Chasing the Captain

by Terry Shepherd

  Jess handed the plastic card over, holding on to an edge to make sure he was listening. “So, I have your details right here. I suggest you stay away from this lady and never contact her again.”

  “Of course, ma’am. Thank you.”

  He bolted for the door.

  It turned out her name was Amanda Sutherland. She lived alone with her mother. Jess’s empathetic inquisitiveness drew out the details. Her father had died in a single-car accident. His blood alcohol count had been three times the legal limit.

  “I put up with bad boyfriends because I feel like daddy’s death is my fault,” Amanda said, a tear appearing at the edge of an eye. “He wanted to take me to dinner, and I said, ‘no,’ because I was afraid he would drink, even though he never did when I was in the car. We got the call after midnight, and I’ve never forgiven myself.”

  Jess heard her own words spill out, wisdom she knew but couldn’t assimilate. “In the end, we can only influence our own destiny. It was your dad’s issues that took him from you, not something you didn’t do. In time, I hope you can forgive yourself. We can’t go back to what was. We can only build on what is.”

  Jess felt Amanda’s eyes inspecting her. “What’s it like being women in law enforcement?”

  Law enforcement, Jess thought. Most kids called them cops.

  Ali began the sermon. “You’ll get more than your share of abuse. You’ll reflexively take a different path home from the station every night, just in case some guy you arrested sometime might want to even the score. You’ll see more than your share of death and dishonor. And you will develop a sixth sense for when someone is lying, which will be ninety percent of the time.”

  Jess smiled at the young woman. “But you will also save lives, prevent pain, occasionally get the bad guys off the street, and hopefully inspire someone who is on the edge of night to walk toward the sunlight. Few jobs are tougher, but if you have the right attitude, few are more rewarding.”

  Amanda slowly nodded, as if a new idea was forming. “And you learn how to deescalate trouble and deal with egos that are bigger than their brains?”

  “We can fight with the best of the boys,” Jess grinned, “but anytime we don’t have to is a victory.”

  Amanda stared at the Smith and Wesson M&P handguns Jess and Ali carried on their belts. “How often do you have to use those?”

  Ali patted her weapon as if it were a puppy. “Some of us can have a twenty-five year career and never fire our weapons beyond the practice range.”

  The girl tilted her head. “But that doesn’t apply to you two.”

  “We never go into a fight intending to pull the trigger. But we train so that if we ever need to, it’s reflexive.”

  “I think I’ll take you up on the offer of a ride home, officers,” Amanda said.

  Ali flicked her knuckle with a finger. “She’s Jess. I’m Ali.”

  “And could I ride with you sometime, Jess and Ali? My mom will go ballistic, but I’m wondering if a law enforcement career might be my life’s purpose?”

  “You know what your real problem is, partner?” Ali said as they pulled away from Amanda Sutherland’s modest single-family home. “You understand exactly what you need to do. Like that dead drunk dad, you just won’t do it.”

  “And what should I do, miss psychotherapist?”

  “Forgive yourself. On the day he died, your father asked for your forgiveness, something you would have instantly given. He left this life proud of his daughter. I’d give my own life if my parents had even a grain of acceptance in their hearts. Time to start working on letting this obsession with Vega’s Boss go. People with more resources and brains than we have are on his trail. Let them chase him.”

  Amanda’s confessions steeled Jess’s resolve. As long as The Captain remained free, others might die. “I do know what to do, Ali. When the time is right, I’ll do it.”

  13

  Headquarters—British Secret Intelligence Services / MI6—London

  Tom Anastos typed “Vladimir Prokofiev” into his office computer. The MI6 database was one of the world’s largest repositories of international crime, terrorism, and political upheaval.

  Bits and pieces of information from thousands of sources, aggregated and curated by a combination of artificial intelligence engines and a cadre of dedicated analysts who spent days and nights seeking connections.

  If the name meant anything important, it would show up here.

  The screen turned blue, a sign Anastos knew well. The topic was top secret and required a second level of authentication. He typed his special password into the machine and waited. A moment later, the data began scrolling.

  Vladimir Prokofiev—Alias: The Captain or Капитан

  Managing Director—The Maitland Corporation, Extensive UK real estate holdings (MORE), Exporter of arms and high technology (MORE), Close connections with allied and enemy governments USA / Russia— (MORE), Suspected in an attempted bombing in the New York Financial District (MORE)…

  The cursor blinked, encouraging Anastos to hit the return button for a more detailed scroll. As he was about to press it, the phone on his desk rang. He recognized the extension.

  “Anastos.”

  “You’re looking at Prokofiev. Why?”

  His boss didn’t waste words. Anastos tried to sound disinterested.

  “A mild interest, sir. You know, the story about how the Russians are buying up all of our commercial real estate.”

  “I don’t buy it, Tom. Come to my office right now.”

  Anastos could sense an additional level of intensity in Associate Director Gerhardt’s voice. He had stumbled into something he shouldn’t have.

  “Yes, sir. On my way.”

  14

  Rotherhithe—London

  “Let’s at least grab some sustenance before calling it a night. How about The Mayflower?”

  Lee knew food and beer were the way to her partner’s heart, and Zoe’s favorite pub was The Mayflower.

  Cobbled streets and stunning views of the Thames surrounded the Rotherhithe icon. The Mayflower’s beer-battered fish and chips were among the best in the city. Lee also knew that Zoe had a particular fondness for the pub’s Sticky Toffee Pudding. The 400-year-old venue also allowed dogs on the ground floor, a plus for two animal-loving coppers with appetites that had been marinating since breakfast.

  Zoe shot her partner a sideways glance. “You’re up to something, Lee.”

  Lee feigned ignorance. It was not a stellar performance. “Not at all, Zoe. We foiled a robbery and got a lead. That deserves a little celebration.”

  The Mayflower was a perfect place for a confidential conversation. The pub's noise level was high enough to make individual conversations unintelligible, but if you sat close, it was possible to be heard perfectly. The vibe was always upbeat, another plus. People came here to blow off steam. Nobody cared what two plainclothes cops might talk about at a corner table under a flat-screen television near the back.

  Lee and Zoe were on their second pints when the entrees arrived. The PC attacked her fish with the voracity of a wild animal.

  “Best in London,” she said, her mouth full of deep-fried cod. “So tell me all about this woman you saw one time, ten years ago. Why the sudden interest?”

  Lee swallowed her panko-crusted chicken. “They still kill people for murder in the states, love. I got a call from a detective over there who had to witness someone fry in the electric chair for a murder without a body.”

  Zoe dipped a chip into a plastic cup of vinegar. “How can any court burn someone for that?”

  “Apparently, they still do over there. The victim is supposedly a woman I thought I saw boarding the tube by the Strand. The thought of some poor bastard losing his life because I didn’t chase down a lead is eating at me.”

  Zoe shook her head. “That was years ago, babe. You can’t beat yourself up for it.”

  “That’s why I dragged you to see Harry today, Zoe. I was hoping he could
n’t remember Marie Culpado. But he could. And now I’m keen to find out if she’s still in the city.”

  “And you don’t have enough on your plate already? There’s more than enough covert CID and priority crime to keep you happy. The old boy is dead. And some jury decided he did the deed. Let it be, as McCartney would say.”

  “I wish I could, partner. And maybe I will. Connecting a few threads won’t take that much time, and I’ll sleep better if I find out we’re chasing a false lead.”

  “Well, keep me out of it. Maddox doesn’t like free-styling, and I hope to follow in your footsteps as a DI someday.”

  Superintendent Maddox was a by-the-book chief. He was fair but had little patience for detective inspectors who bent the rules.

  But this was a puzzle. And Lee loved puzzles.

  Her eyes flicked toward the flat screen. “Bloody hell. Look.”

  There was a photograph they both recognized next to the anchor’s face. Lee strained to hear the commentary.

  “A well-known criminal figure died today at HM Belmarsh prison. Harry Duggan, the colorful Passport Forger, who became famous in the 1990s for helping several of the world’s most notorious criminals enter this country illegally, was found dead in his cell. The prison governor said the sixty-seven-year-old folk hero died of a heart attack.”

  Lee could tell that Zoe’s cop instincts were screaming at her. “Jesus, Liyanna. Do you think there’s any connection?”

  “Of course, there’s a connection. We’re no longer working on a cold case, my friend.”

  “I think I might just pop on by the office with you after all, partner,” Zoe Doyle said as the two officers turned left on Saint Marychurch Street, toward the Sands Film Studio and Tunnel Road where Lee had parked their vehicle.

  Lee was checking her assumptions. “So, our working hypothesis is that Harry Duggan was murdered”

  “Absolutely. He was the picture of health today. Something stinks, and it’s not the Thames.”

  “Hello, girls.”

  There were two of them, burly-bouncer types, in black T-shirts and blue jeans, with biceps the size of rugby footballs that framed steroid-enhanced torsos. The shorter of the two still towered over the women as he spoke. “We hear you’re friends of old Harry Duggan.”

  “Bad luck,” said the second, producing a taser. “Afraid you’ll both have to go for a swim.”

  He fired the darts at Zoe. Lee saw her anticipate and jump out of the way of the projectiles.

  Lee whirled into a backspin kick, aimed at the taller man’s head. The darkness affected her accuracy, and the kick went wide, giving her opponent a chance to grab the leg as it passed in front of his face.

  “Nice stems, love,” he said, twisting her ankle with his hand.

  The DI rolled with the move into a handstand. Her second leg connected with the man’s neck, and he went down.

  Zoe’s opponent threw his taser to the ground. He aimed a powerful punch at the PC’s face right before darts from Zoe’s taser pierced his shirt. She bent backward, dodging the blow, slamming her left foot into the intruder’s groin. The combination was incapacitating. But the two attackers had apparently taken their share of shots in the past. Groaning in pain, they were quickly back onto their feet and advancing on the two women.

  “You boys have to learn some respect,” Lee said, landing a sidekick to the tall man’s chest.

  “We’re police officers, and you are both under arrest,” Zoe barked, pulling a shield from her pocket.

  As Zoe’s assailant reached for her neck, she slashed at his forearm with the sharp-pointed crown at the top of her badge, slicing the radial artery. When the man turned to put pressure on the wound, the PC jumped onto his back, wrapping an elbow around his windpipe in a sleeper hold.

  Lee’s attacker stumbled backward, reacting to the force of her kick. But he had skills, too. The man blocked each of her martial arts moves with the precision of a black belt. He found his opening and picked the DI up by her waist, throwing her body against Sands Film Studios' wall. Lee winced and ducked as a thick fist smashed against the brick-and-mortar facing, shattering the mason’s work into tiny bits. The DI smashed an elbow down onto the extended arm, finding a joint and breaking it. Another 360-degree spin and the same elbow connected with the man’s left jugular vein.

  Lee felt the wall shudder as the second assailant backed Zoe against it, trying to break her grip around his neck. But the oxygen deprivation was doing its work, and that was the worst of it.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Pass out already,” Zoe panted, trying to catch her breath. “My back’s going to hurt tomorrow, and you’ll damn well pay for the inconvenience tonight.”

  With a last effort, her attacker hurled Zoe into the wall a second time. Her arms splayed, and she let go.

  The taller assailant waved his one good arm, and a black sedan pulled alongside. The two men fell into the back seat, and it sped off into the night.

  Lee bent over, resting her palms on her thighs. “You okay, partner?”

  Zoe sat on the pavement, legs spread in a V, her back against the bricks.

  “Yeah. And I think we both learned something tonight.”

  “What’s that, Z?”

  “This Marie Culpado person is still alive.”

  15

  Headquarters—British Secret Intelligence Services / MI6—London

  The offices of the Secret Intelligence Services at 85 Albert Embankment are nothing like Ian Fleming described. Vauxhall Cross—as the place was sometimes called—was a tremendous step up from the “irredeemably insecure” Century House in Lambeth and a far cry from Fleming’s haunts at 54 Broadway. Commander Thomas Anastos knocked on a nondescript door, halfway down a tiled hallway below street level, where the more sensitive activities of MI6 took place.

  “Come.”

  Anastos flipped through his mental Rolodex, reviewing his boss’s history with the organization. Associate Director Gerhardt’s career trajectory within MI6 as a field agent was legendary. He had the perfect combination of brains, fearlessness, and the most important trait that made a successful agent: he looked ordinary. He was the agency’s rising star until late-onset muscular dystrophy put him in a wheelchair.

  But that didn’t stop Gerhardt. He found he had the skills to lead. The director gave him a secondary role in recognition of a man who had given his life to his country. Gerhard’s tenacity and drive surprised everyone, and he grew into the second most powerful person at MI6.

  Anastos thought his wardrobe was a better fit for a bureaucrat than a spy. The suit was low-end Marks and Spencer, not Saville Row. The white shirt could have used more starch, and the red-and-blue-striped tie hung loosely around his neck.

  Gerhardt’s voice was firm. His eyes exuded authority. Their movement guided Anastos to the leather chair opposite the associate director’s desk.

  “Talk,” Gerhardt said.

  Anastos complied. “Associate Director Taylor phoned me with the name Vladimir Prokofiev. Sounds like he created mischief on the other side of the Atlantic and is beyond the FBI’s jurisdiction. The name was not familiar to me, so I looked it up.”

  Gerhardt nodded. “And the secondary security check before viewing the profile did not raise questions?”

  Tom Anastos chose his words carefully. “I have the clearance. Is there a problem?”

  “Yes, Commander. There is a problem. And it’s about to become your problem.”

  16

  Paloma, Illinois

  “He said he’d only talk to me.”

  Jessica Ramirez pointed the Tahoe toward Maryland Street. The scene that was the catalyst for her adventures in Arizona conjured up a procession of memories she was still trying to forget.

  “Why Antonio, and why now?” Ali wondered. “El Sindicato is at peace with the other street gangs. Our informers have said nothing about any trouble brewing. And why did he demand to talk with you?”

  Jess wasn’t sure. “The word on the street is t
hat I saved his older brother’s life, when in fact, it was Ricardo who probably saved mine in that meth house.”

  “You know how those stories get bent,”Ali said. “Riki probably painted that picture to burnish his own image.”

  “That gunshot was definitely a battle ribbon. But it’s also been Ricardo’s exit from El Sindicato. He fell in love with a girl at the hospital and seems to be on the straight and narrow toward a career in the lab at Paloma General.”

  Ali pointed to the seedy bar where Maryland Street intersected with River Bend. The word Cócteles winked in orange neon above the door. “Maybe ‘El Asaltante’ found out the truth and wants you to know it. I guess we’ll find out.”

  It was still too early for the influx of evening customers, but Jess could still smell the mixture of stale beer, sweat, and blood that were the three most popular products sold at the headquarters of Paloma’s only Latino street gang. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw a pair of teenage boys flanking a door with “Gerente” painted on the wall above it.

  Ali stifled a smirk. “Manager. How appropriate.”

  Jess fingered her Smith & Wesson. “I’m not sure you were on the invitation list, partner. Best keep a low profile and let me lead the conversation.”

  Antonio Rojas, The Assailant or “El Asaltante” in Spanish, sat behind an oak desk that was almost too big for the tiny room. Posters of Hispanic rock stars hung on the walls. An unbalanced ceiling fan swirled slowly, like a drunken customer at closing time. The only light was a single table lamp, a gift Jess assumed once lived in one of the city’s finer homes, perhaps given to El Asaltante as an expression of respect for his position as El Sindicato’s leader.