Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) (21 page)

“Good morning,” a pleasant-looking older man said, greeting the agent. “We are serving lunch. Just one?”

“No, thank you.” Lightman showed the somewhat startled restaurateur his shield. “We’re checking with merchants in the area. Have you ever seen this man?”

The restaurateur bent forward, bringing his eyes close to the picture. His head came back up, nodding, a concerned look on his face. “Yes. Nick.”

Yes!
“He’s been in here before?”

“Many times,” the man answered, seeming surprised at the question. “His office is next door.”

“His
office
?”

“Yes.” The man gestured in the direction from which Lightman had come. “Is he in trouble?”

“Right next door?” Lightman asked, trying not to seem excited.

“Yes. But he has not been there in a while. Is he all right?”

“I’ll be back, sir. We’re going to need to get a statement from you.” Lightman walked back the way he had come, stopping at the darkened office of Birch and Associates, or so the gold stencil on the glass front door said. He cupped both hands around his eyes and pressed close to the glass, examining the interior of the small office. There wasn’t much to see. A desk, with no phone on it or anywhere in sight. A chair.
One
chair, actually. Some in/out boxes, all empty. Pictures on the wall, though they looked like they could have come with the place.

A front
. It wasn’t hard to come to that conclusion, and Lightman had already solidified the conjecture as he raced back to the Chevy, motioning to Espinosa. He had the cell in hand, the desired speed-dial button already pressed, as his fellow agent came up. But the first words about the discovery were spoken to a very pleased senior agent quite a distance to the south.

*  *  *

“Seymour,” John Barrish said, his time on hold longer than anytime he could recall. The relationship had changed, apparently. Was the Jew still his defender? It didn’t really matter. He needed only one final thing from the legal zealot.

“John.”

“I need to see you. It’s important.”

There was a pause, paper shuffling, the springs of an old chair creaking. “About what?”

There was no need altering the John Barrish Seymour Mankowitz had come to know. No need for sweet-talking. “Dammit, Seymour! You know I can’t talk over the phone.”

More hesitation. “All right. Let me check my—”

“No. I pick the time. This could be a problem, Seymour. A big one. And I’m not going to talk to any of your cohorts about this. You hear it first.”

“All right. All right. When?”

“Wednesday morning. Eight o’clock, at your office.”

A pencil scratched out the notation in an appointment book before the leather cover closed with a
slap
. “I’ll be here.” Mankowitz wanted to hang up, wanted to be done with John Barrish once and for all. He had already requested that he be removed from the case. Let some other eager young attorney have his turn with the man. But, this unexpected call did make him wonder... “John, are you in trouble?”

Perfect
. Give the crusader a crusade and he’d be on board. It was going to be a short ride, though. “I can’t tell you until Wednesday. Eight, okay?”

“I’ll be here.”

John Barrish hung up and smiled. “I won’t,” he said to the empty living room. “But someone will.”

*  *  *

The door to Birch and Associates was already open when Art and Frankie arrived.

“Who issued the warrant?” Art asked.

“Guess who?” Lightman answered with his own knowing inquiry. “Judge Horner. He works at home Mondays, just up the road toward the mountains in Pearblossom. One of the marshals clued us in.”

“Good work.” Art walked into the remarkably small office. Frankie was already further in, probing the back of the small space.

“We’ve got two more confirmations on Kostin,” Lightman reported. “Omar is getting their statements right now. A lady across the street at a tailor, and a mechanic from the Mobil station on the corner.”

Art walked around the desk, which faced the glass walls at the building’s front. “Did you check this out yet?”

“Bottom file drawer on the right,” Lightman answered.

The drawer slid out with a screech. “Well, well, well.”

“I did a quick count, with gloves on,” Lightman said. “Twelve thousand dollars in fifties. Another five thousand in hundreds. They’re bundled in groups.”

“Make sure they stay that way,” Art directed. Separate, distinct bundles could be tied to withdrawals or known amounts of cash. But then they had to know who and where it came from first. This might make that easier, especially if Royce or his company made any withdrawals or transfers that corresponded to the cash bundles.

“Nothing in back,” Frankie said. “I wonder what ‘Birch and Associates’ means.”

“It was the name of the business in here before Kostin moved in, according to the neighbors,” Lightman explained. “Birch was an accountant.”

Frankie noticed the drawer full of green. “I doubt he left that when he vacated.”

“Hal, get the keys Kostin had at his place,” Art said. “I think Jacobs has them. Do a match on this door. I want more than eyeball witnesses to place him here.”

“Okay.”

“You know,” Frankie began, “Freddy had some keys on him when he bit it.”

“That’s right,” Art said.

“A transfer point,” Lightman suggested. “Someone brings the money here, then Kostin and Freddy could pick up whatever was needed.”

Frankie looked around the unimpressive room. “This isn’t a real secure place to use as a storage site for money.”

“An acceptable risk,” Art responded, pointing to the drawer. “There’s obviously more where that came from.” But one risk might not have been acceptable to one man. “You know, if this was a transfer point for our two dead guys to pick up cash, that would mean Royce would have had to do the delivering.”

“No way,” Frankie said, her head shaking. “If he was giving over the money there’s no way he would put himself close to anything linked to Kostin. Remember, he was the conscientious employer who fired the guy...supposedly.”

“Allen, then?” Art wondered. “The money went from Royce to him, then here for pickup. Possible?”

Frankie sneered mildly at the suggestion. “That would still put Royce with a known felon...unless there was a no-contact pass in between. A locker somewhere. Someplace else, maybe. I just don’t think Royce would have allowed himself to be put in the same place with someone who might later turn up dirty. Not Mr. Clean.”

“It got here,” Art said. “Just like it got to Kostin’s house.” He looked directly to Lightman. “Fit this into things, Hal. Run down the place. Show Allen’s and Royce’s pictures to the neighbors.”

“Right.”

“This adds a little more sophistication to things, partner,” Frankie observed as Hal left the office. Outside a line of yellow tape and two sheriffs’ black-and-whites kept the lookie-loos at bay.

Art looked at the barren desktop, tapping it with a stiff finger. “Allen couldn’t have thought this up. Kostin either. And Royce?” His head shook.

“Barrish,” Frankie said.

“There is a link,” Art insisted. “There has to be. Something we can use to get around the constitutional booby traps.”

“Give Hal and Omar a while to piece this place into things,” Frankie suggested.

“A day here and a day there, partner. Time’s our enemy.”

It was a true analysis, Frankie knew, one that bothered her the entire drive back over the mountains into the City of Angels.

*  *  *

“That was the best meal I have had in years!” Art said, leaning back in his chair. The eyes of Felicia Griggs said “thank you,” while those of his significant other expressed a quite different sentiment. “The best healthy meal, hon. I mean...”

“Stop before that hole gets any deeper,” Anne suggested with a stern, motherly look. She turned to Felicia. “I’m from the meat and potatoes school of cooking. You know. Fat and cholesterol.”

Felicia laughed softly as she removed the plates from the dining room table. “Well, Darren said you had mentioned that Art was partial to...this kind of food. I have to admit I’m a pot roast chef at heart, but I figured I could come up with something fairly healthy.”

“Why do I feel like an alien?” Art asked, laughing fully after a second. “It’s not like I eat dirt.”

“Close enough,” Anne responded. “But this was delicious, Felicia. The snow peas were wonderful. How do you get them crisp without burning them?”

“A secret from a Chinese restaurant we...that we’ve gone to.” She picked up a few more dishes. “Come on in the kitchen and I’ll share the secret.”

Anne gathered the remaining plates and followed Felicia through a set of swinging saloon doors, leaving the menfolk at the table.

“I could eat like that every night,” Art commented.

“Yeah,” Darren agreed softly. He was feeling emotion. Not overpowering, just enough to remind him how wonderful normal really was. “Trust me, though, you can put on the weight real easy with her regular meals. Me, I could weigh twice as much if I let myself. Sometimes I slap a burger on the grill just to eat light.”

Art chuckled. “Twice a year I get my treats. A bacon chili cheese dog from—”

“Pinks.”

Art beamed. “A kindred spirit.”

“Have you ever had that thing they wrap up in two big tortillas? Two hot dogs, I think, and chili.”

“And everything else. Yeah.” Art glanced toward the kitchen and lowered his voice. “Treat time is coming up in a few weeks. I’ve got my partner hooked on the cuisine now. You’re welcome to join us.”

“You’re on,” Darren said with his own mischievous look toward the kitchen. A sound from the front room, though, drew his attention away.

Moises Griggs stopped a few feet inside the house, his eyes going left toward the dining room.
Who the hell are you?

“Moises,” Darren said, loud enough that Felicia was passing him in a split second.

“Moises!” Felicia stopped a foot from her son and reached gingerly for him, laying a hand on his dirty jacket.

Darren swallowed hard, wanting to both cry and scream. But he could do neither. There was only one thing he could do. “It’s good to have you home, son.”

Moises looked away from his father, and avoided his mother’s stare altogether. He did, however, give the two strangers in the dining room a curious look. But there was no time for introductions, and no need for them. “I’m not staying long. I just came to get some clothes.”

“No!” Felicia shrieked. “Moises!” Her hands grabbed at the soiled collar of his jacket. “You can’t!”

Anne pressed past the two men and came up on Felicia easily from behind, easing two hands on her shoulders. The stare of the young man fell on her as he peeled his mother’s hands from his clothing.

Darren glared at his son.
You little bastard. If I...

“Felicia, come on,” Anne said as the woman’s head dropped, tears already dropping to the floor.

Darren started to step forward, but a hand pressed firmly on his chest. He looked left into the eyes of Art Jefferson. They were pained. Filled with a sort of rage, even, but in control.
Control
. That was what was needed now.

Moises left the front room and headed for his bedroom down the hall. Art was a few steps behind.

“Are you an actor?”

Moises jerked his head back from where he knelt next to his dresser. “What?”

“Nice performance out there,” Art commented, stepping into the boy’s room. “It takes a good actor to put on a tough-guy show like that. Especially for your mother.”

Moises looked away and stuffed assorted pieces of clothing into a large gym bag.

“Are you a tough guy?”

“Fuck yourself.”

Anatomically impossible, Art thought, and so common as an insult that it no longer held even the slightest sting. “Tough guys are an interesting bunch, you know? They can talk up anything. Make themselves sound tougher than stone. But that’s all words, son.”

“Excuse me?” Moises said caustically. “Were you talking?”
And I’m not your son. I’m no one’s son.

Art reached under his jacket and unclipped his shield from his belt, tossing it on the bed close at the boy’s side. “I know tough.”

Moises paused and looked at the badge, shifting only his eyes to do so.
FBI?

“You wanna know tough? I can tell you tough.” Art walked forward and picked up his shield.

“Look, I’m getting outta here. Okay? I just gotta go.” Moises continued his packing. “I just gotta...”

“Those people out there care about you, and I barely know them. I can see it.”

They’re weak.

“They’ve been through a lot.”

Tanya went through more.

“They just want to help.”

They just want to forget. I can’t.
Moises took a little cash that he had stashed in a drawer and shoved it in his pocket before zipping up the gym bag. He stood and turned to leave, but Art Jefferson was blocking his path. “You can’t make me stay.”

“This isn’t the way, son,” Art said, recognizing the look in the boy’s eyes. He knew what came from that kind of look.

Moises pushed his way past the much taller man and headed back toward the front room, a loud cry from his mother preceding the slamming of the front door by just a second.

“Dammit,” Art said to himself. If there was one thing the world didn’t need it was another black kid gone over the edge to waste his life. But he was witness to just that occurrence. He knew it. And he was powerless to stop it. “Goddammit.”

ELEVEN

Creatures Not Stirring

Thirty .45-caliber rounds spat from the fat, suppressed barrel of the Ingram M-11 in less than two seconds, chewing up the squat trunk of the felled juniper.

“Whoa,” Moises exclaimed calmly, though clearly enamored of the power projected by the compact submachine gun.

Darian ejected the spent magazine as smoke wafted from the business end of the Ingram and inserted a full one. He held it out to Moises. “Here. Try it.”

Moises took hold of the weapon by its pistol grip, which ran perpendicular to the box-shaped body indicative of the Ingram and that doubled as the magazine housing. His off hand held the cylindrical suppressor, which was covered by a pad intended to dissipate the thermal energy radiated during firing. “I pull this back, right?”