by P. J. Tracy
Gino picked up his phone. “I’m calling Tommy Espinoza. Maybe he can track down these numbers. It’s a long shot, but not unheard of.” Tommy answered and Gino gave him a quick run-down, then hung up and looked at the wall clock. “Let’s go meet Dubnik. He might have some answers.”
“Right, so be nice to him.”
“I’m nice to everybody. Unless they piss me off.”
CHAPTER
27
GARY JUNEAU SQUINTED as his boss hunched over his shoulder at the dispatch desk, withering him with raw-onion breath from whatever lunch he’d eaten. Probably a gyro from the Greek bodega down the street. It was a decent place with decent food, but second-hand fumes from anybody else’s meal were revolting, especially when they were getting exhaled straight into your face.
As a rule, he didn’t entirely dislike Lloyd—he was a leathery old curmudgeon and a skinflint, and he had an unpredictable, salty temper that came up like a loud and sudden storm, but usually faded just as fast. If you overlooked those negative qualities, he was a decent employer who always made payroll on time and didn’t dig too deep into your past. But the old man was going full-on nuclear now, pummeling him with hysterical questions, and his opinion of Lloyd started dropping way down into subterranean territory.
“What do you mean the transponder’s off?” Lloyd shrieked in his ear.
Gary recoiled and poked a finger at the screen. “See there? It’s off. And I haven’t been able to raise him by radio or phone.”
“So we don’t know where my fucking truck is?”
“No, sir. The last place the transponder was functional was at one-eleven Washington Avenue, one of Jim’s scheduled delivery stops.”
Lloyd uprighted himself, and started pacing the dispatch room, cussing under his breath, then launched another onion-scented assault. “So you’re telling me that son of a bitch took off with my truck and my equipment?”
Gary clenched his jaw. “I don’t know what happened, Lloyd. I’m just telling you what the computer’s telling me. The transponder on his unit is dead and I can’t raise Jim.”
Lloyd craned his skinny turkey neck to get closer to the computer screen. “Did he log in his delivery on Washington Avenue?”
Gary started tapping his keyboard. “I think so … Yeah, at three oh five. Ten minutes later is when I lost contact.”
Lloyd took a few deep breaths. Or else he was hyperventilating, Gary wasn’t sure. “Keep trying to raise him. I have to do damage control on the rest of his deliveries.”
Gary hesitated. He’d worked with Jim for five years and he was a stand-up guy, a friend. Sure, he was an ex-con, but half the guys here were, including himself. He wouldn’t just disappear with Lloyd’s truck. No way. Besides, what would be the point? “You think he got truck-jacked or something?”
“That better be what happened to him.”
“Should I call the cops and report it?”
Lloyd puffed up like a blowfish and red blotches flared on his bony, sunken cheeks. Gary had always wondered if the old man wasn’t just one meltdown away from a heart attack. Maybe today was the day.
“I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing except the job I hired you to do, Gary. I’ve got ten other trucks and drivers on the road you need to watch. I’ll handle the situation with Jim.”
“Got it.” He watched Lloyd storm to his office and slam the door, then tried to raise Jim again. He would have called his house, but he lived alone and, as far as he knew, there wasn’t a lady in his life. In fact, there wasn’t much of anything in his life except his job and his AA meetings.
* * *
Lloyd Nasif sank into his office chair and pressed his temples, trying to squeeze away the sharp pain behind his eyes. Son of a bitch. He should have listened to his gut. He’d had a bad feeling about this whole transaction, but it had been such easy money, and sending his most reliable man to make the delivery had seemed like an iron-clad plan. But maybe Jim wasn’t so reliable. Maybe Jim had finally had enough and was fencing the rest of his equipment before he made a run for the border.
His arthritic hands were trembling as he dug into his desk drawer for the untraceable phone he kept for times like this. Just in case.
Gus answered on the first ring. “This better be pretty fucking important, Lloyd. I’m in the middle of something.”
“It is pretty fucking important. Where’s my truck and my driver? He logged in his delivery with you and disappeared.”
“How the hell should I know?”
Lloyd paused to rattle out some antacids from the bottle on his desk. “You got the delivery, right?”
“Yep. And you got the cash, so we’re done. Your driver and your truck are your problems now. But if I were you, I wouldn’t call the cops.” Gus laughed and hung up.
CHAPTER
28
THE CHATHAM’S POSH bar was much livelier than it had been earlier in the afternoon. It was filled with a mélange of chic young partiers wearing designer mating plumage, businessmen and women in suits drinking away the ardors of the workday, and tourist types in flip-flops, shorts, and sundresses. It was an interesting cross-section.
It suddenly occurred to Magozzi that they might run into Rosalie Norwood here and wouldn’t that be awkward? Thankfully, she was nowhere in sight, but Malachai Dubnik was, conspicuous to them even at a far corner table as the only character who truly stood out in this varied but predictable human stew. Nobody else seemed to notice him ‒ superficially, he fit in well here in his fine suit, and any jagged edges from his past career in Hollywood Robbery-Homicide had been smoothed by his time working in the more rarified environment of private for-hire. But he retained the unmistakable edge and demeanor of a tough, seasoned cop and his impressive build suggested he hadn’t let his gym membership expire. He was totally bald, with a shiny, smooth scalp, not a hint that there had ever been a single hair sprouting from it.
He saw them approach and stood with a subdued smile. “Detectives, nice to meet you both. Have a seat. Whatever you’re drinking, I’m buying. I recommend the passion-fruit caipirinha. It’s nothing I’d ever order as a cop, but I’m not a cop anymore, so I drink what I like.”
“Thanks for meeting with us,” Magozzi said, shaking his hand. It was impossible not to notice that Dubnik’s head wasn’t the only part of him that was hairless—there wasn’t an eyebrow or eyelash in sight. It was startling, like looking at an unfinished person.
“Alopecia universalis,” he explained. “They think it’s an autoimmune disorder where your body attacks all your hair follicles. I like to be upfront about it, because it’s pretty damn hard to ignore. Of course I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of it, too. Especially in the interrogation room. It’s not too hard to get some brainless dirtbag thinking you’ve been in a nuclear accident and developed superpowers, like mind-reading.”
Gino broke out in a grin. “That’s good.”
“You’ve got to make the most of what the Lord gave you ‒ or didn’t give you for that matter ‒ right?”
A server appeared and took drink orders: Magozzi requested a bourbon, neat, and Gino got on board with the passion-fruit caipirinha.
Dubnik passed a thick folder across the table. “This is everything I have on the Norwood case, including the time I chased down his son’s sorry ass in India a few years ago. That was the first time I dealt with Norwood.”
“Why was he in India?” Gino asked.
“He was a drug tourist. Half dead by the time I found him and not a piece of paper on him ‒ he’d been robbed blind. I had to smuggle him out of the country on a private plane.”
Magozzi had initially liked Dubnik, but now he was afraid they were dealing with a spinner of yarns, a self-aggrandizing purveyor of the tallest of tales. “That’s a little above and beyond the call of duty, isn’t it?”
Dubnik shrugged. “Norwood didn’t want information, he wanted his son back in the country, period, whatever it took. I was compensated accordingly. Ask me some questio
ns, I’ll tell you what I know. I’ve got half an hour before I have to head to the airport.”
Magozzi opened the folder and skimmed through it. “Why was Gregory Norwood suddenly so convinced his son was murdered when he’d clearly OD’d?”
“Because a guy named August Riskin contacted him and told him so. Said he had details, but it was going to cost him.”
Magozzi and Gino shared a look as things clicked into place. “So he was being conned.”
“Yeah. Pretty low, right? Call a rich, grieving parent, tell them you know who killed their kid, then string them along and make them pay for info they don’t have. Nobody wants to believe their kid OD’d, even if that’s what the coroner’s report says.”
Gino took a tentative sip of his drink. “No offense, but why would Norwood hire a PI instead of going straight to the authorities?”
“I asked him the same thing. All he told me was he wanted to keep the whole thing on the down-low, and he wouldn’t answer any of my questions. He made it clear my only job was to find Riskin, and I haven’t been able to do that. A couple years ago, his trail went stone cold, like he dropped off the face of the earth, so I started digging deeper.”
“What did you learn?”
“There’s a family connection. His parents were the managers and part-time caretakers at the Norwoods’ properties in Aspen until his older sister Clara was murdered. Bludgeoned with a piece of wood. She was fourteen.”
“Jesus.”
“This world is a sick place, but I don’t have to tell you two that.”
“No, you don’t.”
He let out a heavy sigh. “The Riskins packed it up after the trial, moved to Kalispell, Montana, and the family fell apart. And I mean really fell apart. His mom ate a bottle of Oxy a few years later, and when Gus turned eighteen, his father hanged himself.”
Gino shook his head. “Not a real surprise the kid didn’t turn out so great. Was there a conviction in the murder trial?”
“Yeah, it was short and sweet, a slam-dunk. Pitkin County nailed some drifter, a Richard ‘Kip’ Kuehn. History of violence, substance abuse, and severe mental illness. They found him passed out near the crime scene and his DNA was all over her body and the piece of wood he’d killed her with. He’d rolled into town a few months earlier, floating himself as a handyman, taking odd jobs for cash. Did some work for the Norwoods.”
“Norwood doesn’t exactly strike me as the kind of guy who’d hire a violent, mentally ill drifter to work his property,” Gino commented.
“Norwood didn’t. The Riskins did. That was their job as managers. In places like Aspen, where there are a lot of part-time owners who only pop in every few months, it’s not unusual for property managers to subcontract on the cheap, then give their absentee employers falsified invoices. They usually do it in collusion with the subcontractor and split the profit. Hell, if you’re worth a few hundred mil or a billion, who’s going to notice ten or twenty grand? At least, that’s the theory behind it, but it’s a flawed theory, because some people do notice.” He spread his hairless hands on the table. “Look, I’m not saying that’s what the Riskins did, I’m just telling you like it is. Half my work is this sort of thing. I’d be on food stamps without it.”
“Do you know what happened to Riskin after his father killed himself?”
“From what I could piece together, he left Montana and headed to sunny So-Cal. He got cozy with the Hessians and had some scrapes with the law for assault. If you don’t know, the Hessians are one of the nastier West Coast biker clubs that excel in drug distribution. Evil sons of bitches, every last one of them, they’d douse a box of puppies with gasoline and set them on fire to stay warm. And that’s all I know.”
“You said you were in town chasing down some leads. What are they?”
“Did I say leads? I meant one lead. A meth head named Milo Parr. Former Hessian, did some time in San Quentin for possession with intent to distribute and manslaughter, pled down from murder two. I have a source in Orange County who told me Riskin and Parr used to run together before he got thrown into the Q. Thought it was worth checking out.”
“Parr is in Minnesota now?”
“Yep, living back in his home town of Rush City. He doesn’t answer his phone, but his address is in the folder. If you pay him a visit, keep your eyes wide open. He’s built like a Sherman tank and he’s a total sociopath. Once a meth head, always a meth head.” He checked his Patek Philippe and casually tossed a hundred onto the table. “Sorry, but I have to get to the airport. Call me anytime.”
CHAPTER
29
“SO, WHAT DO you think?”
“I think this passion-fruit caipirinha is the bomb. You want a sip, Leo?”
Magozzi released a long-suffering sigh. “I’m talking about what Dubnik said.”
Gino chewed the end of his straw while his eyes wandered around the lively room. “This case just got a hell of a lot weirder, along with Norwood’s behavior. Hell, he knew who was squeezing him for cash. He had a name. Any rational person would have gone straight to the cops, not taken things into their own hands. And, seriously, what was his plan once he found Riskin? Kidnap and torture him?”
“The fact that Norwood didn’t want this to see the light of day is a good place to start. Let’s go talk to the family about it, then pay Milo Parr a visit.” He called Rosalie and she answered on the second ring.
“Good evening, Detective Magozzi. Do you have some news for us?”
“We’re in the area. Do you mind if we stop by?”
“Of course not. I’ll tell security we’re expecting you.”
“Hotel security?”
“No, we have somebody at the door. See you soon.”
Magozzi hung up. “They have security now.”
“I would, too. They thought all along Norwood was murdered. Why take the chance that he was the only Norwood on the hit list?”
Gino and Magozzi were both a little taken aback when they approached Betty Norwood’s room and saw Conrad, the same man who’d escorted them into Robert Zeller’s house, standing guard at the door. He still looked like a tough-guy butler, but this time he was definitely carrying.
“Detectives.” He nodded politely and pushed open the door for them.
“Do you have any refreshments?” Gino couldn’t help himself.
Conrad didn’t take the bait. “I’m sure the Norwoods can offer you something.”
Magozzi gave Gino a sharp nudge as they walked into the suite, reminding him to keep it cool. He could be Prince Charming, but he was a brawler at heart—a commendable trait, but one that had to be checked occasionally.
The suite looked more lived-in now, with an array of half-eaten, half-drunk food and wine on the dining-room table. The overall atmosphere was of a wake, which, essentially, it was. The only surprise was Robert Zeller, which explained Conrad guarding the door.
Betty greeted them as politely as before, but she had a little more color in her hollow cheeks and seemed slightly less dolorous. Maybe she’d had some wine. “Thank you for stopping by, Detectives. You’ve met Robert, of course.”
He greeted them cordially but impersonally, like they were constituents at a town-hall meeting. “Detectives. I can’t tell you how much we all appreciate your attentiveness. How are things progressing with Gregory’s case?”
Magozzi turned to Betty Norwood. “We’re investigating your husband’s death as a homicide, ma’am.”
She was silent for a long moment, then nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. I won’t ever believe Gregory took his own life and I’m counting on you to get to the bottom of this.”
“He was murdered?” Zeller asked in disbelief. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“My God. Do you have any leads?”
“We’ve been following up on several things. One was a photo-journalist named Gerald Stenson, who was assaulted on your property this morning, Mrs. Norwood. His body was found in William O’Brien state park th
is afternoon. We wanted to let you know before the media got a hold of the story.”
Her hand fluttered to her mouth. “That’s horrible.”
“I know his name, Detectives.” Zeller’s voice was chilly. “He was a photographer who made regular contributions to a disreputable local paper called the Whisperer. I’ve filed several cease-and-desist orders over the years for libel against the Norwood family. Corey Lefkowitz is the publisher, and he is unequivocally a despicable human being.”
“We spoke with him this afternoon and got the same impression,” Gino said. “Did anything stick in court?”
“No. We all have First Amendment rights, and the Whisperer was clever enough to keep their chicanery within those boundaries. I certainly hope you’re considering him as a person of interest. He is rapacious and, morally, one short step away from causing any kind of calamity he could profit from.”
A door opened and Rosalie appeared, now dressed in workout clothes. Magozzi wondered how many rooms there were in a suite at the Chatham. Hell, maybe one of them was a gym. He would probably never know without a search warrant.
“Do you have any new information, Detectives? Were you able to reach that Malachai or Melchi person?”
Zeller’s unnaturally smooth brow puckered. “Who is Malachai?”
“A private detective.” She took her mother’s hands and squeezed them gently. “Mom, Father believed Trey was murdered. He hired the detective a few months ago to look into it.”
Betty bristled and released her daughter’s hands. “That’s ridiculous. We all know how Trey died and your father wouldn’t do something so foolish.”
“We just spoke with the detective,” Gino said. “He confirmed.”
“Well, he didn’t share this with me. And neither did you, Rosalie. Why on earth not?”
“Father asked me not to say anything. He didn’t want to upset you and neither did I.”
“Did you know about this, Robert?”
