Second Wind (Cypress Coast Book 1) Page 22

  Martin’s uninjured hand trembled as he raised the cup of water from his tray to his lips. He took a sip before nodding. “Thank you.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual this afternoon before the fire? Any strangers hanging around inside or outside the shop?”

  “No. I was straightening some antique china place settings toward the rear of the store and waiting for a delivery when I heard the glass break. Then suddenly the fire was everywhere. I could barely breathe. I didn’t know what to do. There was a wall of flames between me and the front door, but I managed to get out the back.” He glanced at Victor standing by his side, and his lip quivered. “If I’d been standing in the front of the shop, I would never have made it.”

  Victor squeezed his hand.

  Melody nodded. “You were very fortunate.” She turned her attention to Victor and Laurel. “Did either of you notice anyone or anything out of place today?”

  Laurel answered first. “I was in the front room of the gallery talking to clients most of the day, but I didn’t see anything odd outside. Shortly before the fire started, I went into the back office to talk to Mr. St. James.”

  “And you, sir?”

  Victor stiffened. “I had just left Martin alone in his shop and returned to the gallery.”

  Melody flicked her glance to Jake before returning to Victor. “So, the fire started immediately after you left?”

  “Several minutes, I’d say.” His eyes widened, and he glared at the detective. “Wait…you can’t possibly think—”

  Melody interrupted him. “We’re simply trying to construct a timeline. A witness who happened to be crossing the courtyard when the fire started reported seeing a man wearing dark pants and a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up throw an object through the window of Mr. Finebourne’s shop and run away. That couldn’t have been you if you were in your office with Ms. McDowell at the time.”

  “No.” Victor sniffed. “Not to mention the fact that I would have no motive to harm Martin or his business.”

  “We’ll get to the matter of motive in a minute. Mr. Finebourne, I understand two motorcycle club members were looking for you recently.”

  Martin’s pale, battered face blanched even further, sending his bruises into sharp relief. “How did you—”

  “Have you ever had dealings with members of Mensajeros de la Muerte?”

  “We can answer that,” a voice replied from the doorway.

  Snowflake and Twitchy strode into the room wearing full club regalia and carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. Laurel was so surprised that her purse slid from her fingers and hit the floor. As she bent to retrieve it, Jake slipped behind the men and silently closed the door.

  Ignoring the other occupants of the room, they approached Martin, and Snowflake thrust the flowers toward him. “How are you feeling, buddy? Twitchy and I were devastated when we heard about what happened.”

  Twitchy gave a solemn nod. “Devastated.”

  Martin accepted the flowers. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  Snowflake tilted his head and examined the patient with a critical eye. “You don’t look fine.” He glanced at Laurel. “We gave this lady a message for you—you should have called us back. We wanted to warn you the Russians weren’t kidding. That damn Ivanov is a whack-job.”

  ****

  Jake had been lingering in front of the door to block the bikers’ exit in case they decided to run. During the past week, the task force had received additional evidence corroborating the connection between the gang’s methamphetamine distribution operation and Vladimir Roskov’s criminal enterprise. An FBI informant and low-level enforcer for the gang had provided confirmation that the Russian financed the gang’s meth operation for a large cut of the profits, then laundered the cash through a variety of channels. With the new details, Jake had succeeded in following the money trail to a portfolio of rental properties in Las Vegas, a yacht anchored at the marina in Newport Beach, and a series of art transactions.

  The various threads of the complex scheme were finally starting to weave together. This morning Jake had been able to directly connect the organization to multiple sales of the painting Anna in Blue, all initiated by Richard Vargis’s business partner Sergei Ivanov. And now, when he was about to question the two men who appeared to be at the nexus of the plot, a pair of additional witnesses had come strolling in. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  He stepped forward and pulled out his credentials. “FBI Special Agent Jake Carlson. I have some questions for you gentlemen.”

  Snowflake recoiled as if mortally wounded. “Marty, what’s this fed doing here? We’ve always been straight with you.”

  Martin regarded Jake through watery eyes. “I’m not certain why he’s here. We hadn’t gotten that far when you arrived.”

  Jake bypassed him and addressed the bikers. “I’d like to know more about the Russians you mentioned. Do you believe they’re responsible for the firebombing of Mr. Finebourne’s store?”

  Snowflake gave a sorrowful nod. “Marty, we warned you before. When those guys want their money, they want their money.”

  “Who exactly are those guys? What are their names?” Jake’s brain was still hung-up on the overgrown biker’s mention of Ivanov. It was a common Russian name, but the odds against two Ivanovs being involved in this case were astronomical.

  Before Snowflake could reply, Martin heaved a heavy sigh and blinked at Victor, who still stood by his side. “I can’t take any more of this. I’m going to tell them everything. I’m sorry.”

  Victor nodded. “Whatever happens, happens. We can’t let those thugs hurt you again.”

  “I hardly know where to start.”

  Melody took a small recorder from her pocket. “It’s usually easiest to start at the beginning. I’d like to record this if you don’t mind, so we don’t miss any important details.” When Martin nodded, she set it on the bedside tray and stepped back.

  Snowflake and Twitchy shot nervous glances around the room and fidgeted but remained at the foot of the bed. The others trained their attention on Martin.

  He took a big sip of water and cleared his throat. “As you all probably know, Victor and I enjoy games of chance. We had great fun on our little junkets to Las Vegas for many years, and I must say, we did pretty well…until last year, when our luck seemed to change.” He looked up at his partner with sorrow in his eyes. “We took some chances we shouldn’t have and ended up owing the casinos a great deal of money we weren’t in a position to repay.”

  So far, his story confirmed what Jake had suspected.

  “One morning,” Martin continued, “after a particularly bad night, we were sitting beside the hotel pool, wondering whether we could drown ourselves before the lifeguard pulled us out, when a man approached with an offer to solve all our problems. He and his friends would pay off our debts if we would do a few favors for them from time to time—nothing dangerous. Of course, we agreed. We had no choice.”

  “What sort of favors?” Although he was confident he knew the answer, Jake was looking for confirmation.

  “He told us to go home, and they’d get in touch when they needed help.”

  “Did he introduce himself or give you the names of his friends?” It was unlikely, but names would make his case tighter.

  “He called himself Jerry Jones.” Martin glanced up at Victor again. “But we knew that wasn’t true.”

  “He had a thick accent,” Victor added. “And tattoos on his fingers. We had no illusions about the kind of person we were dealing with.”

  Jake nodded. He’d ask the Vegas field office to put together a photo lineup to see if he could get a positive ID on Jerry Jones. “When did you hear from him next?”

  This time, Victor answered. “A couple of weeks later, a different man showed up at the gallery. He said he was Jerry’s representative and wanted me to accept a painting of very dubious provenance on consignment. Another man would come in the following day and pay cash for it. He gave instructi
ons on what to do with the cash and left.”

  “Did he give you his name?”

  Victor snorted. “These Russians have quite a sense of humor. He introduced himself as Tom Brady. However, he didn’t realize I speak Russian. He made a phone call before he left, and I heard him identify himself as Sergei Ivanov.”

  Jake’s pulse surged.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A faint gasp distracted Jake momentarily from Victor St. James’s damning admission. Laurel stood beside him, hand over her mouth and eyes wide. She had been reluctant to believe that her ex-fiancé’s business partner—and by extension, Richard himself—was involved in a criminal enterprise. Now, it was impossible to deny. She’d also had to hear the employer she liked and admired admit to taking part in the scheme. It couldn’t be easy to be slapped in the face with the facts, but the sooner she accepted the truth, the sooner she could move on.

  Jake returned his attention to Martin. He had more facts, but he’d still only heard half the story. “Mr. Finebourne, how do you and your store—” He glanced at the bikers, who were trying to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. “—as well as these two—fit into the picture?”

  Martin took another long sip of water. “I agreed to accept delivery of certain packages and hold them for pickup at the shop. Snowflake and Twitchy coordinated the schedule. They let me know when to expect deliveries, and sometimes they’d pick up the packages themselves.”

  Snowflake shrugged his massive shoulders. “We need a break from work now and then. You know how it is. And Carmel’s a cute little town. It has good restaurants and a nice beach, and the weather’s better than Hollister.”

  Twitchy gave a vigorous nod. “Besides, Marty’s a nice fellow.”

  Jake fought the urge to roll his eyes. With these two involved, he wasn’t sure he was going to make it through the interview without developing a twitch of his own. “Mr. Finebourne, do you know what was in the packages?”

  Martin shook his head. “I never opened one.”

  Given the bikers’ roles in the arrangement, Jake was pretty sure the parcels had contained methamphetamine. However, proving it would be difficult. “Do you know what caused someone—possibly Sergei Ivanov or an associate—to firebomb your building?”

  Before Martin could reply, Victor jumped in. “Don’t forget the beating. They broke his wrist.”

  “You said he slipped in the shower.” Angry accusation tinged Laurel’s statement.

  Martin tried to soothe her. “We didn’t want to worry you, my dear.” He turned back to Jake. “Victor and I have been busy lately, what with rehearsals for A Christmas Carol and other things, and I’ve been away from the shop quite a bit. I advised these gentlemen I wouldn’t be able to receive any more packages for a while, but apparently Jerry Jones and his friends weren’t willing to accept that. They insisted I pay them two hundred thousand dollars immediately, and that simply isn’t possible.” He lifted his hands in resignation.

  Jake glanced at Melody, who responded with a satisfied half-smile. Their case was getting stronger by the minute. With Martin and Victor’s testimony, in addition to the information they’d already developed, they should be able to bring down Roskov’s operation and, with luck, put the kingpin himself behind bars.

  When Martin lay back against his pillow with a sigh and closed his eyes, Jake decided the rest of his questions could wait. He turned to Victor. “I think that’s enough for now. When Mr. Finebourne is feeling stronger, you can both come into the office to make formal statements.”

  “Will we have to go to jail?” Victor’s voice trembled.

  “Based on what you’ve told us, you are both victims of extortion. That, plus your willingness to provide valuable information to aid in our investigation, will probably be enough to persuade the prosecutor to recommend probation or suspended sentences.”

  Victor’s face smoothed, and his shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, Agent Carlson. You have no idea what a relief it is to be free of this onerous situation.”

  “You shouldn’t consider yourselves free just yet. It would be safer for you to continue your arrangement as before until the indictments come down and arrests are made. The perpetrators are still at large and may retaliate if they believe you’re cooperating with the authorities. I would advise extreme caution.”

  Snowflake eased his way toward the door with Twitchy sidling behind him. “Uh, we have places we need to be, so if you don’t need us…”

  Jake stepped between them and the door. “Hold on.”

  “You got nothing on us,” Twitchy whined. “We just came to give Marty our best wishes.”

  “That may be, but you two heard his confession. If any additional attempts are made on his life, I’ll know who to blame, and you won’t be difficult to find.”

  Snowflake straightened. “Marty’s a sweet guy, and we don’t want any harm to come to him.”

  “Then we understand each other.”

  “We do.”

  Jake stepped aside and allowed them to leave. “We should be going, too, and let Mr. Finebourne rest.”

  Laurel asked Victor if he wanted a ride home, but he announced his attention to stay as long as hospital personnel allowed, so she left with Jake and Melody. When they got to the garage, Melody’s squad car was parked next to the entrance to the Emergency Department, in a space marked Official Vehicles Only. Jake and Laurel waited as she climbed in and took off with a wave before they headed to the first level of the descending ramp.

  Jake’s mind was busy sifting and sorting the detailed information they’d received from Martin. Melody had given him the tape from her recorder, and he needed to get it transcribed ASAP. Since his personal role was restricted to financial data, most of the information would need to be forwarded to the appropriate team members.

  He was also supposed to have dinner with Laurel tonight—he wanted to have dinner with Laurel tonight. He glanced at his watch and muttered a brief curse. “I’m afraid we’re already late for our date.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “I think we’d better postpone it. I’m still pretty rattled by the fire, and I’m sure you have work to do. Besides, I don’t have much appetite after listening to Martin and Victor.” She sighed and shook her head. “You think you know someone…” Then she turned her face and tilted it up to meet his gaze. Twin furrows separated her brows. “It’s been more than two weeks since Sergei left town with Richard’s body. Do you really think he’s behind the attacks on Martin?”

  Jake didn’t want to scare her, but he wouldn’t lie. “Based on Finebourne’s statement, I’d say it’s a possibility.”

  She dropped her gaze to the oil-stained concrete floor of the parking garage. “I’d managed to put him out of my mind.”

  Her soft voice, with its thread of anxiety, grabbed him. He slipped an arm around her back. “I don’t want you to worry, but promise me you’ll be careful.”

  Her body stiffened beneath his arm. “I’m always careful, and I’m getting pretty sick of it.”

  Good. She refuses to play the victim.

  He gave her a quick hug. “You were right—I do have some work I have to do tonight. But why don’t I give you a call when I’m leaving the office? If it’s not too late, I could stop by. I’ll even bring ice cream.”

  That earned him a smile. “I never turn down a good-looking guy bearing ice cream.”

  He grinned. “Be careful driving, and I’ll talk to you later.” He kissed her and waited as she climbed into her car and drove off before unlocking his truck.

  ****

  Laurel pulled out of the parking garage into a blinding deluge. She flipped on her wipers to their highest speed, but that only seemed to make things worse. At seven o’clock it was fully dark, and the headlights barely penetrated the black depths of the Del Monte forest. The hospital’s lighted sign was little more than a glowing blur. It had been spitting rain all day, and the forecasters had made noises about a big storm from the Gulf of Alaska be
aring down on the Central Coast, but she’d forgotten about it in the aftermath of the explosion and fire.

  A steady stream of cars crawled up the hill to the first stoplight for Carmel, then down again to the Ocean Avenue exit, kicking up heavy road spray despite the slow speeds. The farther south she drove, the lighter the traffic became as people peeled off to their homes in the Carmel Highlands. Soon there were no other lights on the road, only the solid yellow stripe as far as her headlights would reach. To make the drive even more challenging, the wind off the ocean had picked up, ripping small branches from the huge cypress trees and tossing them across the highway.

  Laurel’s hands ached from gripping the wheel, and a dull pain throbbed behind her eyes. Her thoughts kept drifting to Sergei and how to get him out of her life once and for all. She now had proof he was part of a Russian crime gang, and he knew where she lived. Without the means to threaten him, her only choice was to either give him what he wanted or convince him she didn’t have it.

  When she finally pulled off the highway, she was surprised to see the Earthy Delights’ parking lot empty. People must be taking the weather warnings seriously. She turned onto the gravel drive to the house and parked as close to the garage as possible. If anything, the rain was worse, and the wind jerked the car door from her fingers, slamming it with a bang. She bent her head and gripped the handrail like a lifeline as she pulled herself up the stairs.

  Inside, her apartment was warm, cozy, and dry. She flipped the switch and breathed a sigh of relief when the pendant lights in the kitchen turned on. After changing into dry clothes, she plugged her phone into its charger and threw together a quick dinner, just in case the power went out.

  As soon as she sat down to eat, Rufus jumped onto her lap and snuggled his big, furry head against her stomach. He’d never liked storms, and the wind-driven rain sounded like a barrage of BB pellets against the roof and west-facing windows. Laurel absently rubbed his head with her free hand while she ate, her mind on Richard’s missing flash drive.