Wild Card

by Michael Brandman

  “Was there anything else?”

  “Only that since the murder, he’s never reappeared.”

  “And it didn’t occur to her to contact the police and report this strange phenomenon?”

  “Actually, it did. But she thought better of it because she had no proof and she believed she’d be dismissed as a crazy old biddy.”

  “Ageism at its finest.”

  Our burgers arrived, mine with a side salad, Marsha’s oozing melted cheddar cheese coupled with an order of fried onion rings. The waitress served them with a flourish, then hastily disappeared.

  Marsha pointed to my salad. “I assumed you were dieting.”

  I pointed to the onion rings and the whipped cream swirl atop her oversized milkshake. “At least one of us is.”

  After savoring our initial food foray, Marsha asked, “What do you think?”

  “About the burger?”

  “About the biddy.”

  “She was the only person who commented on the photo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s a start.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Let’s say the old lady was right and Buzz was lurking around the area. It places him there but it doesn’t establish guilt.”

  “But he was at the scene of the crime before the crime was committed.”

  “Tough to prosecute.”

  “But it does raise doubts.”

  “As do your findings regarding the future ex-Mrs. Farmer.”

  “So?”

  “It’s a start, Marsha. A good one. But we need more.”

  “And how do we go about getting that more?”

  “Underhandedly.”

  “What underhandedly?”

  “I’ve got something in mind.”

  “You’re going to try to get him to incriminate himself?”

  “That would be the plan.”

  “You really believe you can get Mr. Perfection to do himself in?”

  “Ain’t no such thing as perfection.”

  “And you’re going to prove it?”

  “God willing.”

  “And?”

  “And the creek don’t rise.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  “I was wondering when you’d get around to showing up,” Sheriff Burton Steel, Sr. commented.

  We were on the back porch, he with a gin and tonic, me with water. Although he was still experiencing an uptick in his condition, today he looked tired.

  “Are you overdoing it?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Are you?”

  “Maybe a little. These meds have had such a positive effect.”

  The Sheriff sat quietly for several moments, reconsidering the state of his health. Then he admitted, “But it’s possible I haven’t dealt with their boundaries.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Perhaps I have been overdoing it.”

  “Then stop.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “This business with the Russian. It’s got everyone up in arms.”

  “I’m about to arrest him.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Forensic evidence.”

  “Go on.”

  “We can connect him to the manufacture and distribution of opioids.”

  “Will it stick?”

  “Not my table. I believe we have enough for the DA to make a case. The rest is out of my hands.”

  “Los Angeles?”

  “Not if Judge Lemieux has anything to say about it.”

  “Does she?”

  “Again, it’s out of my hands. But she’s been given fair warning, and I believe she’ll insist.”

  “And His Eminence Grise?”

  “The Governor?”

  “Him.”

  “Hard to tell. It won’t be a popular cause for him. Once the case goes public and the press becomes involved, it’ll be damned difficult for him to defend Sir Boris. We’re talking Fentanyl. Responsible for multiple deaths daily. Governor gets too ardently involved in this case, he runs the risk of self-inflicted political wounding.”

  “What about the press?”

  “Hamstrung.”

  “Because?”

  “Putin, Petrov by association, and the Coastal Commission are anathema. There’s no earthly way the press can side favorably with any of them.”

  We sat silently for a while, listening to the sounds of birds chirping their good nights and crickets awakening.

  The Sheriff sighed deeply. “And the rest?”

  “You mean the killings?”

  “Yes. They’re driving Regina crazy.”

  “A place to which she’s no doubt been driven before.”

  “Don’t go there, Buddy.”

  I flashed the old man my lopsided grin. “I’m wrestling a bear, Dad.”

  “Buzz Farmer?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think he did it.”

  “I know he did.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the sixty-four-dollar question.”

  “What’s the sixty-four-dollar answer?”

  “He’s a psychologically wounded veteran. A victim of post traumatic stress syndrome who somehow managed to deceive himself into believing he’s developed a higher calling.”

  “What calling?”

  “Perfectionism.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Somewhere along the line, it became important for him to consider himself the epitome of perfection. He created a private universe for himself. One in which he lived separate and apart from reality. Having learned to kill in Afghanistan, he came to consider killing an art form. And with each subsequent death, he believed he had refined his art to the point of perfection.”

  “And?”

  “He’s a sick man, Dad. But I’m close to being able to prove it and put an end to it.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not ready to say yet.”

  “When will you be ready?”

  “On the day I take him down.”

  “Regina will surely love that day.”

  “Don’t go there, Burton.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  District Attorney Michael Lytell stormed into Skip Wilder’s office, spittle spraying from the corners of his mouth as he bellowed, “Where is he?”

  “Who?” I said.

  When Wilder stood deferentially, Lytell sat down heavily in Wilder’s desk chair. “Already he’s being difficult.”

  Avoiding my amused glance, Wilder reluctantly sat in the chair beside me. “He’s here to discuss something with you, Michael. Perhaps you could tone it down a bit and listen.”

  “Ha,” Lytell exclaimed.

  “If Boris Petrov is still of interest to you, I might have an answer or two.”

  “Why is he always so evasive?” Lytell queried Wilder.

  “I’m about to arrest him.” I answered.

  “Petrov?”

  “Yes.”

  “Boris Petrov? You’re going to arrest Boris Petrov?”

  “And present him to you on a silver platter.”

  “He’s full of shit,” Lytell said to Wilder.

  “We’ve got him dead to rights.”

  “Sure, you do.”

  “For openers, he’s going to be charged with the manufacture and distribution of illegal narcotics.”

  Lytell stared at Wilder’s desktop for several moments, then reached over and rearranged a pile of papers that had been placed scattershot upon it. “And you think it will stick?”

  “We discovered incriminating evidence hidden behind fake walls in his home.”

  “What evidence?” />
  “I’ll present you with the forensic report. And I’ll show you the evidence.”

  “They’ll still have him out in no time,” Lytell said.

  “Not if the judge has anything to say about it.”

  “What judge?”

  “Lemieux.”

  “What makes you think she would be involved?”

  “San Remo County.”

  “They’ll petition for Los Angeles.”

  “It won’t be a slam-dunk for them.”

  “You think?” Lytell turned to Wilder. “You heard him. It won’t be a slam-dunk. I’m so relieved.”

  Wilder stared at him blank-eyed.

  Lytell focused on me. “Why?”

  “Why do I think it won’t be a slam-dunk?”

  “Yes.”

  “She wants the case.”

  “Lemieux?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can bet your sweet bippy the Governor will resist.”

  “He’ll be out of it before it even begins.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lytell said. “Putin’s spoken to the Governor personally.”

  “When he learns the amount of Fentanyl we discovered, he’ll disappear faster than Harry Houdini.”

  Lytell was about to speak again but thought better of it. A silence settled over the room.

  “When will this arrest take place?” he asked at last. “It’s bound to be a circus.”

  “It’ll happen when it happens.”

  Lytell looked at Skip Wilder. “Do you understand what he just said? I never understand anything he says.”

  “Petrov’s already in custody.” I said. “We’ll officially arrest him when the timing is right. No press. No crowds. No lawyers.”

  “And then what?”

  I shrugged. “That’ll be up to you.”

  For a brief moment, Lytell’s eyes resembled those of a deer caught in the headlights. Then, just as quickly, he got over it. “What do you propose?”

  “Well, for one thing, no bail. As for the publicity, you’re the public relations guru. Have a word with Her Honor and make the call.”

  “This shit is going to hit the fan big-time.”

  “Rain gear,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Rain gear will help protect you from the spray.”

  “He’s very funny,” Lytell said to Wilder. “Don’t you think he’s very funny?”

  I stood. “My work here is done.”

  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  FIFTY-SIX

  But I was dead wrong.

  The potato was way too hot to handle locally and the Leonard, Howard and Arthur firm, supported by the Governor, pushed the case into the Los Angeles County Superior Court.

  The judge, the Honorable James Judith, had been appointed to the bench by the Governor and was quick to seize the opportunity to honor the Governor’s wish to have the case play out in the state’s highest-profile jurisdiction.

  Regrets were tendered to Judge Lemieux, and the L.A. District Attorney’s office inherited the proceedings.

  I was in the Victory Police Department’s headquarters where I happily read Boris Petrov his rights. He glared at me throughout.

  “Lawyer,” he said, doing his best to conceal his toothless mouth, but not succeeding.

  I guided him to the phone and told him he was allowed one call. He picked up the phone and looked at me.

  “Privacy,” he said.

  “No such thing.”

  “I insist.”

  “You either place the call now or forfeit your right to make it.”

  “You, as we say in Russia, are one total shithead.”

  “Thank you.”

  He shook his head and dialed. He informed Craig Leonard of his whereabouts and that he had been arrested. Whatever Leonard responded seemed to mollify him. He ended the call and glared at me. “You and I aren’t finished, Buddy Steel. You’re barking up the wrong bush if you think you can make anything you have on me stick.”

  “Tree.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s tree. Not bush.”

  Petrov glared at me. “Your time will come Mr. Smart Mouth. Sooner than you think. And when it does, there’ll be plenty of rejoicing.”

  “Will there be party hats?”

  I returned his glare with a grin and nodded to Police Chief Art Christensen, who had been watching the proceedings. “Good to go,” I said.

  Chief Christensen made certain Petrov was properly cuffed and leg-ironed, then led him outside and loaded him into the waiting van. We set off for Freedom where he would be turned over to the State Police.

  “You’re a loser,” Petrov sneered at me.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You play with fire, you burn to death.”

  “You’re just a fount of malapropisms, aren’t you?”

  “You chose wrong guy to pick on. You’re a dead man walking.”

  “Come again?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I did. As will the judge, also.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re on tape, bozo. And the judge will be the first person to hear it.”

  “You recorded me?”

  “I did. And not only that, Chief Christensen here heard you, too.”

  “So what?”

  “You threatened the life of an officer of the law. There are penalties for that.”

  We made the rest of the trip in silence. When we pulled into the courthouse lot, a State Police van was already parked there.

  I hustled Petrov into the building and was greeted by a pair of Staties. Captain Alan Hollett presented me with the paperwork required for him to assume responsibility for Mr. Petrov. Marsha Russo assured me that all was in order.

  A crusty veteran possessing considerable girth, Hollett set about removing Petrov’s bindings. “What happened to his teeth?”

  “An unfortunate accident.”

  “Police brutality,” Petrov shouted.

  Hollett looked at me questioningly.

  I smiled.

  Hollett shrugged and glanced briefly at Petrov’s mouth. Then he shook my hand, took Petrov by the arm and led him to a waiting vehicle.

  After they had gone, Marsha looked at me. “What now?”

  “Out of our hands.”

  “Because?”

  “Politics.”

  “What politics?”

  “The Governor insisted this be top shelf, highest priority. Right or wrong, Petrov’s arrest will be considered a victory for him personally, elevating his chances for higher office.”

  “You mean the Presidency?”

  “Nothing’s higher than that.”

  “Ironic,” she said.

  “How so?”

  “Collusion with Russians.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  The arraignment before the stone-faced Judge James Judith took place early the next morning.

  A wan-looking Boris Petrov stood next to his attorney, Craig Leonard, as Leonard petitioned the court to release Petrov to his own recognizance.

  The District Attorney’s office had sent an Assistant DA to argue on behalf of the State that Petrov should be held without bail.

  I was sitting in the empty courtroom alongside Jordyn Yates, having been granted permission to make a statement regarding Petrov’s possible release prior to the court’s rendering an opinion.

  A fair amount of activity was going on at the bench and Judge Judith was glancing at several sheets of paper while at the same time gazing at Petrov and listening to Craig Leonard.

  After nearly an hour of this, the judge motioned for the ADA to approach the bench. After several moments of murmured conver
sation, he looked up and motioned me to the witness stand.

  Even though we weren’t in the trial phase, the court clerk still swore me in. Once that was done, the judge asked me why I had petitioned the court.

  “This was a strange case right from the start, Your Honor,” I began.

  “How so?”

  “At first we were dealing with an abject refusal on Mr. Petrov’s part to honor the State law permitting public access to his beachfront property. He had gone so far as to erect permanent, impenetrable barriers, in order to prevent such access.

  “He was rebuked by the Coastal Commission and he still refused to allow access. Acting on a request by the Commission, the San Remo Sheriff’s Department arranged for the original access points to be re-established. Once that was done, Mr. Petrov’s staff re-erected the barriers.

  “In the process, it came to our attention that a number of Mr. Petrov’s security forces were in the country illegally. Working with Homeland Security, we detained all of these people, most of whom have already been deported.

  “At some point, a member of Mr. Petrov’s security detail, seeking clemency, informed the Sheriff’s Department of Mr. Petrov’s involvement with the manufacture and distribution of illegal narcotics. We have photographic evidence of his participation in what turned out to be an aborted attempt to load bagsful of opiates onto several speedboats.

  “It was during this action that we became aware of rooms and workspaces in the Petrov mansion that were concealed behind false walls. When we demolished these walls we discovered a hidden laboratory in which a forensics unit determined synthetic Fentanyl had been manufactured. That determination was confirmed by one of the pharmacists involved in the process.

  “We also found Mr. Petrov’s hidden office which revealed even further incriminating evidence.

  “This is the short answer, Your Honor. What greatly alarms the Sheriff’s Department is its belief that Mr. Petrov is a threat to flee the country. As a result, the Sheriff’s Department recommends that bail be denied him.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff Steel. The court will surely take your petition into consideration.”

  I stood and nodded to the judge, but was nearly bowled over by Craig Leonard, who was literally running toward the bench, screaming that I was a liar and a hysteric and that Mr. Petrov is a respected statesman and close associate of Vladimir Putin, blah, blah, blah.