“Oh no, I’m leaving on my account, it’s lasagna night. It’s to die for. And don’t worry; we’ll get this guy, if only by process of elimination.”
“I think we’re close,” Nick said.
“Yeah, me too. Maybe Mesa will help.”
“Maybe.”
“Okay you two, I really am out of here.” He tossed back the last of his drink and took off just as the entrées arrived.
They finished most their meal, decided against desert or coffee or another cocktail, and returned to Ellen’s place, resisting the urge to pull over and jump in the backseat.
As soon as the backdoor was closed and locked, they started undressing, leaving a trail of clothes through the kitchen, down the hallway and into the bedroom. And then an hour later, after their passion had given way, Nick lay asleep, naked on his back, with Ellen taking unabashed inventory of his body.
She stared at his face a moment, then leaned over and breathed him in, first his hair, then his neck and then the skin of his shoulder and chest. He wore no cologne, not even a trace, but she loved the smell of him all the more. He needed a shave, too. His beard had come sharp to her stomach during their lovemaking, and on the soft skin of her thighs, though it was just a brush here and there, enough to excite, not enough to distract. And there was the tattoo. It was a simple USMC across his bicep. It was a part of him she would never know. Was he cocky and arrogant back then? Or was he a steadfast and efficient warrior, one to whom eyes turned in the dark? She lightly traced the letters with an index finger, trying to get a sense of them before letting her eyes drift down his lightly haired chest to his navel, and then to the part of him that had given her so much pleasure just moments before. She hadn’t ever known anyone so unpretentious, so real, as the man who now slept in her bed.
After a few minutes of watching him and listening to him breath, she gently scooted to his side, warming herself with his body, pulled the blankets up, and fell asleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Nick sat at his desk with the phone to his ear, nursing his first cup of coffee, and also a slight hangover. It was all worth it, though.
“Task Force, Meyers.”
“You’re a police officer, an investigator?” Nick asked.
“Badge and everything.”
“Okay, just wanted to make sure. This is Sergeant Nick Zajac with San Jose P.D. Homicide. We’re working a case here that may somehow be connected to you.”
“You mean connected to Mesa, like a drug organization or something?”
“No, to you.”
“Okay, hold on, wait a minute, I don’t understand. Do you mean to me, Meyers?”
“Yeah, you Meyers. Look, it’s a little complicated, let me explain.”
“You bet your ass you better explain.”
“I’ll give you the short version. During the course of our investigation we came across a phone number. We ran the number and it came back to one of those pre-paid cell phones purchased with a phony name.”
“Yeah, our dope dealers use ‘em all the time, so what?”
“Well, one of the numbers called by this phone was yours, your direct number. In fact the one I’m talking to you on right now.”
“Gotta be a mistake.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Maybe it was a misdial or something. I get wrong numbers every so often.”
“Like I said, don’t think so. This call lasted nearly two minutes.”
“Look man, I’m not trying to give you a hard time or anything, but I don’t know anyone in …When was this call made; the date?” Meyers’ voice took an edge.
“The sixteenth of last month, about three in the afternoon.”
“Hang-on,” Meyers said.
Nick took a swallow of coffee and watched Carla walk into the office. She still seemed a little wound-up.
Meyers came back on the line. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Sergeant Nick Zajac.”
“How do you spell that?”
Nick spelled it for him.
“Doesn’t spell like it sounds. And you said San Jose P. D. right, like in San Jose, California?”
“Right.”
“Give me your office number and I’ll call you right back.”
Nick gave him his phone number and hung up.
Carla, seeing he was off the phone, scooted her chair over next to his.
“You want some advice?” she asked.
At the same time Fanucchi arrived and tossed his hat on his desk, hung his coat on the back of his chair, and sat down.
Suspicious Nick said, “Depends if it’s good advice or not.”
“It’s great advice; live with her before you do anything permanent. At least a year, and then, even if it’s still good, think about it some more. It’ll save you a lot of heartache later.”
Nick’s phone rang.
“Huh?” he asked.
“This photographer you’re seeing.”
Nick picked-up the phone and asked, “Meyers?”
“Yeah.”
“Hold on a minute.” Nick then covered the mouthpiece and looked directly at Fanucchi.
“It wasn’t me,” Fanucchi said, “I just got here. I haven’t said a word to anybody.” He turned to Carla. “Lighten up will you. I met her; she’s a nice gal, and I know you’d like her, too.”
“I don’t care if she’s Mary Poppins, he still should …”
“Hey!” Nick said. “For chrissakes you guys.”
“I’m just ….” That’s all Carla got out before Nick turned his back on her.
“Sorry, now where were we?” Nick said into the phone.
“Before we get to that, the reason for the callback is because I wanted to make sure I knew who I was talking to.”
“Figured. No problem.”
“Okay …that call, it came from a guy named Nathanial Moby. He calls me every few months just to screw with me; kind of his way of giving me the finger, if you know what I mean.”
“So who’s this Moby, and why’s he screwing with you?”
“Moby’s an asshole; a smart asshole though, a very smart asshole but still an asshole. See, even though I’m a Mesa cop, I work with the combined DEA task force. About three, three and a half years ago we got this snitch who told us about a shipment of cocaine that was coming in from Mexico. They were flying it in low, landing in the desert, and then transferring it to a couple of four by fours.”
“It took us a while, but we found the landing strip and staked it out. We were there for two days and except for a couple of ATV’s, on foot. Our own air support was on standby. Anyway, about two in the morning the plane lands, the SUV’s show, and we grab everyone and the cocaine; big seizure, over a hundred pounds, plus we got the plane. So we’re naturally slapping each other on the ass, taking pictures, telling ourselves how smart we are and how dumb they are, when one of the guys we arrested, the pilot, says he wants to talk with us in private.
So we pull him off to the side thinking he’s going to try to cut a deal with us, but instead he identifies himself as an undercover DEA agent working in Mexico. He even has a badge in a special compartment in his shoe. He says that his agency contact knew about the shipment and was going to let it go so he, the undercover guy, could work his way up the food chain as pilot for one of the cartels. Anyway, we’re a little suspicious about his story but he’s telling it like he’s one of us. You know, talking about how we operate, using the slang, that sort of stuff. Still, we keep him hooked-up until we get back to the office and until he can go face to face with the DEA agent in charge. They chat and this guy, Nathanial Moby, talks about different people he’s worked with, some busts that he was involved in, and pretty well convinces us that he’s who he says he is. So we cut him loose, even apologize for screwing up his case and blame the brass for not talking with one another.
To make it even more convincing, he hangs out with us for a couple of hours, drinks our coffee, eats our deep dish pepperoni, and act
ually helps us weigh and process the evidence. Then he takes off. We later find out that he only used to be a DEA agent. Well, really not even that. He was a county mounty, assigned to a different task force somewhere in the mid west, Ohio, and went bad on them. He stole some drugs, a lot of drugs actually, and then disappeared.”
“So why does he keep calling you?” Nick asked.
“I guess he wants to keep reminding me how he made us look like a bunch of idiots. Think about it, I mean his personality; he not only cons us into releasing him but he hangs around helping us process the evidence of his guilt. He’s one of those guys who’s got to be the winner no matter what, and he gets off on it. So, is he your killer?”
“Maybe …I don’t know. It’s a pretty weak link; a number on the back of a business card in the possession of one of our victims. Still, our perp acts a lot like this Moby. How’d you identify him?”
“Prints off the paperwork he filled out while processing the evidence.”
“You got a photograph of him?”
“Somewhere. An old one; one from his academy graduation,” Meyers said.
“Can you fax it to me?” Nick asked.
“Once I find it, yeah.”
Nick gave him his fax number.
“You got warrants out for him?” Nick asked.
“You bet your ass, a million bucks bail. Federal.”
“Does it have his information on it, date of birth, height, weight and so forth?”
“Yeah, but it won’t do you much good.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he changes his appearance. He was blond and clean shaven in the photo and when we got him he was dark brown with a goatee.”
“Still, it might help. Can you fax a copy of the warrant to me as soon as possible?”
“Not a problem. You’ll have it within the hour.”
“Okay, thanks. And if we get him, I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll make the trip just to piss him off,” Meyers said. “And there are about a dozen others who’ll come with me, even if it’s just to see his dead body. …Hey, hey, I almost forgot. It could tie in.
When the agents assigned Moby’s case started checking into him, they found that as a kid he spent about ten years in the foster care system. I guess the county took him away from his old-man because he used to beat Moby with a belt. Anyway, as the story goes, one day his father is found dead with a knife sticking out of his neck. When they inform the foster parents of this, so they can give Moby the bad news, the foster parents tell them that they think the kid may have snuck out the same night as the murder. I guess there was some damage to their car. They weren’t sure, though, and nobody could prove anything. His father’s murder is still an open case. Just thought you should know that.”
Nick thanked him, hung up, and immediately called Rene.
When she came on the line he asked, “You get anything yet?”
“It’s on the way in with one of the guys. The night shift put him to bed and then waited until three in the morning to check his car for prints. We didn’t get anything off the trunk, but we pulled what is probably a thumb print off the door handle and three good fingers off the frame around the driver’s window. Then this morning we followed him downtown and into the Lexington. When he got out of the car, he had one of those small bottles of water with him. Just before he went inside the hotel, he pitched it into a trash bin. We were able to get that, too.”
“Where is he now?”
“Still in the hotel. We’re sitting on his car and the exits, so we won’t miss him when he leaves.”
“Do you know what he’s doing in the hotel?”
“No, the only one who is dressed right to go in is me, and you know the story about that.”
“Okay, keep me informed will you? Oh, and you probably ought to know that there’s a possibility he may be an ex-cop from the mid west. He also may have worked narcotics, so he’s going to know about surveillance.”
“Wished we’d known that yesterday. We’re probably okay, though.”
“Can’t do anything about it now,” Nick said. “Be sure to give me a call if you get anything.”
“Will do and same goes for you.”
As soon as he was off the phone Carla said, “Hey, sorry Nick, it’s just that, you know.”
“Forget it,” Nick replied. “You have any success with the phone records?”
He wondered how the word about Ellen and him got around so fast, but he wasn’t going to make it worse by asking. It didn’t matter now anyway.
“Yeah, I found the number that was written on the back of Forney’s business card twice in St. Claire’s phone records and just that one time in Molly Bank’s. There was also four calls to it from Malone; short ones. That’s it for that number. I also highlighted in green the other numbers St. Claire called that have our same area code. There were maybe a dozen of them. If you want, I’ll check to see who those belong to.”
“Definitely.”
“Okay, I’ll take care of it,” Carla said.
“Speaking of the pre paid phone number, there were a couple of calls made to Blaine, three to Malone, and one to St. Claire,” Fanucchi said.
“So we have the owner of that phone calling Malone, Blaine, and St. Claire. Then we have Molly, Malone, and St. Claire calling him, Nick said. That tightens things up.”
“That’s about it,” Fanucchi said. “There were other calls made from the pre paid phone, and I have some names, but I haven’t contacted them yet to see who they spoke with. That’s next on my agenda.”
“Anything on Blaine yet?” Nick asked.
“Not as far as I know. I left a message with the special ops guys to get a hold of me but nothing yet.”
Nick looked at his watch. He had to pick-up Al from the hospital soon.
He walked into the adjoining room and let Fran Decker know that there was some fingerprint evidence on its way in and that she should log it, process it, and then get it to one of the latent fingerprint examiners to enter into the computer as soon as possible.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Al stood ready, long past ready, waiting next to the bed wearing white boxers, white socks pulled up to just below the knees, and black lace-up wingtips. That was it, nothing else, except the bandage wrapped around his ribs and his thick framed glasses.
“Those my clothes?” he asked pointing with a thick, blunt finger to the paper bag Nick was holding.
Nick set the bag on the foot of the bed and said, “Everything except your coat. That’s out in the car. Tell me I’m not going to have to help you on with your pants; friendship only goes so far.”
Al dumped the contents of the bag onto the mattress.
“I’d rather walk out of here without ‘em,” he replied. “Where’s my gat and my star?”
“What the hell is a gat?” Nick asked.
“Gat; you know, gun, piece, hog-leg.”
“Never heard it called that before. Why not just say pistol?”
“Gat has more flair.”
“Oh okay, now I got it, this is from your writing class again, isn’t it?”
“Don’t make fun or I’ll write you in as a junky snitch in my first story.”
Nick shook his head. “Your gat and your star are locked in the trunk of our prowler. I didn’t think you’d need ‘em.”
“You never know, the way you drive somebody could do a road rage on our ass before we even get out of the parking lot.”
Al leaned back against the edge of the bed and tried to step into his pants but he couldn’t get them over his shoes.
“Son of a bitch,” he said as he toed his shoes off. “It took me a half hour just to tie ‘em.”
Nick bent down, picked the shoes up, and untied the laces.
“Things are starting to happen on the case,” Nick said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you gonna tell me or what?”
“You gonna promise to stay out of it
until you heal?”
“For chrissakes, I can’t even tie my own damn shoes. All I want to do is go home, have a cold beer, and grill a nice big juicy steak.”
Nick wasn’t completely convinced of his partner’s sincerity but decided to bring him up to date anyway. When they were both finished, there was a knock on the door followed by the appearance of a young woman in a red and white striped dress pushing an empty wheel chair; a ray of light in a dark and rumbling sky.
“Just in time I see. I’ll bet you’re ready to get out of here?” she said with a smile.
“You can say that again, sister,” Al said as he walked past her.
Nick rolled his eyes — sister. Maybe Ellen could get him interested in photography instead of writing.
“You have to let me push you, sir. It’s hospital regulations.”
Al tapped Nick on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said and walked out the door.
“I could get in trouble, sir.”
Nick looked at her. “Try working with him. He gets me in trouble all the time.”
Once Al was locked, loaded, and coated, and they were on their way, he pointed up ahead of them and said, “Pull-in over there.”
“You got to be kidding; we’ll be at your place in ten minutes.”
“Hey, if you had to eat the crap they serve in that place, you’d want one, too.”
“I don’t think I’d want one even if I was starving to death,” Nick said.
“Whatever.” Silence. “Did you hear the one about the Polish guy who comes home from work, hangs up his coat, and then walks into his bedroom only to find his wife in bed with his best friend? …No? Well, he grabs his pistol from the dresser and puts it to his head but then hears his wife laughing at him. So he tells her, yeah go ahead and laugh, you’re next.”
“This one’s on me,” Nick said as they got out of the car.
Nick was sipping a diet coke and watching Al devour a giant, double chili cheese dog, when his phone rang. It was Fanucchi.
“I just heard from the special ops guys. There’s activity on Blaine’s cards in Vegas at the Bellagio. I called and spoke with their security and confirmed he’s registered as a guest there.”
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