Paradox

by Jeanne C. Stein

  I can’t help it. I laugh out loud.

  “It’s not funny.”

  I compose myself. “Listen. If Culebra hasn’t let you be a host yet, there’s a good reason. He’s being cautious about who he exposes you to. Not all vampires exercise restraint when feeding, and they can smell an overeager host. You have to trust me on this, although part of me wants to let them have you. If there’s an accident, you will have asked for it, right?”

  She’s quiet. “How long do I have to stay?”

  “Until Culebra thinks you’re ready to make an informed decision. Jesus, you haven’t been there twenty-four hours.”

  She sighs. “Why did I choose you to make me a vampire? I could have found a hungry one that didn’t have such scruples.”

  “And you might be dead now. I don’t mean vampire dead. I mean dead.”

  When she doesn’t have an answer, I say, “Put Culebra back on.”

  I hear a muffled exchange as she hands the phone back to him. “Sorry about the trouble,” I tell Culebra.

  “You owe me for this,” he replies. I hear him tell Janet to go back to the kitchen and her grumbling retort. “She’s a handful.”

  “I take it’s a rough crowd tonight.”

  “Down from Oakland. Vampire biker gang. Bad mix. They brought their own hosts, but I’ve had to step in. I don’t intend to offer body disposal as one of my services. Luckily, they’re on their way south and will be gone by morning. Just stopped by for a soft bed and hard liquor, but not the crowd for Janet.”

  “Thanks for looking out for her.”

  Culebra chuckles. “Not easy to keep her busy. She wants to fraternize with the patrons, and don’t think they haven’t noticed her. I’ll breathe a lot easier when they’ve left.”

  There’s the sound of glass breaking in the background.

  “Shit.” Culebra’s voice muffles as if he placed his hand over the phone. I can pick up shouting. “Got to go,” he says. “A fight broke out.”

  He’s gone.

  I close my eyes. Poor Culebra. What have I gotten him into?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Day Seven

  As soon as I wake up the next morning, I grab the newspaper. Call me old school. I still prefer my news in print. The front page has no mention of what happened in Duke’s office, nor does the City Section.

  Strange since there are stories of two other murders that took place overnight.

  I take the paper with me into the kitchen and start the coffee maker.

  As I wait, I go through the paper page by page.

  Maybe I missed something.

  I almost skip the sports section but a headline catches my eye: “Star Athletes Lose Millions.”

  My gut says read this.

  My gut is right.

  David beats me into the office. He’s seated behind his side of the desk, newspaper opened to the same article I’m carrying.

  I help myself to coffee and join him at our big desk. I spread open my copy of the article. “I don’t see your name on this list.”

  He looks at me over the rim of his coffee cup. “That’s because Duke and I invested as a partnership.” He sets his cup down, picks up the article and points. “D & D, LLC.”

  The main focus of the article is on one Clayton Oswald (no picture), a financial advisor accused of cheating dozens of professional athletes out of over fifty million dollars. A charge he vehemently denies.

  “You don’t think Oswald showed up with Taylor last night, do you?”

  David sniffs. “I doubt it. He’s under investigation according to the article. No charges have been filed yet. He’d be crazy to get mixed up in a murder.”

  “How do you think Howard and Sullivan connected with Taylor?”

  David shrugs. “We’ll have to figure it out.”

  I peruse the article. “I don’t understand how this Ponzi scheme worked. It has something to do with selling tickets for sporting events?”

  “That’s the big picture,” David answers. “Duke and I invested with Taylor a simple stock transaction in a company that allows fans to buy options to post-season sporting events. If their team qualifies, they purchase tickets at face value rather than pay scalper prices. It seemed safe enough. Fans loved it. Sports authorities loved it. From college games to the Super Bowl, fans snapped up the company’s inventory.”

  “If it was so popular, how could it fail?”

  David shrugs. “Not enough inventory? Insufficient marketing? Embezzlement? Who knows? When the company started to go under, Oswald siphoned money from other accounts he controlled to pump it up. By the time the company went into receivership, debt exceeded over seventy million dollars. While Duke and I thought we were building a nice little nest egg, our money was long gone.”

  I study David as he talks. Like last night, he seems passive. I remember something. “What about that file Duke gave you? Who’s on it?”

  David opens the middle drawer on the desk, withdraws a sheet of paper from a file folder, and hands it to me. “See for yourself.”

  The list is a “who’s-who” of professional athletes from basketball to soccer, with well-known baseball and football players. At least fifty names run in two columns the length of the page.

  I look at David. “Wow. This seems too big a deal to be relegated to the sports page.”

  “It’s just the beginning,” he says. “We’ll be reading more as the scheme unravels.”

  He gets up and crosses the office to refill his coffee mug. I narrow my eyes at him. “You seem very calm for someone who just lost a bundle.”

  There’s a long silence. His back is to me so I can’t read his expression.

  “David, what are you thinking?”

  He turns. “I’m a dead man,” he says.

  I stare at him. “Are you serious?”

  He nods. “Yep. I didn’t invest my money. I invested Gloria’s.”

  The snort that escapes involuntarily is half amusement, half incredulity. “Gloria’s money? Are you kidding?”

  He shakes his head.

  I jab a finger at the newspaper. “How, for fuck’s sake, are you going to explain this to her?”

  He’s back in his chair. “We’ll cross that bridge when it comes.” He shoots me a look. “I did some reading on Ponzi schemes. I know. Too little too late, but I think I know how they work. Oswald may be the one on the hook, but there’s someone else behind him.”

  “How do you propose to keep Gloria dark until we find this mystery person?”

  David allows a little smile to play at the corners of his mouth. “She’s in Europe shooting a movie. Should be gone six weeks.”

  I shake my head. “How much of Gloria’s money did you invest?”

  “Bad news,” he says. “Three mil.”

  This is the first time in our partnership I don’t have a clue how to begin our search. We don’t have a name. We don’t have a picture. Our calls to Duke are unanswered. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad. I had many contacts in SDPD, vampire contacts, but they’ve all moved on.

  Still, there’s one resource left we haven’t tapped.

  “Maybe we should call Detective Connolly again,” I suggest when an hour’s gone by and neither of us have a workable plan. “See what their investigation turned up.”

  David reaches for his cell and scrolls his contacts. He puts the call on speaker and I lean forward as it rings.

  “LAPD, Detective Connolly.”

  “Phil,” David says. “This is David Ryan in San Diego. Anna’s here, too. We wondered what you’ve uncovered in the Howard DelMonico case. There are a couple of loose ends we’re trying to tie up.”

  We hear the sound of papers shuffling in the background before Phil answers. “Got the pathology report right here. Howard and the bookie were both killed about the same time. Coroner estimates they’d been dead two to three days. Different CODs, though. Howard DelMonico was dead before he was cut up. Since the torso and head are missing, can’t be sure how h
e was killed. The bookie, Sullivan, however, was evidently alive when the killer went to work on him. He must have been after something. Whether or not Sullivan spilled before he bled to death, we may never know. As far as forensics, not much at the scene and what there was is still in the lab. We located a storage area where Sullivan moved his stuff when he closed his office. There were a lot of betting slips and a ledger or two, but nothing that pointed to a killer or a connection between the two victims other than the obvious.”

  “Think we might get a look at that storage area?” David asks.

  “Don’t see why not. It’s been cleared as far as we’re concerned. As for Howard’s personal effects, we found bloody clothes and a wallet that was empty except for a driver’s license.”

  “Was his ex-wife notified of his death?” I ask.

  Again, we hear the rustling papers. “Ex-wife? We don’t have any mention of an ex. What’s the name?”

  “Kitty DelMonico.” I give him the address.

  After a moment, he says, “When do you want to see the storage area?”

  “How about this afternoon?” David replies.

  “I’ll leave the key with the desk sergeant. A uniform will take you out there. I don’t think I have to tell you that if you find something we missed, it’s your civic duty to hand it over.”

  He suddenly sounds very officious.

  “No,” David says smiling. “No, you don’t.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  There aren’t many times in my life when I feel normal, but this is one. David and I kicking it old school, a skip to trace, clues to ferret out. Almost like when we first became partners.

  There are obvious differences, though. We no longer go to lunch or dinner the way we used to, or work out together at the neighborhood gym. It’s too hard for me to pretend to eat, and too easy for me to forget that I shouldn’t bench press more weight than he can.

  David has adjusted to the new dynamic. He thinks it’s because I have a husband now, even if Frey is absent more than not. With Gloria back in David’s life, that helps, too. The fact that she’s in Europe, however, may prove problematic. It gives David a chance to recoup some of her losses, but it’s bad if he decides we should spend more time together since Frey is also gone.

  Tracey is due back in a week. She’s always been a buffer. She and David can do the things we used to. That is, if she’s accepted that he threw her over for his old flame.

  These thoughts tumble through my head as I pretend to sleep. David is at the wheel, on the way to LAPD’s Central Bureau headquarters. We’ll pick up our uniformed escort and the key to Sullivan’s storage locker. I hope we find something to point us in a direction—any direction—since now we have nothing to go on.

  The key was waiting for us at the Duty Sergeant’s desk, along with an eager young patrolman who drove us to the storage facility where Sullivan rented a locker.

  The officer has the flush of a newly minted cop. He looks about twenty-five, clean shaven, carrying himself ramrod straight. His uniform is crisp, his shoes are polished, and his gun leather is conditioned to a high-gloss sheen. He shakes hands with each of us and directs us to his squad car, which is as spotless as his person. I wonder how long it will be before he relaxes enough to eat in the car. Probably not until a collar pukes in the back seat.

  He asks how we managed to get access to a murder victim’s effects, but David’s answer is ambiguous enough to be plausible. There were insurance papers that somehow disappeared and Sullivan’s widow authorized us to look for them. Since the locker was cleared by forensics and appeared to have no connection to his murder, there was no conflict.

  The patrolman uses the key to open the padlocked door, then stands back so David and I can go inside.

  The space is small, about 10 x 12. Boxes are piled against the back wall, a metal desk against the right, and a wooden file cabinet against the left. David approaches the cabinet first. It’s locked. It’s obvious the detectives got inside; none of the ledgers Phil mentioned, not even a betting slip, are in sight. They also must have taken the key since they didn’t leave it for us.

  I glance at the patrolman. He moved to stand beside the car. He’s watching us, but not closely. Filing cabinets are notoriously easy to break into. David shifts to block his line of sight while I work on the filing cabinet with a lock pick. In minutes, the top drawer slides open. It’s empty. So are the middle and third drawers. I slip my hand inside. It may be my imagination but the last drawer seems a tad shorter than the others. I press against the back of it.

  Something gives.

  David’s eyebrows rise.

  I let the false back fall. A key is taped to the inside. I pry it loose.

  “Safe deposit box?” I whisper.

  He gives a tiny nod. I slip the key into my pocket, shut the drawer, and relock the cabinet.

  David and I move to the desk.

  Like the cabinet, the drawers are empty. No false backs or bottoms here. The boxes are open containing clothes. After sifting through what looks like the contents of somebody’s dirty hamper, we give up.

  We rejoin the patrolman.

  “Didn’t find anything did you?” he asks, seeing us walk out empty-handed. “Our detectives are pretty thorough.”

  “I guess so,” I answer ambivalently. Not thorough enough to completely pull open all the drawers of that file cabinet.

  Back in the car, I slide the key out of my pocket. “We have our work cut out for us.”

  David nods, knowing what I mean. There are no distinguishing marks on a safety deposit box key except for a number. 796. Seeing as there are thousands of banks in the Los Angeles area, assuming he used a Los Angeles bank, and millions in the country as a whole, finding a needle in a haystack would be an easier task than finding Sullivan’s bank.

  It’s all we have.

  I call Duke’s cell. As we haven’t heard from him since last night, I don’t know what to expect. He could be in jail.

  He picks up on the first ring. “Anything?”

  The Tesla’s Bluetooth makes that one word erupt like a bark.

  “Not sure,” I answer. “Where are you?”

  “At your office,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for you to get back.”

  “The police let you go?” David asks.

  “The police never took me.”

  David and I exchange looks.

  Duke heaves a sigh. “I left right after you and took the knife with me. Wasn’t long before someone discovered the door had been blown apart.” He pauses. “Anna, explain how the hell you smashed that door,” but he doesn’t wait for me, and forges ahead. “Anyway, the guy phoned in a burglary. Cops called me at home and I went down. The police don’t know what to think. The dead guy was stabbed but no knife was found. Considering my line of work, they’re leaning toward the disgruntled customer theory. For the moment, I’m in the clear.”

  For the moment.

  David glances at his watch. “It’s going to be a good two hours before we get back. Why don’t you go home? Get some sleep. We’ll call you tomorrow.”

  From the way Duke sucks in a breath, I know he’s going to object.

  “Not going home,” he says shortly. “It’s the first place the cops will come if they change their minds. I’m heading out of town. I know a place off the beaten path. I’m ditching this phone as soon as we hang up. I’ll get a burner tomorrow and call you when I can.”

  Without waiting for a response, the call drops.

  David starts the car and pulls onto the road.

  I’m turning the key over in my hand. “What do we know about Sullivan?”

  It’s a rhetorical question since David and I both got our information from Connolly during that phone call this morning. I’m mulling over what the detective said when I realize there is one piece of information missing. “Do you think Sullivan was married?”

  David shoots me a sideways glance. “Good question.” He speaks Connolly’s name, and the sound of a nu
mber dialing fills the car. The call rings several times then goes to voicemail. David leaves a message that we’re interested in a contact number for Sullivan’s next of kin, and ends the call.

  I lean back in the seat, close my eyes. “Wake me when we get to the office.”

  “Next time,” David grumbles, “you drive.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It’s only about 7:30 when I get back to the house. I debate calling Frey, but the prospect of learning there’s still no change in his mother-in-law’s condition is too depressing. I grab a jacket and head back on the road. I should check in on Culebra and our problem child to make sure he hasn’t killed her yet.

  When I pull up to the bar, it’s surprisingly quiet. That should be comforting, but there are only a couple of cars parked in front even though it’s a Friday, so not comforting. Beso de la Muerte usually comes alive on the weekends.

  When I push through the swinging doors, anxiety ratchets up another notch.

  The place is empty.

  Not even a bartender to greet me.

  “Hello?”

  My voice echoes in the stillness.

  This is not good.

  I make my way through the back and out to the path winding down to the “living areas”, a little distance from the bar. This is Culebra’s refuge for fugitives both human and not—a kind of sanctuary. Anyone can seek safe haven here as long as one rule is followed: do no harm. It’s a rabbit warren of caves, strung with electric wire for light. I have no idea how far back the caves go or who might be in residence now. I pause at the opening to the main tunnel.

  “Anyone here?”

  My voice reverberates off the walls and ceilings like the toll of a lonely bell, finally fading into nothingness.