Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

replied. “We’ll get together again, don’t worry. I’ll call you in a few days on the throwaway number.”
    They both hung up, and Charmaine stretched out on the bed and tried to nap, but she couldn’t stop trembling.

Todd German arrived at Los Angeles International, rented a car, and, using the onboard GPS system, drove to Shutters and checked in. He hung up his clothes, then went online and found a Santa Monica funeral parlor advertising basic services and had a short conversation with them about services and rates. He told them he’d call back later in the day.
    That done, he went down to the garage and drove to the West Los Angeles police station. He gave the name of the detective he had spoken to, and after a fifteen-minute wait, a skinny, sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties appeared.
    “My name is Detective Sanders,” he said. “Please come with me.”
    He was escorted to a small room containing only a table and four chairs. He was told to have a seat, and Sanders left. He came back ten minutes later with another man, short, dark, and muscular. Gym rat, Todd figured. The man’s name was Gonzales.
    “Mr. German,” Sanders said, tossing a thin file folder on the table, “what is your connection to Igor Smolensky?”
    “I believe we went over that on the phone,” Todd replied.
    “Go over it again for me,” Gonzales said. “Please.”
    “We both work for Amalgamated Enterprises, in Phoenix. Mr. Smolensky was my immediate superior.”
    “What kind of company is that?”
    “It’s an international conglomerate made up of about three dozen businesses in various countries.”
    “Any of these businesses connected to any kind of criminal organization?”
    Todd made a show of looking surprised. “Of course not. Neither Mr. Smolensky nor I would be employed there, if that were the case.”
    “Reason we ask,” Sanders said, “is the circumstances of Mr. Smolensky’s death fit a pattern associated with criminality. He was lured from his room down into the garage. He left so quickly that he didn’t even bother to put his ID or money in his pockets. He was disarmed—he was found with a semiautomatic pistol—placed in the trunk of his car, and shot in the head with a small-caliber weapon. His death had all the hallmarks of a mob killing.”
    “If that’s so, then there must have been a case of mistaken identity,” Todd said. “Igor was a straight arrow. He belonged to the Phoenix Kiwanis Club, for God’s sake.”
    “How about you, Mr. German? Do you have any criminal associations?”
    “Certainly not.”
    “Now that Mr. Smolensky is dead, are you going to get his job?”
    “I don’t know—it’s possible, I guess, or they could send someone in from the outside. I’ve been there less than a year.”
    “Where were you before that?”
    “I was a student at the University of Phoenix.”
    “That’s some sort of Internet school, isn’t it?”
    “No, but it’s a for-profit university.”
    “What did you study there?”
    “I got a bachelor’s in economics and an MBA.”
    “How old are you, Mr. German?”
    “Twenty-six.”
    “Where are you from?”
    “I was born in Phoenix. I’ve lived there all my life.”
    “Where are your parents from?”
    “My father was born in East Germany, my mother in Russia.”
    “Are you acquainted with something called the Russian Mafia?”
    “Only from bad television shows. I’d like to claim Mr. Smolensky’s body.”
    “Does he have any living relatives?” Gonzales asked.
    “No—at least, not according to his employment records.”
    “Wife?”
    “No, he was single.”
    “Was he gay?”
    “Not to my knowledge.”
    “Was he screwing anybody in the office?”
    “Not to my knowledge. It’s a small office. There’s only one woman working for us, and she’s married. How do I go about claiming the body?”
    Sanders removed a list of names from his folder and slid it across the table. “This is a list of people who checked out of Shutters on the morning that Mr. Smolensky was murdered. Do any of them ring a bell?”
    Todd looked at the list: at the top was Billy Burnett. “No, none of them rings a bell. Now, how do I claim Mr. Smolensky’s body?”
    “We’ll give you a document,” Sanders said. “You give that to a funeral home, and they’ll pick up the body from the city morgue. After that, what’s done with him is up to you.”
    “Was there an autopsy conducted?”
    “Yes. The cause of death was a single gunshot wound to