James Swain - Bad News Travels

“Freeze!” she said.

Bogdan shuffled backward. He said something in Russian, pretending that he didn’t understand English. His lady friend pulled the sheet up over her head.

“Stop moving.”

Bogdan ignored her, and kept retreating. There was a hideous scorpion tattoo over where his heart was. Daniels aimed at it.

“Is this how you want to go out?”

More Russian came out of his mouth.

“I know you speak English,” she said. “Clasp your hands behind your head, and get on your knees. So help me God, do it!”

Bogdan stopped moving. He smiled, unafraid.

“Would you really shoot an unarmed man?” he asked in perfect English.

“I have before,” she replied.

His smile vanished. “Then why don’t you do it?”

“Because that’s not what I’m planning to do. We have enough evidence to put you away for a long time. I’ve already got your prison picked out.”

The cocky expression left his face. “Where is that?”

“It’s a supermax prison in the Rocky Mountains called ADX Florence. Twenty-three hours a day in a sound-proof cell. No phone, no TV. You’ll go crazy in no time.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” he snarled.

“Nothing would make me happier.”

“Well, I am sorry to disappoint you.”

Before she could reply, Bogdan turned around, and walked onto the balcony. It was a still night, and no one had realized that the slider was open. Reaching the guardrail, he put his hands over his head as if preparing to dive, and pitched himself over. Daniels got there just in time to see the impact.

Rot in hell, she thought.

They stayed up all night searching the Kira for evidence. The Sokolovs had blackmailed scores of elderly men, and Lancaster knew that a notebook or digital device with records of the money they’d extorted from their victims had to exist. But as hard as they looked, Beth and her team couldn’t find it.

“God damn it,” she swore. “Their records must be somewhere.”

Lancaster stood on the dock. He’d abstained from the search for the same reason he hadn’t helped with the bust. Bureau rules.

“You need to take a break,” he said.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped.

“But I have coffee.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

She joined him on the dock, and he handed her a steaming cup of coffee he’d bought from a vending machine next to the harbormaster’s office. She sipped it, said, “That tastes awful,” and downed the rest. Her shoulders were sagging from an invisible weight, and he wondered if she’d hurt herself, then realized it was exhaustion.

“I’m going to find those records if it kills me,” she said.

The investigation was over, only it wasn’t over. Nearly $1 million from Martin’s bank account was still unaccounted for. Like a jigsaw puzzle with a hole, the final piece needed to be found before the puzzle could be put in its box and stored away.

“You need some sleep. Come on, Beth. Take a break.”

“Not on your life,” she said.

There was no better sunrise than the one Lancaster saw that morning. It broke the ocean’s surface with the fury of a newborn planet, the night sky and all its stars vanishing in the blink of an eye. Beth and her team were still hunting for the Sokolovs’ bank records, their voices carrying from different parts of the houseboat. He had stayed up because that was what men in love did, no matter how futile the search may be.

He would have bet good money the records weren’t on the boat. He didn’t know why he knew this, but he did. The money was safely tucked away in an offshore bank account, or a safe deposit box, and would probably get moldy before it was discovered.

Beth appeared on the flybridge, looking as good as a person could look when they hadn’t slept. She jumped onto the dock, holding her cell phone.

“You can’t be serious.” Beth had different tones of voice. This was her Melanie tone, used exclusively when talking to her sister. “Did you tell her no?”

He smelled roasting coffee. A roach coach had appeared next to the harbormaster’s office. He was their very first customer of the day.

When he returned, Beth was still on with Melanie. He shredded the paper bag and handed her a coffee and a fresh Danish. She covered the mouthpiece.

“I need real food. Where are you taking me for breakfast?”

“Now you’re talking,” he said.

They walked up the street to the Casablanca Café. Over the years, different immigrants had run the place, first Cubans, then Venezuelans, and now Brazilians, who were some of the friendliest people he’d ever encountered, their smiles wide and genuine. They sat at a sidewalk table with an umbrella, and ate omelets while watching the dog walkers stroll by. The food had the desired effect, and calmed Beth down.

“Let me guess. Nicki is up to her old tricks,” he said.

“I’ve created a monster,” she said.

“What did she do this time?”

“I called Melanie and told her that Bogdan was no longer a threat, so she and Nolan checked out of their hotel and went home. During the drive, Nicki asked my sister if we’d figured out where her grandfather’s missing money had gone.”

“Why did you tell her about that?”

“I didn’t, and neither did my sister. We’re guessing she must have overheard one of our conversations, and surmised the rest. The kid is sharp.”

“It’s genetic. So what did Melanie tell her?”

“Melanie told her the truth, which is how she and Nolan are. So Nicki says, ‘I bet I can figure out where the money went.’ So of course my sister exploded.”

“Why did she explode? We could use some help.”

Beth’s fork hit the plate. “What are you saying? That we should enlist Nicki’s aid again? If you don’t mind, I’d rather that Nicki forget about this.”

An aging Labrador sauntered past, sniffing the ground for food. He’d had a Lab as a kid, and had a soft spot for the breed, so he slipped the pooch a hash brown.

“That’s not going to happen, and you know it,” he said. “Your niece likes to solve problems; that’s why she’s drawn to CSI work. Telling her no will only make her want to do it more. Why don’t you let her loose, and see what she finds?”

If looks could kill, he would have been pushing up daisies.

“I don’t think so,” Beth said through clenched teeth.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“That would be an understatement.”

“Will you tell me what?”

“Figure it out.”

He picked at his food. Was Beth afraid that Nicki would find the money trail, and make her look bad in the process? Beth wasn’t petty, and would have welcomed bringing the case to a close. No, there was something lurking beneath the surface that he wasn’t seeing, and after a long, reflective moment, he realized what it was.

Beth was afraid of the unknown. If Nicki found the lost money, it might very well lead to another awful truth about Martin. Perhaps Martin had a harem of women he was supporting, or he’d gotten involved in another illegal activity. As adults, that kind of information was hard to take; for a teenager, it could be devastating. Better if Beth were to find where the money went, and come up with a story that she could tell her niece.

“I get it,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“So what do I do?” she said.

“Tell Nicki that tracing bank records is off limits, and could land her in serious hot water, like getting expelled from school. She doesn’t want that on her record, does she?”

“I like it. Can tracing bank records really land her in trouble?”

“I have no idea. But if you say it firmly enough, she’ll believe you.”