Cruz sat up straight in his seat, grabbed the car phone, and called Jack.
“Jack, it’s Cruz. They’ve got a girl in there. We’re going in.”
Chapter 37
CRUZ AND DEL RIO bolted from the fleet car, ran like hell to the parking lot on the same side of the street, then along the sidewalk fronting the hotel, which was littered with runners and ladies with strollers and bike riders. They took the front steps two at a time and arrived in the lobby of Shutters on the Beach, breathless.
Cruz flashed his badge at the desk clerk, a thin young man with a beaky nose and glasses and a look on his face like a mouse had run up his leg.
Cruz said, “A crime is being committed in a third-floor unit, northwest corner.”
“What crime? How do you know that? Are you the police?”
Del Rio snarled, “Where’re the stairs, dimwit?”
Cruz and Del Rio ran up two flights, pushed open the fire door on the third floor, and sprinted to the room at the end of the hallway.
Del Rio banged on the door, banged on it again, Cruz shouting, “Open up. Do it now.”
The door opened, and Gozan Remari, fully clothed in a white shirt, tails out over blue dress pants, said, “What is this? What is going on?”
Cruz said, “Stand aside, sir. We have to check the premises.”
Remari said, “Be my guest.”
Cruz and Del Rio shoved past Remari and entered the homey suite. They found the woman in the room-service outfit standing by the table at the far end of the room. She looked confused but was still in her blue uniform, her hair neat and held back in a headband. She was apparently unharmed.
She was saying, “I didn’t do anything. What did I do?”
Cruz said, “We’re private investigators and these men are sexual predators. Are you all right?”
“Oh my God. No. Yes. I’m fine.”
Khezir came in from the other room. He was scowling, said, “What’s going on here?”
Del Rio said to the young woman, “Did anyone put a hand on you?”
“No. Like I said, I’m fine.”
“You should go,” said Del Rio. “Get out of here, now.”
The young woman scurried out of the room, and Cruz said to the Sumaris, “We know who you are. We know what you’re doing.”
“Oh, mind readers,” Gozan said with a laugh. “And who are you again? Secret police?”
“Watch yourself,” said Del Rio.
“You watch yourself,” Khezir said, rolling up his sleeves. “You are clowns. You need red noses and big shoes. You want to make my day?”
Cruz stepped in front of Del Rio, took a picture of the men with his phone, and said, “Your faces are going out to every hotel in LA. After today, you’re going to be sleeping in your car.”
Gozan was on the phone, “Suite three W. I need security. Immediately.”
Del Rio and Cruz took the fire stairs down.
“I don’t know. I don’t think that went so well,” said Del Rio.
“We got the girl out of the room.”
“There’ll be another one,” said Del Rio.
Chapter 38
SANDRA STOOD BESIDE the enormous bed watching the neon lights outside her windows fling spangles of color onto the white bedding. She wore her husband’s dress shirt, unbuttoned all the way, showing off her large, natural breasts and her small black thong.
She said, “Harry?”
Her husband wasn’t paying attention.
Actually, he wasn’t breathing, but his skin was still warm, almost as if he were still alive.
Sandra gave his arm a little shake, then went to the vast marble-tiled master bath and got into the shower. She let the jet spray beat down on her for several minutes as she thought about how she’d distracted Harry all day long, keeping him too busy to think about food. When he went into hypoglycemic shock, she just closed the door and let him drift away.
Not a bad death, really. Not at all.
She lathered her hair with a fragrant spa shampoo, followed up with a special rinse that made her dark mane bounce and reflect light. She toweled off with yards of Egyptian cotton, then stepped out of the stall and stood naked in front of the full-length mirror.
“Okay, Sandy. Okay, now,” she said to herself. She looked really good. She twisted her body a little so she could see the elegant line of her back, her perfect ass, how long her legs looked from behind. Then she blew out her hair and returned to the bedroom.
Turning her back on Harold Wiggens III, deceased heir to the Wiggens Cough Syrup fortune, Sandra pulled on some underthings and a small, clingy white dress.
Then she sat down on the edge of the bed, put on jeweled sandals. She said to the dead man, “Harry, I’m sorry. We had a good time, didn’t we? I’m as sorry as I can be.”
She lifted his eyelids, one at a time, then picked up the no-name mobile phone and punched in a number she knew by heart. After two rings, Lester answered and said her name.
“Yes. It’s me. It’s done.”
“How are you doing?”
“I’m okay. So far.”
“You should call the police.”
“Right after we hang up.”
“I’ll call you later.”
“No. I’ll call you.”
“Sandra?”
“Don’t worry, Les. I’ll call you.”
The newly minted widow closed the phone and mentally rehearsed what she was going to say.
I thought Harry was sleeping. When I tried to wake him up, he was—dead. He was diabetic. I don’t know what went wrong.
Sandra picked up the landline and called 911. As she waited for the operator to answer, she put her hand over her heart, which was just going crazy. She could hardly believe it was almost over.
Without a doubt, this was the most exciting day of her life.
Chapter 39
WAITERS ON SKATES whizzed by me as I stood in the shadows at the entrance of the Socket. Enormous cogs and gears from the original bulb factory had been burnished and highlighted to terrific effect. Iron pillars punctuated the concrete floor, and hundred-year-old light fixtures, tracks, and pulleys hung overhead.
It was still early, about seven p.m., and the smartly dressed, twenty- to thirty-something after-work crowd were filling the club, cozying up to the Line, a forty-inch-long bar topped with a steel-and-leather conveyor belt in the center of the floor.
Groups and couples, laughing and carrying on, gathered in the comfy conversation pits around the perimeter, and one young woman with a flashing tiara was having a birthday.
Tonight’s music was swing, and it seemed to me that the boozy sound of the old instrumentals was putting the customers in a very nice mood.
I looked for Tommy but didn’t see him on the floor, so I moved to the bar for a better view. A wannabe-actor barkeep came over with a smile and a frothy white drink, put it down in front of me.
He said, “The game starts in a minute, Tommy—actually, I think it just started.”
I was an accidental clubber passing as my brother, and I had not been briefed on the game.
I sipped the drink, which looked like milk. It was, in fact, milk.
I said, “Well, I’ll be a little late.”
The bartender said, “Izzy asked after you, went down ten minutes ago. And there goes Billion-Dollar Bill. I hear he lightened your wallet the other night.”
I swiveled on the stool, saw a guy in a pale herringbone sports coat and a good haircut heading toward the wide down-going staircase at the back of the room.
I put a twenty on the bar, said, “I guess I’ll follow the money.”
The bartender wished me luck, and, keeping the herringbone jacket in view, I went down the cantilevered, concrete slab stairs to the basement. The lower level was a dance floor set up for a DJ who hadn’t yet arrived, but recorded music pounded, and the crowd was getting thick, dancing in place, drinking steadily.
I tagged behind Bill, and when we came to a green door
at the rear wall marked Shipping, Mr. Bill turned and clapped me on the back.
“No kidding,” he shouted over the music. “Good to see you, Tom. I was hoping you’d try to get your money back.”
“I don’t scare off easily,” I said.
I didn’t know what was behind the green door and I had no plan. But, hey, I’m a pilot. I was going to have to wing it.
Chapter 40
A CARD GAME was in progress in the soundproofed room behind the green door. Two goons with crossed arms and bulging biceps stood just inside the entrance.
To my left, ten players sat in high leather chairs around the oblong green felt table. The players were old and young, snappily dressed and sloppily, male and female. They all looked bored, but I was sure that they were anything but. From the height and number of the stacks of chips, the stakes were very high.
The dealer wore a red-velvet vest over his starched white shirt and had a perfect black bow tie. He was sliding cards from the shoe, snapping them down in front of the players. He looked up when I came in, did a double take when he saw me. Then he shifted his hard gaze across the table to a player with his back to the door.
That player was Tommy. A pile of chips was at his left hand and he was turning over his cards with his right. A girl with short platinum hair in a skintight black dress was draped across Tommy’s shoulders like a sweater. She wore a rope of pearls turned to the back so that the long loop of them fell almost to her waist.
The dealer said to my brother, “Who’s this, Mr. Morgan?” He angled his chin toward me.
Tommy turned, saw me, and jerked his chair around. His eyes narrowed and he said, “You need something, Jack?”
The platinum-haired girl was pretty, twenty-one or so. She looked up at my face and said, “Wow.” I took this to mean that she thought she was seeing double.
“I’m Jack,” I said to her. “Tommy’s brother.”
“I’m Isabella. Izzy. Tommy’s girlfriend.” She stuck out her hand and we shook. “Nice to meet you.”
Tommy looked at his cards, folded, said to me, “Let’s take this outside, huh, Jack?”
“Nice to meet you too, Izzy,” I said. “Tommy didn’t mention that he had a twin?”
“Nuh-uh. No. I don’t know if I could tell you apart.”
“Even Mom couldn’t do that. You know, of course, that Tom is married. Has a lovely wife and a wonderful boy. Lives in Hancock Park under a big mortgage. And he’s a degenerate gambler. Maybe you know that.”
Tommy shouted, “Hey.”
Izzy said, “That’s not true. You’re not married. Are you, Tommy?”
“Okay, wise guy. Let’s cut it right here.” Tommy stood up to his full six one, same height as me.
“I wouldn’t get mixed up with him, Izzy,” I said. “He’s a liar and a cheat. And those are his good qualities.”
Tommy had shaken her off, was standing with his fists clenched, and his face was clenched too. He wanted to hit me, and I wanted him to go ahead and try. He telegraphed a roundhouse punch, which I blocked; I teed up one of my own, and as my brother pulled back, I grazed his chin.
We’d been fighting for some thirty-five years and neither of us had any moves the other didn’t know.
Still, Tommy was thrown off balance. He staggered back against the table, and players vacated their chairs. Drinks spilled. A woman screamed, and doormen inserted themselves between me and Tommy.
I said, “This is a warning, Junior. You come into my place and mess with me, I’m going to return the favor.”
Tommy was shouting over the bouncers, “You pea brain. You ass-wipe.”
“There’s no problem, gentlemen,” I said to the two guys with the bulging biceps and the buttons popping off their shirts. I held up the palms of my hands to say, I’m not a problem. I’m not going to get physical.
I backed away, still with my hands showing, then turned and left the club by the fire door, setting off the alarm for a memorable and satisfying exit.
A minute later, I was outside, crossing the street. I got into my loaner and turned on my phone. Yep, there was the GPS signal showing me the precise location of Tommy’s car.
All things considered, it had been a good night’s work. And it wasn’t over yet.
Chapter 41
JUSTINE SAID GOOD night to her date and waved as he drove up Wetherly and then rounded the corner at the end of her block. She stood in her driveway for another moment, watching taillights and fireflies, thinking about the evening, the temptation, and the many reasons why she should stop this while she still could.
Then she walked up the flagstone path to her darling little cottage in the flats, cute and low maintenance, protected by neighbors on all sides, perfect for a single working woman with a dog and a cat.
Her house was simple and uncluttered. She wished she could say the same for her mind.
Justine punched in the alarm code and opened the door, and her dog, Rocky, bolted out, jumping and generally making a fool of himself. She returned the joyous greeting, then led Rocky through to the rear of the house, and let him out into the backyard.
She was in her updated 1930s kitchen preparing dinner for Rocky and a purring, rubbing, lip-smacking Nefertiti when the phone rang.
Justine said to Nefertiti, “This better not be work. I am done for the day.”
It was her mother, Evangeline Pogue, calling from her sailboat somewhere off Tortuga. Justine pictured Vangy in her shorts and halter top, drink in hand, sitting cross-legged on the bowsprit under the night sky, her third husband down in the galley.
Vangy said, “Justine, I’ve called and called.” When it came to her only child, Vangy had high anxiety.
“I was out, Mom. Haven’t even kicked off my shoes.” She did that now, then put Rocky’s and Nefertiti’s food on the floor, went to the sitting room, threw herself into her favorite chair, and put her feet up on the hassock.
“Is everything all right?” Vangy asked.
Justine sighed. “Jack’s car was set on fire.”
“Oh Lord. Is Jack…?”
“He’s fine, Mom. We were inside the house when it started. I’m trying to find out who did it.”
“So, you and Jack? Thanks, Bernard. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Sound of Mom sipping something through a straw. “Sorry, darling. What were you saying about Jack?”
“I love him, Mom. I’m not going to lie. But it’s the same stuff, different day. I’ve started seeing someone else.”
“You are? You can do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he married, Justine?”
“No, Mom, no. So, how are you and Bernard? What’s the plan for the next couple of months? Any chance of coming out to the coast?”
“Oh gosh, sweetie. We go where the winds blow us. And right now, my dear hubby-dub is serving dessert in the aft. Will you promise to take care?”
“You bet, Mom. Don’t worry about me. All is well.”
That was a lie.
She loved Jack, but her heart was in play, which was uncomfortable and weird. She said good-bye to Vangy and as soon as she disconnected the line, the phone rang again.
It was Jack.
“I’m home. Do you want to come over to my place? I’d like you to,” he said.
It was too much.
“Oh, not tonight, Jack. I was just dozing off. Sorry, honey.”
She hung up before she weakened. She cupped her face in her hands and shook her head. She wasn’t made for double-deal dating, not for long. It just was too confusing, hurt too much, made her feel too bad.
She was going to have to make a decision before she went crazy.
Chapter 42
TULE SAT ON the floor of the large closet, way in the back, heaps of high-heeled shoes around her, her knees folded up to her chest.
She held the cell phone close to her face and made her call to Lester Olsen at his office in Vegas.
“Please answer,” she said to her bare f
eet. “Please answer the phone.”
A man’s voice said, “Hello, Tule?”
She said, “Oh boy, I’m glad you answered. I’m having a panic attack.”
“What’s going on?” Lester had a very soothing voice.
“I’m scared,” she said. “He’s very big. He’s very angry.”
“Angry at you?”
“Sometimes at me. Sometimes he’s angry at one of his kids. Sometimes he’s angry at the football scores. Could be anything. He likes to be mad.”
“When he’s angry at you, what does he say?”
“Like now, I said, ‘I had another dream about you.’ Just like you and I talked about, you know? And he said, ‘What are you trying to do to me, Tule? You warning me or something? Don’t you know I can break your neck with one hand?’”
“Aw, jeez. What did you say to that?”
“I said, ‘Oh, baby, you don’t mean that.’ And then I scampered away. He threw a cup at me. Missed. Hit the wall, though.”
“Does he hit you, Tule?”
“No. Not really.”
“Do you want to get out?”
“Maybe. No. No, this is my chance. I just needed to talk to you.”
“I’m here, sweetie. I’m just glad you’re okay. On a positive note, he’s doing what you want him to do.”
“Meaning what?” she asked. Then she whispered, “Wait. I hear him.”
She listened to his footsteps on the teak floors, heard him call her. “Tuuuuule. Tuuuuuuule. Where are you, baby?”
She was breathing with her mouth open, staring at a pair of chartreuse stilettos by the light of her phone. After a minute, she said, “You still there?”
“Of course. What’s happening?”
“He’s gone now,” she said. “Big house, you know. Lotta, lotta rooms. You were saying?”
“I was saying, his ticker is a time bomb. Keep doing what you’re doing. But if you get afraid, Tule, get out. Or at least, dial it back for a couple of days.”
Private Vegas: (Private 9) Page 9
