by Allen Eskens
“That subpoena you received covers all his holdings at the bank. That includes safe-deposit boxes. I'm going to need to see the contents of that box.”
“Would you like to set up a time—?”
“I'll be there in four minutes. Could you meet me in the lobby?”
“I…um…sure. I guess I could.”
“Great. Thanks.” Alexander hung up. Then he powered the phone off, knowing that Max and probably Commander Tiller would be calling soon, looking for him, wondering why he failed to honor his subpoena. He glanced at Ianna. “Want to see what Pope had in his box?” He gave Ianna a smile. She returned the smile and launched across the console and kissed him hard on the mouth.
Mr. Johnson was waiting for them when Alexander and Ianna walked into the lobby. Johnson had the subpoena in his hand; Alexander had the key in his.
“It's good to meet you, Detective.” Johnson spoke to Alexander, but he had his eyes locked on Ianna, who looked nothing like a cop—no gun, no badge, just a bright-yellow, low-cut dress and a matching purse.
“I'm in a bit of a hurry,” Alexander said. “If we could—”
“There's just one thing,” Johnson said. “I'm not sure that the subpoena grants the proper authority to search a safe-deposit box. I believe you need a warrant for that. I have a call into the Legal Department to make sure.”
“You read the subpoena, didn't you? It grants me authority to access his accounts and holdings.”
“Certainly. And if the subpoena is all we need for that, my Legal Department will give me the go-ahead. But there's another issue here, Detective. The safe-deposit box has two owners. I'm not sure that I can honor the subpoena because the second owner has rights.”
“A second owner?” Alexander said. “Who is that?”
Johnson opened the file folder and said, “When Mr. Putnam leased the box, he put it in his name. But later he added a Ms. Ianna Markova. Ms. Markova has the right to—”
“Hold on, there.” Alexander looked at Ianna, who shrugged, and shook her head no. Alexander smiled at Mr. Johnson. “So Ianna Markova is the joint owner of the stuff in the box?”
“That's correct.” Johnson opened the folder and showed the rental document to Alexander. Ianna moved in to look over Alexander's shoulder. She whispered into Alexander's ear, “He must've forged my name. I had no idea.”
“Well, Mr. Johnson, this here is Ianna Markova.” Alexander put his hand on Ianna's back and moved her in front of Mr. Johnson.
Ianna reached into her handbag and pulled out a wallet with a driver's license and handed it to Mr. Johnson, who studied it for a minute. Then he said, “Well, I guess that takes care of that. Follow me.”
Mr. Johnson led them to a vault lined on both sides by safe-deposit boxes. At the entrance to the vault, Mr. Johnson had Ianna sign in as the owner of the box's contents. Mr. Johnson signed as the vault attendant and led them to box number 2414 and inserted the bank key. Alexander handed Ianna the key he pulled from Pope's effects. She inserted it and opened the door. Mr. Johnson pulled out the drawer, placed it on a table, nodded his regards, and left.
“I swear,” Ianna said. “I had no idea.”
Alexander opened the lid and found a package about the size of a brick, wrapped in brown shipping paper. An envelope had been taped to the package, and on the envelope was a message: “Upon my death—give the contents of this box to Ianna Markova.” He handed the package to Ianna.
Ianna opened the package, unfolding its wrapper with great care, peeling the cover back to expose a stack of hundred-dollar bills. She fanned out ten stacks total, each stack bound with a paper band that read “$10,000.”
“A hundred thousand dollars,” she said. Her eyes sparkled as she took in the beauty of the crisp currency.
“But no flash drive,” Alexander said. “What's in the envelope?”
Ianna cut the seal on the envelope with a fingernail and pulled out a letter. She read it aloud.
Ianna, if you are reading this, then I am dead. By now you probably know that I've been keeping secrets from you. I'm sorry about that, but it was for your own safety. Someday, you may know all there is to know about me. You are a smart woman and resourceful as hell. If you apply the secret of my success, you'll do just fine in life. I probably should have trusted you with my darkest secret, but I just could not take that risk. I'm sorry. Love James (Jericho). Postscript: If you are not Ianna Markova, and you are reading this letter, tell Wayne Garland to go fuck himself!
Ianna looked at Alexander, her eyes about to crest with tears. “I'm not sure what to think of this. I mean, it's sweet of him to think of me like this, but it would have been nicer had he left that flash drive in here.”
Alexander took the letter and reread it. “Wait…I think he's trying to tell you something,” Alexander said, pointing to the letter.
“Yeah, he's trying to tell me, ‘Good luck, kiddo. You're on your own.’ At least he gave me some money to start over—”
“No. Read it again. He's trying to tell you something. Read between the lines.”
Ianna read the letter to herself again. “I'm not sure…”
“He knew he'd be dead when you read this letter. He put your name on the box so that you would get notice of the box renewal if he ever died. He knew that notice would lead you here. But Jericho had no way of knowing if he would die by an accident or if he would be murdered. He knew that Patrio was hunting him. If he was murdered, and his assassin found this safe-deposit box, Jericho wouldn't want the flash drive lying here, and he wouldn't spell out where he hid it, either. He put the big fuck-you at the end because he thought it just as likely that the bad guys might beat us here.”
“So what's he trying to say? I don't see it.”
“He says that you may someday know his secrets. He tells you to be smart and resourceful. Then he says that you need to apply the secrets of his success. That's the clue.”
“The secret of his success…but that's…”
“The wisdom of Solomon,” Alexander said, his face pulling into a grin. “Was Jericho religious?”
“Just the opposite. He was an atheist.” Then a light opened up somewhere behind Ianna's eyes and her face lit up. “But he had a Bible…in his study, a big, ugly black one that he kept on a shelf next to his finance journals. It always struck me as odd, given his lack of religion.”
Alexander folded the letter and put it in his pocket. “Throw the money in your purse. We're going back to the condo.”
The laptop in Drago's hotel room gave a nudging ding to wake him, letting him know that Detective Rupert's car had left its garage. Drago sat up in bed, still wearing his clothes from the night before—his extra clothes having been left behind in the duffle bag along with the rifles and the remote-tracking monitor. Without the remote-tracking equipment, Drago could not observe the movements of Rupert's car from the convenience of the minivan. He could only track Rupert using an Internet connection to Patrio. New equipment was on its way, but he'd have to make due until it arrived.
He packed his computer, picked up his rucksack full of surveillance equipment, holstered his gun, and headed out the door to return to the home of Alexander Rupert.
Drago had assumed that Rupert would take the girl with him. But if the girl had been left behind, she would be guarded. If that were the case, he would kill her protector and use the opportunity to interrogate her. Ianna Markova would not like that interrogation, and in the end, she would tell him where his property had been hidden—if she knew.
Drago parked on the street in front of Rupert's house and walked up the driveway as if he belonged there. He broke into the garage in a motion so smooth that he looked like he had a key. Once inside the garage, he drew his gun from beneath his jacket and peered into the house. He saw no movement. It took him less than a minute to pick his way into Rupert's house.
Inside, he found pictures of Alexander Rupert hanging on the walls and cluttering up the shelves. Next to Rupert in almost every picture
stood a striking woman with dark features and a dancing smile. Drago recognized her from Ianna's computer searches that he came across at Pope's apartment. He found no pictures of children or pets.
He moved to the master bedroom and found it a mess. The bedding had been thrown about, and some books that had once graced a bedside table were now on the floor. Drago picked up a pink robe and raised it to his nose. He could smell the scent of perfume—the same perfume that he had noticed in Ianna Markova's closet at the condo.
On the night stand he found a smartphone in a pink case. He turned it on, and a picture lit up. It was Detective Alexander Rupert, lying next to a naked Ianna Markova. Detective Rupert was asleep, unaware of the photo being taken. Ianna smiled at the camera, which she held in her outstretched hand, the frame set so that it captured both the sleeping detective and the smiling, bare-breasted Ianna.
At first, Drago wondered why she would take such a picture, and why she would set her phone to open to that picture. Possibly she took it as proof of her having seduced the sleeping Rupert. But proof for whom?
Then he went into the search engine on her phone and found her last queries. They all followed a single connecting thread; she was researching safe-deposit boxes.
Safe-deposit boxes. A hammer of clarity hit him in the chest. Somewhere out there, a safe-deposit box held Drago's property, and Ianna Markova had the key—or knew where to find the key. Drago threw open his laptop and accessed the tracking software. He located Alexander Rupert's car and zoomed in on the street and saw that car was parked in front of the Wells Fargo Center.
Drago's fingers twitched as he debated his next step. Assuming they had somehow located the flash drive, he would need to intercept them. But how? They would be gone from the bank before he got close to them. But if he waited, the flash drive would be found—taken into custody. His quest would come to a tragic end, and he would be exposed. If that happened, he would flee. Get out of the country. Begin his life as a fugitive before the pictures of he and Garland exploded across the world's television sets.
As he struggled with his thoughts, the dot on the computer screen began to move. It headed east on Sixth Street, then turned north on Third Avenue. One block from City Hall. Drago sucked in a breath and cursed at the computer screen in his native tongue. The dot slowed as it crossed Fifth Street, the block where City Hall stood. He watched the dot creep past City Hall and keep heading north. Drago sighed his relief. Then he watched as the dot moved four more blocks and parked in front of the building that housed Jericho Pope's apartment.
Drago switched programs on the laptop, accessed the eyes and ears he left behind in the apartment, and waited.
Alexander had Ianna drive the Charger while he looked up what books in the Bible made mention of King Solomon. Although his research fell far short of being thorough, he found three books that dealt with Solomon: 1 Kings, Proverbs, and Song of Songs. He shut his phone back off and returned it to his pocket.
Alexander and Ianna ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape and entered Ianna's apartment. Ianna led the way to the study, where all of Jericho's books lay in a heap on the floor. They started digging through the mess, and about halfway down the pile, Alexander found the Bible.
At first, he examined it to see if it held any secret folds or cutouts. He didn't expect to find one, but he looked anyway. Then he flipped through the pages until he found 1 Kings. He licked a finger and turned page by page, looking for any underlined words or notes in the margins. He found none.
“Is this his only Bible?”
“As far as I know,” Ianna said.
He shuffled forward and came to Proverbs. Again he paged through until he came to chapter 10. There he found verse 11 highlighted with four words underlined. Alexander read the passage aloud. “The mouth of the righteous is a fountain of life, but the mouth of the wicked conceals violence.” Then he read just the four words that Jericho had underlined: “The fountain conceals violence.”
Alexander and Ianna both turned to look above the fireplace, where the painting of the fountain once hung. Simultaneously, they stood and ran to the front room and began digging through the piles of shredded couch cushions until Ianna found the painting. The intruder had ripped the canvas from the frame and crushed the frame into small pieces.
“Behind the fountain,” Alexander said. “The fountain conceals the violence.”
Alexander went to the fireplace and began feeling around the edges of the mantle but found no secret holes. Twelve granite plates—three plates wide and four high, rose above the mantle, up to the ceiling. Alexander took out his knife and began to tap on the plates with the brass heel of his knife, listening for a change in tone. When he tapped the center stone in the second row, the report came back hollow.
Alexander looked at Ianna and smiled, but neither said a word. He flipped open the locking blade and cut into the grout between the panels. The grout gave way to drywall, and soon he exposed the edges of the plate. He used the palm of his hand to drive the knife under the stone plate and pry. It came free and fell to the floor, exposing a square hole the size of a child's lunchbox.
Inside the hole lay a box made of insulation board and duct tape. Alexander reached up and pulled the box out of its hiding place. He cut the tape and dropped his knife as he worked the lid free. And there he found a flash drive, a DVD with the word “backup” written on it, and a small pocket notebook.
Alexander handed the flash drive and DVD to Ianna and began flipping through the pages of the notebook, recognizing it as Jericho's instruction manual on how to shift the extortion profits from bank to bank undetected. It also included a detailed explanation of what happened on the Domuscuta and Wayne Garland's personal phone number.
“Oh my God,” Ianna said. “This is it. We have the flash drive.” She threw her arms around Alexander, knocking him to the floor. “Do you realize what this means? We can start over just like we said.”
Alexander kissed her just to stop her from talking. Then he said, “We're heading north. I know a place where we can stay—just overnight—while we figure out exactly where to go next. First, we have to get out of town, and we'll need to take your car. The squads have GPS that can be tracked through Dispatch.”
“Are the police going to come after you?”
“They'll issue an arrest warrant because I skipped out on the grand jury, but in time—years from now—they'll stop caring about that. My brother, on the other hand…”
Max would never understand this. No matter how much hell and humiliation was on its way, Max would have told Alexander to stay and face it. But Alexander wasn't Max. He never had been, and never would be—no matter how hard he tried. Maybe the time had come for Alexander to finally admit it. “I'll have to write him a letter someday telling him…well, telling him to just forget about me.”
Alexander opened the back of his cell phone and popped out the battery. “They can also track a cell phone signal, so take your battery out or leave the phone here.”
“I think I left it at your house, along with all my clothes.”
Alexander smiled and then laughed. “I guess that'll be one more surprise for Desiree when she comes home.”
Max had managed to get five hours of sleep, rolling up his jacket for a pillow and stretching out on the floor of an interview room. He'd left a note for his partner, Niki Vang, to wake him when she arrived. Niki didn't see the note until after the morning briefing. When she finally woke Max, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and filled her in on the details of the previous night's events, and Niki told him where things stood in the manhunt for Drago Basta.
The dogs had followed the scent through Fort Snelling State Park and up to the highway again. They lost the scent when it mixed with car exhaust and warm tire rubber but picked it up again where the highway split and two lanes curved into the airport. On the second floor of the long-term parking, they came to a dead end. TSA joined the effort by examining airport surveillance footage but as of yet had
found nothing helpful. Basta's picture went out to all squad computers to replace the driver's license picture of Walter Trigg.
Around 10 a.m., TSA sent over a picture of a white minivan seen leaving the airport parking ramp with a driver who resembled the photo of Drago Basta. They ran the plate and put a call in to the vehicle owner, but the call went to voicemail. Dispatch then sent a squad out to hopefully make contact with the minivan owner or a spouse and issued a BOLO for the van itself.
“So…” Max sat back in his chair in the cubicle he shared with Niki and laced his fingers together behind his head. “He runs from the hotel through the woods and up to the airport, steals a car, and…?”
“Either gets the hell out of town or finds a new hiding place,” Niki said.
“My bet is that he's still around.”
“They're getting a press release ready. They're going to put his face on television.”
“Well, if he hasn't gotten out of Dodge by then, that should do the trick.”
Max was taking a sip from his second cup of coffee of the day when his phone rang in his pocket. It was Reed Osgood.
“Hello, Reed. What's up?”
“What's up is that it's past ten in the morning and your brother still hasn't shown up for his grand-jury testimony.”
“What?”
“Yeah, and they're super pissed.”
“Christ, Reed. We had all hell break loose last night.”
“I know. We heard all about it. By the way, I'm glad to hear you didn't get yourself shot.”
“You and me both,” Max said. “Alexander went to secure a witness. I have no idea what's going on with him.”
“Changed his mind?”
“Not as of last night. In fact, I've been after him to lawyer up, but he was dead set on having his day.”
“If I were you, I'd find him, and fast. They're talking arrest warrant.”
Max hung up with Reed and tried to call his brother, but the call kept going to voicemail. Max replayed the conversation that they had at Delancy's the night before, and he found nothing to suggest that Alexander had changed his mind about anything. The thought occurred to him that Alexander might be in trouble—with Drago Basta still on the loose. He dialed Dispatch.
