Lady Smith Lock and Key Pt. 03

-Trixie Kirkpatrick-

Friday - April 8, 2021

My eyes scan across our case board. I strategically placed it behind my desk, allowing me to sip my coffee as I lean into my chair. I ignore the commotion behind me. All the phones in the office ringing. Other detectives talking about other cases. I'm laser focused on my own business.

The 9^th Legion. It's a biker gang which takes its structure and iconography from ancient Rome. Under a note saying Caesar is the picture of Titus Novak from a surveillance operation last week. Next to it is his mug shot from when he was in his thirties. Career criminal with a rap sheet a mile long. Drug possession with intent to sell, assault and battery, burglary, illegal possession of a firearm. Not to mention his speculated involvement with three unsolved murders that we know of. He's spent an accumulative seventeen years in prison. Even at the age of sixty-eight, Titus shows no signs of stopping anytime soon.

Next to Titus is Terrence Novak, his nephew from his long-deceased sister. Above his name is Centurion. Soliciting prostitution, pimping, assault, sexual assault, larceny, drug dealing. Only difference is he was successfully charged for murder but was sentenced to three years under a plea deal for involuntarily manslaughter. His victim was a rival gang member who in all honesty was trying to kill him.

Dante Hayes, loan shark and bookkeeper. Standard Bearer. He's the guy we want to get to know more intimately. He's the one most frequently on the streets, but he's also technically proficient at his craft. I have spent months trying to follow this guy. He has a nose for bacon, and that sixth sense has helped him shake any tail behind him. The worst anyone has ever gotten him on was illegal gambling, but the cops didn't do their due diligence and all the evidence was thrown out, so the DA dropped the charges.

Additional notes on the whiteboard are handwritten in various colors. Deacon created a legend on the bottom left corner. Red is assumed. Orange means we have evidence, but only circumstantial. Green signifies hard evidence. Black text means administrative notes, things like names, dates, locations. Black lines connect the personalities and events, and colored text provide notes on that relationship. A solid line is a known relationship. A dashed line is something we believe but haven't proven. I follow a dashed line to a pretty young thing named Lady Smith.

Ms. Smith is a local locksmith. Montana has no licensing laws on the profession, so we can't even roll her up on practicing without a license. Above her dashed line connecting her to these people is scout/prostitute?. Deacon has seen her outside of Gamblers Anonymous meetings, so that is likely why she's connected. She borrowed money from Dante. Four of the homes she was called to assist with lockouts were burgled, but that's circumstantial evidence. It's not enough for even a warrant.

Deacon gets wind of her leaving her home late at night dressed to impress and vanishing into hotels for almost an exact hour. He chased that down for a good month, and eventually got to her customer at the hotel bar. That guy he left alone to not tip her off, bigger fish to fry, but he handed Deacon her business card and said to call after nine and say you need to drill a lock. Single cylinder for a half hour, double for a full hour.

The only problem is that Lady Smith can smell bacon the same way Dante can. We underestimated how observant that girl is. She figured us out in seconds. She's a street lawyer too. I wouldn't call her to represent me in court, but she knows enough to keep herself out of a sting. We pushed the location out of the city, hoping to lower her guard thinking we'd be out of our jurisdiction. We have jurisdiction across the entire county, that wasn't a lie, but she's smarter than I originally pegged her. Honestly, she made us feel like jackasses.

Lady Smith's criminal record is blank. Never even been pulled over. On paper, she's a model citizen, so her place on this board is the element we haven't figured out. She's the outsider, but I don't know how much access to these people she truly has, if any.

"Stare longer, maybe her picture will come to life," Deacon says the desk immediately across from mine. I spin my chair around at see that mustache.

"Are we wrong about her?" I ask. No criminal record, some circumstantial, but nothing concrete. That girl services hundreds of people a month, but we're zoned into four incidents we cannot connect to her outside of coincidence.

"Nope," Deacon says, shaking his head to emphasize his certainty.

"We have nothing on her that a judge wouldn't laugh in our faces if we gave them a warrant to sign off on," I say.

"We have her on prostitution."

"No, we have a business card given to you by an unreliable witness who would never admit to a crime should we drag him in here. A business card which advertises her legitimate profession."

"She showed up to the hotel..."

"...and walked out. If we arrested her, no prosecutor would press charges. Haggles services related to known profession, shows up like a soccer mom picking up her kids. We got dick and you know it. Why the hell is this girl on the board?"

"She's selling tips to them. Recons a place during her day job, gives her access to scope it out. The homes hit hired her for only residential lock services. Sure, she does a lot of car lockouts, but I'm not seeing any of those cars getting reported as GTAs."

"Besides the business card, which is nothing, by the way, how do you take that monumental leap to prostitution?" Deacon is grasping at straws. "Assuming I believe you about the other stuff?"

"Even you have to say that one's pretty obvious," he says. Can't say he's wrong, the girl is without a doubt up to some hinky stuff in that regard.

"Fine, we know she's a prostitute, but we can't prove that. But that's not your endgame, is it? You wanna flip her?" I ask, and he nods. Get the girl on a different charge, make a deal for immunity, and send her back out against the Legion. It's a classic, but I have reservations.

"Deacon," I hear the lieutenant say from the opening of our office. We both turn and see our boss with a man in a suit with a backpack over his shoulder. The LT leads him down the row of desk and stops at ours. "This is Matthew Pewter, the auditor I was telling you about."

"Sweet. The Frank Abagnale of crime finance," Deacon says. He stands up from his seat and shakes Matthew's hand. "Anything good?"

Matthew Pewter is well known to law enforcement across the country. He used to cook the books as a money launderer for a cartels about ten years ago. To avoid prison after his arrest, he was placed on probation in the custody of the FBI. Five years of doing that for free, he's now a consultant to catch people like himself.

"I'll tell you what I've figured out, and we'll work from there. What sounds good to me, could be completely different to you," Matthew says. I shake his hand as well and tell him to drag a chair over from a vacant desk.

"Pretend we're laymen," I say. "Start from the beginning."

"Sure," Matthew replies, and starts digging into his bag. He removes three folders, handing one to me, and then Deacon. "As far as I can see, this 9^th Legion makes their money through drugs, loans, racketeering, prostitution, and fencing stolen goods. I didn't really look into them as I haven't found their accounts, but I looked into the local small businesses they do their racket with. Across the county, they got their heels on at least five businesses that I could track. An arcade, one gas station casino, a salon, coin laundry, and a private parking garage. Mostly cash businesses."

"Arcade?" Deacon asked.

"Not as lucrative or fast, but it's efficient. Cash based, low value bills. Easy to layer. The parking garage is near Dehler Park, same kind of scheme. Looks like they Smurf."

"Smurf?" Deacon asks with a weird face.

"Money laundering scheme. The total money to be laundered is broken up and divided by a handful of people. Amounts small enough to not trigger automated alerts. Some is dropped off at the cash business and goes through the normal process. Others are turned into money orders and simply deposited, again, small, but not in regular amounts or at predictable intervals."

"What's the easiest one to prove?" I ask. We need a target. Something to home onto.

"For a bunch of bikers, they're good at this. At this level, one of the best I've seen. If I had to give you one to monitor, it's the parking garage. For instance, the salon is hard to follow because we can watch people come in and out all day but have no idea what services they were provided and for how much. The money is fluid, and trying to sort through real receipts and layered receipts will be hard to prove. The parking garage has a listed price for how much a spot cost, and for how long."

"I gotcha," Deacon says. "If a spot costs five bucks an hour, and only ten cars were there any given day, stands to reason they made fifty bucks. If they deposit seventy, we got an inconsistency."

"Bingo. Don't measure it in cars though; measure it in hours. Three cars pull up, one stays for an hour, one for two, the last for three, that's not fifteen bucks, that's thirty."

With a target in mind, I scan over the details of the parking garage he provided us. I look up at Matthew to ask a question, but his eyes are laser focused on our board. I turn over my shoulder, then back to him, trying to trace where his eyes are. He's looking at the far-right side of the board to Lady Smith.

"Know her or something?" I ask. He doesn't seem to hear me. "Mr. Pewter." He flinches in response to finally hearing me. "Know her?"

"Huh, oh, um, no. She just, looks, weird up there," he stammers. I've sat in far too many interview rooms to not know when someone's lying to me.

"Her name is Lady Smith, we're not sure how she's involved yet," I say, and he tilts his eyes to me. "Got a theory?"

"I don't have enough information to form one," he says.

"I'll talk with the LT, see if we can get some overtime on watching this place. Start some bean counting. Bring your abacus," Deacon says, slaps the desk in excitement, and leaves to have the conversation. I look over at Matthew again, whose eyes are right back on Lady Smith.

--

-Lady Smith-

I hardly remember Matt leaving in the morning, but the feeling of his kiss still lingers when I open my eyes. If I had to guess, he's the guy who leaves a handwritten note explaining his absence. On my nightstand is that note, and I smile as I pick up and read it. He had an early meeting. I stretch under the covers, then get up to start my day. I'm not even halfway through a cup of coffee when the calls start.

Vehicle lockout is the first call. Pressure sleeve and stick is all I need. Home lockout follows shortly after. Kwikset single cylinder, picked in fifteen seconds. I grab some gas while I wait for the next call, which is another car lockout. I hurry to this one because the woman locked her baby in the car while checking her mail in her townhouse community. Thankfully with the car on and the air running, but she's a mother in peril.

At around noon, I forward my lockout calls to another locksmith, and drive out to King's Chariot Luxury. I park in the main lot and walk through the front doors. I'm dressed more professional than normal. Dress slacks and a clean cream-colored blouse with my only good dress three-inch heels. My hair is pulled away from my face and in a tight bun. I approach the same woman about my age at the counter. She's on a call with a customer by the sound of it.

"We will pick you up from the airport at ten in the morning tomorrow sir. Our driver will have a sign, take care of your bags and take you to your destination. If you need any other services during your stay, call again and we'll schedule your accommodations. Thank you, have a nice day," she says, and presses her screen to end the call. "How can I help you?"

"I'm here for a job interview with Mr. Justin. Ryan Justin," I say, remembering there are two of them. She looks both ways, then back to me.

"Interview huh?" she says with a dismissive smirk then shakes her head slightly. "You're the type."

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"Only one kind of woman comes here for a job interview to be a driver. It's an open secret. Lucas doesn't know, gives him plausible deniability," she says.

"Is that how you got your job?" I ask, and she smirks with teeth this time. "Leveraged it for a nice desk position. Which one did you fuck to land this gig?"

"Which one of my brothers did I fuck?" she asks, and I bite my lip. Didn't know they had a sister. "Bianca Justin by the way. I'm here on my own merits, thank you."

"Born on third and think you hit a triple?" I ask. That pisses her off. She takes off her headset and leans over the reception desk, placing her palms down to maximize her lean.

"My family used to live in a van, and yes, down by the river. Lucas used to sell plasma to make ends meet. I worked three jobs in college and slept three hours a night for four years. Take your class warfare speech to someone who gives a shit. Even if I was as you said, born on third, it has nothing to do with why your ass isn't even in the batter's box."

Bianca sits down again, puts on her headset and presses a button on the screen. "Your interviewee is here." She over pronounces interviewee. You can make any word sound derogatory with enough effort. She listens for a moment and ends the call. "Down the hall, last door on the right."

Ryan is leaning out of his office as I come down the hall and disappears shortly before I arrive. I close the door and take a seat. His office is a Seattle Seahawks club house. Banners, pictures of players, a signed Jersey from Russel Wilson, and a football in a case signed by the entire starting roster of the 2013 Superbowl team.

"Big sports fan?" I ask.

"More like a religion," he says.

"You mentioned forms?" I ask, and he nods, and slides a folder across his desk to me.

"Official job application and stuff you need to fill out for a background check. Turn around on that is usually fast if you have no record. Same process for a firearm, only one is local, and the other is federal."

I start filling it out as he explains it. I can't think of a good character reference off the top of my head. I don't have any friends, so I'm drawing a blank.

"Just can't be blood," he says.

"My entire family is either dead, or dead to me," I say, trying to think of someone. After a moment, I have an idea and make a call.

"Queen of Hearts, Dinah speaking," I hear on the other line. Carroll has her answering the phone now. She's sounds nervous.

"Hey Dinah, it's Lady Smith," I say, just to make sure she knows it's someone she's familiar with.

"Who?" she asks. Shit, I don't think I've ever told her my name.

"Two dippers, bacon and toast," I say. Hopefully she remembers what I always order.

"Oh, hey. Calling ahead for a pickup order?" Dinah says, noticeably less awkward.

"Not exactly. Is your mom around?" I ask. Dinah excuses herself for a moment, and I hear the handoff. "Carroll, it's shades who doesn't want to talk about it."

"What do you need Lady?" she asks. Did I ever tell her my real name? "You've paid by debit before; your name is on the card."

"Could I bother you to be a character reference for a job application?" I ask. "Feel free to say no."

"No," she says, and that kind of stung. "You're a customer and we talk friendly, but I barely know you. I doubt I'd make a good reference for you."

"Fair enough," I say. We talk for a moment longer, before ending the call. "That didn't go the way I was hoping."

"Anyone else?" Ryan asks.

I call Matt, and it rings all the way to voicemail, but I don't leave a message.

"That's fine, I got a few people who could be your friend, this part is done by me anyway. It just helps if they're your people, makes the records look cleaner," he explains.

I feel like an unmarried fifty-year-old woman with no kids and five cats who just discovered she's going to die alone. And I'm only twenty-five.

"Good news is, your first customer is coming in tomorrow," Ryan says.

"Ten in the morning, picking him up at the airport?" I ask, and he nods. "At least it's a Cadillac. Anything I need to know?" I ask.

"He's pretty simple, nothing fancy or fetishist. Let's walk the floor, show you which car you're taking," he says, and I follow him out of the office and to the garage. We walk past his sister again, and her eyes are dismissive and all knowing. She sees me as the reason men think so little of women.

I walk around with ulterior motive. Three cameras are in the front of the building, located at the corners and above the main entrance. Looks like a CSP-CVIMIC4. Wide angle lens, limited infrared, CCTV system. It's fixed angle. The reception area has the same camera above Bianca. I step into the garage and see several more perched high up. I'll do more research on the camera when I get a chance.

"This is the car," Ryan says. We've stopped in front of a black Cadillac SUV. He opens the car door for me, and I take a seat inside. "Spacious back seat." It's the nicest car I've ever been behind the wheel of.

"Remember, start the seat warmers. Make sure the back cup holders have water in place. We have several brands here if they have a particular preference," Ryan continues, showing the buttons for the warmers and pointing to the back seat.

"Wardrobe?" I ask, and he asks me to follow him again. We walk further into the garage, then through the detailing shop, and into a kind of wardrobe studio. On hangers in a neat row are dozens of the same uniform in any size imaginable. When he asks me, I say four. He looks at me in disbelief, and I relent at six.

"Try that," he says, handing me a hanger with pants, a shirt, and jacket on it. "It's not one size fits all, you can mix and match." I don't even ask him to leave the room before I start stripping. Black pants and jacket with a white shirt and black tie. The King's Chariot logo is on the jacket like an emblem of a private school uniform. It all fits fine, and he tells me to keep it for now.

"What about the other wardrobes?" I ask. "Nurse outfits, bunny ears, giraffe furry suits?"

"I have those elsewhere. If you need it, I'll let you know. Be here at eight thirty tomorrow. Get the vehicle and go pick up your first customer."

"See you tomorrow then. I'll see myself out," I say, and begin a slow walk back. More cameras in the detail shop. I'll need a better look at their security office to know the angles of the cameras, but I know they're fixed. When I get to the reception area again, I nearly collide with Lucas Justin at the door.

"Sorry. Lady Smith?" he asks.

"The one and only," I say.

"What are you...you applied to be a driver?" he asks, seeing the uniform on the hanger over my shoulder.

"I could always use a few extra bucks," I say, kind of shrugging. Damn this man is attractive, making me stumble my words some.

"Good to have you on board. Sometime this week, I'd love to talk to you about security. We've had a few incidents, missing inventory. My security couldn't find out, and I was literally thinking about you a few seconds ago."

This man was thinking about me. My knees are a little weak, but I remain standing.

"Sure, I'll be around. You have my card," I say, and make room for him to pass me.

"We'll talk soon," he says, and disappears into the garage. I can't get this stupid schoolgirl smirk off my face by the time I turn and see Bianca looking at me. She makes a gesture like she's holding a dick, moves it toward her open mouth, and presses her tongue against her cheek in tandem with her hand movement.