Love and Lies: A Jake Badger Mystery Thriller

by Glenn Rogers

  “Anyone had time to run his name through the system yet?”

  “Not yet. Later today.”

  I nodded. “You got what you need from Ms. Ekstrom?”

  “For now,” Angie said. “There are no sketch artists available right now so we’ll have to get to that part later.

  “Mind if I take her home?”

  “She's still kind of shaky,” he said.

  “I think she just needs to relax a while,” I said. “I’ll take her home and we'll come back for her car later.”

  Chapter 6

  On the drive back to our apartment complex, Heidi asked, “Is he going to come after me?”

  I looked at her. “No way to know,” I said, being completely honest. Someday I’m going to have to learn how not to do that. “But for the moment I don't think there's anything to worry about. You'll be safe at home today. Just stay in and try to relax.”

  I walked her to her door and told her that if she needed anything to call me. I also told her to lock her door and not open it without knowing who was on the other side of it.

  Wilson and I got to the office at nine twenty.

  “Everything all right?” Mildred asked as I closed the office door behind me.

  “Just peachy,” I said. I crossed the room and stepped through the open French doors that led to my side of the office. Mildred followed and sat in one of my guest chairs. Wilson went to his large pillow in the corner behind my desk and went to work on a giant rawhide bone. I put some water in the microwave for tea and then told Mildred the Heidi and Jimmy story.

  “You think Heidi's in any danger?” Mildred asked.

  “No way to know yet. We don't actually know that Heidi’s stalker was the shooter. Even if he was, I think for today, she's safe.”

  When my tea was ready, I retrieved it from the microwave, sat back down and took a sip. Mildred poured herself a second cup of coffee.

  “How'd your meeting with your father go?” she asked.

  I explained about the new arrangement.

  “Wow,” she said. “Regular income. Just like a real business.”

  “Just like,” I said. “And I have a two o'clock appointment this afternoon to get started with my first case.”

  Mildred studied me for a moment, sipped her coffee, and asked, “Are you sure you’re going to be comfortable working for your father?”

  “No. But I'm going to give it a try.”

  Just then the phone rang. I looked at Mildred.

  “You going to get that?” she asked.

  “You do realize that you work for me, right? Not the other way around?”

  She held up her cup. “I'm on my coffee break,” she said, as the phone rang a second time.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I picked up the receiver. “Badger Investigations and Assistance Agency.” It was a woman who suspected her husband was having an affair and wanted photographic proof. I explained that I didn't do that sort of work. Based on her response, I understood why her husband might be having an affair.

  I hung up and Mildred took another sip of coffee.

  “Don't you have some work to do?” I asked.

  “I do,” she said, getting up. “I need to check my stock portfolio and schedule an appointment to get my hair done.”

  “I meant agency work. You know, that stuff I pay you to do.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah.” she said, stopping at the door of my office, “I need to see what I can find out about James Falcon.”

  She went back to her side of the office and I smiled. I hadn't asked her to research James Falcon, but she knew I needed the information. She'd call McGarry and chat with him about his family and then ask him to get James Falcon’s social security number for her. McGarry would do it because he had worked with Mildred's husband, Ben. Ben had been McGarry’s first partner after McGarry had made detective. He’d do anything he could for Mildred. Once Mildred had Falcon’s social security number, she'd call a friend who worked at a credit reporting agency and ask a favor. By noon she'd have a lot of information for me on James Falcon. Mildred was a valuable asset. The only problem was, she knew it.

  At eleven, my cell phone rang. It was Alex.

  “I got the files we need. I'll fax them over as soon as we hang up. You got time to look them over and then meet for lunch?”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Can you come in this direction?”

  “Sure. How about Mexicali at twelve thirty?”

  “Twelve thirty. In the meantime, I need another favor.”

  “No problem. You know that.”

  I told him about Heidi and her stalker, and Jimmy being found shot to death in his car.

  “You want me to see if he's in the system?” Alex asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. I'll put a file together, including a photo, and email it to you later today.”

  “All right. See you at twelve thirty.”

  I called Valentino.

  “Jake,” Angie said, “What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping you could send me a photo of James Falcon.”

  “I can send his driver’s license photo.”

  “That'll work.” I said.

  “About thirty minutes,” he said.

  Alex's fax came through and I spent the next forty minutes going over the file that the FBI had complied during its investigation of the sting operation that I had set up, a sting designed to catch the syndicate selling illegal weapons, a sting that went bad in every way a sting can go bad, and that resulted in the death of Elaine Bristol, my partner, my friend, and my lover. It was not a pleasant forty minutes.

  Chapter 7

  “The part that bothers me,” Alex said, after swallowing a bite of chicken enchilada, “is that they just assumed that you screwed up.”

  I nodded. “That part bothers me, too,” I said, talking around a bite of fajita, “because I've been over and over it, and I can't see where the planning wasn't properly executed.”

  “It doesn't appear to me,” Alex said, “that any real consideration was given to the possibility of an agency mole who passed on information to the syndicate. Maybe the thought of having a mole inside the agency was so abhorrent that they couldn’t bring themselves to really consider it.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “The final report made it look like they considered it. But I don't see anything in the file that indicates any real investigation into the possibility.”

  I had finished the first fajita I'd built and was putting a second one together.

  “So who do you want to talk to first?” Alex asked.

  I ate some of my second fajita. “There’s a guy I need to talk to first, before we start talking with agents. I want to see if he knows anything that might be helpful.”

  “Hanson?” Alex asked.

  I nodded.

  Alex nodded, too, as he ate the last of his enchiladas. “Worth asking, at least,” he said. “Maybe he'll know something.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  After a moment, Alex said, “So tell me what you're thinking about this other case… James Falcon.”

  I went over the details again, and then said, “The hit looked too professional to me. I'm wondering if Falcon might have been a target for some reason and the hit just happened to coincide with him trying to scare off a creep who'd been stalking Heidi.”

  “Could be,” Alex said. “You're going to send me a file on him later on?”

  “Yeah. LAPD is sending his driver license photo. I'll send it on to you as soon as I get it. I've got a two o'clock appointment in Santa Monica, so I’ll send it as soon as I get back to the office, if it’s there. Otherwise, it’ll be later today.”

  “Santa Monica?” Alex asked.

  “I am now on retainer two days a week with my father's law firm.”

  Alex's eyebrows went up. “Is that a good thing?” he asked.

  “I don't know yet.”

  “You're a good son and a brave soul, Jake Badger.”

  I c
huckled. “I don't know about either of those, but I'm going to give it a try and see what happens.”

  “At least it's a steady income stream.”

  When I got back to the office, the photo of James Falcon was waiting for me, and Mildred had a good deal of personal information on him from her friend at Tri-Credit Data. I emailed all of it to Alex, and Wilson and I left for Santa Monica.

  It was a twenty-mile drive on the 101 and 405 freeways from my Studio City office to my father’s law firm in Santa Monica. It should have taken just over thirty minutes. But there was a backup where the 405 crosses Ventura Boulevard and the thirty-minute drive turned into forty.

  “Great,” I said to Wilson, as I parked between a Mercedes S Class and a Porsche 911, “late for my first consultation.”

  Wilson gave me a quick lick on the cheek to let me know that he still loved me. I let the windows down a few inches so it wouldn't get too hot and told him to wish me luck. He woofed softly.

  Lucy was waiting for me in her office. She stood and came around her large desk to greet me. I apologized for being late. She accepted my apology, though I thought I detected a bit of annoyance, the kind that comes with arrogant condescension for those below your station. Lucy appeared to be close my age, early to mid-thirties. She was about five foot four inches tall and might have weighed one ten. Her shiny, straight black hair hung several inches below her shoulders. Her cheekbones were prominent, her lips full, her eyes penetrating. An attractive woman—at least physically.

  She offered coffee or tea. I declined. We sat in leather chairs at a walnut worktable in her expansive office. She handed me a case file and gave me a few minutes to go through it.

  The young man's name was Adam Clauson, twenty-six, of Los Angeles. He was accused of assaulting Barbara Sneed, twenty-three, of Inglewood. They had been dating for three months. According to Ms. Sneed, she wanted to break it off and he went ballistic, becoming first verbally abusive and then, finally, physically abusive. According to Mr. Clauson, he had been the one to initiate the break up and she had taken it badly, stalking him, making a scene at his place of work, and finally attacking him. He defended himself by blocking her attempted blows but never hit her. She, however, ended up in the emergency room with bruises and scratches, a bloody nose and cut lip, claiming she had been attacked.

  Once I'd gone through the file, I said, “Okay, I'll need you to contact Adam. Please let him know I'll be contacting him and that he needs to be cooperative.”

  Lucy said, “Don't you want to know what I've discovered so far?”

  “Nope. I'll start from scratch.”

  “Seems like a lot of unnecessary duplication, but if that's how you work ...”

  “I can't solve a case I haven't investigated.”

  “I don't need you to solve the case,” she said impatiently. “I need you to find evidence that proves his innocence.”

  “Then you need to get a different investigator,” I said.

  Evidently that wasn’t what she expected to hear and the sour expression on her face told me she didn’t like hearing it.

  “Look,” I said, “my job is to discover the truth, in the service of justice. I'll get you the facts. What you do with them is up to you.”

  “Truth and justice have little to do with the practice of law,” she said.

  “One of the reasons I’m not a lawyer,” I said.

  “You’re obviously not the right person for this job.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “Talk to the founding partner about it. Until I hear from him, I’m who you’ve got.”

  Chapter 8

  On the drive back to Studio City, my current reality dawned on me. A few days ago I had no client, no work. Now I had a murder, an assault, and I was investigating the FBI. But I was only getting paid for one of the three. I was going to be very busy but not earning very much money. Fortunately, my last two cases had paid well and I had enough of a reserve to get by.

  When I got back to the office, I called Alex.

  “James Falcon,” he said. “Plenty of data on him. He's squeaky clean. Honorable discharge from the army. College degree, a BA in criminal justice. Couple of speeding tickets. Works for a company that provides security for all sorts of businesses. Made okay money. Thing is, as I go from one source of information to another, everything fits together perfectly. Too perfectly.”

  I thought for a moment. “Like his life has been created,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Normally when you go from a military record, to a school transcript, to a couple of different credit reports, there are some omissions, things don't always match up. But with Falcon, all the different sources of data fit together seamlessly. It's too perfect.”

  “So James Falcon may not be who he appears to be,” I said. “Can you keep digging?”

  “Of course. I'll let you know as soon as I've got something.”

  I went through the mail, made a few phone calls and closed up the office at four-thirty. I took Wilson to the park where we run each morning. He needed to practice his sniffing skills and pee on some trees and bushes, and I needed to think. So for about thirty minutes he sniffed and peed and I pondered. I think he accomplished more than I did. We got home a little after five. Wilson had a bowl of dog food and I had a bowl of cereal. At six, I told him I needed to go check on Heidi. He curled up on his giant pillow next to the sofa.

  I knocked on Heidi's door. In a moment she asked, “Who is it?”

  “Its Jake.”

  She opened the door and I stepped inside.

  “You oaky?” I asked.

  “I guess. I was able to sleep a little.”

  “You want to go to work?”

  “I think I'd feel better if I did.”

  “Okay, what time is your shift?”

  “Seven.”

  “Why don't you get ready. We'll leave at six forty-five.”

  She nodded.

  I went back to my apartment, put on the Moody Blues, and sat down on the sofa to read. I was in the middle of Plato's Euthyphro. Wilson got up on the sofa and lay down beside me. I read for thirty minutes. It was relaxing.

  On the way to Bailey’s, I explained to Heidi what Alex had discovered about James Falcon.

  “So you think he might have been someone other than who he appeared to be?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that Jimmy's death may not have had anything to do with your stalker.”

  “Someone else may have killed Jimmy?” she asked.

  “The killing looked very professional to me. Like an assassination.”

  “Why would someone want to assassinate Jimmy?”

  “That's what we have to find out. It’s beginning to look like Jimmy was not who he said he was.”

  “I don't know what to think about that,” Heidi said.

  “I understand. I imagine that it would be troubling when it turns out that someone is not who you think they are.”

  Heidi was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then she said, “What if that creep shows up again?”

  “Call me.”

  She nodded and thought for another moment. “Jake,” she said, “this morning I heard one of the cops say that you were working for me.”

  “That's what I told them,” I said.

  “But I can't afford to pay you.”

  “No problem. You're getting my friends and family rate.”

  “Friends and family rate? How much is that?”

  “Lunch at Taco Bell,” I said, as I pulled into the parking lot of Bailey’s.

  Heidi smiled.

  I pulled into a spot next to her car. She leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek, her substantial chest pressing against my arm. “Thank you, Jake. You're a good friend.”

  From Bailey’s, I went to the Eros club, near the airport. The Eros club is an upscale establishment that features nude dancers. It’s upscale because there’s security in the parking lot to ke
ep your car from being burgled while you were inside the club, and because they clean the club each day and deodorize it so that it doesn't smell musty or sweaty.

  The club was a profitable business in its own right, owned by Norman Hanson. But it provided only a small portion of Hanson’s large and diverse income. Another of his several business enterprises included a brokerage for thugs and assassins. People who needed someone strong-armed or killed, but who did not have the personnel for such endeavors could call Hanson, who would provide the needed personnel … for a substantial fee, of course. In the not too distant past, some of Hanson’s personnel had been dispatched to dispatch me. Norman’s people had been unable to do the job and Norman and I became acquainted.

  The Eros parking lot was full. Some of the vehicles in the lot were BMWs and Mercedes; some were Fords and Chevys. The entrance was a heavy metal door. I went in and the guy behind the thick glass window, a large man with lots of tattoos and wearing a leather vest, studied me for a moment.

  “Mr. Badger, isn't it?”

  “Good memory,” I said.

  He smiled. “I'll let Mr. Hanson know you're on your way up.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Eric.”

  I told him I’d remember.

  Eric buzzed me into the club without charging me the ten-dollar cover charge. The lighting on the stage where a young woman writhed salaciously to the loud music was bright. The rest of the club was dark. One of the well-endowed waitresses/dancers came over and asked if she could show me to a table. She wore a G-string and high heels and carried a small round tray. Apparently it was on the cool side in the club. I told her I was going up to see Mr. Hanson. She told me to follow her and she'd lead me to the door on the other side of the club. I appreciated that because the last time I'd been there I'd attempted to negotiate the path across the seating area unescorted and had bumped into a chair. The fact that I was watching the gynecological display on the stage at the time may have had something to do with me bumping into the chair, though I can't be entirely sure.