by Brenda Novak
“I didn’t know you had kids.”
“My niece. Jessica. She’s a freshman at UCLA this year.” He smiled warmly, then motioned to a chair. “Sit down, please.”
She would have preferred standing, but he sat on the chair in front of his desk, not behind it, so she followed his lead and sat in the chair next to him.
“Thanks again for the flowers. You really didn’t have to do anything. I read your note—you don’t owe me. I wanted to tell you that in person. I don’t expect or want anything simply for being at the right place.”
“You saved my life,” he said bluntly. “It made an impression.”
“I may not be a cop anymore, but the instincts don’t just disappear.”
“I don’t know why Detective Perry didn’t give you the news,” he said. “But I don’t see the harm in telling you what happened last night. They found the shooter.”
That surprised her. She’d been listening to the news all morning and hadn’t heard a word.
“He’s in custody? Who is it?”
“He’s dead. His body was found in a vehicle near Discovery Park. They haven’t confirmed he’s the shooter, but they found a .45 pistol on him which matches the caliber of the gun used yesterday, and he matches the description you gave to the police.”
Alex had a hundred questions, but only Jim would be able to answer them. Or Steve, she thought, glad she had this information before she met with him. “He must have been a hired gun,” she said. “Whoever hired him may have thought he was a weak link. That doesn’t mean you’re safe, Mr. Hart. I hope you’re taking extensive security protections.”
“CHP wants to escort me to and from home, as well as events.” He frowned and steepled his fingers. “The Lieutenant Governor isn’t a job that most people find threatening. This whole situation still surprises me. It must have something to do with my years in the D.A.’s office. I was a prosecutor for fifteen years. I may have upset some criminals simply because I did my job well. But the police don’t know if he committed suicide or was murdered. I believe the autopsy is later this morning.”
“Jim Perry is a good detective,” she said. “He’ll figure it out. But until they find out who hired the shooter, you need to be careful.”
“Maybe I can hire you as my bodyguard?” he said.
He had to be joking. “Funny.”
“Well, now that I say it—it’s a good idea.”
“I’m not a bodyguard. I was a cop, and I happened to be in the right place at the right time. Nothing more, nothing less. But I’m really glad no one was hurt.”
“You saved my life. You’re more than capable.”
Was he serious about this offer? Or was it simply a throwaway line? Being on Hart’s staff would give her access—the exact type of access Matt Elliott and the feds wanted.
“You are considering,” he said with a smile.
“Are you really serious?”
“Absolutely. While I’m confident that the CHP is more than competent, I would prefer having my own security.”
She hesitated. She’d been on security detail many times when she’d been a patrol officer, but personal security was different. When she’d been a cop, she’d had back-up. Here, she’d be on her own.
“You don’t have to give me an answer right now—I’ve put you on the spot. And it wouldn’t be a bodyguard position per se; I really need someone to do advance work, work the events, make sure security is tight. Better than what happened at the hotel. You can say yes tomorrow.” He smiled, in that way handsome men smile when they know they’re attractive and confident they’ll get their way. Hart certainly had the charm down.
She laughed. “I promise to give it serious thought. If not me, I’ll give you a list of qualified bodyguards. There are several former cops who are in the security business now.”
“Fair enough. Thank you.” He glanced at her arm. “I called the hospital yesterday, but they weren’t forthcoming with information about your injury.”
“A few stitches, that’s it.” She rose from her seat. The potential job was a far better hook into Hart’s office than the nebulous drinks with her father. “I know you’re busy, I just came by to make sure you and your staff were okay.”
He rose from his chair and smiled. “Thanks to you. In fact, let me take you to dinner tonight.”
Dinner? Why did it sound like he was asking her out on a date? She was unprepared.
“Really, the flowers were enough. You don’t need to do anything for me.”
“I want to. We’ll discuss what the security job would entail. You can’t make a decision without knowing exactly what I need, right?”
“I—” She absolutely should say yes. It hadn’t even been her idea. She didn’t have to use her father, something she wasn’t comfortable with anyway. “I guess dinner would be okay.”
He smiled again. Hart truly was handsome and slick, in that smooth con man type of way. He picked up a pad and pen. “Where can I pick you up?”
“I can meet you at the restaurant. No need to go out of your way.”
He gave her a mock frown. “I will of course pick you up. I have a meeting that should be done by six, six-thirty ... where do you live?” This felt way too much like a date, not a quasi job interview. But she agreed. She took the pen from Hart and wrote down her address.
“It’s Not far from here—the lofts across from the Memorial Auditorium.”
“I’ll be there at seven.”
She left, eager to get out of Hart’s office.
Dinner. With the subject of an FBI investigation. Possible job with said suspect.
Matt Elliott was going to owe her big time.
Chapter Eight
After Alex retrieved her gun from the CHP office, she exited the building and was surprised to see Jim standing under a tree near the side entrance. He was on his phone, but as soon as he saw her he ended the call and made a beeline for her.
“What were you doing with Hart?” he demanded.
“What business is that of yours?” she snapped. What was with him?
“He obviously has a target on his back. You were lucky once. Twice.”
“Lucky. Really.” She shook her head.
Jim softened, just a bit, and stepped forward. “Alex—look, I don’t want to argue with you. About anything. If I could turn back the clock and fix things between us, I would.”
“I know,” she said. But she didn’t believe him. Jim would never trust her. If he thought that she’d been cheating on him when she wasn’t, maybe he’d picked up on her attraction to Matt Elliott—even though she had never so much as touched him before the night she walked out on Jim. But it wasn’t just that. She didn’t have the same feelings for Jim now as she had last year.
“If there’s a chance—”
“There isn’t, Jim, you know that.” If he’d come to her even six months ago, when she was still recuperating from the shooting, when she was depressed and lonely, she might have forgiven him if he’d apologized for everything—and she might have told him the truth. She had wanted to but she held back because she was working for the feds against a fellow cop. The guilt had eaten her raw; being torn between two wrongs. Turning her back on her partner’s corruption or working undercover against him.
There were more troubling stories than she could count of cops who went to their superiors about bad cops. The bad cop might be fired or, in some cases even imprisoned, but the good cop, the one who stopped the corruption, was vilified. They were emotionally abused by their peers. Ostracized. Because you simply didn’t turn into a snitch when you had a badge.
Jim wanted to turn back the clock to before she made the choice, and she couldn’t do that. And he hadn’t stood up for her after she shot Tommy. It didn’t matter that Tommy had shot her in the back, because everything leading up to it she’d done wrong ... in the eyes of her superiors. And they hadn’t even known about the feds.
“I wish ... well, I wish things could be different,” Jim said
lamely.
“You wish I could be different.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the shooter was killed last night?”
Jim reddened. “Hart shouldn’t have said anything.”
“What do you think I’m going to do with the information? Run over to the newspaper? You know how much I love the press.”
“We don’t have much of anything.”
“ID?”
“No—his prints aren’t in the system. He was found in a stolen car, no wallet, no identification. He has some tats and were working with the gang unit, but considering his body was found twelve hours ago, I don’t have much. I came here to give Hart an update and show him the photo.”
“But you think he was the shooter.”
“Not confirmed. But yeah, I think it’s him.”
“Can I see his picture?”
Jim hesitated, then pulled out his cell phone and brought up an image.
The dead white guy could have had light brown hair, but it looked dark in the photo because of the blood. He’d been shot in the right temple and Alex could picture his brains spattered against the window, though that gruesome image was cut off. But his face was intact. His eyes were closed, mouth partly open. Twenty-two at most. Fresh-faced. Young.
She recognized him. She almost said as much to Jim, except that she knew this kid only because of the undercover work she’d done for the Feds. She didn’t know his name, but Tommy had met up with him several times during the months she’d been spying on him. Alex suspected that the kid had been giving Tommy money or drugs, but she didn’t know for certain.
This kid was connected to Rykov and that meant that someone in the Russian mob wanted Hart dead. Either Hart or his legislative consultant, Eric Huang.
“You recognize him?” Jim asked.
She shook her head, handed him back his phone. “He’s just so young.” She paused. “So is he a hired gun?”
“We don’t know.”
“But it’s not a suicide.”
“We don’t know that, either. We’re waiting on the M.E.’s report. And that’s the extent of the information I can give you, Alex. I shouldn’t have told you anything.”
“You told me next to nothing. And I’m a witness, Jim. I shouldn’t have to ask to see the suspect’s picture.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to meet Steve. Are we done here?”
“Just—watch your back, Alex. Someone wanted Hart dead, and if this kid was working with anyone, that person might be angry you thwarted their plans.”
***
Alex left her car at the hotel and walked the eight short blocks to the courthouse. Not only was the spring morning refreshing, and parking anywhere near the capitol or courthouse next to impossible, she needed time to clear her head and think.
Why was Jim concerned about her? Did he know something he wasn’t telling her? If he had a suspicion, wouldn’t he simply clue her in? It was all very odd.
But the more interesting point was that the Russians had something to do with the assassination attempt on Hart. Last night Matt had told her that Sergei Rykov was one of Hart’s major donors ... and now a kid, likely working for Rykov or one of his rivals, had tried to kill him? Perhaps Hart wasn’t corrupt like the feds thought. She could see a scenario where a thug like Rykov would donate to Hart, then expect favors in return. Maybe Hart balked at the expectation, and Rykov put out the hit. But wouldn’t Hart have shared the information with the police? Wouldn’t Jim have asked if anyone was unhappy with his service?
Except ... Rykov was smart. He would have hired a professional to kill Hart, and Alex couldn’t imagine the kid she’d chased was a professional assassin. Maybe the shooting was simply to scare Hart into compliance.
Or maybe there was a connection between the kid and Huang? Huang was what, thirty? Take or leave. They wouldn’t have gone to college together. The Russians tended to stick within the same communities. Huang appeared to be an educated Chinese-American, and likely had gone to a four-year college majoring in something like government or public administration.
Ugh—Alex couldn’t imagine anything more boring. Criminal Justice had been bad enough as a major, and she only did it because it would help her be a cop. Yet she rarely called upon what she learned during her four years in college.
Maybe she could parlay that four-year degree into a job. She wanted to be a cop, but if she wanted to stay in Sacramento close to her family, she’d have to find something else to do. Working for a politician? Never. She could go back to school ... scratch that. She hated it the first time around, why would she go back to get another degree? For what? To be a teacher? She had no desire to teach when she hated school. Law school for three years? She’d rather work minimum wage at a fast food joint.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Alex mumbled to herself.
Not completely ridiculous. Her severance pay and small savings would be depleted in two months, if she was frugal. She’s already paid March rent and utilities and had the money set aside for April. Her lease was up June first. She might be able to scrimp and scrape May rent, or give notice and use her deposit for the last month. Beyond that, she was done.
She’d have to move in with her dad. He’d wanted her to after she was shot, but she couldn’t. She was thirty-four years old. If she moved in with her father she’d feel even more like a failure.
Now, she was getting depressed.
She arrived early to the courthouse and spotted Steve standing by the fountain talking on his cell phone. She waved to catch his attention and he finished his call.
“I thought I’d beat you,” she said.
“I had to come down to the D.A.’s office,” he jerked his thumb across the street, “to pick up a list of all the cases Hart prosecuted during his tenure. It’s all computerized now. Every case, win or lose, with defendant, sentence, last known address, whether they’re still in prison or a repeat offender. Good stuff, really. Also includes known associates, which might come in handy right about now.”
“I heard the shooter’s dead.”
Steve raised an eyebrow. “You talked to Jim?”
“I ran into Jim at Hart’s office. You haven’t ID’d the guy?”
Steve shook his head. “No ID, no prints, car was stolen. Doesn’t give us much to go on.”
“Any ideas at all?”
She desperately wanted to give Steve and Jim a clue that this might be tied to the Russian mob, but she needed to talk to Matt Elliott first.
“None,” Steve said. “But we’ll figure it out.” He tapped the folder he carried. “My gut tells me it’s connected to one of his old cases. The LG isn’t a high-profile office, but Hart was a prosecutor. They make enemies.”
Steve pulled out a form from the top of the folder in his arms. “Here’s your statement. If you can just sign and date.”
She read the statement first. It was straight-forward, no extraneous details. Jim hadn’t included her theory that Hart might not have been the target, but she supposed that was mostly because it was conjecture, not fact.
Still, she asked Steve, “Are you looking into Eric Huang?”
“The legislative consultant?” Steve shrugged. “He’s clean. Squeaky clean. Nothing on his record. Third generation Chinese-American, graduated from Berkeley, worked for the previous LG, rather bland. From Folsom, parents still live there, owns a townhouse up off 26th or 27th, you know—they built them as infill housing about ten years ago.”
She knew the area. Relatively cheap to buy, easy commute to downtown or hop onto the freeway, good restaurants within walking distance.
“Did Hart recognize the shooter?” she asked.
Steve shook his head. “Still, Hart was a prosecutor up until three years ago before going into corporate law, then the LG appointment when Goodman died in office. Hart could easily have forgotten the case, could have been minor for him, or a frie
nd or relative of a victim or perp.”
“Makes sense.” Except, she knew the shooter was connected to organized crime. She went out on a limb. “Did you run ballistics? Any connection to other cases?”
Steve nodded, and almost told her, then stopped himself. “Alex, I’d love to share everything with you, but our investigation is being monitored from on high. You burned a lot of bridges last year. Not that you were at fault,” he added quickly.
“I don’t want to make anything difficult for you,” she said with a half-smile, though inside she was seething. This whole thing was bullshit, and the way Jim and Steve were treating her was bullshit, too. She was a witness, she was a trained investigator, she wanted to help. But she got it, loud and clear. If anyone in the department found out she was involved, over and above giving her statement, it could cause problems for Jim and Steve. She wouldn’t put it past the powers that be to pull them from the case and give it to someone with no connection to her.
Steve looked her up and down. “You okay?”
He meant well, but she was getting sick and tired of being asked the same question. “Fine. It was a flesh wound. Itches like a bitch.”
“I meant, in general.”
She shrugged. “I’m okay.”
“I think it’s crap that you felt like you had to quit.”
“Don’t be naive, Jefferson. You know how it is.”
“We all knew Tommy bent the rules.”
Her ears perked up. “What?”
“All of us from Southern Command. I was a rookie cop at Southern before I made detective and was assigned to Central. Tommy was a sharp cop—really good. But everyone turned their back when he slipped a few bucks in his pocket during a bust. Maybe we shouldn’t have.” He shrugged. “You know why he was transferred to Northern Command.”
“No,” she said flatly. “He told me he asked for the transfer so he didn’t have to commute as far after his divorce.”
Steve looked perplexed, then clearly regretted saying anything. “Maybe it’s all water under the bridge. The guy is in jail, juries love to send cops up the river.” He squirmed. “I shouldn’t have said that. He deserves whatever he gets.”
