Twenty-Six

The plan was simple—Gather useful intelligence while eavesdropping on the meeting between the Volturi and Victoria's crew. Wait for the Olympic coven and their allies to make an appearance, and right before the fireworks began, arrest everyone and seize everything. Obtain enough evidence should be gathered for a slam-dunk trial, and everyone would go to prison.

"It shouldn't be that difficult," Benjamin said from his holding cell before downing his dinner a second-hand gallon water container. He chuckled at the squeamish look on Leah's face; it had been days since the agent had arrived at the station, each night, Leah would hand him his food, and each time, she couldn't digest the sight of the man drinking blood.

Embry ran a hand down his face and breathed out, "Oh, boy..."

"Famous last words, Benjamin," Jacob said, unlocking the gate to the agent's holding cell. He stepped aside to let the man walk out. "So, will you be hanging out with us or...?"

Benjamin shook his head. "No can do," he said. "My employers can't know that I've been talking to you guys. I'm going to hang out with my vampire-buddies, and then see how it goes."

"What if someone mistakes you for being one of them?" Leah asked.

"I mean, I am one of them," Benjamin replied cheerily before remembering that Leah was dead-serious. "Oh, you mean actually being a part of the coven." He shrugged. "Not too concerned. Anyway, if they shoot me, hopefully without a UV, I can always get back up." His wave was dismissive. "I'll be fine."

It'll be fine.

Leah didn't know who was less convincing: her "temporary" captain, pacing around his office a couple of days later with his third Red Bull in his hand or the undercover agent currently hiding out in the station's holding cell.

"It's not like it's our raid," Paul said, though it sounded like he was telling himself that rather than the detectives and the cop in his office. "We're just providing support. Surveillance. Operating the radios. Making sure none of those fuckers leave the stockyards without handcuffs."

"Aren't you worried about this raid turning into the second coming of St. Patrick's?" Jacob asked.

"St. Patrick's was a one-time shit show," Paul pointed out, aiming his can of artificial energy at the detective. "This one is going to work out perfectly fine. Fine enough that we'll all star in some documentary about the most successful raid in years."

Embry snorted. "I thought you never wanted to be in a documentary?"

Paul narrowed his eyes at the cop. "Not the point," he said. "The point is: this ain't gonna be another St. Patrick's, got it?"

"The raid isn't going to happen until mid-August," Aisha told Leah as they walked out of the station, both craving a much-needed lunch away from work. Preferably at the other side of the city, but given their time constraints, they had to eat somewhere local. "We have some time to get things in order."

"I keep on forgetting that there are more things to this case than the raid," Leah admitted, catching the car keys tossed her way. They were taking Aisha's car. "Mike's not cooperating. And then we have that hotel manager who may or may not accept that plea."

Aisha sighed. "It never ends." She entered the car the moment her friend did. "Everyone's freaking out about that raid... a part of me thinks it's overkill. I mean, like Paul said, it's not really our mission; we're only providing support. But I guess kinda get it. St. Patrick's was a hot, flaming mess."

"Yeah, but that had been years ago," Leah argued. "Things have changed. Rules were put in place. Plus, it's not happening in the middle of the city like last time. Who's hanging around the stockyards anymore?'

"You're starting to sound like that agent Paul's keeping in his holding cell," Aisha said, chuckling. "But I guess we need to think positively."

"Yeah," Leah said, putting the key into the ignition. "We have no other choice."

Aisha was right. St. Patrick's was a hot, flaming mess even though Leah didn't know the whole story.

In her defense, not many people did. Technically, two versions were floating around about events of March 17, 2013— the one provided to the media and therefore the public, and the one provided to and experienced by multiple municipal and federal law enforcement agencies. Which in turn, as expected, generated even more versions.

In layman's terms, St. Patrick's Day Massacre started with a sting operation that had gone, terribly, horribly wrong.

Leah hadn't been there when shift first hit the fan. At the time, she had been strictly assigned to working in the special victims' area; gang busts were never her thing. Unfortunately, it would eventually be. More than half of the department's department would be assigned to investigate the aftermath.

Twenty-nine dead. All shot to death in the basement of an abandoned building— and that total didn't involve all of the deaths and injuries sustained by law enforcement. But Leah hadn't been assigned to investigate what happened to the cops and the agents. No, just the first twenty-nine. It had irked her to no end.

When she asked her captain about it, he told it was a gang war, quickly getting out of hand.

"What happened with the cops and the agents?"

The captain, sitting at his desk, glanced up at the newly-appointed detective, seemingly taken aback by her question. Horrified that she even had to ask. In his eyes, he feared that he had spoken too much. "It doesn't matter."

Clearly, it had.

"Captain—"

"Detective," the captain replied, effectively silencing her questions. And then, he returned to the original point of the conversation. "Just get to the bottom of these murders. The twenty-nine," he had stressed.

He obviously hadn't wanted Leah to explore the other side of the disaster.

It still bothered her years later.

Sam had known more about it—what else was new? But Sam, being Sam, hadn't mentioned much about it. Just, "The world's a fucking crazy place."

That hadn't been helpful.

So, months later, in January, one week before the Dahlia murder, Leah asked the next best person.

Jacob blinked, also taken aback by Leah's question. But it probably had more to do with the fact that the partners had been standing in the middle of a crime scene— a domestic dispute turned fatal. "What? What do you mean?"

"St. Patrick's… I know about the basement murders. I was helping out with that investigation, but I distinctly remember my captain being extremely invasive about what happened to the cops. To the agents. He wouldn't let me go into it; he wouldn't let me as about it."

Jacob sighed, indicating to Leah that he knew exactly what his partner was talking about. He gulped and pulled out a cigarette from his pocket. "A fucking shit storm," he said. "That's what happened."

Leah huffed. "So, you're not going to tell me the whole story?"

"It's not my story to tell," Jacob replied, actually sounding quite regretful. "Let's just say that was the reason why Paul has his task force. Even the most skeptical of bureaucrats couldn't let those damn leeches run around like they fucking own this city." He frowned. "And then, you have those goddamn shapeshifters..."

Leah eyed her partner, confused. She had already learned about the existence of the supernatural, but Jacob's words hadn't made any sense. "But—"

"Black. Uley," a cop from across the destroyed bedroom called out, seemingly alarmed. "You gotta see this!"

The conversation was dropped altogether.

It would never happen again, the police and the state and federal government had vowed, but to everyone working in the Voldemort Taskforce, whether they wanted to admit it or not, they had a bad feeling that they would be proven wrong.

Paul's (and Benjamin's) promises, be damned.

"I think everyone's just paranoid," Jenks told Leah during one of their weekly meet-ups in his office. "St. Patrick's freaked them out, and now, they think every raid is going to turn up like that. We've had plenty of raids since; all went relatively well. This is going to turn out fine, Leah."

"I'm sure it will, Jenks."

"Anyway, we should focus on the task at hand," Jenks said. "I believe we have a very interesting interview coming up, featuring a very stubborn hotel manager. I'm glad he's decided to see the light by being open to a plea deal. Let's see what he has to give us."

"We are truly glad that you've agreed to speak to us," Leah said a few days later, sitting down at the table in the middle of the interrogation room. She neatly placed all of the case files on the table, folding her hands on top of them, setting her attention entirely on the two men sitting in front of her: Andrew Sullivan, the manager of LaPush, and his lawyer, Marco Balthazar.

Jacob followed suit, carrying an armful drinks. After giving Leah her coffee and placing his own in his spot, he offered both Sullivan and Balthazar their coffees. After all, it was seven in the morning, and judging from the memo they had received from Balthazar, Brutus, and Associates the day before, this "interview" was going to be a long one.

"I'm glad we were able to come to some agreement," Balthazar said before thanking Jacob for the much-needed drink and taking a sip. His client, sitting next to him, had his arms crossed, silent with his mouth downturned; he didn't touch his coffee.

"That's what we're all about. Making deals," Jacob said. "Detective Uley, you want to do the honors?"

"Sure," Leah said. "Let's get started. So, from what we've agreed, you, Andrew Thomas Sullivan, have accepted a plea deal for your involvement in the Dahlia case, am I right?"

"Shouldn't the prosecutor be here, as well?" Sullivan asked, glancing at his lawyer.

"Oh, he will be," Leah assured the man. "But, it's usually a good idea to get the details situated before involving the man bringing charges against you."

"We're here to help you out," Jacob added, sharing a look with his partner as Sullivan whispered something into his lawyer's ear.

Sullivan sat back up after Balthazar gave him a response—the man was urging his client to cooperate, Leah concluded—sighed and said, quite dejected, "Whatever you want."

"Let's street from the beginning," Leah suggested, opening the first file. "Shall we?" Before Sullivan could respond, she continued, "How long have you been the manager for LaPush?"

"Ten years."

"And how would you describe your tenure?"

"Fine."

"Fine," Jacob repeated. "Define that for us."

"Business is good," Sullivan said, sitting up in his chair. "We haven't suffered much loss even during the Recession back in '08. We were only involved in a handful of lawsuits, which for a business, isn't the end of the world."

"That's good," Leah said, jotting down some notes. "So, what was the nature of your relationship with Demetri Karlov?"

Sullivan glanced at Balthazar, waiting for a confirmation. The lawyer nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. Sullivan sighed and replied with, "I wouldn't call him a friend. He worked for some powerful people, people with money."

"So, you two had more of a business relationship?" Leah asked.

Sullivan nodded.

"And what did this relationship entail?"

"He wanted a room."

"2919?"

Sullivan nodded.

"And was that room exclusively reserved for Demetri?"

Sullivan nodded.

"What was the payment arrangement for Room 2919?" Jacob asked. "That was a presidential executive suite. One of the most expensive rooms in the hotel. Did he rent it out or…?"

Sullivan shook his head. "He wasn't always in the city," he said. "It would've been a complete waste of money to sign a lease."

"How frequently did he use Room 2919?"

"Maybe three, four times a month."

"Anywhere else?"

"No."

"How did you get into this arrangement?" Leah asked.

"The man comes from power, from wealth," Sullivan said, eyes shifting from one edge of the table to the other; he was getting nervous, not because of the interview itself, but whom he was talking about. "He made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Financially."

"Does that offer have anything to do with paying off your debts?" Leah asked, pulling out Sullivan's bank statements. He had been in the hole up until 2015; that must have been the year Demetri had made him the offer.

"It helped," Sullivan admitted.

"How much the room cost per night?" Leah asked.

Sullivan shrugged. "Roughly two thousand."

"A night?" Jacob asked, fetching another file folder to retrieve the LaPush hotel rates printed from its website site. "The Presidential Suite, during the busy season, only goes for one thousand per night," he said. "Two thousand is quite a mark-up."

"My client has already mentioned that he had some financial trouble," Balthazar pointed out. "This shouldn't be much of a surprise."

"I'm pretty sure charging twice the rate to reserve a room for a known mobster is violating plenty of laws," Leah retorted. "Not to mention, I'm sure the IRS would be like to know why Mr. Sullivan did not claim over one hundred thousand dollars of extra income on his taxes."

Sullivan cursed under his breath.

Jacob cleared his throat. "Mr. Sullivan?"

"I may have taken in some money under the table," Sullivan quietly admitted. "But it wasn't for me. It was for everyone involved, all to keep our mouths shut. I didn't think much of it. Pimps bring their girls around in hotels all the time, since forever. As long as nothing crazy happens, I look the other way."

"As in girls, my client meant women over the age of eighteen," Balthazar clarified.

Sullivan nodded vehemently, following up with, "I'm not into that. There may be things I let pass by, but not that. I got a little girl. I couldn't imagine anyone—"

Jacob put up a hand. "We got the point."

"I just wanted to let you know that."

"It's nice to know that you're not contributing to the sexual exploitation of minors," Leah said, deadpanned. She then pulled a photo and slid it across the table. "Who is she?"

Sullivan looked down. "His girlfriend."

"Got a name?"

Sullivan shrugged. "Jen, Gina—or something?"

"Or something," Leah repeated.

"The rooms were never registered under her," Sullivan explained. "There was no reason why I should know her personal information—"

Jacob's eyes narrowed when he asked, "Demetri never introduced this woman to you?"

"He was possessive about his girls."

"Ah," Leah said; she figured that as much. "So, Demetri had girls. He brought them around occasionally and made use of Room 2919. Did he pimp them out?"

Sullivan shook his head. "Like I said: he was possessive."

"So, no?"

"No," Sullivan confirmed, and then, "He was, I guess you can call... a freak. Into that BDSM mess, not that I'm judging, but the whole bloody-play..." He shook his head. "Not my thing."

"Talk about this blood-play."

"Look, I didn't look into it," Sullivan said. "Hey, the man was popular with the ladies. Something about him being a real vampire; some people find that hot. Some people actually believe that mess is real and drink blood and want people to bite their necks and everything…"

Leah leaned back in her chair and nodded along as Sullivan provided information about Demetri's sex-life. He didn't know about Demetri being a vampire; that actually might work in their favor if Sullivan had to testify in front of a jury.

"Did Demetri only bring women in for sex?" Jacob asked once Sullivan was finished.

Sullivan sought advice from his lawyer by whispering into his Balthazar. Balthazar mumbled something back.

"For the most part. He brought a few guys over, too," Sullivan admitted, finally taking a sip of his coffee. His nerves had returned. "Room 2919, deals have happened in that room. Nothing drug-related, but... I think it had something to do with arms."

"Like weapons?"

Sullivan nodded.

"In this day and age?" Jacob asked. "Haven't you been paying attention to the news about mass shootings? Now, you're letting people, who you know operate on the other side of the law, bring arms into your hotel?"

Balthazar gave Jacob a sharp look.

"Of course, not," Sullivan denied, becoming heated. "We have strict rules about guns. We even installed metal detectors this past Fall. Listen, from what I know, which isn't much, the deals involved bullets. Glow-in-the-dark ones, straight from Eastern Europe."

Leah blinked.

Well, damn.

She made a notation to inform Benjamin about this new development. She was positive the ATF (and Paul) would appreciate this.

Jacob, whose interest had jumped a tenfold as well, leaned in, resting his chin in his hand. "Go on."

"We receive a stipend to keep our mouths shut," Sullivan said, glancing at his lawyer; he didn't receive any objections or alarmed looks. "I know it's against the law, but the money's always good. And it's always in cash. Real cash. Never counterfeit."

"When do these deals happen in your hotel?" Jacob asked.

"Second week of each month."

"She was killed on the fifteenth," Leah reminded her partner.

Jacob nodded, and then asked, "And you weren't present on those days, Mr. Sullivan?"

"Most days, unless something happens, I leave work at 8:00 pm. I usually talk to the man for a few before leaving."

"I understand," Leah said. "From your perspective, what happened that night that resulted in the murder of the Dahlia and Gianna Castellano?"

Sullivan dropped his arms and raised both eyebrows. "Wait— what?"

Balthazar eyed Leah, concerned.

"The Dahlia—"

"No, I know about her. Shit, everyone knows about her," Sullivan said. "But Gianna?"

"Two people were murdered in very that room during that same night," Leah carefully explained, finding the manager's reaction quite interesting. "We have reasons to believe that the second victim was Demetri's girlfriend, as you call her: Gianna Castellano."

"He told me it was only the Dahlia."

"Who told you?"

Sullivan's gaze dropped to the table.

Leah decided to switch gears, knowing that she would get the answer soon enough. She pulled another photo and presented it to the manager and his lawyer. "As you can see, this is the crime scene my partner and I walked into on the night of January 15th. In Room 2919 at your hotel—Tell us what happened that night, Mr. Sullivan."

"I wasn't there," Sullivan said quietly, examining the photo, occasionally cringing. "I didn't meet Demetri or anyone. I had a recital to attend. I have kids, you know."

"We know," Jacob said, and then, "So, you're telling us that you have no idea what happened that night?"

"I wasn't there."

"But you knew something."

"I didn't hear anything until a couple of hours later when I found out that the cops were heading over to the hotel," Sullivan said. "I had to be there, for obvious reasons. My security told me the news when I arrived."

Leah made a note of this. "What did they say?"

"The cops found a woman, cut in half, in one our presidential suites," Sullivan said, eyes not leaving the photo. "They said no one heard anything or seen anything. It wasn't until a maid checked in—"

"There wasn't a do-not-disturb sign on the door?" Leah asked.

Admittedly, it was something she hadn't checked when she had visited the crime scene for the first time.

Sullivan shrugged. "I don't know." He sighed. "I mean, maybe? It depended or not if Demetri was finished with whatever the hell he was doing. If he were busy, obviously the sign would be up. If he were finished, he would put the service-needed placard on the door so the room could be thoroughly cleaned."

"And what time would that be?"

"It depends," Sullivan said. "Usually, he would call the front desk when he finished."

"Did he?"

"Not to my recollection."

Leah glanced at her partner to see what he was thinking; he could be very expressive during question. He was just as perplexed as she was. Her attention returned to Sullivan, "How many people did your security say were found inside Room 2919?"

Andrew checked with his lawyer and responded after receiving the green light. "Two."

"Two?" Jacob repeated. "Two."

"If your security told you that two people were dead," Leah said, already feeling a migraine creeping through. "Then why were you surprised when we mentioned about another victim?"

"Look, they told me two," Sullivan said. "But there was so much going on, I didn't believe them. I mean, why should I have? Everyone—the maid, the cops, everyone said that they only saw one body. I even asked Demetri about it the next day, and he told me there was only one body. Heck, the goddamn Volturi stopped by my office the next day, telling me that there was only one body. Look, the second one? I'm guessing is this Gianna-person you're talking about. I didn't even hear about her until a couple of minutes ago."

"The Volturi stopped by. Demetri talked to you about the murder, and you didn't think to contact us about it?" Leah asked, frustration growing.

"I know I messed up. But what I was supposed to do? They told me to keep my mouth shut. They told me to get rid of the tapes. They told me to do it as soon as possible. What did you expect me to do?" Sullivan practically cried, ignoring Balthazar cursing under his breath. "You just can't say no to the Volturi. It's a goddamn death sentence."

Leah looked at her partner. Jacob nodded before shaking his head and sighing. Leah, deciding on how to proceed with the interview, pushed back her chair and asked, "Balthazar, do you mind if we have an aside?"

Balthazar nodded, slowly rising from his seat. He seemed stunned by the information as well. "Yes, please."

"You didn't mention anything to us about the Volturi," Leah told Balthazar the moment they stepped outside of the interview room. Thankfully, due to the time of the morning, not many people were around, pay much attention to them.

"I just found out when you did," Balthazar insisted. He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. "Fuck."

"Fuck is right. We need to put that man under witness protection. Like yesterday."

"I already mentioned that to him before learning that the Volturi threatened him," Balthazar said, annoyed. "But he refuses. He doesn't want to ruin his home life."

"He's not going to have a life if he keeps this up," Leah reminded him. "If we put him on the stand and he says what he just told us, he's dead. But if he doesn't testify, he can kiss his plea deal goodbye."

Balthazar rolled his eyes. "Then why did we accept the goddamn deal in the first place?"

"Because we didn't know about the Volturi's explicit involvement either," Leah said. "After all the questionings, Sullivan decides to tell us, you, this today?"

The last thing anyone needed was a dead witness.

Balthazar let out a sigh. "I'll talk to him."

"You know, I'd like to have one week where shit doesn't hit the fan every time I turn around," Paul grumbled once the detectives plus Embry informed him of the Andrew Sullivan news. The captain downed most of his coffee and slammed a hand on his desk, indicating he was ready to continue, "So, Andrew Sullivan is being placed under witness protection."

"There's no choice," Jacob said. "The Volturi's gonna kill him."

"They probably still can," Embry said. "I mean, this is the Volturi."

Leah snorted. "I appreciate your optimism, Embry."

"Hey, I'm just being honest," Embry maintained, throwing his hands up in defense, and then, more serious, "So, um, I think there's another issue with Sullivan's interview—he didn't know about Gianna. No one told him about Gianna. Isn't that a tad… suspicious?"

"She was a receptionist at one of the Volturi-owned companies out in Cicero," Leah replied. "And according to Sullivan, Demetri's girlfriend. Nothing else we have on her that implicates anything nefarious."

"And Alistair?" Paul asked.

"According to him, he doesn't work with every girl with a pretty face," Jacob said. "But maybe this has something to do with Gianna luring women into Demetri's lair."

"But why not mention her demise to anyone?" Embry asked.

"Maybe they were hungry?" Leah offered with a shrug. "Demetri no longer had any use of Gianna, probably because of the whole Jessica-episode, and she was a human… so, maybe he brought her back to the Volturi-whatever so that he and his comrades could feed on her."

"The Volturi are known for doing that," Jacob said, grimacing.

"But that seems so simple?"

"Sometimes it just is, Embry," Leah said. "For the life of me, I can't figure out why Gianna's body had been taken from the hotel room before anyone came."

"You know, it's quite inconvenient that fucktard, Demetri, is dead," Paul said. "He seemed to be the linchpin to all of this mess." He clapped. "So, Sullivan said that Demetri was a freak, right?"

Jacob eyed the captain. "Right."

"What's your point?" Leah asked.

"Well, sometimes, most of the time, the more open ones aren't too shy about what they do. Some of them like to take photos; some like to record it—but they tend to like leaving evidence. Just so they can go back… and, you know, with it."

"Masturbation material?" Embry offered with a sly smirk.

Jacob snorted.

Leah placed a hand on her forehead and groaned. "Oh my god."

"I didn't want to say it like that, Call, but yes," Paul said, uncharacteristically flustered. But that was most likely because Leah was in his office right now, looking at Embry like he was a fool. Paul coughed uncomfortably and apologized to Leah.

Leah could only shrug. "There's no need to apologize," she assured the captain, who was still giving Embry dirty looks. "I've been scarred enough working on this case for the past several months. What's picturing a dead, sadistic vampire getting himself off going to do?"

"Damn," Jacob said. "That's really sad."

"You have no idea," Leah said, shaking her head, replaying the events from this past January in her head. "You have no idea."

"What do you want us to do, Boss?" Embry asked. "Sullivan implicated a bunch of people, most from the Volturi, in a cover-up for two homicides."

Paul sighed. "Look for any physical evidence that Demetri had been in the room with those two ladies-" He put up a hand when Jacob opened his mouth. "I know you have the video... but we need something more concrete. I need to see all three people, the dealers, and the bullets."

"So, we're not arresting anyone?" Leah asked.

"No can do," Paul said. "Look, I wished we could, but we promised the feds that we won't touch anyone until the raid."

"This raid better work," Jacob grumbled, crossing his arms. "Can we at least bring in the security? See if anyone knows anything about Gianna?"

"Go right ahead."

"When is he coming back?" Leah asked, staring into the distance where Lake Michigan stood. The large body of water, as always, was beautiful at sundown, especially during this time of year. Because of the hour, it wasn't crowded with "beach-goers" and whatnot.

"January."

Leah glanced at Aisha, sitting beside her. She then adjusted the edges of her large beach towel. She was never a fan of sand. "Are you positive?"

"Almost," Aisha admitted, pulling out a bottle of wine from her tote bag. She pulled two cups and handed one to her friend. "We can't truly be certain, but that's the best-case scenario."

"Emily's child will be born by then," Leah said, placing the cup aside. She brought her knees to her chest, trying to hold back her devastated tears. "She's due in October."

"Damn."

"I don't know if I told you," Leah mumbled, rubbing her eyes before reaching out for her cup and holding it out for Aisha. Yes, she was supposed to be avoiding alcoholic drinks, but one glass of red wine never harmed anyone. "But I went to a divorce lawyer to explore my options. Can't do shit until Sam comes back from hiding."

Now that she was thinking about it, she probably did tell Aisha.

"I'm so sorry."

"I can't believe I fucking listened to him," Leah bit out, staring down at her drink. "He wanted to wait. I told him that I wanted a divorce time before he went away, but he wanted me to wait. And now, look at this? I'm stuck in a goddamn marital-limbo because he decided to go undercover. Do you believe this shit?"

Aisha shook her head, "There's no way to get around this?"

"According to Illinois State Law, no," Leah replied before downing all of her wine in one gulp.

She declined Aisha's offer for another glass.