If You'll Believe In Me

We are forced to find a lawyer with no scruples who would defend the assassin. One big deposit later, I was instructed to give the lawyer a tie with red hearts on it, so the shooter would know why he was there. The assassin is represented and released on bond. I only had to get the rifle Saul had smuggled out of the building. At least something went right. Just go to Saul's and pick up a bag. I was specifically told I couldn't outsource this job.

I never feel nervous in this part of town. People see someone like me in their neighborhood, and they think they can't afford me, or afford what happens if they touch me. They're right either way.

It's near one in the morning when I arrive at his apartment building. I'm down the hall when I hear Saul's stupid accent talking to someone.

"Didn't get enough the first time? Miss me?" Saul says tauntingly with a sickening laugh. I turn the corner and see a blonde woman standing at his door. I hover to listen.

"Give me the bag," she says.

"I was told someone else was getting it. You've been a bad girl. Do I need to straighten you out again?" Saul says, and I see the woman's hands shaking. Fear or rage, I can't tell.

"Give me, the bag," she says. Her voice is quiet, and she tilts her chin down to not face him.

"Baby need her pacifier? I got something for you to suck. I can give you some new tattoos, same as before," Saul says. I see his hand stretch into my view and grab her side above her hip. "I got my eye on you."

"Just give me the bag. It's my bag," the woman nearly cries, gingerly trying to brush his hand off her body.

"Nothing is yours, and you're ours. Never forget that," Saul says. The woman grabs her right wrist with her left hand to contain her quaking. "You can come in and watch the video in case you forgot. Maybe we'll have to make a new one." The woman doesn't reply. "Go away."

Saul shuts the door, but the woman blocks it with her foot. I blink, and the woman reaches behind her back, grabs a gun at her waist band and aims it through the crack of the door. I flinch from the gunshot, and two more times when she kicks the door open, and fires again.

"Fuck," I say, and press my back to the wall. Who the hell is she? I try to work up the courage to move, but I'm paralyzed. I hope she's here for a different bag.

When I feel I've waited for an adequate amount of time, I lean out to look, and she's standing right in front of me with the gun raised.

"Please don't!" I shout. I trip over my own feet and stumble into the opposite wall. I put up my hands in surrender. "I didn't see a thing."

"He was a bad man," the woman says. I know for certain she's not lying.

"I believe you, trust me," I say. "Put the gun down, please."

The woman slowly does as I request. In her left hand is the bag she wanted back. I have a feeling that's the bag I need. "What's in the bag?" I ask, and immediately regret it, because the gun returns. "Don't tell me, not my business."

"My bag," she says in the tone of a child.

"Sure thing, all yours. It's your bag," I ramble out. She lowers the gun again. After a brief, but intense staring contest, she walks past me and down the hall. When I can't see her anymore, I crumble to the ground.

"Holy fuck," I exhale.

--

Friday -- October 16, 2026

-Chase Kramner-

Jenn has not come out and said it, but I can tell she is pissed that this case went to me. Yesterday after work she did not even stop by the apartment. At all. Just sent me a text saying she would see me tomorrow. This is our first real fight. Her battle plan is avoidance. It's weird, because she's not like this in any other circumstance that I have witnessed.

Shortly after waking up, I am scrolling through the news on my phone as my coffee finishes in the Keurig. Atticus jumps onto the counter and begins to fight for my attention. He swats at my phone to lower my hands.

"Alright, you cry baby," I say, then pick him up. Jenn is correct when she calls him a cuddle bucket. Not many cats like being held, but he whines if he's not. "Gotta be the center of attention, don't ya?"

My door knocks, and I ask who it is. Jenn replies. I walk to the door and snap the deadbolt, then slide the chain. Jenn walks in, immediately starts making kissy faces at Atticus and takes over being his caregiver for the moment.

"Good morning, cuddle bucket," she says and rubs his belly. He pretends to hate that and kicks at her hand. She puts him on the counter, and he is all over me again.

"I just needed the night," Jenn says. I offer coffee that she accepts. "I'm fairly direct. When I know I'm going to be a bitch, I'll isolate myself. I don't like being a bitch to people I care about. I wasn't trying to avoid you last night. All I wanted, was the night so when I do talk to you, I'm not talking at you. Does that make sense?" she asks.

"Perfect sense," I say, and she smiles before kissing me. My last girlfriend would try to dominate the fight. The one before that was a literal murderer. I like this style the best. "I'm receptive."

"You were being a nosy asshole, nudging your way into a case not only I, but the Chief told you to back off of," Jenn says, and I don't deny that. "Then, it seems like you're rewarded for not listening to authority. Not only do you get onto the case, I get off it. My first, big case, as a lieutenant. To really show off my leadership skills. Then I get cock blocked, by my own fucking boyfriend."

"You're still involved..."

"...I'm not leading it though. It was my case to close. The worst part is, I can't even be mad about it like a normal person. Normally I could bitch about it at HQ. Because it's you, I can't. It just looks like I'm dragging my home drama into work," she says, and I never thought about it that way. Her concern is valid. It also sounds like this concern has a history. Her ex-husband perhaps? I just know he's a cop as well, she hasn't told me more than that. Do I ask?

"That sounds like you know this from experience," I say, and she hesitates to reply. She takes her time preparing her coffee, and the quiet is making me anxious.

"My ex-husband is the Captain for Precinct Three," she says.

"Meadows?" I ask. Captain Dominic Meadows has a reputation for being a little too friendly with female patrol officers.

"Yeah," she says, then takes a drawn-out sip. "He was my superior, and we got married so he couldn't get cited for an inappropriate relationship when his Captain found out. I was dumb. More than once, the precinct would make a big arrest, and he'd downplay my part, and increase his own. Told me, because we were married, it helped both of us. He gets promoted, and I get cheated on.

"And I know, this isn't the same, but the knife doesn't feel any different," she says. It is refreshing to have a woman just tell me what's wrong. When I know what's eating at her, I can help. "Thank you for taking Midge."

"She was my first-round draft pick anyway," I say.

"Why not Kaiser?"

"Nothing against him, but Midge is smarter. The FBI will do most of the heavy lifting. I needed brains," I explain, and she laughs a little. "I know Special Agent Shelby. I worked with him during the Irish bust. We couldn't have busted Texada without him. He knows there is plenty of room on the podium."

"Just promise to take care of my very pregnant detective," she says, and I say I will. I'm more concerned for people who get on Midge's bad side.

--

Midge and I drive separately to the FBI field office for a briefing on Russian Crime. The attendant at their parking garage had a list of approved personnel, so he checks us off and we park. Shelby said he would meet us in the parking garage, make sure we had visitor badges, and take us to his office. My badge is light blue, but Midge's badge is red. That's because I have a security clearance, and she doesn't.

"We'll work on a probationary clearance, but in the meantime, people might avoid talking to you," Shelby says to Midge. A few times as we walked down the halls, we hear people shout, 'red badge!'. We're taken to the third floor where a small corner office handles organized crime. Just Shelby.

"Why only one agent for organized crime?" I ask.

"How much organized crime is there in this city? Most of it is street level gang crime, and the bureau doesn't give a fuck about gang violence, unless it's MS13. Even then, that's mostly DEA and DHS anyway. Organized crime desk is where your career goes to die," Shelby says and leads us into his office. All walls, no windows, mismatching furniture.

"Your career hasn't died," Midge says.

"I continue to exceed expectations," Shelby says and unlocks his cabinet with a key from his ring. He pulls open a drawer and hands us both a large white binder you'd see being touted around by a student. Slipped under the plastic is a sheet of paper labeling it the Russian Crime Cram Book. "Start reading. I got a high side one with personalities as well. That one you can take home." Midge flips it open and starts glossing over the table of contents.

"Bitch War?" Midge asks. I look at it myself, and she is referring to the title of a subchapter.

"Read it tonight, it's fascinating," Shelby says, then takes a seat at his desk. "Let's start. When you think Russian Organized Crime. Russian Mafia. What do you think of?"

Midge and I both say we know nearly nothing. "Empty cups, excellent. The Russian Mafia is old. Centuries old. Going back to Tsarist Russia where most crimes that could be committed, were crimes against the state. Because any action was a criminal act, these criminals existed in an almost, folktale, Robin Hood like perception to the populous at the time. You were fighting the government by being a criminal. The society they existed in was so secretive, they also developed their own dialect of Russian over time. Thieves of Law, or in Russian, the Vory.

"Then the Russian Revolution happens, and most of these criminals were purged by Lenin. Stalin gets power, and then he puts the remainders into Gulags. These criminals then just, essentially take over the Gulags, and it turns into a culture of its own. This is where you get prison tattoos. I can talk for days on that alone. Each tattoo is part of a story. There are themes, but one tattoo on two different people could have radically different meanings. They're personalized."

"What does a Cheshire cat mean thematically?" I ask.

"Where on the body?" he asks.

"Back of a hand."

"Was it wearing a hat?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Vory, or someone who works with them. What do you mean by Cheshire?" he asks.

"Alice in Wonderland. The big grinning cat who can vanish," I explain.

"Someone is just being clever with their tattoo. What other ink did you see? I'll assume you're asking for a reason," he says.

"I saw the tip of a knife, drops of blood coming off of it," Midge says.

"If I was betting money, they're a killer. Each drop of blood is someone they killed. Who did you see these on?" he finally asks.

"The courthouse sniper," I say. "Alice."

"Not wasting time getting to her," Shelby says, and rolls his chair to a locked safe behind his desk. After unlocking it by spinning the dial then pushing a handle down, he pulls out the classified version of the binder he gave us. He tells Midge she didn't see this. "Is Alice your name for her?"

"No. She responded to references to Alice in Wonderland. She said I could call her Alice. Don't know if it's her name, or that she just liked being called Alice, but she engaged with it. Why? What do you call her?"

"Funny enough, we've been calling her Cheshire," Shelby says, then finds the correct page in the binder and shows us. "Interpol has linked her involvement to two assassinations in separate countries. This was her third that we know of. That surveillance picture of her uncovered hand is all they had. Figured Russian sniper. You talked to her?"

"Yeah. She's either good at hiding an accent, or she's American. Even had a southern drawl to it," I explain.

"Southern is the go-to American accent for people trying to hide their foreign one," Midge says, and Shelby agrees with her. After thinking about it for a moment, I also agree with her to a point. Alice never came across like she would know to bother with something like that.

"Before we dive too deep into her, let me tell you the general status of the current situation," Shelby begins, and we prepare to take notes.

The Russian Mafia had been moving assets into the city for the last year, starting immediately after most of the Irish were taken out. At first Shelby believed this was a void being filled, but over time he concluded there never was a void. Several of the businesses he had originally linked to the Irish Mob's money laundering schemes didn't crumble or fall apart. They stayed about the same. The cash flow was not disrupted because it was not the Irish's cash. The only thing that changed was management. The names running the businesses gradually went from Seamus to Stalin.

"The Irish were laundering the Russian's money?" Midge asks, and Shelby gives a tentative that is my assessment.

"They'd never say they worked for the Russians, just with. Pride and all. The only difference is now they don't have a front to hide their activity, at least not as well. The Irish were a good shield for them. Once the cleaners were gone, they had to move in their own people. Enter Saul and Anton."

"You called McCants, didn't you?" Midge asks, and Shelby admits he did. "Why was Saul flagged by the FBI?"

"He was not an asset. I just pushed back so he wouldn't be taken off the board," Shelby tries to explain, but Midge is not following. Neither am I.

"Who was he exactly?" I ask.

"We need a little time to explain Saul," he says, and finds his part of the binder. "He was a lieutenant, but primarily he was a human trafficker."

"No wonder I had a bad feeling about him," Midge says.

"Sex trade mostly. Often starts as smuggling and ends in trafficking. Girls end up in California, New York, and Nevada mostly. This city is a traffic stop for the girls in route. Haven't stopped a shipment, but I know they're coming through."

"Why did the State Department grant him that visa?" I ask.

"You'd have to ask them. He must have given them something, but he likely feed them misinformation or opposition intelligence on the competition. I wanted him in the open because he was clumsy and careless. I didn't want them changing their procedures so I can bag a piece of low hanging fruit. Or I did, until someone took him out."

"Any ideas on who or why?" I ask.

"Saul's murder looks like a Russian hit. Russian's do their hits in broad daylight. I'll assume you've also concluded Ms. Black was not the target."

"Why was Silverlake?" I ask.

"I'd love to ask him," he says, and we all know our next move. "How much longer can you guys hold him?"

"About twelve hours," Midge says.

"Let's go talk to him," Shelby says, and we pack up to do just that.

--

Henry Silverlake looks even worse than the last time I saw him. He has sobered up but looks even more inebriated. Red eyes from being awake too long. Sweat staining his shirt. Hair hanging off his head like an ill-fitting wig. That is what nearly two days of being in custody does to someone.

Not once has he made any overt effort to leave custody. He never asked for a lawyer or threatened to leave. If anything, he has been cooperative. Something tells me he would rather be safely behind bars than on the street.

Midge is in the observation room in case he gets physical. Shelby sits on the table with one leg elevated and his arms crossed. I sit across from Silverlake with my hands resting on the folder I brought in with me. The first thing I do is place a picture of Alice on the table and slide it over. Silverlake looks at it and seems confused.

"Who the fuck is that?" he asks and slides the picture back toward me. Maybe he doesn't know who she is after all.

"That's the sniper that missed you," I say, and he looks down at the photo again. "You gonna tell us why an assassin with Russian tattoos is gunning for you?"

"No idea," he says, and Shelby takes over. He opens the folder and slides across a picture of Saul.

"What about him?" Shelby asks. We will omit the fact he is dead for now.

"What about him?" Silverlake repeats.

"Do you know who he is?" I ask, and his eyes slide to me, then back to the picture.

"Saulius Grybauskaitė," he says, and I force down my shock. His pronunciation was spot on too. "Lithuanian, but ethnically Russian. He's a human trafficker who runs women to the west coast and Vegas for a Georgian underboss named Anton Mamedova, who works for a Russian boss named Imran Krasny."

"You know who that is, what he does, and who he works for, but also don't know why someone is taking pot shots at you?" I ask, and he shrugs. "How fucking stupid do you think I am?"

"You don't want me to answer that question," Silverlake says with a grin so irritating, I am close to smashing his face against the table.

"Why does an American private investigator know so much about the Russian Mafia?" Shelby asks.

"Why does the FBI know less than me?" he asks, and he sees my hand clench. "Easy tiger."

"Fuck this," I say, then stand up to leave.

"Chase..." Shelby starts to say.

"...fuck him. Put him back on the street, whatever happens, happens," I say and open the door.

"Alright," Silverlake says, and I close the door. "They want me dead because I was getting close to finding where they keep the girls between transport."

"Why were you trying to find it?" I ask, then walk back to the chair, but do not sit. I place my hands on the back rest and lean down.

"A client's daughter was taken by the Russians," he says, and Shelby starts looking through the file. "That client is a foreign diplomat."

"Bullshit," I say and consider leaving again. No one that important is hiring him.

"They took her about a month ago. Her parents through their own means found out she's likely here. They hired me to find her," he says. I can tell Shelby doesn't believe him either.

"Why the hell would a diplomat hire a washed-up PI like you?" I ask, he shakes his head in annoyance. "If this girl was taken a month ago, she's already in Vegas taking five dicks an hour."

"If she were just another girl, you'd be right. This girl is leverage. She is the daughter of Natia Nozadze, the Georgian Ambassador to the United States," he says, and Shelby calls a time out. We both leave the room and shut the door.

"How likely does someone just know an Ambassador's name off the top of their head?" Shelby asks. Not likely in the slightest. He is not completely bluffing. "What do we believe?"

"We believe he knows enough to make them want him dead. He certainly doesn't want to be on the street," I say, and Shelby nods in agreement. "Where does the lawyer fit in?"

"Not sure, but let's find out," Shelby says, and we both understand the priorities.

"Where does Calvin fit in?" I ask as I take back my seat in the interview room. Silverlake taps the picture of Saul with his finger.

"She's his lawyer. We all know that she represented the Irish. When they got taken out, none of the Irish businesses folded. That told me the Irish were the managers, not the owners. Coincidence some of the businesses were owned, at least on paper, by the firm Calvin & Willard, I think not. I offered them some dirt for the Marlene Black case, and they brought me on board. I was trying to use my access to find out property holdings they could be using to store the girls or keep someone hostage for a long time. Saul was there frequently and must have gotten suspicious of me."

"Dirt on who?" I ask.

"On you," Silverlake says with an arrogant smile. Shelby takes a side glance on me but ignores the comment. What could he have on me?