Inception_The Bern Project_Volume One Page 3

  “Well, Sweets, that sounds delicious.” Russell reached over and grabbed a coffee cup with “World’s 2nd Best Detective” stenciled on the front – a gift from his partner in the Police Department – and poured fresh coffee into it. He saw that Kat’s eyes were glued to the frying pan, so he snuck a big pour of sweetened creamer into his coffee.

  “Seriously? That’s it? No ‘Where’s the meat?’ or ‘Is that an appetizer for the bacon?’ response?”

  Russell scratched at the three-day growth of beard he would soon be parting with. Having to follow his department’s strict code on facial hair while working meant he tried to grow a beard as often as possible on his days off, even if it was just for a few days. It was a guy thing. “No. You’re right. I need to eat better.”

  “And?”

  Russell looked at his daughter. “And what?”

  “Eat better and…” His daughter Kat stood just like her mother used to when she was having a teachable moment: left hand on the hip, head tilted to the left and left foot perched on the ball of her foot, all while being patient and waiting for Russell to come to the obvious conclusion.

  “Eat better and more of it?”

  Kat gave an overly dramatic sigh and said, “Dad…seriously?”

  He was having fun with it, but saw that she wasn’t, so he relented. “Fine. Eat better and exercise more.”

  She patted him on the head and said, “That’s a good dad. Right now, the way I see it, you are the poster boy for dad bod. You need to – ”

  “Dad what?” Russell interrupted.

  “– eat better and…what? Oh. Dad bod. It means you’re not fat, but you’re not in shape. You know, like most dads.”

  Russell stared at his daughter. “Huh.” He was both amused and embarrassed. He stole a glance down at his midsection and saw a slight paunch – a far cry from his wiry and muscular Ranger days.

  Kat continued, “Anyways, we can fix that. I have us signed up for a hot yoga class Monday night at the YMCA. It’s after your shift, so there won’t be any excuses. Also, I have us signed up for a Pilates class the following night. You’re off, right?”

  “Ah, Christ. You know I’m on call, Kat. I can’t make any promises.”

  “I know, I know, just…you know, be excited about it, okay? Your cholesterol is through the roof and your blood pressure is higher than it should be. Let’s not even talk about the fact that you’re pretty much pre-diabetic.” Kat placed a plateful of what looked like colorful vomit down on the table in front of him. “Eat.”

  Russell looked down at his plate and just stared.

  “Problem, Dad?”

  Russell looked up at Kat, then down at the plate. “No. Just…trying to figure out what’s in it.”

  Kat grabbed a plate of her own and sat down across from him. “Scrambled egg whites with red bell pepper, kale, goat cheese, onion, garlic and grass-fed organic unsalted butter. It’s good. Eat it.”

  Russell sighed, picked up his fork, grabbed the salt shaker, which his daughter immediately took away from him, and dug in. They both sat in silence as each enjoyed their breakfast, Kat more than him, he was sure. Nonetheless, he played the part. “This is pretty good, Kat.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah! I could see myself eating this more often. Good job.” He gave her a wink. She smiled, which was good enough for Russell. “So. What are your plans for the weekend?”

  “Well, I was talking to Christina and there’s an open mic night at the Foundry tomorrow. We’re thinking of maybe going? I know you’re on call and whatnot, so I figured instead of me staying home alone on a Friday night, which no teenage girl does, I would hang out with Chris and maybe stay at her place. If it’s okay with you?” Kat started twisting her hair.

  “You know I’m a detective, right?”

  Kat laughed. “Dad. Seriously. We’re not going to some party or anything. As a matter of fact, why don’t you join us if you don’t have to work and save the world?”

  “Serious? You’d want your old man there?”

  “Dad, I’m almost eighteen, which means I’ll be an adult soon. Besides, you’re getting old, which means you’ll be in a nursing home before you know it, and I’m going to have to end up taking care of you.”

  Russell laughed. “Jesus, Kat, I’m forty-six! I’ve got many years to go before that happens.”

  Kat would be eighteen in a few months and was just finishing up summer vacation before starting her senior year at Bellevue High School. Bellevue had one of the best school districts in the state, which was one of the reasons Russell had moved them there, the other being the commute to Bellevue from Tacoma had been killing him, and working twenty-plus years as a detective third grade meant the commute at odd hours wasn’t something he was enjoying.

  Kat had been hesitant at first, not wanting to leave what few friends she had in Tacoma. The ones she did have were of the sort that Russell had seen end up in jail or the morgue. As most teenage girls do, she had rebelled against her father, and gave him the silent treatment more often than naught, but Russell was an experienced interrogator and could be patient. He decided the best course of action was to let her have her space and answer it on her own. Not that he had much choice in the matter, having to work at odd hours and being away most of the week. He trusted Kat, though, and his gamble had paid off.

  Christina had been a great influence on her and had just gotten into Juilliard on a full ride scholarship for her musical talents, hence the open mic at the Foundry. Russell wasn’t keen on social media, but Christina’s music ability had already garnered mass attention and a fan page. Russell was almost as happy for Christina as her parents were, though more for the influence she brought to his daughter, than her abilities.

  Russell’s thoughts were interrupted by a monotonous beeping coming from the kitchen counter. He stood up and walked over to pick up his pager, looked down and noticed the callback number for dispatch.

  “Already? Didn’t you work late last night?” Kat was finishing up her breakfast.

  “Yeah, but that was just paperwork and I had to fill my hours to get forty for the week.” Russell grabbed his plate and put it in the sink.

  “Ahem.” Kat looked at her father, then looked at the dishwasher.

  Christ, it was like living with his mother. “Sorry.” Russell collected the plate and put it into the dishwasher, closed the door and dramatically wiped his hands together. “Happy?”

  “Good, Dad, you’re learning. There’s hope after all.” Kat smiled her mother’s smile.

  * * *

  Russell walked upstairs and headed to his den, the wooden stairs creaking with each step. Their house was an old 1940’s Victorian-stylethat he’d purchased from a foreclosure during the housing market crash. Like most foreclosures, the house had been left in disrepair, leaving Russell the burden of having to fix it. He was okay with that, as he felt bad for people who were displaced by unforeseen financial situations and the stress it brought, but that was the way the world worked. He wasn’t about to let feelings get in the way of buying the type of house he wanted.

  Russell and his partner, Reggie Sims, were able to do the repairs, fueled by specialty beers and guy time, and had added a wrap-around front porch, which Russell had always wanted. He’d always dreamed about sitting on a porch in an old wicker chair, rocking back and forth while drinking beer, watching traffic pass by or people watching – anything to keep him from watching TV or using technology – so he could properly decompress. Ironically, most of his neighbors worked in the information technology industry and lived a different life than Russell, and thus gave him room and left him alone. He was friendly with his neighbors and would always be cordial and polite if talked to, but he wasn’t going to extend an invitation for dinner.

  Russell made it to his den, sat down at his old oak desk, and picked up his cell phone. His den was a haven of solitude, a room that seemed to beckon him more and more the longer he worked as a cop. It was more a sanctuary than an
office, a place where he could escape the constant nagging and whining of those in society who always found a way to be the victim, regardless of the situations they put themselves in. This was America, damn it, and somebody else was at fault.

  He looked at his calendar and flipped the pages up until he landed on June of the next year. His retirement month. He hadn’t told Kat yet, but he was planning on retiring the same time she was planning on graduating from high school. He hoped that she would attend one of the many colleges she was applying to and he planned on moving with her. Her mother had up and left them two years ago and moved to eastern Washington when Kat was getting into her late teens and needed her the most. He had lost one of the women in his life and he was damned sure he was not going to lose the last one to distance. He just hoped that Kat would understand.

  Russell dialed dispatch and hit the green button with the phone icon. The line rang for several seconds. He was about to hang up when it was answered.

  “Dispatch,” the rushed voice said.

  “Detective Mixney here. I was paged?”

  “Yes, sir. Your team is up. Lieutenant Connelly had me page you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Well, we got a call last night. And by ‘last night,’ I mean early this morning. Wee hours, you know. Anyways, it started out as a suspicious vehicle and turned into a suspicious death. A DOA.”

  Russell sighed. “Okay. I’m on my way. Who and where?”

  “Detectives Sims and Wagner just arrived on scene and there are several patrol units for traffic control and witness statements. Bellevue Mall parking garage, level three. Come through the Bellevue Way entrance. Northeast Sixth and Seventh are blocked off.”

  “Okay. Twenty minutes.” Russell disconnected and stood up. He ran into the bathroom, took a quick shower, shaved, and toweled off. He grabbed a dark blue polo shirt and khaki slacks, opting for comfort rather than dress. If this turned into a murder case, he would be on his feet for an extended period, and comfort took precedence. He threw on his black Nike tennis shoes and headed downstairs, grabbing his firearm and shield on the way.

  “Hey, Sweets. I have to get in to work.”

  Kat entered the hallway, clutching her mother’s necklace that hung around her neck. “Okay. Anything big?”

  “I hope not, but we’ll see. I’ll keep in touch and let you know.” Russell opened up his wallet and threw his American Express card on the table. “Just in case. Use that if you need to for food, fun, whatever.”

  “Sure. Be safe, okay?”

  “You know I will.”

  Kat walked up to her father and gave him a big hug. “I love you, Dad.”

  Russell hugged her back, trying not to choke up. He coughed. “I love you too, Sweets. See you!”

  He walked outside, Kat closing the door behind him. He got to his Crown Vic and saw a Post-it note stuck to the driver side window. He took it off and held it up:

  “Russell. We’re having a barbeque tomorrow and would love to see you and Kat there. Just bring yourselves, we’ll have plenty of food and drinks. – Your neighbor, Michael.”

  Obviously, his neighbors wanted to take the first step in getting to know him and Kat. If all went well, maybe he and Kat could stop by and say hi. They were going to be living next to each other for at least the next year and it might be a good idea to get to know them. No sense in being strangers.

  Russell put the car in drive and took off toward Bellevue. The sooner he could clear this case, the sooner he could get back home and maybe join his neighbors for a barbeque.

  He just had to figure out which neighbor was Michael.

  Chapter 3

  Lying in bed, John reached down and ran both hands across his torso, feeling the cool dampness on his body. He took a few deep breaths while keeping his eyes closed, trying to calm himself down. He took his pulse and felt his heart rate racing. It had always been this way the morning after a hit and no matter what he did, he couldn’t escape the nightmare that would follow.

  No matter who the target was, there was always a dark cloud that hovered around him, reminding him of his actions. It didn’t matter how bad the person was, or how much they deserved to die, he knew their demise would leave a void in somebody’s life. Parents, siblings, friends, children…someone was going to miss the target and miss them for different reasons than what he was killing them for. His conscience told him that what he was doing was morally right – if not for the victims, then for potential victims – yet his subconscious was there to remind him that for every action there was a reaction. Yes, you are killing a morally corrupt and evil human being, but there will be someone whose heart is broken by your actions.

  Deal with it.

  He took a few more breaths and sat up in bed, rolling his neck to work the kinks out. He opened the top drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a wooden cigar box and placed it on his lap. He used his index finger to separate the rolled-up joints inside until he found the fattest one.

  Putting it to his lips, he lit the joint and took several starter hits until the end burnt red, and then inhaled. He held the smoke in for several seconds, allowing it to marinate in his lungs. He closed his eyes once more and felt the effects take hold right away, the tension and pressure melting off his body. The nightmarish thoughts receded into the back of his mind with all the others, locked away and saved for another day, as the euphoria forced itself into his body.

  John went to his dresser and found his black Kempo Gi bottoms. He put them on as he stared at himself in the mirror. The stubble from his crew cut was growing back, the jet black hair making an appearance on his head, with a matching five o’clock shadow.

  The years had taken their toll on his physique and he had started to soften a bit, as most thirty-eight-year-old males do. By societal standards, though, he was still in optimal shape, so he wasn’t complaining too much. His muscular chest still created shadows over his abdominal muscles in the perfect light, his broad shoulders and arms still possessing the definition and hardness that one would see on a bodybuilder.

  Grabbing a towel off the dresser, John went into his den. He snatched his workshop key off the desk, and, as he walked toward the door, he did a double take. There was a picture of man with a toothless smirk resting on the surface of his desk. It was the selfie of a man with soft brown eyes, dark hair, average facial features, and a designer beard that tried to give a chiseled look to an otherwise doughy face.

  Ali Bugunolov.

  This habit of John’s had started three years ago. Collecting pictures of their targets gave him a reminder of the filth he and Morgan were ridding the world of, his nightmares be damned. Sure, some would say it was an obsessive and almost serial killer tactic, but he felt differently. Taking a life was never easy, and the day he thought otherwise was the day he would retire from his ways, unless the authorities decided to end it sooner.

  Well, to hell with Ali and all the others.

  He opened his desk drawer and threw the picture onto a stack of photos, closed the drawer and went outside.

  * * *

  Leaving his back deck, John walked across the yard to his five-thousand-square-foot workshop nestled in the southeastern corner of his five-acre spread just off the Snoqualmie River, a gift to him from his paternal grandfather after his passing.

  After his parents were killed in a home invasion robbery, John had found himself in the foster system. His lone living relative was his grandfather, but since he was a convicted felon and leader of an outlaw motorcycle club, the courts felt it safer that he be with complete strangers. Of course, old Henry Idgaff would have none of that, and he had fought tooth and nail to get his grandson back, having a come-to-Jesus meeting with the judge, who relented and granted him full custody. John didn’t have the horror stories that most kids have in the foster system, but it was where he met Morgan, who had his own demons, so it wasn’t all that bad.

  His grandfather had passed when John was nineteen years old and left him with th
e North Bend property and a one hundred and fifty thousand dollar life insurance policy. It was quite the gift.

  John unlocked the large metallic sliding door and pulled it aside, the wheels groaning as it moved. He flipped the light switch, revealing a large matted dojo on one side and various farm and building supplies on the other. In the back was a staircase that led up to an after-market second-floor landing. He grabbed a remote off the wood counter and clicked the “on” button. Music blared from the speakers that surrounded the workshop. The sound of Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones saturated the air.

  He walked to the center of the mat and started bouncing on the balls of his feet, getting the blood flowing. Counting out loud, his cadence picked up speed and he became more centered, focusing on his core. He alternated stances, going from southpaw to orthodox and incorporating basic kicks and strikes. He threw in some jabs and crosses, and a few front kicks and sidekicks, and worked his way up to more advanced crescent kicks and roundhouses.

  The blood started flowing and John found himself becoming loose. He approached the hanging bag and landed roundhouse kicks to the side at half power, ten kicks per leg. He worked up to full power, fifty kicks per leg, each one delivering a loud thwap that echoed through the workshop, drowning out the music.

  John glanced at the clock. He’d been going for almost ninety minutes. He decided to call it quits. He’d always loved Kempo, having started when he was thirteen years old, thanks to his grandfather. He had found his calling and never looked back, earning the distinguished black belt with two red stripes, signifying second degree.

  He grabbed the remote and turned the music off.

  “Excellent show, my friend!” John turned his head to the front and saw his neighbor and friend, Frankie Wells, leaning against the door frame, clapping.