by K R Hill
The patrolman snapped to attention. "Yes, sir."
"Connor Marin, I started a file on you. Come walk with me.” Deutz pulled him to his feet.
“Am I being arrested?”
“Just shut up for a minute.”
A plain clothes cop hurried over and grabbed Lieutenant Deutz’ arm. “You need to see this, Sir.”
“Is that the closed-circuit footage?” Deutz pointed to the cell phone the officer was holding.
“Yes, take a look. He gave something to this guy.” The policeman swiped the screen, backed up the video each time Lieutenant Deutz asked him to.
“That was it, right there. He gave that kid something. Good work.” Deutz turned and looked at Connor. “Okay, you led us away. That was good,” he said, pointing to the video. The Lieutenant spread out the fingers of both hands and pushed the fingertips of one against those of the other. After a moment Deutz exhaled loudly. “Here it is: I heard a rumor that you filmed the Russian mob doing business. All of a sudden, I got two fucking Captains screaming at me about it, and the Organized Crime Squad from the feds. Your investigation steps all over the LBPD. It’s our investigation, not the stinking feds. We need that film."
“If I had any information—and I’m not saying I do—turning it over to you would get me killed.”
“That’s what your partner said. But the word is out. We raided your office to get incriminating evidence on the Russian mob. How long do you think it’ll take Redmond to find out?” Deutz reached into a coat pocket and took out a business card. "In case you need to talk or hide.”
Connor looked at the card.
Lieutenant Deutz leaned close and whispered, “I’m an honest cop. I’ll protect you.”
“Have you seen what the Russians do to informants?"
“We need that video.” Deutz grabbed him by the shirt, and a patrolman coughed. Lieutenant Deutz glanced over his shoulder and released Connor.
“Someone in your department is dirty.”
“What?” Deutz drew his head back. “Someone in my department? Tell me who, and don’t be lying to me.”
“My dad and grandfather were LBPD. Why would I lie?”
“To save your ass.”
“Someone high up the chain is on the Russians’ payroll. That I know.”
“Knowing and having proof are two different things. Do you have proof?”
“No.”
Deutz smiled. “Pity. Remember, the word is out. I’ll be seeing you soon, if you’re still around.”
***
Later that day, Connor and Bartholomew walked along the bike path in Belmont Shore. Fifty feet away, the Pacific glided up the sand with a gentle swish. Here and there a swimmer waded into foot-high waves. Bicyclists pedaled along the path.
Connor nodded. “The police are watching us. Don’t look around. They’re on the bluff behind us.”
Bartholomew held his arms up as though he was jogging in place. “They’re pissed they didn’t get that drive.”
“They’re not going to give up.”
“So, tell me about the case for your army buddy.”
“Well, to start with, it pays ten grand, cash.”
“Whoa, ten large, each?” Bartholomew stopped.
“Yeah, each. Do you remember Dalton Investigations?”
“Jason Dalton, I remember. Our crosstown competitor. He got into some wild case. There was a crazy shoot-out or something. I heard he moved up to Alaska. Or was it Arkansas?”
“He was my commanding officer. Our unit was tearing up cartel business networks. Our command got hacked. A cartel butcher murdered two of our squad, wives and children. It was messy.”
“That’s the dream you have, right?”
“He used a machete. I found the bodies.”
Bartholomew buttoned his blazer. “Revenge? Is that the case?”
Connor looked past the lifeguard shack perched on stilts in the sand. A row of silent freighters floated on the horizon. Beyond the ships sat the dark, hazy outline of Catalina Island. “I took a vow to find the people responsible.”
Bartholomew nodded. “I don’t do that sort of thing.”
“Relax, we’re not going to kill anyone. Dalton wants us to run a scam on a crime family named Ghrazenko. They specialize in stolen artwork. I’ve been planning it for months.”
“And Ghrazenko will lead you to the cartels.”
“Exactly. We’re hoping he leads us to the killer. The plan is to hurt him financially. If he loses mob money, his own organization will eliminate him. But if we offer him a way out, he’d make any deal to avoid mob retaliation.”
“And his way out is by giving up cartel names.”
“The name of the killer.”
Bartholomew thumped him on the arm. “Enough with the pretty words. You’re going to rob him. Call it what it is.”
“Okay. I’m going to jack his ass. Is that street enough? You in?”
Bartholomew stopped walking, looked down, and scrapped a shoe along the pavement. “No, I’m not.”
“Oh fuck, here it comes. I knew it. It’s dad, right? Don’t bring him into this, you asshole. See, that’s why I didn’t tell you.” Connor growled.
“He may not have been my father, but he was my dad. He taught me his rules the same as he taught you, and you know what he’d say about this.”
Connor wrapped his arms around his head. “Yeah, speech #73, about how the judicial system works if you let it.”
Bartholomew nodded. “Monte always said that when you play judge and jury, life will come back and smack you down for interfering. Remember? You have to use the system.”
Connor marched up the path and shouted over his shoulder: “I hate it when you do that. Dad always took the high ground. He’s dead. Just leave him out of it for once, would you? Ghrazenko is a killer playing the system. I’m going to do the world a favor and get him taken out.”
Bartholomew trotted a few steps and caught up with him. “You’re not like that.”
“Bart, this case pays good. I got bills. Just keeping Tia Alma in that rest home costs me a fortune. I pay rent for the office. I pay rent on the loft. Debt is suffocating me.”
“I’m wrestling with it too. That’s why I started boxing again. If I win a few matches I can pay off some bills. Ten grand is tempting. What kind of play do you have in mind?” asked Bartholomew as seagulls screamed above.
“Ghrazenko competes with the Russians. He wants to use that surveillance footage I took to his advantage. I set up a meet.” Connor raised his chin toward three businessmen walking toward them.
Two of the men were so large they could hardly fit in their suits. Pointed tattoos extended from the ends of their sleeves onto their hands. The third man had a slender build and bounced like a high-strung terrier as he walked. His manicured beard, Italian suit, and ruby cuff links, made him look like a nightclub playboy.
“That’s him. Just hang out and stay cool. We’re here to listen.”
Bartholomew leaned close. “Look at them. Why do thugs all look the same? These are bad people.”
The three men walked over and the playboy adjusted a cufflink. “An acquaintance in the police thought you might be open to a business proposition.”
“Let me guess, you’re interested in a video I have.” Connor grabbed Bartholomew’s arm and stopped him from stepping forward. The bodyguards and Bartholomew stared each other down.
The playboy smiled. “Your friend doesn’t like me. I can see it in his eyes. But that doesn’t matter. This is a business meeting.”
One of the bodyguards stepped forward, but the playboy barked in a foreign language, and the man froze.
“I’ll take the two goons,” whispered Bartholomew. “Just say the word, Boss.”
“What happened to Dad’s speech?”
Bartholomew didn’t look away from the two heavy weights. “Say the word, Connor.”
“My name is Ghrazenko, Teddy Ghrazenko. My father deals in certain … how should I say it? His
tory. My family deals in history. Yes.” He smiled. “We buy and sell history, and the information you have about our Russian competitors is extremely valuable.”
Bartholomew tapped his arm.
“Easy, Bart,” said Connor.
“What do you say, Mr. Connor? I will pay $100,000 for the information. Think it over for a few days and let me know.”
“I’ll do that.”
Teddy Ghrazenko raised a hand above his head and waved it through the air. A moment later a limousine turned into the parking lot. The chauffeur jumped out and opened the rear door on either side of the vehicle, and stood waiting with his hands folded over his crotch.
Two of the men walked across the bike path toward the limousine, and stepped into the sand.
The third man didn’t move. “I know your face from somewhere.” He nodded toward Bartholomew.
“Never been there.” Bartholomew spit in the sand.
The big man looked down at the bike path, then raised his hand and pointed. “I remember now. Yeah, you are heavy-weight fighter. I watched you box in tournament.”
“That’s right. I knocked out a fat guy your size.”
“Oh, shit,” said Connor. “Bart, no, this guy’s a pro. Back down.”
The no-neck laughed and rubbed his face and pulled off his jacket. “Good. Now comes the trash talk. I think maybe you need a lesson from a Serb who is not paid to fall on the mat.”
“You want me? Come on.” Bartholomew raised his fists.
“No,” shouted Connor, stepping in front of Bartholomew.
The bodyguard threw his jacket to the ground. “I knew you would be afraid. You have to get your friend to protect you, right?”
“Let me go, Connor.”
“No. You’re being played. Look behind you. They’re sitting in the limo watching how you fight.”
“I don’t give a damn. Come on, fat boy.”
Connor jumped and wrapped his arms around Bartholomew. They wrestled until Connor said in a low voice: “They want to see you fight so they’re ready when they come for you.” He felt Bartholomew’s arms relax.
A whistle came from the limo, and the bodyguard picked up his jacket and laughed as he trotted toward the parking lot. “All temper and no brains, that’s good to know.”
“Is that what just happened? Are you kidding me?” asked Bartholomew. “Did I screw up that bad?”
“That’s how they work. Forget it.”
“I hate those sleaze balls. I should have rung the bell on all three of them.”
“You’re not that good.”
“Oh,” laughed Bartholomew as they walked. “And you are, Mr. Army Ranger?”
“The people I fought were trying to kill me.”
“Are those goons, are they going to come for me?”
“Know your enemy. They’re planning ahead. They wanted to know how you fight, in case they need to take you.”
“Oh crap, that makes me feel good. Where’s my gun? Give me a gun.”
“Relax. We learned a lot just now. Someone in the PD is selling info. I knew it. We’re on thin ice now. If I sell Teddy the surveillance, he’ll use it to build his interests. But if I say no, he’ll tip the Russians that I filmed them. That will put him on their good side. We’re screwed coming and going.”
At the end of the bike path he crossed the street and walked along in front of the basketball courts. A game was being played. Men shouted and pushed. When Connor reached Alamitos Bay, he looked up the street. “Our only way out is to start the play on Teddy.”
They walked.
“Oh,” said Bartholomew. “By the way, I did some research and couldn’t find anything about that Haitian general. It’s as though he fell into a hole and disappeared.”
“Did you read Alma’s journal?”
“Yeah, but there’s nothing there. Her memory is bad at best. She wrote memories of a hotel, how the general got drunk and beat her. But she never wrote her location.”
“And the money?”
“She remembers hiding it around a heating grate in the floor of some hotel room, but they could have been in one of 48 states. She also mentioned a black velvet pouch that she stashed.”
“A pouch—I wonder what was in it?”
“Something worth hiding.”
“I can understand her not remembering,” said Connor. “Think about it. She was new to the country. She spoke French and Spanish, but not English. She didn’t know where she was.”
“We may never find that general.”
“Let’s just hope dad didn’t put him in a hole.”
“What are you saying?”
“Think about it. You and Tia Alma were beaten and bloody and showed up in the middle of the night. Dad had three cop buddies searching the house with their weapons drawn. Some major shit went down that night.”
“I feel sick when I try to remember.”
“Don’t sweat it. We need to search the old library records. There might have been something in the Times,” said Connor. “I know a librarian who can help.”
Bartholomew laughed. “Not that kinky Asian chick you used to date. What was her name? Martha? She had the nicest little titties. Oh man, if Ashley finds out you were in the same building as that hot momma, she’ll kick Martha’s ass again, and probably yours along with it. You remember what happened at that reception, right?”
“This is business.”
Bartholomew laughed. “Martha always got right to business. Let the fireworks begin. I ain’t gunna save your ass this time.”
Chapter 10
Scaffolding covered the lower three floors of the concrete building that housed Long Beach city hall and the main library. Chains held large plastic tubes to side of the structure, and every once-in-a-while a rumbling came from one of the tubes as loads brick fragments and concrete tumbled through it and sent up a dust cloud as the rubble spilled into a dumpster.
Connor and Bartholomew walked through an entry tunnel of green plastic sheeting, entered the lobby with paper signs taped to the walls, passed workers in orange vests and hard-hats, and entered the library.
Connor asked for help at the counter, and one of the librarians walked into the back room. A moment later she came out followed by plump man in a plaid shirt. The library assistant led them to a long table supporting six computers. He showed them where to type their library card number, and got them online.
Connor began with a search, typed in the Haitian general’s name, and scrolled through the results that listed several articles.
Bartholomew set in the wooden chair beside him, and leaned close to the computer screen. “That one,” he said, tapping the screen with a finger.
Connor followed one lead and then another, and before he knew it an hour had passed and they had not found a single clue that might lead them the General’s location.
“Well,” said an Asian woman with bright red hair slicked back and held in place with sparkling crystal pens. She shifted a stack of books in her arms, and set them on the table across from Connor. “I never thought I’d see you here again.
“Oh, Martha,” said Connor, leaning back in his chair. “I didn’t know you still worked here.”
She shook her head and wagged a finger. “Don’t give me that.” Martha glanced around the library as if she was wondering whether or not she could say what she wanted to say. “You knew. I sent you that naughty text a week ago.”
“Naughty text?” Bartholomew hit Connor’s arm with his elbow. “Are there photos? Forward it to me. Give me your phone.”
“Martha, you remember Bartholomew, right?”
She smiled and nodded. “The same Bartholomew with the room we used to sneak into when we couldn’t find another place to be alone?”
“In my bed?” asked Bartholomew. “And you never told me? You just let me sleep in there with all your mess all over?”
Connor shrugged. “Maybe you can give us a hand, Martha.”
“Maybe. Is this a case you’re working on?”
She touched one of her gold hoop earrings, picked up the stack of books from the table, walked over and stood beside Connor.
“It’s a case with personal stuff mixed in. We’re trying to find a Haitian General that disappeared in the 90s. We found some mention of him being in the States, and then we got nothing.”
“Well move over, let me jump in.” Martha tapped Connor on the shoulder, and sat down after he stood. Within moments she was flying around the Internet, tracing one lead and then another, until she found a reference from an article in the LA times. It was an interview with the general, complete with a photo.
As soon as the photo appeared on the screen, Connor and Bartholomew leaned forward and read.
“Oh,” said Martha, leaning back. “I guess that’s something you like.” She reached over and touched Connor’s hand. “Now you know where to find me. I’ll let you finish reading, and if you need more help, or you get tired of that redhead you’re with, maybe we could take another run at what we had before.” She pushed the chair back, stood up and walked a few steps.
Connor raised up from the computer. “Thanks for getting us on the right track. Your offer is tempting, but right now everything is good.”
Martha smiled and winked. “I miss our rendezvous. You were so creative. I’m not going to stop sexting.” She walked away with a walk that left Connor staring without knowing that he was staring.
“Listen,” said Bartholomew. “We’re brothers, so you can show me those texts, or, better yet, just forward the photos. No photos? Oh, video, I have to see the video.”
Connor sat and read the interview. When he finished, he said: “The writer doesn’t mention where the interview took place, or anything that could lead us to the General’s whereabouts.” He sat silent for a moment, then scrolled to the beginning, highlighted the reporter’s name and pasted it into a Google search. When that didn’t yield an address, he called a contact in Long Beach PD, and wrote down the reporter’s DMV registered address with one of the library’s stubby pencils.
Connor signed out of the computer, pushed away from the table, and walked toward the exit. “I think we should talk with this reporter, Robert Sherman. He may not mention it in the article, but if we know where the interview took place, we might be able to pick up the General’s trail.”
