Overkill (18 page)

“Do you have Internet?”

“Yeah, but I’m not allowed to get on it. Daddy thinks there are too many predators and naked people doing weird stuff.”

Marty hid a smile as she set her duffel on the bed. Her respect for Clay heightened. “You know what Rufus says about the Internet, right?”

Erica grinned. “Shout It Out and Tell a Grown-up.”

“That’s right.”

Marty was ready to get to work. The first thing she was going to do was look into the background of the suspect she’d assaulted in Chicago. She was going to look at his family members and friends and see if anything popped.

The little girl lingered. “You want me to help you set up your computer?”

“Aren’t you going to have ice cream and cake?”

“Yeah, but Dad’s probably still talking to . . . Eve.” She hesitated on the last word as if not quite sure what to call her.

“How long has it been since you saw your mom?”

“A long time. I was just a little kid when her and my dad got divorced.”

Marty wasn’t sure why that made her sad, but it did. She unzipped her laptop. “Okay, so how do I get online?”

 
“Your taste in women has certainly . . . evolved.”

“I’m not going to discuss this with you.”

“I’m not criticizing. She’s . . . cute. In a girl-next-door kind of way. Are you fucking her yet?”

Clay stood next to the Jaguar and resisted the urge to shove his ex-wife into it headfirst. No matter how he answered the question, she would believe what she wanted to believe. “You haven’t changed, have you?”

She responded with a half smile. “Come on. I wasn’t that bad to start with, was I?”

“I guess that depends on your perspective.”

“We had some good years.”

He wondered if her good years were the ones when he’d been in Kuwait and she’d been in Midland with her oilman. “We did one thing right. We created Erica.”

“She’s everything I imagined she would be.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

The words hung like the stench of spent powder after a killing shot. For a moment the only sound came from the chorus of crickets and the whisper of wind through the junipers that grew alongside the driveway.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said.

He wondered if she was sorry she hurt their innocent little girl, if she’d given her child so much as a single thought in the years she’d been away.

“I want to get to know her.” Raising her eyes to his, she reached out, brushed her fingertips over his sleeve. “I’d like to get to know you again, too.”

Clay was not naive. He knew where this was going. Eve was an incredibly attractive woman. Whey they’d first met, he’d been nothing more than a twenty-two-year-old hay-seed plowboy with big dreams and even bigger ambitions. He hadn’t been prepared for his first taste of love, and he hadn’t stood a chance against her charms. He’d fallen hard and fast and out-of-control in love. But his love for her had been as blind as his ambition, as mindless as his lust. Too late, he’d realized there was a thin layer of something dark and ugly beneath that pretty facade.

“That’s a losing proposition,” he said. “For both of us.”

She stared at him intently, her head slightly cocked. “I don’t think so.”

The next thing he knew she had him against the car. Her mouth sought his, hungry and wet and achingly familiar. Six years ago he would have sold his soul for this moment. He would have given his blood, his last breath, for the chance to touch her, to hear the sound of her voice or the whisper of her sighs. He’d spent half of his adult life in love with her, the other half hating her.

For an instant, Clay felt the old draw grip him, like the nectar of a Venus flytrap luring a fly to its death. Setting his hands against her shoulders, he shoved her to arm’s length. For the span of several seconds, they stared at each other.

“You’ve become cautious,” she said after a moment.

“I’ve just gotten smarter in my old age.”

“Is it her?”

He knew she was referring to Marty. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of an answer. “It’s you.” He opened the car door for her.

She reached out and stopped him by touching his sleeve. “We could still be good together.”

“If that’s why you came back, it’s a wasted trip.”

A humorless smile curved one side of her mouth. “You always were a self-righteous bastard.”

“And you’re still a manipulative bitch.”

“Touché.” Straightening her jacket, she looked around. “What about Erica?”

“I won’t stop you from seeing her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you won’t make it easy for me, will you?”

“This isn’t about me. It sure as hell isn’t about you. It’s about Erica and her happiness.”

“I won’t make her unhappy.”

“I know.” Touching his hat, he motioned her into the car. “I won’t let you.”

FIFTEEN

Marty sat at the desk in the small guest room, with her
laptop open, and stared at the screen where she’d typed in the name Rurik Ivanov. She’d been hard at it for going on two hours, checking several federal and state law enforcement databases. So far she was batting zero.

She’d made inquiries with the Citizens and Law Enforcement Analysis and Reporting System known to most cops as CLEAR, the Illinois State Police Street Gang Information Center, the Law Enforcement Information Network, or LEIN, and a few others. For security purposes, a couple of sites required authorization, which wouldn’t be finalized until morning.

Nothing was happening fast enough; frustration simmered inside her. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for. But sometimes a cop didn’t know what small, unexpected piece of information would break a case until she saw it.

She’d begun her investigation by looking for convicted felons known to associate with Ivanov. She’d then switched tactics and searched for past employers. She searched for shady organizations that had gotten involved in the police brutality brouhaha. Organizations whose members were known to occasionally take the law into their own hands. She was following up on that when, by accident, she discovered Ivanov had siblings. The brother, Radimir, was an ex-con. Normally in this kind of case, Marty wouldn’t take a serious look at a female. But the sister, Katja Ivanov, was not your everyday female. She had an arrest record—and ties to organized crime.

Katja had been arrested two years earlier during a bust, with a group of individuals known to be involved in the Russian Mafia out of Brighton Beach, New York. Charges against her were ultimately dropped. But Marty had found a connection, however tenuous.

She stared at the screen, a snake of cold, hard fear slithering up her spine. She couldn’t believe that more than six months had passed and no one had made the connection between Rurik Ivanov and the Russian mob. But then she’d been fired shortly after the fiasco. She’d lost most of her law enforcement tools, including access to various databases. Her superiors had been so busy covering their political asses, they hadn’t bothered with more than a cursory look at Rurik Ivanov. No one else had cared. They’d been more concerned with the sensational story of a cop gone bad.

Was Rurik Ivanov a member of the Red Mafia? Even if he wasn’t a bona fide member, did he have ties?

A chill swept over her body at the thought. The Russian Mafia was renowned for unbridled brutality. Torture. Mass murder. High visibility when it was convenient. Maximum terror.

The next thought that struck her made her nauseous. Marty leaned back in her chair and put her hand over her stomach. Had the Russian mob murdered Rosetti? The possibility sickened her. It was their trademark style. Rosetti had been on the scene the day Marty beat Ivanov. Why hadn’t anyone considered the connection? Why hadn’t she?

But she knew the answer to that, too. For the most part, the Russian Mafia didn’t operate out of Chicago. They were in the Northeast, particularly New York and New Jersey.

“Shit,” she whispered.
“Shit.”

A sudden gust of wind against the window sent her to her feet. She reached for her sidearm, only to remember she’d locked it up because of Erica. Marty didn’t scare easily, but she could feel the uncharacteristic zing of fear running through her blood. She needed to talk to Clay. They needed to contact the FBI, the Chicago PD, and the Brighton Beach PD.

Backing away from the laptop, she left the guest room. The house was semi-dark, the only light coming from the bulb above the stove. Marty entered the kitchen and looked around. The clock told her it was just past midnight. Erica was in bed. Clay probably was, too. She didn’t think this could wait until morning.

In the back of her mind she wondered if Eve was still here. If maybe she and Clay had sneaked off to bed to make up for lost time. She knew better than to let her thoughts go in that direction. She had no claim on Clay. She had no right to be jealous. She did not do jealous.

“You are
such
a liar,” she whispered.

“Who are you talking to?”

Gasping, she spun to see him standing in the living room, just inside the French door that led outside to the patio. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a Caprock Canyon PD T-shirt, both of which hugged his lean frame like kidskin.

“A little jumpy tonight, aren’t you?” he asked.

Blowing out a breath, she crossed to him. “You’ll be jumpy, too, when I tell you what I found.”

“Want a beer?”

For the first time she noticed the longneck in his hand. “Uh ... sure.”

He shot her a look she couldn’t quite decipher. “I’m fresh out of vodka.”

“That’s too bad because we’re probably going to need it after you hear what I’ve got to say.”

She went out to the patio while he got their beers. A candle burned on a small table, and she smelled citronella. Around her the night was so silent it seemed preternatural. No traffic. No jets overhead. Not even a barking dog. The only sounds came from the crickets and the hiss of wind through the prairie grass in the field beyond.

She turned when the door whispered open. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said.

Clay set a beer in front of her and took the adjacent chair. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“The perp I . . . went off on has ties to the Russian Mafia out of Brighton Beach.”

Clay set his beer down hard. “What?”

“He’s got siblings. A sister, Katja, and brother, Radimir, both with ties.”

“Where did you get this information?”

“I did an ad hoc search using NCIC 2000 and a couple of other databases.”

He came forward in his chair, set his elbows on the table. “Are you sure about this?”

“I wouldn’t be scaring the hell out of both of us if I wasn’t sure. What I don’t know is if it’s connected to me.”

“Son of a bitch.” Clay scrubbed a hand over his jaw. The sound of his palm scraping over stubble was an intimate one. “Do either of the siblings have a rap sheet?”

“Sister has an arrest record. Charges were later dropped. But you know how that goes. A person can lead a life of crime and beat the system every time.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment. “So it’s possible she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Maybe. But you know what they say about making assumptions.”

“What about the brother?”

“He was involved in a chop shop operation and did a year at the Fishkill Correctional Facility in Beacon, New York.”

“Small-time.”

“We both know small-time leads to big-time.”

He frowned at her. “Your partner, Rosetti, was he there the day you got into it with that suspect?”

She closed her eyes, jerked her head.

“This could explain what happened to him.”

The fear she’d felt earlier was giving way to cold determination. More than anything Marty wanted to catch the people who’d done this to Rosetti. “I want to move on this, Clay,” she said. “I owe him.”

“What happened to him . . . it wasn’t your fault. You know that, don’t you?”

“I still owe him. He’d do it for me.”

Clay shook his head. “You can’t take on the Russian Mafia all by yourself.”

“I can do my part.”

“Marty, this is bad news.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I’ll call in the Feds first thing in the morning. You call your people in Chicago, get things rolling up there. Do you know anyone in Brighton Beach?”

She shook her head. “No, but I can put a call in to the department. I’m sure they have an organized crime or gang unit that can help us.”

“Do that first thing in the morning. And I mean first thing. We’ve got to jump on this quick.”

“We’re out of our league on this thing, aren’t we?”

“By a couple of light-years.”

“Is there anything else I can do tonight?”

He glanced at the cell phone clipped to his jeans. “It’s twelve thirty. All you can do now is stay on the research end. See if you can connect any more dots.”

“Okay.” She felt better now that she’d shared the news with Clay. Sitting here with him, somehow the Russians didn’t seem quite so frightening. At least she and Clay had a plan.

For the first time Marty noticed there were two other beer bottles on the table, telling her he’d been at it for some time. She thought about Eve and wondered if that was good or bad. “Are you drowning your troubles or celebrating?” she asked.

“Let’s just say I’ve had more than my share of surprises today.”

She considered that a moment. “So, do you want her back, but she doesn’t want you?”

“I want her gone but she doesn’t want to leave.”

“Oh.” Marty thought about it a moment. “I can’t see you two together.”

“Why not?”

“She’s . . .”

“A bombshell and I’m a small-town cop.” He gave a wry smile. “That was always the problem. I just never saw it.”

“I was going to say she’s plastic. You’re the real deal, Settlemeyer.”

“You know what they say about opposites.”

“I’m not sure I agree with that.”

“She’s the mother of my child.”

“So how did that happen?”

He arched a brow.

She laughed. “I mean how did you two . . .”

“Hook up?” Clay took a long pull of beer, his gaze going to the dark field beyond. “We were young. I was . . . stupid. She wasn’t. We were both ambitious.”

“There’s nothing wrong with ambition.”

“Let’s suffice it to say in a town the size of Caprock Canyon it can cause some frustration.” Leaning back in the chair, he drank again, then set the bottle in his lap. “No Settlemeyer had ever gone to college,” he said. “That was my goal. I wanted to blow this town and make something of myself.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

He smiled, but there was little humor in it. “I was twenty-two when I met Eve. She’d just turned eighteen, but even then she was the most sophisticated, beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on. It happened so damn fast. She was like . . . I don’t know . . . a drug. I couldn’t get enough.”

“I think it’s called lust.”

He laughed outright. “Everyone wondered why she was living in Caprock Canyon. I mean, she could have gone to New York to model or maybe to LA to try to break into acting.”

“So why didn’t she?”

“I got her pregnant. I was . . . in awe that we were going to have a child. But there was still a part of me that was disappointed because I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to make it to college. I was starting to accept the possibility that I wasn’t even going to make it out of Caprock Canyon.”

Marty stared at him, captivated. He hadn’t shared this part of himself with her. Suddenly, she wanted to know everything there was to know. “Caprock Canyon’s not so bad.”

“It is when you’re twenty-two and ready to conquer the world.”

“So what happened?”

“I worked the farm with my dad during the day. I worked at the tire center at Wal-Mart in Amarillo in the evenings. I knew things weren’t going to happen the way I wanted them to if I didn’t do something to change them. So I joined the army.”

“They pay for college,” Marty said.

He nodded. “I gave them four years. I missed Erica’s birth. Her first words. Her first steps. I came home as often as I could. Every time, Eve seemed to be a little more discontented, a little more frustrated with the way her life was going.” He took a drink of beer. “We lived in a trailer home at the time. Our living conditions weren’t great. We didn’t have shit. I told her it was only temporary, that the sacrifices we made would be worth it later. Once I’d put in my four years with the military, we could move to Dallas and buy a house. I could go to college. She could pursue whatever career she chose.

“But I think by that time she’d lost faith in me. She was lonely and discontented, spent a lot of money we didn’t have. She got . . . restless.”

“What happened?”

“When I came home for good, things were all right for a while. I was glad to be home. After being gone so long, I knew there would be an adjustment period. But after a few months I couldn’t deny there were problems. We fought a lot over stupid things that didn’t matter. Then one night we got into it pretty bad. She told me she’d met someone. Some older guy from Midland. He was wealthy. She wanted a divorce.”

Marty could only imagine how much that hurt. Coming home after four hard years of serving your country only to learn the person you loved had moved on to someone else. “I’m sorry.”

“Losing her,” he said, “wasn’t the worst of it. I swear all I could think of was losing Erica. Somehow, she’d become the center of my life. She was sweet and smart and so innocent I could barely bring myself to touch her some days. I was afraid I would somehow taint her.”

“Was there a custody battle?”

Clay shook his head, looked down at his beer. “Eve didn’t want her.”

The emotional recoil surprised her. Marty had never been a fan of kids. But in the small span of time she’d known Erica, she’d realized the girl was special. She was loving and open, and even Marty couldn’t imagine her own mother not wanting her. “At least she didn’t fight you for her,” she said.

His laugh was bitter. “Somehow her not wanting Erica was worse. I mean, I was terrified Eve was going to take her away from me. I couldn’t sleep for worrying about it. Then I get this letter. A frickin’ letter telling me she didn’t want her. As if Erica were some homeless puppy Eve had adopted, then changed her mind about.”

“A letter,” Marty murmured. “That’s pretty cold.”

“That’s her style. When things got messy, she always took the easy way out.” He raised his gaze to hers. Even in the darkness Marty saw the remnants of pain in his eyes, and for the first time since she’d known him he looked older than his thirty-three years. “How could someone not want such a good and beautiful four-year-old little girl?” he asked.