Cold Hit (36 page)

I was propped up against the brown paneling next to a disapproving Catherine the Great, who was still swinging wildly from her hook.

"Who are you?" the man demanded. Judging from the expensive suit and the size of his diamonds, it was Iggy. He was one third smaller than his brother with a strong face and greased-back hair that was the texture and color of poured concrete. He looked nothing like Sammy. But then a Stinger missile in Afghanistan had forever ended the notion of any sibling resemblance.

"What do you want?" he said, his English far better than his brother's.

"I have a subpoena for records on Patriot Petroleum," I said, holding it out. "You and your company are being audited by the LAPD for financial crimes."

Iggy snatched the paperwork out of my hands and glanced at it. "Our attorneys will deal with this. You go."

"Not that easy," I answered. "This ape was threatening to attack me. A threat of violence constitutes felonious assault." Sammy was rocking from side to side, his eyes had now gone slightly blank, someone not in complete possession of his faculties.

I certainly hadn't been ready for the mammoth insanity of Samoyla Petrovitch.

"He did not touch you. You have served your papers. It is done and you go. This is America. We know our rights," Iggy said.

"I love it when you noncitizen mob assholes throw your American rights around," I growled. "That's a real crack-up. From now on, I'm gonna make you a full-time project," I said, glaring at Sammy. "You're both Priority One on my shit list. I'll stay on it until I get both of you either jailed or deported back to Odessa. There are two officers from the financial division in your lobby. They need a place to work. You give them everything this warrant calls for or I'll be back here with another fucking warrant for obstruction of justice and failure to comply with a legally obtained court order. You don't want to test me on this."

I moved toward the door, paused on the threshold for a moment and looked at them, trying to judge my jeopardy and how much damage I'd done.

Sammy and Iggy were both glowering, standing side by side in a nice little homicidal tableau.

"This is the beginning of the end for you two pukes. When I'm through, you're both gonna be chained to a wall."

Samoyla lurched forward, but Iggy pulled him back. I turned and exited the office, heading down the gilded hallway past the Greats, into the lobby. Behind me, I could hear voices yelling angrily in Russian. A door slammed somewhere in the hall.

"What the fuck is that all about?" Detective Cooper said, looking a little alarmed.

"This isn't going to be exactly like running an audit on Enron," I told them. "These guys are a little looser than I thought. I'm going to radio for some Blues to come in here to watch your back. Stay frosty till they arrive, then make as much trouble as you can."

More Russian shouting leaked out into the lobby.

"I'm outta here," I said, and stepped into the elevator and pushed the button. As the doors closed I heard more shouting and doors slamming.

The Acura was parked in a red zone in front of the building with my handcuffs draped over the steering wheel so I wouldn't get towed. It's the universal signal to traffic cops identifying a detective's car. Once I was inside with the engine running, I called dispatch and ordered immediate backup for Cooper and Dark. Then I waited to see if Sammy was as nuts as Emdee said.

He was.

Three minutes later a black Cadillac exploded out of the underground parking garage and turned in my direction. There were four burly guys, including Sammy
,
packed cheek to jowl inside. All were wearing strained blank expressions. They spotted me as they sailed past. Brake lights flashed. The Cadillac skidded to a stop and began a Y-turn, coming back after me.

Th
e b
lack Caddy was only four cars back, tracking me on the 405. It was the worst tail since Hef designed the bunny costume. At any given moment, I could see them in two of my three rearview mirrors.

Somewhere near San Pedro I caught sight of a white, windowless Econoline van.

Please don't let that be Zack, I thought. I've got enough trouble right now without adding him to the mix.

I lost sight of the van when I exited the freeway and turned left onto the Coast Highway heading toward the recently decommissioned and razed Long Beach Naval Yard.

The massive property slid by outside my left window--hundreds of acres of freshly paved parking lots loaded with multicolored marine shipping containers.

I looked back. The black Cadillac was now caught at a light; so, without making it look too obvious, I slowed down and timed it so I missed the next signal. Then I spotted the Cad coming up on me again. Sammy must have somehow reined in all that homicidal rage because they were being more careful now, staying further back.

Up ahead loomed the two-story-high, curvaceous blonde cutout in her black miniskirt. I pulled into the abandoned dress company parking lot and stopped next to the entrance of the main office. Then I stepped out of my car and headed toward the building.

I took the stairs two at a time, quickly reaching the second floor. When I got to the sewing room, Emdee was waiting.

"They follow you?" he said, looking out the window.

"Yeah. You were sure right about Sammy. He almost unpacked me right there in his own office. If his brother hadn't walked in, I wouldn't have made it out of there."

"If they followed you, then we're in business, Joe Bob."

So we waited.

I walked over to one of the camera positions and spoke into the pinhole to Roger who was in the ESD van out back with four CTB surveillance guys he'd recruited. I brought Roger up to date, told him the Russians were about to make their move.

But nothing happened.

Emdee and I sat around until well after sunset. Then we walked downstairs and checked the parking lot and the road out front.

No sign of the black Caddy anywhere.

Finally we climbed down to the ESD van hidden in the culvert. I knocked on the back door. Roger opened up. The four CTB surveillance team members insid
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ere all wearing black Kevlar with heavy ordnance strapped to their sides.

"He didn't take the bait," I said.

"What the fuck is wrong with that boy?" Roger said.

We turned the surveillance team loose and watched them drive out of the parking lot in their black Suburban.

"So what do we do now?" Emdee asked after they were gone.

"We regroup," I said, softly.

Chapter
56

I headed back to the Shutters Hotel in Santa Monica. All the way there I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror. No white vans. No black Cadillacs.

Before transitioning onto the Santa Monica Freeway I pulled a lane change maneuver that an old motorcycle officer in the traffic division taught me. He swore it would shake any tail. You stay in the fast lane going about sixty and look for a pattern in traffic that allows you to abruptly cross all four lanes in one move, and shoot down an off-ramp. No car following will be able to find a similar hole and will overshoot the exit.

I executed the maneuver twice and then drove on surface streets to Shutters, which sits right on Santa Monica Beach and, in my opinion, is one of the most delightful little hotels in Southern California.

I handed over my car to the valet and went upstairs to our ocean-view suite on the second floor. Delfina and Chooch were both inside doing their homework.

"Hi. Where's Mom?" I asked, as I came through the door.

"Gonna be late," Chooch said. "She called and said she wants us to get dinner without her."

Franco was out on the balcony leering at seagulls swooping in over his head, turning back and forth, watching them with hungry eyes. I got a beer from the minibar and joined him. The beautiful white sand beach stretched out beyond the bike path where the surf thundered in, making turquoise and white foam. Off to the right was the Santa Monica Pier where we had our disastrous noontime meeting.

I sat on the balcony taking in the view as the afternoon sun set; thinking about the events of the afternoon.

A wasted day.

Worse still, we'd exposed ourselves without any result and put the Russian mob on alert, giving them the opportunity to destroy key evidence.

So far, nobody at Parker Center had been told how badly we'd screwed up, but I knew I was going to have to fill Alexa in when she arrived.

The phone rang, so I walked inside to answer. "Good, you're there," Alexa said. "How'd it go?" "Terrific," I lied, chickening out, telling myself I'
d r
ather give her the bad news in person. "I left Coope
r a
nd Dark down there to scan the computers and di
g o
ut anything they can find on the forged gas tax records."

"Yeah. I know. I got a call from the Petrovitches' attorney. Some Eastern Euro shyster named Sebastian Sebum. He's been all over us with temporary restraining orders and show cause writs. Guy's a real meat grinder. I called Detective Cooper. He says, so far, it looks like a grunion hunt. If they're running a gas tax fraud, they have it pretty well papered over. I told Tony I wouldn't pull them out without your okay, but everybody down here thinks it's a wasted play."

"Take 'em out," I sighed. "I'm gonna work on coming up with something else."

"I think that's a good idea," she said, then hesitated, adding, "Listen, we found out who planted all those bugs in the Glass House. A tech in ESD named Ivan Roson--short for Rosonovitch. He hanged himself two hours before he was scheduled to take his polygraph. It's a circus down here. We're working on a statement for the press. Take the kids down to the Pier and get them something to eat. That fancy restaurant downstairs is nice, but it's a little pricey for our budget."

I told her I loved her, and we hung up.

At a little past eight, the kids and I left the hotel and walked along the beachfront bike path to the pier. It was a warm night and now there were hundreds of people milling around on the rebuilt wooden structure. I bought Delfina and Chooch hotdogs and ice cream, and we sat on a bench, not a hundred yards fro
m w
here I'd sat that morning. Funny how savvy our plan seemed, just eight hours ago. Now it felt like total nonsense.

"Hey, Dad, wanta go on the Ferris wheel with us?" Chooch asked, after finishing his food.

"Yes, Shane. Come with us," Delfina pleaded.

"You guys go. I've had a bad day. Got a lot on my mind."

"You've been really quiet," Del said. "Maybe if you tell us, we can help."

"You guys help by just being here. Go ride the wheel. I'll buy a camera and get some pictures."

I handed them twenty dollars and they went off to get in line. I walked down the pier to a vendor's stand and bought a Kodak throwaway. As I headed back toward the big, colorful wheel, someone suddenly pressed hard against me on the right. Then a big body leaned in on the left.

"Hey," I said. "Watch where you're--"

I heard a loud Zap. Intense pain shot into the small of my back. When the department gave us Taser training at the academy, we were forced to take a jolt to see what it felt like. Once you've taken a Taser shot, you don't forget it. I tried to lurch away as my muscles twitched and jumped with electrical overload. I staggered forward and fell.

"My friend is having a heart attack!" somebody with an Eastern European accent shouted out in dismay.

Then three or four faces belonging to overfed men in their mid-thirties, were peering down at me.

"This way! He needs a hospital!" one with a Euro accent shouted.

They grabbed me. My muscles were still convulsing with the charge.

"No!" I tried to say as they lifted me. But my voice wouldn't work. I was helpless.

"My car's this way," another shouted. Then I was being hustled off the Pier.

They ran with me down the steps into the parking lot. We stopped in a dark area of the lot. Somebody stood me upright and held me. My muscles were chattering and my hands jerked uncontrollably. One of the men took a syringe out of his pocket, removed the plastic tip, and shoved it into my thigh, depressing the plunger, and emptying the cylinder.

In seconds my vision started to dim.

I vaguely heard a trunk open and I was dropped onto a hard, rough surface. The lid slammed shut. Everything went black.

I opened my eyes.

I was sitting in a wooden chair.

"This is un-fucking-acceptable!" someone was yelling in American English. It was coming from another room.

I recognized that voice. Agent Kersey Nix. The mild-mannered FBI agent from the Tishman Building.

My body ached and my head buzzed like a broken radio. I tried to move, but discovered that all four of my appendages were securely taped to the chair with black electrical tape. The chair seemed to be bolted to the floor because it wouldn't budge. I looked down and saw what appeared to be dried blood on the concrete underneath me. Then I took a careful inventory of the room. I was in a garage. A single, exposed light-bulb hung from a cord in the center of the space and a black Cadillac Brougham was parked under it. Somewhere I heard the distant sound of thundering surf.