Love me to death

THIRTEEN

Sean left the city early Saturday morning and drove an hour to an assisted living facility in Baltimore to meet Dustin Fong, another former employee of Trask Enterprises, who had been with the company longer than any other employee.

Fong could barely remember his own name let alone who Roger Morton was. The staff nurse said he’d been shot in the head and left for dead four years ago. He had no memories and while he could function on a minimal level, he had the attention span of a five-year-old. His only visitor was his sister, who came the first weekend of every month from her home in Maine. She’d been there on Sunday, January 2, and before that Saturday, December 4.

Sean crossed him off his list-he’d been promising on paper, but if he had any valuable information, it had been destroyed by the bullet. Roger couldn’t have gotten anything from him. Had the sister been in D.C. during the window of time Morton was there, Sean would have tracked her down, but it didn’t seem likely. He sent Jayne at RCK West an email to check out Danielle Fong Clements and her husband, Bruce, just to cover his bases, but neither name had come up as a possible associate of Morton or Scott, then or now.

Sean drove back toward the city, stopping at a club in Silver Spring owned by Sergey Yuran, a known trafficker. Yuran brought in whatever was in demand from Russia: prostitutes, drugs, or weapons.

Sean’s brother Duke would never have let him talk to Sergey alone. But one thing Sean had that Duke didn’t was the ability to hide his emotions and play the game. Duke wouldn’t have been able to disguise his loathing of the criminal. Though the club didn’t open for another couple hours, the door was unlocked. Sean walked in, face blank, leaving his judgment at the door.

He assessed the club within seconds; five booths were occupied, but the scarred, good-looking blond man in the back sitting with an illegal Russian-Sean could tell simply by how she responded to a stranger walking in-was Sergey Yuran.

There were four bodyguards in the room at every entrance and one next to Yuran. Overkill, in Sean’s opinion, but it would give Yuran the sense of complete control in any situation because he had multiple shields. It also told Sean that Yuran was paranoid. He tucked that tidbit away for future use as he approached the largest of the four and handed him a business card. “Sean Rogan to see Mr. Yuran.”

The bodyguard told him to stay, and Sean obeyed. Now wasn’t the time for sudden movements or disagreements.

He didn’t make any pretenses of ignoring the exchange, but watched the bodyguard approach Sergey Yuran and hand him Sean’s business card. Yuran had a poker face, but his feet gave him away. They went from crossed at the ankles to flat-footed under the table. No other part of his body registered a reaction. He spoke low, in Russian, and the bodyguard returned.

“Mr. Yuran asked if you have a death wish.”

“No sir, I do not.” He didn’t elaborate, and instead waited for the bodyguard to ask the next question.

“What business do you have with Mr. Yuran?”

“Personal,” Sean said.

The bodyguard stared and didn’t move. This game could go on all day, and usually Sean would enjoy the challenge, but he didn’t have the time.

“I want to know if Mr. Yuran had Roger Morton killed last Friday night. If so, I’d like to shake his hand and thank him. If not, I’d like to know who did, so I can shake their hand.”

His blunt response had the bodyguard show a rare, albeit brief, look of surprise. He left Sean again, though two guards moved in to flank him.

When the big guy returned, he ordered Sean to turn around and submit to a search. Sean complied. He wouldn’t get near Sergey Yuran with a weapon. “As long as I get them back,” he said.

“If you live, you will,” Big Guy said.

Fair enough.

Sean was relieved of his.45 and his backup.22. When the guy was done, Sean said loud enough for Yuran to hear, “You missed the H amp;K blade. Inside right pocket of the jacket.”

He couldn’t help himself, but it cost him. He was searched again, then a fist connected with his right kidney. He winced and closed his eyes a moment for the pain to pass.

The bodyguard led Sean to Yuran’s table. The Russian girl was gone. Whatever papers Yuran had been reading had also disappeared.

“You have balls, Mr. Rogan,” Yuran said in a heavy but understandable Russian accent. Sean knew it was fake. Yuran was Russian, but he’d been born and bred in the U.S.A.

“So I’ve been told.” He didn’t sit until the bodyguard motioned for him to do so. When he did, the guard moved to prevent him from suddenly leaving.

“Do you know who I am?”

“More or less.”

Yuran said, “Your brother put a hit out on me ten years ago.”

“You must have come to an agreement. You’re still alive.”

Sean had no idea which brother Sergey Yuran was talking about. It could have been Liam, since Liam was in Europe, but Liam wouldn’t have put out the hit. He’d most likely have killed Sergey himself, if he felt strongly about it, but Liam didn’t feel strongly about much of anything. He didn’t see Duke putting a hit out on anyone, even a cold criminal like Yuran, but Duke had surprised him in the past. Kane? The most likely.

But Sean didn’t ask. He knew whom to get the answer from later.

“Why do you come to speak to me?”

“Roger Morton was killed last week in Alexandria. Friday night, around midnight, take or leave.”

“If I had killed Mr. Morton, there would be no body to find.”

“I have no doubt. I didn’t think you killed him. He was in D.C. to meet with someone regarding a special business opportunity, similar to the business he ran with his dead partner, Adam Scott. You might know him as Trask.”

Sergey laughed heartily. “Ahh, Trask. He let women control him. Just because you kill a woman doesn’t make you a man. I suppose it was-what do those God people say? Divine providence? Fate? — that had one of his girls killing him in cold blood.”

Sean had to use every ounce of control not to react to Yuran calling Lucy one of Scott’s “girls.” Whether Yuran knew anything about Lucy or not, Sean didn’t know, but he didn’t want her on his radar. Yuran was watching Sean like a hawk while pretending to be more interested in the scantily clad female bartender working behind the bar.

“Why you come to me?” Yuran asked, sipping his drink. “Why risk your life? I could kill you and no one would find your body. It would be extremely satisfactory to send your head overseas.”

It had been Liam. What was he up to? Ten years ago? But that was a story for another day, because Sean had to focus on finding Morton’s killer and making sure that Lucy wasn’t in danger.

“Your name popped up as a former associate of Trask Enterprises. I’m not interested in your business. I’m only interested in finding out who Morton was meeting in D.C.”

Yuran was quiet, assessing Sean with a blatant interest, running through every possible scenario in his head. Sean knew because he often did the same thing.

“I have no reason to help you, Mr. Rogan.”

“Of course you do. It’ll be your good deed for the year.”

“I don’t do good deeds.”

“Might as well start now.”

He knew something. Sean felt it in his bones. Yuran stared at him for over a minute, then said, “I didn’t kill Roger. He wasn’t worth a bullet. But I did hear about a new venture. It wasn’t Roger asking, however.”

When Yuran didn’t continue, Sean barely restrained himself from prompting the Russian. There had been a subtle shift in the bodyguards behind him, but Sean didn’t feel that the threat level had been raised.

“Word came down from a scumbag named Ralston. I heard he was spreading the offer far and wide, and I don’t appreciate competing for business. I had Johan follow up-” Yuran looked at Mr. Big Guy. “What did you learn, Johan?”

“Ralston was full of shit.”

Yuran smiled. “Someone put the word out and used Ralston to do it, but when I showed interest, it dried up. Frankly, Mr. Rogan, if I may be blunt, I wanted to gut the prick for wasting my time. But I have a heart.”

Sean smiled and Yuran smiled back. Coldly.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Yuran.”

He stood. Big Guy didn’t budge until Yuran nodded so faintly Sean almost missed it.

“Mr. Rogan.”

Sean turned back to the trafficker.

“Tell your brother Liam I haven’t forgotten.”

A chill ran up Sean’s spine. He gave Yuran a faint nod, then retrieved his weapons.

When he reached the door, Yuran said, “The only reason you’re alive is because I know you haven’t seen your brother in fifteen years. Make it another fifteen.”

Lucy met Cody at the Starbucks on M Street during his lunch break.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting down as soon as he saw her.

“I need to talk to you about Brad Prenter’s murder.”

He stared at her with cop eyes, assessing, curious, and a bit worried. “You saw the paper.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know until this morning.”

“Did you know he was shot four times? Three times in the abdomen and once in the back of the head?”

He straightened. “How do you know that? It wasn’t released-” He caught himself. “You went to the morgue.”

“I read the autopsy report.”

“Why on earth would you do that? You could have asked me.”

“I wanted more information before we talked. He was supposed to be at the Firehouse, not Club 10. Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you? That Prenter was supposed to meet a girl at one club, and ends up twenty miles away and across the river at about the same time?”

“How do you know it was the same time?”

“Because he was killed between nine-thirty and ten. The article stated that he was in the bar hitting on a girl before he left with her-”

“Lucy, we talked about this last night. I thought we’d agreed that he had pegged the date with ‘Tanya’ as a setup.”

“I don’t know.” She frowned and stared at her coffee cup.

“Lucy?”

She glanced at him.

“Even though it’s popular, Club 10 is in the center of six blocks of bad streets,” Cody said. “There’s a mugging practically every night. Even two homicides just last month. They found drugs on him-I haven’t seen the lab reports, but maybe he was trying to score, and it went south. Do you know how many drug-related murders we have in D.C.?”

“I know, but-” She sighed. Maybe Cody was right. There was a logical explanation.

“Would you feel better if I looked into it?”

She nodded. “I’d appreciate it.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know. I just want to know why he was at that bar. Why he stood Tanya up. If I tipped him off, I need to know how I did it. I went over every chat transcript with him last night-I don’t see it.”

“Send them to me. I’ll take a look. And maybe it wasn’t you-he could have spotted me.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Even if you just find out he goes there all the time-that’s good enough for me. Or if he got a better offer. Whatever, there’s a reason, and I need to know.”

“Your curiosity will make you a great FBI agent.”

She smiled. “I still haven’t heard back about my interview.”

“You will. You know how slow those bureaucrats can be.” He reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’ll see what I can find out about Prenter’s death, and I’ll bet there’s a logical explanation as to why he bailed on ‘Tanya’ and went to Club 10.”

Robbie “RNR” Ralston lived in a third-floor flat of a tiny row house in a decrepit area on the edge of the D.C. limits. Sean rapped on the door, then stepped back, listening for movement inside. He heard nothing, but something felt strange. He shivered. He squatted in front of the door and pressed his fingers to the crack between the door and the floor. The air was ice cold-colder than it should be even if the guy was keeping his heat low to save on the bill. In this cold spell, even with blue skies, if Ralston had turned off his heat, he probably hadn’t been home for quite a while.

Sean considered trying to find someone to let him in. He could talk himself in and out of nearly any situation, but a rental property this small probably didn’t have an on-site manager and he didn’t want to prolong the situation. He pulled out his lock pick and popped the old lock in seconds.

As soon as he slipped in and closed the door behind him he knew exactly why the apartment was so cold-every window had been cracked open an inch. He pulled his gun, though he suspected that if anyone was in this apartment, he was dead.

The front room was cluttered but neat. However, the computer on a small desk against the far wall had been smashed. The hard drive had been removed; the shell of the CPU was open and exposed. There were only two rooms in the apartment, and Sean found Ralston, long dead, on the bedroom floor, shot in the back of the head. On the bed was a half-packed suitcase.

“Fuck,” Sean muttered. He pulled out his phone and stared at it. He considered, just for a second, calling the D.C. police, coming up with a plausible excuse for his presence. But that would prolong the inevitable. Ralston was connected to Morton, which made this murder likely connected to Morton. Which made this murder connected to Lucy.

The apartment had been kept cold to slow the rate of decomposition and minimize the smell to avoid quick discovery. Why? To avoid connecting this murder with Morton’s?

He dialed Kate Donovan. “It’s Sean Rogan. I would have called the cavalry, but I don’t know who’s in charge of Morton’s murder investigation.”

“What’s going on?”

“I was doing my own side investigation and came across an associate of Morton’s. He’s dead.” Sean glanced at the body. “A very cold stiff.”