by Stuart Woods
“Yes.”
“Are there any copies?”
“No.”
“Is there any other record showing the evidence you found on the car?”
“No.”
“Your partner doesn’t know about it?”
“No. He was on vacation when this came up.”
“And where is the evidence now?”
“I told you, it’s with my lawyer.”
“I see.” Michael walked over to the door and opened it. “Come over here; there’s something I want you to see.”
Rivera walked to the open door and peered out into the dark street. “What?”
Michael took a good backswing and, remembering his early experience, caught Rick across the back of the neck with his homemade cosh.
Rick’s knees buckled and he fell in a heap. Michael dragged him away from the door, closed it, then massaged the ex-detective’s neck to help prevent any bruising.
Michael made a quick tour of the house, switching on lights as he went, then switching them off behind him. He went back to the living room, heaved Rivera onto a shoulder, carried him to the bedroom, and dumped him on the bed. He stripped off Rivera’s bathrobe, leaving him dressed only in jockey shorts, then tucked the man into bed.
He removed Sheila’s brown envelope from his pocket, donned the rubber kitchen gloves, and opened the package. Two pharmaceutical vials of morphine were inside, along with half a dozen disposable syringes and a length of light rubber hose.
Rivera made a gurgling sound, and his eyelids fluttered. Time to hurry. Michael completely filled a syringe with morphine, then stood behind Rivera, winding the rubber hose around his arm from the same direction that Rivera would have done himself; the vein came up nicely. Rivera jerked and opened his eyes, staring at Michael.
Quickly, Michael inserted the needle into the vein and emptied it. Rivera opened his mouth as if to speak, then his eyes glazed over, and his head rolled to one side. Michael left the needle in the vein, took Rivera’s other hand, and put his fingerprints on the syringe. He put Rivera’s prints on the other syringes and the morphine vials, too, then put them into the bedside drawer.
Still wearing the rubber gloves, Michael began a systematic search of the house. After ten minutes he got lucky; in a small desk in the den he found an interoffice mail envelope marked LAPD, and inside were two fingerprint cards and Rivera’s notebook, the kind carried by all police officers. He closed the drawer, turned off the light, and returned to the bedroom. He rearranged Rivera’s body to look more natural, then, as a final touch, he turned on the TV to a late movie. Leaving the bedroom light on, he retraced his steps to the front door, making sure that he had left no trace of his visit; then, looking up and down the empty street, he closed the door behind him and heard the latch grab.
Slowly, he walked back down the street to the Porsche, got in, and started the car. Before switching on the lights he checked the rearview mirrors; not a light on in any house on the street. Taking care to remain inside the speed limit, he drove back to Malibu.
He let himself in through the security gate with his card and drove to the house, parking in the garage. The lights in every house in the Malibu Colony were out, he noted.
Inside, he went to the kitchen, replaced the rubber gloves under the sink, and found a packet of matches. He walked out the back of the house and along the beach in the moonlight, emptying sand from the plastic freezer bag as he went. A hundred yards down the shore, he walked to the water’s edge, made sure he was alone, struck a match, and lit the police envelope. He held it carefully as it burned, and when it was down to ashes, he dropped it into the water. The tide was ebbing, and fragments of ashes went out with it.
He walked back to the house and, as he was about to go upstairs, Tommy let himself into the house with his key, Sheila trailing him. He walked over to Michael and gave him a big hug.
“You sonofabitch, you did it!” Tommy cried, shaking Michael like a rag doll.
“Congratulations, Michael,” Sheila said. “Tommy, I want to go to bed now.” She looked ragged.
“Go ahead, sweetheart, I’ll be there in a minute.” The two men watched the blonde twitch out of the house.
“Tommy,” Michael said, “I’m afraid I borrowed Sheila’s stash; a friend was in need.”
“All of it?” Tommy asked, surprised.
“His need was great. I hope you can replace it without too much difficulty.”
“No sweat, paisan,” Tommy said. “I’ll fix it in the morning.”
“I’m bushed, Tommy. Let’s talk at breakfast in the morning.”
“Right.” Tommy planted a big kiss on Michael’s cheek and headed for the guesthouse.
Michael trudged up the stairs, drained of adrenaline and energy, sure of having covered his tracks.
CHAPTER
48
Michael had already finished breakfast on the terrace overlooking the Pacific when Tommy came out of the guesthouse, still in pajamas and a silk robe.
“Good morning, Vinnie,” he said.
“Morning, Tommy.”
The Irish butler appeared, and Tommy ordered breakfast. When he had gone, Michael put his hand on Tommy’s arm.
“I need your help,” he said.
“Sure, anytime. What do you need?”
“Two things: I need an alibi from the time I got home last night a little before twelve until about two-thirty. How about, you and Sheila got home at, say, twelve-thirty, and you and I talked until two-thirty, then we both went to bed.”
Tommy shook his head. “You don’t need me in this; the cops hear my name, and they’re all over you.” He thought for a moment. “Here it is. Your houseguests were Sheila Smith and Don Tanner from New York. It happened the way you just said.”
“Who is Don Tanner?”
“Straight guy, as far as the cops are concerned; works for me in a legitimate business. Don’t worry, he’ll play.”
“All right, that sounds good.”
“What else?”
“Can you get a message to Winfield at the Kensington Trust without the feds overhearing?”
“Sure; what’s the message?”
“Tell him it was like this: I deposited over three quarters of a million with him two years ago, then pulled it out last April. Then tell him to pull everything I’ve got off the street and wire it to his branch in the Cayman Islands.”
“Consider it done. Listen, Vinnie, I talked to you a little yesterday about our thing with the Japs.”
“Yeah.”
“It boils down to this: How would you like to be the head of a major studio?”
“Of Centurion?”
“That’s the one.”
“That’s a very interesting idea, Tommy.”
“Well, you are what I’ve got in mind. With an Academy Award under your belt, and with your record on keeping costs down, I can sell you to the Japs, no problem.”
“What about Leo’s control of the voting stock?”
“This is how it is: Goldman owns less than ten percent of the stock personally. His wife is the key. She’s an heiress—her old man was into everything, and before he died, he set up a trust for her. That trust owns forty-five percent of Centurion’s voting stock.”
“Yeah, but Leo controls it.”
“Here’s the thing—there are three trustees who control Mrs. Goldman’s trust; they appoint a representative who sits on the board and votes the stock. Mrs. Goldman has a big say, too; that’s why Leo Goldman is the trust’s representative.”
Michael nodded. “Go on.”
“Now the guy who heads the trustees is named Norman Geldorf. He’s an investment banker who was a friend of Mrs. Goldman’s father; he’s also into some stuff with us.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Doesn’t matter; it’s all legitimate; Geldorf is a very legitimate guy. Thing is, though, the family has a lot of legit money invested with him, so I have his ear, and if I can show him how Mrs. Goldman’s trust ca
n benefit from a takeover of Centurion, he’s in the bag.”
“But won’t he listen to Amanda Goldman? Won’t he consider her wishes?”
“That’s a consideration, sure. She has to be made to see the light.” Tommy smiled and spread his hands.
Michael blinked. “You mean you want me to talk Amanda into voting her stock against Leo?”
“That would be very helpful.”
Michael shook his head. “Listen, Tommy, you’re getting into the realm of the impossible here.”
“Impossible? Not with your talent with women. Jesus, Vinnie, with your yen for dames, I’d be surprised if you weren’t banging her already.”
“That’s beside the point,” Michael said quickly. “And have you considered Leo’s pull with the board? It’s a closely held corporation. If the trust owns only forty-five percent of the stock, that means Leo and the other board members together control a majority, and Leo handpicked every one of those guys.”
“You let me worry about that,” Tommy said smugly. “You get on the good side of Amanda Goldman and start creating a few doubts about how Leo is running the store. Just a few. If you can gain her confidence then, worse come to worse, if we have to, ah, displace Goldman, then you’ll be the only game in town.”
Michael looked sharply at Tommy. “Wait a minute; Leo Goldman has taken pretty good care of me. I’m not about to pour a pair of cement shoes for him so you can drop him in the Pacific.”
“Easy, kid,” Tommy said. “It’s never going to come to that. But you have to remember something: Leo Goldman is a Jew; he’s not one of us, he’s out for himself. The only reason he’s backing you is because he knows you’ll make money for him. Those people are just like us; they only care about their own kind. It’s human nature.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to Leo,” Michael said.
“Then get him to see the light.”
Michael put down his coffee cup. “I’ve got to get to the office; I’m expecting the feds to call on me.”
“Yeah?”
“Something to do with the bank, I think.”
“Tell them Don Tanner sent you there, that the company he works for does some legitimate business with them. He’s in town for the awards show.”
“Tell me more about Tanner, in case they ask.”
“He’s corporate counsel for a film distribution company, small time, nothing you’d know about, but you can tell the feds that’s how you met.” He took a pad and pen from the table and wrote down Tanner’s address and phone number in Los Angeles.
“Will I see you tonight?”
Tommy shook his head. “Nah, this was a one-nighter for me; I’ve got to be back at business in the morning. We’re getting a noon plane.”
The two men stood up and embraced.
CHAPTER
49
It was after lunch before the two FBI agents showed up at Centurion Pictures. Michael showed them into his office.
“All right, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“We need your help,” Carson said.
“If you needed my help you shouldn’t have approached me last night,” Michael replied. “I did not appreciate that.”
“Tell you the truth,” Carson said, “I don’t much give a shit whether you appreciated it or not. You’re between a rock and a hard place, mister, and you’re going to help us whether you like it or not.”
Michael glanced at his watch. “I’m going to give you just one minute to start making sense, and if you don’t, then you can talk to my lawyer.”
“I’ll lay it out for you, Callabrese.”
“My name is Vincent. It was legally and properly changed in New York State six years ago, for personal reasons. Lots of people change their names.”
“All right, you’re Vincent, but I know a homicide detective can put you away on a murder one charge; all it takes is a word from me.”
“You’re insane.”
“You left your fingerprints all over the car when you ran down Moriarty.”
“The lawyer? Detective Rivera told me he was killed by some Mafia hoodlum. They found him dead somewhere.”
“Rivera didn’t mention the Callabrese prints, I guess, because he didn’t know you were Callabrese. When I tell him, he’ll know, and I’ll tell him unless you cooperate with me.”
“Cooperate with you on what?”
“Bringing down the Kensington Trust.”
“What has the Kensington Trust got to do with me?”
“You’re doing business with them; they’re funneling your money to the street sharks.”
“You make less and less sense, Carson, and I’m running out of patience.”
“Then I’ll have a word with Rivera,” the agent said, rising, “and then we’ll see about your patience.
“Let me make it easy for you,” Michael said. He pressed a button on the speakerphone. “Margot, will you please go to Rick Rivera’s office and ask him to come and see me right away?”
“Yes, Mr. Vincent,” Margot said.
“Wait a minute,” Carson said. “You mean to tell me Rivera works for you?”
“And has for about a year and a half,” Michael said.
“Doing what?”
“He’s an associate producer, specializing in police stories.”
“Horseshit. You bought him.”
“I go into production next month on his first story,” Michael said. “He’s a valued associate.”
Margot buzzed back. “Mr. Vincent, I’m afraid Mr. Rivera isn’t in yet.”
Michael sighed. “I’m afraid that’s not unusual,” he said. “He’s been out of the office a lot recently.”
“Let’s get back to the Kensington Trust,” Carson said. “What business have you done with them?”
“When I first came out here a couple of years ago, I deposited something over seven hundred thousand dollars with them.”
“Where’d you get the money?”
“I earned it. On a film called Downtown Nights.”
“What else?”
“Sometime later I deposited another hundred thousand with them, then in April of last year I withdrew all my funds and closed my account.”
Carson looked surprised. “Why?”
“I wasn’t terribly happy with the service. I moved my funds to two brokerage accounts. Would you like the names of my brokers?”
“Yes.”
Michael took a legal pad from his desk and wrote down the names. He wondered if they knew yet that Rivera was dead.
“Another thing,” Carson said, “where were you between midnight last night and two A.M. this morning?”
They knew. “At home. From the Awards ceremony, I went to Irving Lazar’s party at Spago, but I left early; I was home before midnight.”
“Can you support that statement?”
“Of course; I had houseguests. They were already home when I got there, and we stayed up talking until about two-thirty.”
“Who were these guests?”
“Don Tanner, a lawyer for a film distributor, and his girlfriend, Sheila Smith. Would you like their number?”
“I would.”
Michael wrote down Tanner’s number on the pad, then shoved it toward Carson. “That’s it, gentlemen; I don’t have any more time for you.”
Carson and Warren stood up. “We’ll be back,” Carson said.
“No, you won’t,” Michael said, remaining seated. “Not unless you have a warrant for my arrest. Otherwise, we’ll meet at my lawyer’s office.”
“You’re a slick number, Callabrese,” Carson said, “but we’re on to you now.”
“The name is Vincent,” Michael said. “Get out.”
The two agents left, and after they had gone Michael lowered his forehead to the cool glass top of his desk. He was covered. They had nothing.
CHAPTER
50
Michael and Amanda Goldman lay naked on the upstairs back deck of the house, baking in the midafternoon sun. They h
ad already made love once. Michael dribbled oil on her back and rubbed it in gently.
“Mmmmm,” Amanda sighed. “I don’t think I’ve ever known a man who knew women so well, Michael. You never miss an opportunity to please.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Michael said softly.
“If I weren’t married, you’d be dangerous.”
“You mean to Leo specifically, or just married?”
“I mean to Leo. If I were married to anybody else, I’d be thinking about leaving my husband for you.”
“I’m glad you couldn’t leave Leo for me. I love the man; he’s been absolutely wonderful to me.”
“Don’t take it too personally,” she said. “It’s not as if he isn’t making a lot of money out of the relationship.”
“Funny, another friend of mine pointed that out not long ago.”
“Who?”
“Just a friend; somebody who doesn’t know Leo, who was just making an objective observation.”
“Your friend is a shrewd judge of character. People like Leo get as good as they give.”
“Leo has always struck me as generous.”
“Generosity is a two-way street. Surely you aren’t naive enough to believe that anybody in this town, in this industry, has the slightest whit of unrequited generosity in his soul. You read in the trades about somebody who’s made some big donation to some charity. Chances are he’s doing it because somebody he wants to do business with is involved with the charity.”
“So what do you and Leo give each other? How do you reciprocate?”
“Well, let’s see; Leo gives me a status in this town that only two or three other men could. There’s hardly anybody in the country that I couldn’t have at my dinner table on a couple of days’ notice—right up to, and including, the president of the United States.”
“What could you offer the president of the United States, besides a good dinner?”
“Leo could put together a million dollars in campaign contributions to the party in a week, and with his left hand. Every politician in the country knows it.”
“What else does Leo do for you?”
