“I want to look at the surveillance footage,” Maddocks said. “From when the interpreter left the hospital with me, Detective Holgersen, and the sketch artist.”
“I’ll get someone else on that. Right now I need you on surveillance at Club Orange B. Two developments—longshoremen just voted to ratify their agreement with the port. Strike was over as of ten minutes ago, and things are moving fast. The first cargo vessels that were anchored offshore are preparing to enter port as we speak. Word from Rollins is that his UC made contact, informing him that the longshoremen affiliated with the Hells Angels are edgy. Something’s about to go down, but no one seems to be able to nail exactly when—maybe in the next twenty-four to seventy-two hours. His UC suspects a shipment of smuggled women is about to enter port aboard one of those offshore vessels. Word from my UC at Club Orange B has also just come in—same thing, something’s hotting up there. We think it’s tied to the port action. Suits have been coming and going at the club. Two cargo vans have been brought in and are parked in the lot beside the club. Two females have been bringing in cases of clothes. And a hairdresser and makeup person were seen going upstairs. The upstairs rooms have been declared off-limits to the rest of club staff. UC thinks some kind of auction is going to happen. Maybe buyers being lined up for the women coming in.”
“You mean they’re cleaning up the women and selling them right out of the container, after weeks at sea?” Maddocks said, his mind shooting back to Tarasov and how her group had been fed back to health at a remote holding facility before being sold to Sabbonnier and the Bacchanalian Club.
“This strike might have thrown them off schedule. They’re cutting right to the delivery maybe.”
Maddocks swore.
“We’ve got emergency response teams getting into position around the port,” Takumi said. “We’ve got interagency ERT guys ready to respond near Club Orange. I want you in a command position at our surveillance location across the street from Club Orange B. You’re to take charge in that room. We don’t give the ERT a green light a moment too soon—if this is an auction of females, we wait until all the girls are inside that club, we wait until all the buyers are in place, and only then do you give the order. Understand?”
“Understood.”
“Full briefing with the rest of the team in—” He checked his watch. “In fifteen.” He raised his hand. “Bowditch? Over here—anything more on those inmates?”
Bowditch came over fast. “So far nothing, sir. Appears inmate Milo Belkin was stabbed in an altercation in the showers. Bled out fast. None of the inmates are saying anything. Correctional officers don’t appear to have seen anything. CCTV on the showers mysteriously went down when it happened.”
Maddocks’s heart stopped, then jackhammered. “What’s this about?”
“Two inmates tied to our Russian group died simultaneously last night, two different institutions.” Takumi turned back to Bowditch. “What about the other one, Semyon Zagorsky? Anything more on him?”
“Pathologist is saying it looks like suicide,” Bowditch replied. “Found hanged in his cell early this morning. Used strips of his pants to fashion a rope. What appears inconsistent with suicide, however, is the fact he was in the middle of writing a letter to his daughter, Mila. The letter was left on his desk unfinished.”
Mila?
“How are these two inmates connected to the Aegis investigation?” Maddocks said crisply, anxiety rising in his stomach.
Takumi faced him. “Both men were arrested in a 1993 drug bust. VPD officer lost his life in the ensuing shoot-out. It was thought at the time that the narcotics they were transporting were linked to Russian organized crime, but neither inmate gave up the identities of their associates, two of whom fled the scene. Nothing could be proven. They might have no connection at all with our barcode trafficking case, but the timing of their deaths, especially with the buzz at the port and the club, raises a big red flag.” He turned and strode away from Maddocks. “Eden? You got that report for me?”
Maddocks stared after him, sweat pricking over his skin. Angie? Where in the hell are you? What happened to get you fired? Zagorsky has a daughter named Mila? Did you go visit him, too?
He pushed out of the incident room door and hurried toward the fire escape stairs. He climbed them two at a time to the top floor and opened the door to the roof. He stepped into the chill, misty rain. He phoned Angie on his burner, watching the city below.
His call was flipped straight to voicemail—didn’t even ring. Tension crackled inside him.
He dialed Flint.
As soon as his superior answered, Maddocks said, “Can you tell me what happened with Detective Pallorino? I need to know if it’s in any way relevant to my case.”
A pause. He heard Flint getting up, closing his door. “She was terminated for breach of probation. She visited an incarcerated suspect in an active RCMP investigation using her badge. She was not authorized to do this. She’s also being investigated by the RCMP for obstruction. She withheld cold case evidence related to the floating foot case.”
“One suspect?”
“Excuse me?”
“She visited just one incarcerated subject?”
A hesitation. “Should there be more?”
“No. I don’t know. Has she handed in her badge?”
“No. We don’t know where she is. Nor do the RCMP—they’re looking for her. Her credit card records show that she checked out of her hotel in Coal Harbour last night and has gone to ground.”
Fuck!
He hung up and drew his hand over his hair.
What in the hell are you up to, Angie? Gone rogue? In trouble? Dead?
His work cell rang. He switched phones. It was Eden.
“Sergeant, Takumi needs your input to help prep for the briefing, stat. The ERT officers have just arrived.”
CHAPTER 51
It was almost two when Angie pulled up opposite the East Vancouver house of ex-exotic dancer Nadia Moss. She studied the building through the drizzle. Double story. Neat porch. The doors, window trim, and eaves painted an eggplant purple. Stained-glass detail across the top of the front windows. A baby stroller outside the front door. There was love and pride in the appearance of that house. She’d expected something different.
After returning to Vancouver, Angie had checked out of her hotel in Coal Harbour. It had been late, but she was edgy over both Maddocks’s and Zagorsky’s warnings.
She’d driven to Downtown Eastside and returned to the building that housed the Retro Adult Lounge Club. She’d paid the worn-looking redheaded woman cash for a room upstairs. No credit card record, no name given. All her stuff was in her car now, and she’d muddied up the plates, obscuring the registration. If need be, she’d return to the seedy hotel again tonight, because there she had finally managed to sleep despite the bass thump of the music coming from the basement and reverberating through the walls. It had been almost 10:00 a.m. when Stacey Warrington’s call had roused her.
Stacey had gotten Angie’s message, and she’d run the DNA profiles and ballistics first thing this morning, in spite of the fact she’d heard the rumors of Angie’s termination. She’d called at once with the results.
Angie replayed their conversation as she continued to study the house.
“The DNA profile from one of the semen samples is a match to Milo Belkin.”
“What about the second sample?”
“Nothing in the convicted offender index, but we did get a hit with an unknown individual in the crime scene index. Blood and saliva evidence were left at a crime scene—”
“Which crime scene?”
“The 1993 drug bust involving Milo Belkin and Semyon Zagorsky.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Not a chance. The unknown individual appears to have been wounded in the gun battle with police before fleeing the scene. He left blood. Same DNA as the blood was also found on cigarette butts in the cube van when it was impounded.”
“The
cradle semen contributor could be the 1993 cop killer?”
“Possibly. If he was firing a .45 caliber. You’d need to check the cradle case ballistics against ballistics from the 1993 shoot-out.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Stace. While I have you on the line, could you do me one last big favor?”
A hesitation. “Ange, I don’t know what’s going on, but—”
“Have they told you yet, officially, that I’ve been terminated?”
“Not officially.”
“Then you don’t know, right?”
Another pause, then a soft curse. “This could be a firing offence.”
“Only if you know. Please. It’s just a quick criminal record check.”
“What’s the name?”
“Nadia Moss. She was the complainant in the sexual assault and battery charge against Belkin that was later dropped.”
“Give me a second … Okay, yeah, she’s got a record. Minor. Possession and soliciting.”
“Thanks. What her last known address?”
Another moment of hesitation.
“I promise, Stace—last thing ever.”
“Somehow I don’t believe you, Angie. Here you go. Last known address, 4527 Rayburn Avenue, East Vancouver.”
And that was the house Angie was parked outside now.
After her call from Stacey, Angie had bought another burner phone in East Van. As much as she wanted to call Maddocks and let him know where she was, she also didn’t want to call him. The less he knew about what she was doing, the less she’d compromise his job, his career. Besides, he’d try to stop her. So would the RCMP—another reason to switch out phones and kill her credit card trail.
She reached for her black cap on the passenger seat and pulled it neatly onto her head, straightening her ponytail in the process. She checked herself in the flip-down visor mirror, although she couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was just to prove to herself that she still existed, even though she had no job and was now a cipher erasing traces of her own movements. A pale, haunted face looked back at her. Zero makeup. Zero illusions. She flipped up the visor and got out of her vehicle.
She jogged across the street, headed up the small garden path, and climbed the wooden stairs to the porch. She knocked on the front door. She knew someone was inside—the lights were on, and she’d seen movement in the upstairs window.
Rain plopped from the eaves. She could hear traffic on a busy street a few blocks over and the wail of distant siren.
The door opened a crack, chain lock engaged. A woman peered through the crack.
“Yeah?” she said.
“I’m looking for Nadia.”
“Who’s asking?”
“A friend. Used to dance with her in the late nineties. I’m visiting town, heard she was still around.”
The woman looked her up and down. “She’s not here.”
“But she does live here?”
“Yeah.”
“You a roomie?”
“Pretty much. It’s her house—she owns it. I’ve been renting upstairs from her for six years now.”
“Know where I can find Nadia today?”
“She’ll be at the club later. Works most nights from ten till late.”
“Club?”
“If you danced with her in the nineties, you’ll know which club. That much hasn’t changed.” She shut the door with a snick. Angie heard the lock turn. She ran her gaze over the house one more time. So Nadia Moss still worked at Club Orange B, and clearly she wasn’t doing too badly for herself off her club earnings.
CHAPTER 52
Maddocks’s hands tensed on the wheel as he drove to the surveillance location. It was already late Monday afternoon, and he hadn’t been able to locate Angie. Bowditch’s comment to Takumi ran through his brain.
What appears inconsistent with suicide, however, is the fact he was in the middle of writing a letter to his daughter, Mila.
Angie had said that she believed her twin might have been named Mila. Coincidence?
He drew to a stop at a red light. Traffic was snarling up. He turned on his radio to hear what might have caused the backup. He tuned it to the local news channel.
“Breaking news. The Vancouver Sun is reporting that the dismembered foot that washed up in Tsawwassen shares the DNA of the Vancouver Island female police officer who recently shot and killed notorious sex killer Spencer Addams, a.k.a. the Baptist. The officer is also the angel’s cradle child who was abandoned in 1986.”
What?
Maddocks hit the brakes and pulled over into a parking lot. He turned up the volume.
“This revelation came from forensic psychiatrist and true crime author Dr. Reinhold Grablowski, who helped profile the Baptist and who worked with Detective Angie Pallorino. Dr. Grablowski has secured a book deal to tell the remarkable story of an abandoned and abused child turned sex crimes cop who was recently disciplined for excessive violence of her own. Unofficial word is that Detective Pallorino’s position with the MVPD has since been terminated and that she has now gone missing. According to Dr. Grablowski, Detective Pallorino had begun remembering pieces of her past, and she may have gone off-grid to search for her biological parents. Tune in to West Coast Host for more on the breaking story after the national news.”
He called Angie. Still no answer.
Maddocks scanned quickly through his phone contacts, hit Reinhold Grablowski.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said as soon as Grablowski answered. “You could be putting her life in danger. She’s a cop, for Chrissakes—”
“Was a cop,” Grablowski said.
It hit. Hard. Her career really was over. He drew his hand over his hair.
“Now she’s a disgraced ex-cop gone off-grid,” said the shrink.
Even better for his ratings. The mystery cradle child was now a missing woman, hell alone knew where. But when the mob got wind of this, if they were the same guys who’d offed Belkin and Zagorsky, and Elaine and Stirling Harrison, then Angie was in big trouble. Grablowski had effectively put out a mass message saying, This is the woman you need to find and silence—she’s remembering stuff. He’d stuck a giant target on her back. Maybe the mob had found her already.
“She had her chance to cooperate,” Grablowski said. “She could have been in on my book deal.”
Maddocks said, very quietly, rage simmering beneath his skin, “Where did you first get this information that she’s the cradle child and her DNA is a match to the floating foot?”
“A friend.”
“Which friend?”
“I don’t need to reveal my sources to you, Detective. I got a book deal, that’s all, to tell her story. And I’m not the only one with the information. If not me, then someone else would have broken the story.” He paused. “The truth has a way of seeking light.”
It’s well past eleven on Monday night as the man sits nursing a Turkish coffee after his customary late-night meal at this establishment, a small brandy on the side. He comes here whenever he’s in town. He always chooses a quiet alcove near the back where he can watch entrances, exits, and get a good view of the dancers, as well as note the positions of the security cameras.
There is unusual activity in the club tonight. Men arriving, some in suits. He has an idea what’s going down. But it’s not his business. He works for one man alone and does not ask questions. He’s made good on two parts of the new contract from his boss—he utilized his contacts on the inside last night, and he’s been informed that the two inmates are now dead. Two down.
One more to go.
But this remaining one is more complicated, requires some work. He first has to identify Roksana, then locate her. His brief is not to terminate her but to deliver her by floatplane to his boss. The boss wants to take care of this one himself. In a place where the subject’s body will never be found. This one is special to the boss, and the man knows why—he’s put two and two together. He sips his coffee, thinking, watching the dancer
s.
He’s waiting to see whether intel comes from his contacts inside the institutions. They might be able to tell him what name she used to sign in when she visited Belkin and Zagorsky.
His waitress, long legs, nice breasts, brings him the newspaper he requested of her. He wishes to see whether the story of the convicts’ deaths has broken, whether he’s clean or if suspicions linger. Milo Belkin apparently did not speak to anyone directly about his visitor. He’d been trying to hide the fact she’d come at all. Semy had spoken only to the boss. Now they could not speak at all. Loose ends tied. He’s a cleaner.
He unfolds the paper. The lead is a story on the abandoned angel’s cradle child from 1986. She’s been identified as a Vancouver Island police officer. A sub headline declares that the officer’s DNA also matches the DNA of the child’s foot found on the beach in Tsawwassen.
Intrigued, he leans closer.
Embedded in the article is a photo of the cop—Detective Angie Pallorino, who worked sex crimes for the Metro Victoria Police Department. Red hair. Scarred mouth. His pulse quickens. He reads faster.
The article quotes a forensic profiler who has secured a book deal to write the story on the angel’s cradle child. Dr. Reinhold Grablowski claims that Pallorino is starting to remember her past, and her memories are leading her on a search for her biological parents. Adrenaline whips through him. He glances up.
His boss didn’t give him any background on his latest commission, but he knows the legendary stories behind Big Red and the redheaded twins he tried to sell to a Saudi sheikh along with their mother, Ana, his used whore. That was back in ’86.
It’s all here, he thinks, in the newspaper. Her identity, everything. Thank you, Dr. Reinhold Grablowski. Except … He returns his attention to the article and reads further. She’s gone to ground.
He reaches for his cup and takes another small sip of his bitter coffee. But a movement in the corner of his eye—a sense that the atmosphere in the room has subtly altered—distracts his attention. He looks up. A lone woman has entered the establishment. And her arrival has caused an almost imperceptible ripple through the club’s patrons. Only a certain kind of woman does that. The kind who attracts any hot-blooded male’s interest, and thus the attention of rival females, too. The man turns his full focus on her. From this vantage point he can see only the back of the woman. She’s on the tall side. Dark-red hair hangs long and straight and glossy down her back. Dressed all in black. Leather jacket, slim black jeans. Biker-style boots. Yet elegant. She screams sex appeal. Confidence. Danger.
The Lullaby Girl (Angie Pallorino Book 2) Page 29
