noticed Tiffany was wearing any jewelry.
“Amethyst.”
“Is that your birthstone?”
“Yeah,” Tiffany said.
“So this month is your birthday?” Jen said, letting a bit of excitement edge into her voice.
“Next week.” Tiffany moved her hand so Jen could see the ring.
“Have any big plans?”
“Well, T said—” She pulled her hand back an inch or two.
“T” had to be Taras Shevchuk. I couldn’t tell whether Jen had just lost her or if she had actually set the hook.
“T?” Jen said. “Taras?”
Tiffany nodded.
“What did he say you’d do for your birthday?”
“The gondola boat ride around Naples Island and L’Opera for dinner.” She looked down at her hands again. “I always wanted to go on the gondola boats. I never did.”
“You don’t think he’ll still take you?”
“He’s in deep shit, right?” Tiffany’s face had hardened, but she wasn’t closing up. “We wouldn’t be talking here if he wasn’t.”
“No,” Jen said, “we wouldn’t.”
They spent an hour and change in the interview. Jen pulled every bit of information she could out of Tiffany, who seemed only then to be realizing just how bad a guy Shevchuk really was. It was clear from her story that he was slicker and probably sharper than Turchenko. Or at least had better social skills.
After we kicked her loose with a warning not to tell anyone she’d talked to us and Jen’s number programmed into her phone in case she had any contact from Shevchuk, we parked at our desks to go over what we’d gotten from Tiffany. We were getting some good background, but aside from a few names and regular hangouts, nothing concrete that might help us find him. If he was even reasonably intelligent, he’d be avoiding anyplace and anyone Tiffany had just given us.
We knew Shevchuk had been linked both by the OCD and by legitimate employment records to Anton Tropov’s front company, Allied Consolidation, which was located on an acre of asphalt just a parking lot and a quadruple railroad crossing away from the northernmost edge of the Port of Long Beach. Compared to its harbor-industry neighbors, it was tiny—only a single small corrugated-steel warehouse situated in the rear corner of a lot with two unmarked, dirty green shipping containers and room for half a dozen more, all surrounded by an eight-foot-high chain-link fence topped with rusted barbed wire. There was a black Mercedes SUV parked near an open rolling door on the front side of the building.
Jen was driving, and we’d parked at the curb across and down the street.
“Can you get the plates?”
I couldn’t make them out, so I took Jen’s digital camera out of the glove compartment and turned it on. When the screen came to life, I hit the
Z OOM
button. The magnification was good enough for me to see the digits, so I read them off to Jen, who then called them in for a DMV record check.
I took a dozen pictures while we waited the few seconds for a reply.
She took the phone from her ear and said, “It’s Anton Tropov’s.”
“How should we play it?”
“We front him and he’s sure to tip Shevchuk.”
“Think there’s anything to be gained?”
“I’d like to get a look at Anton.”
“Me too.”
“What if we hit him for background on Turchenko?”
“He’ll know we’ve already got him in custody.”
“We could say we’re checking an alibi.”
“I like it.”
Jen started the 4Runner and drove up the street and through the gate and parked behind the Mercedes. Along the front wall of the warehouse was a window too dirty to see through andanother door that was painted red and coated with a thick layer of dust. It didn’t look like it got much use. I was guessing the crew used the roll-up door the majority of the time.
We made a wide curve to get a look inside before we got too close to the door.
A white Ford panel truck was parked inside, with its nose facing the open door. It was a different make than we expected, but I wondered if
“Amethyst.”
“Is that your birthstone?”
“Yeah,” Tiffany said.
“So this month is your birthday?” Jen said, letting a bit of excitement edge into her voice.
“Next week.” Tiffany moved her hand so Jen could see the ring.
“Have any big plans?”
“Well, T said—” She pulled her hand back an inch or two.
“T” had to be Taras Shevchuk. I couldn’t tell whether Jen had just lost her or if she had actually set the hook.
“T?” Jen said. “Taras?”
Tiffany nodded.
“What did he say you’d do for your birthday?”
“The gondola boat ride around Naples Island and L’Opera for dinner.” She looked down at her hands again. “I always wanted to go on the gondola boats. I never did.”
“You don’t think he’ll still take you?”
“He’s in deep shit, right?” Tiffany’s face had hardened, but she wasn’t closing up. “We wouldn’t be talking here if he wasn’t.”
“No,” Jen said, “we wouldn’t.”
They spent an hour and change in the interview. Jen pulled every bit of information she could out of Tiffany, who seemed only then to be realizing just how bad a guy Shevchuk really was. It was clear from her story that he was slicker and probably sharper than Turchenko. Or at least had better social skills.
After we kicked her loose with a warning not to tell anyone she’d talked to us and Jen’s number programmed into her phone in case she had any contact from Shevchuk, we parked at our desks to go over what we’d gotten from Tiffany. We were getting some good background, but aside from a few names and regular hangouts, nothing concrete that might help us find him. If he was even reasonably intelligent, he’d be avoiding anyplace and anyone Tiffany had just given us.
We knew Shevchuk had been linked both by the OCD and by legitimate employment records to Anton Tropov’s front company, Allied Consolidation, which was located on an acre of asphalt just a parking lot and a quadruple railroad crossing away from the northernmost edge of the Port of Long Beach. Compared to its harbor-industry neighbors, it was tiny—only a single small corrugated-steel warehouse situated in the rear corner of a lot with two unmarked, dirty green shipping containers and room for half a dozen more, all surrounded by an eight-foot-high chain-link fence topped with rusted barbed wire. There was a black Mercedes SUV parked near an open rolling door on the front side of the building.
Jen was driving, and we’d parked at the curb across and down the street.
“Can you get the plates?”
I couldn’t make them out, so I took Jen’s digital camera out of the glove compartment and turned it on. When the screen came to life, I hit the
Z OOM
button. The magnification was good enough for me to see the digits, so I read them off to Jen, who then called them in for a DMV record check.
I took a dozen pictures while we waited the few seconds for a reply.
She took the phone from her ear and said, “It’s Anton Tropov’s.”
“How should we play it?”
“We front him and he’s sure to tip Shevchuk.”
“Think there’s anything to be gained?”
“I’d like to get a look at Anton.”
“Me too.”
“What if we hit him for background on Turchenko?”
“He’ll know we’ve already got him in custody.”
“We could say we’re checking an alibi.”
“I like it.”
Jen started the 4Runner and drove up the street and through the gate and parked behind the Mercedes. Along the front wall of the warehouse was a window too dirty to see through andanother door that was painted red and coated with a thick layer of dust. It didn’t look like it got much use. I was guessing the crew used the roll-up door the majority of the time.
We made a wide curve to get a look inside before we got too close to the door.
A white Ford panel truck was parked inside, with its nose facing the open door. It was a different make than we expected, but I wondered if
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