by Allen Eskens
Drago had a guess, one that made him smile inside. Maybe Ianna Markova also believed in the mantra: know your opponent?
On the drive home, Alexander fought through a blizzard of thoughts stirred up by the kiss he shared with Ianna. The maelstrom didn't subside until he formulated a plan to use that kiss to confront Desi. He was sure that his confessing to a minor betrayal would compel Desi to reveal her own indiscretions. The confession of his kissing Ianna would force their discussion in the same way that a painful tooth forces a visit to a dentist. He would confront her with what he suspected—what he believed she was doing with Martin Edwards. He would watch for the truth in her reaction. He would use his kiss to breach the wall between them, and he would have his answer.
That was his plan, at least. But that plan fell into a deep crevasse when he walked into their bedroom and found Desi packing clothes into a suitcase. She stopped folding a blouse and looked up at him. Her face held neither anger nor sadness—no clue to explain the presence of the half-filled suitcase on their bed. A cold spike of dread stabbed into Alexander's chest. He thought he had prepared himself for this meeting. He had practiced a dozen different tangents that their conversation might take, but in his imagination, it always ended with her crying and confessing and begging for his forgiveness. It never ended with a suitcase.
“What…” Alexander stammered as all of his well-rehearsed lines drained away. “Are you going somewhere?”
She walked into their walk-in closet, letting her words follow behind her. “There's a marketing conference in Chicago this week.” Her voice sifted thin as she moved deeper into the closet. “A Miami VP was scheduled to give a lecture on affiliate marketing strategies, but she came down with something. They want me to give the presentation.”
Alexander hadn't noticed, but he'd been holding his breath. “That's…that's really…” He could feel his planned confession dissolve on his tongue. “Leaving in the morning?”
“Tonight. I have a ticket for an 8:45 flight.” She folded a pair of pants into the suitcase.
Alexander said nothing. His forced smile faded.
“What's the matter?” she asked.
Alexander ran through a list of accusations he could hurl at her. He had the goods. He knew why she was really going to Chicago. But in the end, he simply said, “I wish you wouldn't go.”
She walked back into the closet as if she hadn't heard him. “This could be a big opportunity for me.” Her voice floated out in a tentative rhythm, like someone unsure of how her words would be received. “I think they're grooming me…for a vice presidency. And…if they do move me up…it might not be in Minneapolis.”
Alexander could hear that she had stopped shuffling through her clothes, but she remained in the closet. It was as though she needed the wall between them to say what she had to say. Her voice took on a hint of melancholy as she continued. “You know that I've been unhappy where I'm at. I've felt this way for a while now.”
“And this trip…it's going to change things?”
She didn't answer.
Alexander walked to the closet door and saw Desi looking into a drawer, but not touching anything. When she saw him, she picked up some clothes and walked past Alexander without making eye contact.
“Have you thought this through?” he asked.
Desi stood in front of her suitcase, smoothing out her clothes far more than necessary, as if her mind was unaware of what her hands were doing. “I've thought of little else, for a long time now.” She kept fiddling with her clothes, keeping her back to Alexander. “I need to do this. I'm sorry. I have to go. I'm committed to go.”
Alexander looked at their dresser and saw Desi's wedding ring still in the porcelain dish. “Commitments are important,” he said.
She didn't answer, but nodded her head and raised a hand to her face, touching just under her eye. Then she walked into the bathroom. Alexander could hear what sounded like sniffling, covered by the clack of makeup containers being tossed into a cosmetic bag.
Alexander could think of nothing more to say. If he begged her and convinced her not to go, it wouldn't change a thing. In a way, she'd left a long time ago. And if he were being honest, he couldn't be certain that he wanted her to stay. He thought back to his kiss with Ianna—how that brief moment in her embrace seemed to soothe him. He tried to remember the last time that he felt that way about Desi.
No. He would not stop her. Desi had made her decision, and Alexander would let her live with that decision. After a long silence, Alexander asked, “Need a lift to the airport?”
Desi came out of the bathroom, wearing a smile, as if their previous conversation never happened. “I called a taxi,” she said, zipping her suitcase shut and sliding it off the bed. Alexander followed her to the door and onto the front stoop. “You don't have to wait with me,” she said.
“I wanted to say good-bye.”
Desi leaned up and kissed him, her lips hard and cold like the skin of an apple. Headlights of the taxi rounded the corner a block away, and Desi turned to look. “I gotta go,” she said. Then she turned and walked down the sidewalk, her suitcase rolling on its coasters behind her.
The next morning, Alexander drove south to Des Moines under an ominous sky. The edge of a cold front rose like a mountain ridge in the west, its gray, thick clouds rolling toward the Iowa plain. He thought about the storm, and the questions he would ask Michelle Holla. He thought about anything that might distract him from the memory of Desi's leaving. He'd lost most of a night's sleep, wrestling with what he knew: where she was, whom she was with. Now he fought to bury it by focusing on his meeting with Michelle Holla.
On the outskirts of Des Moines, Alexander followed the voice of his phone navigation as it led him along the western edge of the city to the home of Michelle Holla. The house, a beautiful French country-style in a well-to-do neighborhood, had hedges and a flower garden and a children's play set in the backyard. He parked in front of her house, walked to the door, and rang the doorbell.
The woman who answered the door was tiny and pretty, and she fit the description he had from her driver's license. “Michelle Holla?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I'm Detective Alexander Rupert. I would like to ask you a few questions. You got a minute?”
She didn't look over her shoulder as people do when they are worried about being overheard. Either she had nothing to hide, or she was alone. “What about?”
“Jericho Pope.”
The color drained from her face. Her whole body twitched as though her knees had become unreliable, but she recovered. Her hand clutched the door for stability. “Jericho…Pope.” The name lifted from her lips with tentative wings, like a butterfly stepping out of its chrysalis and taking flight for the first time.
“You knew Mr. Pope,” Alexander said, both as a statement and a question.
“‘Knew’?”
“Jericho Pope is dead.”
Alexander could see that his words stunned Michelle. She moved one shoulder behind the door and narrowed her eyes on Alexander. “Who did you say you were again?”
“My name is Alexander Rupert. I am a detective with the Minneapolis Police Department. I'm not here to arrest you, if that's what you're concerned about. I just need some answers.”
“Let me see your badge.”
Alexander pulled his badge and identification out and showed it to her. “You can call Minneapolis PD if you doubt my credentials.” He had extended the offer in hopes that she wouldn't accept it. The last thing he needed was a phone call to Tiller.
Michelle Holla studied his badge long enough to be satisfied, then said, “How'd he die?”
“Car accident.”
Michelle seemed to relax, as though that answer brought some measure of relief.
“You were friends in Brooklyn?” Alexander pressed on.
“No…I mean…we were both from Brooklyn, but we weren't friends—not until just before we left New York.”
This c
aught Alexander a little off guard. He had assumed a deeper past between Michelle and Jericho, one that might stretch back far enough in time to justify whatever conspiracy they shared. “How did you and Jericho meet?”
“On a yacht. He was the first mate and I…I was a guest.”
A piece of the puzzle clicked into place in Alexander's head as he thought back to Captain Rodgers's description of the two prostitutes. One had been a tall redhead, and the other was younger, the tagalong, dark hair, quiet. Michelle was in her early thirties, attractive, and had the right body type and dark hair to be the younger of the two.
“You were on the Domuscuta the night Jericho vanished,” he said, taking a shot in the direction of where he thought she might lead him.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I'm just trying to understand why Jericho Pope would drive down here every year to give you a large bag of cash.”
Surprise, maybe even shock, squeezed in around her eyes. “It's not what you think,” she said, looking up and down the street as though suddenly worried.
“I'm listening.”
“Not here,” she said. “There's a restaurant a few miles away. We can talk there. Not here.”
“I'll drive,” Alexander said.
“I have nosy neighbors,” she said. “You can follow me.” She must have seen the look of skepticism on Alexander's face because she added, “I won't run. I promise. I knew this day would come. I've been waiting for it. I want to tell you what happened.”
Max sat in a booth at Ida's Diner and traced a coffee stain on the table with his finger as he waited for Reed Osgood to arrive. This had been their favorite eatery back in the day when they worked cases together—before Reed moved to the FBI. Reed walked in at 8 a.m. on the dot, punctual as always, and scooted into the booth opposite Max.
“Twice in one week?” Max said. “I barely get an e-mail for five years, and now you can't get enough of me.”
“Apparently you forgot how to dial a phone too, buddy.” They both smiled. Talking to Reed had always been easy.
Max lowered his voice a bit. “I assume this meeting has something to do with my brother?”
The waitress came by with coffee. They each ordered steak and eggs, the diner's specialty. The waitress didn't bother to write it down.
Reed said, “I called you because there's been a development in the Task Force case.”
“Does it involve Alexander?”
“I'm not sure. It might.” Reed looked down at his coffee, turning the cup a quarter turn and back while he waited to say something. “Max, I'm talking to you because we go way back, and because I know Alexander. I don't want to believe that he was involved with that mess.”
“On that point we can agree,” Max said.
“Well, I've heard rumors that there's this US assistant district attorney looking to use this case to make a name for himself. I don't want Alexander to get tangled up in something he didn't do.”
“And I appreciate that, Reed.”
“I mean, if all they want is to trip Alexander up—get him to step into a trap trying to protect a fellow officer—well, I think that's crap. But Max, if this rolls the other way…if they find the goods on your brother, then we are done having these lunches. I'll have to keep my distance. You understand?”
“Do they have something on Alexander?”
“Like I said, I don't know. I'm not part of the investigation. I only hear things. You know how it is.”
“What are you hearing?”
Reed laced his fingers together and glanced around the diner again. “How well do you know Donald Rivas?”
“I know he was Alexander's partner on the Task Force. Why?”
“There's a ton of buzz around the office because they flipped Rivas. He cut a deal to give testimony about the other members of the Task Force.”
“Is he pointing at Alexander?”
“I haven't heard anything specific, but…”
“But what?”
Reed tapped the tabletop with a finger as he spoke. “Okay, they didn't find any property at Alexander's when they raided his house, right?”
“Right,” Max said. “But they found all kinds of stuff at Rivas's place. He had a car in his garage that he took from some coke dealer. He had televisions, a jet ski, loads of stuff.”
“And we're thinking that even if Rivas tipped Alexander off, there'd be no way he could have cleaned out his garage before they executed the warrant.”
“There'd have been no way,” Max agreed.
“What if it wasn't property? What if it was just cash?”
“Cash?”
“It's that Castasian bust.”
“Castasian's a lying piece of shit, and a drug dealer to boot.”
“He told the press that the Task Force took over a hundred grand in cash from him. They pulled two kilos of high-grade cocaine from his house. With that kind of product, it makes sense that there should be some cash lying around. He may be a scumbag drug dealer, but he still may be telling the truth this time. The word I hear through the walls is that people are starting to believe him.”
“Is Rivas saying that Alexander took the money?”
“They subpoenaed Alexander's bank records, so that's what I'm betting.”
“But Rivas might be making shit up to save his ass. Did you ever think about that? If Rivas sees Alexander as a bargaining chip, he could say that Alexander took cash just to have something to trade.”
“Calm down, Max. I came to you, remember? Yes, it's a real possibility that Rivas is lying his ass off.”
“So why did you come to me? Why are you telling me all this?”
Reed continued. “Suppose Alexander didn't take anything, but turned a blind eye while Rivas filled his pockets. When he goes before that grand jury tomorrow, Alexander won't know that Rivas flipped.”
“Alexander would be blindsided at the grand jury,” Max whispered almost to himself.
“That's the way I see it. I expect they'll grill him hard on that cash…”
“And if he covers for Rivas…”
“Perjury.”
Max rubbed the edges of his forehead. “They could box him in.”
“I thought you should know.”
“I appreciate what you're doing—more than you know.”
“I know how much your brother means to you.”
Max stared into his coffee and nodded. “After Jenni died, Alexander's all I have.”
“But, Max, you know that there's a third possibility.”
Max didn't say anything.
“If Alexander joined in…if he took that money, he'll go down hard for it. If that happens, you'll need to step back. You'll have to let him face the consequences because if you try to pull him out of that hole, he'll take you down with him.”
Max nodded his understanding.
Michelle led Alexander to a restaurant that served breakfast twenty-four hours a day, and that had few enough customers that they could sit in a booth next to the window and talk without being overheard. Michelle never took her eyes off of the darkening sky outside as she ordered her coffee. When the waitress left, Michelle spoke first.
“I'm not sure where to begin,” she said.
“Begin by telling me how you met Jericho Pope.”
She thought for a moment and said. “I guess that's as good of a place as any.” The waitress brought the coffee and asked for their orders. Neither was hungry, and the waitress left again. Alexander leaned forward in his seat. Michelle gazed into the black mirror of her coffee as if waiting for the words to come to her. Then she spoke.
“In the summer of 2001, I was seventeen years old. My mom had this new boyfriend and, well, he used to flirt with me and try to get me to do stuff with him. He was disgusting. When I told my mom about it, she took his side and accused me of coming on to him. It was a horrible situation. I decided not to go back to school for my senior year, and I moved out. I had this friend—she was a year older than me—named
Hillary Wolkochek. She danced at this gentlemen's club and made a lot of money, enough to live in her own apartment. It was a studio, but even a studio in Brooklyn costs a small fortune. I asked her if she could get me a job dancing.”
Michelle looked up from her coffee cup for the first time and smiled a sheepish smile. “I had quite the body back then.” Alexander smiled back. He had no other response, so he sipped his coffee to cover up his silence. Michelle looked away again and continued.
“Well, you can't dance in clubs like that if you're only seventeen, so I talked Hillary into letting me borrow her ID. We looked like we could have been sisters. And of course, I couldn't dance at the same club she did, so I found a job at a place down near Coney Island, not as nice as where Hillary danced, but nice enough. I didn't dance under my real name—no one did. I called myself Ariella Femme. It was a strange time in my life. The customers knew me as Ariella, my boss thought I was Hillary, and my real name was Michelle.”
She smiled again at Alexander, who smiled back, trying to mask his impatience. She must have seen past his façade, because she gave a weak nod and continued. “Then, one day, I was working the afternoon shift and this girl named Aubrey, who also worked there, came to me with a proposition. I knew that Aubrey did the occasional hobbyist on the side.”
“And by ‘hobbyist,’” Alexander interrupted, “you mean…”
“John…trick. Aubrey used to tell me about how much money she made by going out on dates.” Michelle gave air quotes to the word dates. “She even tried to hook me up a couple of times. I told her no. But I saw the money she made, and it made me think. So she comes back to the dressing room that day and tells me there's this guy who wants a couple girls to go to his yacht and party. He was willing to shell out two grand apiece. That's a lot of money for one day's work. At first I said no, but Aubrey begged me to go. She said he needed two girls. Finally, I figured, what the hell?”
“What did the guy look like?” Alexander asked.
Michelle considered for a second and said, “I remember that he kind of scared me. He didn't talk except to say a few words here or there…you know…like telling us what he wanted us to do. He had dark hair and black eyes with this cold stare like an eagle. And he had a scar on one of his cheeks.”
