Finn had not planned on inserting himself into the fray, but this was where his work had led him. So instead of engaging a dartboard at Mick's and having a nice chat with Geoffrey over a pint, instead of asking Junko, his Japanese landlady, for a dip in her sento that evening, Finn was taking himself off to find Emanuel Dega Abu. He had no choice now that he had met the grandmother, had been attacked by Aman, and had heard stories that clearly linked Abu and Finn's dead girl.
Finn left the grandmother in Cori's hands and Aman to the captain who would see to it that he was booked and held if for no other reason than to keep him away from Abu until all this could be sorted out. Now Finn was heading to 538 Flower Street, a most impressive address and home to the iconic California Club.
Established in the late eighteen hundreds, the club became so popular and the membership grew so rapidly that a building was finally purchased to house it in 1929. Today the building was ancient and dowdy in a city that liked its architecture like its women: tall, blinged-out and young. Finn thought the five-story building of unassuming proportions, the one constructed of cinnamon colored brick, exquisite. The keystone above the glass entry door was grey and chiseled by a master stonemason. The windows at street level were tall and paned. Well-kept greenery on the third-floor decks softened the square lines. Perfectly trimmed privacy hedges didn't surround the building and hide it; rather they were strategically placed like sentries to keep those who didn't belong at an admiring arm's length. Everything about the place spoke of understated good taste.
According to the website this establishment was 'a welcome haven in the heart of downtown Los Angeles because of the quality of its membership and a shared desire for decorum, mutual respect and dignity for those who entered through their doors'. It seemed, however, that the dignity and mutual respect did not extend to the likes of Finn O'Brien.
When he entered the club and presented himself to a lovely young woman sitting at an exquisite art deco desk, the lady smiled. She also pushed a call button alerting security that something was not quite right. In hindsight, Finn understood her concern. His bandaged hand, the rip in his jacket that had been duct taped until he could get himself to a craftsperson who might be able to save it, the scars at his jaw and neck, his workingman's boots were, he was sure, unsettling upon first glance. Still, he was disappointed that his wide smile and his bright blue eyes counted for nothing in the receptionist's estimation.
As Finn opened his mouth to give her a hello, while he reached for his credential, security responded in the guise of Mr. Roth, a conservatively dressed gentleman of no outstanding physical proportions, a man who would give a troublemaker no pause. Still, Finn had no doubt that whatever action Mr. Roth took it would be swift and, if necessary, harmful to a living being if called for. The detective identified himself, the young lady relaxed and Mr. Roth invited Finn to his office for a chat.
"Sorry about that. Our members are important people who sometimes find themselves in delicate situations. The club prefers those situations to be handled privately and off-site," Mr. Roth explained.
"Sure, there's no problem, Mr. Roth." Finn refrained from pointing out that police business was a far cry from a situation. Instead, he enjoyed the walk through the club, admiring what little he could see of it.
The security man had led him down a hallway painted in colors of mole and mushroom with a tad bit of sand thrown in for good measure. Gold veined marble and gilt on the frames of seemingly important artwork brightened the space and moss green velvet chairs provided a bit of warmth. Finn glimpsed a small dining room that was decorated in white and pink just before they made a turn and passed through a plain doorway that led into the administrative heart of the club. Mr. Roth opened the door to his office marked by a tasteful brass plaque and walked in ahead of Finn.
"Here we go. Have a seat." He rounded his desk and managed to sit without the chair giving a shiver or a creak.
Finn took the chair across from him. It was a lovely thing with carved arms and claw feet. His grandmother would have had a chair like this but it would have been covered in flowered needlepoint instead of cool silk. The wall behind Roth was hung with water-mark satin that lent itself more to a gold color than yellow. There was a stately armoire against one wall. If Finn had to guess, that elegant piece of furniture had been converted to a weapons' cabinet by the look of the lock.
Next to the street level window, a lush fern exploded like Fourth of July fireworks out of a tightly woven wicker stand. The only thing out of place in this room was Roth's heavy, serviceable desk. A cell phone was within reach as was a landline with a host of buttons. Behind him was a printer and in front of him there was a double screen set up to keep an electronic eye on every well-appointed room, hallway, nook and cranny in the place save for the overnight accommodations on the upper floors. There were three cameras looking into the parking structure alone.
"Excellent security you have here. I assume you're not the only one about."
Roth's lips tipped, but it was not an expression of mirth. He said:
"I learned a long time ago never to confirm or deny, Detective O'Brien."
"As it should be," Finn replied.
"Again, I apologize for the inconvenience," Roth said, "but Meredith has strict instructions to alert me the instant something doesn't seem right. Frankly, you don't seem quite right."
"No worries," Finn responded easily. "I imagine you would have been given a second look if you wandered into my watering hole, Mr. Roth. I should have asked after you first in a place like this."
"You have to appreciate the club's uniqueness, don't you? We have stood strong for almost a hundred years in a city that tears down new buildings to put up something newer. We're quite proud of the club."
The detective smiled, amused by Roth's use of the royal 'we'. Finn doubted any member would consider the security man one of their own. It was not Finn's place to point out that he and Roth had more in common, them being men of little consequence in the greater scheme of things.
"'Tis a pity what the city planners are up to," Finn sighed. "Still, I think Los Angeles is turning around. I've been seeing efforts to reclaim some of the older buildings."
"As long as we persevere," Roth answered before tiring of the small talk. "What can we do for you today?"
"I would like to have a word with Emanuel Dega Abu."
This time Roth's smile was genuine because he was sincerely amused.
"And you will understand when I say that will be impossible. If the gentleman were here – which I cannot confirm – he would be a guest of one of our members. We don't disturb our members unless the matter is of some personal urgency."
"Perhaps you'd make an exception for police business, then?" Finn suggested.
"Is this official or an inquiry?" the man asked.
"All business I conduct is official, Mr. Roth," Finn answered.
"Are you implying an arrest?" Mr. Roth pressed.
"No, I am not," Finn said.
"Then is this a matter that speaks to his personal safety."
"No, it does not."
"A matter that threatens the security of this club?"
"No, Mr. Roth, it is a matter of a dead woman and this gentleman's knowledge of her. I will be brief and I will be respectful. Were I not up against a time constraint, I would be more considerate of the man's time. I'm sure you understand."
Finn smiled. Roth smiled back and it was clear he did understand; he understood he held all the cards.
"As sympathetic as I am to that, I can't breach protocol so that your investigation stays on track. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to find a more appropriate place to contact the gentleman."
Roth made a move to stand. Finn made a move of his own, crossing his legs, showing he had no intention of leaving.
"And I'm sure that Mr. Abu wouldn't mind speaking to me here as we have already socialized together. If you would just deliver him the message, we can let him decide what he would like to
do."
Roth's eyes darkened. Either he was annoyed with Finn's persistence or he was irritated by the detective's suggestion of familiarity with Abu.
"First, I don't know if this man is here—" Roth began only to have Finn interrupt.
"'Tis a bit strange that you don't know what everyone else in the city does, Mr. Roth. I read about this party in the newspaper; there was quite a big picture of Mr. Abu."
Roth colored. He did not like being challenged by a man in a torn leather jacket who, to him, looked like a thug. He smile was tight, his words clipped and his message clear when he spoke again.
"Be that as it may, unless you bring me a warrant I am not obligated to accommodate you."
Roth clasped his hands on the desk. Knowing he couldn't intimidate Finn O'Brien, he would at least put him in his place.
"This club is like a safe room for our members, Detective O'Brien. No one gets in who isn't supposed to and no one leaves unless they are assured they can go safely on their way. Not to mention a collared shirt and an intact jacket are required after four. On that score alone, detective, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
Finn rubbed his jaw as he contemplated how fickle fortune was. In the course of two days he had been the dandy at Number Four's party on the bridge over the freeway and now he was a pauper at Mr. Roth's. There was no winning in the game of style. Finn considered his options and knew that they were not just limited, they were nonexistent. Making a fuss inside The California Club would certainly not endear him to Captain Fowler, nor would it get him anywhere near Emanuel Dega Abu.
"Perhaps you're right," Finn sighed. "I'm a bit disappointed if only because I won't be able to see more of your beautiful establishment. I'm thinking there's no chance you might give me a bit of servant's tour before you toss me out?"
"I would be happy to oblige when you are appropriately attired," Roth answered.
"Next time I'm in the neighborhood, then. Given that I call first, of course. Unless I have a warrant." Finn stood up. Roth did the same.
"Do you have a card, Detective O'Brien?"
Finn shrugged, "Sadly, I'm all out."
"Pity," Roth went to the door and this time he opened it for Finn to go first. "I always like to know how to get in touch with a colleague should the need arise."
Finn passed him without comment. He knew exactly what Mr. Roth wanted: Finn in his Rolodex filed under ne're-do-wells, troublemakers, people he hoped never to see again lest they disturb the social balance so well honed within these hallowed walls and halls. Not that Mr. Roth couldn't get all the information he wanted should the need arise; a card would only have simplified things.
The security man made small talk as he escorted Finn back the way they had come. The talk was so small, in fact, that Finn could remember nothing of it except the last words that were spoken to him.
"Good-bye, detective."
"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Roth," Finn said, hesitating before he actually took his leave. "Out of personal curiosity, Mr. Roth, I wonder if you would answer a question for me."
"If I can."
"Does it not concern you that one of your guests might be implicated in a murder investigation?" Finn asked.
"No," came the answer.
The front door closed. Roth went back to his duties, the young girl behind the elegant desk continued with her equally elegant chores, men and women drank and ate without disturbance, deals were made, peoples lives were changed and fortunes grew. Only Finn O'Brien was empty handed and hungry. But the day was far from over and there was still time to change all that.
Instead of turning left and heading to Fifth Street where his car was parked, the detective turned right on Flower and walked to the second driveway on the street that led to the parking garage attached to The California Club. It was there he spied the valet and, as fate would have it, the big black car he had seen in The Mercato's parking lot. Finn walked across the drive toward the car and the man leaning up against it, unnoticed until he said:
"'Tis Rada, isn't it?"
***
Cordelia should have gone home long ago, but it had taken her a while to see to the kitchen sink. It couldn't be left as it was and the plumber couldn't come on short notice so she found the clean out, opened it and did the dirty work herself. All the while she thought ill of Missus Sharon.
Now it was late and she was tired, but she couldn't leave without seeing to Matt's apartment. It was the least she could do since he had no one else to look in and see how he was faring. If a boy had no one to care about him things could go very wrong in his life. Cordelia did not want that for Matt.
She finished up in the main house and went back to the apartment that used to be hers, opened the door and shook her head at the mess. There were things everywhere: dishes, schoolbooks, soccer balls, clothes and computers. Men. They were always happy to live in chaos. She started to put things right as best she knew how, thinking it would have been so much better if Mr. Stover were still alive. As odd as the father was, the man had loved his son. Washing up the glasses in the sink, Cordelia decided she would bake Matt a cake whether Missus Sharon cared or not.
She hung up his jackets and took note of the broken glass on the sliding door. She picked up the trophy from where it still lay at the foot of the door, wiped it with her apron and put it back on the shelf. Cordelia made a mental note to have the glass replaced, but she wouldn't have it done until Missus Sharon said there was the money. It wasn't good to get a reputation with the people who fixed things.
In the corner of the room was a pile of clothes that Cordelia started to sort through. When she couldn't tell which were clean and which needed washing she started to put them all in the laundry basket, stopping when she picked up more than clothes. Rummaging through the sweat pants and jeans and t-shirts, Cordelia found a purse buried under the pile of clothes.
"Chicas. No bien," she muttered.
Her Matt was too young to have girls over for the night. If he got one in trouble there would be hell to pay from Missus Sharon. Just as she was about to open the purse, Cordelia realized that it didn't belong to a girl at all. She had seen this purse in Missus Sharon's room. She had also seen the price tag and Cordelia thought it a sin to spend so much; money for fancy purses but not for the plumbing.
Cordelia put the blue purse on top of Matt's laundry and took it all with her. In the main house, she put the clothes in the washer before taking the purse to Missus Sharon to let her know that she had found it. Half way to the theater, she changed her mind. She had, after all, found it in Matt's room and the thought occurred to her that he was stealing from his stepmother. She hoped that was not the case, but that was what Missus Sharon would say. That crazy woman was strong as a man and filthy mouthed and she would only be angrier if she thought Matt was taking her things. No, Cordelia would put it away, back in her big closet and—
Just then Sharon Stover ripped open the door of the theater. Cordelia threw her arms behind her, hoping her employer wouldn't see the purse and ask what she was doing with it. Sharon didn't notice Cordelia much less what she was holding. The woman just went to the bar, poured herself a drink and then went out onto the deck to watch the sun go down the way she did every evening.
Relieved, Cordelia hurried upstairs to the closet that was as big as a house with its fancy couch and a table and a television. There were specially built shelves for Sharon's clothes and shoes and purses – and the glass-faced closet for the accessory that was so unique to that woman. Cordelia did not look at that closet in the same way she did not look at the painting of Missus Sharon in the living room or the film Missus Sharon was making. None of it was right. Missus Sharon had no shame.
Unable to find where the purse fit, Cordelia took it back to the living room and put it in the guest closet in the big room. She would pretend to find it there when Missus Sharon was in a better mood. That way the woman would think she had misplaced it herself, Matt wouldn't be in trouble for taking it and Cordelia wouldn'
t be in trouble for protecting him.
Satisfied with what she had done, Cordelia left the house, humming a little tune as she did so. Leaving always made her feel happy and when she passed Matthew on the driveway she waved at him to make him happy too. Matthew, though, drove by as if he didn't even see her. She might as well be a ghost to Missus Sharon and now even to her Matthew.
Maybe she wouldn't make a cake after all.
CHAPTER 22
Rada was dressed as he had been only the night before: black suit and tie, polished shoes, and starched white shirt. Upon hearing his name, he rose, turned and watched Finn approach. His expression betrayed neither surprise nor curiosity. Rada, Finn knew, was ready for anything except maybe what the detective was bringing this day.
"Detective O'Brien," Finn said when he was only a few steps from the big man. "Do you remember? I met you and Mr. Abu last evening at The Mercato. Small world, it is."
Rada said nothing but his eyes spoke volumes. His gaze went past Finn's shoulder and toward the door of the club.
"Is Oliver with you?" Finn understood the man's caution and the warning that whatever Finn wanted there wasn't much time in which to get it.
"No," Rada said.
"Ah, he has the day off then?" Finn was pleased to have caught the bodyguard alone. "And I imagine Mr. Abu will be out soon so I won't be wasting your time, Rada."
Finn moved a step closer, making sure to appear casual since the valet had his eye on them and seemed uneasy. Finn couldn't blame him. He and Rada huddling together must look like the worst toughs in L.A. The last thing Finn needed was another visit from Mr. Roth, so he smiled and waved to the valet as he spoke to Rada.
"I know you're in a tight spot and I sympathize, but you recognized the woman in that picture that I showed you last night. You knew her name was Takrit and yet you said nothing."
Although he didn't speak it was clear he was listening, so Finn rolled on.
Foreign Relations: A Finn O'Brien Thriller (Finn O'Brien Thriller Series Book 2) Page 16
