Murder One (5 page)

“You just get ready for your meeting. I’ll drop you off and grab a shower at the Washington Athletic Club.”

She laughed, a bark. “Hah! Like I can work the magic that quickly, especially with this thing.” She lifted her bandaged left hand. “You go. I’ll get a cab.”

He thought of the silver Mercedes. “You going to be all right?”

“Are you going to watch me twenty-four/seven? I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.” They started across the rooftop on the wooden walkway. “Do you have lunch plans?”

“Not anymore.”

“There’s something I want to talk to you about, an idea that came to me this morning.”

“What about?”

“I want to do some research before we discuss it.”

“Another one of your secrets.”

“A woman has to have secrets,” she said. “That’s what makes her interesting.”

L
AW
O
FFICES OF
D
AVID
S
LOANE
O
NE
U
NION
S
QUARE
S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON

There was little chance he could sneak into his office and quietly grab his gym bag and the fresh shirt he kept on the hook behind his door without Carolyn asking him a dozen questions. So Sloane decided on plan B—misdirection.

When he entered, Carolyn moved with the dramatic flair of a Broadway actress. She considered her watch and arched her eyebrows. “And where have we been? Strike that. I know where
I’ve
been. Where have you been?”

“I got home late and decided to sleep in.” He picked up the stack of mail from the bin outside her cubicle.

“From lunch?”

Momentarily stumped, Sloane didn’t say anything.

“You remember lunch, don’t you? ‘Carolyn, I’m going out for lunch, be back in a couple hours.’ That was yesterday around noon? That would be the last time we saw or spoke to each other, though I did try.”

If he told her he’d turned off his phone, it would raise a whole host of questions, but if he told her he had chosen not to answer or return her calls, that would raise a whole different series of questions.

“I left my phone in the car.”

“You drove to lunch?”

“Yes.”

“You sound uncertain.”

“No. I drove.”

“Lasted a little longer than anticipated, did it?”

“It did.”

“Must have been great company.”

“Charlie,” he said. “Hadn’t seen him in a while.”

She nodded. “Well, no wonder; whenever you and the Jolly Green Giant get together, it’s trouble.”

“He’s a bad influence.”

“Was there drinking involved?”

“A few beers.”

“I suspect more than a few, since you didn’t return my calls.”

“I decided to go home, get a good night’s sleep.”

“You certainly look well rested,” she said.

“I bought a new mattress.” At least that was not a lie. He had thrown out his mattress as another way to move forward along with buying all new bed linens.

“You also appear to have gotten some sun. You have a bit of a glow.”

He started for his office. “The restaurant had an outdoor patio.” He stopped, trying to make it look spontaneous. “Oh . . . anything on my schedule for lunch?”

“I’ll have to check. Are you two going to stage a repeat performance?”

“Unfortunately not. This is work-related. If there is anything, could you reschedule?”

“What if it’s something important? What if it’s a hearing or a meeting . . . or the president has asked to see you?”

“Mr. Obama will just have to reschedule. Book me the conference room and order in sandwiches.”

“How many sandwiches will I be ordering?”

“Two. Unless you’re hungry, then make it three.”

“You’re awfully generous this morning. Anyone I know joining us?”

“Barclay Reid.”

“Barclay . . .” She made a face as if she’d caught a whiff of a bad odor. “From the Kendall matter? What does that bimbo want?”

“She wants to discuss a matter with me.”

Carolyn remained standing watching him with arms crossed, a pleasant smile.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep.”

“You’re going to check my calendar?”

“Can’t wait.”

Sloane pushed open his office door. Charles Jenkins stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, cell phone pressed to his ear.

“What, you’re not answering your phone?” Jenkins looked and sounded genuinely concerned. His biceps strained the sleeves of a black short-sleeve shirt, trademark sunglasses clipped to the collar. In boots, he stood nearly six feet seven.

“Do you have any colors in your wardrobe besides black? You look like Johnny Cash on steroids.”

“I tried you at the house yesterday and your cell this morning. Carolyn said she couldn’t reach you, either.”

“Thanks for that.”

“What’s the deal?”

“I had my phone off.”

“Why?”

“I had lunch with a friend yesterday.”

Jenkins cocked his head. “Would this friend be female?”

Sloane nodded.

“Shit, she was right.”

“Who?”

“Alex. She said maybe you were out with a woman. I don’t know how the hell she knows these things. It’s scary.” His tone brightened. “So . . . how did it go?”

“It went fine.”

“Just fine?”

Sloane considered his answer. Jenkins was his best friend. “It went well.”

“How well?”

“Charlie . . .”

Jenkins grinned. “Anyone I know?”

“Barclay Reid.”

Jenkins looked puzzled. “How do I know that name?”

“She was the attorney for Kendall Toys.”

“That’s right. Mousy . . . thing.” Jenkins lowered himself into one of the chairs across the desk. He made it look small. “Yeah? So, give me some details.”

“I ran into her Saturday night at that event I spoke at and we decided to get a drink and ended up playing pool. She won. Loser had to buy lunch. Yesterday we went to Kels, and one thing led to another. She cooked me dinner.”

“And you spent the night? How was it?”

Reid had been both a patient and passionate lover, and when they had finished, Sloane felt a warmth and comfort he had not felt since Tina’s death.

“It was great.”

“You like this woman?” Jenkins asked.

“I do.”

“You don’t think you’re going too fast?”

It hadn’t occurred to him. “Why?”

“These things take time. You suffered a huge loss. Emotionally, I mean, you’re in a vulnerable position.”

“Wait a minute . . . that’s Alex talking.”

“Okay, yes, it’s Alex.”

“How could Alex know?”

“I told you, when I couldn’t get ahold of you yesterday or last night, she speculated, you know, that maybe . . . And Alex just said you might be with a woman, though she hoped not.”

“She hoped not? Why?”

“She said you needed to take time. Hell, you know how women are. She just said she hoped you didn’t jump in bed with the first woman you met, that you need to try on a few pairs of shoes to make sure it’s the right fit.”

“Try on a few pairs of shoes?”

Jenkins sat forward. “Humor a condemned man, will you? She’s going to kill me.”

“Why is she going to kill you?”

“I have to tell her.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Come on. You know I can’t keep a secret from her.”

“Just tell her I appreciate her concern and won’t go too fast.”

“She’ll want to meet her.”

“Soon.”

“Don’t say that; she’ll be bugging me to call and invite the two of you to dinner. I’ll tell her you’re not ready.”

“Fine.”

Jenkins leaned the chair onto its back legs. “Okay, I did my duty. I can report back to Alex with a clear conscience. So, how was it?”

The door pushed open, Carolyn hustled in. “Hold on. Hold on. If there are going to be details, I want to hear, too.”

“There are not going to be details,” Sloane said. “We had a nice evening. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Oh, that sucks.” Carolyn picked up the stack of papers from the out-box on Sloane’s desk and trudged out.

Sloane asked Jenkins, “Did you drive all this way just to check up on me?”

Jenkins considered his watch. “Pendergrass has a prevailing-wage case, a union screw job against a nonunion contractor in Eastern Washington. The DLI is blackmailing his client to pay more employee wages or they’ll blackball him from bidding public jobs.”

“Sound like the DLI. They’re in the unions’ pockets.”

“He wants me to find some workers for him, prove they were correctly paid. You want to have dinner on my way back through?”

“Sure. Call me. We can meet at the Tin Room.”

Jenkins grabbed the door handle. “All right, but this time, if I can’t get ahold of you, you’re on your own. I’m not going to come looking for you again.”

A
UTO
W
ORLD
U
SED
C
ARS
R
ENTON
, W
ASHINGTON

The scariest part of the man wasn’t the bald pate or his sheer immensity but his complete lack of emotion. The unexpected visit had caught Vasiliev unaware, and he fumbled to end a telephone call. He hung up, apologizing profusely. Sunyat Chelyakov shrugged, unconcerned. Vasiliev had seen the same expression just before Chelyakov shot a man in the head to determine whether his gun worked.

“Would you like some coffee?” Vasiliev swiveled his chair, bumping the wall behind him, leaving another black scuff mark.

Chelyakov raised a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt. “Too much caffeine is not good for a man. It makes him jumpy. There are better vices,” he said, his voice ragged from years smoking unfiltered cigarettes and drinking vodka.

Vasiliev returned to his seat. He knew Chelyakov had been raised on a farm in the Ukraine. It was said when the family ox died during one particularly harsh winter, Sunyat had pulled the plow himself. He was, as the Americans liked to say, “country-strong.” And everything about him was big. His bald head resembled a small watermelon and his ears two lettuce leafs. The cigarette in his left hand all but disappeared between fingers as round as sausages, and his body obscured the chair in which he sat. At the moment his right hand rested on his thigh, which looked about to split the seams of his slacks; there was no way he could cross his legs.

“I’m sorry about this fucking heat,” Vasiliev said.

The portable office, located at the back of his Renton used-car
dealership, was little more than a construction trailer with cheap wood paneling and fluorescent lights, and it was barely tolerable. With the heat and humidity the past three days, it had become unbearable. The air-conditioner broke, and the trailer had become a sweatbox even with the windows open.

Chelyakov again raised his hand. Smoke filtered from between his fingers, weaving upward. “A man cannot control the weather.”

“No—”

“But he can control his business.”

They had reached the purpose for the visit. Those to whom Chelyakov answered were not happy with the U.S. attorney’s investigation. They considered it the direct result of poor business practices, using a man with outstanding warrants to pick up the car at the auction. Chelyakov’s visit was to determine whether to continue doing business with Vasiliev.

“Everything is under control, Sunyat.”

“Is it?”

“We have altered the shipments and the transport. And we are no longer using a landline. Everything now is discussed outside of this box and only on TracFones. I can assure you there will be no further problems.”

“Except payment, of course, for the shipment you lost.”

The drugs were supplied on credit and payment made upon subsequent sale, with the profit reinvested in the business—in this case, the half a dozen used-car dealerships through which Vasiliev helped to launder the organization’s money.

Chelyakov blew smoke from his nostrils. He looked like a bull. “And what of the attorney?”

“She is not going to be a problem, Sunyat.”

“No? It seems Ms. Reid has a boyfriend, a wrongful-death attorney of some repute,” Chelyakov said.

“Wrongful death? What is this?” The string of red, white, and blue flags strung from the corner of the building and crisscrossing the lot flapped in a light breeze but just as quickly fell silent.

Chelyakov sucked on the cigarette, his whole face pulling in the nicotine. “He sues others when someone is killed.”

“For money? How is this possible?”

“It is America. Anything is possible.” An infrequent smile revealed teeth too small for his mouth.

Vasiliev slapped the desk. “Whitlock did not mention this,” he said, referring to his criminal defense lawyer. “He said the charges would be dropped, that I had nothing to worry about.”

“He did not consider it.”

“For the amount I fucking paid him, he should have considered it.”

Chelyakov took another drag. The tip glowed red. Smoke escaped his nose and mouth as he spoke. “The amount you paid?”

It pained Vasiliev to take orders from a man like Chelyakov. Who was he to be giving him orders? Who was he? A fucking farm boy who spent his youth buggering the family ox. Vasiliev was a multimillionaire. He brought the organization tens of millions of dollars, a hundred million some years. So who was Chelyakov to be giving orders?

“Do not forget who you work for,” Chelyakov said.

And therein lay the problem. Vasiliev knew very well who he worked for, and even more so, who Chelyakov worked for: Petyr Sakorov, the Russian billionaire. But that was not his problem at the moment. His problem was the lawyer.

“You think she plans to sue me for money?”

“She and this lawyer have become familiar.”

“Then Mr. Whitlock will have to defeat him, too.”

Chelyakov shook his head. “Whitlock is not a civil lawyer.”

“Someone else, then.”

“You’re not listening, Filyp.” He crushed the butt of the cigarette beneath a foot as wide as a salad plate. The chair creaked as he gripped the arms and stood. His head nearly brushed the ceiling tiles. “I think Mr. Sloane should know it would not be wise to do business with Ms. Reid.”

L
AW
O
FFICES OF
D
AVID
S
LOANE
O
NE
U
NION
S
QUARE
S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON