Wild Card

by Michael Brandman

  It also worried me that my father might be dragged into it. He had invested a great deal of optimism in the clinical testing of this as yet unproven chemical. His focus was by and large on the minute-by-minute evolution of his body’s response to it. He was constantly on guard for even the slightest change, his mood dependent on his findings.

  Although he was present, he was emotionally absent, distracted, and fearful. He was a different person, self-absorbed in an uncharacteristic manner, drum-beating about the vast improvement of his condition, yet all the while emanating abject terror at the prospect of his inexorable decline.

  Regina was right. He would be no match for the aggressive media.

  This, coupled with the ongoing Petrov mishigas, dampened my spirit.

  Let’s just say I’ve had better days.

  FORTY-FIVE

  The California State Board of Pharmacy confirmed that an Albert Yashin had registered with them following his graduation from the University of the Pacific’s Thomas J. Long School of Pharmacy and Health Sciences, located in Stockton, California, class of 2014.

  It was when I tried to learn Mr. Yashin’s current address that I ran into trouble.

  “We’re not permitted to give out that information,” the voice of an older woman informed me.

  After I identified myself, the woman still refused to divulge Yashin’s whereabouts.

  “May I speak with your supervisor?”

  “I have no supervisor.”

  “Is there someone in the university hierarchy I can speak with?”

  “Not about past graduates.”

  “Tell me your name again, please?”

  “I never told you my name.”

  “Would you tell me now?”

  There was silence for a while. Then she said, “Carolyn Daffron.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Daffron. As I mentioned, I’m investigating a serious crime and Mr. Yashin is a material witness.”

  “I can’t divulge his address, regardless.”

  “Is there a reason you’re being so intransigent?”

  “Rules.”

  “And you and you alone are the arbiter of these rules?”

  “I am.”

  “And you see fit to deny the County Sheriff information you possess that’s valuable to a criminal investigation.”

  “Rules are rules.”

  “May I tell you something, Ms. Daffron?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “You’re making a grievous error in judgment.”

  “That’s one opinion.”

  “So it is. But if you continue to refuse me this information, I will so inform the Sheriff of San Joaquin County of your actions and, in the interests of reciprocity, he will send two deputies to your office at the university and they will arrest you and charge you with obstruction of justice.

  “This charge, in turn, will be called to the attention of the office of the President of the university, accompanied by a complaint from the Sheriff’s Department regarding your obstructionist behavior.

  “Your autonomy, Ms. Daffron, will be seriously jeopardized, as most certainly will your job. The sight of you being frog-marched out of your office in handcuffs won’t be pretty. And afterward, everyone watching the evening news will be treated to footage of you being loaded into a Sheriff’s van, handcuffed and chained, and bolted to the floor.”

  A brief silence followed.

  “You said you wanted Albert Yashin’s current address?” Carolyn Daffron gasped.

  “I did say that, yes.”

  She provided it.

  FORTY-SIX

  I was parked in front of a four-unit converted town house in a neighborhood filled with them, located at the southernmost edge of San Joaquin County, interspersed amid a number of low-rise apartment buildings, all adhering to height restrictions imposed decades earlier.

  An ancient Lincoln Town Car occupied one of the four spaces in front of the weathered town house, which was badly in need of fresh paint. I had asked Marsha Russo to run the license plate and she reported back it was registered to an Albert Yashin.

  I exited the Wrangler and meandered around the building, checking the various exit points, winding up at the front door where I found Mr. Yashin’s name listed for apartment 2R2.

  The front door was locked and, rather than ringing the bell, I returned to the rear of the building and tested the exit door there. When it, too, proved to be locked, I removed a small metal filing device from my pocket, inserted it into the lock and popped the door open.

  I stepped into a lobby that was utilitarian, clean and well maintained. A single staircase led to the second floor, where I found apartment 2R2.

  I rang the bell and stepped aside, away from the brassbound peephole. Within moments, I noticed its cover sliding away and heard a voice inquire who was there.

  “Police,” I said and held my badge in front of the peephole.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Albert Yashin.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you Albert Yashin?”

  Silence.

  “I’m here on police business, Mr. Yashin. Please open the door.”

  After several more moments, I heard the tumbler turn and saw the door open a crack.

  “Proof,” Yashin said.

  I showed him my badge and ID.

  With a sigh he closed the door, undid the chain and then opened it to admit me. I stepped inside.

  Albert Yashin was a heavyset, olive-skinned man in his thirties. On his prominent nose rested thick-rimmed glasses through which he stared at me with wide-eyed concern. He had on a light-green hooded sweatshirt and khaki slacks.

  “What is it you want?”

  “A chat.”

  “About what?”

  “Boris Petrov.”

  Yashin’s restless eyes registered alarm and he instinctively shrank backward. I asked if we might sit, and regaining a measure of composure, he led me into a small living room. Its main point of focus was an oversized, wall-mounted flat-screen TV. A two-seater sofa and a pair of tired armchairs faced it, as did two side tables with matching brass-based lamps.

  He pointed me to the sofa. He sat in the adjacent armchair. “What is it you want to know?”

  “What exactly you do for Mr. Petrov.”

  “I occasionally work for him.”

  “Doing what?”

  “This and that.”

  “By which you mean?”

  “Just that. I do the occasional odd job for him.”

  “I’m not really warming to this conversation, Mr. Yashin. You’re a registered pharmacist. What need for your pharmaceutical services would Mr. Petrov have?”

  Yashin sat silently.

  I leaned forward. “This can go easy or hard. It’s up to you. We know that Petrov is a player in the drug trade. We’re aware of the full-scale laboratory he has secreted in his home. We know you’re an accomplice to the development and manufacture of illegal narcotics.

  “You face serious penalties for your crimes, Mr. Yashin, and to that end I’ve come to make you a one-time offer that will expire within moments of my having made it.”

  His attention turned inward and after a short stretch of introspection, it returned to me.

  “I want you to confirm that your primary function for Mr. Petrov is assisting in the manufacture of opioids. Synthetic Fentanyl, to be exact. I also want you to lead me to the hidden laboratory in which you worked.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That and a signed statement.”

  “And if I don’t cooperate?”

  “I did mention something about serious consequences, didn’t I?”

  “And if I cooperate?”

  “Try to understand that life as you know it has just taken a
serious turn for the worse, Mr. Yashin. You can be cooperative or obstructive. But if I were you, I’d surely opt for cooperation. It might earn you immunity from prosecution. But, hey, it’s up to you.”

  I glanced at my watch. “You have about thirty seconds to decide.”

  In considerably less than thirty seconds, he said, “Okay. I’ll cooperate.”

  I stood. “Shall we?”

  “May I get a few things first?”

  “Such as?”

  “My phone. My watch.”

  “No.”

  “Why no?”

  “Because you won’t be needing them.”

  I took his arm and together we headed for the door. Suddenly, he wrested his arm from my grasp. He glared at me.

  “I need my house keys.”

  I smiled. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  It took close to an hour to make the drive from Yashin’s house to Freedom. We swung south onto Highway 101 and hugged the shoreline for most of the drive.

  Yashin sat silently staring out the window. He appeared to be freighted with the knowledge that his life had indeed changed, and the worry that the change might result in a lengthy incarceration.

  I felt his stare. “How do I earn this so-called immunity?”

  “You fully cooperate.”

  “And if I do?”

  “You’re a small fish in this affair, Mr. Yashin. The government is likely to offer you liberty in exchange for information that leads to the conviction of Boris Petrov.”

  “I don’t know a whole hell of a lot. I’m a minor cog in the wheel and my knowledge of that wheel was restricted to the pharmacology part.”

  “You were involved in the manufacture of opioids, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were paid for that.”

  He nodded.

  “How were you paid?”

  “In cash.”

  “Did you receive a tax form?”

  “For what I was paid?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Did you file with the IRS?”

  “Yes.”

  “For the full amount?”

  He remained silent.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “Did you and Petrov ever talk?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “About your work?”

  “About the weather. We never discussed work.”

  “Why?”

  “He said the less I knew, the better. He was a very close-mouthed guy.”

  We pulled into the Sheriff’s Department parking lot, where were met by P.J. Lincoln and Marsha Russo.

  “What happens now?” Yashin asked.

  “You’ll be ushered to a cozy accommodation where you’ll remain until it’s convenient for us to access the Petrov property, and you can lead us to the hidden laboratory.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “As long as it needs to take.”

  He nodded, his face a portrait of despair.

  I asked P.J. to read him his rights. P.J. nodded and led him away.

  Once they were gone, I said to Marsha, “Please arrange for a forensics team to scour Yashin’s apartment from top to bottom. Confiscate his cell phone and any computers he might have. Print everything of interest on them. This son of a bitch is going down.”

  “He looks like a little lost lamb.”

  “A little lost lamb who manufactured enough synthetic Fentanyl to wipe out a major city. We’ll be leading this particular lamb to the slaughter.”

  “But he doesn’t know that.”

  “No.”

  “And he’s going to spring the lock on the hidden door for you.”

  “So he says.”

  “For which he thinks he’s going to be rewarded with some kind of clemency.”

  “He does.”

  “Which you suggested to him.”

  “Yes. But I lied.”

  “Is that cricket, Buddy?”

  “Cricket? This guy is a reprehensible lowlife. Responsible for untold numbers of deaths. He willingly applied his pharmacological skills to the service of despicability. I’m going to do all I can to make certain he’s held accountable.

  “Cricket? Talk cricket to the grieving families whose loved ones died as a result of his actions.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Marsha was planted in the chair opposite my desk, an overstuffed file on her lap, glasses pushed up on her forehead, reading aloud from handwritten notes she had amassed in a spiral-ringed notebook.

  “Here’s one I’m sure you’ll enjoy,” she said. “There are two unsolved murders in the Rockford, Illinois, police files. Both occurred six years ago.”

  “And that’s of interest because?”

  “Guess who was a rookie cop during that time?”

  “Him. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “I’m going to presume there’s more.”

  “Smart boy. Although it was more difficult to track, the consensus among the detectives with whom I spoke is that at least six of their unsolveds could just as easily have been categorized as serial.”

  “And these unsolveds are where?”

  “Chicago.”

  “Ouch.”

  “There’s no proof, though. It’s a big-city force suffering a scourge of gun violence. It’s not hard to see how an overly taxed department could have missed the signposts. The killings occurred months apart and there were anomalies.”

  “Such as?”

  “Methodology.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They didn’t all reflect the same M.O. The one constant was that each of the victims died of a single gunshot wound to the head. Clean. But how and where they met their end was varied. Some were in cars. Others weren’t.”

  “So why would anyone suspect they were serial?”

  “Time of day, for one. Place, for another.”

  “Let me guess. Morning. No spy cameras.”

  “Bingo.”

  “So what does that tell you?”

  “Nothing concrete, I’m sorry to say. But there’s a whole lot of innuendo.”

  “Did his name come up?”

  “You mean as a possible suspect?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “No suspicions aroused?”

  “None.”

  “And no one thought to do the drill.”

  “You mean the comparison drill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just me.”

  “So what does that tell you?”

  “Nothing to take to the bank, if that’s what you mean. Ironically, it’s the four killings here that helped point the finger at him.”

  “How so?”

  “Prior to the Freedom killings, there were too many differences and not enough similarities to connect any of the previous investigations. But the trail widens once you look at the Freedom killings.”

  “Which occurred after the Rockford and Chicago killings.”

  “Correct. It’s only when you place them in the context of those other killings that things start to add up.”

  “So what now?”

  “I’m not certain, Buddy. You’re the big-city homicide dick. What do you think?”

  “It’s complicated. There are any number of things we can do to examine Buzz Farmer’s possible connection to the killings. But the most significant ones involve some kind of surveillance. He’s very crafty. It will be tough to get anything by him. Particularly anything as noticeable as a surveillance operation.

  “As impeccable as these killings have been, they’re the product of minute planning and flawless execution. No pun intended. Nabbing him will take nothing shor
t of the same degree of excellence.”

  “So?”

  “So we need to be out in front of him.”

  “And?”

  “Adroit enough to hoist him on his own petard.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Once again I asked Judge Ezekiel Azenberg to provide the warrant.

  He sat back in his ancient chair and peered at me over the top of his reading glasses. “You know I’ve heard from the Governor about this Petrov thing.”

  “Critically, I presume.”

  “He was a cipher. The objections are coming from above.”

  “You mean the Justice Department?”

  “Someone’s doing everything he or she can to protect Boris Petrov.”

  “He’s guilty, Judge. He’s running an opioid lab in his house. Hidden somewhere inside the walls. I’ve arrested one of his chemists who is prepared to lead me to it. My team is prepped and ready to go. All we need is a warrant.”

  Judge Azenberg sighed deeply. “You’re facing some serious opposition, Buddy. You appear to have rattled a number of compromised cages.”

  “And your opinion?”

  “I’m impressed. You go do what you have to do.”

  “You mean you’ll issue the warrant?”

  “It’s ready and signed. Pick it up from my clerk on your way out.”

  “Thank you, Judge.”

  “Go nail this asshole, Buddy. Show him that not everyone in America is for sale.”

  We arrived at the mansion at two a.m., barreled our way through the gate, parked in front, and stormed it.

  The Sheriff’s Department contingent included Al Striar, Dave Balding, Marsha Russo, and Johnny Kennerly. The forensics team came from L.A.

  We shot out the lock of the front door, and with Albert Yashin in the lead, we made our way to a small first-floor pantry at the rear of the mansion, adjacent to the kitchen.

  We stood facing a floor-to-ceiling wooden glassware cabinet that was painted a dark moss green. It contained all manner of crockery and specialty glasses.

  Yashin looked at me, then stepped to the cabinet and pressed his thumb against a small pad, also moss green, practically invisible, on the right side of the cabinet, below one of three metal hinges attached to both the cabinet and to the wall.