LIES OF THE PHOENIX (A Lieutenant Cassidy Mystery Book 1) (18 page)

B
LUE LIGHTS WERE
flashing in the parking lot as Lieutenant Alec Cassidy and Detective Nora Castle pulled in and parked next to two other squad cars. Detective Nick Saltinus was waiting for them.

“What do you have for us?” Cassidy raised his hand in greeting to the detective.

“We got a call on a body. The cleaning staff discovered it this morning.” Detective Saltinus motioned to a uniformed officer to disperse a small group of bystanders that had gathered. “We’ve talked to the desk clerk. Per usual, he wasn’t much help. These establishments stay in business by turning a blind eye to everything after they collect the room fee.” Detective Saltinus pointed to a gangly young male standing with a uniformed officer by the motel front office. “The desk clerk did say he didn’t think our dead guy was the one who rented the room. He thought the renter was taller. That’s all the description we could get. We gave you a call because we found this driver’s license on him. Heard you were looking for someone by this name.” He handed Lieutenant Cassidy the license.”

Cassidy looked at the license and read the name, “Kyle Mason. Yes, we’ve been looking for him.” He handed the license back to Detective Saltinus so it could be catalogued into evidence. “We better take a look.” He motioned to Nora and they walked into the door of the room.

Sprawled on the floor was the body of a male lying on his side. His hands were bound behind his back and his feet were tied. He had been beaten so badly his face was unrecognizable, but Cassidy was sure it was Kyle Mason.

Cassidy knelt down for a closer look at the body. Kyle Mason had taken a brutal beating. In the center of his forehead was a bullet wound surrounded by an expansive powder burn. The bullet exited the rear of his skull taking a portion of the skull with it.

Cassidy pointed silently to the wound and Nora nodded her head. No question, this was an execution and the likely suspects were either Jordan Lawrence or a contract killer sent by the West coast Potestas Syndicate.

“Lawrence is too white collar for this type of killing,” Cassidy said half to himself and half to Nora. His police sense told him that this was the work of a professional killer. “Vladimir Zykov’s replacement has arrived in Chicago.”

Cassidy pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. Ben Taggert answered.

“Ben, I wanted to give you a heads-up. We just found Kyle Mason’s body . . .” The two spoke for a few more minutes and then Cassidy ended the call.

* * * * *

Hector Bazarov removed his shirt and trousers and hung them neatly over a chair. Clad in his underwear and socks he went into the bathroom and washed his face in cold water. He walked back into the room and placed his valise on the dresser. He opened it, removed a white terrycloth towel and dried his face. Then he carefully removed a brown tooled leather case from the valise. He snapped open the case’s latch to reveal a bottle of Russian vodka nestled in a bed of green velvet. Two cut crystal glasses shared the compartment. He removed one glass, cracked the seal on the bottle, and filled his glass to the brim with the 80 proof liquor.

He walked to the corner of the room, and with a sigh, lowered his hulk into an overstuffed chair. It was the end of a long day and he was feeling tired. He was getting too old for living out of a suitcase and all this travel. Maybe he should start thinking about limiting his work to the West coast.

He stretched his legs out on the ottoman in front of the chair and drained half the glass of vodka. Bluish black ink covered his body from his feet to his collar and down to his wrists. Some images were crudely drawn; others were intricately done and showed the skill of a true artist. The inked cacophony of icons and symbols were a history of his life depicting his skills, his criminal accomplishments, and encounters with the justice system. Each image carried a sinister message and often a threat. It was the coded language of the Russian underworld and he was at the top of the heap, much in demand, and feared by all.

He had been sent to Chicago to clean up a mess. The Potestas crime syndicate had put their misplaced confidence in Vladimir Zykov and a weasely outsider named Kyle Mason. Neither had produced the results demanded by the organization. They had come to him to fix the problem. He agreed to the contract, but at double his usual fee. It was a matter of respect. They should have come to him first.

He knew Vladimir Zykov, a journeyman enforcer of Russian descent who was trying to make a name for himself with the West Coast crime organizations. He passed himself off as a criminal who had earned his ink in the Russian underworld. In Bazarov’s opinion, he was a petty thief who aspired to the life, but had never proven himself to his Russian criminal comrades. Zykov had little ability to anticipate the unexpected—a necessary skill in this business. He had met his demise by foolishly underestimating his quarry.

Bazarov took another long drink of vodka and emptied the glass. Kyle Mason had proven to be useless to the syndicate and Bazarov had already taken care of that loose end. Now he needed to focus on his real target—the man currently calling himself Jordan Lawrence. Bazarov needed to reel him in slowly.

He could have eliminated Lawrence at that sleazy motel, but that would not have accomplished the objective. He needed to retrieve the data drive for the syndicate. Lawrence was too smart to keep the account data with him. It was Lawrence’s only bargaining chip; he would have it well hidden—someplace easily accessible, yet unexpected.

Bazarov knew that his prey had an overblown sense of superiority and invincibility. Lawrence would expect the typical brutish pursuit from the L.A. syndicate, and as a consequence, would underestimate his opposition. He needed to make Lawrence begin to question himself and make a mistake. He needed to keep an eye on Sarah Lawrence as well. She seemed to be a naïve bystander, but her faux-spouse may still use her as a pawn.

He smiled to himself as he pictured Lawrence thinking he had found the perfect hideout in that old motel. Bazarov used Kyle Mason to shake Lawrence’s confidence and to reinforce the image of the syndicate’s typical recourse to violence. He wanted Lawrence to know that there was no safe place to hide. Kyle Mason had delivered that message. His last message in fact.

Lawrence’s latest rat hole on the Northside of Chicago was also no secret. Bazarov laughed to himself as he thought about Jordan’s erratic drive through the city. It was an exercise in futility with someone as experienced Bazarov on the hunt.

He walked to the dresser and poured himself another glass of vodka. Now it was just a matter of getting Lawrence to turn over the data drive in exchange for his life. Ultimately though, Lawrence would be eliminated too. The syndicate would have it no other way.

I
T WAS 9:00 A.M.
when Sarah’s cell phone rang. Ben was out picking up breakfast. The caller ID showed Lieutenant Cassidy’s number. She answered hoping he had some news.

“Hello, Sarah? Alec Cassidy here. The forensic team is finished with your townhouse. If you and Ben still want to go over there, I can arrange that for you today.”

Cassidy knew that returning to the townhouse would be a risk to Sarah’s safety, but she was more likely to find something out of place than his forensic team. He satisfied himself that the risk would be small with Ben accompanying her and a uniformed officer stationed outside.

“Yes, definitely!” She hadn’t been outside the apartment in two days and she was beginning to feel like a caged animal. More importantly, she wanted some answers.

“I’ll have a uniformed officer meet you at the townhouse in two hours. Tell Ben to keep an eye out for anyone tailing you. I think your assailant is probably concentrating on finding your husband for now, but we can’t be sure.”

The
your husband
hit her like ice water in the face. He wasn’t
her husband
. Now, he was just somebody called Jordan.

The call ended and Sarah went to the guest room to shower and dress. She glanced in the bathroom mirror before stepping into the shower and sighed. The swelling in her battered face had all receded, but the rainbow around her eyes was still in full bloom. She would have to work some makeup magic to make herself presentable.

Ben arrived with breakfast just as she emerged from the bedroom. She was feeling energized for the first time in two days and gave him a big smile.

Ben looked surprised at her transformation. “Mmm, nice! You look great.”

“A little liquid foundation and a concealer can cover a lot of evil,” she said. “At least I shouldn’t scare anyone.”

“Are we going someplace?”

“Cassidy called. He gave us the O.K. to go to the townhouse today. An officer is going to meet us there in two hours.”

Sarah took the bags from Ben’s hands and arranged the food on the table. She was moving with a purpose.

* * * * *

Ben and Sarah pulled down the street and a police cruiser came into view. It was parked at the curb in front of the townhouse. Ben parked and went to speak with the officer while Sarah waited on the sidewalk. She looked up and down the street and saw the inviting row of townhouses that had drawn her to the neighborhood five years ago. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it now.

Ben returned to her side and said, “He’s going to wait outside to stay visible. It will announce a police presence to anyone watching the house.”

They climbed the stairs to the front door with Ben taking the lead. He opened the door and stepped in, then motioned for her to follow.

She entered the living room prepared for the destruction, but the extent stung her again, nonetheless. “What a mess!” She touched a torn couch cushion with her foot and turned it over. The other side revealed an even bigger rip with stuffing exploding out of the fabric. “I guess insurance may cover some of this wrecked furniture and then there’s that hole in the wall.” She looked over at the gaping cavity in the wall by the stairs. “Whoever did this didn’t miss a thing.”

She was surprised that she didn’t feel a sense of loss. In fact, the scene was almost cathartic and gave her a sense of relief. She was rid of all the things that connected her to Jordan.

She gave the room another look and then said, “Jordan handled all the finances while we were together. The desk was his territory and all those papers on the floor were things he had organized on or in the desk. I’m going to start on those.”

“O.K., I’m going to just look around and see if I come across anything.”

Ben began moving carefully through the field of debris trying to restore order as best he could. Each time he examined something he tried to set it back in its logical place. He replaced the slashed cushions on the couch, righted several overturned chairs, and replaced the books on the book shelves after paging through them.

Sarah gathered the papers from the floor into a pile and sat cross legged next to it. She began scanning through each document and then delegating it to one of several piles laid out around her. After about a half hour the mound of paper in front of her had flattened and there were neat piles of bills, insurance papers, bank correspondence, junk mail, and the usual household miscellaneous paper clutter sorted into stacks around her.

She picked up an envelope from the unsorted pile, opened it, and began to read through the single sheet of paper it contained. It looked like a property tax bill. She scanned down the document. The location of the property was in Wisconsin. She and Jordan didn’t own any property in Wisconsin. In fact, they didn’t own any property together. Even the townhouse was still in her name. She looked at the address on the envelope. It had been sent to a post office box, not to the townhouse. As she read through the document she found the name of the property owner—
Margaret Cartwright!

“My god, this has to be a mistake,” she said still staring at the paper.

Ben was at her side in an instant. “Did you find something?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen this before.”

Ben took the document from Sarah and scanned through it. “Do you know who this
Margaret Cartwright
is?”

“Yes, it’s my mother.”

“Did she own property in Wisconsin?”

“Impossible. She was born and raised in Chicago and never left the city. She hated to travel. She didn’t even drive.”

“Well, maybe she bought it or inherited it after you moved out of the house.”

Sarah shook her head, “No, she married my Dad when she was eighteen. That property is listed in her
maiden
name.”

Ben took another look at the tax bill. “This shows a tax payment two months ago for the second half of the year.”

“Well that would be kind of difficult since my mother passed away six years ago, and my dad, two years before that. This has to be Jordan’s doing.”

“Did Jordan know your Mom’s maiden name?”

Sarah got up and searched around the room. After a short time she returned with a dilapidated photo album that she found lying in a corner on the floor. She opened it on the dining room table and flipped to the front of the album. Mounted on the page were several old photographs.

“After Jordan and I started dating, he asked about my family. I showed him this.” She pointed to a formal portrait style photograph of an attractive young woman on the top half of the album page. “This is my mother’s high school graduation photo.”

Under the photo written in flawless flowing script was the name,
Margaret Cartwright.

“And look here.” She moved her finger to a high school class photo mounted on the bottom half of the page.

Ben looked at the class photo and could see five rows of smiling faces. Printed at the bottom of the photo were the names of the students in each row. Margaret Cartwright was seated in row two, seat three.

“The bastard stole my mother’s identity,” she said through clenched teeth. “Now I want to know why.”

“Now wait a minute, all we know is that there appears to be some property in Wisconsin listed in your mother’s maiden name.”

“I know Jordan did this,” she said defiantly.

“Alright maybe, but we don’t have enough information. We need to look at the Wisconsin county property records and see what actually transpired. You can research it on line. If it still looks like Jordan could be connected, we’ll call Cassidy. Who knows, it could turn out that your mother inherited that property from some old maiden aunt who left it to her in her maiden name.”

Sarah conceded begrudgingly. “Okay, I’ll look at the records, but I know you’re wrong. Jordan’s hand is in this.”