by Dale Nelson
“What did this blackmailer say your next step was?” Danzig asked, ignoring Jack’s invective. “How are you supposed to contact him?”
“He said he’d be in touch. I assume that’s what you’re intended to be. You show up asking about jewels, and then I expect that I’m going to get a phone call in the next day or two with payoff instructions. The implication is that if I do, you guys go away.”
Smelling blood in the water, Coughlin jumped in. “You’ve got unsubstantiated allegations from someone claiming to be an informant and a very real threat of blackmail perpetrated against my client. What is the FBI going to do for us, Ms. Danzig?”
The two agents shared a look, but Jack couldn’t read it.
“I think we have what we need for now, Mr. Fischer. We’ll be in touch with the next steps.”
“What about the blackmailer?” Coughlin demanded to know.
Jack grimaced inwardly but said nothing. He didn’t want Hugh to push this too far.
“Well, that depends entirely on your client’s willingness to participate in the investigation.” Danzig closed her leather folio.
Coughlin handed Danzig his card as he stood up from the table. “If you’d like to speak to Mr. Fischer, you can go through me.”
Danzig and Riordan stood and collected their things. They did not shake hands. When Danzig had placed everything back in her bag, she looked at Jack. “Mr. Fischer, blackmail is a very serious crime. I can assure you that the FBI will give this allegation the attention it deserves, and if it is indeed true, we will bring that person to justice. But, if I find out this is a dodge on your part, I will bring the full measure of the U.S. Government down on your head. Are we clear on that, Mr. Fischer?”
“I’m glad we understand each other,” Jack said.
The agents left.
Jack bought himself a few days at the most. He could tell from the shift in body language and tone that the FBI had not considered the fact that Reginald was playing both sides of this game. Their next action would be to pull him in and ask what in the hell he thought he was doing. That would give Jack just enough time, he hoped, to make that answer indelibly clear.
Twenty-One
Jack landed at LAX, picked up a cab that offended his finer sensibilities and drove north to the Hollywood Hills. Jack hired a private investigator to locate Paul Sharpe once it became clear that his case was going to succumb to the indefatigable gravity of bureaucracy. To Jack’s incredible surprise, he came through. The detective called just before Jack left for Cannes. Furious that the state wasn’t giving this the attention that Jack thought he was due, he hired the PI and when he had Sharpe’s location, called the State’s Investigator. The drone read off a pro forma response of how these things took time and that it was best that Jack didn’t interfere with the investigation. Jack snapped at him, saying he’d just done the hard work himself. All they had to do was arrest him. The investigator actually said he could appreciate Jack’s frustration but that he would need to be patient while the system worked.
Meanwhile Paul Sharpe, hiding out in a multimillion-dollar home in Laurel fucking Canyon.
Sharpe didn’t even have the good sense to leave the country.
Jack had to assume that Sharpe knew how slowly the justice system worked.
Or, more likely, he didn’t know how to disappear. Jack took for granted that he knew how to make himself invisible, how to hide out, but until he’d started stealing from the winery, Sharpe was just an average citizen. He didn’t speak any other languages and would have no idea how to set up a fake identity. Sharpe was enough of an accountant to know that he didn’t know how to launder what he had and was probably trying to figure out all of the different ways it could be stashed. Put simply, absconding abroad was something that was going to take him some time to figure out how to do.
Jack crawled from Inglewood to Hollywood over the course of the two hours, finally arriving at the address his private eye had given him, just as the sun was nose-diving into the Pacific. He’d also had the detective check out the property value of the place. It was a four-and-a-half million-dollar home, but apparently Sharpe was only renting it. Apparently, you could do that in LA The Ferrari he was driving, however, Paul had bought. The house, a stunning and unique architectural-style of exact angles and aqua windows sat on the outer elbow of a snakelike road called Miller Place. From his backyard, Sharpe had a perfect view of the Los Angeles skyline, which was currently backlit by a burning streak of orange, upon which floated a layer of blue that was quickly deepening to indigo. It looked like a Cubist architect designed the arch villain’s home for an episode of Miami Vice.
Jack paid the cab driver in cash at the bottom of the hill about a quarter of a mile from the home, according to Google Maps. When the cab was gone, Jack quickly walked the distance. Jack pulled on a pair of tan leather driving gloves. It was dark, and anyway this was one of the richer sections of goddamned Hollywood. A lone guy walking and wearing driving gloves wouldn’t even break the scenery.
All of the lights were on, and Sharpe didn’t have any curtains drawn to obstruct his amazing view of Los Angeles, though the house sat atop a nine-foot-tall concrete rise. From the house, there were no good angles to get a detailed view of the street unless something was on the far side of it. Jack kept his head down, power walking as a man deep in thought, and continued along the road, walking the length of the home. Once, he did look up, catching a glance of Sharpe standing in the window, drink in hand, admiring the view. Jack already knew he was home, though, because he called the house pretending to be soliciting a charity for crippled Yorkies. Sharpe declined interest in giving.
The garage was detached and offset from the house, seemingly in a separate wing. The garage door was the same aqua tone as the house’s windows but opaque. There was no door handle or keypad, meaning it could only be operated by a remote control, which was likely in the car, or from the inside. Jack walked around the far side and stepped into the garage’s shadow, obscuring him from the street view. There was a dark-brown teakwood fence spanning the ten-foot distance between the garage and the concrete pillar that formed the outer edge of the gray stucco wall that surrounded the neighbor’s yard. There was a door, or at least the outline of one, in the fence, but like the garage door, it didn’t appear to be accessible from the outside. No matter. Though the lack of exterior handle or lock was a slight setback, the fence was clearly designed for aesthetic as opposed to security. The top of it was perfectly flat, keeping with the architectural theme of the rest of the house, and Jack was able to pull himself up over it easily. He dropped to the other side as quietly as he could, avoiding the giant green trash bin and started searching for the door. He found it on the side facing the house, next to a bamboo garden that stood behind a wall of that same opaque aqua glass used on the garage door.
Jack removed a thin, black leather case from his jacket pocket, opened it, and drew out his lock picks. He set to work on the lock. Even in the dark, he was in the garage in less than a minute. There it was—a powder blue metallic Ferrari California. “He should be arrested for spending my money on this color alone,” Jack muttered. He walked along the car, running his gloved hand along the curves all the way to the door handle. Jack opened the door and sat down, sliding behind the controls. A sly smile cracked on his lips. He popped the armrest and found both the key fob and the control for the garage door. Jack opened the garage and then, gleefully, pressed the bright red “Start Engine” button on the steering wheel. Jack waited for the initial growl to drop to a throaty purr and then tapped the accelerator once to rev the engine, then twice more, each time spiking the tachometer higher.
Paul Sharpe was an accountant, and he committed the kind of crime accountants knew how to do. He left the keys in the car because he assumed they were in the garage and the garage was locked, so therefore they were safe. He was too lazy to bring them back into the house, a bad habit he’d carried a long time. Jack used to give him shit about that, and now
it felt somewhat prophetic. “Someone is going to steal your car, Paul,” Jack repeated softly and without humor.
Jack backed out onto Miller Place and hammered the throttle, hitting forty-five before he reached the end of the house and then quickly braked so he could make the turn. He didn’t know if Sharpe had seen him or not. No matter, he’d know soon enough. Jack wound his way out of the hills and headed south, enjoying the drive out of Hollywood infinitely more than he had the drive up.
Jack cleared the hills and headed south.
His phone sat next to him in the passenger seat opened to a police scanner app that he hoped would give him a warning if Sharpe reported the Ferrari stolen. The app was poorly designed and crashed at random every few minutes, but Jack was hopeful it would work long enough for him to make the hour-long drive to Long Beach. Jack guided the Ferrari down the 110 and then opened her up...for about three hundred feet until he hit Los Angeles freeway traffic and dropped it back into third for the long crawl south.
The app died thirty-five minutes into the trip, and nothing had come across the scanner before it did, but by then, Jack figured he had enough of a head start on the police that it wouldn’t matter.
He rolled into Long Beach underneath a dark sky that held traces of horizon fire as if from a canvas painted by a disoriented god.
Jack had been to Reginald’s home many times over the years since the fixer left prison. Jack fronted LeGrande the money for the place and had obviously made enough for him over the years to keep the bastard in style. The house was a three-story Mediterranean style on the exclusive Naples Island that overlooked a marina. About five years ago, LeGrande’s rackets made him enough to add a boat to it. He actually christened it Second Chances, which Jack promptly told him was just as likely a middle tier Panama City strip club. The house was bobbing just under a million when Reginald bought it the decade before, and it had doubled in value by now.
It never ceased to amaze Jack how little effort an overworked parole officer put in. Jack doubted they’d ever even peeked in the windows at the cutout apartment Reginald maintained across town, let alone actually trying to prove that he lived there. Maybe the feds just told them not to worry about it. The thought made him bitter.
Luckily for him, unlike much of Long Beach, this was the kind of neighborhood where a Ferrari California would look right at home. Jack parked it farther down Reginald’s street, Lido Lane, and reached for his phone, the one Reginald had set up for him. Reginald picked up in three rings.
“The Prodigal Son,” he said in his gravelly voice, infused with smoke and bourbon.
Jack sighed loudly for effect before speaking as though he’d been agonizing over the call, fingers hanging over the screen, too afraid to dial. “You win, Reginald.” Then he paused, to give the impression that he was still wrestling with his next words. “I’ll pay you the money. Just call off your fucking dogs, okay?”
Reginald chuckled softly on the other end, and it sounded like an old engine choking. “Feds put a scare into you, eh?”
Listening to this fucker gloat was worse than the perception that Jack was paying him off. “Yeah, well they make a convincing argument.”
“I can imagine,” Reginald said flatly. All of the levity from just a second before drained out of his voice.
I’ll bet you can.
“So look. I stashed the stones in a box belonging to a numbered account in Switzerland. I’ll give the account information, but it’s going to be in person.”
“I’d rather you just wired me the money.”
“I’m sure you would, but we’re not negotiating terms here. You know goddamned well that I couldn’t have moved that many stones this fast and that I also wouldn’t have risked bringing them stateside. You should also know that if I had fifty million on hand to give you, I wouldn’t have taken the job in the first place. So, if you want the stones you can have them, but on my terms.”
“What if that doesn’t work for me? How do I know I’m not getting set up?”
“Too risky. First of all, if I’m trying to double-cross you, there’s always the possibility that it doesn’t work. If it doesn’t and it gets out, it’s a good bet that the knowledge I pulled the job comes with it. There won’t be a rock big enough for me to hide under if that’s the case. Second, part of my price is that you’re going to tell the FBI that you had the wrong guy.”
“Your price, huh?”
“Yeah, and we’re not negotiating it. I want this over, Reginald, and over now. I’ve got enough money that I can probably make it well enough on my own, so you get the jewels, and you already have the connections to move them. Even if you’re stupid with it, you should be looking at fifty million dollars clean.”
Jack was about to launch another string of invective when Reginald cut him off.
“Fine, goddamn it. I’ll do it. If you just shut up about it. When do you want to make the exchange?”
“I’m in town now.”
“Ok,” Reginald said, drawing the syllable out. “Well, you remember how to get to my place. Come over and we’ll do it here. I’ve got steaks. No reason we can’t be civil about this.”
“Fuck you, Reginald, and fuck civil,” Jack said in a flat, even tone. “I don’t trust you—at all—and I’m not doing this on your turf.” It wasn’t hard for Jack to summon the fury for his voice, even if it was for show. “I’m going to be at a restaurant in Beverly Hills. Call me when you get to Rodeo, and I’ll tell you where to meet. If I sense anything is out of order, like I see someone with a government-issued haircut and a Brooks Brothers suit, I’m fucking gone. You understand me? And so is the money.”
“Jesus, I get it,” Reginald snapped. “But it’s going to take me an hour and half to get there at this time of night.”
“Then I guess you better get moving.” Jack hung up.
Jack had chosen his line of attack precisely, if not his exact words. He knew Reginald wouldn’t go for it if Jack didn’t appear to put up some kind of a fight or try and twist the situation into an advantage for him.
He watched Reginald’s house for a few minutes. The street-facing side showed a slanted roof over a balcony that overlooked the front door and short lawn. Stubby palm trees covered most of the front of the home and reached up to the balcony with two larger palms extending up to tickle the roof tiles. From his vantage point three houses down the street, Jack could see Reginald exit the house but then lost him as he disappeared around the corner to the carport. Reginald didn’t go for modern cars. Instead, he bought and restored classics. He’d bought the ‘69 GTO Judge convertible not long after he’d gotten the house and spent a few years resurrecting it. Even if Jack couldn’t see the nuclear orange paint job, there was certainly no mistaking the GTO’s engine as it pulled out onto Lido Lane. From there, it was a short jog to Second Street, which would take him off the island and into Long Beach proper.
A pang of regret flashed in Jack’s chest as the car throttled away. He was genuinely disappointed that he wouldn’t have a chance to steal that car out from under Reginald.
Jack waited a long ten minutes before exiting the Ferrari. He wanted to give Reginald time to forget something and come back or to think better of accepting the terms of the arrangement. When the ten minutes passed, it was clear that Reginald was going through with it and wouldn’t be coming back. Jack stepped out of the Ferrari and into the warm California night. Depending on traffic and Reginald’s patience, Jack figured he’d have between ninety minutes and two hours with the house. Well, less than that depending on what Sharpe did about his car. He smirked.
Jack walked up to front door and removed his lock picks. Reginald didn’t have an alarm system. The last thing in the world he wanted was for the police to respond to a break-in. Instead, he’d simply have very good locks on all the doors. In fact, Jack recalled a conversation on Reginald’s deck shortly after he’d bought the place where the old thief said exactly that. Jack was inside in less than two minutes. He still had it.
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It was a little more difficult working the lock while wearing the driving gloves because it messed with his “feel,” but that was one of the scenarios that Jack practiced for. He still worked locks in his spare time to maintain his proficiency and ran himself through drills like working with gloves on, in the dark, or against a stopwatch. The lock clicked, and Jack slid inside the dark house. He tapped the flashlight app on his phone. Jack padded across the foyer to the cream-colored carpeted staircase that snaked up to the second floor.
LeGrande’s house was impressive, even in the dark. There was a guest suite and living room on the first floor, family room, gourmet kitchen, and bedroom on the second. Jack would be spending most of his time in there. But first, he walked up to the third floor, which held the master suite. There was a second wet bar in there, because apparently the original owner couldn’t be bothered to walk downstairs to the main bar most nights. Jack knew from experience that this was where Reginald kept his good liquor. Reginald drank cheap when they were together, Jack Daniels and rocks usually, because he was thumbing his nose at Gentleman Jack and his proclivities toward expensive libations, but Jack knew that LeGrande developed an affinity for high-end scotches. Reginald even had a bottle of Macallan twenty-five, which went for just under a grand a bottle and had bragged that he was saving it for his “retirement.”
Jack found the wet bar and the scotch, still in its wooden container at the back of the bar. There were a lot of rare whiskies in there...it was almost a shame that no one was going to be able to enjoy them. Jack removed the Macallan, slid it out of the box and split the foil, pouring a healthy dram into one of the tumblers on the bar. If his plan worked, he wasn’t going to have to worry about Reginald finding the evidence. Glass in one hand, bottle in the other, and a smirk cracking the left side of his face, Jack returned to the second floor and stepped into the kitchen. He took a sip of whiskey, savoring the vanilla and cherry burn and the looooooong finish. It was incredible, exquisite.
