More opinions, she thought. More loud, useless opinions.
Rayborn, too young for wisdom but old enough to become tired of herself, sighed and shook her head slowly and stared out through the heat as the door of the chapel swung closed.
"So you get a deputy shot in the head," she said. "And his wife takes two in her own bathroom. He can't go to his wife's funeral because he thinks we'll put him in the hospital or under arrest or both. He's out trying to catch the creeps himself because he doesn't think we are. That isn't right."
After the memorial service the mourners drove to the grave site. The cortege moved slowly through the cemetery and Merci stayed far behind so as not to annoy the Wildcraft and Kuerner families any more than she had to. She wanted to march over there to the hole in the ground and tell them she was sorry about Gwen, that she was really pulling for Archie every way she could, really wanted to button down this case and get a little justice done for their girl. But instead she parked by the rounded curb and endured a long hostile stare from Natalie Wildcraft as she walked from her Mercedes to the grave.
From the car Merci could see the dark mourners and the green hillock and a pile of red earth covered by a blue tarp. There were two big black boxes that looked like loudspeakers—far too much power, she thought, for the meager audience. The casket was gunmetal gray with gold accents. She flashed on Gwen in her bathroom—the robe and her blood and the cell phone in the sink, and thought: what a way to go to the satin. Twenty-six years old.
She was too far away to hear what the preacher was saying. Merci caught the earnest baritone coming across the grass and asphalt to her and it seemed like that sound must always be here, part of nature, like the breeze. Why not use the speakers?
At eleven fifty-seven Merci saw the helicopter waver into view and she wondered if Archie had friends with the air patrol. Her second thought was network news. The bird squatted in the blue sky and lowered upon the graveyard, tail swinging around like a cat's as it came closer to the ground.
By then she saw it wasn't a Sheriff's Department or a news chopper, at least it wasn't marked that way. She wrote down the numbers on the tail.
It leveled off a couple of hundred feet above the grave and she could see hair and black clothes rippling and jumping in the rotor wind, and hear the bone-tickling whump whump whump of the blades. Down it came, another fifty feet. The dirt swirled up from the edges of the tarp and the tarp jittered against the mound.
Then the oddest thing: Natalie Wildcraft beside the preacher, holding him by the arm with one hand and raising her other one high, waving it back and forth as she tried to shout above the roar to the mourners.
Merci could see the guy in the chopper, not the pilot but the man behind him in a baseball cap, bracing himself behind the open door of the passenger bay. He threw something from what looked like a bucket. A faint pink burst spotted the air, then exploded in the turbulent wind from the rotors.
Two of the deputies drew down on one knee, aiming up with the sidearms.
Some of the mourners covered their heads and ran in one direction others running the opposite way.
Rayborn scrambled out of the car, popped the thumb brake and started to draw her H&K, but it didn't make sense so she left her hand on the grip and watched. Another burst from above, and another, looked like the man was airing out a bedsheet next, and the air filled again with a pale storm of color that blew apart like a pastel firewood when it hit the chopper's wind.
Natalie Wildcraft stood with both hands raised to the machine.
Merci understood. The mourners who hadn't run were waving and cheering and the helicopter dipped a little lower. More buckets of color dumped into the sky then, as the first bits settled down over the gravesite and the mourners, and the deputies stood with their sidearms now literally at their sides.
Rayborn was trotting toward the chopper, looking up as Wildcraft threw another bucket into the air. She watched the confetti wobble down, and when she was close enough to catch some she got flower blossoms and rose petals and bits of curled gold ribbon. Daisies and marigolds and periwinkles and zinnias and gazanias and geraniums and a lot she couldn't ID.
Natalie went over to the speakers, bent for a moment, then music burst forth. Merci recognized Gwen Wildcraft's soft clear voice through the mechanical percussion of the blades. Archie threw out another bucket of blossoms, then another, then what looked like another bedsheet full. Where had he gotten them all?
I've got to get through to you
I've got to get next to you
Zamorra stood beside her, a red rose petal stuck in his black hair and a look of disapproving awe on his face.
"Sonofabitch," he said quietly.
"Son of a something," said Rayborn.
She watched the sky rain flowers, jumped forward to catch a few more, but it was harder than it looked, the way the petals zigzagged in the wind and the blossoms bobbed like parachutes.
Tiny Natalie Wildcraft faced her from the grave site, her fists clenched and raised over her head like a new flyweight champion, her mouth open in exultation or challenge—no way to tell over the hugely amplified post-mortem voice of Gwen Wildcraft or the thump of the helo—but what Merci got out of it was that Natalie was offering Archie's attendance as the latest proof of his love and devotion and innocence.
A white-and-orange CNB van leaned around a curve behind them and skidded to a stop. Out spilled a shooter and Michelle Howland.
"We're in the air for this," said Zamorra. "Abelera wanted a helo on call in case the news people used choppers."
"Call them."
But she made no move to call them herself. The chopper was ready banking away and lifting fast. In a windblown flourish the last; of the flowers showered down on the mourners while Archie shot toward the straight-up noonday sun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
They stood on the porch of Sonny Charles's last known address, a neat townhouse in Costa Mesa, over by the fairgrounds.
"I've never heard of Sonny Charles," said Ruth Greider. She was red-haired, mid-fifties, stocky. "I bought this home from a very nice couple."
Merci explained in humorless terms how important it was to find a man who had once lived here. She implied that lives might be at stake. "Were the couple eastern Europeans?" she asked.
"Russian. The Selatsins—Jerry and Mary."
One hour later they sat in the cool living room of the Huntington Beach home of Mr. and Mrs. Vsevolod "Jerry" Selatsin, who admitted to buying the Costa Mesa town house from Sonny Charles in March of 1999 and selling it to Ruth Greider eight months ago.
"It's in good condition when we buy," said Jerry. "And good condition when we sell." He was thick-boned and white-haired, with a strong neck and jolly blue eyes that looked like they could change weather in a heartbeat. Sixty. His wife, whom he introduced as Marina, was slender and svelte, with a pale face and dark eyes. Half of Jerry's age. Her smile was sad.
"We need to talk to Mr. Charles," said Merci. "Do you know where we can find him?"
"We don't know Mr. Charles. We just buy his house," said Jerry.
Marina's already dark features darkened more as she sank back into a leather chair. She moved loosely, like a cat or a weasel, Merci thought.
"You had never met him before you bought his home?"
"No."
"Ever hear about him, Mr. Selatsin?"
Jerry Selatsin rolled his strong shoulders and then his pale blue eyes. "You know, everyone knew about Mr. Charles. He made the big money with the homosexuals in Laguna. All legal."
"How did you hear about Mr. Charles's town house being for sale?"
Jerry nodded and Marina sank still further into her chair. "Friend of mine, they know Sonny. They put us together for the sale."
"Who? I need their names. I need to see them, quickly."
Marina Selatsin rattled off a sentence that Merci assumed was Russian. It sounded spiteful and confessional at the same time. She thought she recognized something in it.
"Zlatan Vorapin?" Merci asked. "AI Apin?"
Jerry iced his wife with a stare, then tried to soften it as he turns to Merci.
"Mr. AI Apin was the one. He was always coming to my office, do American taxes and IRS for recent immigrants, they don't understand the complexity of the system. He have work for me. He works in immigration, helps people come to U.S. We talk about Moscow. I need a house."
"He set you up with Sonny."
Marina shifted in the seat and lit a cigarette. She coughed quietly Merci felt the waves of anger coming off her, tried to figure the rough outline of why.
Because Apin set Marina up in the States, too, Merci thought. And she worked off the debt like the other young women did. Until she found her husband, questionably a move up.
Jerry's hearty eyes had gone downward now and Merci saw the tension lines cross his forehead.
"And you bought the Costa Mesa town house for a very, very low price, because Sonny had taken it from a dying man for about half what it was worth."
"This is true. And legal."
"Where's Apin?"
"I don't know. I never know. He is here. He is gone."
Marina curled up into the chair like a cat, bringing her legs under her.
"He is a fucking criminal, like Sonny Charles," she said, not much more than a whisper. "Criminals in Vladivostok and criminals here, the same. Tell him about the Bar Czar, Vsevolod. Or I will."
Big Jerry Selatsin shrugged and looked from his seething wife to Merci, to Zamorra. "Bar Czar, a joke on America that has czar for this and czar for that. On a Lincoln Street up in Anaheim. Little place. Russians, Russians and Russians."
"Al
"Maybe, maybe not. You don't tell him I say hello. You don't tell him Marina talk about him. She would like to forget about him. I want to remain alive. Correct?"
Vic Elbe, who owned and managed the Bar Czar, was a short, slight man with a bald tanned head and green eyes. He wore jeans and a broadly striped shirt like a country singer, a tremendous belt buckle in the shape of a bear.
He said he had not seen Al Apin or Sonny Charles in years, though Merci suspected he had. He said he'd call her immediately if he saw them, though Merci knew he wouldn't. He suggested they try the Hot Zone strip club in Santa Ana because everyone knows Al likes the girls.
The Hot Zone was in a nondescript industrial park near the 55 Freeway. It was owned by Johnny Reno, a dapper young man with a scar that ran from the side of his forehead to the bottom of his ear. Reno— no relation to Janet, he said—told them that he hadn't seen Al Apin since the last time he threw him out of the Hot Zone for trying to muscle in with his own talent. Real funny of Vic, he said, to send them over here, Apin had told Reno that he had European girls who could dance, beautiful girls, blondes, not the dark ethnic stuff you usually found Southern California. Reno had told Apin that he and his custom liked the dark ethnic women usually found in Southern California and threw Apin out. That was the last he'd heard of him. They kept a list by the door, said Reno, of guys the bouncers won't let in. Apin was number one.
"How do you throw out a guy who's six-ten, three-fifty?" Merci asked him.
"He put three of my bouncers in the hospital. After that, we just called you guys. He didn't want to talk to the cops."
"Where can we find him? And don't say talk to Vic Elbe."
Reno smiled, the big scar shifting back a little on his head. "Sergeant, if I knew where to find AI Apin I'd tent the place and fumigate it."
"That's exactly what we'd like to do."
Smiling still, shaking his head: "I heard he's got four girls and a lock on the Camino Newport Hotel. The girls are getting five hundred for a quick half and half, three or four times each on a good night. Figure that math. I wouldn't look for him in the lounge, but you might draw a girl. Sergeant Zamorra might, I mean. I'm not sure—that only what I heard. I don't keep up with that stuff. I run a clean place and you can ask any of my dancers."
"Yeah," said Merci. "If it gets any cleaner they'll want to do Brownie tours."
She could tell by his perplexed smile that he had no idea what she was talking about.
They were on the way to the Camino Newport when Merci's phone rang. It was Grant Nolan, owner of Pace Charters and the helicopter that had flown Wildcraft over the cemetery, returning Rayborn's call.
When she explained what had happened and what she needed, Grant Nolan went silent, then asked her to hold for just a moment.
He was back a minute later. He sighed. "Yes, we chartered the flight to Larry Gray of Laguna Hills. One hour at five hundred and sixty dollars for a birthday party surprise. He paid in cash and we took him up. The pilot wasn't that happy about buzzing a funeral."
He gave her the information that Wildcraft had used to charter the helo—his own address and number.
"What kind of car was he driving?"
"A late-model Durango."
"Thank you. If he contacts you again, I want you to call me immediately."
She gave him her numbers and punched off.
Zamorra was approached by a young woman exactly fourteen minutes after he sat down in the Camino Newport Hotel bar. The Camino was up at Fashion Island and catered to wealthy tourists. The parking attendants wore tan safari suits with red piping and the concierge could cheerfully exchange into dollars the currencies of twelve prosperous nations at rates only slightly higher than the banks offered.
Merci, who had come in before her partner, loitered at a window table for two. Her cell phone lay on the table in front of her, turned off. She looked out the window and checked her watch often, trying to look like someone losing a tremendously valuable boyfriend.
The woman got out of a black Porsche. She looked mid-twenties and carried a Neiman-Marcus shopping bag. Her figure was excellent in a calf-length black dress. Heels with straps and a handbag that glittered and her honey-blonde hair restrained in a strict French braid. Heavy mouth. Her dark blue earrings caught the light when she looked at Merci, vaporizing her with a glance. She sat one stool apart from the sleek, black-suited Zamorra. A few minutes later she laughed. Merci could hear their voices but not their words. Zamorra smiled and motioned over the barkeep. The woman moved next to him and got what looked like a martini, something clear in a stemmed triangular glass. When the woman's drink was gone she took Zamorra's arm and the handsome couple walked out of the lounge and into the lobby. Merci could see them heading for the elevator, heads tilted toward each other like lovers taking their time on their way to ecstasy. She thought of Mike and the call girl he'd fallen in love with, wondered if they'd ever tilted their heads toward each other like that, then mentally kicked her own ass for wondering it.
Ten minutes later they stepped back out of the elevator. The woman touched Zamorra's cheek, then kissed it lightly, then strode across the lobby. She palmed something to the doorman, who whistled for the valet. Through her window Merci saw the valet pull a set of keys from the box behind his stand, then hustle around a big potted juniper an disappear.
Zamorra sat down.
"How was it?" she asked.
"Perfect in every way. Vorapin runs two women here and two more at the Castaway. They pay him once at one o'clock, then again at nine in the morning. The good news is the payout is at the same place every time—the Bar Czar. The bad news is Vorapin only shows once a week maybe less. The rest of the time they pay who ever he sends to collect. Various associates. Sometimes Sonny, sometimes not. She's never sure who."
Rayborn groaned quietly. The black Porsche rounded the juniper with a dry growl and the valet sprung out.
"We could spend a lot of nights waiting at the Czar," she said.
"That was the best she could do. It cost the department a hundred.
"No wonder she pecked your cheek. Want a baby wipe?"
"Nice woman, actually."
"No phone for her boss? No address, nothing?"
"Vorapin just comes and goes. You weigh three-fifty you get good at hiding."
"We need to light their cuffs on fire."
"You present it to Abelera. I'm not high on his list right now."
As soon as they stepped outside the hotel and Merci turned he phone back on, Ike Sumich called. He'd found a Russian-language catalogue, published in New York and nationally distributed, that featured a big-and-tall section and offered Foot Rite products for sale He'd found two big-and-tall catalogues that specialized in upper-end business attire, also distributed in California, also selling Foot Rite. He'd found a military surplus catalogue specializing in Soviet products and memorabilia that occasionally offered discontinued or closed-out goods from mainstream manufacturers. This catalogue—Dinky Dur-kee's Surplus—had offered the Foot Rite Comfort Strider in "extra, extra-extra and extra-extra-extra large sizes" in their January, February and March issues of this year.
Rayborn knew she couldn't subpoena the catalogue retailers without a search warrant on Vorapin. She knew the catalogue retailers would be extremely reluctant to part with any subscriber or sales information. Occasionally, they would confirm a name. Very occasionally, a shipping address.
"Call them all back," she said. "Ask them for a customer list for Orange County if they have it. For the whole state of California, if they don't have it broken down to county."
"They'll say no."
"I know. You're just softening them up for me."
"Ike, the picador."
"Right. Then I sweep down upon them with my incredible charm and they cave."
"Hmm."
She thanked Sumich and punched off.
An hour later they were making their case to Abelera and Brenkus. It was five o'clock and the shifts were changing downstairs. Merci looked down from the sheriff's fourth-floor office at the county streets, thick with traffic. There were so many people in the county now it could take you hours to commute from one end of it to the other. She remembered Clark telling her that in the early part of his career he made the drive from south Orange County to Los Angeles in forty-five minutes.
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