by Dave Daren
“Enjoy the weekends,” Perrin replied with a smirk.
“You enjoy the weekends far too much,” Gloria sniped as she handed me the piece of paper.
“Just a growing girl, mom,” Perrin declared.
“Tsk,” Gloria reprimanded.
“This doesn’t mention a laptop,” I mused as I looked over the receipt.
“You’ll have to check with Albert to see if they removed it from his office,” Gloria replied as she poured another glass of wine.
I heard a door in the back of the house open and close, and then a moment later the man from the photos stepped into the kitchen. He was my height, with dark brown hair that was graying around the temples. A moustache hid his upper lip and two hazel eyes peered at me suspiciously from beneath two thick eyebrows. He was broad-shouldered and carried himself like someone who’d learned how to fight in a gentleman’s boxing ring rather than as an actual defensive skill.
“Who’s this?” Geoffrey demanded as he scowled at me.
“This is Vincent Creed,” Gloria quickly explained. “The lawyer I hired. He wanted to see Matthew’s old office, and I told him to come over tonight because I was leaving town tomorrow.”
“So did you find what you needed?” Geoffrey asked me.
“I think so,” I replied noncommittally. “I’ll need to call the FBI tomorrow and ask for a copy of everything they removed, then we’ll be ready to move forward.”
“You can get this started soon then?” Geoffrey continued.
“That’s the plan,” I noted.
I could understand Perrin’s creepy vibe comment. It wasn’t just that he was going with the alpha male routine. There was something more possessive about it. As if, as Perrin had pointed out, he’d decided to take on the paternal role and he was willing to challenge anyone who didn’t accept that.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Perrin suddenly blurted out, drawing a disapproving glare from Geoffrey.
“I’m sure Mr. Creed already has plans,” Gloria declared as she started to move me toward the front door. “And he’ll want to get started on our motion right away.”
There was no polite way to accept Perrin’s offer after that, though I would have liked to watch the family dynamic during dinner. I figured it was worth a shot, even if I did come across as an inconsiderate ass.
“I wouldn’t mind staying,” I mentioned. “We could talk more.”
“Well, I’m not really up for entertaining tonight,” Gloria replied. “What with the drive tomorrow and all the rest of those little annoyances that come with these conferences.”
She had me at the front door now and she pulled it open with a determined smile. I nodded politely, assured her I would let her know as soon as we had filed, and then stepped out into a darkening sky. The door closed softly behind me, and I heard the lock snick. I walked back to my car, trying to piece together the odd scene that had just unfolded. One thing I was certain of, if I had a spidey-sense, it would have been tingling.
Chapter 4
Lawyers spend a lot of time on the phone. Maybe not as much as a telemarketer, but there are days when it feels like the whole world has been reduced to a voice on the end of the line. My phonetime started early the next morning, mostly phone calls to opposing counsel and a few to clients, mostly about unpaid bills. In between calls, I composed my claim and motion in the Burke matter, while Sofia flagged case law for me to review.
After wrapping up a settlement negotiation, I sat back in my chair and flexed my fingers. My neck was starting to feel stiff as well, so I tried a few side bends to work out the kinks. I’d covered the phone calls I needed to finish, and I was tempted to head to the gym which I had skipped in order to get an early start at the office. First, though, I needed to talk to Ari.
“My man,” Ari said when he picked up. “How’s the wing today?”
“Doing better,” I replied. “A little itchy, but it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
“I keep telling you, you need a better class of clients,” Ari laughed.
“Right,” I noted. “Preferably hot blondes with lots of money.”
“Or old guys with lots of money who will pay you enough that you can meet the hot blondes,” Ari amended.
“You know I hate middle men, but hey, I wanted to ask you about investment firms,” I laughed.
“I can tell you which ones you can trust and which ones to avoid,” Ari assured me.
“I meant, how would you use them to launder money?” I replied. “It can’t be as easy as, say, setting up a small business and running money through it.”
“No, it’s definitely more complicated,” Ari mused. “There are some pretty tight reporting requirements for traders and firms. They need to be able to identify income sources and report any that appear suspicious.”
“But if the trader agreed to help conceal the source?” I asked.
“It’s doable,” Ari replied, “but you would still need some way to make the funds appear legitimate. You’d also have to be careful that you weren’t moving too much money out of the accounts too quickly. You don’t want to do anything that would attract the Feds’ attention.”
“So, your average gangbanger probably wouldn’t be working an investment scam,” I noted.
“No,” Ari agreed, “but, you know, some of the cartel leaders have been known to dabble. They’ve got legitimate looking businesses that they can use to funnel the money into the investment firms.”
“What else would someone need besides a legitimate looking source?” I pressed.
“Social security number, obviously,” Ari replied. “That’s the big one. Someone willing to set up the accounts and manage them.”
“What’s the quickest way to figure out which accounts are illegitimate?” I asked.
“The social security numbers,” Ari said quickly. “Your average cartel leader isn’t going to use a valid number.”
“True, but I don’t think Pickering is going to just give me a list of social security numbers without at least a subpoena, and he’ll probably fight that tooth and nail,” I sighed. “I want to do this quickly.”
“The address then,” Ari replied. “All those statements have to go somewhere. Even if the investor opted to receive them online, they still had to provide a mailing address when the account was created.”
“That’s not bad,” I mused. “Maybe I can convince Pickering to send me that much.”
“Hey, when is Anna going to be back in town?” Ari asked.
“Soon, I hope,” I replied. “Why?”
“I was hoping we could do a couple’s dinner,” Ari replied. “I want you guys to meet Ella.”
“Ella?” I asked as I tried to remember the list of names of girls Ari had dated over the last year.
“Yeah,” Ari said, almost shyly, “she just transferred here from our Chicago office. We’ve been working together.”
“Anything besides work going on?” I prodded.
“You know me,” Ari laughed. “I’m always up for a night on the town.”
“I guess I lucked out the other night when you came to collect me at the hospital,” I remarked.
“You sort of did,” Ari agreed. “Her parents were in town for a couple of days.”
“Well, I’ll let you know when I hear from Anna. Maybe we can take Ella to Redbird,” I assured him while naming one of the best restaurants in Los Angeles.
“I’m drooling already,” Ari replied. “Tell Anna to get home soon.”
As soon as I was off the phone with Ari, I dialled the number for Durango Investments. The bird-like woman answered the phone again and asked how she could be of assistance.
“It’s Vincent Creed again,” I replied. “I just had a quick question for Mr. Pickering. If I could just have five minutes of his time, I’d appreciate it.”
“Please hold,” the woman said politely.
A piece of classical music that I recognized as a piece by Mozart drifted down the line. I fo
und myself humming along until the phone clicked and Pickering’s voice replaced the music.
“Mr. Creed,” Pickering harrumphed. “How may I help you this morning?”
“I wanted to take a look at the addresses for Matthew Burke’s clients,” I replied.
“The addresses?” Pickering repeated in astonishment.
“Just the addresses,” I assured him. “I don’t need the names or social security numbers or anything.”
“This seems like an odd request,” Pickering muttered.
“I won’t be visiting them,” I added.
“I don’t know,” Pickering replied. “I feel like I should consult my attorney about this.”
“You could do that,” I said. “Or I could make it official and send you a subpoena. I just thought we could help each other out here.” I really hoped he wouldn’t call my bluff here.
“And how does this help me?” Pickering demanded.
“We can hold off on our suit against the FBI,” I replied. “And it may be that what we learn with that information will help keep Durango Investments out of the picture.”
“If you’re looking into Matthew’s extracurricular activities, I don’t see how that would be possible,” Pickering snorted.
“I’m not looking to investigate his extracurricular activities,” I replied as I silently apologized to my mother for the lie. “I just want to have the man declared dead. If I have to sue the FBI and drag Durango Investments into it, I will.”
“I need to talk to my lawyer,” Pickering finally sighed. “I’ll call you back this afternoon.”
With that, he was gone and I sat back in frustration. There had to be an easier way to get those addresses, but I wasn’t sure where to find them.
“Lunch,” Sofia announced as she stepped into my office with a bulging paper sack.
I could smell lime, cilantro and even a bit of jalapeno. My stomach rumbled in response, and my mouth started to water. Sofia set the bag down on my desk, but she didn’t take her usual chair. She had a frown on her face and she glanced back towards the door.
“What’s up?” I asked, instantly on the alert.
“Not sure,” she replied. “Something weird was going on in the restaurant.”
“Weird how?” I demanded.
“It was really quiet,” Sofia explained. “No one was talking. And there was just this one guy sitting at the counter in a biker jacket. Everyone else was sitting as far away as they could. Even all the regulars had moved to the other side of the place, and you know how small it is inside.”
“Is the biker guy giving them problems?” I asked.
“I asked Muriel,” Sofia replied. “She said there hadn’t been any trouble, but the guy had been sitting there since they opened. He hasn’t ordered anything, and Tony finally asked him to leave. Muriel said he just stared at the kid until he slunk away. Poor Tony’s been hiding in the kitchen ever since.”
“What does the guy look like?” I pressed. I wondered if one of the Chuchos Locos had decided to try a little intimidation tactic, though neither of the two geniuses I had met struck me as the kind of person who would come up with that plan.
“Sort of tall, I guess,” Sofia mused. “Not sure how tall, since he was sitting down. Brown hair, in a ponytail. Scruffy beard. Looked like a mestizo.”
Didn’t sound like either of the two I’d encountered outside Russo’s.
“Anything on the jacket to tie him to Chuchos Locos?” I asked.
“Not Chuchos Locos,” she replied, “but there was a patch with a gold crown on the sleeve. I think that’s for a group that calls themselves the Reyes Dorados, but I’d have to check.”
“I think we need some drinks,” I noted as I stood up. “What’s the agua fresca today?”
“Watermelon,” Sofia replied.
“Sounds good,” I declared as I started towards the door. “Just what I need on a hot day like today.”
“Vince,” Sofia called after me. “Be careful. If it is the Reyes Dorados, they’re mean s.o.b’s.”
“I’m just going for drinks,” I said with a smile.
I took the stairs to the ground floor two at a time, making note of a custom Big Dog bike parked near the end. A few of the regulars sometimes rode a motorcycle, but nothing as large or as powerful as the one that took up two spaces.
I ducked inside the nameless burrito joint and quickly realized that Sofia hadn’t been exaggerating. Normally, this place would be noisy and the stools at the counter packed with people. Today, it was quiet except for the sounds from the kitchen. Only one person sat at the counter; everyone else was crammed into a booth or hunched over a table, and no one sat within a five foot radius of the man who occupied the counter.
“Sofia forget to pick up the agua frescas,” I told Muriel with a smile.
“I’ll get those,” she replied with a quick glance at the man at the counter.
“What’s the dessert?” I added before Muriel could disappear into the kitchen.
“Churros,” she said, and I could hear the edge of fear in her voice as she glanced at the stranger again.
“How about an order of churros as well,” I suggested in my most amiable voice.
Muriel nodded and ducked into the kitchen. I stood by the counter, humming the Mozart that was now stuck in my brain.
“Gee, it’s pretty quiet in here today,” I finally said as I looked around the diner. “Why so solemn?”
I tried to make eye contact with some of the other patrons, but no one looked at me and no one responded. One of the regulars, an older guy who worked for one of the telecoms, finally met my eyes and nodded towards the invader.
“So, how did you find this place?” I asked the man at the counter. “Did you just move into the neighborhood?”
Counter man ignored me and locked his gaze on the far wall.
“Don’t get too many people in here who aren’t from the neighborhood,” I continued. “Sort of hard to get yourself on Yelp, though, when you don’t have a name for your restaurant.”
Still no response.
“That C rating scares a lot of people away as well,” I added. “But the food is actually pretty good.”
More silence. So counter man was not a great conversationalist.
“Why are you here?” I finally asked as I dropped the chipper voice and opted for something a lot meaner sounding.
Counter man finally turned to look at me. His nose had been squashed flat against his face, and his eyes were so dark they were almost black. He had a small stud earring in one ear, though I couldn’t see what it was well enough to describe it.
“I’m just having lunch, ese,” the man finally snarled.
“You haven’t ordered anything,” I pointed out.
“How do you know that?” the man demanded.
“You don’t have anything in front of you,” I replied. “Not even the silverware, which Muriel would have given you if you’d ordered.”
“Maybe she just took my order,” the man said with an unfriendly grin. “Maybe she was going to give it to me when you walked in here and demanded your agua fresca and your churros.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “But you’ve been here all morning, so that doesn’t seem likely.”
“You some kind of NARC, gringo?” the man demanded. “You filling the cops’ ears with stories about who comes here? Or maybe you’re one of them white supremacists who wants to send me home? Is that why you’re watching me?”
“I’m watching you because you make everyone else nervous,” I replied, “and because you’re clearly not here for the food.”
“Fuckin’ gringo lawyer,” the man snarled as he stood up. “You need to mind your own business and stay out of ours.”
I was already in fight stance. Not the obvious boxer move, but the more subtle position of a defender. The man in front of me misread my posture and gave me another vicious smile.
“I have a feeling your business is my business,” I said calmly. “I’m also
guessing you already heard what I did to a couple of your buddies from the Chuchos Locos.”
The man actually spat on the floor.
“Chuchos Locos ain’t no buddies of mine,” the man declared. “And those two idiots couldn’t punch their way out of a paper bag.”
Muriel was peeking around the edge of the door frame, and I heard someone say something in rapid-fire Spanish. Muriel retreated and a moment later, the cook stepped from the kitchen carrying a meat cleaver. He was smart enough to keep the counter between himself and the biker, but that wouldn’t do much good if the guy had a gun hidden in his waistband.
“You should go,” the cook declared as he waved the cleaver at the stranger. “No one wants you here.”
The man turned and glared at the cook. The two men stared angrily at each other and then the stranger reached under his jacket. The cook pulled back and I started forward. The biker didn’t draw a gun, but he did pull out a very wicked-looking knife, a KA-BAR, if I remembered correctly. A vicious weapon, and judging by the way he handled it, he knew what he was doing. I wasn’t feeling quite as sure about the cook who might know how to hack a roast, but probably didn’t know how to go hand to hand with a knife-wielding biker.
Apparently, gringos who disarmed and took down two Chuchos Locos didn’t rate very high on this gangbangers list of threats. He ignored me and swept the knife in an arc across the counter, forcing the cook to step back again to avoid his swing. The cook tried to chop at the man’s arm with the cleaver but the biker avoided the blow easily as he stabbed at the cook.
I kicked the man in the back as he started to reach across the counter, aiming for the diaphragm. I heard the ‘oof’ as my foot made contact and the biker collapsed onto the counter. The cook moved forward, the cleaver raised above his head. The biker seemed to sense what was coming even if he was staring at the stained linoleum counter. He rolled off the counter just seconds ahead of the cook’s arm, and the sound of the heavy blade hitting the laminate echoed through the small shop.
The biker was crouched on his feet, and I was ready to give him another swift kick, this time in the chin, but Tony suddenly stepped in front of me with his faithful mop and took a swing at the biker. He knocked the man on his butt and left a splash of murky water on his shirt. That only made the man even angrier, and he grabbed the handle as Tony lunged forward for another blow.
