Mortal Crimes 1

by Various Authors

  Logan pulled the camera out of his pocket. He stopped the recording, then started it again so he’d have a new file, and then pointed it at Bell.

  “Let’s you and I have a little talk.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  TO SAY IT was a bit of a diplomatic mess was probably an understatement.

  The only way to stem the fallout on the U.S. side was to swiftly move to arrest those suspected of being involved in the “Kidnapping for Oil Scheme,” as it was soon labeled by cable news.

  Within 24 hours, Charles Bracher, Samuel Schwartz, David Lyons—the CEO of Lyon Exploratory Research and the “L” of LRB Oil—and several other employees of all three companies were behind bars. The government had also filed extradition papers for Scott Bell, Aaron Hughes, and the remaining members of Bell’s team with the Thai government.

  As for the secret police team from Myanmar, Logan was never really sure what happened to them. But he had a feeling that even if they were sent back to Burma, things weren’t going to go very well for them.

  He heard later there was a little bit of confusion when five Vietnam vets showed up at the Federal Building in West Los Angeles with three people they claimed were connected to the matter. But it was soon cleared up, and Elyse’s former roommate Angie, along with a Mr. Williams and a Mr. Dean, were turned over to the FBI.

  Logan was a big part of the mess. He had actually killed someone, and shot a member of the Myanmar secret police. For those reasons, it had been decided early on that his name wasn’t to be mentioned in connection at all with the case. Like what his father and the rest of the WAMO gang had decided about the attack on Tooney, Logan was apparently not involved in this incident either. That was okay with him. He wasn’t interested in the publicity.

  Still, the authorities didn’t know what to do with him, so he was detained for nearly a week, talking only to governmental representatives of the U.S. and Thailand.

  It was Sein who finally got him out.

  They were all in a room somewhere in Bangkok—Sein, two men from the U.S. embassy, three from the Thai government, and Logan. After they’d gone on for a half hour about how it was impossible for Logan to just walk away without paying some kind of price, Sein reached into her bag, and pulled out a laptop. Setting it on the table, she turned it so everyone could see the screen.

  “One,” she began. “Mr. Harper is to be release today, within the hour, with no charges made against him.” She looked at the representatives from the U.S. “This includes anything that may have happened in California before he left for Thailand.”

  Detective Baker was not going to be happy to hear that, Logan thought.

  “Two, if anything happens to Mr. Harper, now or in the future, and I mean anything, I will make a point of including both of your governments’ involvement in the blame when I talk about what happened here. And then I will show this.”

  She tapped the spacebar, and a movie began to play on the screen.

  As Logan watched, a smile grew on his face. Someone had done a pretty damn good job of cutting together all the footage that had been shot at Doi Suthep. Logan’s footage was there, too, because he made sure to slip his camera to one of Daeng’s refugee friends before the police had taken him in. But there was more than just what they had shot. Intercut at strategic points was news footage and stills showing prominent leaders from both the U.S. and Thailand in the company of Mr. Bracher and Mr. Schwartz and Mr. Lyon.

  Logan was released the moment the meeting was over, and was even given a free flight home, courtesy of the Thai government.

  He did get to see Daeng one more time, though. They had lunch in Bangkok the afternoon before his flight left. Daeng seemed energized and more focused than ever.

  “Word of our…work is spreading in Burma. More and more people know what happened to Sein Myat and her family, and that she survived to continue working for their freedom.”

  “If it helps, I’m glad to hear it,” Logan said.

  “I told you, it’s a long fight for us. Years, decades, whatever it takes. At some point my mother’s people will be free again. And you. They know about you, too, and the part you played.”

  “Yours is the one they need to know about. Without you, I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere. And you’re still here helping them.”

  “Of course they know my name. I’m not stupid.”

  They both laughed.

  “If you’re ever looking for a change of scenery, you’ll always be welcome to come here and work with me,” Daeng said.

  “Thanks,” Logan told him. “And if you’re ever back in L.A., give me a call, and I’ll drive down.”

  Daeng smiled. “I’ve been craving a little bit of that mild weather, so I’m sure I’ll make the trip soon enough.”

  “Please tell Christina thank you for introducing us.”

  “I will.”

  The funny thing was, the only person Logan didn’t talk to was Elyse. She was still heavily drugged when the ambulance took her and Sein away in Chiang Mai, and Sein told him at the meeting that her husband and Elyse had flown home several days earlier. Logan was actually glad to hear it. It meant he’d accomplished what he set out to do, to see that Elyse got safely home.

  Thailand not only paid his flight to LAX, they also threw in the commuter hop from there to San Luis Obispo. When he got off the plane, he thought he’d have to rent a car to get back to Cambria, but waiting for him in the lobby was the entire membership of WAMO.

  Logan got handshakes and backslaps and “well dones” all around. When Tooney’s turn came, he shook Logan’s hand first, then threw his arms around him. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “I was lucky,” Logan said.

  “No, I was lucky,” Tooney told him. “Lucky your father convince me to trust you.”

  “I had a lot of help. So it wasn’t just me.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I know. But you, you make everything happen. You brought her back.”

  Logan mumbled a reply, then headed outside with his dad and the others.

  It was a beautiful, mild day, the humidity of Thailand suddenly a distant memory.

  They were almost to Jerry’s Cadillac when Harp pulled Logan to the left. “Our ride’s over here.”

  Parked in the next aisle was Logan’s El Camino, its back end facing them. It took Logan a few seconds before he realized the damage was all gone.

  He leaned down for a closer look.

  “I figured since you weren’t using it, I’d have the guys over at Floyd’s Body Shop see what they could do. They took care of the front, too.”

  It looked good as new to Logan. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Harp was silent for a moment. “I owe you at least that much. For what you did for Tooney.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I do.” He hesitated, then said, “I know there’s a lot going on in that head of yours, but you did good. Real good. I couldn’t be more proud.”

  Logan had no response for that. There were so many times he’d almost failed since that morning Tooney had been attacked, he wasn’t ready to pat himself on the back.

  He dropped his dad off at his home, then headed to his apartment in West Village. It was dark by the time he parked around back. He grabbed his backpack, then walked over to the stairs that led to his front door. But he didn’t go up.

  Elyse was sitting in his way.

  She stared at him for several seconds, then said, “I just wanted to get a look at you.”

  “Um, okay.”

  “I hear you saved my life.”

  “I was just one of many.”

  “That’s not what I was told.”

  “Doesn’t really matter. The important thing is that you’re home.”

  After several seconds, she said, “I don’t remember most of it. Not well, anyway. After they grabbed me outside Anthony’s place…” She paused. “Grandpa told me you were the one who found him.”

  Logan took a breath. “Yes.”

  Silence.
>
  “If Anthony didn’t know me, he’d still be alive.”

  “You can’t think that way,” he told her.

  “But it’s true.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t your fault. Not even a little.”

  “How can I be friends with anyone now? How can I trust the same thing won’t happen to someone else?”

  He knew telling her it wasn’t her fault again wouldn’t help, so he said what he thought she really needed to hear. “You’ll find a way.”

  Neither of them said anything for a moment.

  Then she said, “I…I know I need to thank you, but I don’t know how. Just saying it doesn’t seem like it would be enough.”

  “You don’t need to thank me at all.”

  “I don’t think I could even if I tried.” She picked up something that was lying on the step behind her. “Here. It’s the best I can do for now.”

  What she handed him was a small painting in a dark green wooden frame—a painting of a young girl with wings and a mischievous smile.

  “You?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I painted it.”

  “No, I mean the girl. Is it you?”

  She walked down the steps, stopped in front of him, then raised up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Grandpa says you get free coffee for life.”

  She stepped around him, and started walking away.

  Did you get her? Carl asked.

  Did you get her?

  Logan looked down at the picture, then back at Elyse as she disappeared into the night.

  “Yes,” he said. “I got her.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY BRETT BATTLES

  THE JONATHAN QUINN THRILLERS

  Novels

  BECOMING QUINN

  THE CLEANER

  THE DECEIVED

  SHADOW OF BETRAYAL (U.S.)/THE UNWANTED (U.K.)

  THE SILENCED

  THE DESTROYED

  THE COLLECTED

  THE ENRAGED

  THE DISCARDED

  Short Stories

  “Just Another Job”—A Jonathan Quinn Story

  “Off the Clock”—A Jonathan Quinn Story

  “The Assignment”—An Orlando Story

  “Lesson Plan”—A Jonathan Quinn Story (April 2014)

  “Quick Study”—An Orlando Story (April 2014)

  THE LOGAN HARPER THRILLERS

  LITTLE GIRL GONE

  EVERY PRECIOUS THING

  THE PROJECT EDEN THRILLERS

  SICK

  EXIT NINE

  PALE HORSE

  ASHES

  EDEN RISING

  DREAM SKY

  THE ALEXANDRA POE THRILLERS

  CO-WRITTEN WITH ROBERT GREGORY BROWNE

  POE

  TAKEDOWN

  STANDALONES

  Novels

  THE PULL OF GRAVITY

  NO RETURN

  Short Stories

  “Perfect Gentleman”

  FOR YOUNGER READERS

  THE TROUBLE FAMILY CHRONICLES

  HERE COMES MR. TROUBLE

  TRIAL JUNKIES:

  A TRIAL JUNKIES THRILLER

  ROBERT GREGORY BROWNE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Robert Gregory Browne

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.

  All rights reserved. Publishing in the United States of America by Braun Haus Media.

  Cover design by BHC

  Cover photos:

  Courthouse: © GOL - Fotolia.com

  Military Girl in Handcuffs: © TA Craft Photography - Fotolia.com

  PART ONE

  Hail, Hail

  The Gang’s All Here

  CHAPTER ONE

  THEY FOUND HER body in Dearborn Park.

  She had been left to die in a vacant lot on Clark Street, lying in a pool of her own blood, multiple stab wounds to her chest and abdomen, her face slashed, her throat slit ear to ear.

  Hutch hadn’t seen or spoken to Jenny in nearly ten years, but she had never been far from his mind. And the thought that some mad man had mutilated the woman he had once loved—still loved, if you wanted the God’s honest truth—sent him rushing to his trailer to relieve himself of the Spanish omelet the craft service had served for breakfast.

  Hutch hadn’t received any phone calls about this. No old college pals breaking the bad news in a distant, halting voice. Chances were pretty good that most of them would hear about it exactly the way he had—a simple, unassuming headline on the opening page of the Chicago Post website:

  LOCAL ATTORNEY STABBED TO DEATH

  Hutch was a Chicago native and surfed the Post daily, but this was the kind of story he would usually pass over on his way to the sports page. He was living and working in Hollywood these days and had decided long ago that it was best to ignore such things. He had a pretty good life here and was still selfish enough to want to tune out any outside interference. No point in upsetting the balance he had struggled so hard to regain these last few months.

  But then he saw Jenny’s photograph and the world tilted sideways. She looked older, but just as beautiful as ever, those clear, intelligent eyes staring up at him as if to say—

  Where were you, Ethan?

  Why didn’t you return my calls?

  He was in the make-up chair when he saw it, Christine applying a nasty-looking bruise to the side of his face. He didn’t bother to excuse himself. Didn’t bother to say anything. Just looked into those eyes, tossed his iPad to the counter, then jumped up and bolted across the sound stage toward his trailer.

  By the time he staggered out of the bathroom, wiping a sleeve across his mouth, his assistant Sonya was waiting for him, frowning in disapproval.

  “Rough night?”

  Hutch had a bit of a reputation, but her assumption was wrong. He had spent the night at home, hammering out pages of a novel that he knew in his gut would never be published. But writing it allowed him to step out of his skin for a while and stretch his creative muscles in a new and different way. A kind of self-administered therapy designed to keep his mind occupied.

  That was the theory, at least. Truth was, he had no real writing talent, but just enough of an ego left to think he could pull it off. Whatever the case, he hadn’t spent the night drinking, as his performance in the bathroom might suggest.

  He hadn’t had a drink in six months.

  “I’m done for the day,” he told her.

  Sonya looked bewildered. “Done? We haven’t even started.”

  “Make an excuse for me. I’ll be at home.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You’re in the middle of a shoot, Hutch. You can’t just walk out.”

  “Tell them I’m sick. Tell them I have food poisoning.”

  “Do you seriously think Tony’s gonna buy—”

  Hutch held up his hands, cutting her off. “Look, I know the studio’s paying you good money to make sure I’m on my best behavior. And when the shit hits the fan I’ll be sure to tell them how hard you tried. But I’m out of here. Tony can shoot around me today.”

  He had half a mind to walk for good. He’d only taken this gig because both his agent and manager had insisted on it. An actor needs to act, they said. Stay in the public eye. And this could go a long way toward erasing all the negative publicity he’d gotten after the meltdown.

  But he knew that the chances of making it to series were pretty much nil. The network was shooting eleven pilots this season and had only two slots to fill. He was up against Selleck, a teen zombie drama, and a reboot of an old, but very popular cop show set in Miami.

  His
money was on Selleck and the zombies.

  Sonya said nothing for a moment, looking at him with her patented scowl. Then her expression shifted as if she suddenly realized that there was something more at work here than a simple alcohol-fueled puke fest.

  She softened. “What happened, Hutch? What’s wrong?”

  “My past just reared up and bit me in the ass, is all.”

  “Meaning what?”

  He slumped to the sofa. “I just found out an old girlfriend of mine was murdered.”

  “What?”

  He looked up at her. “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home and grieve for a few hours before I start subjecting myself to Tony’s torture.”

  Sonya studied him blankly, then stepped toward him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re telling me the truth.”

  He ignored her. He didn’t want her sympathy. All he could think about was Jenny and those eyes looking up at him, and how badly he had ended things.

  And now it was too late to make good.

  He got to his feet. “Have Eddie pick me up at the main gate, will you?”

  A moment later he was out the door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HUTCH HAD NEVER been good at funerals.

  The last one he had attended had been his parents’ memorial service, two years after he left Chicago. They had died in a plane crash—a story that gained huge traction in the media—and his appearance there had created such a stir with the paparazzi that he vowed he would never attend another, no matter who might be lying in the casket.

  This was back when the paparazzi were actually interested in him. Nowadays they looked at him as little more than a washed-up curiosity. A source of ridicule and scorn.

  Not that he cared.

  In the three days since he’d read about Jenny’s death, he had been through the usual gamut of emotions—denial, anger, an almost unbearable sense of guilt and regret. He had printed out the photograph from the Post web page and carried it on the flight to Chicago, taking it from his shirt pocket every so often to look into Jenny’s eyes.

  Where were you, Ethan?

  Why didn’t you return my calls?

  Would calling her have changed anything? Would she still be alive?

  There was no way to know, but in his gut he felt as if he were somehow to blame for what had happened to her. A feeling that fed into his addictive tendencies with an unrelenting singularity of purpose.