Murder Aforethought Read online

  Murder Aforethought

  A Cabrini Law Novel

  Parker St. John

  Copyright © 2019 by Parker St. John

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover Art: L.C. Chase www.lcchase.com

  Contents

  Dear Reader

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Also by Parker St. John

  About Parker St. John

  Dear Reader

  Thank you for reading!

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  - Parker

  1

  Maksim

  “What I can’t figure out is why bleeding hearts like you don’t do something different once in a while.”

  The desk sergeant leaned back in his chair and scratched his barrel chest.

  Maksim ignored his skeptical commentary and signed his name in the visitor log. He didn’t take the man’s attitude personally. He suspected this particular officer distrusted anyone in a suit on principle.

  “You know, when I’m off shift you couldn’t drag me within a mile of this place. But you show up here and do it all again for free.” He shook his head, as if he thought Maksim had slipped his straightjacket. “Geez, man. Ever consider just cutting a check to St. Jude’s and calling it good?”

  Maksim did that, too. His salary was nauseating, even for a top attorney at Portland’s most prestigious law firm. He had more money than he had time or inclination to use, so a significant percentage went to charity.

  Doling out cash didn’t make him feel any more useful to society than practicing corporate law, however, so he made a habit of volunteering at Alexander Cabrini’s legal aid clinic.

  Usually, the CLC chose their own clients, but occasionally a request came in from the overworked public defender’s office to pick up a pro bono case or five.

  Maksim was always happy to oblige. The other attorneys in Cabrini’s stable had families, hobbies, and obligations. Maksim didn’t have any of that. He had one thing that he did very well, and it gave him a sense of purpose to use his skills occasionally to benefit someone without a Swiss bank account.

  “You’re on to me, Phil.” He clipped his visitor pass to the pocket of his Tom Ford suit and tossed the officer a wink. “I just can’t keep away from your handsome mug.”

  An expression of dismay crossed the man’s face. He quickly turned his attention back to his computer screen and muttered, “We stowed your guy in room four. You can wait at the mirror if you want a look at him before you go in.”

  Maksim gave a nod of thanks, but Phil was doggedly plucking away at his keyboard with both index fingers.

  Portland’s Central Precinct was an old concrete block that inspired a sense of claustrophobia even among the most law-abiding citizens. The main entry was gussied up for photo ops, with glossy floors and a turn-of-the-century wrought iron staircase, but the second floor resembled every other poorly funded government building in existence.

  Maksim strode down a long, narrow hallway, the Italian leather of his loafers squeaking on the newly polished linoleum.

  The unadorned walls and fluorescent lighting always reminded him of something from The Shining. He wondered if the design served a purpose. Perhaps it encouraged a sense of impending doom and made suspects eager to strike a bargain.

  He rarely advised pleading out, of course. It was a waste of his skills. But a stubborn client did occasionally insist.

  The door to room four swung open, and a uniformed officer exited.

  Maksim was familiar with Officer Clark. He was handsome and dark as night, with a quick grin and a head shaved like a cue ball. He recognized Maksim at once. “Careful with this one, Kovalenko. He’s a thug.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Is the observation room free?”

  Clark unlocked the door next to room four and ushered him inside. The room resembled nothing more than a large closet, with a few metal chairs facing an enormous window. The interior was kept purposefully dark, so the occupant of the interview room couldn’t see them through the two-way glass.

  “He’s a big fucker,” Clark volunteered. “I thought he was about to snap my cuffs like they were made of Twizzlers.”

  Maksim examined the man on the other side of the glass. He was indeed big, with a thick neck and lumberjack shoulders. He completely dwarfed his flimsy plastic chair, like an adult trying to squeeze into a kindergarten desk. His dark head was bowed, and he clasped his uncuffed hands before him on the table.

  Maksim whistled through his teeth. “He’s got forearms like Popeye.”

  “And an attitude like Bluto.” Clark clicked his tongue.

  “Did he resist arrest?” Maksim frowned. He didn’t recall any flags in the arrest report, but he could only trust his memory so much when he scanned files on his tablet between morning traffic jams.

  “Nah,” Clark said. “It’s just… he’s got this way of looking at you. Like he could take you to pieces and dispose of the body, and it wouldn’t even be the worst way he spent a Tuesday. Gives me the creeps. I’d take a tweaker any day.”

  Maksim made a noncommittal sound and tipped his head to catch a glimpse of his client’s downcast face.

  He liked to get a concrete first impression of his clients before introducing himself.

  As a defense attorney, he represented everyone to the best of his ability whether they were guilty or innocent, but most of them attempted to snow him, anyway. Even the innocent managed to find something to lie about. It gave Maksim an edge if he could understand the nature of the beast before getting in the cage with it.

  “Not for nothing, Kovalenko, but I’d sleep better if you don’t get this one bonded out.”

  It was at that moment the prisoner lifted his head. His expression was the grimmest fucking thing Maksim had ever seen. His eyes were some pale shade and burning with enough loathing to make Maksim’s gut clench.

  The man wasn’t looking directly at them. He couldn’t see through the glass. It was his reflection in the two-way mirror that he fixed with such disgust.

  He was guilty of something, that much was obvious.

  When Maksim was ready, he entered the lion’s den. Clark remained in the hall, on the other side of the door.

  “Valentine Rivetti?” he asked briskly. “My name is Maksim Kovalenko. I’m your public defender.”

  Gray. His eyes were gray. They looked jarringly old in his youthful face.

  He assessed Maksim silently, with unnerving focus, tra
cking Maksim’s movements as he pulled his tablet from his briefcase and set it on the table.

  He reminded Maksim of a panther he’d seen once at the Oregon Zoo: trapped, but dangerous.

  The man was enormous up close. There was no other word for the way his chest and biceps stretched the fabric of his plain cotton t-shirt.

  Maksim’s gaze lingered on the torture that garment was going through. Had it accidentally shrunk in the wash? Or was Valentine Rivetti making such rapid gains in the gym that he couldn’t maintain a wardrobe that fit?

  “Russian?” There was a layer of suspicion in Rivetti’s tone.

  Maksim pulled out a chair. “American,” he answered. “But I was born in the Ukraine.”

  Rivetti had stopped slouching and now sat pushed away from the table, thighs spread, as if prepared to move quickly. His gaze flickered from Maksim to the door and mirror and then back.

  His posture put Maksim on edge.

  It wasn’t unheard of for clients to attack their own attorneys. Usually, they were too strung out on meth or heroin to realize what they were doing. Maksim was athletic enough that he’d never escaped with more than a few scratches, and he was always quick to yell his lungs out for the armed guards on the other side of the door.

  But if a man the size of Valentine Rivetti chose physical confrontation, there was no way Maksim would survive, that much was certain. He’d be squashed like a bug.

  His body language wasn’t precisely threatening, though. Tension buzzed like a live current beneath his tanned skin, yes, and his gaze was sharp. But he was calm. Far too calm, in fact, for a man about to face his first homicide interview. He was defensive, but he wasn’t a loose cannon.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but you don’t look like any public defender I ever saw.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You didn’t get that suit off the rack, for starters.”

  Maksim chuckled.

  He was a clothes horse, even among the ranks of his fellow corporate attorneys, and his coworkers at the CLC regularly wore jeans to the office. When they were forced to appear in court, most of them looked like depression era vagabonds, wading around in boxy department store suits.

  “I occasionally offer my services pro bono,” he said. “Congratulations, you’re the lucky man who came up on my rotation.”

  The squint Rivetti gave him was so skeptical that Maksim had to bite back a smile. He’d learn. Soon enough, Maksim would be the most important person in his life, the key to his freedom and the only barrier between him and a prison cell.

  Maksim loved that part. Nothing felt better than winning a client’s case and seeing the look of worship in their eyes.

  “Let me assure you that anything you say to me is confidential, even if you incriminate yourself. I can and will represent you to the best of my considerable abilities.”

  Rivetti folded his arms across his chest and leaned back until the legs of his spindly chair creaked. He didn’t seem inclined to take Maksim’s word at face value. Not that Maksim could blame him.

  He pulled up a document on his tablet and scanned it.

  “Let's begin with the basics. You’re twenty-four years old, medically discharged from the USMC three months ago, and you have a residence on Southeast Division Street. Correct?”

  A reluctant nod.

  “Do people call you Valentine?”

  “Only my mother. It’s Val.”

  Maksim made a note on his tablet, though he wasn’t likely to forget.

  “Does your mother live locally, Val?”

  “No, sir,” he said flatly. “She died two months ago.”

  Maksim paused. There was a discordant, squashed quality in his tone, but his expression was blank.

  Maksim didn’t offer condolences. He’d hated when people extended their sympathies after his own mother’s passing. They didn’t mean a damn thing except to give other people something to say in an awkward situation.

  He merely nodded and made a brief note. “Any living relatives in the area?”

  “No, sir.”

  Maksim propped his chin in his hand, tapping an index finger thoughtfully against his mouth.

  “And you’re unemployed?” He clucked his tongue. “That makes you a flight risk. If they charge you, your bail will probably be substantial.”

  “I can cover it.”

  Ah, yes, of course. “I see. You have a hidden income stream.”

  Val kept his mouth shut.

  Maksim sighed. “That leads us to the crime scene they discovered you fleeing during the wee hours this morning. Who was Robert Esposito to you?”

  An indescribable exhaustion crossed the man’s face. He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his chin to his chest.

  “Mr. Rivetti?” Maksim prodded. “Val.”

  Val raised his eyes and took a deep breath. His eyes were bloodshot and red rimmed, but the dark smudges beneath them indicated fatigue rather than tears.

  The arrest report said he was booked at six in the morning, which meant whatever he’d been doing at Esposito’s apartment had been intended for the pale, pre-dawn hours.

  “I never met the guy before,” Val said haltingly. “I was hoping he had information I needed.”

  “Mr. Esposito was a known associate of the Russo crime family.”

  “Yes.”

  “This information you wanted, was it related to his business dealings?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t kill him.”

  “Of course not,” Maksim murmured. “But if you had…”

  “If I had, I wouldn’t have made such a fucking mess,” he sneered.

  “Whoever did that was mad as hell or a complete amateur.”

  “Which you are not.”

  Val smiled bleakly. “I’m angry, alright.”

  Maksim changed tact. “You saw the condition of Mr. Esposito’s body… how exactly?”

  “I knew he wouldn’t talk to me willingly, so I planned to take him by surprise. I didn’t even have to force entry. The door was unlocked.”

  His eyes took on a strangely distant cast, and Maksim understood at once why he gave Officer Clark the creeps. His tone was clinical, as if he were filing a verbal report. “He was on the floor in his living room, shredded like lettuce. So I got the hell out of there.”

  Maksim could appreciate the honesty in his cold recitation. Val was unhappy and inconvenienced, but he wasn’t feigning horror he didn’t feel. He was mired in some form of guilt, that much was obvious, but Maksim was inclined to believe this crime wasn’t the trigger.

  “You really didn’t kill him, did you?” He’d never yet been wrong predicting a client’s innocence.

  “No.” Val sighed. “He was dead when I got there. I really don’t care if I go down for it, though. I just need you to get me bail. I need a little time. That’s all.”

  “That doesn’t sound ominous, at all.”

  Val braced his forearms on the table and leaned forward intently. “I don’t expect you to believe me, Mr. Kovalenko. I just expect you to do your job and get me through this interrogation. If you can’t get the charges dropped, you need to get me out on bail.” He cocked his head. “After all that big talk you walked in with, it should be a piece of cake. Right?”

  The determination that hung like a shroud around his client was refreshing, after so many years defending the laissez-faire and self-satisfied elite.

  Maksim relished the challenge.

  2

  Maksim

  They barely had time to cover the basics before a pair of detectives interrupted.

  Maksim moved across the table and sat beside his stone-faced client.

  The man was like a furnace, blasting body heat when Maksim leaned close to murmur in his ear, “Answer their questions honestly and without embellishment. Trust me, I’ll stop anything we don’t want answered.”

  A muscle beneath Val’s eye twitched, but that was the only sign he’d heard.

  Andrea Nilsson sat opposite them and intro
duced herself as the lead detective. She was the kind of woman who oozed competence from her very pores. Maksim could smell it on her, like faded perfume that never went away. She was middling attractive and approaching middle-age, with dishwater hair and tired eyes.

  He’d crossed paths with her on more than one occasion over the years, and he always enjoyed their encounters. She kept him on his toes, particularly during cases he would ordinarily sleepwalk through.

  Her new partner was an unknown. He decided to cross his arms and prop up the wall behind Nilsson, possibly attempting to play bad cop. But considering his baby face and the thrum of eagerness surrounding him, Maksim found it more likely he was newly promoted and in training.

  “How long have you lived in Portland, Mr. Rivetti?” Nilsson asked.

  “I was born here.”

  “You joined the Marines when you were, what, eighteen?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where were you stationed?”

  “Camp Lejeune.”

  They might be necessary to establish a baseline honesty, but the more tedious the questions were, the quicker the police wore down their suspect. The process was similar for both detectives and attorneys.

  “What did you do there?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Maksim witnessed a flush creeping up the back of Val’s neck. The man’s entire body seemed to tense and harden.

  “I was part of a DRP unit.”

  “And what exactly is that?”

  “A Deep Reconnaissance Platoon, ma’am,” Val said softly. His eyes were on the table. “2nd Battalion.”