He was still in his office and had taken her call.
“Tommy, I’ve got a question.”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Were you at Blue Skies while Danny Whitman was there?”
Tommy had said, “Ahhh. I can’t talk now, Justine. How about dinner?”
She’d had to say okay, and added that Private would pick up the tab.
Now they were at Providence, one of the top restaurants in the country, a modern place, elegant but not sexy. That’s why Justine had chosen it. She wanted Tommy to feel flattered and well treated, without giving him any false signals. He’d hit on her before.
They were at a table in the corner, candlelight flickering, wineglasses in their hands. Providence was known for its fine seafood. Even red-meat lovers agreed that wild salmon with thin shavings of mushrooms could taste far better than steak.
Tommy was having a sirloin and apparently enjoying it. He sat back in his chair and looked at Justine, smiling as he chewed.
Justine sipped her wine, struck once again that Tommy looked exactly like Jack. He had the same dark blond hair and hazel eyes, identical build and posture—but in all the ways that counted, Tommy was precisely Jack’s opposite.
Where Jack was altruistic, Tommy was craven. Where Jack would give a person his full attention and really listen, Tommy would fix his eyes on you and try to manipulate you, find weaknesses to use against you.
He said, “I don’t know how much I can tell you about Danny Whitman. He was a weird little dude. And we weren’t buddies. Why do you want to know?”
“He’s a client.”
“Does Jack know that we’re having dinner?”
“He will when I put in my expense report.”
Tommy laughed, and Justine waited him out. Then she asked again, “Why was Danny Whitman at Blue Skies?”
“Depression, I think. He looked depressed, but he could have been there for other reasons. He saw his shrink and he kept to himself.”
“But you talked with him?”
“Jeez, Justine. We didn’t open up our hearts,” Tommy said. “Celebrities, you know. They keep to themselves if they’ve had enough experience with people selling their stories to the tabs. And now my turn. How is Jack? I haven’t heard anything since he went off to jail.”
“He’s out now.”
“Why do you think he killed Colleen?”
“Come on, Tommy. You know he didn’t kill her.”
“No, Justine, you come on. I think he did it.”
“He had no reason to do it. None.”
“Maybe he just snapped. You don’t know that Jack has a temper? I tell you from firsthand experience, he can throw a punch that cracks your jaw in three places.”
Tommy took off his jacket, made a production of rolling up his right sleeve. He showed Justine an old scar about five inches long, just above his elbow.
“This is from the time he broke my arm,” Tommy said, “over who got to ride in the front seat.”
Tommy was vile. She hated him. She knew to keep her thoughts to herself, but he’d given her an opening, so she took it.
She smiled and said, “I hope that really hurt.”
“Man, you still love the guy.”
Justine signaled to the waiter for the check.
“Anything else I can help you with?” Tommy asked. He was smirking.
“Sure, leave Jack’s clients alone. And confess to the police that you murdered Colleen or that you had her killed.”
“I can’t do that, sweetie. I can’t confess to something I didn’t do, just to make you happy. But I would do a lot of other things to make you happy. How about letting me take you out on what’s referred to as a ‘real date.’ ”
“This was our date, Tommy. First, last, and only.”
CHAPTER 69
I WAS WAITING for Jinx at the bar on the pool deck, having a long, tall Perrier on the rocks. I was enjoying how the sunset was painting pink light on the pool, when she slid into the seat next to mine.
“Hi, Jack. Sorry I’m late. I got stuck at the office.”
“It’s okay. I like it here.”
Jinx smiled. “I’ve heard you’ve been having a rough time in the last few days.”
She smelled sweet, like jasmine. She was wearing midnight blue, a silk tunic, tight pants, gold sandals on adorable feet. Her diamond necklace caught the light.
“Jail is an enriching experience,” I said. “I got to see the other side of the fence. Take it from me, the grass wasn’t greener.”
“You look like you took a beating.”
“Part of the enrichment program.”
I’d meant to get a laugh, but she reached out and touched my bruised jaw. I let her do it.
“I tripped,” I said.
“A bad trip, looks like.”
I smiled at her. She put her elbows on the bar, asked the bartender for a gin and tonic. It was an unguarded gesture, and I saw her through it. She was right there, the woman who had asked for my help because she was being haunted by killings—and because she could lose everything she had.
I said, “We’re working on your case, Jinx, but if you want to take your business elsewhere, I understand. More than that, there’s no charge for the time we’ve clocked.”
“The cops are hopeless,” she said.
“You mean the cops are hopeless too.”
“This time last month, there was standing room only at this bar.”
“We’ll keep working if that’s okay, Jinx. If we don’t get results, you don’t owe us anything.”
“You’re making a compelling case for me to stay with Private.”
Finally she smiled. “I should admit something,” she said. “I like you, Jack.”
I had an awkward moment because I wasn’t sure how to respond. Whatever she was thinking, friendship or more, it wasn’t a good time for me. It was the worst.
“Jinx. Listen, I’m checking out of the hotel in the morning.”
Jinx stiffened at what she took to be a rebuff. She said, “Was everything satisfactory?”
“Yes. I just have to get back to my house. My life.”
“Of course.”
She stood up and said, “Iggy, Mr. Morgan’s drinks are on the house. Jack, I’ve got some calls to make. Stay in touch, okay? And take care of yourself.”
I watched her walk across the deck, and when she was inside, I left the bar and went to my room.
I could list four or five reasons why I didn’t need a romantic complication right now. But there was no reasoning with the strong pull I felt toward Jinx. I wanted to help her as much as I wanted to help myself.
If she’d stayed at the bar for another minute, I would have told her that I liked her too.
CHAPTER 70
CRUZ PARKED THE Mercedes fleet car under the one streetlight on North Western, a seedy block in the heart of Hollywood. Metal security doors had been rolled down over the surrounding storefronts: Quality Market, Lupita’s beauty salon, AAA discount mufflers. Iglesia Cristiana Fuente de Salvación, a church housed in what looked like a former appliance store, was also closed for the night.
Across the street, a yellow neon sign showing a cocktail glass turned on its side and the name Havana marked an otherwise nondescript cinder-block building. Cruz undid his ponytail, finger-combed his hair, replaced the band, then got out and set the car alarm. He straightened his jacket.
The muscle at the club’s door was in his thirties, shaved head, small metal-framed glasses, bulked up. Cruz said, “Buenas noches.”
The bouncer said, “You have a reservation?”
“I’m Emilio Cruz, here to meet a lady called Karen Ricci. She told me she was leaving my name at the door.”
The bouncer looked Cruz over, took a long thirty seconds. He said, “You packing?”
“I’m licensed.”
“Doesn’t matter. No guns.”
Cruz sighed, took his gun out of his shoulder holster, shook out the ammo, and handed the
gun to the bouncer. The bouncer put the gun in a box attached to the top of a pedestal, handed Cruz a ticket with a number, and opened the door.
Cruz entered a vestibule. There was a narrow flight of stairs and he climbed it, thinking about his gun. The stairway opened into a small room featuring one piece of furniture, what looked to be a hand-carved wardrobe, an armoire.
A hostess was standing beside the wardrobe. She was in her late twenties, Hispanic, big brown eyes, very trim, and wearing a tight pink satin dress. Definitely his type. Although she barely looked at him. Most women at least looked.
She opened the wardrobe door, said, “You go through here and then down the stairs.”
Cruz asked, “I go through the closet?”
The woman nodded. “Si.”
Cuban shirts were hanging on the pole, making a curtain.
Cruz pushed the guayaberas aside and saw that the closet was a cleverly concealed doorway that led directly to the top landing of a spiral staircase. Latin music and loud chatter came up from the bar below.
As Cruz headed down, he took in the dark saloon, richly colored in red and gold, and had the feeling of being sent back in time to a Cuban rum bar, circa the 1920s.
Electric-candle chandeliers lit the place with soft, flattering light. Small tables at the perimeter of the room were occupied, but most of the customers were packed around the white-marble-topped bar, the back of it stacked with rum bottles, maybe seventy different brands.
As Cruz reached the bottom step, he saw that behind the bar was a hallway leading to a cigar bar, designed to look like a back alley in Havana.
Just then, raucous applause broke out.
A dancer came onto a small stage, the spotlight right on her, making gold sequins glitter. She tossed her hair and began to move sensually to a Caribbean beat.
Cruz stood at the sidelines, searching the crowd until he saw one woman drinking alone at a table near the fire exit. He worked his way through the mob, and when he got to her table, he said, “Karen Ricci? I’m Emilio Cruz.”
She said, “Have a seat.”
Cruz pulled out a chair and sat down. Karen Ricci was dark haired, a natural beauty wearing no makeup. It took Cruz a moment to realize that she was in a wheelchair.
“You have my package?” she asked.
Cruz opened his jacket so she could see the edge of the envelope peeking out from his inside breast pocket.
He closed his jacket and said, “May I buy you another drink?”
CHAPTER 71
A WAITER CAME over and said to Karen Ricci, “Papa’s daiquiri, as usual?” Karen said yes, and the waiter asked Cruz, “You like rum? I recommend you try the Bad Spaniard.’”
Cruz nodded, and when the waiter left them, Karen said, “There’s a whole egg in that drink.”
Cruz shrugged, put on his bashful smile, and said, “I like eggs. Why’d you pick this place to meet?”
“The guy at the door?”
“The bouncer?”
“He’s my husband,” she said.
All that Cruz knew about Karen Ricci was what his source had told him. She had worked at an escort service called Sensational Dates for the past two years. She took calls from johns, arranged the dates, and charged their credit cards.
A john name of Arthur Valentine had been strangled with a wire at the Seaview hotel back in 2010, the second victim in what would become a string of five murdered hotel guests in three California cities.
Karen Ricci had been questioned about Valentine’s death by the LAPD because she had booked the escort who had given Valentine his last ride.
When Cruz had spoken with Ricci two hours ago, she had agreed to tell him everything she knew about the hotel killings for a thousand dollars cash.
Now Cruz tasted his drink, set the glass down on a napkin, and said, “Okay, Karen. What have you got for me?”
“Something the police don’t know. You’ll get your money’s worth, don’t worry, and I’ll save you some time and trouble. The escort didn’t kill the john.”
“She was a suspect?”
“For a while, yes. One of the last known persons to see the victim, whatever. She said she’d had sex with the guy and they didn’t arrest her. They had no evidence of anything but the date, but they harassed her. She couldn’t work without cops tailing her, scaring off business.”
“So do you know who killed the john, Karen? Because if you do, please cut to the chase.”
“Oh, you think I want a grand for saying the hooker didn’t do it?” The woman laughed, took a slug of her daiquiri. She refilled her glass from the shaker.
“Here’s what I think, Mr. Emilio Cruz. You need to talk to the escort, because she knows something that can help you. It’s what you’re paying for. Her name is Carmelita Gomez. Say you know me.”
Cruz took out the envelope, plucked out two hundred-dollar bills, and passed them under the table as the exotic dancer on the little stage took off her top and shimmied her pasties for the crowd. Cruz leaned closer to Karen Ricci. “You get the rest after I meet this woman.”
“You already did,” Ricci said. She tilted her chin toward the staircase.
“Upstairs? At the closet door?”
“That’s her,” Karen said. “She gets off work at four.”
CHAPTER 72
CRUZ SWALLOWED THE Bad Spaniard, including the egg, and said, “I’ll be back.”
He put a twenty under his empty glass and went up the stairs.
Carmelita Gomez was still standing by the armoire when Cruz came through the curtain of shirts. He did all the talking, telling her that Karen Ricci had said to tell her he was okay. That he needed information for cash. And that he’d be waiting for her outside the club at four a.m.
He gave her his cell phone number and said, “No llegues tarde. Don’t be late.”
Cruz got his gun back from the doorman, then got in the car and headed south.
Del Rio and Scotty were in the surveillance van on South Anderson Street near the corner of Artemus. Cruz parked, slapped the van’s door, got in the back.
Cruz briefed the guys on Carmelita Gomez, and they told him that a whole lot of nothing had happened to the thirty million in drugs stolen from the Mob. That the West Coast boss, Carmine Noccia, was paying for the surveillance but was cracking his knuckles and grinding his teeth, making phone calls to Jack, getting crazy.
Del Rio said, “What I think is that this warehouse is a safe house. They’ll move the van when they have a delivery secured. Or else the warehouse has become a drugstore. Those pills could be leaving here a few bottles at a time.”
Cruz let Del Rio and Scotty sleep, took a shift watching the warehouse. He, Scotty, Del Rio, and Justine were working their major cases while Jack spent all day and all night trying to get his ass out of the bad case against him.
Cruz would be happier when Jack was free, when he was back working with them, and he hoped it would happen before the top guys at Private burned out.
Cruz shook Del Rio awake at 3:35 and got back into his fleet car. At four on the nose, he parked again on North Western under the light, across the street from the sign reading Havana.
The street was emptier and more desolate than it had been six hours before, except for a bunch of rowdies having after-drinks fast food at the Tacos El Patio.
Cruz was thinking maybe he’d go in there and use the bathroom, when the door to Havana opened and a woman in jeans, black cardigan, and black Converse lace-ups came out to the street. He flashed his headlights, and Carmelita Gomez crossed to the car. She glanced up and down the street as she slipped in the passenger side and closed the door.
CHAPTER 73
CARMELITA GOMEZ SMELLED like flowers and cigar smoke. She turned her dark eyes on Cruz. It was like looking at the business end of a couple of nines.
“Karen just told me you wanted to talk about that dead john last year. She’s got a big mouth,” Carmelita said.
“You told her about it, right?”
&nbs
p; “The guy was dead. I’m the last one who partied with him. Cops wanted to know. Everyone wanted to know.”
“And now I want to know, but I’m paying for the information. I’ll keep you out of it.”
“Give me the money first.”
“That’s not how it works,” Cruz replied.
The girl opened the door and had one sneakered foot on the pavement when Cruz said, “Wait.”
She got back in and looked at him, not saying anything.
“Here’s three hundred,” Cruz said. “With the two I gave your friend, that’s a total of five hundred. Half down. Now, Carmelita, you have to talk if you want the rest.”
The girl put the money inside the neckline of her top and said, “The killer is a limo driver. He drives the girls to their dates. Then he comes back and kills the johns.”
“Do you think that? Or know that?”
“When I was at Sensational Dates, I was friends with one of the drivers.”
“Name?”
“Joe Blow.”
Cruz’s hand moved fast, like a snake, to the girl’s neckline. He had his hand on the money when she grabbed his wrist and said, “It doesn’t matter what is his name. He’s dead, okay? He OD’d.”
Cruz pulled out the rest of the money, held it in front of her eyes.
Carmelita sighed.
“These drivers. They are a bad group. Ex-cons. Illegals. They make their own hours. Many times, they use their own cars. When the calls go out for a driver to take an escort somewhere, they hear over the radio where the girls are going and they choose the jobs they take.”
“I need a name.”
“The driver who took me to the Seaview the night Arthur Valentine was killed? He was a guy called Billy Moufan. He and I told each other our secrets.”
“For instance.”
“Billy told me one of our drivers had killed the john at the Moon. He didn’t name the name. Just said to be careful.
“Then my date was found dead. Later, Billy OD’d. I didn’t tell the police anything. They don’t protect party girls, you understand? Maybe Billy OD’d. Maybe someone did it to him. All I know is what Billy told me. The killer was a driver who worked for Sensational Dates in the summer of 2010. Did you know that? No. If you are a good detective, maybe you can find this driver.”
Private: #1 Suspect Page 13
