by Elle Gray
I lean forward and set the folder I’m carrying down on his desk. He pulls it over to him and I simply watch as he flips through the photos with a trembling hand.
“Are you all right, Mr. Nash?” I ask. “You seem nervous.”
He gives me an awkward grin. “I’m just not used to having FBI agents in my office staring at me as if I just tried to kill the President.”
“Apologies, Mr. Nash,” I say. “We don’t mean to look at you in any certain way.”
“We’re running a routine investigation that has nothing to do with any assassination attempts,” Astra adds as she leans forward, staring at him malevolently. “Unless of course, you’re thinking about attempting to assassinate the President?”
Nash practically chokes, and I have to keep myself from laughing. Nash is quite obviously a nervous and jumpy man. Some people are when they’re confronted by law enforcement. But I don’t see him as the Lee Harvey Oswald type.
“I—I’m not,” he stammers. “I swear I’m not.”
Astra gives him a wide smile. “Great. Then we have no problems.”
His face is already nearly purple, so before he can swallow his tongue and choke to death, I jump in and point to the pictures in the file I gave him.
“That man has been accessing the accounts of one of your customers. Selene Hedlund,” I tell him. “He’s been taking the maximum out once a day for the past nine days.”
“And before you ask,” Astra jumps in, “Selene Hedlund is in fact, the daughter of Representative Kathryn Hedlund.”
“We need to know who he is,” I tell him. “Or if you’ve ever seen him before.”
Nash turns as pale as a sheet—something I can relate to. Congresswoman Hedlund has that effect on people. But he looks at the photos again, scrutinizing them closely. He shakes his head and turns to his computer, his fingers flying over the keys as he pulls up some information—likely verifying our story. He looks at the numbers on the screen and frowns as he shakes his head. I can see him already trying to figure out how much trouble he’s going to be in once Hedlund finds out.
He looks at the photos again, his frown deepening. “I’ve never seen him before in my life,” he says. “But these were all taken from the ATM outside, which means he hasn’t come in here before.”
“Don’t you guys have a computer program that will alert you when there’s suspicious ATM activity?” Astra asks. “I’d say withdrawing the max nine days in a row is a bit suspect.”
“Of course, we have programs that will alert us to fraud,” he says. He taps a few more keys and nods, a palpable sense of relief crossing his face. “It looks as though we sent a text after the third withdrawal, asking if this was authorized or not, and directing her to our authentication website. Ms. Hedlund affirmed that the transactions were valid.”
I turn to Astra. “Or whoever has her phone affirmed the transactions were valid.”
She nods. “Seems that way.”
“We cannot control it if Ms. Hedlund allowed somebody to use her debit card—”
“Relax, Mr. Nash. We’re not trying to jam you up or implicate you in any wrongdoing. I doubt you or the bank has liability here,” I tell him. “But given who this is, you might want to consult with your bank’s attorneys just to clear up your level of exposure. Just in case.”
“Do you have any other security cameras in the vestibule where the ATMs are located?” Astra asks.
“Of course. Yes,” he nods. “The monitors are in our security office.”
“We’ll need to see those,” I say.
We all get to our feet and he leads us down to the security office. A large Hispanic man with dark hair, brown eyes, and tawny-colored skin is sitting at a desk behind a bank of monitors. He looks at us as we step inside.
“Ramon, we need you to pull up the vestibule footage from—”
I hand him the picture with the time and date stamp in the corner. Nash hands it to Ramon, who accesses the footage and pulls it up on the large screen in the center of his array. We watch as the man with the long hair and hat comes in. He keeps his head down, his hair in front of his face, as he keys in Selene’s PIN number and withdraws a thousand dollars. He stuffs it into his pocket then exits the vestibule without ever having looked up, denying us a view of his face.
“Are there any other angles?” I ask.
Nash shakes his head. “No, we only have the one camera in the vestibule. Combined with the ATM cameras, it’s supposed to be enough coverage.”
“Clearly not,” I mutter.
“He’s slick,” Astra comments to me. “Knows where the camera is and how to hold his head so we can’t see him.”
“He’s done it before,” I observe.
She chuckles softly. “Nine times before.”
I shake my head. “No, I mean even before he had Selene’s card,” I say. “He’s too smooth and too practiced for this to be his first go-round doing this. He’s a bleeder.”
“I’m sorry? What is a bleeder?” Nash asks.
“Somebody who gets hold of another person’s credit or debit cards and bleeds them dry, taking out the limit every day until the cards are shut down,” Astra explains.
“They rationalize it by saying the banks and credit card companies will cover the fraud and restore the money to a person’s account, so nobody really loses,” I add.
“Except the banks, of course,” Nash says.
“It amounts to almost nothing compared to the compensation your executives make. Pocket change, really,” I offer.
“That doesn’t make it right. Or legal,” Nash replies with a hint of steel in his voice.
“Didn’t say it did,” I reply. “Just telling you these people see themselves as Robin Hood sorts, because nobody is losing real money in the deal.”
“That’s preposterous,” he grunts.
“I’ve found that people can rationalize anything away—especially when it comes to their bad acts,” I say. “Anyway, I think we’ve gotten what we needed. Thank you for your help, Mr. Nash. We’ll be in touch if we have any follow-up questions.”
“Of course,” he replies. “We’ll cooperate in any way we can.”
“Good. The first thing I want you to do is leave Selene’s account active. Don’t close out the card,” I tell him.
“What? I can’t do that.”
“It might be the only way we can figure out who this is,” I say, pointing to the video screen. “I also don’t want to tip him off that we’re looking at this or that we’ve gotten this far. Leave the account active, Mr. Nash. It would be active anyway if we hadn’t come in here today.”
He ponders for a moment but finally nods. “I’ll need to notify my superiors, but all right.”
“Good. We’ll be in touch.”
Astra and I walk out of the bank and head for the car. Astra diverts us to a coffee house, though, and after we place our orders and get our drinks, we take a table in the corner. The place is only about half full of a mixed crowd made up of students, soccer moms, and nannies. I pause and look around, letting my mind run with what we’ve learned so far. Which isn’t much, to be honest.
But the one thing that’s become abundantly clear is that this isn’t going to be as cut-and-dried as I first thought. I’m sure I’m still right about Selene’s being out on some massive bender with her friends, but there are more players on the stage, which is going to complicate things further than I would have liked.
“Hey, are you all right?”
Astra’s voice pulls me out of my head, and I focus on her. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem it. You’ve been crabby and irritable lately,” she says. “More so than usual, anyway.”
I laugh softly. “You suck.”
“I’m kind of serious, though. I mean, it surprised the hell out of me that you went after Hedlund as hard as you did.”
“She annoys me.”
“Yeah, but you typically either brush it off or find a way to be more.…diplomat
ic. I mean, I don’t think you’ve ever gone after Torres as hard as you did Hedlund,” she points out.
I frown and give it a little thought. She’s obviously right. It was true that I went after Hedlund pretty hard. It’s not as if she didn’t deserve it. Just seeing her face, knowing the things she’s said and done, and knowing what she’s trying to do, just pushed my buttons. I didn’t consciously rip into her, but once I started, I couldn’t make myself stop. I wanted to shut up, but once that train got rollin’, I couldn’t stop it. All I could do was take the ride to the end. But it was also probably pretty out-of-line for the office. Time and place and all that.
I know what it is that’s bothering me. It’s something I haven’t been able to get out of my head since Brody served it up to me—at my own request, of course. But what he showed me chilled me to the core, and I have no idea what to do with it yet. And until I have some grip on what it is, I don’t want to talk about it with anybody.
“Yeah, I’ve just got a lot on my plate lately. A lot of stuff occupying my brain,” I say, hoping it puts her off the track.
“Anything you want to get off your chest?”
I shake my head. “Not just yet. It’s one of those things I need to sit with for a while and figure out before I’m ready to talk about,” I tell her. “Know what I mean?”
“All too well,” she nods. “Just know that when you’re ready to talk, I’m always here.”
“Thanks, Astra.”
“What are best friends for?”
I give her a smile and take a sip of my coffee. I’ve got a meeting in an hour or so that I need to mentally gear up for.
Five
Jade Pearl Billiards House, Chinatown-International District; Seattle, WA
I walk through the front doors of the Pearl and am immediately bowled over by the stench of cigarette smoke and burning incense. I see that some improvements have been made to the Pearl, and it’s been cleaned up. There’s fresh paint, new billiard tables, and the layer of grime that built up over the years and coated everything before has been washed away. It’s practically sparkling in here now. I guess Fish is trying to make his bar and billiards hall seem like a more respectable place of business. Good for him.
I head through the kitchen to the back stairs that will lead me upstairs to the illegal casino that’s being run up there. Everybody is apparently so used to seeing me come through the doors by now that they don’t even bother staring, even though mine is the only white face in the whole joint. I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad thing to be as closely related to Fish as I am. It’s probably bad, I decide.
But, to be fair, Fish is an unusually charismatic and likable guy. He’s also the man you want to see if you need something handled quietly and discreetly. Fish has his tentacles into just about everything happening in the Seattle underworld. And now that he’s branching out and allegedly going legit, he’s got the pulse of Seattle’s lawful business world too.
He’ll forever be associated with the city’s criminal underbelly, though—something he does not bemoan in the least. He enjoys his reputation and the mystery and ambiguity of it all as well. These days, nobody seems to know if Fish is a shady crime boss or a legit businessman. Most think a tiger can’t change its stripes, others believe in redemption. It keeps them all on their toes. Nobody is quite sure anymore if saying or doing the wrong thing will earn him a pair of .45 slugs in the back of the head or just a stern talking-to.
They’re not wrong to think that. Fish’s early career was marked by violence and death—though probably not nearly as much as some people believe. I’m pretty sure his reputation has been overblown in the telling over the years. I doubt he did half of the things he’s credited with, and he very likely didn’t kill nearly as many people as they say. But Fish is, of course, happy to let it stand. Happy to let his legend grow.
Reputation is everything when you live in his world—and reputations in that world are built on the currency of fear. Fear is the coin of the realm, and the more scared people are to cross or displease you, the better. If they think you’re capable of the most monstrous deeds, you’ve reached the pinnacle of your rarified profession. And Fish has been at the pinnacle for decades now.
And honestly, if you stop to think about it, while the top CEOs in the country may not shoot somebody in the face for crossing them, their attitudes and approaches to running businesses are virtually identical to Fish’s. And having spoken with a few of them, I have little doubt some of those CEOs would happily shoot somebody in the face.
I push through the swinging doors and into the kitchen area and am immediately greeted by a man as large as Mt. Everest itself. He’s at least six-foot-ten and as wide as he is tall. The guy’s hands are so huge he could probably juggle Volkswagens for fun. He’s got black hair that’s tied into a ponytail that falls to the middle of his back, warm golden skin, and dark eyes.
The man is a frightening sight to behold, but as I’ve gotten to know him, have found that he’s a teddy bear. Unless you provoke him. Do that and he turns into a full-blown Kodiak bear. And again, I’m not sure how I feel about being so chummy with Fish’s doorman and personal bodyguard.
“G-woman,” he greets me, his voice deep and rumbling.
I smile. “Hello, Bai. How’s it going today?”
He shrugs. “Can’t complain. How about you?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Then life is good.”
“Well, it’s not bad, so I suppose you’re right. That’s a good way to look at it,” I say with a small laugh. “Fish upstairs?”
He nods and presses a button on the wall beside him. There’s a loud buzz followed by the loud clunk of the door unlocking. I open it up and give him a smile.
“Thanks, Bai.”
“Anytime, G-woman.”
I make my way up the narrow staircase, then to the steel door at the end of a short hall. I give a wave to the camera mounted high in the corner and there’s another loud buzzing sound. Pulling the door open, I step into the large room that is Fish’s casino. I know that I should have this place shut down. It’s illegal, after all. But I just can’t bring myself to make that call. It’s mostly because I like Fish as a person. But it’s also because he is a valuable resource.
The man knows everybody and everything going on in the Seattle underworld. And he has provided some premium intel when I’ve needed it—intel that’s helped me crack a few big cases. We make deals with criminals all the time. The better their information, the sweeter the deal. It’s the grease that keeps the wheels of the justice system working. At least, that’s how I justify it to myself.
I catch a few odd, furtive looks as I walk across the room. Most of the people seem to recognize me; as with downstairs, they don’t bother me. A few are staring at me, though, as if they can somehow sense that I’m a Fed. They might considering bolting, fearing a raid is coming. I tip a wave to a couple familiar faces, who whisper into their friends’ ears. That seems to calm them down as they turn away and go back to their games.
The door to Fish’s office opens before I even get there, and he greets me with a warm smile and a hug.
“It’s good to see you, Agent Wilder.”
“It’s nice to see you, too, Fish,” I reply.
“Please, step into my office.”
The nickname Fish is a nod to his days as a fishmonger on the docks after he immigrated here as a kid. That was how he got started building his sprawling criminal empire. His real name is Huang Zhao, and nobody knows his true age. Based on things he’s said, I’d guess that he’s in his mid-to-late fifties, but he takes care of himself and is in such good shape, he could easily pass for ten or fifteen years younger.
Fish is tall and lean, with stylishly cut dark hair that’s starting to show a little bit of salt among the pepper. He’s got dark eyes and perfectly smooth, tawny skin. The man is a martial arts master in several disciplines, leaving him with a fit, toned body. He’s also one of the most intelligent peop
le I’ve ever met. Fish is one of those people who seems to know a little about a lot of things. He hones his mind every bit as much as he does his body. Fish has said he believes his mind is his most dangerous weapon.
He offers me one of the plush wingbacks in front of his desk as he sits down behind it. Fish’s office is immaculate and stylishly furnished. It’s a reflection of the man himself. He’s wearing an expertly tailored dark, pinstriped three-piece suit. It’s actually tame for him. Fish is a bit flamboyant and often enjoys wearing odd-colored suits that have metallic sheens to them. The only nod to that quirk of his personality now is the electric blue tie and pocket square that shimmer in the light.
“Did you have to go to a funeral today?” I ask, gesturing to his suit.
He laughs softly. “Unfortunately, no. A funeral would have been far more enjoyable than what I had to suffer through today,” he says. “I had to meet with the city council today to discuss a business proposal. I can now see why people hate politicians.”
My meeting with Congresswoman Hedlund flashes through my mind and I nod, a small laugh passing my lips.
“I can’t say I disagree with you there,” I say.
“We haven’t spoken for a little while, so I haven’t had a chance to apologize for not having been able to serve Stephen Petrosyan up to you,” he says, sounding genuinely remorseful. “I know you were trying to make a case against him—"
I purse my lips and look down at my hands. Petrosyan is the head of the Elezi crime family—the Armenian mob here in Seattle. He ordered one of his men, Azad Mushyan, to kill a promising young medical student named Ben Davis. They chopped him into pieces and stuffed him into a barrel, all because Petrosyan didn’t want his daughter to date a black man. Ben and Petrosyan’s daughter Chloe had plans to run away together, and when he got wind of it, Petrosyan murdered him.
