The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset)

by Doug Richardson

“What’s that?” asked the woman’s voice from the bathroom.

  “What’s that girl’s name? Pippa Ellis? Pepper—”

  “Not a clue what you’re saying,” she said.

  Graham sat up in bed, fixed his glasses to his face, but instead of returning his attention to the television, caught a glimpse of himself in the wall-mounted mirror behind the credenza. His curly hair was badly tousled and there were red creases across his face from one of the bed pillows.

  “Pepper Ellis,” said Graham, repeating what he heard again from the television.

  The KTLA morning news team was reporting the presumed death of Pepper Ellis. They had no sources other than the celebrity gossip website, TMZ. So, in essence, the KTLA morning crew was reporting the report. Not exactly journalism. But it was a celebrity story. Rocket fuel had just been injected into the news machine.

  “Who’s Pepper Ellis?” the woman asked as she crossed naked in front of the TV. Her name was Lilly Zoller, and she was carrying a portable blow dryer. Lilly plugged the blow dryer into the outlet nearest the mirror and began blasting hot air through her inky black hair. Through the mirror, she could see what Graham was more interested in—this Pepper-whatever-her-name-is or Lilly’s tool-and-dye-cut rump. Lilly was proud as hell of her thirty-eight-year-old body. She was tanning-booth brown from head to toe with a healthy minimum of body fat.

  And Graham wasn’t looking at her. He was glued to the TV.

  “Did you eat paint chips as a child?” asked Lilly.

  “Did I what?”

  “I asked you who was this Pepper blah blah blah.”

  “Yeah, I heard you. Can I listen to this, please?”

  Lilly turned to face her Department of Justice fuck-buddy, giving him her full frontal best. But Graham barely glanced her way.

  “My baby girl’s gonna be really upset,” said Graham.

  “Your daughter knows this Pepper Whosit?”

  “Ellis. Pepper Ellis. And no. It’s like they’re friends. She just watches her every day on TV.”

  “Okay. She’s on TV. Why should anyone give a shit?” asked Lilly, returning to the mirror and her hair.

  “Cuz she’s dead,” said Graham. “Least that’s what they think. Car accident up north.”

  “Tragic.”

  “Damn straight it is. This is a sweet girl. Has this show on Nick about this girl from the city who—”

  “Nick? Is that a channel?”

  “Nickelodeon. It’s a cable channel for kids.”

  “So this Pepper Lala is pretty famous?”

  “Suppose, yeah.”

  Lilly took her naked body to the bathroom for a brief pee. Her voice echoed as she called out.

  “Was she driving?”

  “They didn’t say. Wait… Holy shit.”

  “Did I ever tell you that your vocabulary is stimulating?”

  “There was a sheriff’s deputy killed, too.”

  “In the accident?”

  “No. They got a source that says there was possible foul play.”

  Lilly returned from the bathroom and began slipping into the clothes she had shown up in. Simple black cocktail dress. Stilettos. From the room phone she connected with the valet and asked for a cab. Next, she would elevator down, slip through the lobby, and take the three-minute cab ride to her downtown loft.

  “What kind of foul play?”

  “They’re not sayin’ it, but yeah. It was murder.”

  “And where’d this happen?” asked Lilly, sounding mildly interested in the story for the first time.

  “Dunno. Where’s Kern County?” asked Graham. He was a visiting New Yorker. What he knew or cared about Southern California could be learned on a postcard.

  “North of here. Bumfuck Bakersfield, then east to Nevada,” said the Los Angeles native. Lilly had little use for any part of the state that didn’t have a Starbucks or Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf within jogging distance. “Some lucky county D.A.’s gonna get himself a—”

  “Or herself.”

  “It’s all Mayberry up that way. No such thing as women D.A.s,” corrected Lilly. “What I was saying is that they may get themselves a celebrity case. National attention. Book deals. It’s lottery time for Harvey Hillbilly, D.A.”

  “Sounds like a TV show.”

  “Exactly,” said Lilly, leaning over and kissing Graham on top of his nappy head. “Regards to the wife and kids.”

  “Do you have to do that?” asked Graham, perturbed.

  “What? Kiss you goodbye?” teased Lilly.

  “You’re a real bitch.”

  “Meaner than I look, too,” winked Lilly from the door. “Next time.”

  Lilly let the door shut behind her. Click-clack. And that fast, she forgot Graham Whatshisname, the Assistant U.S. Attorney from Albany. Maybe he would call her when he next visited their Los Angeles office. Maybe he wouldn’t. Lilly didn’t give a rip. She had had her night of fun, left the married man with a proper tease and the memory of her steely body and what tricks it could do.

  What she couldn’t forget was that name. Pepper Ellis. She was certain she had never heard the name before that moment in the hotel room. And while waiting for the elevator to arrive, the name bounced around in her skull. It couldn’t be a real name. Pepper Ellis. Not even a stage name, for that matter. The name sounded like a made-up name she would have read in her preteen years. Like some young, fictional heroine.

  Another Pepper Ellis Mystery!

  Lilly’s cab was stuck in some poorly-timed rush hour construction traffic. Damn, she wondered. What city idiot ordered this cluster-fuck? If she wasn’t in her stilettos, she would have tossed a ten spot at the cabby and hoofed it home. She fired up her smartphone and, instead of reading through her litany of emails, Googled two words: Pepper Ellis. Up came a Wikipedia page, Nickelodeon links, fan pages, and photos. Pepper Ellis was a pretty little girl. Sure, her Wikipedia page informed readers that she had just turned seventeen, but by the look of most of her images, the child actress could easily have passed for fourteen or fifteen. There were a couple of movie premiere pictures that tried to reveal Pepper’s more mature side, showing her wearing sophisticated dresses and makeup. Immediately, Lilly was reminded of JonBenét Ramsey, the murdered five-year-old beauty contestant from Colorado. The story was a sensation occupying the national zeitgeist for months on end, propelled mostly by photos and video of a little girl dressed and made-up as a showgirl, prancing up and down a pageant runway.

  It’s all about the pictures, Lilly.

  Then there it was again. That tingle of jealousy she had felt back in the hotel room when she was lampooning some imagined country-music-loving D.A. from Kern County. She momentarily regretted following the federal path in the U.S. Attorney’s office. She had once fantasized about prosecuting high profile villains like John Gotti, Ted Kaczynski or Timothy McVeigh.

  No such luck.

  Since September 11, 2001, nearly all terrorist cases came under the auspices of the military tribunal established at Guantanamo Bay. That left the U.S. Attorney’s office’s present caseload chock-full of boring, sexless, faceless corporate criminals and Wall Street con men. What Lilly Zoller wouldn’t have given to try a scandalous murder case.

  But this murder was in Kern County. Far, far away from federal jurisdiction. Yet she was asking herself questions. What was this young actress doing in Kern County? Was she from the area? If not, was she passing through? And if passing through, from where was she driving? Was the crime drug related? Kern County wasn’t too far from the California/Nevada state line. Had drugs crossed the state line? Was Pepper Ellis induced to cross the state line against her will?

  The potential violation of federal statutes began to add up in Lilly’s mind like a grocery list. And if there were such violations, the feds would have the authority to swoop in and big dog the local rabble into taking second position on the headline-making case.

  Lilly speed dialed a number on her smartphone.

  “Owen? It’s Lilly
,” she said on the FBI man’s voicemail. “Want you to pull up everything you can find out on this Pepper Ellis thing. And I mean everything. I’ll be in the office in an hour.”

  Lilly clicked off, then rested her head on the seat back. Despite her excitement at the prospect of striking career pay dirt, she found her eyelids slamming shut in need of a nap.

  “Damn,” she said aloud. “I need a Goddamn quad latte.”

  6

  Long Beach, California.

  Rey Palomino let his eyes rest on the skyline of the Long Beach Harbor. Every time he tried to count the number of ship-to-shore cranes he would get distracted by the intensity of the heat. Damn, he thought. 10:00 A.M. and it’s ninety degrees in Long Beach? The one day he had the opportunity to leave the Valley and come to the harbor was this rarer than rare day devoid of any breezes. Onshore or offshore. Any wind to cool his Guatemalan face would have been as welcome as rain. Instead, he just stood in the blistering sun and waited without seeking cover. This is because Rey wanted to be the very first person Greg Beem saw when rolling his precious cargo into the shipping yard. He didn’t want to risk anybody speaking before him. He didn’t want to risk Beemer’s wrath, about which he had heard plenty from his recently deceased son. Rey had some bad news. Temporary bad news concerning an unforeseen delay. But to some people, bad news is bad news and their reactions could be volatile.

  As a custom pool contractor, delivering news of unforeseen delays came with the territory. Rey couldn’t remember a job that had ended in a timely manner. Part of the game was massaging the clients, explaining why that big hole in their backyard wasn’t yet the inviting, glistening pool of cool water that they had been promised.

  “Yo, Rey Baby!” yelled the yard foreman. “Where’s your dude?”

  Rey pointed at his watch, shrugged and smiled despite the annoying jab. He had been called Rey Baby for as long as he could remember being Heber Palomino’s younger brother. The nickname was designed to remind Rey of his place in the family. Always the child in need of care.

  Just like today, Rey Baby!

  From a macro position, delays in his business could usually be blamed on the client. Usually, homeowners or real estate speculators had blown most of their wad on the house, whether in upgrades or from ground-up construction. Sure, they had always planned for a backyard pool. But by the time they got around to bidding it out to contractors, they were usually looking for low ball bids and the promise of a speedy job. This often led to delays, because for the pool contractors to make a profit, they needed to keep their crews small and the jobs coming. This would always spread Rey thin, leading to missed deadlines and a constant tap dance to keep the clients from suing.

  Only the delay he needed to explain to Beemer had nothing to do with the client and everything to do with his nickname. Rey Baby.

  Most of the roughly two acres the Palomino Shipping Company occupied on the inner harbor was used for storing and processing refrigerated containers. There was a small parking lot for employees fronting West Pier D Street. The extra wide entrance to the lot was used by truckers delivering or retrieving their loads.

  Rey leaned against the rear bumper of his twin cab Toyota pickup, facing the entrance and craving an ice cream cone. Soft serve vanilla. Just one of those mini cones from McDonalds. Only one hundred and fifty calories. A practically guilt-free treat for Rey, a serial dieter. Not that he was obese. Or even fat. Rey just felt he was caught in a constant battle between his beer-sized gut and his bad drive-thru habits.

  The sun was beating on him, and felt as if it had suddenly moved closer to the earth, raising the temperature ten full degrees. And where am I? asked Rey of himself.

  Standing smack under the sun like some dumb-ass cow.

  Rey wondered if his brain was damaged from the heat after thirty years of living and working outdoors, sweat-drained, often dehydrated, and so rarely seeking shade.

  It’s called air conditioning, Rey.

  With that, Rey rotated around to the driver’s side door of his twin cab pickup. The chrome door handle was so hot it stung his fingers, a sharp reminder that he had made a smart decision to seek the coolness of his truck. He keyed the ignition, felt the engine rumble to life, and positioned the air vents to blow at his face. There was an initial blast of hot air, followed by a stream of refreshing cold. He cursed himself for waiting so damn long.

  “So who’s Rey Baby?”

  The voice startled Rey so much that he made an audible whoop. An electric-like jolt ran through him.

  “Jesus,” said Rey.

  Rey’s eyes glimpsed a man in his rearview mirror. Baseball cap and glasses. As he began to swivel.

  “Don’t turn around. Eyes in front.”

  “I’m Rey Palomino,” said Rey, hoping the stranger was the guest he was expecting.

  “I know who you are. You’re Rey Baby.”

  “Can I help you?” asked Rey, trying to peel both the fear and threat from his voice.

  “Why not? Got me a truck and I got a load. Just wanted a look around to see if it’s safe to bring it in.”

  “Are you Greg Beem?” Rey asked.

  “Everybody calls me Beemer.”

  Rey’s shoulders sagged in relief. He exhaled audibly through his mouth.

  “Scared the shit outta me,” said Rey.

  “Don’t ask me to apologize,” said Beemer. “Can’t be too careful.”

  “Danny said you were thorough,” said Rey, purposefully referring to his dead son. Not as much for sympathy but for the mere familiarity. He wanted Beemer to feel safe with him.

  “Danny was a good egg. Got dealt a bad hand. Sorry for your loss.”

  “Appreciate it,” said Rey.

  “So?”

  “Right. So where’s your truck?”

  “Close,” said Beemer. “And you’re ready for it, right?”

  Rey swallowed then slowly turned to face the rear. He always wanted to be eye to eye with the client when he delivered bad news. Rey would concentrate on keeping eye contact to best convey how genuine he was.

  “Told you don’t turn around,” said Beemer. “Got trouble with simple instructions?”

  “No, no. I’m cool.”

  “Now, I asked are you ready for my load?”

  Without the opportunity to look at Beemer directly, Rey felt as if he were delivering the bad news over the phone. A chicken shit move. Rey may have possessed a few passive aggressive tendencies, but chicken shit wasn’t one of them.

  “Listen,” said Rey. “It’s set. Ready to go. All I need is my brother.”

  “So where’s your brother?”

  “Cabo,” said Rey, almost swallowing his answer.

  “Cabo. As in fuckin’ Mexico? Really?”

  “Not my fault. He promised to be here. Double checked with him—”

  “Not your fault?”

  Rey felt a cold gun muzzle against his neck. The seat leather squeaked as Beemer drew nearer, filling the rearview mirror. As he regripped the gun, the tendons on his wrist worked under his skin like piano strings. A small tattoo rippled. Red circle around an “A”. Rey paid it no mind.

  “I made the deal with you or your brother?” asked Beemer.

  “Made it with me,” said Rey.

  “So it would be reasonable for me to expect you to deliver? Yeah?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Shut up,” said Beemer. “I’m sitting on over forty thousand pounds of product. Made a deal with you to get it shipped because your dead son said his dad could get this kinda shit done.”

  “And I can. Tomorrow.”

  “I’m here today.”

  “So am I,” said Rey, bravely. “I’m as pissed as you. It’s my older brother’s shipping business and he said he’d be here to get it done.”

  “In the meantime, what am I supposed to do with my load?”

  “I got a place. All worked out.”

  “Oh you do? Worked out like today was worked out?” Beemer pushed that pistol muzzl
e deeper into Rey’s flesh. He hoped to leave a mark.

  “Not like today. Like I said. I’m here. I’m taking responsibility. I’ve built a plan B to accommodate this bump in the road.”

  “I wanna talk to your brother.”

  “I get it. But he won’t talk to you. That’s his deal with me. That’s his deniability. You call him he’ll leave us both in a twist.”

  “Even if I got a gun to your head?”

  “I’m the little brother. And he doesn’t give a shit.”

  “Rey Baby.”

  “Rey Baby. Yeah. That’s the way it is.”

  “How long?”

  “Twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Tops.”

  Beemer withdrew the weapon, returning to the rear seat. Rey quietly exhaled, but heard the crinkling of paper being unfolded.

  “Mayako,” read Beemer. “Mayako Inoue. Is that her name?”

  It was as if all the saliva in Rey’s mouth evaporated. Bringing up enough spit to wipe his sunglasses would have been impossible.

  “Asked you a question,” said Beemer.

  “May,” spoke Rey. “She likes people to call her that.”

  “Lives with you in Granada Hills,” continued Beemer. “Not married but who cares anymore, right? Works as a surgical nurse at Encino-Tarzana hospital. Parents are Yokira and Shunju. They live in Monterey Park. Mayako has two sisters—”

  “I get it.”

  “The fuck you do. And don’t interrupt me,” said Beemer, his heart rate barely a blip above fifty-eight beats per minute. “Okay. Sisters Sachi and Kinumi, both married, both with children. Got their addresses, their kids’ schools, blah blah blah. Since dear little Danny’s dead, this shit’s where I get my leverage. You get me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So I’m not telling you shit other than this. I’ll be taking me and my load someplace you don’t know about. What time is it?”

  “’Bout 10:40,” Rey answered.

  “There it is, then. Tomorrow. Same time. If your brother’s not ready to ship my container, then somebody you know…”

  Beemer let the threat hang. He didn’t have to sell it. The words sold themselves.

  “I’m with ya,” said Rey, trying like hell to let some of the tension out of the cab. “No worries. And you won’t have to do anything rash. I’ll make it happen.”