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  “Hey Eddie, you moving offices? Finally get tired of Mitch as a partner?” Mya asked.

  “Nah, he’s annoying all right, but I’ve got children. This is a box of evidence from a crime scene,” he replied.

  He put the box down to show her. “It’s all been checked for prints. We just brought it up to see if there were any unusual pieces that correlate to any of the other evidence we’ve gathered.”

  Mya held up one of the porn magazines. “Oh, I see, detective.”

  Sandovan laughed and took the magazine back. “Nelson’s gotta learn from somewhere,” he said.

  “What’s this?” Mya asked, holding up the small package that they had been examining earlier.

  “We think it was used to carry a bunch of joints. High-end, designer pot. This group we’re investigating is pretty sophisticated. Not exactly your garden-variety dope dealers. They find ways to make more margin on their goods, like packaging jays so you don’t have to do it yourself. It’s like the Bloomingdale’s of dope.”

  Mya looked at the package closely, then returned it to him. “Well have yourself a good night.”

  “You too,” Sandovan replied.

  “Mitchell! Come on! I’m starving!” Mya sang out across the squad room.

  “Coming dear,” said Mitchell as he logged off. “Where we going?”

  Mya took him by the hand. “There’s a burger joint I’ve been dying to try. It’s about fifteen minutes’ walk. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. We won’t have to worry about muggers, that’s for sure.”

  The fifteen-minute walk took twice that long, since Mya window-shopped as they went. When they got to the restaurant they found a booth. A college-aged waitress came over to take their orders.

  “Two draft, and two of your special burgers. One with mayo, one without,” Mya said.

  “Whaddya, on a diet?” Mitchell said.

  “No, the one with the mayo is for me,” she said, smiling.

  “Oh, nice.”

  “I’m kidding. You can have half my fries. Hey, I have a question about that evidence box that Eddie was taking downstairs.”

  “What’s up?” Mitchell said.

  “That little package…”

  “The one for the spliffs?”

  “Yes. What do you know about it?”

  Mitchell paused as their draft beers came to the table. They clinked, and he took a long pull from his mug. “Ah,” he said, exaggerating for effect. “That package is just another bit of profile we’re gathering about this pot corporation. They run it like a business. They grow, sell, launder the funds, the whole schlemiel. I’m not surprised they’ve taken it to the next level and started to get all fancy. You wouldn’t believe how much money there is to be made. And because every politician’s kid is smoking it, sometimes with their parents, the will to prosecute just isn’t a priority.”

  Mya sipped her beer. “I think they may be going even more upscale than you know. Especially with their marketing efforts.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know who designed that package. The typeface on it is unique. It was created as a one-off,” Mya said, licking some froth from her upper lip.

  “How do you know that?” Mitchell said.

  “Because I work with the designer who created it.”

  28

  Pyotr Ptushko was with Yasmine, making last-minute changes to his itinerary. He crossed out three meetings and penciled in another. “I know everyone in America wants a piece of me, but the purpose of this trip is as much to get that preferential deal at the Port of Salento as it is to stroke my ego.”

  “I know, Pyotr” Yasmine said. “I will try to minimize the photos and maximize the profits, as usual.”

  “Who is heading up my protection detail?” Ptushko asked.

  “Yuri.”

  Ptushko paused for a moment. “I’d rather have Yuri go and help Konstantin in our latest mining stronghold, the new Republic of Uramera. The insurgents are not fully contained there. And my promise to the new regime was to lend them the services of our best private security contractors.”

  Yasmine shuffled some papers before answering. “Pyotr, Yuri is the best man you have in this regard. He is impervious to pain, sleeps three hours a night, and never fails to execute a mission. You are going to America. There are twelve thousand gun murders there every year, including fifty-six in Salento last year. Many of the people in America still think Russia is only home to vodka, nuclear weapons, and…” she paused to put on what she perceived to be an American accent, “a buncha gaddamn commie bastards.”

  Her impromptu redneck impersonation made Ptushko collapse in laughter. “My dear, you are about as American as the counterfeit Levi’s I sent my nephew in Astrakhan. I know America is not Switzerland, but I am going to be there only three days, and while I’m there I will be with dignitaries, whose security details will more than suffice.”

  Yasmine stared at him, her lower lip thrust out in defiance. “Fine. Yuri will go to Uramera, and Vasily will go with you to America.”

  “Vasily! I will be in excellent company with Vasily! We will not get as many American girls with him in tow because he is the ugliest man I know. But he will protect us like a mother kodiak protects its cubs.”

  Vasily Grilenko was a monster of a man, with a shaved head and a scar across the left side of his skull from a Samurai sword. His arms were covered in Siberian mob tattoos, which to the knowledgeable eye revealed how many men he had killed.

  Yasmine closed the file with the itinerary and turned to leave.

  Ptushko protested. “Yasmine! Come now. I will buy you something nice in America. Perhaps you would like a private shopping appointment at Tiffany’s?”

  She turned, and looked fetchingly over her shoulder. “That might make amends. But I think you would rather I visit Victoria’s Secret, yes?”

  He laughed and watched her intently as she walked out of his office. She felt his eyes until the frosted glass door swung silently shut behind her.

  29

  Mitchell was on the phone to Sandovan. “You can’t be serious,” Sandovan said.

  “Mya says there’s no way anyone else could’ve used that typeface. It only exists on a few computers at her office,” Mitchell said.

  “It’s probably just a similar font.”

  “You want me to tell her you said that? This is Mya, remember? She’s got an eye for detail,” said Mitchell.

  “What do you want to do?” Sandovan said.

  “We should have a casual conversation with the little designer guy. Not bust into his office or do anything to bring attention to it. But he’s got to know that he’s hanging with some bad boys.”

  Sandovan paused to think. “Okay, how about tomorrow we get Mya to invite him to lunch, and then when they get to the restaurant, we’re already there. ‘Hey honey, what a coincidence.’”

  “Sure, works for me.”

  “Bring the crime scene photos of Rammi Vargas. But don’t bust ‘em out while we’re eating. If the department’s buying, I don’t wanna lose my appetite.”

  Mitchell hung up the phone and walked into Mya’s living room. She had her laptop out and called up the presentation files that Jak had sent her prior to the disastrous Shalimar toilet paper meeting. “See, look at the descender on the p and the ascender on the h.”

  She pointed out all the nuances in the typography that proved the font was an exact match to the package they’d confiscated from the grow op. The letterforms and the spacing between them made it as unique as a fingerprint, Mya said.

  “Does this kid have any idea who he’s in business with?” Mitchell said.

  “I doubt it. I’m sure he’s taking compensation in product and cash and not declaring the income,” said Mya.

  “You know how you come home sometimes and say that your team got killed in a presentation? Well these dudes will bring a whole new meaning to that expression. We need to make Jak aware of that.”

  My
a agreed to set up the lunch as soon as she could, then went off to wash her hair. Mitchell went online on her laptop, absentmindedly checking the latest golf gear and seeing what the weather was supposed to be like for the weekend. As he shut the computer down he wondered how deeply Jak was involved with Marijuana Inc.

  Their lunch would be entertaining. He and Sandovan would have their bullshit detectors on high alert. “I don’t care how long you’ve been telling lies for a living,” Mitchell murmured. “You can’t fool me and the Sandman.”

  The next day Jak was tied up in an all day edit session. But the following day Mya was able to corral him for lunch. They went for sushi at a restaurant that Mya knew was off the beaten path for the rest of the agency. It wouldn’t do for anyone from the shop to see Jak getting squeezed by Mitchell and Sandovan.

  Mya had no idea how Jak would take it. Would he be a hardass and not admit to anything? Or would he fold like a cheap lawn chair and start to cry? She’d know in a few minutes.

  Mitchell and Sandovan were already seated when she and Jak walked in. They couldn’t very well not join them, especially since the detectives were at a table for four and said they weren’t expecting anyone else.

  Mya made the introductions. Mitchell thought Jak looked nervous at the thought of having lunch with a couple of cops, but he knew from Mya’s war stories that the kid was a little twitchy at the best of times.

  They enjoyed the sushi and sashimi. One of the benefits of living so close to the water was that they got the freshest possible seafood. As the lunch drew to a close, Mitchell said, “You know what I like at the end of a meal? A nice smoke.”

  With that he casually tossed the Seraphim package on the table in front of Jak. It slid into his chopstick tray and stared up at him. Jak tried to act nonchalant, but the color had drained from his face as soon as he recognized his handiwork.

  “Smallest pack of cigarettes I’ve ever seen,” he blurted out, not convincing anyone.

  Sandovan and Mitchell sat in silence. They knew that they wouldn’t have to prod Jak.

  Twenty seconds of silence among friends is effortless. But between people who have just met, it feels like a half hour. Jak’s comfort level dropped to that of a four-year-old caught with his hand in the Oreos. His expression reminded Sandovan and Mitchell of a young graffiti writer they had caught tagging the precinct building. There is a point where you are so far beyond innocence that you either laugh or cry. Jak Mosely tried laughing. It was pathetic.

  “What’s up with that?” he postured.

  Sandovan spoke first. “Jak, Mya says you’re a really talented guy. Frankly, we don’t care if you smoke the occasional blunt. Prob’ly comes in handy in your business. But this is organized crime you’re into.”

  Jak’s smile evaporated. “Look, so I do a little freelance. No big deal. I never take more than an ounce, so you can’t say I’m dealing. And nobody needs to know about the cash.”

  Mitchell reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out five photos of Rammi Vargas’s wounds from the crime scene at the zoo. He prefaced them without expression. “Jak, you remember that guy who supposedly got drunk and fell into the tiger grotto at the zoo? We have it on good authority that he was another employee of your dealer. He fucked up. And this is what they do if you fuck up.”

  He put the photos in front of Jak. The advertising wunderkind looked at them, mesmerized. Mitchell didn’t think he could get any paler than when the package landed on the table. He was wrong.

  “Fuck. Are you fucking kidding me? They fed this guy to the tiger?”

  Mya’s mobile rang and she excused herself from the table.

  Sandovan closed the snare on Jak. “We don’t want to put you in jeopardy. The people you did the work for will never know how we got to them. But you’ve got to give us a name and an address.”

  Jak ran his hands through his two-hundred-dollar hairstyle. Mitchell couldn’t help but notice it fell right back to its original look, every hair seeming to remember its place. “Okay. I’ll tell you. I deal with a guy named Curtis Montclair. I met him at my health club. I can give you his address. That’s really all I know.”

  Mya returned to the table. “That was Dunn. Bit of an emergency with Zélat and the jeans campaign game. I have to get back.”

  “I think we’re done here too,” Sandovan said.

  “Thanks for lunch,” said Mitchell.

  30

  Sean Ryerson looked up from his computer screen and said loud enough for the entire squad to hear, “Damn, you’ll never guess what business Curtis Montclair works for.”

  Mitchell rubbed his hands together, “I’m going to guess it’s something to do with agriculture.”

  “Tell him what he’s won, Gene,” Ryerson said in his best faux game-show announcer voice. “He’s the executive vice president of marketing at Verdant Florists and Greenhouses Inc. His older brother Jerrold Arthur Montclair—goes by J.A.—is the executive vice president of Operations.”

  Sandovan came over to Ryerson’s desk and looked over his shoulder. “Fucking jackpot,” he said. “The CEO’s name is Otis Gaverill. What do you want to bet his middle name begins with an m?”

  Hernandez put it together, “Like my snitch said, O.M.G.”

  Mitchell stood up and looked at the door. Everyone watched him, but he didn’t say anything. “Mitchell. What?” Ryerson said.

  “Just wondering why Captain Ramsey can’t come through the door at a eureka moment like that, instead of when Hernandez is trying to teach Nelson the Kama Sutra, south side edition.”

  The men laughed but their excitement quickly took over. They looked at every section of the Verdant Florists and Greenhouses’ website. The company was huge, with almost seven hundred million in annual gross revenue across all divisions. There were photos of awards for rare orchids, another of Otis Gaverill giving a speech in England to the Royal Horticultural Society, and more of the company’s philanthropic efforts, including a new basketball park for a section of Salento that had recently begun to rebound from years of urban decay.

  “Talk about a genius front for a dope corporation,” Nelson said.

  “No kidding. Shit, you’d have experts on agronomy, plant cloning, grafting, hybridization, and hydroponics all under one greenhouse roof,” said Ryerson. “Not to mention the supply chain and the means to launder all the cash.”

  Mitchell again stared forlornly at the door to the squad room, as if he could will Ramsey to appear. Sandovan threw the stress ball at him and it ricocheted off his ear.

  Mitchell chuckled. “Come on, Sandman, you know you want Dad to come in as much as I do, so quit harassing me!”

  Ryerson suddenly looked up from the Verdant Corporation’s website. “Mitchell, that reminds me. I think I found someone you might want to introduce to your friend, Garrett Lawrence.”

  “This day just keeps getting better,” Mitchell said.

  The rest of the detectives continued to gather intel on every aspect of Verdant Florists and Greenhouses. Ryerson made a quick phone call, then an hour later he and Mitchell went to a coffee shop in Salento’s central business district. They walked in and Ryerson waved to a man at a corner table. As they approached the table, Mitchell couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows when the man stood up.

  Ryerson shook hands with him and introduced him to Mitchell. “Mitchell, this is Hart Chandler. Hart, this is Mitchell.”

  “Just Mitchell?” Chandler said.

  “Yeah, long story.” Mitchell nodded.

  Chandler’s huge hand enveloped Mitchell’s own sizable mitt. Hart Chandler stood six foot six, and had to tip the scales at two-forty easy, Mitchell guessed. He was perfectly proportioned. He had the cleft chin of someone with a star on Hollywood Boulevard, an expensive haircut and shave, and his clothes were custom-tailored to immaculate effect. Thanks to Mya’s fashion influence, Mitchell noticed one button on each sleeve of Chandler’s suit jacket was casually left undone, to distinguish them from the decorative buttons found
on off-the-rack suits. His shirt collar met precisely in the center of his neck, and the knot in his tie was pure Cary Grant.

  “So Sean tells me you want to mete out a bit of poetic justice,” said Chandler.

  “Good way to put it,” Mitchell said. He went through some background on Garrett Lawrence and his litany of sexual misconduct. The date rape of Mya’s drugged coworker was the kicker.

  Chandler’s face couldn’t hide his disgust. “Okay, count me in. This jerk definitely deserves a taste of his own medicine. What’d you have in mind?”

  Mitchell laid out his plan. “You can take it as far as you want. I’d rather it didn’t get violent.”

  “I’m not really the violent type,” Chandler said. “I’ve known some guys who are into that sort of thing, but it never turned my crank. When do you want to do this?”

  “Sooner the better,” Mitchell said. “I’d hate to see anyone else be molested by this asshole while we were trying to get our act together. I know the security guy in the building. Retired cop. Good guy. He’s our ace.”

  Two days later the final pieces of their conspiracy fell into place. Garrett Lawrence was putting on his jacket to leave for the day when Peter Dunn buzzed him.

  “Yes Peter?” he replied.

  “Hey, Garrett, I need to see you in my office. It’ll only take about half an hour, but I want your comments on the revenue projections as we try to replace the Shalimar Toilet Paper billings.”

  Lawrence left his office and walked to Dunn’s. As the head of the company, Dunn could call meetings for any time he wanted, even the end of the day. Lawrence had been planning on checking out a new cocktail lounge in Salento’s theatre district, but there would be plenty of time for that later.

  He appeared in Dunn’s doorway. “Hey Peter. Let’s have a look at those projections.”

  They closed the door. A bike courier sitting in the reception area looked up and then spoke into his cell phone. “No, not yet. I thought he was leaving, but he just went into a meeting. I’ll let you know when they’re done.”

  After forty minutes the door opened and Lawrence left Dunn’s office. He pressed the button for the elevator and waited. The elevator arrived, and the moment the doors closed the courier made another call. “He’s on number six.”