Inside Moves

by Walter Danley

  Brian pointed to the whiteboard. “The names in red are done. The notes under each name are what we’ve found. The names in green haven’t yet been reviewed.”

  Stacy walked over to the board and focused on the names in red. There it was, third from the top: “State v. Marcos Murtagh.” Under it, with fewer notes, she saw “Homicide—Fabio Murtagh.” Like a clap of thunder follows lightning, the connection jumped out at her. Papa and son, both criminals. Stacy knew their history with Lacey.

  Marcos, Fabio’s father, had two serious issues with Lacey: she had broken his kid’s heart when she had dumped him in college, and she had sent Daddy to Marion for twenty-five years.

  The young assistants continued to work through the paper piles. Wilson sauntered to Stacy’s side as she concentrated on the red names on the whiteboard.

  “What do you see that’s so interesting?’

  “The Murtaghs, Marcos and Fabio, father and son. They’re brutal, vicious criminals. I knew Fabio from Southie and—”

  Wilson smiled for the first time since Stacy had arrived. “You’re from Southie? Me too. What neighborhood?”

  “Mr. Wilson, I’ll trade Southie war stories some other time. I have work to do here and a plane to catch. Logan isn’t far, but sometimes it’s hard to find a cab, so if you don’t mind—”

  “Counselor, I understand perfectly, so how can I help? Zack Grandy briefed me on the situation—Kinkaid disappearing and all—so I’m more than half up to speed. Look, before I got wired to the DA here in Boston I was a homicide detective with the Boston PD. There, I was the lead on Fabio’s murder. These slimeballs deal drugs in the Midwest. They run gun trafficking in Africa and South America. They have prostitution mills from California to Missouri. I know this outfit inside and out.”

  Lacey smiled. “Impressive! Your help on these files would very welcome.”

  Wilson shook his head. “Naw, Southie, you don’t get it. I’m not talking about no files. Look, I’ve got a bunch of vacation time on the books. You fill in the blanks, I fly to LA, and I’m yours to find Kinkaid. Maybe we stomp a few cockroaches while we’re at it. How’s that sound?”

  Stacy wanted to cheer. Next to a blank check, getting him on the team was priceless. Renato Wilson was worth more than gold to this project.

  Investigator Wilson headed back to his office. Stacy called Greg to tell him what she had found on Murtagh and mentioned that Wilson was coming to LA to help with the search. She asked him to rebook her flight on an airline that would stay in business until she got home. When they left the office, Wilson insisted on buying Stacy dinner. She set the investigation hook when she told him about the Marcos Murtagh prosecution. She had the facts from Lacey’s files: drugs, prostitution, extortion—all the regular stuff.

  “Marcos got twenty-five years at Marion but walked after twelve on good behavior. If that scumbag was a model prisoner, there must be some very nasty types at Marion,” Stacy said. “On another subject, Lacey and I both knew the Murtagh family, including Fabio. When they lived in our neighborhood, Fabio was enamored with Lacey when he was a kid. He’d tease her every chance he got—she hated the brat. The Murtaghs moved to Beacon Hill when we were all in the eighth grade. Marcos Murtagh must have come into some big bucks about then, I guess.”

  Wilson took a sip of his beer. “After Marcos went away,” he said, “the kid took control of mob operations. He wanted to impress Pop, so he moved in on other crews’ territories, recruited their soldiers, or killed those who wouldn’t switch.”

  Their entrées arrived: Wilson had ordered a rib eye with peppercorn sauce, while Stacy had asked for the scrod with spring vegetables. Although California’s seafood was quite good, Stacy had never found a young cod or haddock on any menu. In her mind, nothing lived up to what you could get in Boston.

  “Fabio’s biggest mistake was getting into gunrunning,” Wilson continued, cutting into his steak. “The big guys had that business to themselves: Africa, Guatemala, and other garden spots. He stepped on a lot of toes and made plenty of enemies. When Fabio’s pals didn’t stand with him, guys came for him. We couldn’t put a pin in it, but my investigation fingered an assassin named Ariel Amiti. He’s a pro hitter out of Israel, but we never got the goods on him. Fact is, we never could find the dude for questioning.”

  Stacy let out a soft laugh. “Well, well, well, what a small world. We both know Mr. Amiti. Four years ago, the FBI linked him to the assassination of four businessmen. They caught him red-handed at the last hit in the Bahamas, but he broke out of jail.”

  Wilson raised an eyebrow at this revelation.

  Stacy continued, “Amiti showed up two months ago with his girlfriend, BJ Dreaver, in Salzburg. In fact, Lacey was the one who identified BJ from a photo her husband had taken there. The FBI didn’t get there fast enough, and the pair split to parts unknown.”

  “Girlfriend? Nothing we dug up on Amiti had him coupled up. Actually, I was beginning to think...Never mind. So who’s the dame?”

  While Wilson spoke, Stacy, the SEC litigator, was sizing him up since they were going to work together to find Lacey. He’s tough and experienced, and he knows the workings of the Murtagh mob. This guy’s been gone from Southie awhile, but I bet the neighborhood is still in his DNA. Yeah, Wilson is a gift.

  BY THE TIME WILSON dropped Stacy off at Logan Field, he was committed to finding Lacey and bringing her home safely.

  “I’m definitely going to pitch in to help you guys in LA,” he said. “The only time I was there was when I was rotating through from Nam. I’ve always wanted to spend some time on the West Coast. Maybe I’ll even run into our buddy, Amiti.”

  He got out of the car and grabbed Stacy’s duffel bag and attaché case from the backseat. As she stood on the terminal sidewalk, she thanked him for his help today and his future help in tracking down Lacey.

  “Have a safe flight, okay?” Wilson said. “I’ll see ya in LA Monday mornin’, for sure. Nice meeting up with you, Southie.”

  “Bye, Wilson, and thanks for everything. See ya Monday.”

  []

  EIGHT

  THE FIVE-PERSON LACEY RESCUE team convened its first meeting at Starr’s office in downtown LA on Wednesday. Wilson had arrived in LA a couple of days earlier and was staying with Wainwright in his condo. The Mulhollands had flown down from Sacramento. Following a short introductory meeting, everyone left Starr at his office and convened at a downtown restaurant. Wainwright’s plan was to grab a corner booth, eat lunch, and discuss Lacey’s case at length. Starr had a couple of appointments, so he couldn’t join them.

  The restaurant scene in downtown LA was always a circus. Too many people and too few eateries. With crowds waiting for vacant tables, Wainwright’s strategy caved under icy stares from hungry customers. After finishing their meal, the group exchanged their booth for seats on the grass at the Los Angeles Public Library. A most restful place to be anytime.

  Stacy’s discoveries pointed a flinty finger flatly at Marcos Murtagh as Lacey’s abductor. Although his crew had no known motive for her kidnapping, it was a promising lead. Wainwright shared a thought with his collaborators. “Isn’t it great that the only two people Lacey ever worked for are both helping to find her and bring her back safely? Starr is a valuable resource. DA Grandy, represented by Mr. Wilson here, is helping. Wilson, are you aware Starr is Grandy’s brother-in-law? I read that someplace. A longtime affiliation is a rare thing in politics.”

  When Stacy had called Greg from Boston with the news about Murtagh, he had pulled the FBI file on Murtagh and his mob. Murtagh’s lawyer, Ernest Cruz, was easy to locate and could be questioned as a material witness. Wainwright suddenly had one of his memory flashes and told the group about it. A woman—he assumed it was Lacey—had asked him why Cruz was at Bobby’s funeral reception. This was enough for Greg to question Cruz, the only connection they had to Murtagh. Wilson thought if Cruz had spied on Lacey at the funeral, he might also know where she was being held. Not a good bet, but th
e single one on the table. They were playing a game called life or death, and their opposition had invented the rules. The game’s first rule was to never let the other guy surprise you.

  FOR TWO HOURS THAT evening, Wainwright searched the condo. He had jotted down some notes, things he didn’t want to forget, but he couldn’t find them anywhere. As silly as it sounds, he couldn’t remember where he had put the notes. He still didn’t trust his frail, faulty organ with relevant information. According to Dr. Fitzgerald, however, his amnesia recovery was going well. Wainwright remembered the saying that a lost object always turns up in the last place you look. He felt some anger that he could remember a silly thing like that but nothing important. Finally, he found the notes in the pocket of his duster.

  Greg Mulholland: officially on Lacey’s case, the ASAC. FBI jurisdiction—kidnapping is FBI’s meat & potatoes. Works out of LA Federal Building. He and Stacy in gov. housing in LA.

  Stacy Mulholland: lovely, smart, creative legal eagle—taking a leave from SEC. Wants to find Lacey and support hubby.

  Renato Wilson: DA investigator, ex-cop, Southie. Stacy talked to him, and he jumped on the team. Houseguest at my condo. Friendly, smart guy. Has a rep of being good man in field.

  Carson Starr: top guy at JLS and Lacey’s boss. Firm - national - offices in major cities. Filed Lacey’s missing person’s report. Wants her in harness. Pal and brother-in-law of DA Grandy. Has given resources to our team.

  Wainwright was glad for the various talents of the people on his crew and their commitment to find Lacey. The Mulhollands were living temporarily in Westwood, about twenty minutes from his place. Starr said he’d make himself available to help out—with proper notice. What a guy! Wainwright thought in order to save Lacey, each team member needed to know all the information on the table—with one exception. He had exercised a husband’s prerogative not to share the Trinity Stormm findings. While the Mulhollands knew about some of it, Starr and Wilson had no need. Not yet. At this point, that ancient history amounted to little more than gossip. The first question the team had to consider was the most vexing: “Why did Murtagh—if it indeed was Murtagh—kidnap Lacey?”

  BJ AND AMITI PLANNED to stay in Los Angeles until the sale of Quinn Industries was completed. They decided to trade up from the little budget motel in Van Nuys to something nicer and closer to their new friend, Sean Quinn. The perfect answer was a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The iconic pink-and-green edifice on Sunset Boulevard would be their new home.

  With their Fuentes-supplied ID, they registered there as Mr. and Mrs. William O. Bailey. Besides phone calls to Monterrey and Quinn, BJ and her consort had little to occupy their time other than to shop Rodeo Drive. They enjoyed playing tourists, which they truly were. That night they went to the Bruin Theater in Westwood and saw Fighting Back, starring Tom Skerritt and Patti LuPone. Although they both enjoyed the movie, BJ’s favorite part was the late supper at the swanky Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel. She devoured the melt-in-your-mouth steak tartar, prepared tableside by their waiter, Sal.

  BJ whispered to Amiti, “See that man at the banquet on the right? I think it’s Charlton Heston. I’m going to ask for his autograph. Can you slide out so I can get up?”

  Amiti did not slide out. “BJ, please, no autographs. You’re a hotel guest, not a teenage tourist. Just sit and finish your meal. Mr. Heston wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted by a fanatical film fan, and remember, we’re trying to keep a low profile. Trust me, you don’t want his autograph.”

  BJ pouted but remained in her seat.

  THE NEXT MORNING, SEAN Quinn allowed the Murtagh offer to expire. Murtagh’s lawyers called, but Quinn explained he was no longer interested in selling. After he hung up, the phone immediately rang.

  “Quinn here.”

  “Mr. Quinn, this is Bailey. I wonder if I might interest you in joining me and a friend for lunch. We’ve relocated to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient? Yes, sir, I know Don Fuentes’s offer is in your hands, but that isn’t the purpose of my invitation. You see, my wife, Bea, and I have few acquaintances in your lovely city, and I’m afraid she’s become bored with my company. It would be an honor, as well as our pleasure, if you’d dine with us. Bea would very much like to meet you, and I know you’d enjoy her company. Oh, really? That’s wonderful. Say at one o’clock? Yes, the Polo Lounge at the Pink Palace. Thank you. Good-bye.”

  Surprisingly, Quinn agreed. Amiti was jubilant about expanding his personal relationship with the industrialist. He would ask the head chef to prepare something special for lunch at the poolside patio.

  “I’m so glad you did that, Ariel. But just so you know, I love your company, and I’m not bored with you in the least. It’s just...how much lying around the pool can a girl take? Look at me—I’m so tanned I could be mistaken for one of the Mexican housekeepers.”

  “My dear BJ, your wry sense of humor is exceeded only by your bronzed beauty. You get more beautiful every day. Remember, Don Fuentes provided a Mexican passport for you. With your new tan, you should pass easily.”

  “You think?” she said, stepping into her best celebrity-like pose.

  “And those new outfits you purchased are merely ornaments to adorn your fine form,” Amiti continued.

  “Oh, Ariel, I’m so glad we’re together. I love you, sweetheart. You make me feel so secure and cared for.”

  Amiti smiled. “Without you, my life would be a shamble. Actually, my life would be over without you. Your astute and timely appearance at that Bahamian jail saved it. I’m indebted to you and will always be dedicated to ensuring your happiness.”

  “I bet you say that to all the woman who bust you out of jail.” BJ noticed he had the TV on, but there was no sound. “What is that? How can you watch TV without sound?”

  “It’s a new cable channel, the Weather Channel. They report the weather all over the country.”

  BJ threw her head back and laughed. “A TV show about the weather will never survive into 1983.”

  “Have you thought about what you’ll wear to lunch tomorrow?” Amiti asked. “I recommend your pink sundress and matching sandals. They make a powerful statement: feminine and flirtatious. I like you in pink, BJ. With your new tan, it’s my favorite color for you.”

  “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing. I guess it is true—great minds run on the same track.”

  Amiti cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t think I know that quote. What wit espoused that wisdom?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I heard it someplace, I think. Anyway, I’m going to take a shower. Care to join me, sugar?”

  Amiti didn’t need to be asked twice.

  WAINWRIGHT HAD JUST stepped out of the shower when Greg called from the FBI’s LA office where he had been temporarily assigned.

  “I received the background reports on Lacey and BJ. It’s not good news, Garth. I’ll give you the gist of it. The details, if you need them...well, you can read the report later, okay?”

  “You’re the man. I’m standing here dripping wet in my birthday suit, so short is good,” Wainwright said.

  “In 1969, BJ met Trinity Stormm at a Harvard hangout. Trinity talked BJ into joining the escort business she ran. They worked together for six months before BJ was busted by the Boston PD, charged with sexual conduct for a fee. That’s hooking to you and me, pal.

  “BJ worked the public library, independent of Trinity. She was trolling for students who looked like they’d have money to pay to play. She solicited one boy who wasn’t impressed by her charms. He complained to one of the librarians, who called the cops. A few days later, they sent in an undercover cop to see what was happening with this good-looking hooker. BJ passed the cop a note offering sexual services for a hundred bucks. They busted her and hauled her cute little butt to jail. BJ sang like a nightingale in Berkeley Square, implicating her boss, Trinity Stormm.

  “The PD had little interest in busting another hooker. It just wasn’t that important to
them. BJ made bail in an hour and walked. That was it. End of report.”

  “Who put up the bail bond for BJ?”

  “The bond application was signed by Lacey Ann Kinkaid.”

  Wainwright sighed. “Great, just great.”

  What Greg had just told him amounted to an indictment of his wife.

  “Yeah, so now we know how Lacey was able to identify BJ in Salzburg,” Greg said. “I’m sorry, man.”

  Wainwright was thoughtful for a moment. “Thanks, Greg. I appreciate what you’ve done for me, even if the news is damning.”

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  Wainwright let out another long sigh. “Yeah, I guess. There’s nothing like having your lost memories replaced with facts that your ever-lovin’ is nothing but lies and deceit.”

  “Hang on, buddy. There might be a reasonable explanation. We’ll figure this out. Right now, though, I need to go home to Stacy. Her leg has been giving her trouble ever since her trip to Boston. When she takes off the brace, it helps if I massage her calf.”

  “Sure, Greg, but I had another small data piece drop in my lap. I wonder if you could check a name for me.”

  “Sure, who’s this lucky person you want investigated?”

  “No, nothing official. The guy’s name is Stanley Chambers. He’s from Boston. That city is sure getting a ton of attention, isn’t it? Anyhow, it popped into my brain that Lacey and I had lunch with him in Salzburg. He was in town and invited us to join him. We both went, but I remember Lacey was on edge, not her usual buoyant, bright being. It bothered me,” Wainwright continued. “Before I could ask her to explain her reaction to this guy, something else happened—I can’t remember what—and I never got the chance to ask. That’s all I’ve got—oh, he’s an investment portfolio manager. Did I say he’s from Boston? Yeah, okay, I did. That’s it, buddy. If you don’t mind running a records check, see if the guy has a criminal past or any outstanding warrants. Thanks. Oh, and give Stacy my love. By the way, do you plan on sharing this news with her?”