Pacific Homicide

by Patricia Smiley

  “I want to go. Now.”

  Davie was disappointed but not surprised that Lana hadn’t been more forthcoming. Grigory Satine had likely counseled her on what to say and do if the police came knocking. Lana had been smug at the liquor store and during the first part of the interview, but the autopsy photo had destroyed her cool, leaving Davie with the impression that she might not have known Anya was dead.

  “I’ll have one of our patrol officers drive you back to the liquor store.”

  Lana shook her head. “I take taxi.”

  Davie wondered why Lana had agreed to come to the station in the first place. She remembered Detective Quintero telling her he was working with a confidential informant from Satine’s inner circle. She wondered if Lana Ivanov was that CI. If so, Davie suspected she would hear from Q, and soon. If not, Lana would likely report back to Satine and Marchenko that the police were closing in. Either way, Davie had a feeling all hell was about to break loose.

  28

  The light was fading as Malcolm Harrington jogged through the Santa Monica Mountains above Mountain Gate Country Club. Sometime during the previous mile, a runner’s high had elevated him to a place that was as close to a religious experience as he was ever likely to feel. Still, he was anxious. Tire tracks rutted the access road, making the terrain hazardous. He could easily twist an ankle and fall. Someone would rescue him eventually, but there would be plenty of suffering until then.

  As he headed up an incline, the cell phone attached to his water belt vibrated. He pulled it out and read the display. Blocked. Odds were fifty-fifty that the call was important so he slowed his pace, activated his earpiece, and answered with a crisp, “Harrington.”

  Internal Affairs investigator Alex Sloan chuckled. “You sound out of breath. Did I catch you in the middle of something?”

  “I’m exercising. You should kick your nicotine habit and join me.”

  “An attractive offer, but I must decline.”

  “What did you dig up on Davie Richards?”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  A cold wind coaxed the smell of sage from a nearby bush and chilled the film of sweat glazing Harrington’s chest. “You disappoint me, Alex. I was hoping you’d have better news. ”

  “Look, I interviewed a shitload of people but for every one who thought Davie Richards was a prickly asshole, there were five more who believe she’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”

  Harrington picked up his pace. “What about Spencer Hall?”

  “He refused to be interviewed without his department rep present. I tried to get him to answer a few basic questions, but he was suffering from a bad case of CRS.”

  Harrington felt irritated. The police patois forced him to waste precious time searching his memory until he remembered what the acronym meant: can’t remember shit.

  Stress and exhaustion were making Harrington’s breathing labored. “What about the grieving widow? Is she sticking to her story?”

  “We both know the woman is lying. Richards is a crack shot. I found out she earned a Distinguished Expert Marksman and Sharpshooter medal. Somebody with a DX doesn’t miss. No one will believe she aimed at Hall and hit the knucklehead husband instead.”

  “Mrs. Hurtado might create doubt about what happened that day.”

  “Not credible doubt. Let me tell you what’s going to happen. The city will offer her a low-ball settlement just to get rid of her. She’ll take the money and start looking for another mouth-breather to beat her up.”

  “What about interviewing the Hurtados’ daughter?”

  “Too risky. She’s only five.”

  A sharp pain pierced Harrington’s right knee. “If Davie Richards is mentally unstable, I want her off the streets.”

  “I’ve been sniffing around a couple of deputy DAs, trying to persuade one of them to file criminal charges against Richards, including Murder One Under Color of Authority. They tell me Force Investigations Division, RHD, the Chief of Police, and the Use of Force Review Board already investigated the case. The DA’s office got the original paperwork six months ago. The DA reviewed the evidence herself and found no criminal wrongdoing on Richards’s part. They think Mrs. Hurtado’s new claims are crap.”

  “What about a lesser charge?”

  Sloan sighed. “I have a few more people to interview. I’ll let you know later this week if any of them drop the dime on her.”

  “That’s not soon enough. If she poses a threat to the public, Chief Juno has to order a department shrink to evaluate her—immediately.”

  “One step at a time, Malcolm. We have to be methodical or people might think we have a hidden agenda.”

  Harrington was taken aback. His only so-called agenda was to save the city from another embarrassing and costly scandal. Still, given his troubled history with Richards’s father, he’d be wise to consider Sloan’s advice. He wanted everybody to understand that this investigation was not some twisted act of revenge against William Richards.

  “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  Only a few more miles to go and he’d be at his car, but he wasn’t at all sure he could go the distance. On a normal day, counting the beats of his running shoes hitting the dirt was a type of meditation. Today they pounded out a warning: caution, caution, caution.

  29

  Just after ten p.m., Davie tucked the Smith & Wesson between the seat and center console of her Chevy Camaro and headed out of the station’s parking lot. She turned right onto Culver and made her way to the entrance of the 405 and home.

  While she’d been talking to Lana Ivanov, somebody had left half a dozen hang-up calls from a blocked number on her desk phone. Again she wondered if Ivanov was Quintero’s informant. If Lana had called Quintero from the liquor store, he knew about the interview. Maybe he had called to complain, but that seemed unlikely. He would have left a message or gone over her head and talked to Giordano.

  Just past Inglewood Boulevard, she glanced in her rearview mirror and noticed a black Mercedes a short distance behind her. No big deal, she thought. There were lots of them in L.A. As she merged onto the freeway a few blocks later, the sedan was still there.

  Paranoia is a cop’s best friend, so she slid the Rover under her right thigh in case she needed a radio. She doubted the driver was from IA’s Covert Ops team. They usually chose ordinary vehicles that a target was less likely to notice. But the driver might be a member of a local street gang that had recently issued threats against the LAPD. Several officers had been followed home. The department had warned all personnel to use extreme caution when leaving the station. Within a mile, the Mercedes changed lanes and fell back. Davie drew in a deep breath to steady her nerves.

  Her serenity faded at the Sunset Boulevard exit when she saw the Mercedes again just two cars behind hers. If she used her radio to call for help, every black-and-white and airship in the area would descend on the scene Code 3, lights flashing and sirens blaring. That would be awkward if the driver were a wealthy CEO on the way home to his Bel Air mansion. The paperwork would take hours. There was only one way to find out if the sedan was following her.

  She took her foot off the brake at the red light and rolled back until there was distance between the Camaro and the car in front of hers. When she saw an opening in traffic, she floored the accelerator.

  Davie powered the car through the intersection and headed east on Sunset toward UCLA. Campus police were close enough to provide backup if necessary. Traffic was light, so she allowed the speedometer to inch up to eighty.

  She ran the red light at Bellagio and turned right onto campus. The street was dark and deserted. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the Mercedes behind her, also turning. There was no doubt now; it was following her. Her pulse raced as she thought of all the criminals who had threatened her life over the years. There was one thing she knew for sure: if somebody in the
Mercedes meant to kill her, she might go to the hospital but they were going to the morgue.

  She accelerated the Camaro along the narrow winding street. She glanced in the rearview mirror and nearly collided with a construction barricade that blocked the right fork of De Neve Drive. It was too late to turn left. The brakes caught and the Camaro skidded to a stop. The Mercedes spun to a stop a few feet away.

  Davie grabbed her weapon and the radio and shouldered open the car door. She tumbled onto the blacktop, scrambling into a shooting position, using the door for cover. The driver doused his headlights, but hers remained trained on the Mercedes.

  All her senses were on alert as she surveyed the terrain for a campus cop patrolling his turf. She looked for an escape route in case the situation escalated, but her options were limited. All she saw behind her were eerie shadows looming in the dim light of the crescent moon.

  She heard a car door open. The interior light in the Mercedes went on, illuminating two figures. Men. Perfect targets, she thought, an amateur’s mistake. Every academy boot learned to disable the overhead light.

  The man in the passenger seat got out of the Mercedes and closed the door. His leather soles scraped against the pavement as he walked toward her. She wrapped her hands around the butt of the .45 but left her index finger parallel to the barrel. She wasn’t ready to shoot—yet. When her eyes adjusted to the dark, she steadied herself and aimed for the man’s forehead.

  “Police! Stay where you are.”

  “As you wish,” he said in a cultured British accent. “But I’m not armed and you might want to hear me out before we end our tête-à-tête with bullets.”

  She grabbed the radio with her left hand. Made sure it was on the correct frequency and prepared to transmit. “Who are you?”

  “My name doesn’t matter. It’s who I represent that will pique your curiosity.”

  Both hands returned to her weapon. “You have thirty seconds before all hell breaks loose.”

  “We monitor your radio frequency. You didn’t call for help. We wouldn’t have approached you if you had.”

  She changed her position to get a better shot. “Tick tock, my friend.”

  “You’re investigating the death of a young Russian girl. My employer wants to assist you, if possible.”

  She glanced at the driver, but he made no effort to get out of the car. “Who’s your boss?”

  “I believe you already know his name. Viktor Marchenko. He knows yours, as well, and he’s eager to meet you.”

  Davie figured her interview with Lana Ivanov might flush the cockroaches out from under the baseboards, but she hadn’t thought it would happen so quickly. “Why didn’t he just pick up the telephone?”

  “He called you several times. You didn’t answer.”

  Those hang-ups on her desk phone must have been from Marchenko. She wondered if Lana’s call from the liquor store was to the arms dealer, not to Q. “If your boss wants a meet-and-greet, tell him to come to the Pacific cop shop.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mr. Marchenko has a phobia about police stations. If you feel more comfortable you can follow us in your own car.”

  Detective Quintero had told her the arms dealer was on a yacht anchored in Paradise Cove. She assumed that’s where the interview would take place. “The Camaro doesn’t float.”

  If the man was surprised that Davie knew about the yacht, his voice gave no indication of that. “You’ll find the venue provides maximum privacy for your negotiations.”

  She heard movement behind her. Felt a jolt of fear. She glanced toward the sound but saw only a paper cup pushed along by a gust of wind. “Who said I’m negotiating?”

  “I suggest you accept his offer while it’s still on the table. That is, if you want to find out who killed Ms. Nosova.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me now?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Mr. M. I’m just the intermediary.”

  Davie’s legs had cramped from tension and cold air. She altered her position again, this time to relieve the pain. “My partner and I can set up a meeting for tomorrow.”

  “Mr. Marchenko wishes you no harm, but he will only speak to you and only tonight.”

  Davie didn’t like ultimatums. They disturbed the balance of power in the wrong direction, which could prove deadly. She was skeptical of Marchenko’s information tease. He could be lying in order to lure her into a trap, but she just wasn’t sure how that would benefit him. Eliminating one LAPD Homicide detective would not stop the investigation. It would only raise suspicion about his relationship with Grigory Satine. Despite the risks, if Marchenko had facts about Anya’s murder, she had to talk to him. If he wouldn’t come to the station, she would have to go to him.

  She considered asking Vaughn to go with her, but it was past eleven and she didn’t know where he was. He might be out working the Beau Fischer case. If so, she couldn’t pull him away just because she questioned her ability to handle the interview alone.

  “I’m calling in my position,” she said. “If I don’t check in within an hour, the LAPD is going to ruin your day.”

  “Code Six. Isn’t that what you call it? We have no objection as long as you mention only the name of the yacht where you’ll be. It’s Czarina, by the way. I’ll monitor the radio from my car in case you break the rules.”

  “I don’t live by your rules.”

  “An even match, I’d say. Mr. Marchenko doesn’t live by yours, either.” He turned and walked toward the Mercedes.

  “I’m bringing my weapon.”

  He pivoted toward her. “How many guns do you carry, detective? The one in your hand and maybe a second small revolver strapped to your ankle? I doubt my employer would be intimidated by your arsenal.”

  Davie knew he was right. From what Detective Quintero had told her, Marchenko was an international arms dealer. He probably had enough guns hidden aboard his yacht to outfit a small rebellion.

  Once again, she considered her options. Then she pulled her cell phone from her jacket pocket and called Vaughn’s number. The Brit had confirmed he was taking her to Marchenko’s yacht. She left a message to send the cavalry to the Czarina if she didn’t check in by 1:00 a.m. That gave her about an hour. Enough time to drive to Malibu, interview Marchenko, and get back to shore. Vaughn was compulsive about checking his cell phone, so she figured he’d get the message within the next few minutes. He’d be there if she needed him. At least she hoped so.

  30

  The Mercedes led Davie not to Malibu but to a helicopter at Santa Monica airport. It was dark outside. She couldn’t see the pilot, but she felt the power of cold air from the rotors swirling around her and wondered if she was making a mistake. Jason Vaughn would likely think she was crazy to interview an international arms dealer on a yacht at sea, alone, even if the man’s employee had assured her safety.

  Bear had always compared fear to opening a hatch on a submarine. Once the water started seeping in, there was no stopping it. Nature and training had conditioned her to control her emotions, because panic killed. She couldn’t lose it if she hoped to solve Anya Nosova’s murder.

  So she tamped down her jitters and turned toward the Brit.

  Close up, she was surprised to see his features were Asian plus some other gene pool she couldn’t identify. He must have noticed she was staring at him.

  “My mother is Mongolian. My father is Russian, but I was raised in London.”

  “How did you get involved with Viktor Marchenko?”

  He smiled. “That’s a long, complicated story best saved for another time.”

  She and the Brit boarded the helicopter for the short flight to the top deck of a sleek powerboat Davie estimated to be at least two hundred feet long. They disembarked, leaving the pilot behind, and descended two decks past a swimming pool and an al fresco dining area. Davie scanned e
very dark corner, looking for trouble. Once on the main deck, the Brit gestured her into an art-filled room that smelled of cigar smoke.

  A heavy-set man sat on a mauve sectional couch in the middle of the room, smoking a cheroot. She recognized him from the Edison surveillance photos. The black mustache formed a bushy chevron on his upper lip that mirrored the scale of his coarse features and pillow lips. A plastic grocery bag slouched on the chair near his thigh. She wondered what was inside it.

  The Brit whispered in Viktor Marchenko’s ear and left.

  “You have good flight?” he said.

  Davie crossed her arms over her waist to control a tremor. Her right hand rested on the .45 holstered under her jacket, just in case the Brit had lied about Marchenko’s benevolence toward her.

  “I guess you couldn’t afford a dinghy,” she said.

  He let out a wheezy laugh, a sound that reminded her of a cat coughing up a hairball. “I have big dinghy. Twenty-six feet. You want to see?”

  Davie glanced toward the outsized windows that framed a Milky Way of lights along the shore. “I’ll pass, thanks. Just tell me what you know about Anya Nosova.”

  He left the cheroot to smolder on the edge of a marble ashtray. “You do not know who kill her.”

  She glanced down the hall but saw no one else in the room. “You’re psychic. Big deal.”

  Marchenko reached toward the carved wooden coffee table in front of him and lifted a bottle of Russian vodka from a crystal bowl packed with ice. He filled two shot glasses. “Sit. We drink. I tell you story.”

  Davie stood with her back to the wall, scrutinizing the entryways. “Nyet to the booze. Just give me the story.”

  Marchenko downed one glass of the vodka. “Grigory Satine did not kill this girl.”

  “That’s not much of a story.”

  “This girl, she have no money. Grigory give her job because she is Russian.”

  “Did that job include forcing her to have sex with any dirtbag who had a credit card?”