Foreign Relations: A Finn O'Brien Thriller (Finn O'Brien Thriller Series Book 2)

by Rebecca Forster

  The man finished stacking his papers and then sat back in his chair. He tipped his head. This time he did talk to Rada. He asked a question he often asked, a question that had no true and right answer.

  "And you, Rada, would you want a bag of silver if I asked a favor?"

  "No, I would not."

  "And why would you not? You have a wife and she is to have a child. Would you not like money to buy them things?"

  "I serve you for the good of our people."

  "Yes. Yes, you do." The man sounded disappointed by Rada's answer, yet he should know better than anyone that Rada had no choice in anything, not even the words he spoke.

  "Is the car ready?" the man asked as he gathered up his papers and put them into the large satchel by his chair.

  "It is waiting," Rada said. Before he could cross the room to retrieve the satchel, he felt a slap on his back and heard the most hated voice of Oliver.

  "That car may be waiting, mate, but you're not going anywhere."

  The Australian swung into the room like a child playing a game. He wasn't as tall as Rada but he was more powerfully built. Oliver was as fair as Rada was dark, as free as Rada was slave and he took Rada's big arm in both his hands and gave him a little shake. His grin was bright and cruel.

  "Been workin' out there, Rada? Nice and hard, aren't you? Bet the missus loves it when you finally get home and give her a good roll."

  Rada did not flinch, he did not smile, nor did he hit the man for his disrespect because that was what Oliver wanted. As always, the Australian quickly tired of goading the big man, let go of Rada's arm and sauntered toward the desk where the short, round man sat. The man they both served had taken his seat again. He smiled when Oliver perched upon the edge of the desk as if he were a son or the son of a son to this man. Rada hated him more each time he saw Oliver because he was false. This man, this Aussie, was a friend to no one. He was the son of a dog and served only those who could pay his price. Rada's country had been paying his price for a very long time.

  Oliver's suit jacket was slung over his shoulder, held there with the crook of one finger. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled back exposing tattoos that started at the man's wrists and journeyed up his arms in swirls of red and black and blue. Rada knew this man's entire upper body was covered in ink, permanent pictures of bloody wars and bloody Christs – the bloody Aussie.

  "Where have you been?" The man they served asked.

  "Earning my keep." Oliver grinned charmingly, looking more like a university lad than the mercenary he was. He pushed aside a shock of white/blond hair. "Been a rough day."

  "Then you have it?"

  Oliver shook his head. "Just been doing some digging, but the lady I was making inquiries of is stubborn. Give the word to put on the pressure, and I'll get you that embarrassing little item a whole lot quicker, mate."

  "I do not want to draw attention unless there is no other way, Oliver."

  "I'm smoother than that. I'd make no trouble that would be noticed. Cross my heart." Oliver crossed his heart but sneered at the promise he was making. To him everything was a joke and trouble always came with him.

  "I only want the thing in my hand. You said it would be easy," the man snapped and Rada was pleased that the Australian had incurred this man's displeasure. Oliver, though, did not seem to notice, or, if he did, he enjoyed ignoring it. That would be a dangerous thing for anyone but Oliver.

  "Nothing is ever that easy. But I'm telling you, I've been busy. I have it all laid out and tonight we're going to turn the screws just a little bit. I won't expect payment until you're satisfied, so there's nothing to worry about on that score."

  "It's not about money. Time, Oliver," the man with the goatee said. "We have little time if the information we have is correct."

  "Oh, it's correct alright. No doubt about that."

  "That does not ease my worry." The little man stood. He picked up his case and held it out to Rada. "We are expected. Come, come. Let us talk in the car."

  "Not right now, mate. I have a few calls to make and I need a shower. Besides, I told you, nobody's going anywhere fast." Oliver pushed off the desk and tossed his jacket on a chair. He sauntered over to the bank of windows and held back the sheers. "Seems there's been a little mishap."

  Rada and the man he served moved to the window. Rada kept a respectful distance but he could see the freeway far below. Southbound traffic was stopped. Four lanes on the freeway itself and two on a sweeping transition roadway were backed up for miles. In the middle of the mess, a semi truck had collided with a small car. Rada knew those in the small car were more than likely dead because it was folded in on itself. If the people were not dead, they would be soon because the rescue vehicles were blocked a mile back. On the other side, the northbound lanes were empty. It was an eerie sight. The freeway that had seemed like a living thing was now quiet, dead.

  "It's a mess down there, for sure. A bloody, bloody disaster."

  Oliver and the man they served chuckled and then they laughed. Only Rada stayed silent as he wondered why suffering was the one thing that made these men happy.

  USC Parking Garage

  She walked with her eyes forward, her shoulders back, arms swinging despite the heavy backpack she carried. That pack was stuffed with books on microbiology, physical examination and health assessment and radiology, but still she kept her shoulders back and her head high because that sent a powerful message to anyone who might be watching. She also carried her keys like brass knuckles. That way if anyone tried to mess with her in this deserted garage she'd do some damage for sure. Just when she was feeling pretty awesomely invincible, the girl saw that the parking garage wasn't deserted after all.

  She narrowed her eyes and clutched those keys tighter as she slid over to one of the posts, half hiding in order to get a good look at the old red car parked three spaces down from where she had parked her own. Yes, there was definitely something going on in that old car that wasn't right.

  At first the girl thought it was someone having a quickie because she saw the clothes coming off: a hat, a jacket. While that was disgustingly childish behavior, seeing someone having sex in a car was way better than finding people hooking up in the library stacks. Since there was nothing she could do about this, the girl decided to give that car wide berth and get the heck out of there. When she stepped away from the post, though, she saw that there was only one person in that car. And if there was only one person, and it was a man, and he was taking off his clothes then that was another thing altogether. She took one more hesitant step, saw that the trunk was popped and the driver's door was open and…and whoever was in there was throwing his arms around and banging his head on the steering wheel like a crazy person. That's when the hairs on the back of her neck went up.

  She snapped her head to the left, the right and behind her but saw no one. When she looked back at the car, the guy inside was starting to get out and her gut did a double dip. There was only one thing to do and that was leave as quickly and quietly as possible. Turning on her heel, she walked as fast as she could without drawing attention to herself. She bypassed the elevator for the stairs and bee-lined for the security kiosk on the second level. There she reported what she'd seen. The security guy went back with her to the first level where she pointed out the car. He went in for a closer look.

  "Whoever it was is gone," he said when he returned. "The car's locked, but you never know. It could have been one of those crazies from the bridge. I've found them in here looking for an unlocked car where they can crash. You go on now, I'll wait until you get into your car just in case he's still around somewhere."

  The girl thanked him but she still fumed. Considering the price of tuition, the least the school could do was make sure their parking was secure. The security guard watched her peel out of the garage and then took down the license plate number of the red car. If it was still there tomorrow, the morning guy could decide whether or not to have it towed.

  He was about
to head back to the second floor when he realized something was weird outside. He ambled over to the doorway that led to the street. The first thing he saw were the vagrants on the bridge scattering to break up their camp. When he heard the sirens, he stepped outside. Above him helicopters circled. He jogged across the street and took a gander at the freeway below.

  "Holy moly," he whistled.

  It was a mess and a half down there. The guard watched awhile longer, and when he figured all the real excitement was over he headed back to work. By the time his shifted ended, they would have everything cleaned up. Bottom line, this was nothing more than L.A. doing what it did best – screwing up traffic.

  CHAPTER 3

  On Monday, the day after a homeless woman jumped off a bridge and caused an epic pileup on the 110 Freeway, it was eighty-eight degrees at nine a.m. and everyone was hot under the collar.

  That morning, the Los Angeles Times ran an impressive story about the city's dire homeless situation. The newspaper railed against the injustice of it all citing the lack of resources, shortage of community assistance and dearth of housing for the growing number of the disenfranchised. The newspaper published a call from one local politician who wanted to raise taxes to pay for a four hundred million dollar outreach. The politician had not formulated a plan as yet, but he was sure four hundred million dollars would do the trick. He was also positive that the taxpayers' pockets would prove to be as deep as their empathy.

  The paper ran a sidebar about the young unidentified woman who, in the depths of despair, had jumped to her death. This was interesting since the reporter could not know if the woman was in the depths of despair. It was, after all, impossible to interview the dead and no one who knew her had come forward to attest to her state of mind. The intrepid reporter had even managed to slip into editorial mode noting that the traffic in Los Angeles was to blame and global warming, of course, was more than likely a factor in her unsubstantiated despair.

  None of the articles mentioned the strain on city services that both the homeless and the accident caused, the heroism of those who responded to the emergency, the lack of safety measures on the overpasses or the fact that nine regular working stiffs had been hurt badly enough to land them in the hospital, two in critical condition. The article was accompanied by a picture of the mayhem: a burning car, the woman's covered body, first responders working the jaws of life, homeless folk hanging over the railing looking at the bloodied people in suits and ties. All of this took place under the ethereal golden glow of the setting sun. That night, the freeway reopened at ten-fourteen. Since this was right up there with parting the Red Sea, every media outlet carried the story as breaking news.

  On Tuesday, it was ninety-two degrees at eleven in the morning. The suicide, subsequent collision, and the homeless had been knocked off the front page by a tear-jerker of an article about an undocumented family who were barely able to feed themselves on food stamps after their gangbanger son's drug income dried up when he was incarcerated. There was also a piece on militant actors rebelling against the lack of diversity on the silver screen, and, finally, the requisite story of evil businesses fleeing the tax burdens of California. In a stunning statement, the governor swore the Golden State would have its revenge by boycotting said businesses. The state would no longer buy dog food or bike accessories from the traitors who had turned their corporate backs on California. It was a move that was sure to wreak no havoc on either the state or the corporations, but it made for a wonderful quote of outrage from the governor's people.

  Finn O'Brien did his part and showed his disgust of big business by tossing the L.A. Times in the trash. The only thing he wanted to know was not on those pages; he wanted to know who the dead woman was.

  Now it was Wednesday afternoon and Finn was sorry for leaving his leather jacket in the car because the room in which he stood with Paul, the Los Angeles County Coroner, was as cold as the body on the table. Paul, always one to enjoy a little chitchat before getting down to business, was bent from the waist, his glasses raised as he took a good look at the bandage on Finn's left hand.

  "That's a fine job. Lovely wrapping. Top of the line."

  "County had me patched up in no time," Finn answered.

  "You're darn lucky it wasn't appendicitis that brought you in. Those guys get all flummoxed if you aren't shot or beaten or stabbed," Paul said as he righted himself.

  "If it's ever my appendix that needs removing, I'll call you," Finn assured him. "I'd venture to guess that you've seen more of them than any doctor in the city."

  "Ah, yes, but none of my patients ever go home. Something to think about, isn't it?" Paul waggled a finger and smiled. The man had a tough road, dealing with the dead as he did, so Finn chuckled at all his jokes no matter how small.

  "I'll not be putting you on speed dial," Finn assured him.

  "Wise man." Paul patted himself down and finally found what he was looking for, the glasses atop his head. He grinned at Finn and said: "So, shall we take a look at her?"

  Since that was a rhetorical question, Finn said nothing as they moved closer to the table and took up their respective positions: Paul standing on one side, Finn on the other and the body between them. It was covered to the clavicle with a pristine white sheet. The jumper, Finn's Jane Doe, looked peaceful in death. She was young and pretty, a light-skinned black woman with features that tipped the scales toward a European pedigree rather than African. Yet even that didn't really set right in Finn's mind. Perhaps there was more a mix of the Middle East in her.

  Her face was heart shaped and rounded at the cheekbones. Her brow was broad and framed with black hair that had a hint of red to it. Her eyes were not particularly deep set but they were large and almond shaped. Her lashes were long and lush, her lips generous and wide under a long, narrow nose.

  Her shoulders were broad but her bones were delicate. There was something about her that suggested she would be graceful and purposeful when she moved. But she wouldn't move. The nameless woman was lying on a cold metal table and not long ago she had been on a bridge seemingly convinced that her life was no longer worth living. Finn offered a small benediction because old habits died hard.

  "What did you say?" Paul asked.

  "Did I speak, aloud, then?" Finn shook his head and offered the doctor a sheepish grin. "Sorry. Nothing really. It was an Irish blessing: May you see God’s light on the path ahead when the road you walk is dark."

  "Seems appropriate," Paul said. "This lady's road must have been very dark indeed."

  "I remember nothing about her, Paul," Finn admitted. "I carried her in my arms, looked at her face and yet this morning I couldn't have told you if she was young or old, tall or short."

  "It's amazing you remember your own name, considering."

  "That's good of you to say, but I was with her when she breathed her last. I should have remembered the sound of her breath. Something. That's what I'm trained to do."

  "You did what you could and you did exactly what you were trained to do."

  "It appears I did some damage also."

  Finn nodded at the tears and cuts that crosshatched one of her cheeks and ran down her long, slender neck and across one of her bare shoulders. There was bruising on the right side of her face and at her jaw and lip.

  "You weren't the only one, and that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I think you may want to investigate this, Finn."

  "I would have to have a good reason, Paul," he answered. "Captain Fowler isn't feeling particularly sympathetic to this situation at the moment. I have totaled my car and at least one person is looking to sue Cori and me for keeping them from going on their way."

  "America the litigious. Lovely," Paul smirked. "Be that as it may, I do think this is a matter for the police. Of course I can only recommend, but it's my duty to point out that this lady was dead – or near to it – when she toppled off that bridge. I'm not sure she could have jumped even if she wanted to."

  "Fell then, did she?" Finn asked.
"That comes as no surprise. The city shouldn't be letting people live up there in the first place much less before they secure the bridge."

  Paul backed away from the table and leaned against a counter bearing the tools of his trade. He crossed his arms.

  "You should run for mayor. Between the brogue and all that righteous anger you would have every woman in the city voting for you."

  "I've enough problems without that," Finn snorted. "I'm frustrated is all. This is a beautiful woman who wouldn't be here if she had even one person to care about her, or if the city had done its job. The system is banjaxed, man, and people like her are paying for it."

  "You're assuming I have a clue as to what banjaxed means, you know."

  "Broken. Broken beyond fixing." Finn pulled his bandaged hand into his chest and cradled it with his good one to stop the throbbing that came when his blood boiled. "So what was it? Drugs? Alcohol? Exposure?"

  "None of the above," he answered. "Someone hit her on and about the head with an object that was quite solid. One blow, the one under the chin, split her jawbone and snapped her head back. It was hard enough that it cracked a vertebra in her spine."

  "She was assaulted on the bridge?" Finn asked, knowing this would make for sensitive news in a city already divided about how to deal with the homeless.

  "I can't be specific as to where, but I can give you parameters on the time frame. By the look of the swelling, I would say it was one to three hours between the assault and her death. This lady wouldn't have known if she was coming or going given the head trauma, and given the shape her spine was in I'd say someone had to help her over that railing even at her height."