“Okay,” he relented, clearly not convinced. “I’ve got to go.”
“Love ya, big guy.”
“Right back at ya.”
She put her phone away, stared out the window, and exhaled heavily, trying to ignore the prickles of impatience that were stabbing away at every pore of her body.
35
Sitting at the solitary booth in the back of the Black Iron Burger Shop on East Fifth Street, Perrini wiped the last traces of the burger and the side of onion rings from his mouth and stretched his arms out lazily. As freelance jobs went, this one was almost embarrassingly easy. He knew this was a rarity, especially after one of the previous year’s jobs for Guerra had turned from strictly an information-gathering exercise into shutting down the local operation of a particularly aggressive Mexican cartel that was trying to muscle its way into the city.
Initially he had balked at turning off one of his newest suppliers of cash-stuffed envelopes, but the rival cartel that had hired Guerra in the first place were so pleased with how things had turned out that they had given Perrini a rather sizeable bonus, albeit one from which Guerra had creamed off a hefty twenty-percent commission. Nevertheless, it would be enough to put Nate, Perrini’s eldest son, through college, and a good one, too.
Perrini had taken no chances with the fallout. Within a week of the entire upper echelon of the incoming cartel’s New York City contingent being sent to Rikers, Perrini had ensured that his sometime contact had been fatally stuck with a rather nasty shank by an up-and-coming lieutenant of the incumbent African-American gang in the South Bronx, a favor arranged by an old friend at the Forty-first. The killing had been marked down to a racial slur and had therefore been logged as having nothing to do with a turf war between competing Mexican gangs.
It was a win-win for Perrini, as the freshly triumphant outfit was from then on more than generous with both their cash and their product. In fact, he had a twenty-gram bag of their finest uncut cocaine sitting in his left trouser pocket at this very moment.
He waved over the waitress to ask for another vanilla malt and saw Lina Dawetta walk into the restaurant. He watched her glance around edgily, clearly making sure there was no one she knew in there. She then walked over to the booth and sat on one of the vacant stools facing the detective.
Seeing as the restaurant was just a couple of blocks from the precinct house, bumping into somebody one of them knew was an occupational hazard, though the only time it had happened to date, Perrini had calmly fielded a sly smile from a homicide detective with whom he was on no more than corridor-greeting terms. Let them think he was screwing a lowly PAA. Though the powder was gradually taking its toll, Lina was strikingly attractive in an olive-skinned, auburn-haired Sicilian way, and Perrini knew that the unspoken code between male cops would keep his wife from ever hearing about it.
“You want something to eat?” said Perrini, smiling at the young police administrative assistant as though she were his favorite niece or beloved sister, rather than a civilian who earned a third of his detective’s basic salary.
“No. Just a Diet Sprite.”
She set down her open purse on the vacant stool beside her.
Perrini relayed the order to the waitress, then without taking his eyes off Lina or changing the smile on his face, nonchalantly removed the bag of cocaine from his pocket, stretched his hand underneath the bar-height table, and dropped the bag into Lina’s purse.
It was a point of principle with Perrini always to go first in any exchange. It promoted trust and reduced his risk should the meeting be compromised before the end. He never understood why so many people insisted on the kind of ridiculous ballet you saw in movies. He was happy to trust the other party to make good, just as the other party should trust that he would not be amused if they tried to fuck him over.
Lina took out her lipstick and compact from the purse in a practiced movement that included moving the cocaine bag to a side pocket where it couldn’t be viewed by a passing customer.
The waitress delivered their drinks as Lina ran the lipstick across her pale lips, returned both objects back to where they’d come from, then took out a folded sheet of yellow legal paper and opened it on the table in front of her.
“Hazel Lustig. Born July 18, 1947. Sister of Eileen Chaykin, nee Lustig. Never married. No children. No federal warrants. No local traffic violations. Taxes all in order. Qualified as an equine veterinarian in 1971. By 1985 had her own practice in New Jersey specializing in race horses. Sold it in 1998 and retired to Cochise County, Arizona, where she owns three hundred acres and cares for about forty retired racehorses. The ranch isn’t open to the public. Two bank accounts, both in the black. One significantly so.”
Lina slid the sheet across the table.
“Phone number?” asked Perrini after draining half his malt in one long slug.
“Home number is right there. She doesn’t have a cell phone. I also checked the cell reception in that area like you asked. It’s spotty at best. Locals and the press out there have been making noise about that, but the mobile carriers don’t give a crap.” She took a sip of her Diet Sprite as Perrini scanned the sheet. “Anything else?”
Perrini folded the sheet and pocketed it. “Not that I can think of right now, but that could change. I’ll be in touch. As always.”
“Thought you should know. They’re purging all the unused NCIC accounts. I’ll have to create a spoof login if they delete them all.”
“As long as you keep me out of it I don’t care what you do.” Perrini flashed Lina an arctic glare. A split second later, the smile with which he’d welcomed her was back.
“I’d better get back to my desk. Got a mountain of cases to key in.” She lifted her purse off the stool and turned to leave.
“Enjoy your little present,” said Perrini, gesturing to her purse. “You know there’s plenty more where that came from.”
He shot her a wink, then dropped his eyes to his malt and drained it down to the foam.
When he looked up, she was already out the door.
Twenty minutes later, Perrini was back in his car, across from Tompkins Square. He had toyed with a few different approaches, but decided to go with an angle that usually worked wonders: appealing to a person’s natural vanity, even if it was at one step removed.
He pulled out his throwaway and dialed Hazel Lustig. She answered after five rings.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is that Hazel Lustig?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“My name is Daniel Shelton. I’m calling from the Historical Novel Society. I understand from Friedstein and Bellingham Literary Management that Miss Chaykin is staying with you at the moment?”
It was a gamble that Chaykin had left her aunt’s number with her agent, but if she was there for a month and the cell reception was bad, then the odds were surely stacked in his favor.
“I’m afraid she’s not here. Can I pass on a message?”
Her tone was defensive. Protective. Too late to change tack now though.
“Oh, that’s a shame. We’re running a review of her latest book—and, well, it’s a rave. I just got it, and the reviewer really, really loved it. And I thought it would be great to get an interview to go alongside it, do a little feature on her, but I’m playing catch-up here with a lot of people off on vacation and I’ve got a deadline coming up fast. Do you know when she’ll be back? We could do it over the phone, or even by email.”
The woman went quiet for a moment, then said, “The thing is, I’m really not sure she’s got much time to spare right now, she’s—she’s tied up on a family matter.” Her tone had softened at the mention of a rave review. Seemingly an appeal to vanity by proxy was almost as effective as direct praise.
“I’m real sorry to hear that. We’re all huge fans of her books here. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
Perrini waited for the reply, but Hazel wasn’t biting.
“No,” she said, “nothing major, thank you. If you give me your num
ber, I’ll be sure to pass on your message.”
He gave her the number of his fresh throwaway plus an email address he’d created while sitting in the car digesting the double-patty delights of his recent fix. Then he thanked her politely and ended the call.
Miss Chaykin was playing hard to get. And although Perrini enjoyed twisting sixty-year-old women around his little finger—a feat he still couldn’t achieve when it came to his mother, who always seemed to know exactly what he was thinking—it was clearly time to apply a more straightforward approach.
He wondered about what the woman had told him. Tess Chaykin was “tied up with a family matter.” Her aunt would “pass on” his message. Perrini wondered about that, and it sounded to him like Chaykin was out of town. He thought about Guerra’s request and about Chaykin’s boyfriend being out in San Diego and what Perrini had found out about him, and he wondered if that was the family matter she was dealing with.
Problem was, Guerra had no interest in probabilities. He demanded facts. Which left Perrini with little choice but to spend a bigger chunk of his fee than he would have liked on a third party, an option he avoided as much as he could—not just due to the expense involved, but also because it involved using people he didn’t know and required them to do something that could land them with federal-level problems if they were found out.
He took out his phone and called Lina. She answered immediately.
“I need a fix on a cell phone. The full workout.”
“Ouch.”
Lina knew the ramifications, too.
“I need it. I’ll text you the number.”
“Okay,” she relented. “Ship it over.”
Perrini knew the drill. It would take anything between thirty minutes and five hours for Lina to come back with a location. There were several variables involved: the make and model of Chaykin’s handset, what carrier she was with, the cell coverage at her location, the number of masts there, and whether her phone was GPS enabled or not. On the plus side, Lina had a few tricks of her own. A combination of geek-level expertise in using the data at her disposal, plus contacts she’d nurtured at three of the big cell phone carriers, meant that Lina had not once failed to provide an accurate lock on any number he’d given her.
Perrini decided to have a quick nap before he returned to the station house. By the end of the day, there was a good chance he’d know exactly where Tess Chaykin was, and so would Guerra.
What the Mexican chose to do then was no concern of his, though Perrini was pretty sure that, given the kind of clients Guerra usually worked for, her best days were now probably behind her.
36
We left the La Mesa station house in Munro’s Yukon, taking Spring Street to the South Bay Freeway, then heading south.
Villaverde had opted to go back to Aero Drive and brief his team on everything we’d learned to date. He said he’d include Jules on the briefing, via speakerphone. Also, one of his guys had volunteered to drive my LaCrosse back to HQ so that I wouldn’t be without a vehicle later in the day, which was something I don’t think anyone in the New York office would’ve thought of offering.
The run down to Chula Vista was a breeze, with the early evening traffic still several hours away and Munro driving with the urgency that we both felt. La Mesa PD had done a great job locating Dani Namour, and they’d sent us the name of the store where she worked. I’d asked them not to tip her off that we were headed down there, since although it was clear that she’d severed her ties with the Eagles, we didn’t know what else was going on in her life and I couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t bolt at the first sign of law enforcement. So they’d had one of their female officers call the boutique from her cell phone and ask what days Dani worked because she’d been “so helpful” on the last visit. Not only was Dani working today, but she was mid-shift.
Maybe we had finally caught a break. I was feeling optimistic, thinking it would be pretty unlikely that whoever had all but wiped out the Babylon Eagles knew about her.
A few blocks out from our destination, Dani’s rap sheet came through on Munro’s handset. From the looks of it, and against all odds, she’d managed to keep her nose clean. Apart from a couple of minor traffic violations, she seemed like a model citizen. Which boded well for her daughter.
We parked in the lot outside Macy’s and walked over to the main entrance, which was marked by an octagonal tower sporting a faux cupola, a far cry from the domes of Vatican City that had probably inspired it. A quick glance at the store locator had Vanessa—the boutique where Dani worked—on the south side of the mall facing a CVS, and we headed there after Munro had stopped to grab a couple of sodas, reminding me that I’d been running on empty since that morning.
The store was one of those up-market fashion outlets that sold a small selection of items, all from big-name designers. There was an elegantly dressed and heavily made-up woman somewhere in her forties serving a customer, and a younger blonde in her mid-twenties standing farther back, at the cashier’s desk, leafing through a glossy magazine—Dani. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t look anything like what I imagined, given the image I had of her as a biker chick. Her clothes, hair, and makeup were all immaculate. She’d clearly left the biker life well behind, although I was hoping just a little link to that world remained, a link that was as thick as blood in this case.
Munro waited by the entrance while I went inside.
“Miss Namour?”
She had already looked up when I walked in and was now gazing straight at me. She knew there was no way I was there to buy a dress.
“Yes?”
She was scrutinizing me and starting to show the unmistakable signs of someone who knows that their day is about to take a turn for the worse. I flashed my creds discreetly at her, making sure the older woman wasn’t looking over.
“Could we step outside for a minute?”
Dani smoothed down her jacket and glanced over to her boss. “Suzie, I need to go out for a sec and help this gentleman out with something.”
Suzie nodded uncertainly, then got back to her customer. Dani gestured me through the door and followed me out of the shop.
“There’s a food court on the next level up. We can talk there.”
I tilted my head for Munro to follow and the three of us headed for the escalator, Dani leading the way.
She obviously had a steady job and had successfully moved on after her time around the Eagles went sour, and I felt bad about having to stir up all that pain again, but we were way behind the curve and needed something to get us back on track. We sat outside one of those Mexican restaurants that are a step up from Taco Bell but still the wrong side of the real thing, and got down to business.
“I’m Agent Reilly, FBI. And this is Agent Munro.”
“DEA,” he added.
She cut us off before I got any further with my introductions.
“This is about the clubhouse, right?”
I nodded.
“I saw the news, and you’re wasting your time. I don’t know anything about that,” she said, her tone firm and defensive. “I’ve had nothing to do with those guys for years.”
The anger and bitterness erupted so quickly it was almost a shock, though I’d learned over years of interrogation that the bad stuff always lurks right up against the surface, whether you can see it there or not.
“Your daughter, Naomi,” I told her. “She’s Marty’s kid, right?”
At her daughter’s name, Dani’s face hardened with a mother’s protective instinct, but then when I mentioned Marty, her face softened and her eyes flicked away for a moment as memory took over.
“Why are you here? Look, Naomi has no clue who her father was, and I want to keep it that way.”
Munro stepped in with perfect tag-team timing. He laid both hands palm-up on the table in front of him and gave Dani a wide smile. “We can see you’ve got a life here. We’re not interested in doing anything to hurt that. When people leave a bad life behind, get a job, raise a
kid, pay taxes . . . it makes our job a whole lot easier. One less wasted life is one less violent death to write up. If all the girlfriends, wives, and mothers just got up and walked away from the gangs, how long do you think the guys would last before reassessing their life choice?” He gave her his patented gotta-love-me grin.
Dani relaxed visibly at that. Munro had hit just the right chord. The bastard was good at his job.
It was my turn. “We’re here ’cause we’re looking for Gary.” I watched for her reaction to the name, and I got the surprise I was expecting. “We think he can help us nail the guys who wiped out the club. I don’t blame you for not wanting to get involved, but these guys, they’re seriously bad. They also killed a deputy up in San Marcos. Guy had a kid. Same age as Naomi.” I let that percolate for a moment. “We think Gary knew one of them back in the day, and given what they did to the guys, I think he’d want to help us track them down. Thing is, we don’t know where he is and we need your help to find him.”
She took a deep breath, then sighed, suddenly resigned to the incontrovertible fact that one never truly leaves the past behind.
“He doesn’t want to be found and that’s okay by me. I’m doing just fine without any of them.” She looked at Munro as she added, “Just like you said.”
He nodded at that, clearly appreciating that she’d been listening.
“My parents near disowned me when I started hanging out at the club, but they helped out when Marty got himself killed. I think they were grateful I was still alive. They still look after Naomi so I can work. I paid for my father’s laser eye surgery last year. He says he can see better now than when he was twenty.”
She was proud of how far she’d come. And rightly so. But it was becoming clear that we’d made the trip down to Chula Vista for nothing. Dani’s eyes wandered off. Munro and I had been in the job long enough to let her go wherever she was going. After a long moment she landed back with us. I leaned forward, sensing that she might have brought something back with her.
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