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According to the pathologist, the wounds to the torso were fatal—the liver had been hit, a lung, and the stomach—but the killer had also shot Prenter in the back of the head at an angle that would have had Prenter on his knees. He died instantly from that final shot.
Three bullets to the front, then one in the back. Lucy closed her eyes to picture a possible scenario. Killer faces Prenter—either Prenter knew him and didn’t try to run, or the killer startled him and shot him without giving Prenter the chance to run. Prenter falls to his knees, suggesting a low-caliber bullet. Higher-caliber bullets would most likely force the victim back, not down.
Then the killer walked around and shot Prenter in the back of the head. To ensure he was dead.
But Prenter would have died anyway. Probably in minutes. Had Prenter known his killer and the killer feared he’d say his name? Was the overkill to make sure he died before his body was found?
A copy of the evidence log was in the file, including the whereabouts of each piece recovered. Items found on Prenter’s body were here at the morgue or the lab, though from experience Lucy knew that some personal effects and drugs would be separated and sent to the laboratory or evidence room. Vials found in his pants had been sent to the lab for analysis, but the results weren’t back yet. Blood samples—they’d done a standard tox screen in the autopsy room and already had his alcohol content, just barely legally drunk, low enough that he shouldn’t have been grossly intoxicated.
A copy of the initial police report was included, but not any of the follow-up investigation. Damn, she really wanted to see the rest of the police report and hoped Cody would get it for her. Was it asking too much? She hoped not; she didn’t want to abuse their friendship, but she had to know what had happened with Prenter.
Something felt very wrong, and until she knew the circumstances surrounding his murder she wouldn’t let it go.
THIRTEEN
Sean left the city early Saturday morning and drove an hour to an assisted living facility in Baltimore to meet Dustin Fong, another former employee of Trask Enterprises, who had been with the company longer than any other employee.
Fong could barely remember his own name let alone who Roger Morton was. The staff nurse said he’d been shot in the head and left for dead four years ago. He had no memories and while he could function on a minimal level, he had the attention span of a five-year-old. His only visitor was his sister, who came the first weekend of every month from her home in Maine. She’d been there on Sunday, January 2, and before that Saturday, December 4.
Sean crossed him off his list—he’d been promising on paper, but if he had any valuable information, it had been destroyed by the bullet. Roger couldn’t have gotten anything from him. Had the sister been in D.C. during the window of time Morton was there, Sean would have tracked her down, but it didn’t seem likely. He sent Jayne at RCK West an email to check out Danielle Fong Clements and her husband, Bruce, just to cover his bases, but neither name had come up as a possible associate of Morton or Scott, then or now.
Sean drove back toward the city, stopping at a club in Silver Spring owned by Sergey Yuran, a known trafficker. Yuran brought in whatever was in demand from Russia: prostitutes, drugs, or weapons.
Sean’s brother Duke would never have let him talk to Sergey alone. But one thing Sean had that Duke didn’t was the ability to hide his emotions and play the game. Duke wouldn’t have been able to disguise his loathing of the criminal. Though the club didn’t open for another couple hours, the door was unlocked. Sean walked in, face blank, leaving his judgment at the door.
He assessed the club within seconds; five booths were occupied, but the scarred, good-looking blond man in the back sitting with an illegal Russian—Sean could tell simply by how she responded to a stranger walking in—was Sergey Yuran.
There were four bodyguards in the room at every entrance and one next to Yuran. Overkill, in Sean’s opinion, but it would give Yuran the sense of complete control in any situation because he had multiple shields. It also told Sean that Yuran was paranoid. He tucked that tidbit away for future use as he approached the largest of the four and handed him a business card. “Sean Rogan to see Mr. Yuran.”
The bodyguard told him to stay, and Sean obeyed. Now wasn’t the time for sudden movements or disagreements.
He didn’t make any pretenses of ignoring the exchange, but watched the bodyguard approach Sergey Yuran and hand him Sean’s business card. Yuran had a poker face, but his feet gave him away. They went from crossed at the ankles to flat-footed under the table. No other part of his body registered a reaction. He spoke low, in Russian, and the bodyguard returned.
“Mr. Yuran asked if you have a death wish.”
“No sir, I do not.” He didn’t elaborate, and instead waited for the bodyguard to ask the next question.
“What business do you have with Mr. Yuran?”
“Personal,” Sean said.
The bodyguard stared and didn’t move. This game could go on all day, and usually Sean would enjoy the challenge, but he didn’t have the time.
“I want to know if Mr. Yuran had Roger Morton killed last Friday night. If so, I’d like to shake his hand and thank him. If not, I’d like to know who did, so I can shake their hand.”
His blunt response had the bodyguard show a rare, albeit brief, look of surprise. He left Sean again, though two guards moved in to flank him.
When the big guy returned, he ordered Sean to turn around and submit to a search. Sean complied. He wouldn’t get near Sergey Yuran with a weapon. “As long as I get them back,” he said.
“If you live, you will,” Big Guy said.
Fair enough.
Sean was relieved of his .45 and his backup .22. When the guy was done, Sean said loud enough for Yuran to hear, “You missed the H&K blade. Inside right pocket of the jacket.”
He couldn’t help himself, but it cost him. He was searched again, then a fist connected with his right kidney. He winced and closed his eyes a moment for the pain to pass.
The bodyguard led Sean to Yuran’s table. The Russian girl was gone. Whatever papers Yuran had been reading had also disappeared.
