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Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks

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BOOK: Shattered Trust
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“Haul his ass in as a possible accessory, Sullivan,” James said to Laura, using his voice as a weapon. “Print this bastard, run a microscope up his ass for making my night longer, and let's see how much authority—”
“Yo, yo, yo, I ain't in it, brother. I just work here, man!”
“Then make my night, and open the fucking bin.” James sighed, flashed his badge, silently beckoning Laura to do the same. “I'm tired, need a cup of coffee, and don't feel like a lotta hassle. You make my job harder, trust me, I'll make yours unbearable.”
“This shit is harassment, man,” the guard said, opening the door and walking ahead of Laura and James with the keys. “Can make me lose my damned job, when all a brother got is this piece'a ass job. Shit!”
Laura just glimpsed her husband from the corner of her eye as they followed the young guard. The kid couldn't have been more than twenty-five, and the back of his bushy hair had a dent in it from where he'd been leaning against the wall. In that moment, she made up her mind. It wasn't about giving back a goddamned thing to those in power. They'd stolen enough. Had condemned too many people to life in the margins. New plan. Find the rat bastards, expose them, and send them fleeing to get caught on a sticky trap.
Keys turning in a huge padlock brought her out of her darkening thoughts. But she wondered if James would go for a smooth set up, or if he'd want to play it by the book.
The guard yanked away the lock and stared at James with defiance. “It's open.”
“Stop playing with me, man,” James said. “Lift the grate.”
“That ain't my job,” the guard challenged.
“See,” James said, glancing at Laura. “A tough guy who keeps making me wanna haul his ass in just on GP.”
The young man let out a frustrated breath and tugged on the steel grate until it rose, steadily glaring at James.
“Mind if I borrow your flashlight, or is there electric in the joint?”
The guard slapped the fixture on the wall, lighting the medium-size bin, and then flung the lock down on the ground and stalked away. “Close it up when you're done. I ain't responsible for the contents if you don't!” he hollered over his shoulder.
“My, you have such a way with the community,” Laura said, smirking. “You ever think of running for public office?”
James ignored her as they shimmied their way into the tightly packed unit. Dust covered everything, and before long, they were both smudged and dirty. Lifting the edges of plastic, she watched James peer between picture frames that had been meticulously wrapped with brown paper.
“I feel sorry for Donny,” she said, touching a lamp that had been carefully concealed beneath bubble wrap. “You could tell he loved this man to the end, even after knowing.”
“How you figure?” James said absently. “He put all his shit in a bin and walked.”
“Look at how he packed ... as though he wanted his lover to know that, even to the bitter end, he cared ... had enough class to not destroy his belongings and obviously wanted none of them.”
James briefly stopped his search and stared at her for a moment. She watched the epiphany dawn in his eyes.
“Yeah, James. Loved him the old-fashioned way, because I can tell you—most sisters would have thrown his mess out in the street in green garbage bags, or sold anything of value.”
James nodded. “Truth. Seen it done. You sending me a message, or speaking from experience?”
She chuckled. “Both. I helped my sisters part from men, and I can tell you, it wasn't this neat and lovely at all.” She began picking through the contents with a sly smile on her face. “But I've never had a man to put out before—never let any of them get close enough to share my living quarters.”
“Okaaay. Duly noted. So, then, where would a lover stash a box of important papers?” He waited and watched her every move.
“In an orderly fashion,” she said calmly. “In an office desk, where it belongs, or in a bedroom bureau—somewhere private.”
James walked over to the huge, polished oak desk that had been carefully wrapped in plastic. “Five dollars says the desk. Dude is too organized.”
“I'll raise you ten dollars, and a Starbucks coffee when we get out of here, that it's in the bedroom bureau. . . sent as a message that all of this ruined what they once had. Underwear drawer, to be exact.”
James waved his arm toward the bedroom furniture in the back. “Ladies first.”
Frowning at the dust that marred her pants, Laura inched along the narrow walkway toward where James had motioned.
“Did you notice I was using my badge to touch things?” he said in a dry tone.
She drew her hand back and stared at him.
“I'm gonna wipe off anything you touched, and use your elbow to kill the lights on the way out. We'll let the guard worry about going back to lock up, feel me?”
“Shit,” she murmured. “You could've warned me.”
“Great criminal mind, and raggedy on the details—gets 'em busted every time. Use the edge of your blouse to put your hands under it, and break that plastic seal.”
“You do it,” she argued, scrunching up her nose.
“Nope. You're the rookie cop on this detail. I'm already dirty enough.”
She sighed, stuck out her tongue at him, and then worked quickly to make a big enough hole in the seal to allow the top dresser drawer to be opened. She shot James a smug look of satisfaction. “You know how I like my coffee, right?”
Chapter 9
S
he sipped her coffee in triumph as they pored over papers while sitting in the parking lot of the 38
th
Street 7-Eleven. “This isn't Starbucks, so you still owe me.”
“Yeah, yeah, as long as I owe you, you'll never go broke,” James muttered, leaning in to look at the papers, but not fully comprehending what they contained. “So do we need to pay a visit to this hacker chick, or what?”
“Uhmmm, hmmm, hmmm,” Laura said, biting her bottom lip as she studied the papers. “Lookie here, lookie here,” she whispered. “Micholi Foundation was to receive certain real estate assets.”
James raked his fingers across his close-cropped hair. “And?”
She peered up at him. “You know who sits on that board?”
“No,” he said flatly.
She let out an impatient breath. “A lot of Main Line real estate developers, several prominent attorneys—of which, Alan Moyer, Senior, Haines's old attorney, was one, along with James Devereaux from the Redevelopment Authority, Mike Polanski and George Townsend from the Micholi board, which I'd also bet, if we do a document search, has some cross-pollination with the old Scots-Edwards Foundation, chaired by the good senator's wife not so long ago.”
“Damn, Laura,” James said in a weary tone, rubbing his hands down his face. “The financial incest in Philly is worse than
The Sopranos
.”
“Ya think?” She shook her head and folded away the documents. “Now, the thing is gonna be how to find out which one has the biggest axe to grind, or the most to lose.”
He started the ignition, peering over his shoulder to back out of the tiny lot onto Chestnut Street traffic. “Micholi sounds Russian to me, is all I know.”
She placed her hand on his arm. “James ... did I ever tell you that you were brilliant? Staring us right in the face!”
He kept his eyes forward, but her assessment of his skill quietly pleased him. “It was a basic, connect-the-dots, cop hunch. You've got one dead Russian hit man, a Russian-sounding foundation, highfalutin individuals with strong political ties to D.C. and the state, what's to figure?”
“Still brilliant,” she murmured with appreciation as he pulled the car into a rare parking space on Hamilton Street in Powellton Village. She glanced up at the narrow brownstone guarded by a turn-of-the-century wrought-iron fence. “Think we should call, or just ring the bell?”
James opened his car door. “Chances are Donny gave her the heads-up. The fact that we'll be on her steps at this hour without warning is enough to let her know it's serious, even if he hadn't.”
“OK,” Laura said, “but let me handle this. She's a friend of Donny's and an innocent woman with a job to protect at Penn. We need something from her, and she doesn't need jack from us. So don't go banging on her door to scare the bejeebers out of her with a cops-at-the-door routine. All right?”
James saluted her as they strolled up the cobblestone walk and then ascended the few cement steps that gave way to a wide, wooden porch without furniture. Laura eyed the gingerbread-studded overhang that shielded the porch from the glare of street lights. Properties in this immaculate condition, especially in this part of town, were worth a mint. She wondered if the home had been purchased by sheer discipline and good investment with mortgage help offered to university employees, or if the sister had a little game with her?
Stepping in front of James, Laura rang the bell and then moved back from the leaded, beveled glass French doors. They could see a shadow moving inside the semi-dim house, and within moments, a slim, female figure entered the foyer, but didn't turn on the porch light. The lace sheers moved and a strained voice called out, “Who is it?”
“Donny sent us,” was all Laura said.
The locks immediately turned, and a woman with long, rust-hued dreadlocks swept up in a ponytail cracked the door open, assessed them quickly, and then waved them inside. Laura hesitated, suddenly feeling a pang of guilt for possibly bringing disaster into this bystander's life. Megan Montgomery put her hands on her hips for a moment and pursed her lips as though about to say something before she'd changed her mind. Then she moved around Laura and James, locked the door, and toyed with her gray sweatpants string.
“C'mon in,” she said in a begrudging tone, now twisting the edge of her U. of P. T-shirt.
“Thank you,” Laura said, extending her hand, and trying to get the young woman to calm down. “I know it's late, and you have to get up early in the morning.”
Megan's gaze hardened. “What did the bastard do to him now?”
Taken aback, Laura opened her mouth and then closed it.
“Can we step inside?” James finally said, feeling crowded in the foyer.
“Is it that bad that you brought a cop?” Megan shook her head and strode into the living room. “Got herbal tea. You want some?”
“No, but thank you,” Laura said, still standing and glancing at James. “We're not cops, just friends of his. We think the people his old lover was connected to might be angling to find a way to physically hurt him and anyone close to him or his situation.”
“Same ole bullshit!” Megan exclaimed and flopped down into a huge, electric blue butterfly chair. “Why won't they just leave him alone?”
“I take it you two are tight,” James said in a matter-of-fact tone, sitting down heavily on the adjacent, lumpy sofa covered by a mud cloth throw.
“That's my boyie, okaaaay,” Megan said. “Hell, yeah, me and Donny are tight.” Sudden tears of fury filled her eyes. “I had his back in school. Loved him like a brother—we were tight. He'd do the world for anybody. He was in pre-law; I was dabbling in poli-sci courses, even though my butt was supposed to be in the school of engineering down at David Rittenhouse Labs. The bond was we were both artists having to do something we hated because of parental suggestion.”
“So ... from time to time, to help an old friend, you, uh, helped his lover out?” Laura asked, testing the waters.
“Hell no. I didn't do anything for Alan because of Donny.” Megan stood. “I hated that bastard from day one. He was cheating on Donny with this brother ... what was his name ... tall, fine, treacherous.”
“That would have to be Michael Paxton, Jr.” Laura looked at James.
“Yeah. Him. The asshole that got shot by a cop and died. Good riddance.”
James kept his gaze steady on Laura, willing her with his eyes not to go any further on the subject.
“So, why'd you do stuff for Alan, then?” Laura ruffled her hair as she watched Megan sit down again slowly.
“Because Alan had Donny's mind ... would have broken up our friendship.” Megan closed her eyes and leaned back. “I was going through changes, experimenting with different lifestyles, then ... and my parents heard I had a girlfriend, freaked out, and stopped sending checks from Jamaica. Dad worked in the State Department, and my mother's people aren't evolved—old Jamaican bourgeoisie. Need I say more?” Megan opened her eyes and kept her line of vision on Laura. “Donny wrote out a personal check that covered my tuition for my senior year, just like that, no questions asked. When we both got into grad school, he went on to law school with Alan, and I stayed here.” She chuckled sadly and sniffed. “He gave me the down payment here, and said it would always be between just us. Then Alan found out about it, and started some shit.”
Laura nodded. James remained stone-faced.
“That's fucked up,” James said, reclining against the cushions to help Megan relax.
“It was,” Megan said. “So I did him a few quick and easy jobs, just so I'd have something on him, should he try to go there. But God is good; Alan got his in the end. His slimy ass is in prison.” She let her head fall forward as she folded her hands between her knees. “I thought that after that Donny would be free and clear of stress, once it was all over and his old man was buried, too.” She just shook her head, causing her long, thick ponytail to sway. “Then I get this panicked call from him that there's still some bullshit with his father's will, and that people could be after him to right some past deals that were still not entirely repaid.” She looked up at Laura and James with remorse-filled eyes. “If all it will take is a little digging to find out who needs their itch scratched, I'm down.”
“These people are dangerous,” Laura warned. “If you can get into the system to find out some links off of social security numbers, maybe hunt for the docs filed that declare lobbyist activities, who sits as silent investors, maybe we can figure it out ... but only if you know how to go in as a ghost so they can't come back to you.”
“Shit,” Megan said, standing, “if it gets real crazy, I can always go back to Jamaica.”
“What my wife is saying indirectly,” James said, standing to make his words sink in, “you have to be alive to get on a plane, unless you want to ride in cargo in a casket.”
The room went still. Megan froze. Laura nodded and opened her barrel Coach purse to retrieve the documents.
“This thing goes real long and real deep.”
Megan shook her head. “That's waaay too deep for me,” she said quietly. “I love Donny, and all, but ...”
Laura closed her purse and stared at the conflict that etched its way across Megan's stricken expression.
“I felt we owed you that much information,” Laura said.
“I appreciate it.” Megan began to tensely twirl the string on her sweatpants again. “Listen, I know old man Haines had a lot going on, at the Skull and Cross Bones Secret Society level, understand what I'm saying? Donny and I used to sit up nights sharing father horror stories. My Pop is how I have certain codes—I broke into his system years ago, and know how to navigate my way into any database that's out there, pretty much. But they have technology now that can track even the best hacker, and it's been years since I tried my hand at cyber-stealth. Like ... I might get in, but there's a chance—”
“It's cool,” James said, cutting her off. “We can do this the old-fashioned way, and just have to hope it won't be too late.”
Both women stared at him for a moment.
“I've got this friend in Baltimore. Dude is scary on cyber shit. He works for a law firm ... can go in to mask anybody from the firm, given he runs their local area network. He hates all his bosses, is always looking into their dirty laundry just for kicks, and likes to play games, send viruses, is basically out of his mind ... but genius. Stays in the office all night, halfway sleeps there. If I make a call ...”
Laura handed Megan her cell phone. “Why don't we keep you out of it, even as far as calling this friend tonight? If he's open, we're game.” She glanced at James. “Baltimore is only a couple of hours on the road.”
Megan slowly accepted Laura's cell phone. “He works in a plush mansion converted to a firm over on West Mount Vernon Place, a straight shot out of the Fort McHenry Tunnel, right off I-395 into downtown B-More.” She punched in the numbers, but hesitated on pushing the send button. “This is really serious, isn't it ... ? I mean, if you're asking me to make the call from your phone, and not mine?”
“Yeah,” Laura said quietly. “But this is our crap, and I don't see any reason for an innocent bystander to get hurt.”
“That's real cool of you,” Megan murmured, glancing from Laura to James. “Wasn't sure what to think when I saw the big brother who seems like a cop.” She laughed nervously. “Was hoping I'd paid my taxes and shit.”
“He's cool,” Laura said, motioning to James with a tilt of her head.
“How do I know?” Megan said, suddenly lowering the cell phone. “Like, if there's that much going on, I don't wanna get Sean screwed, either ... even though he's probably done enough stuff to get himself into hot water.” She narrowed her gaze on James. “I know I've seen you somewhere before.”
“Probably in the paper,” James said, nonplussed. “I was the cop that shot Paxton's ass dead. Is that enough of a pass for being on your side, or what?”
“Oh, shit,” Megan whispered, her finger depressing the send key as a slow smile dawned on her face. “We're family, then. You should have introduced yourself like that from the door.”
 
 
Akhan stepped off the Air Jamaica flight and glanced around. Insufferable heat immediately made his African print shirt stick to him. The trade winds didn't blow balmy in Kingston the way they did in Mon-tego Bay or even in the smaller Caymans. Instead it felt like Manhattan on a hot, humid, summer day—but he felt free.
 
 
“This guy sounds like a nutcase,” James muttered as they drove down I-95 South, and then pulled into The Maryland House rest stop to refuel. “Everybody's a nutcase,” he added, becoming angrier as he gassed up the vehicle. “At three-fifty a gallon and climbing, I ask you, Laura, has the world gone insane, or what?”
BOOK: Shattered Trust
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