Five Stories

"Mr. Kramner, come with us," the man orders. I blink at him once and lower my eyes back to my phone. "I'm not asking." I lift my eyes to see him showing me the bottom of the pistol under his jacket.

"Last person who tried to throw me into a car didn't last long," I say, then resume ordering my Uber. The man isn't sure what to do when he's not able to intimidate me. I'm sure this tactic has worked on other people, but I'm not going into that car willingly. Right here I have potential witnesses. I'm not going to let them take me to a dark alley or the middle of the desert halfway between LA and Vegas.

"We could go get your wife too, if you'd prefer," he says.

"Good luck, she'd properly appreciate the target practice," I say and look over both of my shoulders. There is a camera on the corner to my left, so I start walking in that direction. My order is in, and I type a message to Jo and Jenn and hit send. Two men come out to stop my withdraw.

"Last chance, this is us being polite," he says. I look up, and it's the same guy I punched this morning, shiner and all. He looks ready to thank me for that.

"My Uber will be here in two minutes," I say, holding up the app to show him the estimated time of arrival. "My partner knows you're here, and you'd be abducting me in full view of a camera." They look up at the camera, then back to me. "You can fuck right off."

"Let's lower the temperature," a third man says. He exits the back seat and walks up with his hands securing the buttons of his jacket. Brioni suit, thousand-dollar cufflinks, and salon quality black hair with an oily sheen perfectly slicked to the side like a New York metrosexual. Solid six feet tall and built like a guy who used to be in much better shape, but still carries himself the same way. I can't help but notice the Rolex on his wrist and the silver wedding band. "I'll be fine, go ahead." The two men who stopped me give a slight nod to him and walk back to the vehicle. Both stay outside and stand stoically next to the doors. "Apologies for the theatrics."

"But not for the blatant attempts to kidnap me or threaten to kidnap my wife?" I ask.

"Like I said, theatrics," the man says. His hands return to his front, and he extends out for a handshake. "Alister Baker. CEO of Iron Sentinel Security." I look at his hand until he retracts it. "I just want to talk."

"Whenever I want to talk to someone, I call them. I don't bring goons and a white van without windows. Candy might have gotten me though," I say, and he grins.

"You don't spook easy, do you?"

"Try spiders next time," I say, and he laughs. "You want to talk? Talk."

"I like you," Alister says. "I really do, Mr. Kramner. Or Chase, may I call you Chase?"

"As long as you cut to my namesake."

Alister takes a second to understand that, and nods in acknowledgement.

"You will tell Justin Fontaine it was an accident and go home," he says. That's certainly cutting to the chase.

"I will?" I ask, and his grin sharpens. "You have one major problem."

"What's that?"

"I don't work for you. I'm sure you pay good, probably a hell of a lot more than they got paid in the service."

"We start at two hundred," he says without missing a beat.

"I'm seeing this case through, whether your client likes it or not."

"I'd strongly advise you to reconsider that position." It's been a few months since someone tried to kill me. I have a pretty good track record with people trying to kill me. The people who tried don't. "You're out of your depth Chase," he adds on.

"I have a feeling I'm exactly at the right depth," I say. My app tells me my Uber has arrived. The driver pulls around the Range Rover and stops two car lengths ahead of it. "Bombers start taking fire when they're above their target."

"What's your price?" he asks. "Everyone has one."

"A cup of coffee and a handshake."

I enter the Uber and he pulls away immediately. Even the driver knew how tense that was. I look over my shoulder and see if I'm being followed. The Range Rover doesn't follow, but I'm sure they got a car I can't see.

--

I start packing Jenn's bag the moment I get back to Emmie's apartment. I can handle the heat, but I need to get her and the kids out of the crossfire. This case has taken a turn I never expected. Meghan Fontaine was murdered, and I don't want my family to suffer a similar accident. I'm almost done with packing the bag for the kids when Jenn enters the apartment with the baby stroller. Jo is with her, carrying Nate who is awake but barely holding onto consciousness.

"Chase, what are you doing?" Jenn asks as I zip up the last bag. "Chase."

"You're going home," I say. I lift the bag and toss it onto the couch. "All of you."

"Jo, could you take the kids outside?" Jenn asks with the glare a boxer has before the bell rings. Jo sighs and drags the stroller out the door. The door shuts, and that's the bell. "But not you? You can take that risk, but I can't."

"Jenn..."

"...no," she says. "Chase, I'm not going to live another week of my life consumed with thinking you're dead."

"We're not cops anymore. We don't have backup or a SWAT team coming to pull us out of a shitty situation."

"I'm your backup!" Jenn says in a quiet shout. "And you're mine. For better or worse in case you forgot."

"I'll never forget, but..."

"...but nothing. We finish this, together."

"What about the kids?"

"I'll watch them." Emmie is leaning against the frame of her bedroom door. "This building has its own security and I have mine as well. My dad was a SEAL, he taught me that a restraining order was just a sheet of paper."

"So, it's settled," Jenn says and walks to the door to let Jo and the kids inside. "Let's get to work."

Emmie watches the kids while Jenn, Jo and I set up our command center in the lounge again. All the pictures go back up. We add new information on the whiteboard, tape the printed notes again and prepare all the digital information for easy access. Since our first encounter with Iron Sentinel Security, Lance has been hard at work digging up any piece of information he can. I set him up on Skype and place the tablet on the dry erase marker tray of the whiteboard.

Jenn isn't on vacation anymore. We both assumed this would be a high paying throw away case. A case where we knew the answer to every question before we even started. Not anymore. Jenn is Lieutenant Ito again. She studies the board for ten minutes, and I can almost see the wheels turning in her mind. Managing her personnel by matching the personality best suited to resolve each piece of the puzzle. Giving everyone their marching orders and saying "Go".

"Immediate threats first," Jenn says after I watch her ass shay while she concentrated. "Lance, what have you found so far?"

"Do you want me to start with Iron Sentinel, or Baker?" Jenn replies Iron Sentinel. "Before the company was in the business of private security, it was a DOD subcontractor. I'm talking Black Water types."

"Operating in Iraq, Afghanistan?" I ask.

"Oddly no. Malaysia and Indonesia mostly. Providing security for ships sailing through the Strait of Malacca. They had operations set up in both countries on both sides of the Strait. They did that from 2010 to 2014 from what I understand."

"Why'd they stop?" Jenn asks.

"A few of their guys were accused of raping a native girl in Malaysia. They left after two of their contractors were nearly beaten to death by a mob. Packed up shop, and rebranded as a private security firm in LA. They've been chauffeuring rich people ever since."

"Anything on the cargo they protected?"

"Not really. Oil, electronics, but all the ships were American."

"What about Baker?" I ask.

"A lot of information regarding his career is classified, not too surprising, but he spent a lot of time in Indonesia, for both the military and his personal life. His wife comes from a wealthy Indonesian family as well. Before 9/11, he spent the early part of his career in the 1^st Special Forces Group, which primarily operates in Asia."

"Any connection to Kenneth Taslim?" I ask. Two people in this mess have a direct connection to Indonesia and Special Forces. I saw a picture of him training with what I assumed was U.S. Special forces. That is way too big of a coincidence.

"Social media suggests they know each other. While they don't have any direct links, or they recently severed them, another person on the film crew is connected to both."

"Who?"

"Gabriel Cohen. Him and Kenneth are friends on several social media platforms. And Cohen..."

"...works for Iron Sentinel?" I ask, though I'm not really asking.

"Sure does. Gabriel wasn't thorough in scrubbing his social media, or never tried, because I found this gem on his Instagram." He shares his screen, and his face is replaced with a picture of Cohen and Taslim at a wrap party for a different project. They're in tuxedos holding up glasses of champagne. Another picture shows him with Baker. Baker and Taslim aren't in any together, but it's enough.

"Lance, keep digging. Look for a more concrete relationship between Taslim and Baker. Immigration records, familial relationships, anything. While you're doing that, look for any direct connect between Baker and Meg as well."

"Got it." Lance signs off.

I don't know for sure, but that Rolex on Baker's wrist looked like the one the man on Meg's desktop wallpaper was wearing. Same for the silver band.

Kenneth Taslim had opportunity to sabotage Meghan's gear and the safety mat. He has a connection to Baker who is intimidating anyone investigating it. I'm only left with two outstanding questions:

Why did RHD close the case so quickly?

What is the motive?

As much as I can believe someone higher than Holly pressured her, something isn't clicking. She's too good of a detective. When someone reveals themselves to be competent, incompetence is harder to swallow. I think of Jo's football analogy again. The ball wasn't fumbled; the ball was spiked.

"First things first, we need some operational security. Emmie is calling my brother's friends to get us some burners. Former SEALs in the LA area. We ditch our phones, we have to assume they're compromised," Jenn says, and we all agree. "How are we breaking this up?" Jenn asks, seeing if anyone wants any piece specifically.

"I talked to Kenneth the first time, so that should be me," I say.

"Agreed," Jenn says, thinking for a moment. "Drake Rose is either hiding, running, or dead. I'll find out which one."

"Me?" Jo asks.

"You get Holly," I say, and she snaps to me in confusion.

"What about her."

"You need to find out why she spiked the ball."

--

Tuesday - September 22, 2020

-Holly Roland-

Once I had reason to put Rainy Diaz in my crosshairs, it didn't take long to figure out what really happened. Rainy's social media gave everything away, but I'll explain that last. She recently changed her relationship status from dating to single. The warrant for her texts shows a nasty breakup on top of it. Before coming to LA, Rainy had a boyfriend back in Kansas. Her ex was Dean Nicholson, Denise's stepbrother. They broke up when she found out they were still boning.

The ME report for Denise came back around the same time Rainy's finances hit my desk. I read the ME report first. Looks like Denise had a suspiciously large amount of Zolpidem in her system. Strange, because I didn't find any sleeping pills in her room, or near her body on the couch. It would be difficult to put a needle in someone with a phobia for needles while they were awake.

Rainy's finances don't make any sense. Her parent's stopped helping her six months ago, but her share of the rent was still paid. Texts from that time show her parents couldn't afford it anymore, but she assured them she'd figure it out. The full-time college student started getting checks from an LLC starting two weeks after her parents stopped funding her. Our financial analysts dug into the LLC and found it was a subsidiary that handled the accounting for several companies. The same LLC paid Denise and the other roommates. It's the porn production company. Rainy wasn't talent, but she was involved.

Rainy's social media gave the rest of it away. She's loves to film herself doing nice things. Nothing says I'm a great person like making sure your selfie at the soup kitchen is perfect. Or cleaning graffiti with a mask, but your eye shadow smolder is still alluring. My personal favorite is volunteering at a blood bank, which shows in no uncertain terms she knows how to find a vein.

One big mistake she made was that there were no prints on the needle in Denise's arm. Her print isn't on it either, but Denise wasn't wearing gloves when we found her. There was nitrile butadiene rubber on the needle as well, which is what nitrile rubber gloves are made of. One call to the blood bank Rainy volunteered at confirmed that's the gloves they use there.

I compile it into a solid case, get the warrant, and arrest her before lunch. She breaks easily, confesses to everything, so I leave it to Max to wrap everything up. Rainy wanted out of LA and her boyfriend back. Nothing like a little shared grief to bring the star-crossed lovers together.

I walk back to my desk and again there is someone sitting at it. It's not Chase this time, but I do know her. It's Chase's partner, Jo. I don't immediately tell her to vacate my chair and sit in Max's.

"Jo, right?" I ask, and she nods. "I'm not even going to ask how you got here."

"Chase knows people."

"I'm aware. Anything new on Fontaine?"

"Why were you on the set the day Meg fell?" she asks, and I can feel the flood drain from my face. "I called North Hollywood. They never sent anyone to check the pyrotechnics."

"I wasn't there."

"Yes, you were," she says, and opens a folder she had placed on my desk. She pulls out a sheet a paper and I lean over to read it. It's the entry log for the set, and she had circled the LAPD entry with yellow highlighter. "I compared it to the forms you signed in the case book. You didn't even try making it look different."

"Not here."

"I'll be in the parking garage," she says, and leaves without taking the folder with her.

For over a minute I pace in a two-foot circle. I grip the back of my chair, taking in deep breaths to calm myself. Max returns from his interview with Rainey and sees the state I'm in. He opens his mouth to ask but decides against prying and sits down to write up his report. I push down on the chair in anger before committing.

My heart is racing as I enter the elevator. The seconds it takes to arrive at the floor for the parking garage, I replay everything in my mind.

Meghan Fontaine ruined my entire life. One day everything was great, and the next my husband's face was plastered on every media outlet. Meghan Fontaine went on every talk show who would hear her story. Mike Tillman had closed the door to the audition and said how bad do you want it. He pinned her against his desk and shoved his hand into her pants. On the few occasions someone dared asked a legitimate question, like when, or where, or what time, she'd stumble and stammer and hide behind vague generalities, or openly challenge the question as victim blaming.

I knew it had never happened. I knew the only victim in this was my husband. Meghan Fontaine had come for an audition, but they were never alone because the casting director and a camera operator were in the room. Meghan didn't get the part. In fact, according to the two other witnesses, Meghan had threatened to claim she would accuse him of something if he didn't give her the part. Mike knew he was legally fine, considering the witnesses, but he underestimated the power of social media and being put on trial by it.

Then the tidal wave followed. Suddenly he had three accusers. Then seven. Then ten. By the end of the month, he had thirty-seven. They appeared from everywhere. Makeup artists. Actresses. Costume designers. Each story more fanciful than the last. One claimed Mike and three other producers gang raped her in a hotel room in the summer of 2011. She never dared get more specific. She never dared claim something that could possibly be proven false. Mike, the girls and I were in Europe that summer. Our lawyer told us to never disprove any of the theories publicly. It sounds counter intuitive, but if any of these women attempted a lawsuit, they wouldn't be able to build an accusation around his alibis. Legally it was smart, but the silence to the public was an admission all on its own.

Even though I knew in my bones my husband was innocent of the charges, it was too much to stomach. Could all these women be lying? I'd disregard the bitches I could prove were lying with only a calendar, but the vague ones stuck with me. They couldn't prove anything, but I couldn't disprove them either. How I ever rationalized that concern to myself is beyond understanding. Somehow, I started to believe the ones that would have been dismissed in court the easiest.

That started our fights. I started becoming confrontational and accusatory. Every late night magically became an affair. The fact he couldn't explain himself, became proof to me. Even though I was asking him to prove he didn't do something, which is illogical and impossible, and the exact opposite of what I do professionally. In that maelstrom of emotion, I'm the one who ended up having an affair. At the time, it was to get back at him. I told him immediately, almost bragging about it. Then he did something I've rarely seen him do. He cried.

Mike and I were the rare Hollywood success story. College sweethearts who lost our virginity to each other and married right before we graduated. We built our lives together. He was the producer who made it big, but never lost his sense of humility and relatability. Our net worth was well above seven figures, and we still lived in a four-bedroom house. He drove a reasonable car. I had my career in the LAPD, and he backed me all the way. For both Pru and Lucy, he took a year off or worked from home so I could still further my career. He was almost perfect. I even turned that into a suspicion. What is wrong with women that when men come home with flowers, and we assume it's to apologize for something? On top of that, we develop amnesia and bitch that they never do anything special for us, not realizing our reaction the last time they tried is why they don't anymore.

One lie from a bad actress tore our lives apart. He never truly lost it, because I was there with him. We remained strong as the slander spread like wildfire. He could muster it if I was there with him. If I believed him. When I broke for a second, I destroyed everything. There was nothing to salvage anymore. I tried to console him before he slammed the bedroom door. I cried and pounded on the door for hours. It's been two years, and I'd do anything to take it all back.

I enter the parking garage and start looking left and right for Jo. I move toward my car and finally see her. Jo is leaning against my car with her arms crossed. I can see her emerald eyes reflecting the light from the fluorescent bulb above her. Those eyes are telling, and I know I can't talk my way out of this one. I slow my pace as I walk, just to give myself more time to spin my story.

"Talk," she says before I arrive.

"I was there," I admit.

"Why?"

I tell her what happened.

After everything, I kept up with Meg's activities. An old habit from when I was busy trying to disprove her bullshit. I knew where the filming was, because I still know many people in the industry. I drove past it a few times that week, just hoping to get a glimpse of her leaving. On that day, I parked my car down the block and walked over. The guard let me though when I flashed my badge and said I was inspecting the pyrotechnics. I thought nothing about using my actual signature, but I only wrote LAPD as the name. They were filming something without her. I asked one person on set who said Meg had stormed off after a fight with the director. She had locked herself in her trailer.