Fixed in Blood (24 page)

“Got it.” Robbie grabbed a pad and pen and sat at his father’s desk.

Mort turned his attention back to the board. “You said she borrowed money for her trip to California. I got that right?”

“You do.” Lydia slid her finger across the screen and read off her tablet. “She borrowed from Rite Now. She works at a pancake house. Gives her mother the cash and Roz writes the checks. Charlie’s records show her account is current and that jibes with Roz’s story.”

“You told me Delbe worked odd jobs, too. You got a list of those?”

Lydia slid to another screen and read off the list of fast-food and retail shops Delbe told her she’d worked prior to leaving for California. She got to one name and the irritation in her voice disappeared. She looked up from her screen. “When Delbe was telling me the story about her huge debt, she said something like ‘I guess I never should have taken that job.’ It didn’t mean anything at the time.”

Mort’s internal compass clicked closer to true north. He used his desk phone to call Micki. When she answered, he put her on speaker.

“We’re having no luck on this end.” Micki’s voice filled Mort’s office. “Any sign of Jennifer there?”

“None yet.” Mort heard the concern in his best detective’s voice. “I have a question about your interview with Francie Michael’s mother.”

“Gigi?” Micki asked. “What do you need?”

“You got your notes with you?” Mort knew the question was unnecessary. Micki Petty’s notebooks were gold in any investigation she was working and she treated them as such, never letting them out of her possession until a prosecuting attorney called for them. “Read off the list of jobs Gigi said Francie and her boyfriend…Chippy, right? Give me the names of every place Francie and Chippy worked.”

Mort’s speaker was sensitive enough to pick up Micki’s page flipping. “Here it is.” She read off a short list. One place in particular made the three heads in Mort’s office snap up in unison.

“Get back here, Mick,” Mort said. “We’re closing in.”

He hung up and turned to Lydia. “Tom Lightfoot’s wife, Mary.”

Lydia nodded. “He said she was a bookkeeper. Over twenty years. Left when she got sick. We’re going to find it’s the same place. Lightfoot talked about debt you could escape.”

Mort faced the whiteboard one last time. One name stared out at him as though lit in glowing neon. It had a companion:
98119.

Mort made two phone calls in rapid succession. The first was to the prosecuting attorney. He told her what he had, what he needed, and she told him he was lucky. It was a busy day at the courthouse and all judges were still working. She’d have the arrest warrant ready in fifteen minutes. Then he called Jimmy and told him where to meet him.

“Lydia and I will head over now. Grab a couple squad cars, but no lights or sirens. I don’t want to spook him. Nobody moves till I give the signal. I don’t know what we’ll find, but we better be ready.” Lydia was already standing at the door. He grabbed his jacket and keys, telling Robbie to leave the package and head home.

“I’ll call you when this is done.” Mort laid a tender hand on his son’s shoulder. “Remember this, Robbie. The next time you judge your sister for what you imagine she’s become. Your sister just solved this case.”

Mort drove as quickly as he could through the late afternoon traffic. Lydia leaned forward, as though her body had the ability to make the car move faster. Tension narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her brow.

“We’re almost there, Liddy.”

Her silence offered no hint of her thoughts. She’d been right about what she said earlier. Mort’s work was nearly done in this game of catch-the-bad-guy. The good guys had come out on top.

But nobody wins. The dead are still dead.

He drove down Thirteenth Avenue. Through the neighborhood he’d always enjoyed. Past the ethnic bakery where Allie would beg for one more sugar-dusted cookie. He’d always admired the close-knit sense of community in this enclave of Russian immigrants. The muscles in his neck stiffened at the thought of Vadim Tokarev using this patch of urban landscape as a basis for his deadly operations. He sent a silent thank-you to his daughter for leading him here and vowed to find a way to free her from the drug lord’s talons.

“I see squad cars,” Lydia said. “Two of them.”

“Jimmy will meet us out front. We’ll go in together.” Mort pulled into a loading zone across from Saint Nicholas Orthodox Church. Lydia jumped out of the car and hurried to Jimmy and Bruiser. Mort took less than sixty seconds to bring Jim up to date.

“Tokarev?” Jim let out a low whistle. “No shit? Well, thank you, Miss Allie, for pointing us in the right direction. A little earlier would have been nice, but we’ll take it.” He slapped his hand against his thigh and Bruiser rose to attention. “What’s the plan?”

“We go in strong. Wave the warrants. Press him hard.” Mort looked down at his favorite German shepherd. “Be ready, buddy.”

Mort and Jimmy exchanged looks.

“Squad cars wired in?” Mort asked.

“The building’s surrounded. They’ll come the instant we whistle.”

Mort and Jimmy went in first, with Lydia and Bruiser a half step behind. A few customers looked up as the four of them headed down the center aisle. A familiar big-bosomed woman trotted up to them, cooing over Bruiser. Mort recognized her from his earlier visit.

“Where’s Chris?” he asked.

“Oh, he’s busy.” The woman fumbled in her pocket and brought out a piece of cheese. “Can I give it to the handsome doggie?”

“Is he in his office?”

The woman seemed put off by Mort’s directness. The Shoe Stop was, after all, a friendly neighborhood shop. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And we’re not supposed to have dogs in here.”

The four of them continued forward, leaving her to scurry to the front register. Mort picked up the pace. He didn’t want her warning her boss the cops were back. They passed through the curtain separating the sales floor from the back room. Mort pointed toward the stairs leading to the office of Chris Novak, who managed the string of Shoe Stop stores founded by his uncle Piotr Novikov all those years ago.

They found him seated at his desk. His office was still the cluttered space Mort remembered, but something about Novak was different. Despite his girth, he didn’t seem as large. Something had deflated the man. Novak looked up. He didn’t seem surprised.

“I told you, no dogs.” Novak’s voice held none of its earlier bravado. “Health code violation or some shit.”

“Kristof Novak, you’re under arrest for felony murder in the deaths of Crystal Tillwater and Francie Michael.” Mort stepped toward him, apprising him of his Miranda rights as he pulled out his handcuffs. He reached Novak’s chair and asked him to stand. His response was a resigned shrug.

“Got a bum foot. Kills me to stand.” Novak looked up to Mort. He glanced around his office as though he was taking his last look at life as he knew it. “I’m not gonna give you any trouble. What d’ya say you let me sit for a spell? I don’t need my lawyer. Asshole can’t help me now anyway. Whad’ya wanna know?”

“Where’s Delbe Jensen?” Lydia asked.

Jimmy stepped closer to Lydia. “Sounds like a good place to start,” he said. “Where’s Delbe?”

Novak looked at his watch, then back to Mort with the eyes of a man who knew he was already dead. Just waiting for the paperwork. “If my timing’s right, you’re gonna need another one of those warrants.”

Lydia lunged. Jimmy caught her by one arm and held on.

Mort kicked the wheels beneath Novak’s chair, sending him careening into the back wall of windows overlooking the sales floor. Every head in the store looked up when Novak hit.

“Where is she?” Mort roared.

“I don’t know.” Novak straightened himself in the chair. “My job was to provide the set and the girl. He wanted nautical.” He looked at his watch again. “He picked her up two hours ago.”

“Eddie Yaz?” Mort bellowed.

“The both of ’em.” Novak offered no resistance. His answers were as void of expression as his face. “Yaz works the camera. It’s Feldoni who’s the star. I set him up with a twenty-four-foot cruiser. Big engine, long range. That’s what I do. I give the customer what they want. Said he would pilot the boat himself. Just leave the keys.”

“Where!” Mort’s demand was punctuated by Bruiser’s rumbling growl. Novak reacted more to the dog than to the police officer standing over him.

“He gonna attack?” Novak asked.

“Only on my command,” Jimmy answered. “And that’s coming in one second if you don’t give us the pier.”

“Stinson Cove Marina. Slip 16. On the end.” Novak kept his eyes on Bruiser and described the boat. “It’s called
Wet Pleasures
.”

Jimmy held Lydia by one arm, repeated the specifics into his radio, and sent two squad cars to the marina. “Take an ambulance with you,” he relayed to the dispatcher. “You’re looking for a girl named Delbe Jensen. She’s the victim. Pick up Edward Yavornitzky and Anthony Feldoni.”

“No.” Chris Novak shook his head. “Not him. His kid. Vincent.”

Jimmy and Mort locked eyes. “Correction,” Jim said into the radio. “Vincent Feldoni. Hell, pick up everyone on the boat. We’ll sort it out later.”

Mort slid his arm under Novak’s, yanked him to his feet, and cuffed his hands behind his back. “Your business with Tokarev is more than the films. If you’ve got anything to say about any other stuff you’re fronting for him, now would be the time. Give me something nice to tell the judge about you.”

Novak shook his head. “I won’t spend much time locked up. I’m already dead. Probably was the second Tokarev learned my name. I’m dead. My little girl’s dead.” His voice broke. “And my wife is gonna be dead soon enough. At least on the inside. My boys, too. I’ve killed us all.”

Lydia pulled her arm free and took two steps closer. “Where’s Jennifer?” she asked. “Is she on the boat, too?”

Novak sounded like it took effort to speak. “She promised my little girl would be easy to find.”

Mort was confused. “Jennifer has your daughter?”

Novak seemed to pull further away from them, receding into some distant place within himself. “How do I tell my wife I killed her daughter?”

Mort jerked his arm. “You killed your daughter?”

Novak’s face contorted into an agonized grimace, as though a jolt of pain no one could survive just coursed through him. When he spoke, it wasn’t to anyone there in the room. “There was no other choice. If I listened to her, Tokarev would kill me. I didn’t know she would kill my girl.”

“Where’s Jennifer?” Lydia barked. “Where is she?”

Novak blinked himself back to awareness and raised his voice. “Jennifer! Get in here!”

Mort, Jimmy, and Lydia exchanged wary glances. Bruiser turned to the door, a low grumble brewing in his throat. The three of them followed his stare. Two heartbeats later they heard the footsteps Bruiser was already reacting to. A thin girl with jet-black hair inched into the room. She scanned the room with terrified eyes before lowering her gaze to the floor.

“The police are here,” Novak said. “They’re looking for you.”

Lydia stepped toward her and laid her arm around the frightened girl’s shoulder. Jennifer’s flinch was immediate, but Lydia drew her closer. Mort was taken by the ease with which Lydia offered her comfort. Like she recognized a fellow wounded soul.

“You’re not in trouble.” Lydia’s voice lacked any of its earlier fury. Her tone was calm and deep, soothing the girl. “We’re here to help.”

Jennifer looked to Novak. Her eyes rested on the handcuffs.

“It’s done, kid,” Novak said. “Tell ’em what you want. Give ’em what they need.” This time he wasn’t able to hold back his tears. “I’m sorry. You’re somebody’s little girl, too.”

Jennifer looked up at Lydia, then to Mort and Jimmy. She stared at Bruiser for a long while. The giant dog had repositioned himself near her feet, standing at attention with his back to her, ready to shield her from whoever might come.

“Do you know Delbe?” Lydia asked.

Jennifer looked again to Novak. The fear in her eyes morphed into anger. The girl turned her dirty face to Lydia. “I liked her. She was nice to me.” She tilted her chin toward Novak. “He makes us call him Boss Man. He hurt her. A lot. He made her work, doing…you know.”

Lydia nodded. “Do you know where Delbe is now?”

Jennifer’s lips tightened. She shook her head. “The limousine came. Took her away. Just like Crystal and Francie.”

“You knew them?” Mort asked.

“Not as good as I knew Delbe. Not as good as I know some of the other girls.”

Mort nodded to Lydia to take the lead. She knelt down to look Jennifer in the eye. “Where are the other girls? Can you take us to them?”

Jennifer laid a hand on Bruiser’s back. She petted him in the same way Micki did when she was nervous. The big dog leaned back, giving himself to her, letting her take as much time as she needed.

“I don’t know all the girls. Just the ones he keeps locked up.”

Mort’s hand tightened around Novak’s arm.

“I can show you,” Jennifer said.

He should have been exhausted, but seven hours after Mort walked into the Shoe Stop he felt energized and alert. The team had been focused. They coordinated their efforts and produced enough evidence to persuade any jury that Kristof Novikov, aka Chris Novak, aka Boss Man, was guilty of felony murder in the deaths of Crystal and Francie, as well as running an extensive prostitution ring. Jennifer had led them to a three-story house six blocks from the Shoe Stop office where Boss Man ran his empire. Four women were there, kept in locked rooms. The women viewed the police who knocked down their doors as liberators and were eager to talk. Their initial connection to Novak and the Shoe Stop varied. Two had worked there as teenagers. One was a frequent customer who’d initially thought of Novak as the friendly manager who let her run a tab. Another heard from friends that the Shoe Stop would sometimes lend people who couldn’t get credit elsewhere a few hundred bucks when times were tight. But as disparately as their involvement with Novak began, each gave similar descriptions of the road that led them to locked rooms where they serviced whatever man was brought to them.

Each blamed herself. They’d started with small loans, ignoring the fine print and intending to pay Novak off as soon as a job or income tax refund came through. None understood the rapid amount of debt Novak’s exorbitant interest rate was building. Each told of signing blue sheets, agreeing to penalty fees in order to extend their loans at even higher rates. And every woman described a time when Novak had no more blue sheets for them. They couldn’t bankrupt the off-the-book loans. Novak’s threats against them and family members, accompanied by frequent mentions of his ties to the Russian mob, kept them from going to the police. In the end each woman had come to believe she had no other choice but to go to work in Novak’s brothel, where he took 50 percent of their earnings to pay down their debt and another 15 percent to cover the cost of their room and board.

The disgust they felt at the men who’d been Novak’s customers spilled out of them in frantic words and frenzied gestures. They may have been stupid, they said, but they didn’t deserve the filth who knocked on their doors. Any complaints, they told Mort’s team, were met with swift and brutal punishment. None of them had yet to earn Novak’s trust enough to be able to leave the house. None had been able to let their friends or family know what had become of them.

Every one of them asked about Jennifer, the kind teenager who brought them their meals, led them to the shared bathroom for toileting and shower breaks, and sometimes brought treats of candy or magazines.

Mort’s team found ledgers and rosters indicating Novak had another eleven women working for him, and the investigators contacted them all. At first they had been more hesitant than Novak’s captive women, but once they were assured they faced no prosecution for their forced prostitution, they were eager to talk. These women told similar stories of being roped in with easy credit. Each had spent her own time locked in Novak’s brothel, but had found ways to convince their captor they could be trusted. Like Crystal Tillwater, these women held full-time jobs, many with the Shoe Stop’s various locations. They lived in their own apartments; several had children. Novak would call them when he had assignments, and each understood she had no choice but to comply. Novak took his standard 50 percent, but even though these women were allowed to keep their tips, there was never enough to pay off their debt and free themselves from Boss Man. Mort learned at least two women found a way to liberate themselves. One jumped off the southbound I-5 bridge and the other, despite never having used drugs, saved her tip money for a week, spent it all on heroin, and injected every bit of it into her vein.

The women said there were rumors of others.

Jimmy’s team seized every computer in every Shoe Stop store as well as the computers from Novak’s home. Novak’s wife had been confused. She thought Jimmy and his officers were coming to tell her they’d found her daughter. The distraught woman kept screaming for action, demanding they find her girl and bring her home. Where was her husband? She warned they’d have hell to pay when Chris found out about this invasion. Jimmy said it didn’t take long for her bluster to disappear. She sat on the living room sofa with her three sons, praying the rosary again and again as the officers executed the search warrant. The equipment was now in the hands of FBI forensic technicians. Mort was certain they’d find evidence linking Novak to Vadim Tokarev.

But Mort would let the feds worry about that. And he’d let Schuster coordinate with national and international agencies to handle the investigation into the production and distribution of the snuff films. He only had one more score to settle with Novak. As productive as this day had been, they hadn’t been able to find Delbe Jensen. By the time squad cars made it to Stinson Cove, slip 16 was empty. The Coast Guard was looking for the boat named
Wet Pleasures.
An APB had gone out to every costal jurisdiction in Washington, Oregon, and California. The RCMP had been notified in case Vincent Feldoni decided to turn north into Canadian waters. So far there’d been no sign of the boat, Feldoni, Yavornitzky, or Delbe Jensen.

He looked at his watch. Just past midnight. Jimmy was coordinating with the feds, tracking down every woman’s name associated with Novak’s prostitution enterprise that might pop up on the computers, seeing if additional murder charges needed to be filed. Micki was in charge of the team working with the women: gathering their statements, getting them medically evaluated and connected with victims’ services. Lydia had wanted to stay with the team searching for Delbe, but Mort convinced her that the net was too broad. She couldn’t be with the police
and
the Coast Guard
and
every sheriff’s department on the West Coast. He asked if she’d stay with Jennifer. The girl had to be told about her father’s suicide. Tessa Slaxton, Micki’s friend from Social Services, was called. Someone needed to sit with the teen until a caseworker could find a foster home. In the end, Lydia had asked if she could take Jennifer back to her hotel. Mort vouched for Lydia with Tessa and was glad the girl would have a psychologist at her disposal as she dealt with her initial grief.

They were all doing their jobs. It was time for him to do his. He picked up his phone, punched 077, and learned he’d been assigned Interview Rooms 6 and 7.

He’d take the easy one first.

“It’s about time. Do you want to tell me what the fuck is so important I gotta miss an evening with my baby girl?” Mort hadn’t fully stepped into the interview room before Anthony Feldoni started ranting. “It’s in my contract. I don’t work past six. No night shots. Tell the scriptwriter don’t even bother with a nighttime scene. I don’t do it. You want me in your picture, that’s the deal. Family’s everything, like I always say. And here you have me sitting in this room for hours when I could be with her.”

Mort ignored him and turned to the man in the navy blue suit punching himself clear of his cellphone. “You’re the attorney, I assume.”

The man pulled a business card from the same pocket where he parked his phone. “Gabriel Lynch. I got here about an hour ago. I represent the studio partnering with Mr. Feldoni. When Mr. Feldoni was asked—”

“
Picked up
is more like it,” Feldoni interrupted. “You asswipes send a squad car and two beer bellies in blue to my set? For God and everybody to see? This despite our already-established relationship. Then leave me sitting here all night?” He turned to Lynch. “You better be keeping track of all this. When I sue for harassment, I want this all to come out.”

“Mr. Feldoni, as I’ve explained, the police have every right to ask—”

“And what about me?” Feldoni interrupted the lawyer again. “I’ve got my civil rights, too. It’s not just for chicks and racials, you know.”

Mort pulled a chair clear from the table, sat, and invited them both to join him. Gabriel Lynch sat across from him. Anthony Feldoni continued to pace.

“Mr. Feldoni,” Mort began. “The first thing I want to do is remind you this interview is being recorded. Audio and video. I want to state for the record you have in attendance your attorney.”

“Let me clarify,” Lynch said. “I’m representing the studio’s interest. Inasmuch as Mr. Feldoni is currently involved with a studio project—”

“Involved?” Feldoni continued his habit of interrupting. “It’s my fucking baby. I’m the star. Involved, my ass.”

“The studio thought it prudent I attend this interview.” Lynch tugged the lapels of his jacket and craned his neck, as though trying to work out a pain. “I want us all to be clear I represent the studio’s interests.”

“Well then, you’re going to be interested in this.” Mort turned to the aging star. “Mr. Feldoni, we are currently in the process of executing a warrant for the arrest of your son, Vincent Feldoni, for the murders of two women. It is our hope we reach him in time to avoid a third murder charge. If we’re that lucky, it’s our plan to charge him with conspiracy to commit a third murder. After we arrest him, federal and quite possibly international authorities will be executing their own warrants.”

Gabriel Lynch pulled a small notepad and pen from inside his jacket. He looked like a guy struggling to look composed. “What charges do you anticipate the federal authorities will bring, Detective?”

Mort kept his eyes on Feldoni, who hadn’t reacted to his announcement of the charges against his son. “Vincent Feldoni arranged to have a young woman provided to him on three separate occasions for the purpose of killing her and filming himself doing it. And Anthony Feldoni facilitated his escape, violating any number of laws himself.”

“That’s a lie,” Anthony Feldoni said. “This is some made-up charge brought by some groupie or maybe it’s a—”

“Are you saying you have reason to believe Vince Feldoni made a snuff film?” This time it was the attorney’s turn to interrupt, and he wasn’t bothering to look calm. “Have you seen the evidence?”

“I have.”

“And you find it compelling?” Lynch asked.

“I do.”

The attorney tapped his pen against his pad while Feldoni Senior ranted about how rough famous people have it, what with everyone willing to say anything to get a piece of their fat wallets.

The attorney finally spoke. “Would you be willing to share the nature of the evidence? Again, knowing I do not represent Mr. Feldoni or his son. I’m asking as a curious citizen.”

Mort knew he was much more than that. He was a clever representative of a studio that stood to lose not only dollars but reputation if word got out they were associated with a murderous pervert and his justice-obstructing father. Mort shrugged his shoulders in his best what-the-hell pose.

“To begin with, we have the films.”

“You’ve seen them?” Lynch asked. “And you’re confident they are true murders?”

“We are.”

“This is bullshit,” Feldoni interjected. “Everything’s digital these days. Everything can be doctored.”

Mort paid him no mind. “We also have the bodies.”

Lynch nodded. “In these films, you saw Vincent Feldoni’s face? There’s no doubt in your mind it wasn’t a person who looked a great deal like him?”

“No,” Mort said. “Vincent was clever enough to keep his face hidden.”

“I told you this was bogus!” Feldoni paced back and forth like a caged tiger. He pounded his fist into his palm. “You don’t even have my boy’s face on camera and you’re trumping up charges. Oho! My payday from this lawsuit is gonna be as big as my gate from this new movie.”

“Does he have a point, Detective?” Lynch was conversational, not confrontational. He played his role of curious citizen well. “What makes you so sure it’s Vincent Feldoni?”

Mort smiled. “This is where Anthony here comes in. See, Vincent was careful not to have his face filmed. Easy enough with a snuff. The camera stays focused on the victim. It’s seeing her tortured and terrified that gets the viewers off. So it’s shot over the shoulder and from the side. All we see of the killer is a clothed back or a sleeved arm.” He turned to Feldoni, who wasn’t pacing anymore. “But Vince slipped. There are several shots of his hand. A heavily made-up hand, like the kind of makeup used in movies. And like you said, Tony, everything’s digital these days. What’s pixilated in can be pixilated off. We erased that makeup and what did we find? One nasty case of psoriasis. Mean, gnarly. Unmistakable really. So, naturally we went looking for that hand. We went to your movie set. We started with Tony here. Then the director, Ben Verte. We had them show us their hands. Remember, Tony? You made a big show of it. Ben didn’t want to do it at all, but you convinced him not to slow down production. Then Ben suggested we do it somewhere private but you called the makeup assistants over and demanded your hands be cleaned right there and then. I remember you looked over your shoulder a couple times, bragging that the police wouldn’t find anything. You wanted your son to hear. You wanted to warn him. Give him a head start.” Mort turned back to the attorney. “I’ll bet Vince Feldoni hasn’t shown up to work since. What’s his excuse? Flu? And old Tony here is probably covering for him. Maybe saying he spoke to the kid a bit ago, sounds like hell, good old Dad told him to stay in bed. Something like that? But what you’re really doing is giving him time to run. Did you know he was planning another murder? Did you give your boy time to squeeze in one more before he hit the road?”

Feldoni stood in silence.

“Like you always say, Tony.” Mort cocked his head. “Family is everything.”

The room was silent as Mort let his charges hang in the air. It was Gabriel Lynch, the curious citizen, who spoke first.

“Many people suffer from psoriasis. You never saw the killer’s face.”

Mort nodded. “That’s true. But the man who supplied three women to be slaughtered by Vincent Feldoni saw him. Chatted with him. And recorded every conversation. We also have Eddie Yavornitzky tied to the cameras used in the snuff. We’ll find him. By all descriptions Yaz is used to a life of privilege. Those types of folks aren’t known for holding up under interrogation. He’ll tell us everything he knows about who did what while he was running the camera before we even get him in this room. That will be two witnesses willing to make your boy as the killer.” Mort paused before dropping his last piece of information. “One more thing. Our witness? The guy Vincent used to supply the victims and the sites? Turns out he works for Vadim Tokarev.”