by K R Hill
Bartholomew snatched the address from his hand. “What if Monte killed the General? Tia Alma couldn’t have gotten that money if the General was alive, right? Maybe this is something we shouldn’t pursue. I mean finding out what happened could change everything I know about Dad.”
Connor stopped walking. “What do you remember about that night?”
Bartholomew crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling. “I told you, I get sick. I just remember men shouting. I hid under my bed. Lights flashed around my room. There were a couple of loud booms, then silence.”
“Booms? As in gunfire?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s it?”
“Before we came to the States, I remember a giant house in Haiti, and seeing that man, the General, once in a while. But there was always Alma.”
They walked out of the library, through the tunnel of sheet plastic, into the sunshine, crossed the plaza with scaffolding on one side of City Hall, and trotted up the concrete stairs of the parking garage.
Connor stopped on the third level and looked around. “Our lives changed that night. I need to know who dad was, good or bad.”
“I owe him so much. I’m afraid to find out.”
Connor climbed into the Mustang and unlocked the passenger door. As he was backing out of the space, he said: “You know, maybe we don’t have to drive all the way to Buellton for that reporter.”
“Why?”
Connor took the parking stub off the dashboard and shoved it into the automat. When the arm swung up, he drove out of the garage and turned right. “Remember Arty?”
“Oh, Dad’s old partner?”
“Yeah. He has a burger joint now. Maybe he can tell us what happened that night.”
“You’ll have to go see him,” snapped Bartholomew.
Connor glanced over and laughed. “Wait a minute. This is about Martha’s text, isn’t it? Don’t be pissed because I didn’t let you perve out on that video.”
Bartholomew swung a fist in the air. “I knew it was a video. Let me see.”
“Man, get your own girlfriend. I had to delete it before Ashley saw it.”
“What a waste. Women just don’t understand.”
Chapter 11
It was dark when they returned to the office. Books, papers and clothes that the police had knocked off shelves and emptied from drawers lay strewn about the floor.
Connor picked up some papers and set them atop the desk. “There should be a maid service that follows the cops around and picks up after them.”
"Right.” Bartholomew closed the door. “When we were on the bike path and spoke to that Ghrazenko thug, you said you had a plan. Show me what we have on Teddy Ghrazenko. I want to see the plan.”
“What about our other cases? Do we have time for this?”
“We’re making time.” Bartholomew took off his jacket and dropped it over the arm of the sofa. “That insurance case will finish as soon as I send the film of the claimant water skiing.”
“Okay.” Connor pulled his leather chair to the desk and sat down. From the bottom drawer he took a bottle of IPA, read the label and set it on the desk. He flipped through a notepad with notes written in longhand. “It’s good the police couldn’t read my scrawl or they would have taken my notes.” He mumbled and flipped a couple of pages.
Connor cleared his throat. “Teddy Ghrazenko showed up two years ago and started buying into popular clubs. From what I can put together, most of the funding is coming out of Germany. His father runs an organization that deals in black market art. Recently, Teddy started rocking the boat by channeling funds into music promotions.” He stopped reading and reached into the drawer, pulled out four dog-eared legal pads, and dropped them on the desk. “Here it is.” Connor traced a line of handwriting with a finger as he read. “They have a big show coming up. I paid off a contact, and he told me that a couple members of the father’s organization have come over to check things out. Teddy and the visitors were shouting in the conference room.
“It’s my guess,” said Connor, “that the organization is concerned about all the money Teddy has been channeling into an iffy business.”
Connor’s phone rang and he put it to his ear, listened for a moment and hurried to the window, pressed his forehead against the glass and looked at the street.
“That was the waiter.” He shoved the phone in a pocket. “He says a group of large men were asking about us.”
Connor watched a dark limousine race up the street, bounce up the curb, and stop. A moment later a minivan skidded up beside it. The doors opened and three men jumped out.
“It’s Redmond,” said Connor, backing away from the window.
Bartholomew ran to the front door and checked the dead bolt, and backed away.
“Wait a minute,” said Connor. “We need a game changer.” He hurried to the gun safe and pulled open the heavy door. From inside he took out a pump action shotgun.
Bartholomew took the weapon, held it up in the light and checked to see that there was a cartridge in the firing chamber.
“Don’t shoot anybody. We’re just going to—”
The glass door shattered and fell to the floor like spilled popcorn. Framed by the metal outline of the door, stood a man with a sledgehammer. A tall bear of a man shoved the sledgehammer guy out of the way, and stepped through the door. Draped over wide, heavy shoulders, his black overcoat nearly touched the floor. The mink collar stood four inches thick around his neck. The sleeves hung empty.
“Six foot two, two-hundred-forty-pound-heavy-weight,” said Bartholomew, sizing up the Russian.
Two men rushed into the office and stood beside the overcoat.
“I am Redmond. You should not play in another man’s business.” Deep wrinkles crossed his brow. A red patch of vodka veins glowed on his cheeks.
“Bart,” said Connor. “Did you finish cleaning the shotgun?”
Bartholomew aimed the weapon. “It’s ready.”
Redmond stepped forward. His shiny wing-tips crunched in the glass. “I gave you a warning at the basketball game.” He pointed. A huge diamond ring flashed in the light.
“I broke your warning’s ribs,” said Connor. “Men who send other men to do their dirty work are afraid to do it themselves.”
Redmond threw his shoulders back. His coat dropped to the floor and he stepped forward. “Afraid? I tell you what I am afraid of. I heard rumor Private Investigator made film of my business.”
“Bart, if he takes another step, kill him. Aim at his crotch. Three known criminals break into my office with guns—why, there isn’t a court in LA that wouldn’t believe I killed you in self-defense. The mayor will give me a metal.”
Bartholomew pumped the action of the shotgun and ejected a shell. “From this range I’ll cut him in half.”
“Good.”
“My attorney told me about you. Twice you interfere in my business.” Redmond twisted the diamond on his finger and tapped the guy beside him with an elbow. The no-neck dropped a few inches, as though dodging a line drive, and reached into his jacket.
Bartholomew swung the shotgun and blasted a lamp against the wall, pumped another shell into the firing chamber and aimed the weapon before anyone had time to react.
“Stop!” shouted Bartholomew. “You move and your brain splatters the wall.”
Redmond raised his chin. “Okay,” he said, backing up. “This time you saw me coming; next time you won’t.” He encompassed the room with a sweeping motion of his hand. “Russians, we do not forget.” He backed out of the office.
Bartholomew stood beside the door with the shotgun, jabbed his head forward and peeked into the hall.
Connor ran to the window and watched the gunmen climb into their cars. “I’m guessing the police are going to show up soon. Funny how a shotgun blast attracts them.”
“That blast stopped a gun-fight.” Bartholomew smiled.
Connor grabbed the shotgun and ran to the safe. “Let’s get out of here.” He put
the shotgun away and pulled on a shoulder holster. “The only reason we’re alive is because Redmond doesn’t know where the video is. It’s time to get serious, Bart. Take these.” He set a box of ammo on top of the safe.
Chapter 12
“Good morning.” Lieutenant Harry Deutz walked into the conference room and slammed a stack of files down on a table.
Staff members jumped to their feet.
Deutz opened his jacket and placed his hands on his hips. “Today I go to Sacramento and escort our witness back. I’m writing letters of commendation for all of you. There may be some promotions. That’s one less case we have to work.”
Staff members whistled. Others clapped.
Two lieutenants entered the room holding coffee mugs. The heavyset lieutenant, strands of blonde hair combed over the bald top, slapped Deutz on the shoulder. “We heard a small time PI outsmarted you.”
The other lieutenant hissed through his teeth and imitated the sound of meat slapped onto a hot grill, and shook his hand as though he’d been burned. “Ouch,” he said. “That’s hard to take, you bucking for promotion and all.”
Deutz looked around the room before turning to the pair. “Really? You come into my staff room, in front of my staff, and you bring this up? You two assholes have been dogging me since the academy.”
“Just bringing it out into the open,” said one of the lieutenants with a smile.
“The case with the PI was your case. That’s what happens when I rely on your sloppy work.” Deutz slapped the officer’s mug.
“Damn!” the lieutenant grabbed his coffee mug as the hot liquid spilled over his hand.
Deutz hissed though his teeth, imitating the sound of meat on a hot skillet. “You prick,” he said, pulled open the tall glass door and walked from the room.
On the third floor he walked through a labyrinth of cubicles, and stopped at the one with blacklight posters of the Doors and Jimi Hendrix hanging beside the entrance. Beneath one of the posters sat a clay pot with an evidence tag taped to it. In the center of the pot stood a thick stem three inches high.
“Did your marijuana plant die, Kreutzy?” said Deutz. The technician’s name was Carl Kreutzfeld. Most of the staff called him Kreutz, but Deutz had named him Kreutzy.
“I think those bastards in Fraud stole it,” answered a man with a squeaky voice. “As soon as it got legalized, someone took it.”
Deutz stepped into the cubicle. Stacks of books, department files, and open magazines with strips of notes stapled to their pages, covered the floor.
In the corner Kreutzy sat staring at a computer. He wore black-framed glasses. A braided ponytail hung down his back. At age fifteen he had been arrested for hacking into systems regarded as impenetrable, but the case had ultimately been dropped. Now he was the department’s go-to cyber expert.
“I need your skills.” Deutz knelt and tossed a file onto the tech’s lap. “Do some quiet digging. I want to know everything about this guy, Redmond Kardonerski, aka Mad Dog.”
Kreutzy flipped through a couple of pages. “Is this a case?”
“I have a feeling it soon will be. Get me all the information you can. I’ll check back.”
The researcher tapped a photo. “And who’s this?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Deutz, sorting through the pages. “Here is his info. His name is Connor Marin. I need you to check him out too.”
Kreutzfeld picked up a pouch of tobacco. “What kind of search are we talking about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do I go through the proper channels, or hack?” He licked the paper and finished rolling the cigarette.
“Look, do what you have to do, but get the information.”
Kreutzfeld stood up. “I’ve always wanted someone to tell me that.” He picked up his jacket, retrieved a duffel bag from under the counter and shoved several electrical devices inside.
“Where are you going?”
“To an outside terminal. We don’t want our inquiries traced to the department.”
Deutz waved the technician closer and whispered, “If anyone asks, we don’t know anything.”
***
When Deutz returned the next day, the moment he stepped out of the elevator he saw Kreutzfeld’s head pop up above the cubicle partitions and drop from sight. It popped up four times as he hurried across the floor.
"What do you have, Kreutzy?” He sat down on a stack of books.
"What did you get me into, Lieutenant?” Kreutzfeld raised up from his chair, looked right and left, and dropped down. "I work for the police, and this scares me."
"Whoa.” Deutz held his hand. "What are you talking about?"
"I mean that Connor Marin guy. Somebody wants him bad."
“Wait a minute.” Deutz closed his eyes. “Marin was secondary. Start with the Russian.”
Kreutzfeld sighed and his shoulders dropped. “That’s a downer. Are you sure?”
“Kreutzy!”
“Okay. Redmond Kardonerski showed up two years ago and jumped into prostitution, trafficking, and gambling. He’s been tried twice, but each time the case was thrown out when witnesses recanted their testimony.”
“So, this guy just shows up and sets up shop. No one could do that unless they were well-connected, or had someone in their pocket.”
Kreutzfeld laughed. “Someone high up the totem pole.”
“Now, you said the police were looking for Marin?”
"No. Cops don’t work that way. These guys who want him are way high tech. They crashed into every system I used with tracking software I don’t even have a name for.” Kreutzy’s eyes grew large.
"Intelligence?"
"You tell me. They either work in intelligence or on the other side of the fence. All I got is one photo.” He slapped a file onto Deutz’s leg. "I’m not even sure it’s him."
The lieutenant opened the folder and held up a photo of a man in military uniform.
“If Marin was in intelligence–" Kreutzy wiped his face. “I don’t want to have an accident, understand? I don’t click no more keys on that guy unless this goes official."
"You serious?"
“Serious?” He leaned forward and stared into the lieutenant’s eyes. “They were into my rental system in seconds. Some friends from my hacker’s club set up an untraceable system with fire wall and encryption years ahead of anything. These guys stormed that like it was kindergarten stuff. My probing sent up red flags all over the net. Whoever is looking for him just found out he’s here. That means they’re coming. I told my buddies to go underground.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Exaggerating my ass. I know what I’m talking about. I hacked Interpol, for fuck’s sake. These guys make Interpol look like old men with walkers.”
"Okay, Kreutzy, watch your blood pressure.” Deutz held out his hands as though stopping a car. "Did you get anything I can use?"
Kreutzfeld pressed his chin to his chest and moaned. "The bodyguard of a shady art dealer in San Pedro turned up murdered. Now the art dealer—Saunders or something like that—has disappeared. Your mystery man, Connor Marin, made two calls to the dealer before he disappeared."
Deutz jumped to his feet. "Is Marin buying stolen artwork? I have to find him." He patted the technician on the shoulder.
"A pat? I want some protection when those freaking cloak-and-dagger goons come for me."
"I owe you a big one, Kreutzy."
"No, you just gave me the big one, and I paid for the lube."
Deutz made it all the way to the elevator before an idea came to him and forced him to walk back to the cubicle. “Listen.” He grabbed the researcher’s chair and spun him around. “I want you to introduce me to your hacker club.”
Kreutzfeld leaned away. “Why would I do that?”
Deutz whispered: “Because I’m starting an investigation outside the PD, and I need your club to help.”
The researcher rolled his chair across the cubicle and sorted through some paper
s. “They don’t like people like you.”
“You mean cops. I know.” Deutz knelt. “Tell them I have ten thousand dollars to spend.”
“Cash?”
“Yes, and it’s untraceable. It took me ten years of saving my pennies to put it together.”
Kreutzfeld smiled and stood up, looked around as though embarrassed, and dropped into his chair once again. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Chapter 13
He stood at the curb and watched Bartholomew’s Toyota drive away. Connor hurried along the sidewalk and stepped into the street. He had just pulled his car keys from his pocket when the Mustang pulled up.
“Hey, baby,” called Ashley. “Going my way?”
Connor nodded, walked over and leaned in through the passenger window. “Remind me to get rid of that Hide-a-Key,” he said. “Why are you driving my car?”
Ashley smiled and shook her head, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m giving you a lift to the meeting. The guys are waiting for you.”
Connor pressed the button to open the door and felt something snap or break. The button didn’t pop out when he released it. He mumbled a curse word and reached inside and flipped the lever, and climbed inside the Mustang. “I guess this means I can’t say I forgot about the meeting.”
“Boy, nothing gets by you.” Ashley checked the side mirror and pulled away from the curb. “Those dreams aren’t getting better. Talking to your soldier group helped last time. I’ll let you off and wait in the coffee shop, the same way we did it before.”
Ashley turned off Willow, away from the old cemetery. Rusty workshops, radiator manufacturers, and office buildings stood here and there.
“Watch out,” said Connor.
Ashley glanced where he pointed, and stopped as a tumbleweed rolled across the road. “Are we still in the city?” she asked.
