L.A.P.D. Special Investigations Series, Boxed Set: The Deceived, The Taken & The Silent (50 page)

CHAPTER ONE

Three years later

“
IT WAS A SLOPPY
investigation, that’s why.” Detective Jordan St. James leaned forward, palms on the captain’s desk. He had his reasons for wanting to reinvestigate the Kolnikov case, but he couldn’t tell his boss what they were.

Captain Jeff Carlyle stood behind the oversize desk, arms crossed. A tall black man with silver hair, Carlyle was well liked by all the detectives in the Robbery Homicide Division of the LAPD.

“That case went cold four years ago. Unless you have new evidence, we have other priorities.”

Yeah. He knew the drill. The murder of a prostitute wasn’t important unless it could be connected to a high-profile name, politics or money. While Kolnikov’s case had the potential for all that, they hadn’t been able to get evidence to prove any of it.

“Frank DeMatta is still a priority, isn’t he? Kolnikov worked for him for more than thirty years…and was his mistress for practically as long.”

“We worked every angle on Kolnikov. If there was something to use, we would’ve done it. What’s the deal, St. James? Why’re you so interested in this case?”

Jordan clenched his hands into fists. “Kolnikov also knew Eddie Gianni.”

For years the LAPD had been champing at the bit to finally take down mobster Frank DeMatta, and his nephew Eddie Gianni would have been the star witness against him. Gianni’s murder three years ago had been a devastating blow to the department. Without the nephew’s testimony, they had no case. “My gut feeling is there’s something in Kolnikov’s case that will get us DeMatta. I just have to find it.”

It wasn’t a good answer, but it was true. And it was all he had.

As he watched the captain thumb through the file, Jordan’s muscles tensed. The unspoken philosophy that one person’s life might be more important than another grated on his conscience. Sadly, it was a fact of life in the department. There were only so many hours in the day and some cases had priority. Anna Kolnikov was a prostitute; no one cared that she’d been murdered. She was a discard.

He hated what the woman was. He wanted to forget her, but something kept drawing him back to the file, reading and rereading, compelled to know more. He had to solve this woman’s murder. If he didn’t, he wasn’t sure he could live with himself.

Regardless of his personal feelings about Anna Kolnikov, she deserved justice. If he had to use DeMatta’s name to do it, so be it.

Carlyle eyed him narrowly. “You know it’ll reach DeMatta before you leave the building.” His gaze shifted to the open-space squad room, desks butted one against another in domino patterns, each cluster defined by that group’s investigation priority.

“I know.” They’d long suspected a mole in the department was feeding DeMatta information. Jordan smiled. “So maybe that’s a good thing. We might draw someone out. Make people nervous.”

The captain rubbed his chin. “Okay. You’ve got a few weeks to show me something. But only because I want DeMatta. Don’t forget it.”

Still smiling, Jordan retrieved the file and strode from the office. The captain’s sanction meant a lot. He didn’t like working on his own, but in this case, he would have if he’d had to.

“Yo, paesan.” Rico Santini’s voice carried through the room, his New Jersey accent still strong even though he’d been living in L.A. for more than ten years. “What’s the verdict?”

“I’m good to go.” He gave his partner a thumbs-up and then sat in the gray chair that matched his gray metal desk.

“You really got a thing about this case.”

“You never had a thing? I know a couple of cases you bulldogged, so give me a break.”

Rico raised a hand. “You got me there, pal.”

“It could be a way to get DeMatta.”

“Then I’m sorry I won’t be around to help.”

Every cop on the LAPD wanted to nail the mobster. It had been twelve years since two of their own were gunned down by DeMatta’s goons, but no one had forgotten. Sooner or later they’d even the score.

“Hey, you coming to Bernie’s tonight?” Rico glanced at Jordan.

Jordan’s three best buddies in the unit had a standing meet at Bernie’s Sports Bar and Grill to catch a game or just hang out. Jordan’s partner, Rico, hadn’t been doing much hanging out since he’d married Macy Capshaw, a woman totally his opposite in every way, but he still managed to show up for the most important games.

“Tonight might be the last time I’ll be there for a while,” Rico added. “Starting tomorrow I’m off on that belated honeymoon, besides getting the adoption thing going.”

Jordan nodded. “Okay. I’m there. And by the way, I think what you’re doing with the adoption is great. Cody’s a great kid.”

His partner and his wife, Macy, had decided to adopt an abandoned boy she’d been working with as his court-appointed attorney. Jordan knew the blessings and the pitfalls of adoption. His relationship with his own adoptive parents was both wonderful and fraught with turmoil. Especially when he’d told them he wanted to locate his biological parents. All hell had broken loose and they’d never talked about it again.

Eyes gleaming, Rico smiled. His marriage and the impending adoption had him smiling a lot these days.

“Okay. Later, then.” Watching Rico go, Jordan smiled, happy to see his partner so happy, yet, oddly—he was blindsided by a sense of loss. They’d been best friends for more than ten years. Now Rico’s wife was his partner’s best friend.

He pushed his personal thoughts aside, pulled out Gianni’s file and started from the beginning. While in college, DeMatta’s nephew had collected money for his uncle’s business interests. It was well-known DeMatta had his fingers in every illegal activity in L.A. Gambling, prostitution, drugs, the protection racket. But there were so many levels to the mobster’s network and, because his goons took care of business for him, the department hadn’t been able to prove DeMatta’s involvement. Not without hard evidence or someone to testify against him. But it was only a matter of time. Jordan suspected DeMatta had collected money from Anna Kolnikov, the most well-known madam in L.A., but, again, he had no proof.

He flipped pages, reading quickly. Eddie Gianni had quit working for his uncle after college and had gone into real estate. Later they’d had a falling-out over the nephew’s gambling debts. The department, hearing from one of their snitches that Gianni had become a liability for the mobster because he knew too much, had swooped down. The small-time hood had been easily persuaded to testify against DeMatta—but only if he was offered protection in return.

Some protection. Their star witness had been snuffed the night before he was to go into WITSEC, the federal marshal’s protection program, and it wasn’t too hard to guess who’d hired the hit man. Unable to find any hot evidence, and embarrassed by the screw up, the department quickly deep-sixed the case.

He read down another page. The name Laura Gianni caught his eye. The star witness’s ex-wife. She’d been interviewed after the murder, but the line of questioning was thin. Strange. The woman had been married to Gianni for two years, they’d had a child together. She must’ve known something about her husband’s past. About his uncle.

He wrote down the ex-wife’s name, then switched his focus to the Kolnikov case. DeMatta had been a prime suspect during the investigation, but he’d alibied out. With no other leads, the case was dead.

Yet, every fiber in Jordan’s being screamed that the mob boss was involved in the woman’s death—hers and every other execution-style slaying in L.A., including two LAPD undercover detectives who’d been working on a major drug sting.

Oh, he had a thing about this case, all right. He wanted to nail Kolnikov’s killer, and if it turned out to be DeMatta—all the better.

***

Music blared from tricked-out cars cruising the dimly lit street. Hookers lined the curb, ogling the slow-moving vehicles as they went by. Parked at the corner, Laura got out of the van and handed her card to a teenager hiding behind several layers of makeup and fake eyelashes. Opium-sweet perfume formed a barrier around the girl, who couldn’t be more than fourteen.

“We’re open twenty-four/seven” was all Laura got out before the teen sashayed toward a car that had pulled over. Counseling wasn’t an option in the middle of the night with depraved men circling in their cars like vultures.

If she could get only one child to call—and they were just children—she’d feel her message hadn’t been lost. You’re not alone. You don’t have to live this way. We care about you.

She nodded at her co-worker, Phoebe Patterson, in the passenger seat, as she climbed back in the van. Driving on, she turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, where four teens dressed in halter tops and micro-minis, showing more skin than they covered, huddled on a corner under the yellow streetlights, where they could be seen by any john passing by.

“It’s time to go home.” Phoebe squinted at Laura through her retro wire-rimmed glasses. “We’re not getting any takers tonight.”

“Just one more try here, then I’ll give it up.”

As they headed toward the corner, a red Corvette coasted up next to the group and stopped. A tall man in a dark suit pulled himself from the driver’s seat.

“Have you seen that guy before?” Phoebe asked.

“No. But I think we should hover and maybe scare him away.”

“I’ve seen him somewhere. He’s too good-looking to have to buy it on the streets.”

“Maybe he’s a cop.”

“Driving a Corvette. No way! I dated a cop once. He had all he could do to scrape together enough money for a movie.”

Laura chuckled. “Maybe your cop was sharing the wealth.”

“Yeah.” Phoebe slouched against the seat. “What is it with guys who can’t make a fucking commitment?”

“I’m the last person to ask.” Laura made a U-turn, then drove by the red car again, both women making a point to stare at the man as they went by.

“Maybe it’s time you got out a little. Have some fun for a change.” Phoebe’s eyes glinted with mischief.

“I have fun.” Laura raised her chin.

“Not the kind I’m talking about.”

Phoebe teased Laura unmercifully about her self-imposed celibacy. She had to admit, she’d also been thinking a lot about her physical and emotional needs lately. For a long time after the divorce, all she’d thought about was protecting Caitlin. Overprotecting. The only fun she ever had was with Caitlin and the girls at the shelter. Until recently, it had been enough.

“You gotta get it on with someone sometime, girlfriend. It doesn’t have to be permanent.”

Laura expelled an exasperated breath. “Well, I’m willing, but I haven’t met anyone I want to get it on with. Besides, what kind of role model would I be if I slept around?”

“A date once in a while isn’t taboo. Everyone’s gotta have a life.”

“I’ve got a life. A very good one.”

“Yeah, especially when you’re working all the time. You can’t meet anyone that way.”

“I haven’t been living in a bubble. I meet people all the time. Just…not the right ones.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about. Every date doesn’t have to be the right one. You come out with me some night. I’ll introduce you to one of Adam’s friends. You’ll have fun. I know you will.”

Before Laura had the chance to say no, Phoebe perched on the edge of her seat and pointed toward the corner. “Okay, he’s leaving. And he’s alone.” Her voice rose with excitement. “I think we scared him off.”

“Good.” Laura’s stomach churned as she watched the man drive away.

“Man, he’s hot,” Phoebe gushed. The words seemed strange coming from someone who looked like the proverbial farmer’s daughter, right down to the freckles and brown wavy hair she drew back into a ponytail.

“Yeah, but guys that good-looking usually like themselves more than anyone else. Or they have other major problems. But then you probably know that already.” Phoebe’s weakness for handsome men was her downfall.

“Okay, I admit I’ve made some bad choices, but I’ve learned a few things, too. And I still don’t believe all the Brad Pitts in the world are narcissistic asses.”

Laura hoped for Phoebe’s sake she was right. After several heartbreaking relationships, Phoebe was still searching for the perfect man. And her boyfriend DJ, or DonJon as she called him sometimes, wasn’t even close.

“Maybe not.” She indicated the Corvette. “But this guy’s a sleazebag who preys on young girls.”

“I don’t think so. He’s here for something else, I can tell.”

Laura wasn’t so sure. Lots of rich men in fancy cars haunted the streets of L.A. looking for a quick trick. Some pretty famous people were known regulars. She continued driving to the corner, then stopped and rolled down the window to talk to the girls.

Ten minutes later, Laura and Phoebe were headed home in an empty van. Some nights they’d get one or two teens to come back to the crisis shelter, but tonight was a bust. Maybe they’d have better luck tomorrow night. Or maybe one of the half-dozen or so girls they’d given cards with the shelter’s phone number would call the next day…or sometime. It was all she could hope for.