"Can I get myself a drink of water?"
"Certainly," Pearlman said. Now that he had put some pieces together, he was in his element. He'd been on a long string of bad luck, but maybe things were about to change. There was serious money to be made here. And if he played his cards right, and cut a couple of cops in, a way to solve three or four problems at once. Goodbye to the ex-wife, the upside down mortgage, the greedy cops. Not bad.
Wes poured a glass of water. He sat down next to the gun on the couch. He seemed almost to have forgotten it was there. "So I was going to take down Roth and Quinn, but then I got to thinking about the way these guys acted and realized a lot more money has to be at stake. And what happened on Catalina got me thinking there's another set of players, maybe having nothing to do with the first, or even my dad."
"Go on," Pearlman said. "I'm listening."
"Now, look. I have two problems. I need to figure out who killed my dad and why. If it was Roth and Quinn, I'll handle those fuckers myself. And Callahan. But if it was about this other thing . . . then I got my dad killed by being stupid."
"Now I need some water," Pearlman said. "You've lost me."
"Fine, just move nice and slow."
Wes watched carefully. Pearlman poured a glass and returned to his place. The attorney seemed at ease now. He was looking for angles.
Wes dug into the pocket of his jeans. He took out a dime and flipped it. He grunted, as if coming to a decision. "Okay, I'm going to find a way to reach out to Mick Callahan, because the rat bastard may know something I don't know."
"And what do you want me to do, Wes?"
Wes rubbed his hands as if trying to stay warm. "Here's the thing. When I was in Vegas, trying to get us our money back, I met a girl. She claimed she knew me from high school. Very foxy thing named Jessie Keaton. Man, I flat fell in love at first sight. Anyway, we talked and she put down her suitcase, small little thing, and sat with me for a while at the train station. We exchanged email addresses and shit, and then she went to the ladies room."
Pearlman waited.
"The thing is, she never came back."
After another second. Pearlman whistled. "So you took the suitcase?"
"And hid it. I figured I'd see Rosa, have a good couple of days, then maybe come back and email Jessie. Tell her I had the case and ask if we could meet up. Maybe hook up. She was amazing. You know how it is."
"But everything went south. Someone killed your father."
"I ran. I'd been thinking of going to see Rosa, mentioned it to some friends, and figured Roth and Quinn would never be so stupid as to come all the way out there and try to nail me the very next day. But someone tried, some real professionals, Mr. Pearlman. I got very lucky. I took them out and got away."
Jackpot! Pearlman was now sure it was the missing drugs. The question was, how to play this for maximum cash? If no one ever learned officially, he could end up with an enormous payoff, the cartel would be pleased, the violence would stop. The only problem would be how to dispose of this fellow McCann. That was a distasteful thought, but Pearlman felt sure his police contacts would be able to think of something, perhaps kill him while he was ostensibly resisting arrest.
"You are in a great deal of legal trouble, Mr. McCann, but so far you don't seem to be guilty of anything but self defense." Pearlman let a pause hang in the air like smog. "Any idea what might be in that suitcase?"
Wes closed his eyes. Leaned back on the couch. "Last night, I couldn't sleep, Mr. Pearlman. Couldn't stop thinking about Jessie Keaton. That girl got to me. I tried to remember every little thing she said, you know? And something hit me. Something important."
Pearlman sat forward. "Which was?"
Wes opened his eyes again. He grimaced. "She said I should go and find an old yearbook from Notre Dame one of these days. That I should look her up, because I might be surprised."
"So?"
"So I did, and she wasn't there."
Pearlman looked confused. Then it dawned on him. "It's like she wanted you to know something was off, maybe that she never went to your school. But then how did she know you?"
"That's what has me puzzled. How did she know me?" Why did she pick me? "Seems like something had to trace back to Roth, or maybe this Callahan guy, one of the two of them. I drove myself crazy trying to figure it out. And then I just gave up and flipped a coin. It came up tails."
"And?"
"And so I made a move."
Pearlman cringed. If it was a dumb move, then he'd have to adjust and re-think pretty much everything. Use his first name, he's your client, keep him calm and feeling reassured.
Rather tentatively, the lawyer said, "What did you do, Wes?"
"I don't know what it will lead to, if anything, but I emailed Jessie Keaton. I said you want it, I have it, and I'll be in touch."
"But . . ."
"She can't find me. Or they can't. Whatever."
"How do you know?"
"Because I used a laptop on a boat that was headed for Mexico. It's owned by someone who doesn't know my name. I used a Raygun account I made up for that purpose. So all I have to do is check to see if anyone answered. Maybe they will, maybe she will, I don't know. But I did learn one thing. Because like I said, this Jessie Keaton who claimed to know me from high school never went to Notre Dame. I've gone through every single female photo of the class she claimed to be in. She lied."
Pearlman cracked his knuckles. They both jumped. "And she wanted you to figure it out eventually."
"Eventually. So she left the suitcase with me on purpose for some reason." Wes shook his head sadly. "Only one thing is for sure. Whatever it is, this has got to be about one hell of a lot of money."
"Sure looks that way."
Wes said, "Can you help me?"
"I'm going to do some asking around, Wes," Pearlman said, "see if there are any drug deals gone bad, large amounts of money missing, that sort of thing. The money is coming from somewhere. And then if I find out, we'll have to discuss how to handle things."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, one way to make it go away is just to go through intermediaries and give them their money back. Less my expenses and fees, of course. No fuss, no muss. No police that way."
Wes sighed. "Right."
Pearlman was gratified to see the idea didn't disturb Wes. He appeared to lack those troublesome things called scruples. But then Wes furrowed his brow. "I have to tell you, I'm not sure I can let go of what happened to Rosa and Dad. Not so easy, you know?"
"But you've obviously killed the men who murdered your father and Rosa already. That has to count for something." Don't be a fucking idiot kid, take the deal, let's all walk away with some cash . . .
"True."
Pearlman said, casually, "Can I ask you where you put the suitcase?"
Wes just stared. Pearlman laughed. "No, right. Don't tell me. Okay, I need to think about this and talk to some people. Do you have any cash at all to offer toward a retainer, Mr. McCann?"
"Not a fucking cent, actually. I'm trying to figure out where I'm going to hide, sleep and eat. I was even thinking of hitting you up for a loan."
Pearlman concentrated. "Here's what you do," he said. "Like you said, you contact this Callahan fellow. Do so quietly if you can. Hit on him for cash, perhaps. He's some kind of celebrity, so he's probably got lots of money, and he will feel an obligation because of your dad."
Wes just stared. His anger made the idea difficult.
Pearlman continued, "Now, just keep the suitcase issue between us. Leave that part out when you meet up with Callahan. Like you said, you're not sure you can really trust him. Maybe he's mixed up in some part of this."
"He had something to do with getting my dad killed, intentionally or not, that much seems obvious. I drove by right after it happened. Saw him standing there on the lawn. Can you imagine?"
Pearlman manufactured an unctuous face. "I feel your pain."
"I'm right to suspect him, though."
"We don't know. He's a media guy too, so it's just not smart. The fewer people know about our deal, the cleaner the swap. Hell, this is probably some big drug cartel. Who knows? Let me talk to some people who work both sides. I'll see what I can put together. Meantime, you lay low as possible. How can I get in touch?"
"You can't," Wes said. "I'll text you from someone else's phone, or call you from a pay phone. Something they can't trace. Expect it tonight or early tomorrow. Give me your cell number."
Pearlman did. Wes grabbed the gun in the newspaper and walked to the door. "I may or may not reach out to Callahan. You don't know anything. You don't call or email him. Understood?"
Something in his tone made Pearlman pass another bit of gas. He checked his watch "I have a lunch with some police officers. You should take the back stairs. Call me tonight or tomorrow."
Wes McCann said, "Poor Rosa." His eyes dampened.
Pearlman nodded somberly. "Poor Rosa."
McCann vanished out the side door. The air conditioning whooshed on. Pearlman wiped his damp forehead. Like stumbling across a genuine pot of gold . . .
Pearlman leaned back in his couch. He closed his eyes, trying to structure things. No matter how he was forced to cut it up, he stood to make one hell of a lot of money. What a lucky accident. All he had to do was take some minimal risk, arrange to clean up the mess afterwards, and life would change for the better. One little gamble for what seemed like a hell of a payoff.
The attorney paced for a while, then hit his desk. He answered the requisite calls, some from bill collectors and one from the bank demanding he either walk away or short sell his home in Encino. Such a waste of time, all these empty threats. As if Los Angeles wasn't packed with unsold houses. He went over every available police report fed to him, and every online newspaper article, searching for information on the murder of Calvin McCann and the mysterious events in Catalina. Pearlman soaked up as much information as possible. A plan gradually formed. Time to use two detectives already on the payroll.
Finally, he grabbed his briefcase and stormed out the door for his scheduled lunch at the donut shop. He rode down in the elevator, went past the atrium without seeing it. Went out onto the scorching sidewalk. He found himself whistling.
The two cops were already there. Detective Penzler had ordered his usual burger and fries. He was scratching his balls in between bites. Penzler was wide, scowling and mean as a scalded pit bull. His dim partner DeRossi was stuffing down a salad and sported a dripping blue cheese moustache. A bad comedy team.
Pearlman sad down heavily. Having already read the police report about the death of Cal McCann, Pearlman knew these two lowlifes, men he worked with regularly, had been on the scene the night of the murder. He dove right in.
"I have reason to believe that some pros hit Calvin McCann at that residence in the Valley. Is that accurate information?"
Penzler burped. "He was tortured first, so probably yes."
Pearlman's stomach clenched with anxiety. He focused on his mountain of debts and renewed his courage. "Tortured? Exactly how?"
Penzler, ever the sadist, described the death graphically and with obvious relish, the peeling of skin and the burning that followed. The location of the bruises. The missing finger and toenails. Penzler went back to inhaling the messy burger, while Pearlman swallowed bile. "And are you guys assuming it was over a gambling debt?"
"That's all we got so far."
Pearlman looked around carefully. He waved them closer. "Have you both become independently wealthy in some way I don't know about, or would you like to make a nice chunk of change?"
Penzler stopped chewing. His eyes focused. DeRossi stopped looking as confused. The burger joint was jammed so no one was paying any attention to the three of them, especially since they often met to chat. The two cops exchanged glances.
Finally, DeRossi lowered his voice. "What do you need us to do?"
"Get word to Rosario. Tell him I may have a line on the cartel's missing merchandise. But we want to keep a finder's fee. Twenty percent seems fair. Ten for me, five each for the two of you."
"What else?" DeRossi asked.
"The guy who has it. You may have to make him go away."
Penzler thought for a moment. He grinned, blunt lower teeth like a row of yellow tombstones. "Rosario will go for the deal, but he's sure gonna want the sonofabitch who stole from him. Don't matter how it gets done, so long as it gets handled."
Pearlman smiled back. "You're right. That's perfect."
NINETEEN
Friday
Callahan slept late that morning. Still thinking, he read the paper, found some index cards and made notes on every detail of the Calvin McCann murder. He paced his living room in gym shorts, arranging and re-arranging the cards on the hardwood floor. Roth and Quinn and Stella, Wes and Calvin McCann and their neighbor Julius. What if this had happened first, then that? Or the other way around? How could this person be linked to that one? He moved thoughts this way and that way endlessly, trying to guess at the missing pieces. It was all coming to a head, Mick could feel the tension rising all around him. Far too many unknowns were still in play.
After a few hours of research he texted Jerry his latest thoughts. Callahan ate a light lunch, then punished his body with sit ups, push ups and light weight lifting. He ran on the treadmill in his spare room until his skin was pouring sweat. It had been pushing 90 degrees by nine o'clock, so that took less effort than usual. He swam a few laps in the pool to cool off, made himself a protein shake and some strong coffee. Only then, close to three o'clock, did he put the phone back on the hook and turn his computer on.
There were three messages, two that could wait and one from Hal Solomon inviting Callahan to an early dinner at a place known for haute cuisine. Hal said he'd have a car pick Callahan up outside his office at five-thirty. A limo. Callahan answered the email in the affirmative. May as well get this over with . . .
After a quick shower, Callahan got dressed, locked up, hopped into the car and left for work. Traffic was light for some reason, and there were only a few people ahead of him in line at the drive-through coffee joint. Callahan grabbed an espresso. He had a few clients on his schedule that afternoon, a few more calls to return, and then he and Hal would be face to face for the first time in what, six or seven years? Damn. . . . Mick had butterflies. Hal had been Callahan's mentor and friend since day one. His money and resources had saved Callahan's life. What would it be like to see him again?
He drove directly to work, parked and jogged up the stairs, surprised to find himself whistling an old George Jones tune. With so much happening, so many puzzles to solve, he felt alive again for the first time in months. Perhaps his luck had finally changed. What was that old book title from the hippie years? Been down so long it looks like up to me. . . . Callahan decided to fill Hal in on what he knew, perhaps ask for a bit of assistance. No one short of the government had as many resources.
Callahan opened up his office. He turned on the air conditioning and music, went into the counseling room and closed the door. He cracked his knuckles, rolled his shoulders. Glanced at himself in the mirror. Maybe forty wouldn't be so bad once it arrived, he didn't look all that terrible. Some woman was going to want him again. Someone worth being with. Hell, maybe Darlene would give him another shot once she got bored with that dork Dennis. You never know.
After few moments of meditating, he mentally ran through the shortened afternoon schedule of clients. Carefully considered the human beings who were going to trust him to make suggestions for improving their lives. Callahan didn't keep written notes, but always had a rough idea of where he wanted the hour to go. Sometimes things took on a life of their own, but if not it was wise to have a plan. He pulled down one of his trusty research books and studied a bit, giving himself a few pointers.
The clock ticked forward. Then, as the rush hour traffic began to clog the freeways and the afternoon sunshine waned, Callahan heard the waiting room door open and close
again. He walked outside and went to work.
The first client, Jacqueline, was a pretty UCLA student, under enormous pressure from her family to achieve. She'd been fighting with her boyfriend, not sleeping well. Jacqueline had tried an anti-depressant medication with little results. Callahan suspected she drank too much wine, and his chipper mood lightened their discourse. He eventually managed to broach the subject without upsetting her. Jacqueline agreed to reduce her intake of alcohol to give the medication a better chance to work. They made another appointment for two weeks later.
Max was Callahan's second client of the day. He was a towering man, heavily muscled with a growing gut. Max was a former NFL player now having trouble adjusting to his new life as owner of a small business. There was something out of tune about Max, the way he droned on about the same memories, over and over. Callahan had a flash of insight, and managed to elicit a new memory from childhood, the first time Max had won his distant father's approval by winning a wrestling match. He agreed that his change of career, however inevitable, may have saddened him since his aging father no longer bragged about his exploits on the field. They rarely spoke of anything else. Max agreed to consider having a talk with his dad, while the opportunity still existed.
The third client was a moderately successful sitcom writer. Allison was a thirty-one-year-old woman working to let go of an unsatisfying relationship. She was having bad dreams about her childhood, and seemed unable to connect those images with the relationship issues she was experiencing. Once she saw the similarity, Allison seemed to relax a bit. She agreed to exercise more, take a warm bath and go to bed earlier. Callahan slid a compliment or two into their final exchange and saw her smile with satisfaction.
Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 19
