Deception (10 page)

I drop off Alicia
just before 8:00 A.M. at the usual spot a few blocks away from City Hall. Once I arrive back home, I make a call to the electric company to turn the power on at the property. I tell them that I’m the Sheriff and that it’s for urgent police matters. The service representative asks very few questions and agrees to send a technician out to read the meter so they can turn it back on immediately. They promise that I’ll be up and running by noon. I give them my personal post office box number to send the usage bills to.

I receive a call from Alicia just before lunch telling me the city is sending someone to the property for a walkthrough and inspection. It’s standard procedure apparently before they’ll hand over the keys to a commercial property that’s owned by the city. Someone needs to be there to get the keys and to accompany the inspector on the walkthrough, so that sounds like a job for me. I go to my bedroom, now Alicia’s, and pull out my uniform from the closet. As I button my shirt, I catch a glimpse of Alicia’s bag resting unzipped on the floor next to the bed. An orange strap hangs out the side of the bag, and it tempts me to look through it. I lift the flap of the bag and look inside without touching anything. Various colors and styles of underwear and camisoles fill it, including an all-orange brassiere which caught my attention in the first place. I see nothing of importance, no weapons or anything, so I put the flap back where it was and leave the house, leaving Frank by himself inside. I hop into the van and head toward the property on 12
th
Street.

I park the van in a parking garage a couple of blocks from the property and head the rest of the way on foot, not wanting to pull up in a van and raise some eyebrows. I bring the van instead of my squad car so I don’t risk the GPS alerting dispatch that I’m in it when I shouldn’t be. As I approach the building, I see a tall white man with round glasses and a bald head holding a clipboard, waiting near the entrance. He’s looking up at the side of the brick building and taking some notes on the pad on his clipboard. He turns to me as I approach.

“Hello there,” he says, “you must be Sheriff Hearns.”

I take his hand and shake it firmly. “No, I’m not the Sheriff,” I say.

He makes a humming sound and looks down at his clipboard. “Oh, I was expecting the Sheriff.”

“Yeah, I know. He got caught up in something this afternoon, so he asked me to fill in for him.”

The man nods. “Oh, okay. Well, my name is Maury Levenestein. I’m one of the commercial property building inspectors for the city of Topeka.”

“It’s nice to meet you Maury. My name is Bill Lewis.”

Maury turns his head slightly and looks to be deep in serious thought. “Lewis…Lewis…that name sounds familiar.” Suddenly, he thrusts his hand in the air and points his pen at me. “Any relation to William Lewis? He used to be the Sheriff around here.”

“He was my father.”

Maury smiles to himself, this seemingly being a proud moment for him, then he seems to remember. “Sorry about your loss,” he says. “Your father was a good man. I never actually met him, but from the people I know who did, they had nothing but nice things to say about him.” He offers me a weak smile.

I appreciate his sincerity. “Thanks.”

Maury fetches a key from the string that is attached to his clipboard and motions toward the door. “Shall we begin?”

The old police station is dusty, cold, and likely full of mold. It’s been nine years since the city agreed to build a new station, and seven since everyone moved out. It’s a safe bet that no one has stepped foot in here since then. It’s been in possession of the city ever since the move, and there are no plans that have been made public to do anything with the building. It’s an eyesore to the already rundown area surrounding 12
th
Street, but it seems people have learned to ignore it. Everything about it makes it the perfect location for what we’re going to use it for.

There is a long corridor that is lined with old offices, meeting rooms, and interrogation rooms. Many of the rooms still have furniture that was left behind from before the move. At the other end of the hall is another door which leads to the garage in the back of the building. Arresting officers would bring in the arrestees through the garage almost one hundred percent of the time, enabling the front door to be used for all other non-criminal civilian complaints or public visits.

I follow Maury into
the large holding cell room where he begins his evaluation. It’s not a holding cell like you would expect in a modern jail; there are no bars, toilets, or separate rooms. It’s one big empty room that used to house all of the accused while they awaited processing. The walls have been stripped of the benches that used to line the perimeter. The new police station is more traditional and modern, and I’m sure they used this room as a big reason why the move was needed. A wide two-way mirror rests in its original place between the walls across the room.

“So,” Maury says as he tries to make small talk while he takes notes, “what do you guys need to use this place for anyway? It’s been locked up for years.”

“Just a special project we’re working on. We need some more space.”

“Oh yeah, like what?”

“I can’t really say.”

“Are you planning to take down a big operation or something?” He chuckles to himself. “Maybe it’s the Mafia. That’s it, maybe there’s a branch of the Mafia in Topeka.”

He’s overly enthusiastic about the thought of this, and his face lights up at this possibility. He’s clearly searching for some excitement in his life. He wears a gold wedding ring on his left ring finger that looks rustic, so I’m guessing his wife of many years doesn’t put out anymore, based on his need for excitement. Poor guy.

“Something like that,” I say.

Maury makes his way around the perimeter of the room and stops at a faded water stain on the cement floor in the corner. He looks up and jots something down on his notepad. I follow behind him as he weaves in and out of the old offices, conference rooms, and interrogation rooms, making notes as we enter each room. After hitting each of the rooms, he leads me back out the front door and onto the sidewalk.

“Well,” Maury begins, “the place is filthy and disgusting, but it’s safe. I would advise to hire a cleaning crew before anyone moves in, but I can’t force you to. I’ll type up a full report and send it over to the Sheriff directly.”

“Actually, the Sheriff is out of the office this afternoon, and this is really of high importance. I need to swing by City Hall later this afternoon anyway, so would you mind just sending it over to the clerk there? I can pick the report up on my way through and will hand deliver it myself.”

Maury shakes his head in agreement. “That works for me. I’ll have the report completed and sent across by four o’clock this afternoon.”

“Perfect.”

Maury unties the loose knot that attaches the key to his clipboard and hands the key to me. I clench it tightly in my hand.

“Before I forget,” he continues, “you’ll need to ask the Sheriff to fix the leak in the ceiling in that open room. It’s a small leak, but it’s still a leak. I’ll be back in ninety days to make sure it’s done. It’ll be in the report in case you forget.”

“Okay, no problem.”

We shake hands and Maury slides into his Toyota that’s parked on the street in front of the building. He waves as he drives away. I unclench my hand and look at the key with satisfaction. Ninety days is more than enough time.

It’s morning and we’re
all in the one of the offices in the warehouse: Billy, Frank, Alicia, and me. Billy says he spent the early morning hours sorting through Snake’s files again but came up empty. A tabletop map of the county is spread out across the desk. The ripped note and the brass key from the safe rest on the corner of the desk while Billy closely inspects the map.

“There is no intersection between 282 West Street and 53 South Street anywhere in this county,” Billy says. “There is no 282 West Street period.” He bows his head in frustration. “Any other ideas?”

Billy looks to each of us, but no one answers. He stares right at me, but I pretend not to see him. Out of nowhere, he swipes his arm across the table and knocks everything on the floor, startling everyone.

“Ideas people!” Billy continues. “There’s ten million bucks out there somewhere that’s going to belong to me!” He looks around the table again and still gets no reaction. “I see it’s going to have to go another way then. Fine with me.”

He bends down and unzips the duffel bag that’s on the floor. He rises with a metal rod in his hand, the same metal rod that I used back at Snake’s house. He walks around the table and stands behind Alicia.

She’s reactionless as he wraps his arm around her neck and lifts her to her feet. Billy towers over her as he spins her around and leans her against the table so she faces him. She bends her head back and gazes at me, still without expression. Billy raises the bar over his head and winds up in the direction of her belly. Alicia clenches her eyes shut and braces for what’s about to come.

Frank covers his face with his hands.

“The key,” I say, holding off the assault. “There’s got to be something with the key.”

Billy looks at me but doesn’t lower the bar. “Like what?”

“What about a safety deposit box?”

Billy lowers the bar a bit and Frank widens his fingers so he can see through the slits. Alicia’s eyes are still clenched shut.

Billy asks, “Which bank?”

“I don’t know.”

“Not good enough.”

Billy raises the bar back above his head and prepares to swing it toward my unborn child. Frank closes his fingers, completely covering his face again. Billy cocks his arm and starts to swing it toward Alicia. I jump from my seat.

“Wait!”

Billy rolls his eyes and lowers the bar. “What now?”

“Just hold on a second.” I brush past Frank, whose face is now uncovered, and walk around the side of the table toward the map. I pick it up from the floor and toss it on the table. I intently scan the streets of Topeka on the map until I find it. I spin the map toward Billy and point at the spot. “There.”

Billy lowers the rod completely and releases Alicia from his grasp. She finally opens her eyes and lets out a deep sigh of relief. Billy follows my finger on the map with his eyes.

“What am I looking at?” he asks.

“Right there,” I say, tapping on the spot repeatedly. “Shawnee County Savings Bank is located on 53
rd
Street.”

Billy whips his head from the map and looks at me. He’s glowing with excitement. “And 282w would be the safety deposit box number?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

Billy looks at his watch. “It’s eight o’clock, let’s go. They’ll be open by the time we get there.”

Billy and I start for the door. Frank pops up from his chair and runs after us. Alicia is left in the room mumbling something to herself.

It’s been almost six
weeks since everything was put in place, and I’m still waiting for the next job to go down. I’ve been back to work for just under three weeks now, and I’m trying to act as normal as possible. I’ve split my time between investigating a burglary on Chestnut Street and a bomb threat at the local high school. Sheriff Jack Hearns has kept me away from any homicides, but I always have one eye on what the Zved’s are up to. There was a suspicious murder in Wichita, a car bomb, and one over the border in Kansas City, a drive-by shooting. Both occurred last week, and I suspect the group is involved.

The Zved’s are back at it.

It is one of their patterns to back off for a while if the police are doing too much sniffing around, so they laid low for a while. It’s nothing new. Either they sense that the heat has cooled, or they are running out of cash. Either way, they’re back at it and I’m all over them.

Alicia has been doing her best to keep the deed transfer under wraps at the office, and she tells me that no one has been snooping around that she knows of. She received and immediately deleted the inspection report from Maury Levenestein when expected, and she cleans out her inbox’s recycle bin weekly to make sure it’s gone. Once the state gets wind of some sketchy activity internally, they’ll hire an IT contractor to look through all of the records. They will find it eventually, hidden somewhere on her hard drive, but it buys us more time.

Before he died, my father used to get anonymous emails from an unknown informant in regards to the activity of the Zved’s. The sender’s IP address was always untraceable as each message bounced through multiple servers and was unique every time. There was always speculation that it was from someone with inside knowledge of the Zved’s doings, whether a current or former member, or maybe a family member of one of them that wanted to put a stop to it. There was never an indication of motive and the details weren’t always completely accurate, but my father took what he could get. There were rumblings inside the department that someone was playing with him and was intentionally trying to defer him or distract him from other pressing matters, but he never believed it.

When he died, I automatically forwarded all of the emails from his account to mine. Despite the sender always sending the messages anonymously, he or she always used the same subject line, so I forwarded just the messages containing the subject keyword. I still login to his email account monthly without anyone knowing so the account doesn’t automatically close. The IT department is pretty slow around here, so the account should stay safely open for a while. All other messages have been routed to Jack Hearns’ account.

---

It’s lunch time and
I’m sitting at my desk enjoying a sandwich. I wash each bite down with a sip of warm bottled water and read through my vague notes about the burglary on Chestnut Street. It was a home invasion that occurred, well after midnight, and the owner scared the perpetrators away with a baseball bat. The two intruders were wearing dark ski masks and gloves. They got away with some electronic video equipment and some sports memorabilia, but that’s about all we know. The owner, a middle-aged bachelor, thinks the intruders may have been black, but he cannot be certain since it was dark. That’s all he remembers about their physical appearances. We found no traces of DNA, no fingerprints, and no unidentified hair follicles at the property. As far as cold cases go, this one is about as cold of a trail as you will find.

My computer screen is dark and on standby, but a gentle chime sounds through the speakers. I flick the mouse to re-engage the screen and wait for the color to come back in the form of pixels. I drop my sandwich on the short stack of case files as I read the subject line:
URGENT
.
I stumble around to find the mouse and quickly open the message. It reads:

7.9 1900 10m

Deciphered, it means the Zved’s next hit is going down on July 9th at 19:00 hours for a purse of ten million dollars. I glance at my calendar, which confirms my uncertainty.

Today is July 9th.

Under normal circumstances I would run into Jack's office and tell him what I've learned, but the thought doesn't even enter my mind today. I'm not going to say anything to anyone yet. Some things are better left unsaid. I pick up my sandwich from the stacked reports and wipe the crumbs away. I munch on the remainder of the crust and stare at the computer screen.

Things are about to get interesting.

---

The following day, I
arrive at the office before 8:00 A.M. I turn on my machine and immediately login to the county database. I scan through the police reports from last night until I stumble across something that fits the usual pattern. One report in particular catches my eye. The report was filed shortly after midnight, although the incident notes a time of just after 9:00 P.M. According to the report, last night on Colonel Avenue, a luxury sedan heading west ran off the road and smashed head on into a tree. Speed is expected to be the cause of the accident, but I know better than that.

The driver of the sedan was a veteran Shawnee County attorney, which could explain why someone could have wanted him dead. If I were to dig into his files, I bet I’d find some incriminating information on someone important in there, probably a politician. He was probably getting close to the truth about something they had done, so they hired someone to plug the hole before the water filled up and sank the boat.

It happens all the time.

The incident was made to look like an accident, but trust me when I say it was no accident. To the investigators, it just looks like the driver might have been drunk or fell asleep at the wheel. The report even says as much. If I had to guess, I’d put my money on the coroner’s office finding that alcohol was not the cause of the accident, and that they’ll settle on sleep deprivation being more likely. The accident will be viewed as tragic, and it is, and the Zved’s will walk away without any blood on their hands once again.

And ten million dollars richer.

Unless I get to them.

The Zved’s are professionals and they know what they’re doing. A more likely scenario is that someone from the Zved’s ran him off the road and tried to make it look like an accident. There is money involved here, which means it wasn’t about a personal beef with someone on the inside. Ten million is a lot of money for a contract slaying, so someone important must have had something important to hide. An indictment would have been in the short term I’d imagine, so that’s where the police will start when trying to figure out what really happened.

I spin out of my chair and march down the hall to Jack Hearns’ office. I whip the door open without knocking. Jack is here early, as he surely must have been notified of what happened last night. I startle him, and he nearly spills his coffee all over himself.

“What the hell, Bill?” he says.

“We need to talk.”

“This better not be about that accident last night. The guys on the scene say it was definitely an accident, no foul play. Bill, this shit has got to-”

“That’s not what I’m here about.”

Jack is taken aback. “It’s not? Well, good then. Come on in and sit down.”

I sit in the soft chair across from his desk.

He continues, “What can I do for you?”

“I need a few days off.”

Jack sits up straight in his chair, now looking concerned. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Everything will be fine. I just need to take a few days.” Jack studies me, and I can tell he’s about to dig for details. I offer up more rehearsed information before he can meddle. “It’s Frank. He’s had a…setback I guess you could say. I need to bring him back to the hospital over in Hays.”

Jack sinks a bit in his chair. “Oh, Bill, I’m sorry to hear that. When did it happen?”

“Late last night.”

“You should have just called me at home. You didn’t need to come in to talk to me.”

“It’s okay, I have a friend staying with him for now. And I just had some time off, so I just wanted to make sure you’re okay with it.”

“Bill, don’t worry about it, okay? Go take care of what you need to take care of, and come back when you can.”

I stand up from the chair before he changes his mind. “Thanks, Jack. I owe you one.”

I leave his office and walk over to my desk. I turn the monitor off but leave the machine running in case I need to login remotely again. I turn the corner, weave around the cubes, and head for the front door. I glance at my father’s commemoration plaque for what I expect will be the final time.

I will finish what you started, dad. I will get revenge.