LIES OF THE PHOENIX (A Lieutenant Cassidy Mystery Book 1) (20 page)

H
ECTOR BAZAROV SAT
in the overstuffed chair in his new hotel room with an almost empty glass of vodka in his right hand. He drained the last bit from the glass and set it on the table. It was time to make things start to happen.

Jordan was still in Chicago which meant the sale of the stolen account data had not yet happened. Bazarov smiled to himself. Jordan Lawrence’s obsessive greed for the best deal to the highest bidder was giving Bazarov time to let his plan play out.

He was sure Jordan had the data drive hidden somewhere obscure, but easily accessible. That is what Bazarov would do. The flash drive was the only bargaining chip Jordan had. He would keep it safe, but at a distance in case he needed it to bargain for his own life. If Jordan was cornered, he would have to rely on someone else to retrieve it. Kyle Mason was out of the picture; the only person he could hope to manipulate would be his little wife, Sarah Lawrence.

Jordan was cunning, suave, and had a classic sociopathic personality. Sarah had already demonstrated her vulnerability to his charms. If things played out as Bazarov expected, Jordan would contact Sarah and the data drive would surface. The only hindrance was Ben Taggert. He presented an annoying impediment to Jordan connecting with Sarah and would have to be dealt with.

Bazarov walked to the dresser and poured himself another glass of vodka. It was time to stir the pot and wait for the boil. He pulled a lap top from his valise and connected to the encrypted auction website on the dark web. He reviewed the international bidding for the stolen account data. It had been brisk. He entered an outrageous bid that would be sure to close the deal.

He leaned back in the arm chair and took another swallow of vodka. He gazed at the half full glass and watched the soothing light dance across the cut glass surface. The job would be completed soon and then he would be able to return to the comforts of home in Los Angeles.

Bazarov did not find Jordan Lawrence to be a particular challenge. Jordan’s biggest mistakes had been over confidence and underestimating his enemy—both lethal errors in this business. Jordan was intelligent, but a neophyte to this game; he didn’t understand the psyche of the underworld and lacked the ruthless drive to accomplish a task at any cost.

It didn’t take a genius to guess that Jordan would be looking to the world market to sell his stolen account data. Jordan believed that the people he was dealing with lacked his own intellectual prowess. It was probably true; however, money can buy just about anything. This time it bought a few nefarious computer hackers who were more than willing to find the auction site on the deep web and then set up a fabricated Asian bidder identity.

Bazarov would win the international bidding war by outbidding all comers. Once the auction closed, Jordan would retrieve the flash drive from its hiding place. But there would be no transfer of data and no payoff as Jordan contemplated. Bazarov would acquire the prize for his L.A. employers and then, as usual, he would make sure there were no traces that could lead back to the crime syndicate.

The stage was set and the next move was Jordan’s. Bazarov was ready.

* * * * *

Jordan flipped his lap top closed and pumped the air triumphantly with his fist. He had closed the deal at four times the amount that the L.A. boys were willing to pay. He was vindicated. All his planning and hard work had paid off.

An Asian buyer had taken the lead and outbid all the other interested parties. Now he had twenty-four hours to make the data transfer and then the agreed sum would be automatically deposited into a secret off shore account for him. He was feeling very smug and hungry.

The dreary basement apartment was wearing on him and he was ready to go out and celebrate. A juicy steak dinner and a good bottle of wine would be his reward. He picked up his lap top and headed out the door. It was dark and he breathed in the cool summer night air.

His excitement was tempered by the need to remain cautious. He had eliminated one threat the night of the break-in. A second paid killer was already on his trail and this assassin would be even more dangerous than the first. He needed to stay vigilant.

He pulled the hood of his windbreaker up and scanned the length of the block searching the shadows for any movement. Satisfied there was nothing, he crossed the street. He walked down the sidewalk to the end of the block, turned down the first cross street, and then down about halfway on the next block. He climbed into the old drab car that he had parked along the curb.

He drove in an erratic pattern for a quarter of an hour. It was becoming the norm for him. He was confident that his latest hiding place was secure, but nonetheless, he was on the lookout for anyone following him. He would be glad when this was all over. He was getting tired of constantly looking over his shoulder.

A small restaurant came into view. He passed it and pulled down a side street to park. The parking lot was too well lit. With his laptop under his arm, he walked close to the buildings in the shadows. He stayed alert for any signs that he was being followed. At the corner he turned into the restaurant. A hostess gave him a cheery greeting and guided him to a table near the back of the restaurant as he requested.

A server quickly appeared and Jordan perused the menu he was handed. He ordered the most expensive steak on the menu and a quality bottle of wine. His plan was all falling into place. There was just one more important thing to do and that would require some delicacy.

By now his dear wife, Sarah, had probably discovered his missing clothes and overnight bag. She would know that his sudden disappearance was by choice and not by accident. The discovery of Vladimir Zykov’s identity by the police and his connection to organized crime would raise many questions. She would be confused, but still holding out hope that there was a reasonable explanation for his absence.
She should be desperate by now to talk to me,
he thought.

He knew that Sarah had been spending time with Ruth’s friend, Ben Taggert. Sarah had mentioned Taggert’s name at dinner the night of the play and a simple internet search had told him Taggert was a former police officer and a writer. He had seen them together and followed them to Ben’s apartment.

Ruth probably pushed Taggert to step in and give Sarah moral support,
he thought.
That would be her meddling style.
He had to admit, Sarah’s recent stay at Ben’s apartment was concerning, but he brushed it aside. Sarah would never abandon her newlywed fantasy so easily. He was confident she was still under his control. She would be in a state of denial and her sense of loyalty to her husband would outweigh all the negativity and questions being raised by her friends and the police.
She won’t believe what they say. She’ll want to hear it from me,
he thought with satisfaction.

He would manipulate her as he had always done. It would be easy; all he had to do was give her the rational explanation that she so desperately wanted to hear. The best lie was one that incorporated the most amount of truth. He would weave a convincing story from the facts and sway her with deceit.

His lie began to take form. He would set the bait by portraying himself as the innocent victim, unjustly pursued by a band of criminals from Los Angeles because he refused to cooperate with them. He would tell her that he fled L.A. and went into hiding because they threatened his life. He thought he was safe in Chicago and that he could start his life again, but they tracked him down. They sent a hired killer to the house and imperiled the one thing he held most dear, her.

After he killed Vladimir Zykov, he would say that he naively thought that the syndicate’s pursuit would be over. He thought they would be afraid that Zykov could be traced back to the organization and they would stop their pursuit. Instead, they sent another contract killer. He saw the syndicate’s second hit man outside the townhouse the night of the play.

Next he would layout the most important part of the lie— his only thought was to protect her. He couldn’t take a chance that she would become a target. He had to go into hiding to draw them away.

The
I did it all for you
would be the hook. She would feel guilty and that would ensure her willingness to cooperate with his next request—a last meeting before he vanished into hiding. He would tell her that he needed time to work out a solution so they could be together and that it would only be for a short period of time. She would believe that his life was in danger and that no one could be trusted, not even the police. Yes, she would buy his story. He would make sure of that.

It was critical that his
Lloyd Nash
identity remain buried for now. If Sarah learned about his Los Angeles wife, Amanda, then none of this would work. He preferred to sway Sarah with deceit, but he would resort to more drastic measures if necessary. Fortunately, it looked like things were unfolding in his favor.

Explaining Kyle Mason to Sarah would be another problem. Jordan had read in the newspaper that Kyle’s body had been found at the Mom and Pop motel. Sarah would know about it and may ask questions.
I guess if she asks, I’ll have to paint Kyle Mason as the martyred friend. Make her believe he was killed trying to help me escape the clutches of organized crime,
he decided.

The police investigation of the townhouse shooting was another point of concern. He could only guess at how much information the police had uncovered at this point. He didn’t think Zykov’s death could be traced back to the L.A. crime syndicate or to his own involvement, but he had to consider it. In retrospect, he wished he had made contact with Sarah earlier so she could have filled him in on the progress of their investigation. That opportunity had unfortunately passed. He would have to go with his instincts.

He knew that the police had discovered Zykov’s identity and that news of his death had found its way back to the L.A. syndicate. The second contract killer sent to Chicago was confirmation of that. Zykov was an independent contractor and those contacts were always made through third and even fourth parties to protect the crime organization. Those layers of protection made Jordan almost certain that the police would not be able to connect Zykov’s death to the Potestas crime organization or to his own theft of the account data and embezzlement in Los Angeles.

His scheme had been subtle and well disguised. He doubted that the lame brained managers and accountants responsible for overseeing transactions at his old firm would find the data breach access through the archived accounts until it was too late. As far as he could discern, there was nothing that the police could use to trace back to his old Los Angeles identity. It was unlikely that they would be alerted to his criminal activities as yet. In another day, it wouldn’t matter.

He was satisfied—in Chicago he was just Jordan Lawrence, the victim of a house break-in, not a criminal on the run. His disappearance would be written off by the police as a domestic relations issue, not something worthy of criminal investigation.

Now all he needed to do was to convince Sarah to meet with him, alone.

* * * * *

Bazarov repositioned his hulking mass in the front seat of the car. He had followed Jordan to the restaurant and now was watching and waiting for his exit. Jordan believed that the sale of the stolen data had been successful. He would be feeling confident and subconsciously let down his guard.

Jordan’s superiority complex was his Achilles’s heel. Bazarov had dealt with this type before. They believed they were smarter than everyone else and were blindsided by a sophisticated counter attack. Jordan was no different. He believed all criminals were stereotypical gangsters. Underestimating the enemy—it was a classic novice mistake.

He reflected on the stupidity of Vladimir Zykov’s break-in at the townhouse and Kyle Mason’s equally ridiculous ransacking of the same premises. Jordan would not make the mistake of hiding a valuable prize in the most likely place where someone else would look.

There were a million places to hide a small device like a flash drive. It was a waste of time to look for it. The best solution was to allow Jordan to retrieve it. He wouldn’t keep the data drive on his person, or on his computer, or in an obvious hiding place like a desk drawer. No, he would select an obscure place where no one would think to search. It would be out of his immediate control, in case he was captured, but readily accessible should he need to use it to bargain for his own life.

Jordan would have a back-up plan for retrieving his treasure. That would be an accomplice, likely an unwitting friend or family member, willing to do a favor or run an errand if needed. Everything pointed to Sarah Lawrence and Bazarov was ready for that alternative.

He wanted Jordan to feel the syndicate’s noose tightening. It would force him into action, and action under pressure led to mistakes. To that end, Bazarov had visited Jordan’s sleazy little basement flat after he left for the restaurant. He kicked in the door for aesthetic effect and turned over a few pieces of furniture just to let Jordan know someone was on his trail. It was simple after that to follow Jordan to the restaurant. The GPS tracking device that he had attached to Jordan’s car worked perfectly.

Bazarov yawned and stretched his back. He had been sitting in the car watching the restaurant door for an hour. Finally, Jordan emerged keeping to the shadows along the side of the building. He made his way to his car parked on a side street. He watched as Jordan entered the vehicle and then drove away. Bazarov’s attention switched to the on-screen GPS icon. He watched as the icon zigged-zagged leisurely through the grid of streets. It stopped a few streets away from the basement flat.