51 

CARLOS AND JOE sat in Captain Regan’s office; Lieutenant Grover, who commanded the LAPD Homicide squad, sat in, too.

“You got the ballistics report?” Carlos asked.

“I did. Now we need to put a name to the bullet.”

“I think we’ve got that,” Carlos said, handing him the photograph from Kasov’s trailer. “Look at the back.”

The captain did, then showed it to Grover.

“The guy in the trailer has to be the younger one, Sergei,” Carlos said.

“He’s our cop killer,” Grover said.

“Pull out all the stops on this Sergei,” Regan said. “Do we have a motive for the cop shootings?”

“We’ve got the connection,” Carlos said. “Dimitri and Sergei are brothers. As for the motive . . .”

“It’s bizarre that this Sergei would shoot the cops who were investigating his brother’s death.”

“It certainly is,” Carlos agreed. “Maybe he wants to find the killer himself, before the cops can.”

“That’s thin,” Grover said, “but I think it works.”

“Do we have a sheet on Sergei?” the captain asked.

“No, sir,” Carlos replied. “We tried the FBI database, too. There’s nothing on him. Never served in the military, either.”

“He’s gotta live somewhere,” the captain said. “Check the utility databases—everybody has an electric bill.”

“Already done, sir. You want an opinion, I think the guy lives in motels and rooming houses and pays cash. He doesn’t have any credit cards, either, unless they’re in another name. He doesn’t own a car registered in the United States. There’s no record of a cell phone, either, but he’d need one to do business. How else could his customers get in touch?”

“Good point. How did Dimitri’s customers contact him?”

“He had the usual paper trail of a solid citizen—property, utilities, bank account, investment account. He had half a dozen cars registered in his name. He wouldn’t be hard to find for anybody who had his name.”

“There’s another possibility on Sergei,” Joe Rossi said. “He could have been living and working in another country—Russia, the Ukraine, Eastern Europe.”

“Then check with Interpol,” the captain said. “Check with immigration, too, see if he entered the country recently.” He handed back the photograph. “See if the FBI can use their software to age the kid. Maybe we’ll get something we can circulate.”

“We’re on it, sir,” Carlos replied. The meeting broke up, and he and Joe went to work.

•   •   •

TEDDY SET DOWN the Mustang at Santa Monica Airport as the sun was sinking into the Pacific, then taxied to the hangar, chocked the airplane, and transferred their bags to his car, parked in the hangar.

“So, where are we vacationing?” Sally asked, as they drove out of the hangar, leaving the airplane to be put away by a lineman with a tractor.

“Wait and see,” he said. He took the I-10, then the I-405 to Sunset Boulevard, then drove to Stone Canyon Road and turned left, passing the Bel-Air Hotel. A couple of minutes later they were at the gate to the Arrington.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Barnett,” the guard said, looking at his driver’s license. “They’re expecting you at the Barrington cottage. Do you know the way?”

“I do, thanks.” He drove up the hill and came to a stop in front of the house.

“Cottage?” Sally asked, looking at the house.

“That’s what very rich people call big houses,” Teddy said. A butler appeared, introduced himself, and got their things inside and upstairs.

“All the comforts of home,” Sally said, looking around their spacious room. “Who does this belong to?”

“Stone Barrington,” Teddy said. “We had dinner with him last night, remember?”

“Of course I do. Is there a pool?”

“A very nice one,” Teddy replied.

“Do I need a swimsuit?”

“Take a robe, just in case. Once there, you’re safe, except from me.”

Sally started peeling off clothes.

•   •   •

CARLOS AND JOE sat at a large computer monitor with a split screen. On one side was an Interpol photograph of Sergei Kasov; on the other, the FBI aging of his childhood photo.

“Pretty good software, huh?” Joe said. “Without the hair, he’s a ringer for the real guy.”

“Born Leningrad, thirty-nine years ago,” Carlos read from his sheet. “Educated in a private academy associated with the KGB, then on to their college. A full-fledged agent from the age of twenty-one until the breakup of the Soviet Union, then a freelancer.”

“Good training for a killer,” Joe replied. He typed the name into the Immigration & Naturalization database. “Entered the country at L.A. International a week ago,” he read. “He must have been staying with his brother.”

“There’s a team out there now, taking apart the trailer.”

“He must have gotten the gun from Dimitri. He could be driving one of his cars, too. Run Dimitri’s name through the DMV database and see if there’s a car missing from his collection.”

Joe did some typing. “Here we go—a two-year-old Prius. Lots of those in L.A. I’ll add the plates to the APB.”

“This guy’s not going to last long,” Carlos said. “We’ve got him bracketed, now.”

•   •   •

TEDDY AND SALLY had a good dinner in Stone’s study and drank some wine. “You sleepy?” she asked him.

“Not yet. You go on to bed, I’ll be up in a while.” He gave her time to get to sleep, then he went outside, got into the car, and drove out to Malibu. He drove slowly past his house, and a couple of doors down, he saw something he had never seen in his immediate neighborhood: a BMW motorcycle. He drove down to the Village, then turned around and drove back. The motorcycle was gone. He made a U-turn and went back to the restaurant where he and Sally had dined a few nights ago. He parked in their lot, then went into the restaurant and out onto their deck, from which there was access to the beach.

He walked down the beach toward his house. He walked past it, looking for unwanted company, but saw only one couple walking barefoot on the wet sand. Then he doubled back. He pressed a hidden switch under his deck, and a staircase came down. At the bottom he took off his shoes and climbed the stairs. He paused where his head was level with the deck, then stood, watching and listening for any sign of anybody at his property. He saw and heard nothing.

Satisfied, he went up the stairs and let himself in through the sliding door.

•   •   •

CARLOS E-MAILED THE PHOTO and sheet to Regan and Grover. “The picture will help with the APB. All we have to do now is wait for him to be picked up.”