Cold Hit (29 page)

I reached for my satellite phone to call Alexa and tell her to forget that background search in Tampa, when a random thought hit me. If you were a cognitive disassociative narcissist; if you were prone to fits of rage and excessive violence; who would you want as a partner? How about good old, drunk-as-a-skunk, throw-up-in-the-backseat, Shane Scully? Passed out most of the time, unable to observe anything except my own belt buckle, so self involved and depressed that I wasn't focused on anything. The perfect partner for a murderous sociopath. I put the phone back on the seat beside me and took the Coldwater off-ramp.

The asset-seizure house on Rainwood looked small and unimpressive from the street. The LAPD wasn't wasting any money on maintenance and the yard was overgrown. I pulled past and parked half a block away, then got out of the car and walked slowly toward the vacant house opposite the one we were using. Ther
e w
as a big, potted rhododendron on the front porch. I leaned down, my vision going gray for a moment as I bent to retrieve the key. I had to pause to let my head clear before walking across the street.

I opened the front door of the safe house and entered a one-story, cheaply constructed California A-frame. Broadway and Perry had left a few lights on and I walked through the exposed beam, lightly furnished living room and out the back door onto a large wooden deck, which was cantilevered on long metal poles hanging precariously over the canyon.

The view was the money with this place. To my right, a million twinkling lights spread across the San Fernando Valley. A soft wind blew through the canyon carrying with it the sweet, peppery smell of lilac, eucalyptus, and sage. I sat in one of the canvas deck chairs and looked down at the valley.

I needed to get my mind off of Zack Farrell and Vaughn Rolaine, and back on Davide Andrazack and Martin Kobb. Right now there was nothing I could do for Zack. I tried to tell myself it was out of my hands.

I smiled as my Kafkaesque dream resurfaced. Forty-weight motor oil for God's sake, tram-fluid, and antifreeze? Some gagger of a salad that would have been. What the hell was that all about?

And then, just like that, I knew. A series of memories tumbled over each other. I took a minute to calm down then tried to put them in some kind of order.

I started with Cindy Blackman's notes and our brie
f d
iscussion at Denny's. Cindy didn't think an experienced cook would buy fresh groceries five days in advance. Yuri Yakovitch said he was on the back loading dock of the market, supervising the vegetable delivery. He had a good view of the cash register but in his statement, said he somehow missed seeing the burglar, as well as Kobb, when they entered the store. Marty Kobb was supposed to have pulled his gun, and chased the robber out into the parking lot, where he was shot to death. But the money was, for some unknown reason, left behind in the cash register. Nobody saw a getaway car.

I ran it over in my mind and marveled at the simplicity of it. How had we all been so stupid?

An hour later, Emdee Perry and Roger Broadway returned, carrying groceries. They must have been in full Bubba mode when they shopped because their market bags were full of beer and chips. They left everything in the kitchen and we walked back out onto the deck. I returned my aching ass to the sagging canvas-backed chair.

"'Bout time for us to all snap on our garters and get this case movin'," Perry drawled.

"You come up with anything new since we seen you last?" Broadway asked. I took a moment and then nodded.

"What if Marty Kobb wasn't buying food at the Russian market?" I said, giving voice to my new idea. "What if he was buying gas at the Texaco station?"

W
e sat on the back deck of the Coldwater house drinking beer and talking it over. If Martin
Kobb had been at the Texaco station when he was shot, it was a major shift in case dynamics that could change everything. But it still didn't mean we could solve his murder. On the other hand, if the killer was doing a gas station holdup instead of ripping the market, there could be witnesses we'd completely missed.

One looming question doused some of my enthusiasm. If the shooting happened at the station, why hadn't the manager or a customer come forward to clear up the misunderstanding?. Still, it was a promising new direction.

"If this turns out to be right, then the department just spent ten years paintin' the wrong house," Emdee observed.

"First thing in the morning I'm gonna call Texaco's executive offices," I said. "See who used to own that station, see if I can get the employee list, and if there's a record of credit card sales receipts from back then so we can start making up a new wit list."

"Good thinking," Roger said, as his cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket and put it on the table in front of him without opening it.

"What do I do now?" he said. "If I answer it and the
y h
ave a satellite track on there, will the feds know where we are?"

"Ya ask me, there's a big difference between being careful and just bein' a pussy," Emdee drawled.

Roger frowned, snapped up the phone and answered it. "Yeah?" He listened for a moment, and then gave us a thumbs up. "Good. No, that's okay. No problem. Now's as good a time as any. See ya in twenty minutes." He disconnected and smiled.

"Good thing we bought you some deodorant," he said to Emdee. "Bimini Wright returned my call. We're invited to midnight tea with the CIA."

Ten minutes later we were in Broadway's blue Caprice heading down Coldwater Canyon on our way to the CIA offices on Miracle Mile, a favored location for U
. S
. intelligence agencies.

"She ain't gonna be easy," Broadway said as he drove.

"Long as you don't plow too close to the cotton we'll do fine," Emdee answered.

"She doesn't like you, so let me do the talking," Broadway cautioned.

"Lay some Ebonics on the woman. That oughta light her fire."

The CIA building was actually called the Americas Plaza. I wondered if that meant it was owned by some foreign government. We parked in the basement. Zack had my badge, so Broadway and Perry vouched for me and signed me in. We took a secure elevator up to the twenty-fifth floor and exited into another beautifull
y d
ecorated hallway. Our tax dollars were certainly getting a good workout in the Los Angeles counter-intelligence community. Lion claw feet held up polished Queen Anne tables with tapered legs.

But the best tapered legs in the joint belonged to Agent Wright, who was standing on the ivory cut-pile carpet wearing three-inch heels and a short, tan skirt. Her Icelandic blonde hair was done in a graceful cut that curled in just under her chin. Blue eyes the color of reefwater gunned out of an ivory complexion, clocking us. If I worked on this floor, I'd never get anything done.

"Let's go," she said, without even waiting to be introduced to me. Of course, after the funeral she'd probably run a full profile.

Agent Wright led us through a door marked Fire Exit, up a flight of stairs, and out onto the roof, which had a flat, tarred surface. We followed her to a spot between two huge, boxy air-conditioning units, which were roaring even though it was midnight. The hot Santa Ana weather had the cooling system working overtime.

Bimini Wright stopped between the A/C units and spoke, just over the roar. "This is far enough." Her voice mixed with the loud, growling exhaust. It was the rough equivalent of turning on faucets in a bathroom before a covert meeting.

Broadway introduced me. "This is Detective Scully."

We shook hands. She had a surprisingly strong grip
,
as if she'd been taught by some butch station chief that
,
if you want to make it in a man's world, you better shake hands like a trucker.

"Okay, guys. Your call. What's the deal?"

"It's the Davide Andrazack murder," Broadway said, not giving her much. She shrugged, so he dribbled out a little more. "It was in Shane's serial murder case, but now it's been stripped away from us by Homeland. The Andrazack hit is involved with another investigation we're still working. We were hoping you could give us some background."

"Davide Andrazack was never one of your serial murders," she said, looking over at me. "He wasn't a homeless bum. He was killed by Red Shirts."

"Company speak for enemy spooks," Emdee explained.

"You three need a Come to Jesus meeting," Bimini said. "So here it is. If you don't back off, you're gonna get spun and hung. You need to do exactly as Mr. Virtue instructs and leave the Andrazack thing alone. Robert Virtue lacks humor, and there's lots of heat coming down on that situation. You work it without portfolio against his wishes, and you're gonna be swept so far out into the bush we'll never find the hole you're buried in. That's the best advice I have."

"What about my murder case?" I asked.

"Believe me, they're all over it," Bimini said. "R. A. Virtue and the FBI come off a little headstrong, but they've got huge national security concerns to deal with so I try to cut them a little slack. Take it on down the road and leave this to us."

" 'Cept, somebody's planting bugs all over town," Emdee said. "We pulled a basketful outta the police administration building yesterday. It's not hard to guess that Davide Andrazack was over here trying to find out who was bugging the Israelis. I'm also guess'n we're not all standing up here on this roof, 'cause you like the smell of L
. A
. smog. You ain't all that sure about your shop either."

Just then, the air filtration system switched off, banging loudly as the spinning fans stopped. It was suddenly very quiet.

"We know you met with Eddie Ringerman at the Russian Roulette last night. We were in the next booth and got it on tape," Broadway said.

She smiled. "You're really gonna try and bluff me with no face cards showing? You've gotta do better than that, Roger."

"Are we just completely forgetting about the Lincoln Avenue shooting?" Broadway countered. "I thought you were good for your old debts."

"That's five levels below this on the threat assessment board."

"Then why don't you tell us about the 'Eighty-five Problem?" I ventured, and saw immediately that I'd hit a nerve.

She looked at me sharply. "I guess you were in the restaurant listening," she said, coloring slightly, not enjoying being busted. After a moment she added, "Okay, since it's only history, I guess I can tell you a little about that."

"We're waiting," Broadway said, frustration showing in his strained voice.

"Back in the eighties, I was stationed at our embassy in Moscow," she began. "It was the Cold War, and we were mixing it up pretty good with the Reds." She looked over at me. "I know you're probably interested in Stanislov Bambarak since he also came to your funeral. Back in the Cold War days, Bam-Bam Stan was a KGB legend. Our paths crossed a lot when I was in Moscow. We never hit it off, because I managed to recruit quite a few of his frontline officers as double agents. It really pissed him off. He got so jacked he ran me in four times and questioned me at the Moscow Motel, which was an interrogation center the KGB had under the Kremlin. Stan couldn't understand how I kept infiltrating his Apparat. But I was young, pretty, and flirtatious, and his station officers were lonely, horny, and alcoholic. A perfect recipe for defection. The trick was to cook up their emotions, get them half in the bag and see how scared they were that Soviet Union was about to collapse. The Cold War was winding down and it looked to everybody like we were winning. A good many of these KGB officers were willing to give me covert information in return for a promise that I would arrange for them to come to the States after the Cold War was over. Once the Berlin Wall came down, everyone knew it was only a matter of time before the Soviet Block fell apart."

"We can get all of this on the History Channel,"

Roger said, still pissed that his Lincoln Avenue trade hadn't worked.

"I was really on a roll in those days," Bimini continued. "More and more agents were taking my deal. Then, one night in August of 'eighty-five, there was a roundup. Stanislov picked up all of my Russian double agents in the middle of the night and took them to Lubianka Prison in Moscow. Lubianka was a shooting prison. People would go in there and never be heard from again. All of my doubles were interrogated, and then summarily executed. That fat bastard gave the order. They were all shot in the back of the head."

"With a five point four-five millimeter automatic," Broadway said.

"That was how they did it back then," she concurred. "I was devastated. I couldn't conceive of how Stanislov could have learned about every single one of my assets. I had spread out the case info, distributed their encrypted files to a lot of different service computers. NSA, FBI, CIA . . . It shouldn't have all leaked. It became pretty damn obvious that somebody far up in our own system had sold us out. Some embassy official with high security clearance was giving up these Russian double agents. We investigated diligently but couldn't find out who it was. It came to be known on station as the 'Eighty-five Problem."

"And you never caught the guy?" I asked.

"A few years later, R. A. Virtue got a phone tip at the FBI in Washington, giving him the name of one of our ex-CIA Moscow agents. After a lengthy investigation
,
Virtue and some other D
. C
. counterintelligence types finally turned up a man named Edward Lee Howard. He'd been passed over for promotion and had gone into business with Stanislov to help beef up his CIA retirement fund. We searched his records, and found out that he had probably given up some of my double agents. But the more we studied him, the more it became obvious that he didn't know anywhere near all of it. And then before we could bust him, he shook his tail and got out of the U
. S
. and back to Russia. But I know there was still another traitor out there."