by M. Z. Kelly
I turned the information over in my mind for a moment. China had worked for Discrete and would have known about Marcello’s past and the potential threat he posed to Michael and her future family. It might have been that Michael wouldn’t listen to her concerns, so she asked Stanley to intervene.
“You said earlier that you think the Mishio Sequence got Michael and China killed,” I said. “What exactly did you mean?”
“When Abex invested in R & D with Michael’s company, MWC Enterprises, there was an exclusivity agreement. In the event of Michael’s death, the rights to the Mishio Sequence and the software reverted entirely to Abex Holdings.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
At Lieutenant Edna’s direction I called special agents Walsh and Jones after leaving Hank Stanley’s office and asked them to meet us at the station so I could update them on what I’d learned. Edna said that Charlie and Jessica would join the meeting in progress.
By early afternoon, I’d finished apprising Edna, Pearl, and the two FBI agents of what Hank Stanley had said and then summarized our case.
“Marcello began his career in organized crime in the mid-1980s. After his brother, Tony, went missing, Discrete became his flagship business. It got off the ground with the help of a couple of young officers named Arroyo and Andrews who tipped Marcello off about an undercover investigation and offered protection for the business. The escort service earned millions from prostitution, along with Marcello’s other illegal businesses.
“Discrete eventually started catering to an exclusive list of wealthy and powerful men. Mags Warner facilitated the exclusive list after Marcello lost faith in Marla West. Mags eventually agreed to let her sister, China, become one of Discrete’s exclusive escorts to further her career. Marcello used the exclusive clients for his own purposes, blackmailing the customers by telling them that he’d keep quiet about their indiscretions in return for political or business favors.
“Harmon Sanders was one of these men. But at some point, Marcello decided Sanders couldn’t be trusted. He was removed from the exclusive client list, but Sanders went behind Marcello’s back directly to Marla West for some girls. The mob boss probably knew what he was up to and, at the suggestion of Arroyo and Andrews, came up with a plan to use Sanders as cover for another plan.
“Marcello had become aware of Michael Clinton’s inventions and patents through either China or Mags. He created Abex Holdings to funnel his illegal profits into an overseas tax shelter that invested in revenue and development in Michael’s company. He eventually gained an interest in Clinton’s proprietary algorithm and software, by agreeing to fund the R & D in return for millions in profits and, according to Hank Stanley, an arrangement that the patent would revert to Abex in the event of Clinton’s death.”
“Why do you suppose Stanley withheld that piece of information from all of us?” Special Agent Walsh asked.
“Fear,” I said. “Stanley is deathly afraid of Jimmy Marcello. I think it took all of his courage to talk to Michael Clinton after China came to him with her concerns about Marcello’s stake in her future husband’s businesses. When Michael told him to stay out of things, Stanley was probably worried that what he’d said could get back to Marcello. After Michael and China were killed, Stanley, no doubt, became even more frightened of the mob boss and was determined to keep his mouth shut, until everything started to unravel.”
I accepted a bottle of water from Agent Jones and continued, “After the court case was settled and Michael Clinton got the rights to his algorithm and software back, Marcello used Sanders as insurance for his plan to kill Clinton and obtain the rights to his patents. When the killings of Michael Clinton and China Warner were determined to be a homicides, Sanders’s gun, which Arroyo and Andrews knew was tied to a national ballistics database, became instrumental in having Sanders take the rap for the murder.”
After my summary had settled in for a moment, Pearl said, “What Kate didn’t say is that her own father may have been killed by either Arroyo or Andrews at Marcello’s direction in the mid-eighties to foil the undercover investigation of Discrete and Marcello’s murder of his own brother. Unfortunately, we may never know the exact details of that arrangement.”
I agreed with what Pearl had postulated, but felt hollow inside, knowing that the man who pulled the trigger on my father’s death would probably never be known.
“So, where does this leave us?” Edna asked the two FBI agents.
Agent Walsh said, “I think we have a pretty good idea about how everything was carried out. We certainly have enough for the IRS to audit Marcello’s businesses and his ties to Michael Clinton. But that process will take years, of course, and Marcello will tie up everything with lawyers and accountants.”
I sipped my water, knowing what she was saying was true. We had enough to go after Marcello’s money trail, but not enough to go to the DA for a murder charge.
“Sorry we’re late,” Charlie said, coming through the door with Jessica trailing behind. Bernie came over from the corner where he’d been resting and did a tail-wag. “The bank gave us the bureaucratic run-around.”
“It was worth it, though,” Jessica said, sliding into a seat between Charlie and Pearl. She emptied out the contents of a manila envelope onto the table. “We were finally able to match the safe deposit key found in Trent Andrews’s home to a financial institution. We found this in his safe deposit box at Pacific World Bank.”
“It’s a statement, written and signed by Trent Andrews,” Charlie said. “Why don’t you read it, Jessica?”
Jessica unfolded a single sheet of notebook paper and began reading.
“To whom it may concern;
In the event of my death, I Trent James Andrews hereby want it known that I have been complicit in the murder of one, Anthony Marcello. That action was taken at the direction of Tony’s brother, James Marcello. Tony’s body is buried in the desert approximately twenty miles from the city of Las Vegas, as indicated by the following markers and coordinates.
I take full responsibility for my actions, but want it known that the homicide was commissioned solely by James Marcello in return for financial compensation.”
“It’s signed by Andrews and dated July 9th, 1985,” Jessica said.
“There should be enough information to lead us directly to Tony Marcello’s body,” Charlie added.
“It looks like our former fucking captain had written his own insurance policy,” Edna said, unable to control his language. “But he was probably too afraid to tell Marcello about it.”
“It does nothing for our current case,” I said, “But one thing is certain. We have enough to take Marcello down for the murder of his own brother.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
It took us the rest of the afternoon to get the murder warrant for Jimmy Marcello’s arrest. I was resigned to probably never knowing for sure if Marcello was behind the murder of my father, but there was no doubt that he had both the motive and means to carry out the killing.
As for the wedding murders, Harmon Sanders, the mayor’s deceased chief of staff, would probably take the fall for the crimes alone, for lack of a specific tie to the crime boss. The only thing I knew for sure was that if we could make him for the murder of his brother, Marcello would spend the rest of his rotten life in prison.
Captain Tuttle had been temporarily reassigned to our unit and called in to coordinate Marcello’s arrest with the feds. Tuttle was in his early forties, a go getter who it was said had aspirations of becoming chief one day. He had the smile, charm, and a television anchor’s head of hair, all prerequisites for being a big shark in LAPD’s choppy waters.
“We’ve had eyes on Marcello’s yacht since mid-afternoon,” Tuttle said to the assembled taskforce at Homicide Special in downtown Los Angeles. “To our knowledge, he’s onboard with about twenty associates and crew members. We plan to move in quickly, using SWAT for the initial boarding and takedown. I want this to be precise and surgical. Marcello’s associat
es and crew members are no doubt armed, so we need to be prepared for resistance.”
On our way to Newport Beach, I got Mack on the phone. “It looks like something’s breaking here and I’m in for a long night.”
“Just be safe. I’ll be here when you get off duty. We may have a long night with Thelma, anyway.”
“Sounds like we’re going to be grandparents soon.”
“Just call me, Granddaddy,” he said before ending the call.
Once we got to Newport Beach, we set up a staging area a couple of blocks from where the Carina was docked. Bernie paced, anticipating the action, as Charlie, Jessica, and I put on helmets and flak vests.
“I hope you both realize that I’m responsible for breaking this case,” Jessica said. “I expect to receive full credit for taking down one of the biggest crime bosses in the history of Hollywood.”
Charlie lost his happy smile for the first time in days. He looked over at Jessica. “If Marcello’s convicted we all get credit or no one does.”
“If you will remember, I’m the one who found the safe deposit key and matched it to the bank.”
Charlie’s usual scowl had now officially returned in all its glory. “Listen to me, Butterface. The key was in plain sight in Andrews’s house and we both made calls until we matched the serial number to a bank. It was basic police work.”
“What did you just call me?” Jessica snarled. “Was that some kind of weight reference? Because, if that’s the case, I won’t stand for it.”
“Actually, I was referencing your less than attractive facial features, Jessica, but since you mentioned weight, I want you to know that I’m personally offended by your previous comments to me.”
“You need to have a brain to be offended and, just so you know, Detective Tubby, I’m making a formal complaint against you and your partner.”
Now I was angry. “For what?”
“Harassment, verbal intimidation, and a hostile work environment for starters.”
The argument was broken up by Tuttle’s order to move out. It was probably a good thing because Jessica’s homicide was imminent. I was making plans to throw her body into shark-infested waters as we drove a block to the harbor.
We waited about a hundred yards from the Carina as SWAT made the initial entry onto the yacht, announced by the flash and bang of nonlethal grenades. Ten minutes later, we were told that Marcello had not been located, but that the boat had been secured without resistance.
We moved out to assist with a more thorough search of the yacht. In the process, Bernie and I got separated from Charlie and Jessica who went below deck.
I decided to look through the cabin where we’d talked to the mob boss a few days earlier, thinking there might be some paperwork there that would lead us to Marcello.
After Bernie and I poked around the glass-enclosed upper cabin for a few minutes, a panel suddenly opened behind me. I turned and saw that Jimmy Marcello was on his knees, pushing his way into the cabin like a rat that was abandoning a sinking ship. Bernie was in full attack mode, straining on his leash and growling.
“Do not move or I release the dog,” I said, fixing my weapon on Marcello’s head. I called it in using the tactical microphone affixed to my shirt.
The mob boss stood, held his hands up, and smiled at me. It was one of those arrogant little smirks that normally would have irritated the hell out of me, but not this time. The smile didn’t bother me at all. It only lasted for just a few seconds.
Then Jimmy Marcello’s head exploded.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The Wolf paces in the penthouse like a caged animal. He turns, snaps off the TV, and picks up the ringing phone. “I suppose you’ve seen everything that’s happened,” he says to the caller. “It’s all coming apart.”
“What are you talking about?” I was just calling to see when you’re coming by.” The voice is calm, Patrician, and cold.
“Marcello is dead. It’s been on TV all evening. There was a raid by the cops, but somebody got to him first. The reporters have been saying the authorities made him for the killing of his brother.”
“Tony? I’d almost forgotten about him.”
There’s a hesitation. In his mind, The Wolf can see the caller’s palatial estate where he’s been so many times.
The voice on the line comes back. “So they connected Jimmy to a murder case that’s over two-decades old. What are you worried about?”
“The trail will eventually lead to us.”
There’s a burst of staccato laughter. “All the little breadcrumbs have been destroyed. You worry like the old fool that you are.”
The Wolf exhales slowly. “You don’t understand.”
“Perhaps you should fill me in.”
“Marcello. He set us up. Our interest in the business, the software, the sequence, and the money are all gone.”
The caller’s voice is now suddenly full of anxiety. “What? How could that be?”
The Wolf walks out to the deck overlooking the city. He takes a few minutes, explaining how they have been betrayed and everything has unraveled. “He used us in the worst way imaginable. Now that Marcello’s out of the way...he will be coming for us. We’re not safe.”
A watery, anxious voice comes back on the line. “What should we do?”
“We need to leave the country now,” The Wolf says. “Start packing.”
“How did you find everything out?”
“I looked deeper into the financials and confronted Marcello earlier today. He admitted everything.”
“And you killed him?”
It’s now The Wolf’s turn to laugh before explaining how the mob boss had also been set-up, swindled out of millions, before he was murdered. “We did the dirty work, then he killed Marcello, and now we’re next on the list.”
The voice on the line is now urgent and desperate. “I’ll wait here for you. Hurry.”
The Wolf hangs up the phone and takes a deep breath. He walks over to the dark skyline of the city, tears stinging his face. He is no longer The Wolf, the one who has looked into the eyes of those he’s killed without remorse.
He is finished, a broken, empty shell of a man—a man who murdered his own stepson.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
We spent the night locking down the harbor and searching for Jimmy Marcello’s killer. The 50-caliber bullet that had blown up the mob boss’s head had exploded through the window of Carina’s cabin. From the trajectory, we determined that it was fired from a high-powered rifle in a condominium complex that faced the water. By the time we got there, the shooter was gone.
“It was a professional hit,” Captain Tuttle said. “Someone didn’t want us to get to Marcello and make him talk.”
Like we could get Marcello to tell us anything, I thought, as my phone rang. The call was from UCLA Medical Center. “Detective Sexton, this is Dr. Aseema. I’m calling about a patient named, Mags Warner. She’s been asking for you.”
***
Forty minutes later, Charlie and I were on the sixth floor of the UCLA Neuroscience ICU, talking to Dr. Aseema. Jessica had decided to wait downstairs after telling us that hospitals were full of germs and she didn’t want to get exposed to anything. She had reluctantly agreed to keep Bernie with her, while Charlie and I went upstairs.
“Ms. Warner is awake and conscious, but she’s still very weak,” Dr. Aseema said. “I will give you five minutes. Not a minute more.”
We thanked the doctor and found Mags in a bed with more tubes in her body than I could count. The room was full of machines that hummed and beeped and flashed numbers. I remembered that Charlie had been in a similar room not long ago and hoped the stress of recent events wouldn’t be too much for him.
Mags’s head was swathed in bandages, but her eyes opened and she said my name.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, trying to meet her blue eyes, which were glassy and swimming.
“Like...ssshhittt...”
“Who did this to you, M
ags? Who shot you?”
“Marcello...he didn’t want me...to talk...”
“About what? What didn’t he want you to tell us?”
“He wanted the...” Mags’s eyes rolled back in her head. Her body shuddered and she had trouble catching her breath.
A nurse came into the room and checked the machinery, made notes on her chart. She left in a hurry.
“Tell me about Marcello,” I said. She was unresponsive. I thought maybe she’d gone back into her coma. “Mag’s talk to me.”
Her eyes slowly came open. “Michael’s pppattennnt...that’s why he had them killed...for the money.”
I looked up and saw that Dr. Aseema was already back in the room, his hand on my arm.
“She must rest now,” the doctor said. “It is too much stress.”
Mags mumbled something. I leaned closer and heard her say, “He used the po...police ...”
“One more question,” I said to Dr. Aseema who was now tugging on my arm. I turned back to Mags. “The police, Mags. Did someone on the police department kill Michael and China?”
Her eyes were closed and I thought I’d lost her. There was long breath before her eyes half opened, her blue iris peeking at me. I leaned closer as she whispered, “It was Harrrryy...”
I looked at the doctor, over to Charlie, then back to Mags. “Harry Clinton?”
Mag’s head rolled back, her mouth came open. “Yeeesss...he killed them...for mmm...”
“For who Mags? Who did he kill them for?”
But it was too late. Mags had gone away again, back into the coma where she would fight for her life. Dr. Aseema practically pushed us out of the room.
Once we were back in the elevator, I said to Charlie, “Who do you think she meant?”
