Author's Notes: POV changes in each section.

Chapter 6

Sharon remembered when her children were little, she often had to count to ten to calm herself in order to respond to a situation in such a way that would not be emotionally scarring. She didn't want Megan and Ricky telling a shrink one day that the reason they were miserable failures in life was because Mommy used to scream obscenities at them when she was stressed out.

Standing next to Brenda Leigh Johnson at a crime scene, she found herself silently counting to prevent herself from blowing up at the other woman.

"Chief Johnson," (one, two, three…) "can you please explain what you mean by saying the pieces of paper the Popova's hung on the wall are 'instructions?'"

"That's the best term I can use to describe them, but yes, they are directions." Brenda nodded her head as if that made everything clear.

Sharon clenched her fists. (Four, five, six…) "Do you think perhaps you could translate some of them so we might possibly know what the heck you are talking about?" A little snark was okay. Sharon didn't know how to count away snark.

"Oh, right," Brenda said. "I think I could explain it better if I told you what a few of them actually mean, so yes, let me translate." Brenda turned and the adoring crowd gathered around her parted like the red sea. She walked over the front door and stood, waiting for Sharon to catch up.

I'm hungry, I'm tired, and my feet hurt, Sharon thought. And I really want to be home with Rusty. I could go without the Johnson theatrics. Doesn't she realize everyone is always looking at her anyways? Sharon dutifully walked over to where the small blonde was waiting impatiently.

"Alright, so it appears that several of these pieces of paper were frequently handled, as if they were taken down on the way out the door and then hung back up, either by tape or with a tack, or, oh my, is that gum?" Brenda wrinkled her nose. "That makes sense when reading the content."

(seven, eight, nine…) "Which is…"

Brenda gave her a sharp look. "Gettin' there, Captain." Brenda perused the pseudo-bulletin board, and pointed to a tattered scrap. "This one, here, is a detailed description of how to take the bus to work. It seems that the Popova's can't read English, so Mr. Popova-or Mrs. Popova, I can't tell whose job it is-describe the color of the house that is right next to the bus stop, and—see these squiggles here?-that is their impression of what the bus number looks like. It lists the coins you have to put in the slot to pay your way, and notes to never sit in the first few seats or you will get yelled at. Then it says to count seven stops, turn right, stand by the 'store with loud music,' and wait for another bus. And there's more counting stops, etc. They don't give the name of where they work, but there's enough detail here that I think you guys can figure it out from the bus route. Work is referred to as 'restaurant.'"

"That's helpful," Sharon murmured.

"It gets stranger, though. It's like they needed to be guided though every step of their lives in LA. This one—" Brenda pointed to a 8x11 inch sheet of lined paper pulled from a notebook—"is a grocery list. It starts out with a similar description about how to walk to the store using landmarks. From what I can tell, they were overwhelmed by the selection of food, so they bought the same 15 or so items each time they shopped, and they described each one by the label, and where exactly it was located in the store. That way, they could bring the exact amount of cash each week, and they didn't spend all day in the store."

"Alright. What else?"

Brenda scanned the selection. "It's funny and sad. The Post-It here is instructions on how to use the washing machine in the building. It emphasizes to only use laundry soap in the machines, or the neighbors get angry. And it's added here, 'bring red bottle with you.'" She turned to look at Sharon. "You said you found their passports and such. Where were they from?"

Before Sharon could answer, Sykes piped up. "According to their papers, they came to LA in 2012 from Isuprovo. It's a village in the Kostroma region, near the Volga river, about six hours north of Moscow."

"I'm familiar with the country's geography," Brenda said, giving Sykes a withering look. "Kostroma is extremely rural. Some of the villages there have only twenty or thirty houses, so it's not surprising that these people didn't know how to use a washing machine. Or—" Brenda pointed at another note— "how to walk to their local bank to get a Cashier's check," then another— "how to add minutes to their disposable phone, and even how to use a cell phone"— and lower— "where your kid goes to school and the bus that takes here there." Brenda frowned. "Although that's written in a child's hand, like she had to figure it out herself."

"What about the rest of the apartment?" Sharon asked.

"More of the same. The note on the microwave says how to heat up food, with a warning to never put metal in it. There are reminders to pay bills on certain days, and when I looked through the boxes real quick, I see papers that describe a utility company's logo and then the words, "keeps house warm," or "makes water hot" next to it. There are a lot of Russian curse words directed about how expensive it costs to live in LA." Brenda's audience laughed.

"Some of these little scraps of paper like this one over here are warnings, things to see on the way out the door, as if to remind them about how dangerous LA is. For example, 'don't look a dark person in the eye' is over here." She looked up apologetically at the people of color in the room. "Russia is pretty homogenous, especially in remote regions, so uneducated people like these are going to be frightened by the diversity they see here. I like this one: 'everyone in America carries a gun.' And this one: 'women get attacked.'"

"Sad," Sharon murmured.

"I was workin' my way up to the big one, See the large printin' at the top, the one in dark marker? It says, 'Remember we don't belong here. We are here for a purpose.'"

Sharon's interest was piqued. "What purpose? Did anything in the rest of the apartment give you any idea?"

"Yes and no. The notes were about the same, directions to Salvation Army for clothes, the name of the one person at the bank who speaks Russian and the days she works, 'wear deodorant.' But the two maps help a little bit." Brenda gestured to the far wall, and everyone moved there en mass.

"The squad had already noted that the areas with X's and arrows was the seedier part of LA, such as areas along Sepulveda Boulevard and in Hollywood. What's interestin' is what's written next to the places they have marked on the map: 'prostitutes.' And here and here where they X's are? That's the word for 'brothel.'" She turned around and looked at Sharon, the squad, and all the LAPD staff who were hanging on her every word.

"I know it sounds like I haven't given you much, and I'd really like to come back to the station and go through the boxes of papers, because I have a feelin' they will answer a lot more questions than all this crazy stuff on the wall." Sharon nodded her assent. "But I think we learned something really important about this family, and it's got be significant in their murder." Brenda paused.

(Ten, eleven, twelve). "Chief Johnson, no need for drama, please," Sharon said.

Brenda frowned. "I wasn't being dramatic, Shar—Captain. I was just gatherin' my thoughts." She cleared her throat. "A lot of people come from Russia with the hopes of a better life for themselves and their families. They have heard a lot about the US and are eager to assimilate and settle into their new country, and they do whatever they can to put down roots to get permanent resident status. However, I don't think that is the case with the Popova's. They can barely make it to work without carrying a cheat sheet. They seem scared of other Americans. I see no sign that they are learnin' English, are workin' hard to integrate their child into American culture. These people came from rural Russia and had never seen the likes of LA. They seemed very unhappy here, and were scared and overwhelmed. I see no attempts at assimilation. So that raises the question: what made them come? And why have they stayed for over a year?"

Sharon looked up at the note written in marker. "'We are here for a purpose.'" she murmured.

"Exactly," Brenda said. "They are in LA for a reason. And judgin' from the way they live, it seems like nothin' else matters."

"Find the purpose and find the motive for their murder." Sharon looked at Brenda, and she silently nodded in agreement.

Brenda drove back to the LAPD after the squad had dispersed. Some were going back to Major Crimes, others to the restaurant it was thought that one of the Popova's worked at, and a few were sent home for the evening. Brenda had to find street parking outside of HQ like a commoner, and then sign in as a guest. The desk officers didn't even recognize who she was, and for some reason that really galled her. When she caught them staring at her ass she wanted to turn around and demand, "don't you know who I am?" before a verbal castration and writing them up. But she couldn't do things like that anymore. she was just a civilian, and she seethed inside from the helplessness.

She walked in to her old squad room just a few seconds after Sharon Raydor exited from an adjoining elevator. "Thanks for coming, Brenda, " Sharon said, a stiffness in her voice that made Brenda uncomfortable. What did I do to deserve this? It's 11AM the Friday before Christmas, my Daddy is bein' ignored, Fritz is mad at me, all so I can help out. What's Sharon's problem? she , she forced herself to smile and said, "I'm happy to help out. I think goin' though those boxes should answer some questions for you."

Out of habit, Brenda walked toward her old office, her mind already sifting through the content of those cardboard boxes SID hauled out of the crime scene that she was told were waiting for her.

Sharon cleared her throat loudly. "Uh, Brenda?"

"Hmmm?" Her hand was on the doorknob and her mind was speaking to her in Russian.

"I thought you would sit over there." Brenda turned around, and Sharon was pointing to an unused desk at the edge of the office. Three cardboard boxes were stacked next to it. "Unless that's a problem."

Brenda blushed a deep magenta and withdrew her hand from the knob like it was on fire. She smoothed down her skirt and turned with as much dignity as possible. "No problem whatsoever, Captain Raydor," she said, holding her head high. She walked over to the small desk and sat down in the chair, her spine straight, and did her best to ignore the squeak of the wheels.

"Great," Sharon said, and Brenda thought she heard a hint of triumph in her silky voice. "I'll be in here if you need anything." She opened her office door and went in, leaving it slightly ajar.

I'll be here, in your former office while you sit at that crappy desk like a probie, sucker, you mean, Brenda thought. She reached down to pull contents from the top box. ignoring the sting of tears in her eyes.

A couple hours later, Brenda stared at the photos she had propped up at the edge of the temporary desk. There were just a few of them, but they helped to tell the story, like illustrations in a child's story book. She had gone through the three boxes and sorted material into three categories: bills and financial information, more instructional notes, and material that was worth translating, as it may be relevant to the case. So far, her triage system proved to be excellent. With each new document she picked up and read, a smaller piece of the puzzle slipped into place.

Sanchez and Sykes had returned an hour ago from Little Russia, the restaurant the Popova's both worked at. At first the employees were extremely reluctant to talk to the cops, but then Sanchez unleashed just the right threats to loosen tongues. The manager said Artem and Elena Popova showed up the previous fall and begged for work. He was born in a nearby village in Russia and immigrated when he was a little boy, he explained, and he felt a kinship to them, so he hired them both to work in the kitchen full time for a for a little above minimum wage. They were good employees, he said. Never late, didn't call in sick, always sober. They had to bring their kid to work a couple of times, which made him unhappy, but they just stuck her in an empty function room for the evening with a book and she was fine.

"We should have brought the Chief with us, like I suggested, " Sanchez said, tossing a dirty look at Raydor. "A lot of the other staff didn't speak English and the manager translated, but who knows what they were really saying?"

Brenda was still smarting from her accidental-office reclaiming fiasco, but she had been involved in enough power struggles to know that often every little push is met with a much greater pull. If Sharon felt a shift in the squad's loyalties, it could affect their hard-earned friendship, and thus her relationship with Rusty, and Brenda wasn't going to let that happen.

"You know, Julio, you don't have to call me 'Chief'. I'm not an LAPD Deputy Chief anymore." It still pained her to say the words out loud.

Sanchez shrugged. "You're still Chief of something," he said. "That's good enough for me."

Sykes looked around, confused at the tension in the room, and picked up the story. "Anyways, what the male workers told us was Artem asked them on several occasions about where he could go to find Russian prostitutes. They thought he was a little obsessed."

"Hmm," Sharon said. "Did they tell him?"

"Yes," Sykes said. "And the areas they pointed out correlated with the ones marked on the map."

"So the guy was really into home-grown pu-, er, hookers," Sanchez said. "Whatever. But what was really weird was this one young guy we talked to just happened to be in North Hollywood late one night saw Mrs. Popova talking to a bunch of prostitutes."

"Really?" Sharon said. "Was he sure she wasn't a prostitute herself?"

"Highly doubtful," Brenda said. She pulled a picture of Elena off her desk and passed it around. The short, plump 40-something is in a plain wedding gown stretched over her pregnant belly, a smile on her broad Slavic face. "This was taken eight years ago. I don't see her as prime prostitute material, do you?"

"Oh no, absolutely not," Sanchez said with an exaggerated style, and Sykes gave him a dirty look.

"And now for the obvious question," Sharon said. "Any enemies? Anyone want them dead?"

"Everyone was really surprised to hear they were murdered, "Sykes said. "But it didn't seem like they were all that close to the rest of the staff. They worked hard and pretty much kept to themselves. They didn't share anything about their personal lives at all. People said if they hadn't seen them bring in Vika a few times, they would never have known they had a daughter, because they never talked about her."

"So to answer your question, Captain, no enemies, no beefs with anyone at the restaurant. They didn't owe anyone money, and no one ever hung around looking for them. Except for the husband asking about Russian hookers, neither one of them ever said anything interesting, as far as I can tell. They just sort of blended into the background."

Brenda nodded. "I think they liked it that way," she said.

. Their information delivered, Sykes and Sanchez drifted back to their desks and started on the thankless tasks of contacting ICE for any information on the Popova's they might have. Brenda picked up another stack of paper and began to read.

Prostitutes. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place, Brenda thought. She took a swig of her lukewarm coffee and tried to focus on the scribbled notes in Artem's hand in front of her, but she was seeing double.

...

"Brenda," Sharon said. She nearly jumped out of her skin, not having heard the woman approach. Or did she just fall asleep? The woman was standing in front of her, looking amazingly unruffled in a navy suit, wearing…sneakers?

Sharon held her hands out in surrender. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, but I think that's all we can do for tonight. Unless you have something to share. You have been very quiet over here."

Brenda rubbed her face. "I'm gettin' a complete picture, Sharon, but I don't want to say anythin' until things are a little more clear." Brenda caught Sharon's sigh of frustration. "Now, that would bother me too, but with each sheet of paper I translate, it either confirms my suspicions, or it could take me in a completely different direction. These handwritten notes aren't in any order, and it's not like a computer where you can sort files by when they were last updated to put the contents into a chronological order. I don't have the luxury to findin' out if what I'm readin' has anythin' to do with recent goin' ons, or is an old grocery list that's ten years old."

"Okay, I understand. But I think we're all tired. Why don't we go home and get some sleep? Can you come back tomorrow and summarize what you've found when you have finished looking at everything? I would really appreciate it if you could."

Brenda nodded. "Of course I will. Could I take one of these boxes home with me in case I can't sleep."

Sharon didn't hesitate. "No, sorry."

Brenda's brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"Because that's evidence in a homicide, and it shouldn't leave the chain of command. And I think that speaks to how tired you must be to even suggest such a thing."

Brenda opened her mouth to protest, but Sharon cut it off. "Brenda, it's not a bloody glove. It you have some things you want to work at when you are at home, just go Xerox them."

She shut her mouth and nodded, then grabbed a few documents and headed towards Provenza's copier, making a mental note to drop off a few coins on her way out the door.

"Fritz!" Claire squealed, and Fritz was sure some of the not-quite-right-shade-of-green paint peeled off the walls from the sound. His arms were full of his manic, squirming sister.

"I can't believe I'm here! I made it! Yea me!" Claire chanted, hugging him again.

He pulled her away and looked at her, his sleepy brain barely able to compute.

"Claire, I talked to you this morning and you were in Missouri. How the hell did you get here so fast?" he asked.

Claire put a hand over her mouth like a little kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Well Fritzy, I might have fudged my location a bit. I really didn't want to worry you."

"Worry me about what? That you bent time to get out hers so fast? Claire, what's going on?"

She laughed. "Nothing, big brother! I just started driving two days ago and I was so upset about, well, I'm not going to even say his name, and before I knew it, it was night time, and I wasn't the least bit tired, so I just kept going. The more I thought about what I jerk he was, the madder I got, and the more energy I had. So I just powered on through!"

Fritz shook his head. "Wait a minute, Claire. Are you telling me you drove here straight from New Jersey without ever stopping to sleep? Are you insane?"

"Fritz, calm down. I'm not crazy! Of course I stopped to sleep! There are rest stops everywhere. When I got tired I just pulled over, locked my doors, and slept for a couple of hours. And when I woke up I got some Starbucks, and since I don't usually drink coffee it was like HELLO open road, here I come! Vroom vroom! And once I bought the Prius after my Beatle died…" Claire then noticed Clay standing behind Fritz, who cleared his throat loudly.

"Mr. Johnson!" she said brightly. "I was so happy to hear you were going to be sharing our Christmas!" Fritz winced. He was pretty sure Clay thought that Claire was intruding on his Christmas, not vice versa.

"Claire, do you always show up at people's houses in the middle of the night and wake everybody up like this? Weren't you raised with better manners?" Clay asked sourly.

Instead of looking insulted, Claire had a look of pity on her face, and lunged toward Clay, dropping her bag on Fritz's foot as she did so. She wrapped a startled Clay in a bear hug, which he did not reciprocate.

"Oh you poor man!" she crooned as she tried to rock the large man back and forth. "This time of year must be so hard without Willie Rae. I am so, so, SO sorry about her crossing over, I really am."

Clay managed to pull his arms free from Claire's grasp and peeled her off of him. "First of all, my Willie Rae died, she didn't cross over. I just can't stand euphemisms for death. And second of all—"

"Daddy?" Everyone turned to find Brenda, who was standing in the front door. "What's goin' on, for heaven's sake? Why is everyone up, and Claire—why are you here already?"

Brenda look exhausted. Fritz wanted to go and wrap his arms around her, but he wasn't sure how well that would be received in light of their argument. He held back.

Before Claire's mania could rev up, Fritz said, "honey, Claire pretty much drove straight through and got here about five minutes ago. Your dad and I woke up to her knocking on the door."

"Pounding on it is more like it," Clay said, glowering at the blonde woman who was still in his personal space. "And if she hadn't woken us up, I'm sure you traipsing in at three in the morning would have. I come here all the way from Atlanta and you can't even be bothered to pick me up from the airport? Would you like to explain yourself?"

"No," Brenda said brusquely. "I'm sure Fritz told you the situation, and he was gracious enough to fetch you from LAX by himself."

Score one for me, Fritz thought.

Brenda continued, "I'm really glad you're here, Daddy, and if you weren't so grumpy I'd give you a hug, although it looks like Claire beat me to it." Claire and Clay both opened their mouths to respond, but Brenda cut them off.

"Listen y'all, it's late, and I haven't had a day this endless in a long time." Her voice took that "don't mess with me" tone that Fritz loved. "Now here's what's gonna happen. Daddy, you go on back to bed. We will catch up tomorrow over breakfast, when we are both in better moods." She gave him a look and he stayed silent. "Claire, since you are here a couple of days earlier than we thought, we don't have the air mattress set up for you in Fritz's study, so Fritz will get you some sheets and blankets to make up the couch."

"Oh, I'm barely tired!" she exclaimed. "I had a Venti latte with an extra shot a few hours ago and I'm wide awake!"

"Then watch TV, Claire, because Fritz and I are goin' to bed," she said wearily. "As a veteran of being wound up after a lot of late nights, I suggest watching TNT. There's always some stupid procedural on."

"But-"

"There are no buts, there are only beds. I will see you in the mornin', Daddy and Claire. Fritz, I will see you in the bedroom once you got your sister settled in." Brenda walked past them in into the back hallway, leaving them all to follow her instructions.

Brenda was already in bed with her teeth brushed and in her cat PJ's by the time Fritz got back to the bedroom. He sat down on her side of the bed and tried to catch her eye, but she stubbornly refused to look at him.

"Hey," he said softly. "I'm really sorry about last evening. I overreacted, okay?"

Brenda curled up in fetal position and rolled over away from him. "Why?" Her voice was muffled by the pillow.

"Why what, honey?"

"Why did you act like that, Fritz? Like Major Crimes is an old boyfriend you are just sure I'm going to hook up with again?" She rolled farther away from him, and he realized he was losing her. He gently placed a hand on her back. She flinched, but he refused to remove it.

"Because I love you so much, and I can't stand the idea of ever going back to that life we used to live, where the LAPD owned you. And before you say it, I know consulting for a night is different. Like I said, I overreacted, and I'm really sorry, honey." He could feel the gentle rise and fall of her breaths and the heat of her skin through her flannel top. Finally she sighed.

"Come to bed, Fritz," she said, and he knew he was forgiven.

Just as dawn broke, Brenda crept from her bed, making sure Fritz was sleeping soundly. She grabbed her black bag and tiptoed to Fritz's study. Since it wasn't Claire's guest room yet, it was still and quiet.

She sat down at the desk and pulled out a folder with several pieces of paper covered in Russian and a couple of envelopes from her cavernous purse. Although she had gone through the motions in Major Crimes, she had Xeroxed nothing.

Brenda didn't dwell on her incredibly juvenile response to Sharon's authority. Instead she picked up one of the envelopes and pulled out a smudged and clearly much read letter, skimming the contents yet again. She had to make sure she was interpreting the Russian it was written in correctly, because she was sure this letter was the reason the Popova's were dead.

END CHAPTER 6

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