”

  “It’s partly the awareness. But it gets worse when I focus on it.”

  “I’m sorry, Danny.”

  “I know.”

  My BlackBerry rang. I saw Patrick’s name on the screen. “What’s up?”

  “Twenty minutes after Ruiz called for the ambulance, Roger Kroll made a phone call and sent a text message.”

  “Who’d he call?”

  “A number that I don’t have yet.”

  “What about the text?”

  “He sent it to Margaret Benton.” When I didn’t reply for several seconds, he added, “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t expect that. Do you know what it said?”

  “Yeah. He told her, ‘We have a problem.’”

  “Did she answer?”

  “Yep. Just said, ‘Fix it.’”

  “For all we know,” Ruiz said, “they could be talking about a toilet in the mansion.”

  “They could,” I said. “But they’re not.”

  “So you’re thinking she’s the shot caller?”

  “We have the earlier phone records showing a lot of contact between them. Maybe there’s something else going on. We don’t know. Maybe she’s the one pulling the strings.”

  “What do we do with it?”

  “We find more evidence.”

  “More? You don’t have any yet. All you have are illegally obtained phone records.”

  “We have more than that.”

  “Not that you can use.”

  He was right.

  And by the time Jen and I got to Patrick’s place, we had a whole bunch more we couldn’t use.

  “I’m not sure where I should start,” he said.

  “Can we backtrack and find any previous text messages between Kroll and Mrs. Benton?” Jen asked.

  “We’ve already got the records. They go back about two years. More than a few, but not a huge number. I’m still working on the contents. The older they are, the harder they are to find.”

  Jen nodded.

  “My first thought,” I said, “was some kind of relationship.”

  Patrick said, “Well, it is some kind of a relationship.”

  “Just not the kind I was thinking of.”

  “Even if they hired Tropov and the stooges, they still could be fucking each other,” Jen said.

  “Good point,” Patrick said.

  “Maybe the texts will tell us something.” I looked at the stacks of papers on his desk. “What else did you find?”

  “I told you last night I have access to S and B’s personnel files? Don’t know what to do with them exactly yet. They have fingerprints on file for all the PMF guys. I’m figuring out a way to run the driver’s prints against what they have without leaving any tracks.”

  Jen thought about that for a moment. “Think they’d go in-house for something like that?”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “But let’s hope so. If they didn’t make any more mistakes, we’re in trouble.”

  It wasn’t even noon yet, but we’d already been on the clock for nearly eight hours. Jen looked tired.

  “You want to go home, get some sleep?” I asked.

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “At least take a long lunch. Get a little rest.”

  She nodded.

  “Come back at three or four.”

  “We’re almost there, Danny.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I didn’t know where “there” was, but I knew she was right. “Go sleep.”

&nb
sp; After she left, I started tossing things around in my head. I was surprised Anton would have gone back to his warehouse. Every experience I’d had with him seemed to indicate he was too smart for a rookie mistake like that. Especially with Yevgeny watching his back. There must have been a reason that he’d taken that kind of chance.

  What could it have been?

  I was still trying to answer that question when Patrick called. He’d left a few hours earlier to get back to his data.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I’ve got something,” he said.

  Three

  THE FACE WAS not much more than a blur, really, reflected in the rearview mirror of the Tahoe that Shevchuk’s killers had been driving. Patrick gave me a long and complicated explanation of how he had been able to recover the deleted photo from a mirror image of the flash memory of the driver’s iPhone. I got lost somewhere in the second or third sentence.

  “How can we be sure this is the Tahoe?”

  “Well, we can’t sure it’s the Tahoe, but we know it’s a Tahoe.” He opened a file and showed me a dozen photos of rearview mirrors. “These are all from the same year and trim level they were driving. If you look close, you can see the shape and proportions are the same.” He moused around the screen for few seconds and pulled three of the pictures into a line under the blurred face. He was right. The mirrors were all identical.

  “How did you find all those?”

  “Everything’s out there. You just need to know where to look.”

  I was impressed. And he knew it.

  “And you said you got this from a copy of the phone?”

  “Yeah, that’s the best part. The phone itself is still in evidence. I didn’t have to break the chain of custody.”

  That meant that, unlike most of the other evidence Patrick had gathered, one of the techs at the department would be able to duplicate his results, and this would be admissible in court and valid evidence for warrants and other investigative purposes. If we could only match the photo to an actual face.

  When I asked him about that, he said, “I used a facial-recognition program to run against the Sternow and Byrne personnel files but didn’t get any hits.” He saw the disappointment in my expression and went on. “Don’t give up yet. The program I have is fairly basic, so I’m upgrading to a much better program. I’ve also got a guy who can enhance the image better than I can. We’ll also have a lot more resources we can use whenever we go on the official record with this and can run it against the state and federal databases.”