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  The attack caught me off guard. A sharp metal object which I later learned was a tire iron, rang down heavily across my shoulders and neck, knocking me off my feet.

  I looked up in time to see a squat fireplug of a man, dressed all in black, raise the tire iron and slam me with it again, this time in the lower back.

  Despite the shock and the pain, I was able to wrest my Colt commander from its holster before the man in black could strike me again.

  As he raised the tire iron, I shot him, the .230-grain round tearing into his left hip with a vengeance, shattering it and slamming him backward into the wall behind him. He landed heavily, screaming in pain.

  Responding to the sudden noise, a second man, also in black with a tire iron in his hand, made tracks for me.

  Still in pain, I trained my pistol at him and hollered. “Stop or I’ll shoot you. Put down the weapon.”

  The man glanced at his fallen comrade, then at me. He dropped the tire iron and raised his hands above his head.

  I cautiously stood on wobbly legs and walked slowly toward him. When I reached him, without warning I smacked the gun hard into the side of his head. He collapsed in a heap.

  I grabbed my cell phone and called the station. When Wilma answered, I hurriedly explained what had just gone down. I asked for backup and an ambulance.

  Hoping that none of my bones had been broken, I weakly managed to flip the second assailant onto his stomach. I cuffed his hands behind him and secured his legs with the plastic tie I had on my kit belt.

  I stepped over to the man I had shot. Blood from his wounded hip was seeping through his pants and pooling on the ground beneath him. He had lost consciousness. I speculated as to whether or not he would survive.

  When I heard the second assailant moaning, I padded over to him, knelt beside him and searched his pockets, where I found a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard 380 semi-automatic pistol, which I removed and tossed aside. Then I lifted his wallet.

  In the wallet I found a few hundred dollars in cash, a Master Card and an International driver’s license, both issued in the name Vlad Smernik. His home was St. Petersburg, Russia. Still on his stomach, the man lifted his head and glared at me.

  “Russian?” I inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “We were sent to deliver a message. Rough you up a little. Scare you.”

  “Boris Petrov?”

  He ignored my question and pointed to his downed associate. “You killed Misha?”

  “Too soon to tell.”

  I heard sirens screaming in the distance. “Petrov?”

  He nodded.

  “Figures. Why is it you don’t sound Russian?”

  He struggled to get a better glimpse of me. “I was taught English by an American. When I was little. My grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother was an American?”

  “Met and married my grandfather after the war.”

  “In Russia?”

  “That’s where she was stationed.”

  “Military?”

  He nodded.

  “And?”

  “She renounced.”

  “Because?”

  “My grandfather was a Communist.”

  “Sounds like a movie title.”

  “Do you actually give a shit?”

  “Not really.”

  He was youthful-looking, stocky and muscular, dark-haired and brown-eyed. “I’m guessing this won’t be ending well for me.”

  “Good guess.”

  “Jail?”

  “More likely extradition.”

  He hung his head. Then he looked up at me. “You’re some kind of big cheese around here, right?”

  “And if I was?”

  “Would you go easy on me?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you never know when inside information might be of use.”

  “What inside information?”

  “I’m part of the Petrov security team.”

  “So?”

  “I might have information that would be of interest to you.”

  “Regarding Petrov?”

  “His ventures are very widespread and not always on the up and up. Things with him aren’t as they appear.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Think about my offer, Mr. Cheese. I could well become your new best friend.”

  A pair of squad cars and an ambulance arrived on the scene with sirens blaring. Four officers poured out of the two cars, one of whom was Johnny Kennerly.

  I explained what happened. He looked at the downed men, then back at me.

  “You all right?”

  “Shaken up a bit. My shoulder doesn’t feel so great.”

  We watched as the paramedics placed the wounded man onto a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. One of them gave me a thumbs-up, then got behind the wheel of the ambulance and raced off.

  Johnny looked back at me. “Who are these guys?”

  “Russians. Sent to deliver a message from Boris Petrov.”

  “What message?”

  “Likely how my life would last longer if I tended to my own business.”

  “That was the message?”

  “According to Vlad Smernik, it was.”

  “Who’s Vlad Smernik?”

  “That guy over there.”

  “So, now what?”

  “The stakes have been raised.”

  “Raised how?”

  “I think it may be time to wreak more discomfort onto our Mr. Petrov.”

  “If you can find him. Seems to keep himself well hidden.”

  “I’ll find him. If I have to look under every rock on his estate, I’ll find him.”

  FOURTEEN

  “Not only have you been warned, you’ve also been served.”

  Skip Wilder had summoned me to his office, this time in his official capacity at Assistant District Attorney.

  “Wow. Looks like I hit pay dirt.”

  “Don’t wise around, Buddy. This is serious. I heard you were shaken up a bit.”

  I nodded.

  “These guys aren’t afraid to play rough. The service is from Leonard, Howard and Arthur on behalf of The Petrov Ecological Protection Society. They’re claiming you trespassed on privately owned property and desecrated several acres dedicated to the preservation of indigenous wildlife and coastal integrity. They’ve also served the County of San Remo for aiding and abetting your crime.”

  “My crime? What about their crime?”

  “They’re denying Petrov had any hand in it.”

  “You mean they’re saying these goons were acting on their own?”

  “They admit their boys were out of line, but they maintain their actions weren’t sanctioned by Petrov. That he had no knowledge of what they were up to.”

  “So in English what does this mean?”

  “Lytell is in touch with the Coastal Commission and together they’re preparing a countersuit. No permitting has ever been granted to any Petrov entity that would support their claims of coastal preservation protections. But they are in violation of Commission rules regarding public access to state-owned beaches.”

  “And the attack on me?”

  “We’ll see how they respond to the suit. In the meantime, one of the attackers has been jailed.”

  “And the other?”

  “Hospitalized.”

  “So?”

  “It will take time to go through the courts.”

  “Because?”

  “Leonard and Company will exhaust every opportunity to stall the process.”

  “For how long?”

  “Long.”

  “What does that mean for the access laws?”

  “Th
ere’s the rub. The Commission will claim that regardless of any lawsuits, the rules are the rules and Petrov is in violation of them.”

  “There’s a but in there somewhere.”

  “The but is Petrov’s perceived threat to his property and his person by strangers who wander onto his land.”

  “That’s a load of crap.”

  “Tell that to the judge.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The pockets of justice are stuffed with the spoils of corruption.”

  “And you think I’m cynical.”

  Wilder shifted in his seat and leaned closer to me. “A piece of personal advice.”

  “I’m not liking the sound of that.”

  “Nor should you. I’m suggesting you engage legal counsel.”

  “Why?”

  “Odds are Petrov is seriously angry at you.”

  “Because?”

  “You blew the whistle on nearly his entire security team.”

  “They’re all illegals.”

  “Be that as it may, he’s pissed.”

  “So he’s pissed. Who cares?”

  “You should. Lytell and Commissioner Morrison are of a mind to believe he’s going to come after you.”

  “He’s already done that.”

  “I mean legally. Your position will be in jeopardy. The press will be notified. The State’s Attorney, too. He and his team will do everything they can to force you to step down.”

  “Because?”

  “You weren’t elected. Your father was. Petrov’s lawyers will insist either he serve the term he was elected to serve or resign. They’re likely to claim you have no official position and, as a result, no official job.”

  “That’s also a load of crap.”

  “It is. And in the long haul, it won’t hold up.”

  “But in the short haul?”

  “It’s anyone’s guess.”

  “Hence an attorney.”

  “You catch on fast.”

  I was at home, soaking my sore shoulder in a hot bath. So the game has grown nastier. Petrov wants my goose cooked. I wasn’t elected. My father was. And either the old man shows up and does his business, or he gets pushed off the pot.

  I got to thinking about Mr. Boris Petrov. The research confirms that his claim to credibility is due largely to his relationship with Vladimir Putin.

  They allegedly joined forces in East Germany and then later in Moscow while working for the Fifth Chief Directorate, a unit of the KGB dedicated to crushing political dissidents. Together they made a vicious pair who stopped short of nothing in their efforts to quash dissent.

  They quickly caught the attention of the then KGB boss Yuri Andropov, who sanctioned their use of torture, mutilation, and even murder as the most effective ways of achieving their goals. As their reputations grew, so did their power.

  When Putin finally wrested control of the government away from Boris Yeltsin on the last day of the twentieth century, he quickly rewarded Petrov with money and status and, most importantly, access.

  It was Putin who enabled Petrov to establish roots in America, where he gained a toehold in any number of businesses. But his primary value to Putin was as his eyes and ears.

  Petrov was by nature more short-tempered and vindictive than his benefactor on whose coattails he so readily rode. While he embraced his newly found stature in the free world, his tenets were rooted in perfidy and retribution.

  As I would come to learn, life in Petrov’s sphere was more likely to continue unabated if it took place on his terms.

  Despite Petrov’s desire to upend me, in point of fact it doesn’t much matter whether or not I hold onto the job. But it matters to my father and that’s good enough for me. Although my heart isn’t in it, I’m prepared to act like it is and fight for it.

  Maybe not exactly for the job, but more so for the old man’s legacy. He deserves to maintain the reins until it’s no longer feasible. He served his constituency well, and as his surrogate, I’ll continue to act in his behalf until fate intervenes.

  Petrov’s threats don’t intimidate me. Neither legally nor physically. I’ll engage counsel who will be stronger and tougher than his. I’ll make certain his personal goon squad is depleted and deported.

  I know he’s vulnerable. I don’t yet know how, but whatever he’s hiding, I’m going to find it.

  My pledge to my father stands. I have his back, and God help the son of a bitch who thinks I don’t.

  FIFTEEN

  The second body was found on Scotland Road in downtown Freedom. Young woman shot in the head as she was pulling her BMW sedan away from the meter at which it had been parked. Front of the car was sticking out into the road.

  Driver’s side window shattered. Blood and matter bathed the interior. No visible clues.

  Deputy Buzz Farmer met me at the scene. “Carbon copy,” he said as we circled the BMW.

  I admired Farmer’s professionalism. His experiences in Chicago had honed his forensic skills. He conducted himself deferentially and with aplomb.

  I remembered what it was that informed my decision to hire him. He had phoned my office on a Sunday morning. I was alone, poring over a handful of weekly reports. When I picked up the call, he identified himself and explained why he was calling. “I hope I’m not bothering you on a Sunday.”

  “Not at all. I like being here on Sunday. It’s mostly quiet. Small-town quiet.”

  “It’s the small-town quiet that’s behind this call.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m just coming off shift. Another Chicago night. I don’t even know the number of homicides. It remains a mystery to me as to why these gangs think killing someone is the best way to resolve issues. You know, when you take any one of them aside and try to have a reasonable conversation about it, by and large, they agree. No one wants to die.”

  “So what does that tell you?”

  “Mostly it tells me that in an environment where life is cheap and easily taken, I’m in greater danger than what I deem to be reasonable.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I have two little kids. I go to sleep fearing that one day I won’t come home. And what will happen to them then?”

  “And you’re telling me this because?”

  “I wanted you to know how much it would mean to me to be a member of your department. And not only me. It would mean the world to my family, as well.”

  “Thank you, Buzz. I will most assuredly take this into consideration.”

  “Thanks, Buddy. I’m very grateful.”

  After that it wasn’t a difficult choice. He had an exemplary résumé. He was passionate about wanting the job. He was ecstatic when I announced my decision. He’s been an excellent addition to the department.

  “What do you make of it?” I asked him.

  “I don’t like the similarity.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll bet when we make contact with the next of kin the story will be the same as the first one.”

  “No motive.”

  “Except for one.”

  “Are you suggesting a serial motive?”

  “I am.”

  “Damn.”

  We passed a forensics unit that was just beginning its examination of the scene. Stu Steinmark, the lead tech, looked at me and shook his head.

  Farmer had entered the woman’s purse into evidence and had gathered the necessary information from her wallet. “You want to take a ride?”

  “To her house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Might as well.”

  “It won’t be pleasant.”

  “It never is.”

  Bonnie Weil lived in a two-family tract house in the Freedom foothills along with her sister, Meredith, a pair of miniature schnauzers and an ancient Siamese cat who had been wi
th her since high school.

  Meredith Weil answered the door and immediately surmised that our visit wasn’t a good one. “What happened?”

  She stepped back to allow us entry into her small living room. “She’s dead, isn’t she? I mean that’s the only reason you guys ever just show up. Right?”

  I nodded. “Our condolences, Ms. Weil.”

  She did her best to maintain her composure. She asked how it happened but began sobbing before we finished telling her. Devastated was an understatement.

  “Is there anyone who might be available to be here with you?”

  “You mean now?”

  “Yes.”

  She thought for several moments. “Our brother and his wife live nearby.”

  Clearly this wasn’t her most cherished option but rather than going into detail, she allowed me to phone her brother, who gasped when I told him the news. He said he was on his way.

  We sat silently in the living room and although she offered us coffee, we both declined. The shock of her sister’s death had robbed Meredith of her vitality. She had collapsed into herself and when her brother arrived, we made our introductions, expressed our condolences, and got out of there.

  Buzz dropped me at my car. “I’ll compile the history and cross-check it with the Julia Murphy crime book.”

  “You think we have a serial killer in our midst?”

  “It’s likely.”

  I shook my head. “You’ll let me know what you find?”

  “As soon as I have something.”

  “We’re sure to be inundated by the media.”

  “We’ll deal with it.”

  “Pressure.”

  “By the barrels full.”

  I nodded.

  “Buddy?”

  I looked at him.

  “Don’t let this get to you. It’s all going to work out fine.”

  I watched him drive away.

  “Says you,” I muttered to myself.

  SIXTEEN

  “How’s your shoulder?” my father asked.

  We were on his back porch, dappled sunlight pouring through the trees accompanied by a breeze that rustled the branches and encouraged the myriad birds to outdo each other in cheerful song.

  “Still sore, but better.”