Hit 'N' Run (Under Suspicion #1) (13 page)

Luke remained inside the unmarked cruiser with all windows down. His pale face lurked like a ghost in the dark surroundings.

Mitch shrugged his shoulders and glanced through the window at his red-headed partner.
Doesn’t matter. Luke’s my friend and I know his motives are sound—even if they are on the wrong track
.

“Nice neighborhood,” Luke said quietly from inside, sipping coffee from his travel mug. “Very suburbia. Trendy. I can’t afford this end of town on my salary.”

Mitch chose not to respond to the barb. Anything he may say would only sound defensive. Since opening a file on Lorna, more and more questions from the team arose. For every reasonable response, there were double the number of new queries. Where’d she get the money to start her business? No outstanding loans.
Who owns a business these days but doesn’t owe the bank?
Dig back through bank records and note she received a large lump of cash at the tender age of twenty-one.
Where’d that come from? And from whom?
The money sat for a while; then she purchased this house—cash—hired an investment company for the remainder. Couple of years later, she drew on the investment to start U.

Mitch stared unseeing at the two-storey house, remembering the day’s conversation. “Seems there’s a small loan outstanding on the Lincoln, though,” Jordan reported while they sat in the working boardroom. “Probably necessary to establish a credit rating. All credit cards and there are only two—a Visa and an American Express, Gold card no less—are paid in full each month. No balances carried forward.”

Hank barreled into the room, sheaves of paper crimped in his large grip. “Man, how much does this lady earn?” he
asked, throwing the files on the table to add notes to the filling white-board at the far end of the room. In no time at all, the team had filled the space with pictures and information on what they knew of Lorna Tymchuk to date. “Only two cards? No store cards? The wife’s got a card for every place she has ever shopped and one for any place she plans to shop. I’d likely have to win the lottery to get any of them to zero.”

Jordan glanced over his shoulder from the computer station and across the small aisle with a hesitant smile. “Just opening the corporate bank statements.”

“How many bank accounts?” Mitch asked, feeling pressure to participate, fearing he’d be kicked off the investigation for breach.

Mitch watched the back of the young man’s head as he nodded but said nothing in response. Jordan’s thin fingers flew across the computer keys as though he were playing the piano at a concert. Still Mitch waited.

“Looks like six. Not unusual, really. Two corporates, one chequing, one investment. There’s a savings accounts—personal, and another one held under her name—but the account is sub-listed under a Kris Cobalt. A minor. Then the usual personal chequing and a Banking One account.”

“Kris is her son,” Mitch supplied in flat tones, getting up to stare at the whiteboard. He hated this.
She didn’t deserve this kind of treatment. This invasion of privacy
. His hands were tied and he didn’t know how to get the knots undone.

“Still looking for financial statements?” Jordan turned to question the two men, both standing at the board, seeming to ponder the situation.

“Yup,” Hank replied, taping a picture of Lorna coming out of her office building that very afternoon. The wind had captured a blonde lock from the tight coiffure she wrestled her hair into each day. Clenching and unclenching his fingers into fists, he longed to be the one to brush the lock of hair back into place. Neat and orderly best described Lorna.
Mob pawn did not
.

Jordan relayed the salary information while Mitch focused on the picture of the hearse he had been driving the fateful day of their accidental meeting. The smashed-in passenger door, sprayed with some red paint from the large Chevy rental truck.

Hank’s meaty finger intercepted his line of sight. “I know, right?” he questioned, not looking for an answer. “Doesn’t make sense, a classy broad driving a big pickup—a dually no less.”

Mitch bristled, forcibly unclenching his fists. This was the way they always talked, but still, the words stung. “She’s no broad,” he said, his voice a low growl in his throat.

“What?” Hank turned distracted eyes in Mitch’s direction, his wide brows rising up in question. “Gal like that comes into town and gets a racy car. Red, yes, but not a big truck. A hatchback, at the very least. That truck rammed you, and she wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

“I wasn’t rammed,” Mitch reminded him, striving to control his rising temper. “I ran the stop sign. The accident was my fault.”

“Ain’t no coincidences. You guys ain’t seen one another in what, five years, you said? Then all of a sudden in a completely different city, she’s there just when the show goes to production.” Hank pinned up another picture of Veronique. “Woman rats you out to the local yokels even though your own mother wouldn’t have recognized you. Then this little gal…” Hank stroked the picture of Veronique with his index finger. “Starts calling you on your phone. A new cell issued when you returned. No sir, ain’t no coincidence.”

“So what do we have here?” Luke’s voice, spoken softly in the still night, brought Mitch back to the present. His hands reached for the hood of the car as his balance faltered.

“Threads,” Mitch said, turning his head slightly. “Chief said we had threads, and I agree.”

“Like?” Luke prompted.

“The car, the license…”

“A stupid move, by the way.”

“Thanks for the reminder.” Mitch bent to peer in at his partner. “I didn’t recognize her.” Mitch was getting tired of explaining his actions from a chaotic day. “She’s—”

“Not involved.” Luke huffed out the window. “Yeah, heard that already. But Jesus, man, no matter how you feel about her…”

“What?” Mitch straightened to stare back towards Lorna’s two-storey.

Luke hummed knowingly. “Yeah, I’ve known you a long time and have never seen you like this over a lady.”

“She is that.” Mitch’s gaze stroked the length of the house. “A lady.”

“I get it.” Luke’s arm came to rest on the windowsill and he leaned out into the balmy evening air. “Hell, even from watching her the last two days, you can see she’s got something about her. Raising a kid, taking care of her mother, running a successful business. But, Mitch, man, you’re gonna have to face it, whether intentional or not, she’s either the link or the reason…”

Mitch’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Taking it out, he nodded at Luke before touching the screen.

“Morgan,” he said with an expectation of knowing what was coming.

“Michael?”

Veronique’s voice was soft, sorrowful. “Mitch Morgan here,” he said, lengthening the call, hoping to get a trace.

“Michael? Stop.” Her tone pleaded. “They’re dead, Michael. They’re
all
dead.”

Mitch faced Luke through the window. Luke listened in on the conversation on a separate set, his brow crinkled, and Mitch decided against continuing the pretense. “Vonnie?”

“I can’t believe they’re dead, Michael.”

“Who’s dead, Vonnie?” He softened his voice to a warm caress, encouraging her to continue. Needing to find out her information. “Tell me.”

“All of them, Michael. Daddy, Serge…”

His stomach clenched. The recently released criminals are dead? “How? When?” Mitch cut in, moving his finger in a circular motion, holding his thumb and baby finger unnecessarily against his ear for Luke to call depot and get confirmation. “Are you okay? Are you in hiding?”

“They’re dead, Michael. Dead, and it’s all your fault.” Her voice started to rise, and he could hear the sob. “You did this to Daddy. Poor Serge.
You
, Michael.
You
did this.”

Luke was nodding his head vigorously while mouthing “
all.
”

“Listen to me, Vonnie,” Mitch said, a note of pleading creeping into his tones. He’d had a relationship of sorts with her. He wasn’t a robot. He didn’t want anything to happen to her. “You have to get away. I can help you. Let me come to you. I’ll protect you.”

“You?” Her voice shrilled, and he could almost see the track of tears running down her cheeks. Then she laughed. It was high pitched and forced. “You can’t protect yourself, Michael. He’s coming for you.”

“Vonnie, listen to me. You’re in danger too—”

“No, not me, Michael. Uncle has some definite plans for me,” he could still hear the tears, as her voice dropped to a whisper. “I wasn’t arrested. I’m safe. But he’s coming for you. The Fongs never forget a slight. The Fongs always get their pound of flesh.”

And the line went dead.

Chapter Twelve

“It’s a goddamned disaster,” Boulet raged late Thursday afternoon. His craggy planes were the color of an over-ripe apple, his eyes engulfed in the folds of his molten face, left little doubt of the depth of his anger. He hauled the investigative team into his office after confirmation of the discovery of the bodies by the Vancouver detachment.

Mitch held his tongue and his military stance of feet shoulder-width apart, hands linked behind his back. When grilled, he relayed the details to date then stood his ground, listening to his chief yell.

“All nine dead. They didn’t even try to hide the bodies. Basically lined them up with display signs for us to find. It was a fucking Gestapo-style murder.”

Flanked by Luke and Hank, Mitch stared straight ahead, fixing on a crack in the dull paint directly to the right of Boulet’s ear. “Correct, sir,” he answered, keeping his tones even.

“They were found right along the False Creek waterfront. A bullet each in the forehead,” Luke confirmed.

Boulet’s palm slapped the desktop and he spun in his chair. “Might as well have a sign—‘fuck you and your investigation,’” Boulet steamed and stood to pace to the lone window. “Months of preparation. Countless man-hours. People’s lives in jeopardy—and for what?”

A rhetorical question Hank apparently felt compelled to answer. “It’s not all lost, Chief,” the big man interjected, his negotiator voice soothing. “The information we learned from those perps still holds. We have a lot of leads on cold cases when we had nothing before.”

Their commander spun on his heels to face the trio and rolled his eyes heavenward. “And we’re no goddamned closer to reaching the kingpin, Charlie Fong!” He sat heavily in his chair, palms flat on the blotter. “By now, he would have reorganized, and we have to start over at square one.”

“There’s still me, Chief,” Mitch volunteered. “Vonni–ah–Veronique said he’s coming for me.”

“And how’s that supposed to be good news? The only thing we had going for us this morning is no loss of lives amongst the officers.” He puffed out his cheeks. “You out to be a martyr?”

“No, sir. I am not.” Mitch locked eyes with his superior. “Use me to draw him out…”

“How? Through that Tymchuk woman?”

“She’s n—”

“Save it, Morgan,” Boulet said, picking up a thick file from the side of the ink blotter. “Luke, what do we know? Tell me what threads we’re going to pull to bring this guy down.”

Luke opened the heavy folder in his hand. “Tymchuk’s uncle, Danny Lang, had custody of her for a short period of time after her parent’s death. Lang’s offenses stretch a mile long. Not least of which were identity theft and a number of grow-ops. The crack down on one of the grow-ops is how he lost custody of Tymchuk. When Lang was arrested for possession and the boys in blue searched the premises, they found her locked—”

“How’s that a help?” Boulet tucked his thin lips between his teeth.

“We traced Lang back to Gary Fong—”

“Go on.” The commander leaned forward on his desk, resting his weight on his elbows, obviously encouraged. Luke paused before continuing, casting a quick glance in Mitch’s direction.

“Lang had custody off and on until the girl was ten. He died when she was eleven, and Tymchuk bounced around foster homes until she landed with the Cobalts.”

“Nothing new there.” Boulet sat back on his chair again, picking up random pieces of paper from the file, seeming to lose interest.

“She received a substantial influx of cash a few years ago,” Luke persisted, flipping pages. “Jordan from IT checked. She has no mortgage, no business loans. Pretty swift for a woman who should have nothing but debt and student loans, given university education, master’s degree, and the check on the Cobalts show they barely scraped by.”

Boulet laid the paper down and steepled his fingers in midair while Mitch felt his insides turn to water fighting to control his rising anger over this intrusion of Lorna’s privacy. “Continue. You have me curious now.”

“She works for a variety of companies—clients—but her biggest client just happens to be the one and only Tim Fong…”

“What?” Mitch broke rank, swiveling his head in Luke’s direction. “Who? When did that come up?”

Luke flicked him a brief glance before focusing back on their commander, his fingers paused on the crisp pages. “Jordan gave it to me ten minutes ago.” His former mentor’s color was high in his pale cheeks and looked smug. “Her biggest client is Aqua Oil, and the owner of that little billion-dollar business is big brother Fong. He’s the legitimate businessman in the family trio. Started his pipeline company off the back of his father’s dirty money–drugs, prostitution, and the like.”

“Can we prove this? You think she’s part of this…” Boulet paused, leaned back in his chair, fingers moving to lace behind his in thought. “Of this legitimate operation? She could be the link. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Luke closed the file with a shuffling sound. “If she’s linked, it’s not intentional,” he confirmed. “We believe the Fongs took advantage of an opportunity. She would be considered at this point an unwitting participant.”

“Do we need to keep her under surveillance?” Boulet stood from his chair.

Hank took the opportunity to answer. “Actually, it wouldn’t be a bad idea. With the Fongs intent to come for Mitch, they may try to do it through her again.”

Boulet leaned on his desk. “Has the Fong woman called?” The question was addressed to Mitch.

“No. Not since Tuesday when she told me of the deaths of her father and brother.”

“Do we have a trace on her?”

“No. Not yet, Chief,” Hank answered.

“Get one.”

***

Kris ran across the front yard. Balloons flapped in his outstretched hands like wings.
I have to let this sadness–obsession–go, for his sake
, Lorna clapped her hands encouragingly.
I can’t pine over a guy who wants nothing to do with me.

Squaring her shoulders, she determined to make this the most wonderful weekend for her son. As a team, she, Grandma, and Kris put the final touches on the decorations for the youngster’s birthday in the backyard. Ten equally rambunctious kids were expected within the hour. It was a bright Saturday morning, promising to be a hot day as Lorna lined the veranda railing with colorful balloons.

Kris zoomed in circles and she ached to join him in his carefree fun. Frankly, she didn’t know who was more excited–she or Kris. With the last red balloon tapped to the balustrade, she turned to go back into the house. “Come on in, Super Kris,” she called over her shoulder. “Let’s get the treats.”

“Can I have some?” he called as he ran up to her, his cheeks rosy, eyes bright. Holding his thumb and forefinger close together, he continued. “Just a ’ittle bit?”

Lorna laughed, brushed sweat-dampened curls off his face. “No.” She knelt down next to him, cupping his cheeks, holding her fingers in mirror to his. “Not even a ’ittle bit before your guests arrive.”

“Awhh,” he moaned without meaning it before he took off ahead into the house.

She clasped her hands over her heart. His gentle soul was the balm she needed.
This is what I have to do,
she thought following him inside.
Focus on the happiness. I am a very lucky woman. I never had birthday parties.
Closing the screen door gently behind her, she determined her time with Mitch would have to be remembered with the fondness of a beloved dream. And as with all dreams, eventually you wake up to reality.

Lorna stopped in the kitchen to grab bags of chips and a flat of juice boxes on her way to the back deck. Mariam huffed, filling a piñata with candies and small toys.

“No choking hazards in there, I hope,” Lorna joked, settling her burden on the picnic table.

“Good heavens, I hope not.” The older woman said with a laugh. “That’s all we need.”

“It’s the best day ev-er. It’s the best day ev-er,” Kris chanted skipping across the freshly mowed lawn.

“He’s fairly wired for sound today.” Lorna poured chips into plastic bowls. The sun arched high in the sky, warming her back as she straightened the table cloth, set out the plastic utensils, and stacked the paper plates and cups for later.

“It’s his day.” Mariam fit the plug into the piñata. “Where are we gonna hang this?”

Opening her mouth to answer, the doorbell rang, interrupting…glancing at her watch, she nodded at Mariam. “I’ll grab the door, and then we’ll decide—”

“I get it. I get it,” Kris yelled, streaking across the paths of both Grandmother and Lorna as he tore through the open patio door and in through the kitchen to the front door.

Setting the juice boxes to the side, Lorna hurried to follow. “Wait for me.”

Catching the excited boy before he reached the door, she laid a hand on his shoulder to stall his movements. “What do you say?” Lorna asked, having rehearsed with Kris how to use his best manners to welcome his friends.

“I know,” he sighed, pausing to stare with an impatient gaze at her. “I say, tank you for coming. Then I sho ’em to the backyard.”

“That’s right.” She smiled proudly down at Kris, bending to tuck his shirt in his shorts while he opened the door.

“Mit-chell!” Kris jumped up and down, nearly crashing into her chin.

Lorna stood suddenly and nearly lost her balance in the process. Disbelief left her dumb. Had he really the nerve to show up at her door unannounced?

“You remembered. You here for my party?” her traitorous boy continued excitedly, holding out his hand to the enemy.

She opened and closed her mouth, but no sound came out. Clamping her jaws shut, Lorna turned her back quickly to cover her discomposure, pretending to reach behind the door. She grabbed a hat from the hook and held it out for Kris.
Why is it when I convince myself he is no more, he shows up and my insides melt?
With a quickened pulse, she nodded curtly, still unable to form words.

“I thought there must be something fun going on with all those balloons.” Mitch caught her eye as she stood stiffly behind Kris and then smiled down at her boy. “How old are you, little man?”

To Lorna, Mitch looked all at once terrible with his scruffy cheeks in need of a shave, drained with dark circles highlighting sleepless nights under his eyes, and to her aching heart so wonderful she wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him close and ease whatever pain caused him to look so drawn. Despite her best intentions to forever control her heart when he was around, relief to see Mitch again bubbled to the surface. The sun seemed brighter, the sky more blue, and the happiness of this day intensified.

“I four today!” Kris exclaimed enthusiastically, pulling Mitch’s hand, hauling him over the threshold. “Tank you for coming. You come in.”

Swallowing to promote moisture to her dry mouth, Lorna struggled, remembering her anger and hurt. At last finding her voice, she shook her head, saying. “No, no, Kris honey. I’m sure Mitch can’t stay.”

“Mit-chell, Mama.” He looked up at her with his big sea-foam green eyes as luminous as the sky outside. “You said everyone would come for my party.” He turned his eyes to Mitch, retaining hold of his hand. “And here you are.”

Lorna squatted down next to the child, her heart breaking with the sight of Kris’s fondness for this man who had claimed her own heart so long ago. “I don’t think he knew it was your party, love. Did you, Mitch?”

A chagrined expression passed across his face as he took a hand from behind his back to reveal a present. His wide mouth lifted at the corners, creasing his cheeks. “I can’t forget such an important birthday as turning four,” he said, his eyes crinkling, transforming his face from his previous tired expression. He bent low to give the present to the youngster. “Do you want to put this with your other gifts?”

“This my only one so far,” Kris replied, releasing his grip on Mitch’s hand to accept and shake the small box. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you.” Mitch laughed, straightening. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Go put it on the table with the big Ironman balloon,” Lorna instructed, standing with her arms folded over her chest.

“Okay, Mama. You come too, Mit-chell.” And he ran off through the kitchen towards the backyard.

Waiting until the boy crossed out of earshot to the outside and checking to see no other visitors had pulled up, Lorna turned to Mitch. Moving her hands to her hips, instant anger consumed her at the use of her son in Mitch’s manipulation tactics. Hurt, frustration, and pent-up fury made her practically spit the next words. “What do you want?” she hissed.

“I want to explain,” he said, palm outstretched, taking a step closer than comfortable, forcing her to decide to either give ground or hold her own.

Choosing to hold her ground, Lorna looked up into his face, refusing to feel anything but rage as she lifted her wrist close to her face to check the time. “The time for explaining is, ah, let’s see…” She scanned the sleek silver watch on her wrist. “Oh, yes, almost a week ago.”