The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(45)

“That I remember,” Sloane said.

“John Spellman was governor from 1981 to 1985. He passed away in January of 2018. Albert Rosellini served as governor from 1957 to 1965. He died in 2011.”

“So it’s not very likely they were investors or officers of the company,” Sloane said, reading Jake’s laptop. He turned to Alex. “Could they be relatives?”

“I don’t know,” Alex said. “I’ve never met anyone except Randy Traeger, the CFO.”

“One name is possible,” Jake said. “Two is an unlikely coincidence. Three is deliberate. Isn’t it?”

“If it’s an investment and wealth management company, those names would give the company prestige,” Sloane said. “If the company is trying to entice people to invest, those are names that could go a long way toward convincing people to do so.”

Jake turned his laptop around and his fingers danced across the keyboard. After a moment he said, “The company was incorporated in Delaware in 2015.”

“Delaware?” Alex said. “The home office is in Seattle.”

“A lot of companies incorporate in Delaware,” Sloane said. “The business laws are more favorable, and there is no state corporate income tax so long as the company does not transact business within Delaware.” He turned to Jake. “Where does LSR&C have offices?”

Jake pecked at the keyboard as Alex spoke.

“Seattle and New York, Los Angeles, London, and Moscow.”

“New Delhi, Taiwan, and Paris,” Jake added. “According to the company website anyway.”

“I’ve never heard of an office in New Delhi or Taiwan. And I understood Paris was only under consideration,” Alex said.

Sloane picked up his desk phone. “Do you have Randy Traeger’s number?”

“His cell number was in the phone I got rid of.”

“I got the office number,” Jake said. He rattled off the number to Sloane, who punched it in, leaving the call on speakerphone. They got an after-hours recording.

Sloane checked his watch, hung up the phone, and spoke to Jake. “I want you to do some digging. Find out who is really running the business, and anything else you can about the company. Something doesn’t smell right.”





24



As they fled the gas station and convenience store, Jenkins told Anna the details of what had happened with the police officer.

“If they found the car, we have to assume that means they found you. We’re out of time. We need to hide the car and do whatever it is we’re going to do,” Jenkins said.

Anna directed him along a narrow dirt-and-gravel road with significant potholes that caused the car to pitch and bounce. The road followed the contour of the land, the Black Sea to their right, though shrubbery obscured most of their view. Jenkins drove past piles of scrap wood, and gravel and cinder blocks for the construction of new homes on vacant lots. He looked through the windshield at the overcast sky. “If Federov knows we’re here, he’ll have satellite cameras pinpoint this area to search for the car. The marine fog will keep him from seeing much of anything while it lasts, but we can’t take the chance of the fog lifting. We need to get rid of the car, someplace undercover, to make him think we’ve moved on.”

To his right, Jenkins saw a yellow flame burning atop a rusted metal tower—the flare stack to a natural-gas refinery. Red tanker ships anchored offshore. The road turned to the left, away from the coast. He drove inland, finding fewer homes and more vacant lots.

“Here.” Anna pointed to a two-story concrete-block home behind a fence that looked to be made from pieces of scavenged metal. Across the street, and to their immediate right, were barren lots with spindly trees and unkempt shrubs.

Jenkins stopped at the wrought-iron gate. Anna got out of the car and unlocked a link of chain. It rattled as she pulled the links through the metal bars, and the gate emitted a squeal of protest when she pushed it open. Jenkins drove the car forward. Anna came around to the driver’s side as Jenkins stepped from the car. “Take the supplies to the back of the house and wait for me there,” she said.

“Where are you going?”

“To ditch the car,” she said, making the word sound like “deetch.” “A neighbor down the street has a shed. They will not be here for months. If I can fit the car inside, I’ll hide it there. If not, I shall do my best. Shut the gate behind me and replace the lock. There is an easement behind the houses I will use to return.”

Anna backed out of the driveway and Jenkins shut the gate with another squeal and relocked the chain. He carried the bags around to the back of the two-story cinder-block house. White paint peeled from the blocks, revealing that the home had once been a bright pink. At the back of the house, Jenkins encountered an overgrown yard. Two rusted poles protruded from the ground, with line strung between them. Stacked rocks and chunks of concrete overgrown by vines and shrubbery delineated a backyard. Behind the crumbling wall was more open land. They wouldn’t have to worry about nosy neighbors.

A strong breeze blew in from the water, bringing a stinging cold and a briny smell. Jenkins set down the bags on a step and shoved his hands into the pockets of Volkov’s jacket, moving around the corner so the house blocked the wind while he waited.

Ten minutes after Anna had departed, he saw her coming down an easement behind the houses. She hopped the fence and approached. “Any problems?” Jenkins asked.