It wasn’t long before the lawyers arrived.
Dave Balding had been bundled off to a nearby hospital. As was the man whose hand I shot. The captive Petrov employee was en route to a Freedom township jail cell.
Al Striar had retrieved two of the four canvas shoulder bags, each carrying enough copycat Fentanyl tablets to provide opiate fixes for half the population of San Francisco. But, try as we might, we couldn’t solve the mystery of the disappearing oligarch.
Two attorneys from the Hobart Law Firm, local associates of Leonard, Howard and Arthur, emerged from a black Lexus sedan and red-faced, demanded we leave the property.
“Immediately,” emphasized Judy May, the duo’s spokesperson.
“Not going to happen,” I said coldly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A crime has been committed on this property and we have no plans to leave here until our investigation has been completed.”
“You’ll force me to call the police.”
“We are the police.”
“The District Attorney, then.”
“Look, Ms. May, we have no intention of vacating these premises until we locate Mr. Petrov.”
“Mr. Petrov is not present at this location.”
“I followed him into the house. I know he’s here.”
“You’re wrong.”
I stood staring at her silently.
“If you’re so sure he’s here, why don’t you lead me to him?”
“I’m unable to do that.”
She turned to her associate. “Make the call, Robert.”
Robert nodded, punched several numbers into his cell phone and stepped away to speak privately.
I looked at Johnny Kennerly. “Keep going, John.”
He nodded, gathered the troops, and headed back inside.
In short order, District Attorney Michael Lytell’s name popped up on my cell phone.
“Buddy Steel,” I answered.
“Call it off, Buddy,” Lytell ordered.
I, too, wandered away so as to speak privately. “There’s ample evidence of a crime having been committed here, Mike. And Petrov was definitely involved in it.”
“His lawyers say the opposite. They claim he’s not even on the property.”
“He is. I apprehended him but in the confusion, he eluded me. He’s somewhere inside the mansion, more than likely in some kind of secret enclosure.”
“A secret enclosure? Really?”
“Don’t minimize this, Mike.”
“Can you produce him?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Listen to me, Buddy. This Petrov character is a person of some considerable importance to the Russian President. I’ve already heard directly from the Governor about it. If you can’t put your finger on him, you’ll have to stand down.”
“I could start tearing down walls. I know he’s secreted somewhere inside them.”
“You want to start destroying the mansion? You think that’s going to fly?”
“I’ve got the appropriate warrant.”
“To search, not destroy.”
“I know he’s here, Mike.”
“Knowing and actually proving are two different things.”
“I have a pair of suitcases filled with synthetic Fentanyl. I saw him and two of his associates carry these opioids from the mansion to his boat dock with the intention of loading them onto a trio of speedboats.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do these suitcases have his DNA on them?”
“Uncertain. They were carried by his associates.”
“Is there any other evidence?”
“Not yet.”
“That being the case, I hereby instruct you to close up shop and get out of there, Buddy. Don’t belabor this.”
After a pause, I said, “This isn’t over, Mike. Not by a long shot.”