Almost on cue, my phone rang. Toni, sounding a little inebriated, was calling to tell me she needed to spend the night at her mom’s. I could hear loud music in the background and both her mom and her sister laughing.
“Have you guys been hitting the bottle?”
“What’s it to ya, dude?”
I nodded and made a quick decision. “You know, I think it’d be a really great idea if you stayed there at your mom’s tonight. As a matter of fact, I insist on it.”
“Check!”
“Good. And as soon as you hang up, I want you to go check the locks on your mom’s front door. You got it?”
“Check! Roger wilco, Sergeant!”
“I love you.”
“You, too.” She started laughing. “I’ll call you in the morning. Over and out!”
We hung up, then I got up and turned off the light. I hit the sack early and listened to the sound of the rain steadily pounding away on the big bedroom window, and I thought about Rico Maroni and Pavel Laskin until I fell asleep.
Chapter 7
Saturday morning, eleven o’clock, I saw Abraham Lincoln Foster sitting on a planter wall by the totems at the center of Occidental Park while I walked across South Washington from the parking lot. He was by himself, staring at the ground, huddled up in his dirty army jacket. His cart was parked beside him. Although still cold, the day was warmer and the park was more crowded than it had been two days ago. I was also by myself—Toni was still at her mom’s. She’d called earlier and said they were going to the mall.
When I was still thirty feet away or so, he looked up and spotted me. I smiled as I approached, but before I could say anything, he stood up and said, “Quick—give me ten dollars.” This took me back a little and I stopped, confused. It had been seven years, and I didn’t know what kind of reception to expect, but I definitely hadn’t expected this.
“C’mon now, Sergeant,” he said, a little more urgently. “Fork it over and make it look good. They’re watchin’ the park.”
I tensed up, focusing on not lifting my head and looking around. I started to ask a question, but instead, something told me to just go with it. I smiled and reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. I dug around and handed him a twenty. “All I’ve got’s a Jackson.”
He nodded and smiled. “Thank you, kind sir. Mr. Jackson will do just fine.” He gave a little bow of thanks and, barely moving his lips, he said, “Meet me on First in front of the Grand Central Bakery in thirty minutes.” He turned and sat down again.
If we were being watched, I couldn’t just stand there—I needed to move. I thought it might look a little suspicious if I just immediately turned around and marched back to the Jeep so, instead, I walked kind of nonchalantly through the park and entered the Grand Central Building using the entry on the east side. Once inside, I ducked into the Grand Central Bakery and jumped in line, watching through the window to see if anyone followed me from the park. No one did. In fact, I didn’t see anyone suspicious looking, inside or out. My immediate thought was that maybe old Abraham had just nicked me for twenty bucks and I’d be unlikely to see him again.
After a few minutes had passed, it became clear that even if anyone had been watching me, Abraham’s ruse had apparently worked, because no one followed me in and no one seemed interested in me now—I was just another local in for late breakfast. I ordered a bottled water and a couple of cookies from the girl at the counter, picked up the sports section of the Seattle Times from a rack by the door, and walked out into the lobby, where I took a seat that allowed me to watch both entrances—park side as well as the west entrance on First Avenue.
I read four detailed analyses of the Super Bowl from every possible angle, filling up a solid twenty-five minutes, after which I exited the building onto First. I looked up the sidewalk to the north and Abraham was already there, seated on an iron bench that circled one of the street trees. He smiled and stood when he saw me. “Sergeant Logan! There you are! Man, it’s good to see you after all these years.”
I walked over and shook his hand. “Abraham Lincoln Foster. How the hell you doing?”
“I’m doing just fine, Sarge, thank you for askin’. C’mon over here, have a seat right here in my office.” He nodded to the metal bench.
As I sat down, he reached into his pocket and pulled out my twenty-dollar bill. “’Fore I forget, here’s your twenty dollars back.”
I smiled and felt guilty for having doubted him. “Tell you what, why don’t you hang on to that for me for a second, will ya?”
He shrugged and tucked the bill back into his pocket.
“What’s it been, Abraham, like seven years or so? You doin’ okay?”
He smiled and nodded. “Yeah, yeah I am. Well as well can be these days.”
“Good. Where you staying at night?”
“Well, there’s a few missions around, here and there. You got to move around, but when I can, I try to get into Union Gospel up on Third. It’s my favorite. Got to get there early—maybe five o’clock, else you get closed out.”
I nodded. “You hang out in the park most days?”
“Most days, yes I do. Been comin’ here for three, maybe four years now. They run you out of the missions bright and early—oh dark thirty, right? I generally head for the park. ’Less it’s raining. Then we be lookin’ for a doorway, wait for the mission to open again. But if it ain’t raining, you’ll generally find me in the park. But what about you, Sarge? When’d you get out, anyways?”
“The end of oh-seven. Right after you. I graduated from college on 15 December, got my discharge on 18 December, and opened my business a couple months later.”
“And what line of business would that be?”
“Private investigation.”
He started to laugh, a wheezy cackle that quickly turned into a hacking cough. “Private investigator? Damn, Sarge, that’s perfect. You was always a top-notch investigator. None finer. Some things don’t never change, right?”
“Thanks. I imagine you’re right: some things don’t change. At least not much. So tell me, what’s up with all the cloak and dagger? ‘Meet me on the other side of the building,’ that kind of shit?”
He glanced up the street, then down. Then he shook his head. “It’s them damn Russian punks. Think they own the whole damn place. Here I don’t see you a’tall for years and now I seen you twice in two days, and both times, they was a-watchin’. They don’t be watchin’ me—no sir. I may’s well be the invisible man. But they sure’s hell perked up when they seen you, though. I watch ’em, kinda sneaky-like so’s I can stay on top of things, understand? Soon’s they seen you crossing the street, they take to nudgin’ each other, nodding your direction, talkin’ that Russian talk. So I figured if they be all that interested in you, don’t make no sense to let ’em see you’re interested in me, know what I mean? Could be bad for both of us. So I figures to throw ’em off the scent by spangin’ ya.”
I laughed and held out my fist. “Good thinking, man.”
He fist-bumped me.
“What’s the deal with those guys, anyway?”
He shrugged. “Little punk-ass bitches. Every hour or so, they out on patrol, three, maybe four guys. Chase out anyone tryin’ to sell. Like I said, they b’lieve they own the place.”
“Sell what?”
He laughed. “Dope, man.”
“They sell dope themselves? Don’t want any competition?”
“No, hell no. They don’t sell nothin’, not so’s I could tell, anyway. But they don’t let nobody else sell nothin’ neither. Chase people away all the damn time—keep the whole place lily-white clean.”
“That doesn’t sound all that bad.”
“Maybe not to you. To the rest of us, it’s a pain in the ass.”
“They work for somebody?”
“Yeah, I b’lieve they all work up at the office supply on Second, man goes by the name Ghost. That oughta tell you something right there, right? I mean, who the hell goes by th
e name Ghost?” I didn’t know the place on Second, but I made a mental note.
We talked for a few more minutes about his health, about old times, about what I was doing. Eventually, I wrapped things up. He pulled out the twenty-dollar bill again and tried to give it back. I shook my head. “It’s yours, man,” I said. “Be smart with it.”
He nodded. “I surely appreciate it, Sarge.”
I said good-bye and walked back into the Grand Central. I walked through the lobby and was about to walk out the east entrance onto the park when three men walked past outside. I recognized the middle of the three men—he was none other than Mr. 49ers Cap from our little bar meeting. I stepped back out of sight and watched as the men walked through the park, then crossed over to the Occidental Mall on the opposite side of Main.
When they were clear, I stepped outside, turned the opposite direction, and walked back to the Jeep. A few seconds later, I drove slowly down Second Avenue. The fire department museum took up the whole corner. Next door to it was the 88 Keys piano lounge. And nestled just to the south was Pioneer Square Office Supply. I jotted down the name and address and called Kenny.
Ten minutes later he called back. “Danny, I got the owner’s name from the city.”
“Shoot.”
“Business license says the owner’s name is Pavel Laskin. Your buddy.”
Chapter 8
Dwayne’s office is on the seventh floor of SPD’s headquarters downtown. Kenny and Doc drove together and met me and Toni in the lobby just before 9:00 a.m. I wanted everyone to attend the briefing, because I figured that if we were about to get important intel on a guy who might be involved in our case, the more of us who could get it straight from the source, the better. A couple minutes after we arrived, Gus met us in the lobby and walked us back to a conference room. I was surprised to find a group of five people already there waiting for us.
“Here they are,” Dwayne said as everyone stood. “How you guys doing?” he said to me.
I nodded. “Good. Thanks for setting this up.”
“No problem.” He turned to the people already at the table. “Folks, allow me to introduce Danny Logan, Toni Blair, Joaquin Kiahtel, and Kenny Hale of the Logan Private Investigation Agency. As I explained to you earlier, I’ve known Danny for almost seven years now. He and his group have worked on a number of cases right alongside SPD. They’re highly thought of by the department.” He turned to me. “How’d I do?”
I smiled. “Excellent.”
“Good.” He turned back to the table. “Now, for introductions on this side, I’ll start with Miguel Sanchez and Steve Gaines from SPD. Miguel’s a lieutenant in the Narcotics Section, and Steve’s his partner.” Miguel was thirtyish and Latino, thin and medium height, with dark eyes that seemed perpetually focused in an intense hawklike stare. He wore a dark blue T-shirt beneath a Seahawks jacket and faded blue jeans. Steve Gaines was about the same height, with a scruffy blond beard and kinder eyes. Of the two, I’d bet Miguel was the “bad cop” while Steve normally played “good cop.” We all shook hands.
“Glad to meet you guys,” I said.
Miguel nodded. “Our pleasure.” He nodded to the other two people. “And since I’m responsible for dragging these folks up here, I may as well go ahead and provide the introductions. This is Special Agent Calvin Montgomery and Special Agent Darcy Kindler from the DEA’s Los Angeles office. Cal’s originally from Seattle. He and I used to work together at SPD a long time ago before he went over to the dark side.” We shook their hands as well. Montgomery had a thick neck and a firm handshake that gave away his muscular build, even beneath his dark suit. He was in his mid- to late thirties and he was completely bald. Darcy Kindler, clearly the younger of the two, had dark hair, freckles, and an easy smile.
We took our seats, and Dwayne jumped right into it. “Okay. Let’s get started. Like I told you guys before Danny and his crew got here, two days ago Danny’s team turned up the name Pavel Laskin in the course of an investigation Logan PI is involved in. He called me and asked me to check into the guy. After that, I pulled up Laskin’s file, and I immediately see that it’s been flagged by you guys.” He looked at Miguel and Steve, then turned to me. “Danny, you probably already know this, but when a file is flagged at SPD, that means that somebody internal has a particular interest in the person. We flag ’em so our own people don’t stumble all over each other. So I gave Miguel a call.” He turned back to Miguel. “Pick it up from here, buddy.”
Miguel nodded. “Okay, thanks.” He turned to us. “As Dwayne indicated, we flagged Laskin’s file last year after we wrapped up an unsuccessful operation against him. We are very interested in Pavel Laskin—have been for some time.” He leaned forward a little in his chair. “Dwayne told us that you guys were getting involved in some kind of real estate case potentially involving Laskin and that you were going to be looking into him. After Dwayne told us about you guys, I thought it made sense to meet. Knowing Laskin the way we do, this new interest of his sounds a little suspicious. Why? Because the man’s a drug dealer. We find it awfully hard to believe that he’s ready to take off his dealer hat and suddenly become a real estate tycoon. If he really is the one behind the mysterious offers your client’s been getting? Then I’d be willing to bet something’s up, and this definitely gives us the tingles.”
He paused, and then looking at Montgomery, he continued. “Our standard protocol around here is before we start any kind of investigation or operation on an individual, we run it up the flagpole to DEA to make sure they’re not already involved. We definitely don’t want to step on each other’s toes.” He turned to me. “So after Dwayne called, I called Cal.”
Montgomery nodded. “Thanks for that. We’re always interested in learning about new players in the trade. Honestly, this is the first we’ve heard about this Pavel Laskin character. Based on Miguel’s briefing, though, I talked to my boss, and we thought it might be worth our while for Darcy and me to take a quick trip up here this morning and listen in. We just love hearing about up-and-coming guys in the trade. So we’re here today to learn, to educate ourselves.”
I nodded. “Thanks for coming.” I turned to Miguel. “You’ve got nothing going on Laskin, then?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Understand, we try to keep our eyes open, but we haven’t had an active, formal investigation of Laskin for more than a year.”
I nodded. “Got it. For the record, our case is brand-new, and I have to admit we’re not certain how far Laskin’s involvement extends or, for that matter, if he’s even involved at all.” I spent a few minutes explaining the recent string of events. “So,” I said, when I was nearly finished, “the offer—the harassment—the murder: Are these things linked? Does this mean Laskin is behind all of them?”
“Based on his comments plus what you’ve learned, it seems like a reasonable guess,” Miguel said.
I nodded. “We think so, too, and for the moment, anyway, we’re operating under that assumption. Obviously, there’s a lot we don’t know yet. We’d be grateful for any help you can provide us.”
Miguel nodded. “No problem. We’ll bring you up to speed. Let’s start with a little background on Pavel Laskin, then.” He reached for a small remote control and pushed a button. The room lights dimmed, and a screen rolled down from the ceiling in front of the whiteboard at the same time that a projector also dropped down. The projector kicked on and, a second later, a large, close-up picture of Laskin filled the screen. “Meet Pavel Ilyovitch Laskin, aka, the Ghost.”
If Laskin had looked menacing on the sidewalk at Occidental Park last week, he looked even scarier close-up, four times his actual size. The photo had captured the same sneer as well as the same intensely fierce eyes. He had sunglasses perched upon his head, and his hair was short and spikey. His angular face was accented by the same five-o’clock shadow we’d seen in person. Some people just look mean; Laskin was one of ’em.
“The guy’s a real piece of work,” Miguel said. “Probably a so
ciopath. He owns the Pioneer Square Office Supply store over on Second.” A new slide showed a picture of the store. “The store’s a cover—only been open a couple of years. Laskin probably makes a little money off it to make it look good, but not enough to pay for his habits, including that expensive Lexus SUV he drives,” another slide flashed, showing Laskin in a vehicle, “or the condo in Belltown.” Yet another slide. “His real line of work has less to do with office supplies and more to do with the ecstasy business, particularly with a form of ecstasy called Blue Molly. Any of you heard of Blue Molly?”
“I have,” Toni said. “That’s the drug that had something to do with those kids OD’ing over New Year’s.”
“That’s right. Two kids died in Seattle last month after using this stuff.” He paused for a second, then said, “We’ll talk about Blue Molly more in a minute, but for now, just keep in mind that ‘molly’ is the term used to describe ecstasy in a pure state, and Blue Molly in particular is nothing more than a marketing name someone’s come up with for the exact same stuff sold in a blue capsule. Got it?”
We nodded.
“Good. So—back to Pavel Laskin. He’s a Russian immigrant, been here since he was fourteen. He was first convicted of robbery two here in Seattle when he was nineteen years old. First offense got him a year at Walla Walla. Then, four years later, he got sent up again, this time for assault two—he almost beat a man to death in an alley in Sodo. Did I mention that young Pavel grew up to be a strapping six five and weighs about two forty?” He turned to me. “You’ve seen him in person.”
I nodded. “He’s huge.”
“Exactly. Probably doesn’t take much shit from anybody. Anyway, the assault beef got him six years at Monroe. He was actually busted and charged for assault one, but he pled down.”
I nodded. “Robbery two and assault two? So there’s two strikes on him now?”
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