Fearless Pursuit (Off The Grid: FBI Series Book 8)

by Barbara Freethy

  "Just make sure that someone isn't you."

  Chapter Two

  "Your father will be angry that I asked you to do this, Maya," Phillip Ashton said, his old brown eyes filled with worry and fatigue.

  "This isn't about him; it's about you." Maya Ashton leaned across the small table to put her hand over her grandfather's. He'd lost more weight since he'd moved into the assisted living facility, appearing more fragile than she'd ever seen him. Although, it wasn't really his physical appearance that bothered her, but his increasing mental deficiencies. Since his last stroke, he'd become much more easily confused and distracted. "I'm going to get the truth for you. The journals have helped me understand Natasha better, but I still have a lot of questions about my grandmother."

  "Natasha was a complicated woman. I gave her the life I thought she wanted, but it wasn't enough. In the end, I had to let her go. I believed her freedom would make her happy, but only eight years later, she was dead, and everyone believed she killed herself with drugs. I could never come to terms with that. Over the years, I became convinced that something happened to her. I know that her second husband hired a private investigator, who came up with nothing, but I still have questions."

  She nodded, having already contacted that private investigator. As her grandfather had said, the man had come up with no clues to indicate her grandmother's death had been anything but a suicide.

  "When Natasha died, I should have conducted my own investigation, but I was married to Linda by then, and she would have been hurt by that action."

  "That's understandable."

  "Your father also did not want me to do anything. He just wanted to let it be. He was so angry after she died. They had a troubled mother-son relationship."

  She nodded in agreement. Her father had refused to speak of his mother, saying she'd abandoned him, and he never wanted to hear her name again. But his refusal had only made her more curious about her grandmother, and when her grandfather had suddenly handed her Natasha's journals a few weeks earlier, she'd become as consumed as he was with finding another explanation for her alleged suicide, which didn't really make sense.

  Natasha Petrova had been a glamorous Russian film star of the eighties. She'd overcome a childhood of loss and poverty to come to America, where she had truly achieved the American dream of superstardom. But along with her celebrity came scandal and ultimately a shocking death by suicide. It was a story that needed more details and a better ending. Once it had all that, it would make a fantastic movie, one she wanted to make. But first she had to get answers, and her grandmother had died thirty-six years ago. The trail was very old and very cold.

  "I talked to a different private investigator," she told her grandfather. "He pulled the police reports for me and looked through the other investigator's report, but he decided not to take the case. He didn't think he could come up with any new evidence. He believes the speculation surrounding Natasha's death was just tabloid fodder and not based on any fact. He could be right, Grandpa."

  "Natasha wouldn't have killed herself," Phillip Ashton said with a stubborn glint in his eyes. "I might not have known everything about her, but I am sure of that."

  "It could have been an accidental overdose."

  "I've always felt in my bones that someone else played a role in her death. Maybe they just fed her the drugs, played on her insecurities, or perhaps they did more. But as I near the end of my own life, Maya, I can't help feeling that I let Natasha down. Linda is dead now; I can't hurt her anymore. But I can still hurt you and your father, and I don't want that." He frowned. "Perhaps it was a mistake to give you the journals."

  "It wasn't a mistake, but I am curious—how did you get the journals? You and Natasha had been divorced for years before her death and during that time she wrote in the journals. How did they end up with you?"

  "Oh, I didn't tell you that?" he asked, a gleam entering his eyes. "It was the strangest thing. She put them in a safe-deposit box she had opened during our marriage. I had forgotten all about it. I never put anything in there myself. She had a few pieces of jewelry that she got early on in her career that she wanted to safeguard. Anyway, it was about ten years after her death that I went to close my account at that bank, and they told me the safe deposit box was still there. The journals were the only thing in the box. I took them, thinking one day Rex might want to read through them. Of course, he never did. When I had to move in here, I saw them again and I got nostalgic for the past. I read some of her words, and they almost made me cry. That's when I knew you were the one who would know what to do with them."

  "I want to tell her story, Grandpa. I want to get to the truth. I just don't know that I can."

  He smiled. "If there is a truth to find, I believe you will find it. And I think Natasha left those journals in a place that only I could get to, because she trusted me to honor her words."

  "I think so, too. I will definitely do my best."

  "I have no doubt. You're as headstrong and impulsive as Natasha was."

  She actually liked hearing the comparison, because there was certainly no one else in the family who she shared any traits with. She'd often felt like the odd man out: the flaky, imaginative, creative girl, who couldn't quite get it together in a family of overachievers.

  "Natasha didn't quit when she wanted something," her grandfather continued. "Neither do you."

  "My parents and my siblings think I quit everything."

  He gave a careless shrug. "You quit those jobs because you didn't care about them. But when you care about something, you go after it. You want to make movies, and this is your movie."

  "I know it is. So, tonight, I'm going to the Firebird Club."

  Confusion entered his eyes. "What is that place?"

  "It used to be called the Russia House."

  "Oh, that damn club. I hated that place. I only went once, but it felt like a den of evil to me. I told Natasha she should get out of there, but she just laughed and said I didn't understand Russians. Their darkness was just a cover for their great hearts." He paused, his gaze reflective. "I thought the place burned down years ago."

  "It did, but Constantine's nephew, Alexander Dimitrov, rebuilt it and reopened it six months ago."

  "I'm sure this Alexander Dimitrov isn't old enough to know much about Natasha."

  "He's about Dad's age," she said. "He would have been fourteen or fifteen when Natasha died. But the people I really want to talk to are Constantine Dimitrov and Wallace Jagger. I've been trying to get in touch with them, but I can't get past either one's housekeeper. I've done a little digging and they both spend time at the club, especially during chess tournaments, and there is one starting tonight and running all weekend."

  "Wallace was quite the chess fanatic," Phillip conceded, his voice growing cool at the mention of Natasha's second husband. "I can't believe Wallace and Constantine spend time together. I think Natasha slept with both of them. How are they friends?"

  "I don't know that they're friends, but I think the club is the best place for me to try to find them."

  His mouth wrinkled in disgust. "It annoys me that they're living it up at the club while I'm trapped in here like an old man."

  "You're getting better," she said, trying to infuse as much confidence into that statement as she could.

  He gave her a wry look. "You're a lot of things, Maya, but you're not a good liar."

  "Then don't make me be a liar. Do what the nurses tell you to do."

  "I will."

  "Good. And I'll report back on what I learn."

  "All right. Be careful, Maya. I couldn't stand it if you got hurt because of me."

  "Natasha's story is as much mine as it is yours, Grandpa. Her blood runs through my veins. I'm not doing this just for you; I'm doing it for her. Do you remember what she said in her very last entry?"

  He shook his head. "No, I didn't read that far."

  "She said she was in trouble, in danger, that she was more scared than she had ever been bef
ore. She was afraid to put the truth on paper, but she hoped one day she would be able to do that." Maya paused. "She never had the chance to tell that truth, but I do. Someone has to know what happened to her."

  "If they do know, they've kept silent a long time."

  "Maybe because everyone stopped asking questions." She got up to leave but before she did so, she leaned down to kiss her grandfather's cool cheek. "I'll let you know what I find out."

  "Before you go, there's something you should know about Wallace."

  "What's that?"

  "He always had an intense need to know that Natasha loved him. There are passages in the journal where she talks about her love for him. If you want his help, you should remind him of that."

  "I will. Anything else? What about Constantine?"

  Her grandfather's eyes darkened. "Theirs was an angry, volatile relationship I never understood. But she had a connection to Constantine, to the Russian roots they shared. They often spoke in Russian, and I couldn't tell half the time if they were mad at each other or falling in love. I think it bothered Constantine that she would not marry him. Perhaps you can use that in some way."

  "Good advice. I'll see you soon." As she walked out the door, she couldn't help thinking that Natasha had certainly had the ability to make men fall in love with her. And it was always a deep, intense, passionate, obsessive kind of love. Had that fierce love come with a murderous hate?

  The Firebird Club was busy on Friday evening at seven, with an hour wait list for the restaurant. The main bar was also standing-room only. Jax had been working the bar since three p.m., with a short dinner break at six. He was beginning to appreciate the fact that being a bartender was not as easy a job as he'd imagined.

  In the past three days, he'd mastered most drink orders, having learned a great deal about the fifteen brands of vodka that they carried as well as other specialty Russian drinks. He'd also gotten up to speed on a dozen blended concoctions, some with skinny versions, that were especially popular with the ladies.

  There was definitely a mix of people who frequented the venue, from the sixty-five-and-up group of Russian men and women who had been members of the original Russia House, to the forty and fifty-somethings, who were often the kids of that first group, or had been brought in with a new wave of business success and money. And then there were the younger guests, who were constantly taking photos of their drinks and themselves. He wasn't interested in them at all.

  No, his targets could mostly be found in the main bar or in the members-only rooms downstairs: the library and the cigar lounge. Eddie Bozic was a frequent visitor to both of those private rooms, but Jax had not been able to get close enough to him to get any information.

  However, with the help of his team, he had learned that ten members had bought and received vehicles from Falcon over the course of the last six months: Mark Bellweather, CEO of an AI software startup; Lisa Hamilton, CEO of an event company; Dustin Paul, an A-list actor; Ivan Yastremska, a Russian venture capitalist; Ryland Jagger, the CEO of Jagger Media and his father Wallace Jagger, a retired Hollywood agent; Lindsay Bragin, CEO of a tech group and her father Daniel Bragin; Edward Coleman, a retired former attorney general of California, and Louisa Dimitrova, wife of Constantine Dimitrov, the original owner of the Russia House.

  Jagger Media was of special interest to him, because Yuri had been repped by the agency. While that might not mean anything since Jagger Media represented hundreds of actors, it was a connection that Jax didn't want to overlook. There was certainly no denying the multiple links between the club and the dealership, but he needed to know how the cars were being used and for what purpose. Unfortunately, he was not getting too far, being stuck behind the bar. So far, the only scandalous conversations he'd been able to overhear had involved someone sleeping with someone else's husband or wife.

  He told himself to be patient. Cases often took months to put together, but he didn't want to wait months. He wanted answers now. Yuri had died in his car, and he felt somewhat responsible for that. At least, Yuri had given him the clue to the club. After seeing the clientele, he thought it was a good bet the operation was being run out of this venue. He just needed to get downstairs. Hopefully, the plan he'd put into motion earlier would get him reassigned.

  As he wiped down the bar, his gaze swept the room, and he bit back a smile as he saw one of his fellow agents make her way into the room. Caitlyn Carlson was dressed to kill in a black minidress and very high strappy heels, her reddish-brown hair falling loosely about her shoulders, her brown eyes sparkling. Caitlyn was as smart as she was beautiful, and he'd always liked her bold ideas and relentless energy. She was not one to sit back and wait, which didn't make her the greatest at undercover work, but if he needed someone to fire up a creative, outside-of-the-box idea, she was one of the first people he'd go to.

  She slid onto the stool in front of him. "I'd like a vodka martini, please."

  "A martini? How about a shot? You should drink vodka the Russian way."

  She shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

  He poured her a shot of Stoli and then reached into the refrigerator for a pickled cucumber, which he placed on a small plate, and set it next to her shot glass.

  "What is that?" she asked doubtfully.

  "The perfect accompaniment. Trust me."

  She threw her shot down with a little shiver and then stabbed the cucumber with a small fork and took a bite. "Actually, that's not bad."

  "Told you. And you can't stop with just one shot. Always two."

  He poured her another glass. "How's your night going?"

  "Better now," she said with a laugh. "What about you?"

  "It's busy. There's a chess tournament going on in the library all weekend. First round is tonight."

  He kept his tone conversational as he kept an eye out for the staff. While he'd easily made friends with most of the bar employees, the club manager, Sylvia Graham still regarded him with suspicious eyes. Apparently, Ray Shalinksi, the bar manager, was supposed to run new hires through her first, but he had not done that with Jax, and Jax was now in the middle of a territorial war—a war he could have done without.

  "Will you be able to check the tournament out?" Caitlyn asked.

  "It's possible. The other bartender might have car trouble."

  "That would be unfortunate for him." She smiled and threw back her second shot. "I had a good day today. The weather was lovely. After I shopped on Rodeo Drive, I went to Malibu and walked on the beach. The houses along the bluff are amazing. You can see right into them. Some people probably should have closed their curtains. I took some pictures on my walk. They were surprisingly good. I sent them to you."

  Considering he'd asked Caitlyn to dig into the lives of Victoria and Alexander, he was more than interested in checking those photos out.

  "You said you needed a wedge," she continued, as she munched on her cucumber. "I think you might have one."

  And he knew just where to stick that wedge. While he'd been avoiding Sylvia's sharp eyes, he'd been trying to build a friendship with her twenty-three-year-old son, David Graham, who worked as a parking valet. David had access to the cars and was lazy, with a bad attitude. He didn't like working at the club. He didn't seem to care much for his mother, and he liked to gamble. All that made him a good target to turn into an asset. He just needed to find the best way to do that. Hopefully, whatever Caitlyn had discovered would help. "Thanks. I owe you one."

  "I'll put it on your tab. Anything new with you?"

  "Nope. A lot of nothing."

  "Are you sure? You seem to have a fan club at the other end of the bar."

  He grinned, as he took a quick glance at the three twenty-somethings eyeing him from the other end of the bar. Looking back at Caitlyn, he said, "They're influencers. They spend all their time taking photos of their food, their drinks, or themselves. And when they get bored, they flirt. They've been here every night this week."

  "Maybe they're looking for rich boyfriends." />
  "I wouldn't doubt it. I thought I was going to have to bring out the defibrillator when they started smiling at one old guy last night. He looked like he'd won the lottery until his wife joined him and sent the girls packing."

  "You must see a lot from your vantage point."

  "I've seen a lot of bad dates, I'll say that."

  "I'll bet. I hate dating, all those awkward first conversations—ugh."

  "Agreed, but what's the alternative?"

  "Stay single forever," she returned.

  "I've considered that option," he said dryly. "I hate all the game play, which I know probably sounds ironic."

  "A bit, but I know what you mean."

  He straightened as he saw Sylvia coming in his direction. "Can I get you another drink?"

  Awareness flashed in Caitlyn's gaze. "No, thanks." She took a twenty out of her purse. "Keep the change."

  "Have a good night," he said, as she slid off the stool and walked away.

  Sylvia was no longer looking in his direction as she engaged in conversation with Ray. They were certainly opposites in appearance as well as temperament. Sylvia had black hair, pale skin, and a sophisticated, brittle look. Ray looked like a linebacker with a square face, broad shoulders, and a stocky build. While Ray was friendly, warm, and had an easy laugh, Sylvia was intense, serious, and always on her guard.

  Ray waved his hand around in the air as he spoke. Sylvia folded her arms across her chest as she listened. Finally, she gave a nod and walked away. Apparently, Ray had won that round.

  Jax stiffened as Ray made his way over to the bar.

  "Change of plans, Jax," Ray said. "I need you to work the chess tournament downstairs. Novak has car trouble, and he won't be here for another hour."

  "No problem," he said lightly, not wanting to give away how excited he was to get into the inner sanctum.

  "Just keep your mouth shut down there. The members prefer staffers to be seen and not heard. Sylvia is already on my ass about putting someone new in the room, but on tournament nights, we get a lot of older members who like to order in Russian, and I need someone who speaks the language."