“What don’t I know?” pushed Gonzo.
“S’okay?” asked the big man. Lucky nodded. Sergeant Bledsoe put a gargantuan hand on Lucky’s shoulder, squeezed with affection, then approached Gonzo. He gently offered an ushering hand, leading Gonzo from the gas pumps to a corner near a line of unoccupied sheriffs’ cruisers parked bumper to bumper.
“Awright,” said Bledsoe. “You’re sorta right. He’s a Kern County detective. But he used to be here. With us at Lennox.”
“Okay, I get it,” said Gonzo. “So what’s the big deal?”
“Deputy that was murdered this mornin’? Was Lucky’s little brother, Tony.”
It’s true that cops feel more for other cops than they do citizens. They are brothers in arms. Sheriffs or police, when an officer goes down, cops take that stuff personally. Family, though, is altogether different. Lucky had said he was close to the murdered deputy. Just not how close.
Hearing that it was Lucky’s little brother who had been executed only hours earlier left Gonzo with a wisp of cold at the back of her neck. She felt the short hairs on the base of her scalp go wet as if ice was dripping down her spine.
Damn, girl.
“’Kay,” said Gonzo. “I get what this is about.”
“Not sure you do. Or even I do, for that matter,” said Bledsoe. “Unless you’ve had a brother or sister murdered like that.”
“You’re right and I’m sorry,” said Gonzo. “All my boss told me was there was this sheriff’s deputy on his way down from Kern. Please give him an LAPD ‘in’ any way you can.”
“Copy that. But as you can see, Luck’s got plenty of assist from his Lennox brothers.”
“Fine by me,” said Gonzo, feeling dismissed. She could tell she wasn’t wanted. And maybe not needed. “All I need is the ay-okay from my super and a ride back to Pasadena and I’m all good.”
“See what I can do,” said Bledsoe.
While Gonzo watched Bledsoe return to Lucky and his brothers in arms, she pressed the last number dialed on her mobile phone.
“Yeah. It’s Gonzo. Mitch get back yet?” said Gonzo, referring to her immediate supervisor, Mitchell Blunt of the Community Relations Office—or C.R.O.—of the LAPD.
“Gonzo,” popped Mitchell’s voice, the volume suddenly intensified. “Where are you?”
“Lennox Station.”
“Sheriffs?”
“The very same.”
“What’s going on down there?”
“Some kinda reunion,” said Gonzo. “I’ll explain—”
“L.A. Sheriffs know about the FBI?”
“What about ’em?”
“Just came across. Think the feds may be looking for the same black big rig.”
Gonzo listened to the rest, remaining visibly stoic while scrawling mental notes. She tabled her initial agenda to ask permission to turn over her chaperone duties to Los Angeles Sheriffs, then stuffed the phone into the front pocket of her skintight jeans. As she re-approached the county quartet, she silently rehearsed what she was going to say next. She decided to go with the tried and true.
“So whaddayou wanna hear?” Gonzo began. “The good news or the bad news?”
It was Bledsoe who was first to cop a changed attitude. The helpful friend-of-the-bereaved act dropped to reveal a hulking man, willing to resign his words in exchange for the easy intimidation of his size. Especially against a woman. Bledsoe’s barrel chest flexed above his even more impressive belly. Gonzo was already preparing to retreat a defensive step when Lucky hooked Bledsoe’s arm.
“Wanna hear it,” said Lucky.
“We had an agreement that she was gonna step off,” said Bledsoe.
“The good news,” said Lucky, ignoring his beefy pal.
“You mind?” said Gonzo, her eyes unwavering from Bledsoe’s until he backed off. As tall and broad shouldered as Gonzo was, it still didn’t seem to forestall badge-heavy males from muscling up on her. A few of those alpha males had crossed that delicate line, only to find themselves on their butts looking up at Gonzo from the ground. In those moments, she was grateful for all her martial arts instructors. From those who had trained her in Tae Kwon Do as a child to her present sensei, Lujan, a specialist in Krav Maga, the Israeli military’s form of hand-to-hand combat.
The way Gonzo framed it, big ol’ Bledsoe had just dodged an embarrassing bullet.
“The good news,” repeated Gonzo. “FBI appears to be looking for your big rig. Thinks they got tags, too.”
“What’s the FBI want with the rig?” asked Lucky.
“Something about a burglary in Reno. Biological materials. Crossing state lines.”
“Biological?” asked Lopes. “Like terrorist shit?”
“Blood products,” said Gonzo. “Thus the refrigerated truck. Stolen truck, by the way.”
“What’s anybody want a truckload of blood for?”
Lucky shook his head. The muscles in his jaw tightened, creating dimples in his unshaven cheeks.
“Bad news?” Lucky asked.
“Right,” said Gonzo. “Since your boss requested assistance from LAPD…my orders are to stick with you while outside your jurisdiction.”
“Told you Luck had all the help he needed.” Bledsoe puffed out that ridiculous chest of his.
“Not my call,” shrugged Gonzo.
“Whatever,” said Lucky, a weird calmness governing his voice. “Just don’t get in the way, yeah?”
“Get in the way of what?” asked Gonzo. “FBI’s on the job. Next move is to hook up with them.”
“The FBI?” said Lucky. “They can suck my white dick.”
TMZ began as an acronym for the Thirty Mile Zone. The origins of the term can be traced back to Hollywood in the 1960s. If a production was to film beyond thirty miles from its respective studio, the various talent unions—primarily the Screen Actors Guild—categorized the shoot as on location and thus required per diems plus other travel and/or overnight expenses be paid to their various members.
But there’s another meaning.
Predating even the invention of the Thirty Mile Zone, Hollywood had another old saying.
It’s not adultery if you’re on location.
Whoever started that line should have copyrighted it and collected royalties. In the sixties when the unions outlined the Thirty Mile Zone—or TMZ—serial cheaters began using the cipher as a shorthand excuse for their transgressions.
“So aren’t you worried your wife’s gonna find out that you had an affair with that actress?”
“What affair? We were TMZ in Santa Barbara.”
In 2005, TMZ.com debuted, taking its name from the obvious sleaze Hollywood had come to associate with the old union acronym. What began as just another celebrity gossip site—albeit financed by media stalwarts Warner Brothers/AOL, Inc.—soon blew up to rival the National Enquirer for dominance in tabloid fodder. Add to that the emergence of streaming cell phone picture and video technology, TMZ distributed an up-to-the-moment product unrivaled by its competitors. From Mel Gibson’s racial rants to Lindsay Lohan’s indiscretion-of-the-week to Michael Jackson’s untimely death, TMZ was first and fastest to deliver the dirt.
On that Monday morning in August, TMZ churned out a new headline every hour:
NICKELODEON STAR PEPPER ELLIS IN CAR ACCIDENT!
PEPPER ELLIS KILLED IN CAR WRECK!
PEPPER’S NICK CASTMATES IN SHOCK!
BOYFRIEND BEHIND THE WHEEL OF PEPPER’S CAR!
GRISLY ACCIDENT PICS: PE’S BODY AND BOYFRIEND BURNED!
IT WAS MURDER! PEPPER’S DEATH LISTED AS HOMICIDE!
“Holy crap. There’s already video of Pepper gambling in South Lake!”
Jenna Mantz let her fingernails tap the top of the plastic mouse. Fifteen taps and then a click on the refresh button. The computer screen briefly flashed, then reloaded the TMZ.com home page.
“Thought she was just seventeen,” said Dulaney Little, his short legs crossed, sports coat unbuttoned, and arms stretching out eac
h way across the top of the sofa. Dulaney may have been small in stature and slightly overweight, but he insisted on taking up the space of a big man.
“Seventeen, yeah. But celebrities, you know?”
“What don’t I know? She’s seventeen. You gotta be twenty-one to gamble. And casinos don’t wanna lose their license.”
“It’s on TMZ,” pointed out Jenna. “Pepper is with her boyfriend, throwing dice at a craps table.”
TMZ’s most recent boffo post was video stolen by a Harrah’s Casino insider, emailed to TMZ in the flick of an eyelash, and uploaded with a headline within minutes of the act. The video was grainy, but in color, collected from a ceiling-mounted security camera. It showed the diminutive, seventeen-year-old Pepper Ellis in a virginal white cocktail dress, tossing dice amidst a crowd of gambling admirers. Next to Pepper was her much taller boyfriend costumed in slacker T-shirt and jeans.
“Lookit that douchebag boyfriend,” said Jenna. “She’s dressed like she’s all that—and he’s like he doesn’t give a shit.”
“Who’s gambling. Him or her?”
“Suppose he is. And he was twenty-one, too. But is she allowed to touch the dice?”
“Dunno,” said Dulaney. “Not up on my Nevada gaming laws.”
“You really never heard of her before?”
“Nope. Never.”
“God. And you’re not even that old.”
“Thanks, Jen,” said Dulaney, with a slightly feigned indifference.
“Well you don’t look that old, I mean.”
“Cuz I’m black.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know you didn’t,” said Dulaney. “A lotta black people with extra dark skin look younger than they are.”
“So you’re saying you’re older.”
“I’m forty-five,” said Dulaney.
“You are not.”
“Why would I lie about being older?”
“Good point,” said Jenna. “Damn, Dulaney. You’re a sexy old man.”
For Jenna, the flirt was on and Dulaney knew it. But the married FBI man with four children couldn’t see himself crossing the fidelity line with his boss’s twenty-six-year-old assistant. Not that Jenna wasn’t attractive. The petite brunette was a bona fide former Laker Girl who hadn’t lost a step. After hours or when the boss wasn’t around, Jenna had been known to demonstrate gymnastic flips down the U.S. Attorney’s office corridors on little more than a dare. Very flexible, thought Dulaney—along with every other heterosexual male who might happen upon the twelfth floor of the Spring Street U.S. Courthouse.
“Alright, Dulaney,” said Lilly Zoller, returning from the ladies room. She was still drying her hands on a paper towel that she left balled up atop Jenna’s desk. “Where were we?”
“The murder,” said Dulaney, on his feet and fully engaged the moment Lilly stepped back in.
“Triple murder,” reminded Lilly, leading the way back into her austere office. Over a simple monochrome couch were frameless black and white art photos in a uniform row. Opposite was giant white board with cases listed, numbered, and divided by colored marker. Between was an uncluttered government-issued desk backed up against a tinted, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the famed downtown four-level freeway interchange.
“Okay. Three murders,” continued Dulaney, who took up his former pose on Lilly’s office sofa. He left the door open. “Three murders in Kern County. Not federal jurisdiction.”
“We already established that the big rig was carrying stolen goods from Nevada. The murders were committed while in the act of breaking federal law.”
“Getting a little reverb from both local and the home office.”
“Screw local. So what’s the issue with your boys?”
“You know. Optics.”
“How it looks?”
“Celebrity case. They think you might be bending jurisdiction to make a coupla headlines.”
“As if all the bureau does is chase terrorists? Puh-lease.” Lilly dropped into a blue leather desk chair with a back so high it framed her entire head like the ridiculous collars of a Lewis Carroll queen.
“How it looks. Just sayin’.”
“Stolen biological materials crossing state lines? Sounds like a homeland security issue to me.”
“Blood products.”
“What for?”
“For a party with all his vampire friends. What do I know?” said Dulaney, his blood pressure slightly rising. “We got the make on the truck, the rental company, the perp’s picture and ID—albeit probably an alias and a disguise—and we’ve released the info to all local agencies.”
“And?” Lilly asked, expectant.
“And what else is the bureau supposed to do?”
Lilly opened the top desk drawer, slipped her finger under the top panel, and pressed a button. Magically, the door to her office slowly swung shut with a soft, but distinct click. Oh, Lilly loved the button. She’d discovered it after having moved into the office reluctantly after losing the political battle for the much larger suite at the northeast corner of the floor. The button was remotely connected to an electromagnet mounted as a doorstop. When activated, the electromagnet held tight to a strip of metal screwed to the bottom of the door. The button in Lilly’s desk drawer merely turned off the connection, releasing the door which, powered by a piston-driven mechanism, would shut in a ghostly manner.
“Question for you, Agent Little,” said Lilly.
“Sure.”
“You like your job?”
“Twenty years in. I better like it.”
“I’ll rephrase,” continued Lilly. “Do you like your assignment with the U.S. Attorney’s office in Los Angeles? Flexible hours? Comfy office? No real shoe leather? Hardly ever have to pick up a lunch tab or cocktails because everybody you encounter’s either a judge or a lawyer and they figure with a government salary and all those kids, you couldn’t possibly afford—”
“I get it,” Dulaney interrupted.
“Rhetorical question. No need to answer.”
“What do you need, Lilly?” asked Dulaney.
“Love when a man asks me that,” giggled Lilly. She stepped around from behind her desk, smoothing out the creases in her navy pencil skirt. “Need you to leak something to one of your blogger pals. The unsub in the Kern murders is suspected in the theft of a large truckload of biological materials. Get it out there with the video of him renting the eighteen wheeler. See what comes back.”
“We say ‘biological,’ everybody else is gonna say ‘terrorist.’ DC’s gonna want to know why we leaked to some blogger before we talked to them.”
“DC’s a twenty-four hour turnaround. By the time they wanna know more, we’ll have our unsub.”
“You’re gambling.”
“Hell, yeah,” said Lilly, her mouth spreading into a grin that appeared more sexual than satisfied. It was her eyes, though, that gave her away. At the mere mention of the word gambling, Dulaney clocked the widening of Lilly’s eyes and a slight dilation of her pupils. It was a classic addict’s response to a simple stimulus. Lilly’s secret groove wasn’t narcotic or alcohol. She was hooked on a chemical produced beneath her own devilish skin. Dopamine. Possibly the most dangerous drug on the planet, producing a pleasurable feeling that is often associated with risk.
Dulaney didn’t say goodbye to Jenna Mantz. He stepped from Lilly’s office, left the door open, strode the three quick steps by the assistant’s desk and vanished into the main corridor. All Jenna caught of Dulaney was a flash of his hard-set jaw as he smoked past her. He must have been pissed off, Jenna decided. Not that it surprised her any. Lilly was known to have that kind of effect on colleagues, underlings, and even her bosses. Jenna would forever remember the day she had interviewed for the job. Lilly was at her desk, elbows propped and fingers interlaced as if in prayer. Then without blinking, she’d stated her management philosophy:“There’s three ways to do something around here. The right way. The wrong way. And my way.”
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It wasn’t the first, nor the second time Jenna had heard the instruction-slash-witticism. The first time was out of the mouth of her stepfather. The second time was during a weigh-in with her Laker-Girl-director-cum-squad-mum. And Jenna had hated both of them.
10
Long Beach.
“I’ll hold for him, okay?” said Rey to his brother’s office assistant. “Got nothin’ else to do but wait.”
Rey pulled the Bluetooth earbud from his ear, shook off the sweat that had collected on the tiny speaker, then placed it in his other ear. Ah, yes. He could hear the ghastly elevator music far better without the gurgling of moisture between his ear drum and the connection to the Palomino Shipping Company.
To the limp beat of a Muzak version of Every Little Thing She Does is Magic, Rey dug his right heel into a patch of dry earth and began redrawing the outline of the pool he would build next. Yes, there was a schematic already drawn and engineered by another pool company who, unfortunately for the homeowner, pretty much doubled their initial construction estimate after completing the design. The annoyed homeowner fired the pool company but kept the plans and shopped for lower bids. As usual, Rey’s bid was the lowest and offered the most. Plus the clients were really charmed by the former car mechanic turned pool artiste. Rey was a true raconteur full of adventurous stories from putting out oil fires in Kuwait to racing Porsches from Santa Barbara to Monterey.
Rey stopped sketching in the dirt, took a few steps back to measure the shape with his eye, erased twenty feet of his heel trail, and began to redraw the lines. The pool he pictured was a good bit larger than the plans called for and would cost the client more than his original bid. Some would call this tactic a bait and switch. Rey didn’t look at it that way. He was improving on the design and delivering the homeowner a far more spectacular product than had been imagined. Usually this would require a significant amount of massaging on the contractor’s part, and possibly a couple of steak dinners. In the end though, the client would most surely thank Rey for the final product.
The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset) Page 7
