Wild Card

by Michael Brandman

  Nothing happened.

  He looked at me and once again pressed his thumb against the pad, this time more forcefully.

  Again nothing happened.

  “They’ve changed it,” he said. “This cabinet is controlled electronically, and thumbprint recognition has always been the key to opening it.”

  “Is the laboratory behind the cabinet?”

  “There’s a kind of anteroom behind the cabinet. The lab abuts it.”

  I looked at Johnny Kennerly. “Do it.”

  Johnny immediately pressed a number on his cell phone and within minutes, one of the forensics techs turned up brandishing a chainsaw.

  He looked to me for approval. I nodded.

  He proceeded to saw through the cabinet’s hinges, causing it to separate from the wall and fall open. He pushed it aside, allowing us access.

  Inside was a large anteroom containing a desk, a leather chair, and two wooden filing cabinets. The walls were painted the same dark moss green, as was a door located to the left of the desk. The baseboard moldings and the ceiling were white.

  Yashin headed for the door. We followed.

  He pressed his thumb against another small pad just below the door’s top hinge. This time, the door popped open.

  We stepped through it into a large, empty room, painted a glossy white.

  Albert Yashin looked at me. “Welcome to the pharmacy. But as you can see, it’s been totally stripped.”

  I turned to Johnny Kennerly. “Put the forensics team to work on it, regardless.”

  “I’m sorry,” Yashin said. “I had no idea they would do this.”

  Petrov had likely planned this little house-cleaning exercise anticipating we might find it, and had more than likely carried it out in the hours following our disruption of his shipping operation and the seizure of his goods. Which insured that whatever case we were building against him was likely no longer viable.

  No evidence. No case.

  I was in the throes of feeling sorry for myself when Al Striar sidled up to me. “A word?”

  “Sure. What have you got?”

  “An anomaly.”

  “Okay.”

  “Follow me,” he said and walked to a section of the wall on the right side of the room. “Listen to this.”

  He started tapping on it, producing a hollow sound as if he was knocking on drywall.

  “Follow me again.”

  This time he stepped out of the empty lab and led me to a pair of wooden filing cabinets that stood behind the desk in the anteroom. He pointed me to the right side of the cabinet.

  “You see what I see?”

  “The filing cabinet is hinged to the wall.”

  “Tap the wall.”

  It sounded as hollow as the one in the lab.

  “See the green pad located just below the top hinge?”

  “I do now.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “I think we should smash our way through it and find out what’s on the other side.”

  “Excellent call, Buddy. We’re so lucky to have as fearless a person as you as our leader.”

  He grinned and asked Johnny Kennerly to find the chainsaw guy. When he appeared, Striar pointed to the hinges and within seconds, the filing cabinet was separated from the wall.

  When we moved it out of the way, we found ourselves staring into a large room filled with the haphazardly stacked equipment and furniture that had clearly been removed from the lab.

  We wended our way through a dining room/kitchen and into an office complex replete with a sitting area, a work station with five computer tables, each hosting a top-of-the-line iMac.

  Four oversized filing cabinets stood against one of the walls along with a pair of Browning Hells Canyon extra-wide gun safes standing side by side, their steel doors ajar, each safe packed not with guns, but with what appeared to be boxes of opioids.

  Three large Picasso lithographs adorned the wall behind a large mahogany desk where in an oversized executive armchair sat none other than Boris Petrov himself.

  FIFTY

  Petrov surreptitiously sidled over to the twin safes in the hope he might lock their doors.

  I thwarted his access, which angered him. He attempted to move around me.

  I dodged him.

  He glared at me.

  I handed him Judge Azenberg’s warrant. “You’ve been served.”

  “So what? Your warrant is worthless. As are you, I might add.”

  “You know what, Boris? For a self-described diplomat, you display the diplomatic skills of a cretin.”

  “Let’s do without the banter, shall we, Steel? Release me.”

  “You know, I was preparing to do that. Right up to the worthless comment. Now my feelings are hurt.”

  “I’ve had enough of you and your wise mouth, Steel,” he said and suddenly stepped up to me and slapped me open-handed in the face.

  Although it stung, I held my ground and did nothing.

  He attempted to slap me again.

  This time I blocked his slap with my left wrist and delivered an open-handed smack of my own. I knew the heel of my hand had dislodged something, even before I saw him spit it out.

  Petrov gasped as what appeared to be all of the teeth on the right side of his mouth fell from his head, struck the floor heavily, and fragmented.

  “My implants!” he screamed.

  He stared horrified at the broken and scattered pieces of teeth. Then he looked up at me. “You smashed my implants,” he wailed.

  “That’s what they were? Implants?”

  When he spoke, the right side of his mouth revealed a gaping maw of toothlessness. “Yes, that’s what they were, you son of a bitch,” he screamed and then rushed me.

  Al Striar elbowed his way between us, grabbed a pair of handcuffs from his kit belt and took hold of Petrov’s left wrist.

  Still livid, Petrov lashed out at him, raking his face with the sharp stone of the ring he wore on his third finger.

  Striar’s cheek sustained a slashing cut that was now leaking blood, yet he held tight to Petrov’s wrist and managed to cuff both of his hands behind him.

  Petrov stood screaming at me. “I need to phone my lawyer.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Boris. You see, you haven’t actually been arrested, and you have to have been arrested before you’re allowed a phone call.”

  “I’m injured.”

  “Not really.”

  “I require dental attention.”

  “It would seem so.”

  We stared at each other in silence.

  “Now,” he said.

  Johnny Kennerly spoke up. “Let me have a look at him.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know what good it will do.”

  Johnny stepped over to Petrov. “Smile.”

  “Fuck you, smile,” Petrov shouted, inching away from Johnny.

  To me, he said, “You’re making another big mistake, Steel. You have no idea how well connected I am. I’ll dance on your grave.”

  “Not unless I’m buried beneath a federal prison.”

  I called to Al Striar, who was holding a handkerchief to his bleeding cheek. “You need to see a medic. Get things started here and then go. Arrange for all this crap to be impounded. The contents of the lab. Computers. Filing cabinets. And especially the safes. This opioid stash is what’s going to bring an inglorious end to Mr. Petrov’s illustrious career.”

  “Will do,” Striar said.

  “You did good out there, Al. We might have missed this completely if you hadn’t discovered the fake wall.”

  “It sounded flimsy.”

  “To you it did.”

  “Anyone could have found it.”

  “You know something, Al? Accept the co
mpliment and go get your cheek checked.”

  “I bet you can’t say that three times fast.”

  “Al...”

  “Copy that.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  We loaded Boris Petrov into the backseat of my squad car. I climbed in beside him. He was still demanding to see a dentist.

  Dave Balding drove us to Victory, a small town in the northernmost tip of San Remo County, where members of the local police force met us and helped settle Mr. Petrov into one of the station’s four tiny cells.

  When he realized he was being held prisoner, Petrov again started yelling for his lawyer. “You can’t hold me like this.”

  “I can’t?”

  “I need a dentist.”

  “A lawyer. A dentist. Is there anything else you need?”

  “My implants. What did you do with my implants?”

  “They’ve been entered into evidence.”

  “Evidence? What evidence? I need them for my dentist.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Boris.”

  “You know something, Steel? You have no humanity. You’re a deplorable excuse for a human being.”

  “Deplorable? This from the purveyor of deadly opioids? Deplorable is your middle name, Boris. And you can rest assured your deplorable days here in America are numbered.”

  He was shouting obscenities at me as I left the area.

  “Skip Wilder on line two,” Wilma Hansen said when I responded to her buzz. “He appears to be experiencing an elevated level of ‘need to talk immediately.’”

  “How do you know?”

  “He was yelling.”

  “Thanks.” I picked up the call.

  “Another raid?” he asked.

  “Successful, too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We accessed the hidden rooms and found the lab equipment, computers with all kinds of Petrov-related business activity on them, plus two giant safes filled with what appear to be boxes of synthetic opioids.”

  “And that proves what exactly?”

  “Too soon to say.”

  “And if it turns out they prove nothing?”

  “Ye of little faith.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Buddy. Lytell’s already had a call from the Governor.”

  “Was it a nice call?”

  “Craig Leonard is hopping up and down. Claims he hasn’t heard from his client, despite any number of attempts to reach him.”

  “And that’s of interest because?”

  “He says you kidnapped him.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Yes, you. Where is he?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You best not be lying to me, Buddy. You better not be performing your Jail House Shuffle routine.”

  “Was there anything else, Skip?”

  “Not yet. But I’m sure there will be.”

  “Then I’ll look forward to hearing your dulcet tones again,” I said and hung up.

  “To what do I deserve this pleasure?” Jordyn Yates asked when she picked up my call.

  “I have him.”

  “And who might him be?”

  “One guess.”

  “Boris Petrov?”

  “The brass ring is yours.”

  “Define exactly what I have him means.”

  “I’ve got him stashed in one of the county jails.”

  “You’re holding him without charges?”

  “For the moment, yes.”

  “Because?”

  “We raided his mansion and located several hidden rooms. One of which contained all kinds of laboratory equipment. Another appeared to be Petrov’s office which housed a bevy of computers, file cabinets, and a pair of oversized safes filled with synthetic opioids.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “A forensics team is poring over it all now, and it appears as if we have more than enough to nail him.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “That’s what the Assistant District Attorney asked.”

  “Of course it is. And I’ll bet the estimable firm of Leonard, Howard and Arthur is already burning up the phone lines trying to find their client.”

  “Good bet.”

  She was quiet for several moments. Then she said, “Judge Lemieux.”

  “What about her?”

  “If you’re right, this matter is headed for her courtroom.”

  “So?”

  “I think this might be an excellent time to give her a heads-up.”

  “Because?”

  “Because if you’re wrong, you’re toast. If you’re right, it’s going to become a circus.”

  “So?”

  “Before the dam bursts, it might be nice to give the judge a heads-up.”

  “Which you’re prepared to do?”

  “The minute I’m off the phone with you.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  “Twice in less than a month,” Judge Marielle Lemieux said by way of welcoming Jordyn and me. “Will wonders never cease?”

  The judge’s chambers were furnished sparingly with painstakingly chosen designer decor. I half expected the brown- and cream-colored sofas and chairs to be covered with protective plastic, but they weren’t, and coffee was served boldly by her clerk, despite the risk of spillage.

  When we were all properly settled, Jordyn Yates offered, “We’re likely facing a shit storm.”

  “Might I request a bit more specificity?” Judge Lemieux asked.

  She was dressed in a black Donna Karan pants suit with an open-necked pink shirt. Her full head of salt and pepper hair was cut short. Apart from a natural lip sheen, she wore no makeup. Her dark brown eyes were agleam with intelligence.

  “We expect to be arresting Boris Petrov by the end of the day,” Jordyn said.

  “Because?”

  “A trove of incriminating evidence was found hidden in his mansion.”

  “Legally?”

  “Judge Azenberg’s warrant,” I said.

  “Do you wish to reveal the nature of this evidence?”

  “Will the headlines suffice?”

  “I’ll comment once I’ve heard them.”

  “Sources informed us that Petrov was involved in the development and distribution of opioids. Forensics now has proof of it, along with a store of synthetic Fentanyl tablets that were manufactured by Petrov-employed pharmacists, one of whom is in custody.

  “We also discovered large sums of cash expertly hidden in the Petrov mansion behind false walls.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” the judge asked Jordyn.

  “I’m guessing Leonard and associates will seek L.A. County jurisdiction. Despite the fact the crimes occurred in San Remo County. But, based on Petrov’s notoriety and the influence of his Russian supporters, we’re afraid the Governor will agree to this change of venue.”

  “And?”

  “We’re going to make every effort to keep it here in San Remo.”

  “In my court?”

  “Yes.”

  The judge sat quietly for a while. Then she stood. “Thank you, Ms. Yates. I appreciate the heads-up.”

  Jordyn nodded.

  Judge Lemieux turned to me. “I guess what they say about you is true, Buddy.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Trouble goes out of its way to find you.”

  “You think?”

  “I’ve known you since you were a teen.”

  “You have.”

  “So, therefore, I have enough history to opine on such a statement.”

  “You do.”

  “I concur.”

  “About trouble finding me?”

  “And vice versa.”

  “Is that good o
r bad?”

  “Beats me,” the judge said with a smile.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Marsha Russo had asked for an out-of-the-office meeting, so having left Petrov to cool his heels in Victory and awaiting the forensics report, I joined her at Casey’s, an upscale burger joint in downtown Freedom.

  She had already ordered for us both and was just pouring more vanilla shake from its icy stainless steel container into her now half-empty glass when I dropped down across from her and signaled for coffee.

  She stared at me. “Gaunt,” she said.

  “Sleep deprivation.”

  “Perhaps you should pay more attention to that condition.”

  “Have you any other wise nuggets you care to drop?”

  “And if I did?”

  “I’d have to weigh their efficacy.”

  “What do you say we can the small talk?” she said taking a large swallow of milkshake.

  “You asked for the meeting.”

  “So I did.”

  “Hopefully, there’s more to it than me having to watch you slurp a milkshake.”

  She leaned in closer across the table. “I performed a stakeout of the neighborhood in which our most recent victim was found. As you know, it differed somewhat from the kind of location where the three previous killings occurred. It was less upscale, marked not only by commercial properties, but also by residential ones.

  “So I made a six-photo composite of potential perps into which I inserted a picture of Buzz Farmer. Then I embarked on a walking tour of the neighborhood and showed the composite to everyone I encountered, both on the street and when I rang doorbells.

  “I did it early, at the approximate hour the coroner established as the victim’s time of death. In the hope that the morning regulars might have noticed something out of the ordinary. Any kind of anomaly.”

  “And?”

  “I got a hit.”

  “Meaning?”

  “An elderly woman, a dog walker, picked out the photo of Buzz Farmer as someone she’d seen over the course of several days sitting in a parked car across the street from her building.”

  “Go on.”

  “She noticed him because he seemed an oddity just sitting there drinking coffee and keeping watch over the goings on.”