Evening Bags and Executions(42)

I sat there for a minute trying to think of where the heck I was going to find two hundred custom-made gift bags, plus the items to put inside them.

Then I realized there was only one place to go for help—the Russian mob.





I’d met Mike Ivan a while back when I’d been in Las Vegas to assist with the opening of a new Holt’s store—long story. He was from L.A. and happened to be there on business.

Mike was rumored to be in the Russian mob, though both Detective Shuman and Jack Bishop had told me they could find no hard evidence that linked him to any illegal activity. Mike always insisted he ran a legitimate import–export business and simply had the misfortune of having relatives with questionable business ethics.

Leave it to family.

We’d swapped favors, but this wasn’t a relationship I wanted to get into too deep—just in case.

Mike ran his business out of the Garment District in L.A., a place I knew well since Marcie and I shopped Santee Alley for the knockoff handbags we sold at our purse parties. Among the things Mike imported was rare, expensive fabric from all around the world. I figured that if anybody could help me get Sheridan Adams’s Beatle-themed gift bags made, it would be Mike.

I exited the 110 freeway on Olympic Boulevard, turned onto Santee Street, and drove up the ramp to the parking lot Marcie and I usually used. I paid the attendant and took the stairs down to Santee Alley.

I loved Santee Alley. It was a mix of all kinds of people, all kinds of products and merchandise. Locals and tourists came here to shop in the stores with their back doors opened to the alley and with the vendors who crowded in between.

Even though Marcie and I had shopped Santee Alley for about a year now and many of the merchants knew us, that didn’t mean we could walk in off the street and expect to do business with the people who ran the garment factories that filled the top floors of the old buildings in the area. Business people here were cautious. They dealt in cash. They didn’t like outsiders.

When I’d left the employment agency I’d called Mike and asked if he could meet me. He was a little hesitant because last time we’d talked we’d both decided that things between us were settled, we were square—long story. But I assured him that this time it was strictly business.

I made my way out of the alley to Maple Avenue, then walked north to the textile district. Here, the exteriors of the shops were lined with huge bolts of fabric, a rainbow of every color, pattern, and texture imaginable. I turned the corner onto Ninth Street and went into the shop in which Mike had instructed me to meet him.

The place was packed with fabric—big rolls, small bolts, a few remnants. It was stacked on tables, hung on displays, and propped up in big boxes. There were bins of buttons, zippers, and all sort of other things I was clueless about.

The man sitting behind the counter eyed me sharply; they didn’t get too many young white girls in here wearing business suits.

“Mike is expecting me,” I said.

He gave me another long hard look, then picked up his phone and made a call. I amused myself wandering through the store looking at fabric until Mike came out of the back room.

He didn’t look like he was in the Russian mob—or even that he was related to anyone who was in the Russian mob. Thirty-five, I figured. Nice build, okay dresser, kind of good looking, a little taller than me.

Mike gave my awesome outfit a quick once-over, which was always a real morale booster, and said, “It’s good to see you when you’re not involved in a murder investigation, for a change.”

So much for my boosted morale.

“Well . . . actually . . .”

He shook his head wearily.

“It’s all a big misunderstanding,” I assured him. “See, I got this new job and—”

“At the D.A.’s office?” he asked, the playfulness gone from his expression and voice.

My blood ran cold. He must have been talking about Amanda Payton, Shuman’s girlfriend.

“You heard about Amanda?” I asked.

“Bad business,” Mike said, looking grim.

Okay, this was weird. How come Mike had heard about Amanda’s murder but Jack Bishop hadn’t? Jack was wired into everything that went on in L.A.

“Actually, I don’t work with Amanda,” I said, since I didn’t think it was a good idea to lie to someone who might really—despite protests—be involved with the Russian mob. “But I knew her. We were friends.”

Mike shook his head. “Sorry to hear that. Must be tough for you.”

“You should see her boyfriend,” I said. “He’s a complete mess. I don’t know if he’ll ever get over it.”

He thought for a moment. “That detective. LAPD. Shuman.”