I showered and dressed in chinos and a blue oxford shirt, and then the phone started ringing again. I took the damned thing to the dining table I used as a desk and opened it.
“You’re dead,” said the mechanical voice.
“Not yet,” I said.
I made very strong coffee, then spent the next hour and a half making phone calls, confirming appointments.
By the time I met Del Rio at Santa Monica Airport, it was almost ten.
Time to fly.
Chapter 22
We boarded a Cessna Skyhawk SP, a spiffy and reliable single-engine aircraft, and Del Rio took his place beside me. Just like old times.
I looked at Rick. He looked back, our thoughts on the same track: Afghanistan, our friends who’d been killed in the helicopter, the fact that Del Rio had jump-started my heart and I owed him my life.
I wondered if he could tell me more about what happened that last day in Gardez. I’d gotten a medal for carrying Danny Young out of that burning helicopter. But I couldn’t ignore the nagging dreams. Was my mind doing a head-fake: protecting me from an unbearable memory and at the same time prodding me to remember?
“Rick, that last day in Gardez?”
“The helicopter? Why, Jack?”
“Tell me about it again.”
“I’ve told you everything I can remember.”
“It still isn’t clear for me. Something is missing, something I’m forgetting.”
Del Rio sighed. “We were moving troops to Kandahar. It was night. You were the section leader and I was copilot. We couldn’t see some raghead with his ground-to-air missile in the back of a truck. No one saw him. We took a hit to the belly. Nobody’s fault, Jack.
“You brought the Phrog down,” Del Rio said. “The bird was burning from the inside out-remember that? I got out the side door, and you went through the back. Guys from the dash two were running all over the field. I started looking for you. I found you with Danny Young in your arms. Always the hero, Jack, always the stand-up guy. Then the mortar hit.”
“I see snapshots, not the whole movie.”
“You were dead, that’s why. I pounded on your chest until you came back. That’s all I’ve got for you.”
The pictures just didn’t flow in consecutive order and wouldn’t make a whole. I saw the crash. I remembered running with Danny Young over my shoulder. I woke up.
Something was missing.
What didn’t I know? What else had happened on that battlefield?
I was still staring at Del Rio. He grinned at me. “Sweetheart. You gonna tell me you love me?”
“I do, asshole. I do love you.”
Del Rio laughed like hell and pulled his sunglasses down from the top of his cap. I busied myself with the checklist.
I got clearance from the tower, advanced the throttle, and taxied the Cessna down the runway. Gave it some right rudder to keep it rolling along the center line. When the airspeed indicator read sixty, I came back a touch on the yoke and the plane gently lifted, practically flew itself into the blue and sunny skies over Los Angeles.
Smooth as cream.
For the next hundred minutes I flew the plane as if it were a part of my body. Flying is procedure, procedure, procedure, and I knew it all by heart. I listened to the radio chatter in my headset, and it erased my tormenting thoughts.
I forgot the dream and lost myself in the wonder of flight.
Chapter 23
Just after noon, we landed at Metropolitan Airport on San Francisco Bay.
We rented a car and hit some heavy traffic on the Harbor Bay Parkway, arriving at the Oakland Raiders’ practice field half an hour late for our appointment with Fred.
I gave my card to the security guard at the main gate, and Del Rio and I were waved through to the natural-grass practice field where professional football players were running pass patterns and pursuit drills. On the far end, two placekickers took turns booting field goal tries from the forty-yard line.
Fred was standing on the sideline at midfield and came over to greet us. I introduced Del Rio, saying that he would be working with me on the case.
My uncle waved in a few of the Raiders’ high-profile players-Brancusi, Lipscomb, and tailback Muhammed Ruggins-guys who were earning millions a year. Jeez, were they big. We talked about the upcoming game with Seattle and then turned our attention to the Raiders’ talented quarterback Jermayne Jarvis, who was out there taking snaps.
I said, “I can’t get over his timing on those square outs. It’s like he knows precisely when the receiver will turn.”
Fred said, “You did good at Brown, Jack. You could throw it on a rope. You’re better off that you didn’t try and go pro, though.”
I couldn’t have. I didn’t have the size for it, or probably the arm. Plus the Ivy League isn’t exactly the Big Ten or the SEC.
I saw a light go on behind Fred’s eyes. “So, Jack, maybe you and Rick want to toss the ball around with some of my guys?”
I protested, said, “Are you crazy? I thought you cared about me.” But Del Rio looked like a kid who’d just won a video store sweepstakes.
He and I went out to the field and took turns running ten-yard crossing patterns as Jermayne Jarvis fired strikes at us.
Having warmed up, I found myself getting into it. But as I reached for one of Jarvis’s precision darts, I ran into Del Rio, knocking us both down. Fred trotted over, put his hands on his knees, and while laughing at me, said, “That was beautiful, Jack. Poetry in motion. Now I’ve got something to show you that’s not so funny.”
We walked off the field through a long concrete hallway and a series of locked doors until we got to Fred’s office. He opened a locked cabinet and took out a banker’s box full of what he said were DVDs of the past twenty-eight months of NFL games.
“I flagged those eleven games that raised real questions. Check them out, and let’s compare notes.”
Then he told me where I should start looking for the crooks who were threatening to shut down professional football.
“I’ve never asked you for anything before, Jack, but this time I’m asking. I need your help.”
Chapter 24
It was dark when I got back to my house. A waxing moon spotlighted the roof, which was just visible over the high steel-reinforced gate.
I was pulling the Lamborghini into my garage when I saw headlights in the rearview mirror.
The lights followed right on my tail, flashing, someone signaling to me. I braked, turned off the engine, and got out. I saw a black sedan easing into my driveway. Who the hell was it?
I waited by the side of my car until a front door of the sedan opened. The driver got out. He unbuttoned his jacket as he came striding toward me. “Mr. Jack Morgan?”
When I said that I was, he said, “Mr. Noccia wants to speak to you. It’s important.”
“I don’t want to talk to anybody right now,” I said without pause. “Please be careful backing out. You don’t want to get T-boned on the highway.”
“You’re sure that’s what you want me to tell him?”
I was pretty sure. I stood my ground as the driver went back to the Town Car. I waited for it to leave, but instead the passenger-side door opened. A second man got out, and he opened the rear door for a third man. And then the three of them closed the distance between us.
I recognized Ray Noccia.
He was wearing a gray sport jacket and had gray hair, gray skin, and a nose that cast a shadow on his cheek. Reality hit me. A Mafia don, a made man who had ordered dozens of executions, was standing in my driveway. It was nighttime. Nobody had seen him come. Nobody would see him leave.
He stuck out his hand. “Ray Noccia,” he said. “Good to meet you.”
I kept my hand in my jacket until he put his down. A dark look passed over his face, as though I’d slapped him or pissed on his shoes.
Then Noccia smiled. “Your father and I did some business,” he said. “That’s why I sent my attorneys to talk with yo
u. Apparently they offended you in some way. I owe you an apology, and I make my apologies in person.”
“No apology needed,” I said.
There was no humor in his smile.
“Good. So you’ll look for Beth for me? I understand the rules. No quote. No ceiling. I’ll pay your rate plus a bonus when you find her. That’s because you’re the best.”
It was time that I ended this, now and for the future.
“Your men know where they buried her. Save your money. Drill down on them.”
There was a leaden pause. Noccia didn’t take his eyes away from mine, and when he spoke, his words were almost drowned out by the rush of traffic and the Pacific surf.
“You’re much better educated than your father, but you’re not half as smart,” said Noccia. “And look how he ended up.” He turned and walked back to his car.
I had probably gone beyond the realm of bravado, but I didn’t care. Ray Noccia had already said the worst thing he could to me-that he and my father had worked together.
My hand was shaking when I put my key in the lock of the front door. I hoped I’d never see or hear from Ray Noccia again.
Fat chance.
Part Two
Number Thirteen
Chapter 25
Morning light flattered the trash dunes with a rosy glow, and seagulls screamed bloody murder as they swooped over the acres of garbage at the Sunshine Canyon landfill. Breakfast was served.
Justine pulled her Jag over to the side of the road and stared out at the landscape. I twirled the dial on her police band radio until the signal was clear. She opened her thermos, passed it over to me. I took a sip.
The coffee was black, unsugared. That’s the way Justine liked just about everything: straight up, no bullshit.
We hadn’t exchanged an intimate touch in more than two years, but sitting next to her in the close confines of the car, I found it tough not to reach over and take her hand. It had always been confusing, even when we were together.
“How’s it going?” she asked me.
Cops were picking over the dump across the road. We could hear them talking to base over the police band.
I said, “Andy Cushman has about twenty pissed-off former clients, any one of whom has the means, the opportunity, and especially the motive to kill him. So why kill Shelby instead? I’m not getting anywhere on it.”
“Sorry to hear that, Jack. But what I meant was, how’s it going for you?”
Actually, what she meant was, how was it going for me and Colleen-and I didn’t want to get into that with her. Instead I said, “I have a new case to work on. It’s heavy-duty and personal. You remember me telling you about my uncle Fred.”
“Football guy.”
“Yeah. He’s worried that some of the games are being fixed. Could result in a huge scandal, the biggest since the Black Sox in baseball.”
“Wow,” Justine said.
“I’m having dreams again,” I said.
Justine’s eyebrows lifted. I had wanted to talk to her, but now I was going to have to really talk. Tell a shrink you’re having dreams, it’s like dangling string for a kitten.
“Dreams about what?” she asked. “The same ones?”
So I told her. I described the vivid explosions, running across the field with someone I love over my shoulder, never making it to safety.
“Could be survivor’s guilt, I guess. What do you think, Jack?”
“I wish the dreams would stop.”
“You’re still funny,” she said, “with the one-liners.”
I opened the folder I had wedged under the armrest and looked at the photo that Bobby Petino had e-mailed to Justine this morning. It was a school portrait of a pretty sixteen-year-old girl named Serena Moses. She’d been reported missing last night. Serena lived in Echo Park, a section of East LA that Justine called “the red zone,” the Schoolgirl killing field.
Two hours after Serena’s parents called the police, an anonymous and untraceable call had come in to 911 saying that Serena’s body was here in the landfill.
Just then, voices came over the police radio, one sharper and louder than the others.
“I’ve got something. Could be human. Oh, Christ…”
“Let’s go,” I said, opening the car door on my side.
“No, Jack. I’ve got to do this alone. If you come with me, I’ll lose my street creds. Just hang tight.”
I said okay. Then I watched Justine cross the empty street and head toward where the police were already taping off a section of the stinking terrain.
Chapter 26
Justine lifted her hand in a wave to Lieutenant Nora Cronin, who gave her the customary dirty look before turning back to the black construction-grade trash bag lying like a crashed balloon at her feet.
Justine’s chest tightened as she remembered another schoolgirl who’d been dumped here a year ago encased in a similar black plastic bag. Her name was Laura Lee Branco, and she had been knifed through the heart.
Cronin cut the tie with a pocketknife, and the bag fell open.
An arm tumbled out, almost in slow motion, the palm and fingers outstretched. It took Justine a long, heart-stopping moment to understand what she was seeing.
“What the hell?” Cronin said, pulling back the edges of the bag to reveal a department store dummy. Two other cops tugged the mannequin out of the bag.
Cronin turned over the female form and inspected it. There was no writing on the dummy, no note inside the black bag.
“So what’s the big message?” Cronin asked the air. “You’re the shrink, right?”
“The medium is the message,” Justine said. “It’s a dummy, get it? The implication is that we’re being played.”
Cronin said, “Why, thank you, Justine. That’s very astute. It’s a frickin’ waste of time, that’s what it is. And it definitely isn’t Serena Moses.”
Justine reeled from a wave of relief that was immediately followed by sadness. Serena Moses was still missing, wasn’t she? They still didn’t know where she was, or whether she was alive or dead.
She glared back at Cronin. “So where is Serena, Lieutenant? I guess you’re going to have to keep looking. I hope you’re as good as you think you are.”
Chapter 27
Justine thanked principal Barbara Hatfield for her introduction and then she took the stage of the auditorium.
The newly refurbished Roybal High School had five thousand students, but only the junior and senior girls were permitted to attend her talk that afternoon. The principal had told Justine that her presentation was just too graphic and scary for the younger girls.
Justine thought she understood, but frightening the girls was a necessary by-product of informing them. And most of the girls who’d been killed were in the lower grades. The principal hadn’t budged, though.
“I’m a psychologist,” Justine told the students in the auditorium. “But I’m also investigating the murders of the high school girls that you’ve all read about on the Internet and seen on TV.”
Someone sneezed up front. There was nervous laughter, and Justine waited it out.
“First, I want you to know that Serena Moses is safe. She was hit by a car and taken to a hospital. When she woke up this morning, she told the doctors her name. Serena has a broken arm, but she’s fine and she’ll be back at school soon.”
The kids broke out into applause. Justine smiled. But Serena’s being safe had raised a question for her: How did the killer know to fake an e-mail about her? Had he been watching the girl? Had they been watching her?
“It’s a big relief,” she said, feeling her eyes get moist. “But we have to talk about the girls in this area who weren’t so lucky.”
Justine nodded to the teacher’s assistant who was running her PowerPoint presentation.
The lights went down, and the sweet, smiling face of a teenage girl came onto the screen.
“This is Kayla Brooks. She was a junior at John Marshall. She wanted to be a docto
r, but before she even graduated from high school, she was shot four times for no reason at all.
“Her life, her future, the children she might have had, the doctor she might have become-all of that is over.”
The pictures of Kayla’s body came up on the screen, and the sound of girls crying out almost tore Justine apart. She had to keep going. Bethany ’s picture was next, then Jenny, a student at this school, and then the rest of the names and pictures and stories, including that of Connie Yu, who had died only five days ago.
“We know that whoever killed these girls had information about them that he used to gain their trust.”
Justine explained about Connie’s recovered cell phone and the text message from an unlisted phone.
“Girls, Connie’s friend did not text her. This was a fake message, a trick-and it worked. So how can you know if someone is trying to fake you out?
“If anyone, anyone at all, asks you to go somewhere alone, don’t go. Tell the girls in the lower grades, don’t go anywhere alone. Do you understand?”
There was a sibilant chorus of girls’ voices saying yes.
“I want everyone to stand up,” Justine said. “And I want you to repeat something after me.”
There was the shuffling sound of a thousand kids getting to their feet, seats slapping against the chair backs, books ringing as they hit the floor.
The voices sang out in ragged unison, following Justine’s words. “I promise. I won’t go anywhere. Alone.”
Justine hoped that she’d reached the girls. But she was still afraid. That one of these girls was thinking she was special, that she knew better than Justine, that she was the one who would never die.
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