Wild Fury

by Tripp Ellis

  "If we're going to restore from the cloud, you'll need a device to restore the data to. That's the easiest way."

  "You can't just download the backup data?" I asked.

  "I can, but it's more difficult to parse through the data. Just get a phone, it's easier. Don't be a cheap ass."

  "Okay. We'll be in touch," I said.

  I ended the call.

  JD and I talked Sheriff Daniels into actually letting us take a patrol car.

  That was probably a mistake on his part.

  JD climbed behind the wheel and cranked the engine up. I slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut. The first thing Jack wanted to do was turn on the lights and blast the siren, but I talked him out of the idea.

  We drove to the Highland Village Mall, and JD flashed the lights at every car in his way. The vehicles veered into the next lane and slowed down, each driver probably having a heart attack.

  JD had a shit-eating grin on his face. "I think I need one of these."

  "This is the last thing you need."

  I called Finley Morgan on the way. "Would you happen to have Brynn Douglas's personal email address?"

  "I don't know, maybe," she said.

  "Can you check?"

  "Yeah, hang on a minute."

  A moment later, she recited Brynn's personal email address, and I added it to my contact list on my phone. "Did you know what she was involved in?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do you know Vasily Kozlov?"

  "I think I've met him once or twice. Doesn't he own KGB and an art gallery down on Silverside Avenue?"

  "Technically, his name isn't anywhere on the books. Do you know anything else about him?"

  "Not really, other than the fact I lost a few deals to him. He's developing the Trident—a luxury high-rise on Ocean Avenue. I'm not a big fan of his."

  "Why not?"

  Finley hesitated a moment. "I'm competitive. I don't like losing deals. He's outbid me on every project we went head to head on. Why do you ask?"

  "He's the one who outbid you on Diver Down."

  "Son-of-a-bitch!"

  "That's not all, but that's a discussion for another day."

  Finley hesitated for a moment. "Look, I know I've been a little cold lately. I really thought you were behind the deal falling through."

  "Nope. I had nothing to do with it. "

  Finley shyly suggested, "Maybe we can have a drink sometime?"

  "Maybe," I said, coyly.

  She groaned. "Okay, Deputy Wild. You have my number."

  I hung up the phone as we pulled into the parking lot of the mall. We walked inside, found the computer store, and bought an insanely expensive smart phone with lots of storage.

  I called Zeke and told him we were on our way over. At his apartment, I called Brynn's cellular service provider and identified myself as a deputy. After speaking with a less than helpful representative, I was transferred to a supervisor, and was able to reset Brynn's password to her email account. Once we had access to her email, we could initiate a password reset from the cloud service. From there, we restored a backup to the new phone.

  From what Zeke said, it should be a mirror image of Brynn's phone at the time of her death. It took an hour for the phone to update, and once we access the device, we poured through all the data, but there were no voice recordings. The phone had updated with her contact lists, her photos, and text messages. But there were no recordings of Vasily Kozlov.

  I deflated.

  "It was worth a shot," JD said.

  "Those audio recordings have to be somewhere," I said in desperation.

  "Maybe she stored them on another cloud service, like StuffBox, or MyDrive?" Zeke suggested. "I'll see if I can find anything."

  We left Zeke's and took the patrol car to Brynn's apartment and gave another look around.

  We didn't find anything of value.

  A tech from the lab called and told me that the statue didn't contain any cocaine. It seemed we were striking out on all fronts, and I was growing more frustrated.

  "We need to catch this guy in the act," JD said.

  "Vasily's too smart for that." I took a deep breath and thought for a moment. "I've got an idea. It's a little crazy, but it can't hurt. And we don't have anything to lose at the moment."

  36

  I may have spoken too soon when I said it couldn't hurt. In hindsight, the idea was a little reckless.

  JD and I left Brynn's high-rise and went back to the detention center. We arranged for a meeting with Xavier/Lucas. We spoke to him in the visitation area through thick Plexiglas.

  I picked up the phone to speak with him, and his nervous voice crackled through the hard line. He held the phone, looking through the thick glass with hopeful eyes. His face was scruffy and his hair was disheveled. I think he was pleased to get out of the cell for a moment. When you only get an hour of rec time per day, every minute out of the cell counted.

  A confident grin curled on my lips, and I lied, "We found the audio recordings between Brynn and Vasily Kozlov. The DA thinks there's more than enough there to get an indictment."

  Lucas's eyes widened with excitement. "That's fantastic! What about the deal? Are you gonna get me out of here?"

  "It's in the works. The DA agreed to put you in the witness protection program, providing this information leads to a conviction."

  A wide smile curled on Lucas's face. He could barely contain himself. He looked like he wanted to scream for joy. "Fuck yes! How long is that going to take?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. Just sit tight."

  "Easy for you to say. This place is a shithole."

  "I'll be in touch," I said.

  I hung up the phone, and Lucas stood up. A guard escorted him out of the visitation area. Lucas shrieked with joy, and I could hear his muffled celebration through the glass. "Yes, I'm getting out of this mother fucker!"

  It was just what I wanted him to do.

  JD muttered in my ear, "You're going to hell for that, you know that?"

  I scowled at him. "A necessary evil."

  I had no intention of going back to hell. But we needed to draw Vasily out.

  We left the detention center and walked across to the station.

  "You really think he's going to blab?" JD asked.

  "Lucas can't keep his mouth shut. He'll talk to the guards, neighboring inmates—word will travel fast. Vasily Kozlov will think he cut a deal. He'll get nervous about those audio recordings. Maybe he'll do something stupid."

  "You sure that's such a good idea?" JD asked. "I feel like we're poking the bear."

  "We are."

  I made a quick call to Shelby Sullivan. "I need you to do me a favor."

  "That's a little presumptuous of you," she said.

  "You mentioned that you thought Vasily Kozlov had a mole in the Bureau. Someone leaking information?"

  "I don't have any proof, but I have my suspicions. He seems to always be one step ahead of us."

  "Casually leak out the fact that Deputy Wild has acquired incriminating audio recordings between Vasily and Brynn Douglas."

  Shelby paused for a long moment. "Okay. I'll play along. Just be ready. If I do this, you'll really need to watch your back."

  "That's what I'm counting on."

  I hung up the phone and slipped it back into my pocket. I glanced to JD and said, "How about we pay Vasily a visit at his art gallery."

  Jack snorted. "You're really looking for trouble, aren't you?"

  37

  We drove the patrol car to Vasily's art gallery on Silverside Avenue. We parked at the curb in front, hopped out, and strutted inside.

  Classical music spilled from speakers embedded in the walls. The gallery was the epitome of style and sophistication. Large abstract canvases hung from the walls, and multiple statues stood on podiums. I recognized the style of the statues. They were similar to the one I had found in the warehouse.

  We only made it a few steps into the gallery befor
e a beautiful blonde in a blazer and skirt greeted us. "Welcome to Artifact, how can I be of assistance?"

  "We're just browsing," I said.

  "Can I offer you a beverage? Water? A glass of wine?"

  "No, thank you," I said.

  JD looked at me like I had committed a mortal sin, passing up free alcohol. He examined one of the statues on the pedestal, then picked it up for a closer look.

  The woman's face crinkled with distress. "Please don't touch that!"

  "Oops, right. Sorry," JD said, placing the statue back on the pedestal.

  "How much does something like that go for?" he asked.

  The woman cleared her throat, uncomfortably. "You know what they say. If you have to ask…"

  I gazed around at the art pieces, some of which made me cross-eyed just looking at them.

  The gallery was empty. There were no other clients.

  "Busy day?" I asked.

  "We have a very exclusive clientele. A lot of our sales are online purchasers from all over the world. These art pieces are investments. Many of our offerings have accrued in value, doubling, and even tripling, their worth in the span of a few short years."

  I lifted an impressed brow. "What can you tell me about the artists?"

  "These paintings over here are by Uwe Von Schmidt." She gestured with her right hand to the large canvases on the wall like the host of a game show. Then with her left hand, she gestured to the opposite wall. "And these are by Valentino Tosconi."

  "And the statues?"

  "The statues are by the renowned Italian sculptor Antonio Beneventi. They're really magnificent, aren't they?" She spoke of him with an exalted tone.

  "These don't look Italian," I said.

  "Beneventi takes inspiration from all across the globe for his creations."

  "I just moved into a new high-rise. I need to decorate the place. It's a bit stark. I'm looking for some nice knickknacks."

  "These are more than just knickknacks," she said, slightly perturbed.

  "Right, of course. I like this statue," I said, pointing to a particularly ugly piece. "What would it take for me to bring that home today?"

  She tilted up her nose and looked down at me. "That particular piece is $237,000."

  I maintained a straight face, but it was difficult. "Is that all?"

  Jack snorted "20 bucks would be highway robbery."

  The woman scowled at Jack.

  "Perhaps this gallery is not for you."

  "Perhaps," Jack sassed back at her.

  "Is the owner available?" I asked. "Vasily Kozlov."

  The blonde's eyes narrowed at me curiously. "I'm sorry, but he's not in at the moment. Vasily doesn't actually own the gallery. He merely curates some of the pieces. Is he an acquaintance of yours?"

  I flashed my shiny gold badge to the woman. "I plan on making his acquaintance very soon. Could you give him a message for me?"

  She forced a smile. "Certainly."

  "Tell him I really enjoyed listening to his conversations with Brynn Douglas."

  I wasn't sure how much she knew about Vasily's business, but she was definitely annoyed with us.

  I continued, "Be sure he gets that message, would you, dear?"

  "I'll tell him personally."

  I flashed a fake smile before we left.

  The place was clearly a front for laundering money. It was the perfect business—high-ticket items, cash customers. My guess was that Vasily had art students creating the pieces for next to nothing. I figured they were able to launder more money through the art gallery than they were through the nightclub or any of Vasily's other endeavors. Fake customers, fake invoices, lots of cash.

  We pushed through the main door and stepped onto the sidewalk. The sun hung high in the sky, blasting my face with warm light. Cars rolled up and down the Avenue.

  "I think we ought to start an art gallery," JD said. "Hell, I can spill paint on a canvas and it would look better than some of those works of art," he said with air quotes.

  We climbed into the squad car and pulled away from the curb.

  We cruised over to a T-shirt shop on Galapagos Street, and Jack picked up several boxes of band T-shirts and merchandise. I helped him load the boxes into the trunk.

  "Think you got enough?" I asked, teasing him.

  In all sincerity, he responded, "I don't know. I think these are going to sell out fast."

  I chuckled. I hoped he was right. Otherwise he'd have a ton of T-shirts hanging around for a long time.

  Jack was hungry, so we drove to Oyster Avenue and parked the patrol car at a meter. JD didn't bother to put money in. He figured parking enforcement wouldn't ticket a patrol officer.

  We walked down the sidewalk, looking for something to catch our fancy. We finally decided to have lunch at Ballyhoo.

  But we never made it inside.

  38

  JD reached for the door to the restaurant. What I saw in the reflection as it swung on its hinges tipped me off to the bad shit that was about to go down.

  I grabbed JD and pulled him to the concrete as gunfire erupted.

  At first, he had a scowl on his face. But the bullets that shattered the glass door, spraying crystal shards in all directions, let him know exactly why I had tackled him.

  A black SUV had pulled alongside us. From the passenger window, a goon wearing a ski mask sprayed molten metal from an Uzi.

  Fortunately there was a parked car between us and the murderous SUV.

  Muzzle flash flickered.

  We crawled on the ground, crouching low by the parked car while the thug unleashed a torrent of bullets. The opposite side of the car popped and pinged as bullets smacked the door and quarter panels. Car windows shattered and cracked. Bits of glass rained down on us as we cowered for safety.

  Pedestrians on the sidewalk dove for cover. There were shrieks and screams and terrified cries.

  I drew my 9mm, flicked the safety off, and waited until the scumbag emptied the magazine. His thumb pressed the mag release button, and the magazine dropped free.

  I popped up, angling my pistol over the roof, and unleashed fury.

  The driver of the SUV mashed the pedal, and the wheels spun, smoking the tires.

  One of my bullets caught the masked thug in the face. Uzi-boy's blood and brains splattered the driver and the windshield. His body slumped, and the Uzi clattered against the road as it fell from his hands. I kept firing at the vehicle as it sped down Oyster Avenue, the pistol hammering against my palm, the sharp smell of gunpowder filling my nostrils.

  The SUV squealed as it rounded the next corner and disappeared.

  The license plate was covered with mud, making it illegible.

  "Are you okay?" I asked JD.

  He groaned, looking over the rash on his elbow and his knee from hitting the concrete. The scrapes on his skin blossomed red. "I'll survive."

  JD staggered to his feet and grimaced, bones creaking.

  I climbed to my feet, holstered my pistol, and glanced around to see if anyone had been hurt.

  Jack called 911, then called Sheriff Daniels. He pushed into the restaurant to assess the damage.

  Bullet holes riddled the front facade and left webs of cracks in the windows.

  The distant echo of sirens drifted through the air as I waited on the sidewalk. I moved around the parked car and stood by the fallen Uzi. I waited for the forensics team to arrive to collect it as evidence. I doubted we'd find any fingerprints on the weapon. The shooter had worn gloves. Behind the ski mask, I saw the man's crystal blue eyes. Eyes that I was sure belonged to Ivan.

  Vasily had gotten my message—and this was his response.

  My stomach twisted with a sick feeling. My ploy to draw him out was perhaps a little too aggressive. I feared my actions had caused innocent bystanders to get hurt. I didn't anticipate the response would be this swift or brazen.

  I kept my fingers crossed as Jack emerged from Ballyhoo. He gave me the thumbs up, and I breathed a relieved sigh.


  Miraculously, no one had been injured.

  Two patrol units screeched to the scene, lights flashing, sirens blazing. The EMTs arrived a moment later in an ambulance. Deputies Faulkner and Erickson hopped out of their patrol car and approached, while Wilford and Henley managed traffic. The entire Avenue was blocked off.

  "What the hell did you guys get yourselves into now?" Erickson asked.

  39

  After we wrapped up at the scene, and the forensics guys collected the shell casings and the weapon, we headed down to the station to fill out after-action reports. JD and I sat in the conference room, tapping away on the iPads, completing our reports.

  The lab didn't find any fingerprints on the weapon or the shell casings. It wasn't surprising. These guys were professionals.

  Daniels pushed into the conference room with a scowl on his face. "I've got some bad news for you two."

  I groaned. "What is it now?"

  "It seems your friend in protective custody is dead."

  "Lucas?"

  "Yup."

  A quizzical scowl twisted on my face. "What happened?"

  "Apparently, he hung himself," Sheriff Daniels said with a healthy dose of skepticism.

  Something sounded fishy about that.

  Real fishy.

  "How? There's no way he could have done that in one of those cells," I said. "There is no light fixture to hang from. No bars. The sheets aren't sturdy enough to support weight. They're paper-like."

  "Are you suggesting the guards might have been involved?" Daniels asked.

  I shrugged. "I think anything is possible at this point."

  Daniels continued, "He took off his jumpsuit, tied the sleeves around his neck, and tied the pants legs around the faucet. Then he got on his knees and leaned forward, pulling the garment tight, suffocating himself."

  "I call bullshit," Jack said.

  "Brenda is doing a full autopsy, right?" I asked.

  Sheriff Daniels nodded.

  "In the meantime, every guard that was on duty needs to be questioned," I suggested.