Denouement Page 6

  Hank and I walked to Faust.

  He clicked off from his phone call. “I have people coming,” he said.

  “This is the guy we just talked to in the car?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Faust leaned back on the couch. “He gave me the five oh five.”

  “Which is?” Hank asked.

  “SOS. Whoever did this was here while we were talking to him, Kane.”

  I walked over to the deceased agent. He had short brown hair, and his face was thin and recently shaved. Blood covered the side of his face that his eye had been liberated from—the blood continued down his blue button-up shirt. His tan slacks were torn a bit in the right knee and smudged. The bruising on the other side of his face indicated he’d been beaten. Above his puffed-up left eye were a pair of two-inch gashes that hung open a solid quarter of an inch each. I looked at the protrusion at the side of his neck that had caught my eye when we entered. It might have been his spine. I took a step back and looked at the way his head was hanging. It was off center and too low to his chest.

  Faust and Hank came to my side.

  “So this was your buyer for the contact’s name?” I asked.

  Hank looked at me, confused.

  “Yeah,” Faust said.

  “So both agents who met with Andrei Azarov are dead. Pretty easy to deduce that their covers were blown,” I said.

  Faust said nothing.

  “What do you think he was being questioned about?” I asked.

  “Questioned?” Faust asked.

  “The eye. That doesn’t strike me as something that would be done unless someone was trying to extract information.”

  “I don’t know,” Faust said.

  Pax walked into the condo and up to us. “Hey, Lieutenant, Sergeant Rawlings,” he said.

  “Pax,” Hank said.

  I gave Pax a nod.

  Pax wore a pair of jeans and some kind of heavy-metal-band T-shirt under a lab coat. He scratched at his peach-fuzz-covered chin and set his kit down on the granite island. “This is, um, interesting,” Pax said and nodded to the deceased agent.

  “He was FBI,” I said. “Hold on a second before you get started, Pax.”

  I looked at Faust. “Pax here is one of our forensics guys. What are we doing? Are you guys taking this, or are we?” I asked.

  Faust rubbed his eyes. “I have to put my guys on it, Kane.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  I motioned for Pax to head out. Hank and I headed for the door.

  “Kane, wait up,” Faust said.

  I stopped at the door and walked back to him.

  “We’re both going to be after the same guy, aren’t we?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Brumfeld was shot in the head and heart. Azarov has killed two people before in identical fashion. Plus, we have this.” I pointed to the dead agent. “Do you know, physically, what is involved in breaking someone’s neck like that? Whoever did that—”

  “I know,” Faust said, interrupting.

  “Okay, well, I’m not backing off of going after Azarov,” I said. “And I know you won’t back off of finding whoever killed your men.”

  “We’ll make it work. We need to know if it’s him, without question, before we do anything. Why don’t you get your forensics guy back in here.”

  I nodded.

  Chapter 10

  We wrapped up at the condo just after four o’clock and headed back to the station. Rick had confirmed Ray’s prints on the revolver that killed Brumfeld. I called Faust to share the information with him immediately and to give him the number of the prepaid phone I was using. He said he’d give me a ring if he got anything. We were still waiting for the fingerprint analysis from Dupold’s condo. Pax had lifted prints from the various spots in the residence and was running them downstairs in the lab, the last I’d heard.

  Faust had his guys make copies and bring over all the phone records they had—a full two-foot-by-two-foot box. We had records for eight different people going back a couple months. I was thankful that the FBI had already been through a good portion of them and we had names and addresses next to each number. A cover sheet paper clipped to the front of each person’s stack showed the most frequently called numbers and what the FBI’s level of interest was on the individual. Hank and I had split the pile and started the daunting task of weeding through each phone number, along with who it belonged to, one by one.

  The first associate in my stack was a Yakov Mishutin. I pulled his sheet. He was a thirty-two year old convict from Miami. Apparently, he had a person-of-interest rating of six. What six meant, I didn’t know. Apparently, he liked to call a local escort service, a number for the time and weather, and his mother.

  I was half an inch into my pile on him, looking for any Tampa numbers, when my desk phone rang. I scooped it up.

  “Lieutenant Kane,” I answered.

  “Hey, it’s Pax.”

  “Did you get a match on any prints?” I asked.

  “Yup. I have Azarov’s prints on Dupold’s cell phone.” Pax was merely confirming what I’d already known.

  “Okay. Did you call someone over at the FBI to let them know?”

  “It’s my next call. Faust gave me the information on who to contact there. I’m supposed to send them copies of whatever I find. I’m about to do that now.”

  “Thanks, Pax.”

  “No problem, Lieutenant.”

  I hung up and rocked back in my chair.

  Hank tapped on my door and walked in. “Have you seen Bostok?” he asked.

  “No.” I glanced over my shoulder at his office. The lights were on, but it was empty. “I’m sure he’s floating around somewhere. What’s up?”

  “Nothing important. I just need the morning off next Wednesday to see the dentist.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” I said.

  “What time are you staying until?” he asked.

  I glanced over at the clock, which was pushing six o’clock. “I don’t know. Saturday, maybe,” I said.

  “Are you camping out here?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know if Azarov is planning on coming after me or not, but I’m not giving him the opportunity either way. This time around, I’m going to be the one coming out of the shadows at him.”

  Hank pointed at the stack of papers. “See anything of interest in your numbers?”

  I shrugged. “Not really.”

  Hank took a seat across from me. “Yeah, me either. I got through two of the guys. Nothing there, that I could tell.”

  “You got through two? Hell, I’m not even done with my first.”

  “One of the guys was only like five pages. Anyway, I’m going to have to bug out soon. Karen is going to be late tonight, and I need to feed Porkchop. I can pop back in for a few hours after that and try to finish up.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Hank. You don’t need to come back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, go home and relax. Deal with the puppy. Bring me what’s left of your phone records, and I’ll get it taken care of.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked again.

  “Yeah, its fine.”

  “Okay.”

  Hank disappeared from my office and returned a moment later with his portion of the records. “These guys I looked into.” He waved the papers he held in his left hand. “These guys I haven’t.” He held up the papers in his right hand. “Where do you want them?”

  “Stick the ones you’ve already gone over in that box there.” I nodded toward the box.

  Hank complied. I grabbed the ones he hadn’t gotten to and put them on the stack I needed to complete.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come out and crash at my place tonight? Better than sleeping on the old couch in here,” Hank said.

  “Ooh, while the thought of Porkchop barfing on me while I sleep or pissing in my shoes is tempting, I think I’ll stick with my trusty couch here.”

  Hank smiled
. “All right, Kane. The offer stands if you feel like showing up later.”

  “Thanks, Hank.”

  He stood and left my office.

  I dug back into the phone numbers and finished with Yakov Mishutin within ten minutes. I filed his records in the “completed” box on my desk. Then I moved on to Mark Popov and pulled his sheet. He was also a convict, and his sheet showed multiple prison stretches for fraud, assault, and drugs. In his midforties, Popov lived in Lakeland, a city halfway between Tampa and Orlando.

  “That’s a little closer,” I said.

  I read over the notes on the cover sheet. The FBI’s interest level on him was a twenty-six. I held up my hands in question, realizing I’d need to get a hold of Faust to make heads or tails out of their internal ranking system of interest. I looked over Popov’s most frequently called numbers. One belonged to Yakov Mishutin while the other two were takeout restaurants in Lakeland—no help. I started in on the called numbers one by one.

  Ten minutes into the list, I was interrupted by knuckles tapping at my office door. Bostok walked in. “Hey, I’m heading out. Do you need anything?”

  I raised my eyes. “I think I’m good. Hank was looking for you. I guess he needs next Wednesday morning off to go to the dentist.”

  “Yeah, that should be fine.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “Are those your phone records from the feds?” Bostok asked.

  “Yeah, I’m just going to keep plugging away on them until I make some headway.”

  “Are you staying here tonight?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Do what you have to do, but at least make an attempt to sleep.”

  “I will.”

  “You know that meeting you and Rawlings walked in on this morning?”

  I rocked my head back. “Yeah, again, sorry.”

  “No need for apologies. I got the major seat. That meeting was them offering it to me. I was just upstairs finalizing everything until a couple of minutes ago. It’s a done deal. I get the office on the first.”

  I slid back my chair, stood, and walked over. I shook Bostok’s hand. “Congrats, Major.”

  He smiled. “I could be congratulating you soon. How are you coming with what I gave you for the captain’s test?”

  “Honestly, Cap, I haven’t gotten into it. It’s kind of been a whirlwind since I got word on Azarov. And now with dead FBI agents and trying to find Ray—”

  The captain held out his hand, stopping me. “You just let me know. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Bostok rapped his knuckles on my door. “We’ll catch up in the morning.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Bostok turned to leave.

  “Hey, Cap. One more thing.”

  He stopped in the hall and turned back. “Yeah?”

  “What happened with Iler?” I asked

  “The DA is still in the process of working out something with his attorney on the charges, but right now Iler is in lockup. It’s not looking good for him.”

  “Good,” I said.

  Bostok nodded, turned, and left. I headed back to my desk and sat.

  I let out a long breath. “Okay, Mark Popov. Who have you been calling?”

  I dug back into the numbers but found nothing of interest after an hour of checking. Frustration was setting in. My eyes grew tired of staring at numbers and reading some FBI agent’s chicken-scratch handwriting next to each. When I looked at the clock, it showed a few minutes after eight. I reached for my desk phone and dialed Callie. She answered within a couple rings.

  “Hey, babe,” she said.

  “Hey, Cal. How is everything?”

  “We’re just sitting here, under guard, locked in a hotel suite.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”

  “It could be worse, I guess. How is everything there? Any news?” she asked.

  “None good,” I said.

  “What happened?”

  I told her about the agents. I told her that Ray was behind their deaths, and that there would be no meeting where the outcome would be him in custody. She went quiet.

  “I’m sorry, Cal. Just know that I’m doing whatever I can to find him. Faust, I’m sure, has countless men on it as well. We’ll get him and get you guys out of there.”

  “I know, Carl,” she said. “I just want you to be safe.”

  “I will. I’ll call you guys in the morning.”

  “Okay, I love you,” she said.

  “I love you too.” I hung up and pushed off from the corner of my desk. My chair slid back on its casters and rocked. I balled my fists and pressed them together. My knuckles cracked.

  My family being holed up in a hotel was eating at me. Without the meeting with Azarov, I didn’t know how long they would need to remain there. Faust putting them up was a personal favor, off the books. The two agents he’d put on them wouldn’t stay there forever. We needed a break in finding Ray—any hint of a trail we could follow. I gave my burning eyes a rub. I needed a coffee to make it more than another ten minutes of staring at numbers, so I made for the lunch room to get my caffeine fix.

  With two tall cups of coffee at the corner of my desk, I got back to the task at hand.

  I blasted through the first ten pages. The next ten were a little slower, and I still found nothing of interest. On the thirty-third page of the records, something finally caught my eye, a call made to a time-and-weather number in Miami. I pulled Mishutin’s phone records back from the box I’d placed them in and checked the number. It was a match.

  “Now what would you be calling that number for?”

  I pulled up the phone number in my computer’s search engine. The first result was a website called MiamiTandW. I clicked on the link. The page opened to a website looking as if it had been designed sometime in the nineties. The page showed the local time, date, and weather, with the phone number in the top right corner, the same one as on my sheet of records. I didn’t find any additional pages to click or any other information on the website. I grabbed my desk phone and dialed the number. The recording told me the time and temperature, said goodbye, and then beeped in my ear. I hung up. The service appeared to be just what it was—the number and the website. It gave you the time and temperature, nothing more or less. I finished with Popov’s records and filed them in the box.

  I spent another two fruitless hours going over the next person’s records and realized I couldn’t do any more. My eyes were on fire. The remaining records would have to wait until morning.

  I slid back from my desk, walked to the couch, and plugged in my cell phone nearby to charge. I debated checking in with Faust for an update but resisted the urge. If he had anything new, he would have called as he said he would. I closed my eyes, fluffed the old couch pillow behind my head, and searched for sleep.

  Chapter 11

  Ray walked across the grass toward the Westchase home. Large oak trees broke up the football-field-sized lawn at the front. Ray looked left and right, noting that the agent had a few acres of property. The landscaping lights from the closest neighbors’ house were half a block away. The neighbor’s house itself was dark. The time of night and distance ensured they wouldn’t hear Ray’s gunshots.

  He approached the front of Faust’s house, which didn’t fit in with the standard Florida architecture of a cinderblock square covered in stucco. Faust’s house was a big colonial-styled two story. Ray entered the front-porch area. Ceiling fans spun in the darkness over Ray’s head, creating a breeze. He examined the front door, which appeared to be some kind of solid hardwood with a deadbolt—no window. Ray didn’t have a lock-picking kit with him and figured entry through the thick front door would wake the agent. He caught a glance inside as he passed the benches on the front porch. The house was dark. Ray made a left toward the back of the house in search of an easier point of entry.

  A screened-in lanai attached to the house covered a lap pool at the back. Ray found
the door, thumbed the button on the handle, and entered. He looked past the pool and patio set toward the sliding doors and windows. Again, he saw no lights on inside the home. Ray went to the sliding doors. A doormat lay just in front of the one on the right. He reached out and tried to slide the door, but it didn’t budge—locked. Ray pressed his palms against the glass, lifted the door off its lock, and slid it to the side. He smirked.

  Ray stepped into the house and reached into his jacket for the Desert Eagle in his shoulder holster. He slid the gun out and then fished his other hand through his pocket for the small LED flashlight he’d brought. He pulled it out and clicked the button to illuminate the room.

  Ray stood in what appeared to be a dining room. A small table and four chairs stood before him. He aimed the beam of light to the left. A large stainless refrigerator was directly at his shoulder. Beyond the refrigerator, the flashlight shone off of a long granite-topped kitchen island holding a range top. Ray swept the beam of light from left to right. A large arched walkway led from the kitchen out to a living room, and directly before him was a hall leading to the front door of the house—a stairway leading up was just to the front door’s right. He started down the hall, letting the light from the flashlight guide his way.

  Ray made a right at the front door and started up the stairs. He kept the light pointed down and the gun pointed up. Ray neared the top of the steps and flashed the light up against the wall beyond the top stair. The hallway appeared to only turn right. A closed door sat to the left of the stairs. Ray flicked off the light.

  He stepped up the top stair and turned. Before Ray could react, the gun was ripped from his hand, and he took a blow to the face. Ray stumbled back into the wall with the closed door. He felt another blow to his right ear—hard. That had to have been a kick. Ray took two steps right to catch his balance. Then he took a third, but his foot didn’t find floor. He caught the second stair down and reached out for the stairwell’s handrail. He caught it just before he fell backward down the steps. A blow to his chest ripped his grip away from the handrail. Ray felt weightless, flying back through the air. His body crashed hard three quarters of the way down the steps. His momentum took him feet over head down the remaining steps into the wall at the bottom. Ray’s breath left his lungs, and he came to rest in a seated position with his back against the wall. He faced the stairwell leading up and tried to pull his feet under himself to stand. He also tried to take air into his lungs.