by Fante, Dan
Archer’s face twisted. “C’mon, Fiorella, what are we both doing here?”
“For your information, I’m not on Swan. I’m on the daughter, Sydnye.”
Archer rolled his eyes. “What? You’re kiddin’? You’re on Sydnye for your friend Woody’s death? Why?”
“A few weeks ago she cut me off in her car. I didn’t know the girl from Madonna. I chased her down after she got crazy and threw a metal coffee mug at my car on the Coast Highway and almost caused an accident. Then, a few minutes later, after I caught up with her, we butted heads inside Guido’s Restaurant at Cross Creek Road.”
“I know the place. What happened?”
“I smeared oil on her hair and her tits and knocked her off her chair. She stood up and threatened me. Then, a couple of days later, the car I was driving got torched. Then my friend Woody wound up dead.”
Archer was sneering. “Jesus! Sydnye Swan? Now that is a curve ball.”
“Karl Swan was not on my radar until you mentioned him a minute ago.”
Archer leered at me, then began shaking his head. “Jesus, you know, it so happens she could have done that before, Fiorella. I mean the road-rage act. She has no jacket with any law enforcement agency—Daddy and his lawyers saw to that—but I know from the digging I’ve done that she once supposedly held some guy hostage for several hours on Kanan Road, soaked him with gasoline, and almost sliced him up over the same kind of thing. There is another incident too. Also hearsay. Naturally, nothing stuck.”
I stared at Archer. “So, is it possible?” I asked. “Could they both be psycho killers? Like daddy, like daughter?”
“Look, like I said, our Santa Monica murder profile isn’t a one-hundred-percent fit because all the killings we know about happened on Point Dume. You pal Woody was the only exception.”
“Can you give me what you have on Sydnye?” I said. “I’ll do the rest.”
Archer looked around the now empty parking lot, then faced me. “You’re not trustworthy, Ace. You’re a material witness in your friend’s murder.”
“If you say so.”
Archer sneered. “I just haven’t found you yet. By the way, where’s his cock? Did you take it?”
“Get real! Why would I take my friend’s cock?”
“His DNA was on the kitchen counter in your apartment on a napkin I took, along with a pubic hair. A single pubic hair.”
“Can you just keep me out of this?” I asked. “I don’t need the heat. I think we can help each other.”
“We know you didn’t kill the guy but the moves you made so far have pissed off a roomful of people. I can’t do much but I’ll do what I can. Anyway, we’ve been reassigned —me and Afrika. Now they won’t let me anywhere near the murder book.”
“Just give me Sydnye. Point me in that direction.”
Archer adjusted his belt holster and leaned back in the seat. “Look, the girl’s a ghost. She’s managed to stay almost completely off the grid. But fifteen months ago I interviewed an ex-maid of her dad’s in Ensenada. I speak enough Spanish to get my point across so I made the drive down there trying to dig up more on my one murder.”
“You’re a stubborn guy, Archer,” I said. “I admire that in a cop. And I promise you, I don’t admire cops.”
“Turns out that my boy Karl does what that Scientologist actor, Tom Cruise, does with everyone who goes to work for him. He’s done it for years. All employees sign a binding contract with a code-of-silence clause in it in front of a tableful of attorneys. Anyway, when I finally got to Leticia, the maid, who’s sitting there scared shitless after quitting him eighteen months before, I eventually got her talking about Sydnye and her relationship with Swan. Just bear in mind that all this basically comes from one source, okay? According to Leticia, the kid’s a whack job. She’s been on heavy meds for years. Hey, maybe you two were roommates in some nuthouse in another life. I know that you still get the headaches, right?”
“Keep going, Detective, unless you’d like me to start drooling and speaking in tongues.”
“You’re not really crazy at all, are you?”
“No, I’m not. I’m an ex-drunk with a short fuse. That’s about it.”
“Sydnye was educated in Europe—Switzerland, Leticia says—and she’s been in and out of institutions over there since she was ten or eleven. Diagnosed, Leticia remembered, as crazy by a roundtable full of shrinks at the UCLA nut ward.”
“That’s my girl,” I said. “Rich and spoiled and batshit nuts.”
“From what Leticia told me, when Sydnye goes off her meds, her personality runs to extremes. Swan’s been bailing her out and covering for her most of the kid’s life. So Pops teaching her all he knows sort of fits, in a rather extreme and very sick way.”
“I’m betting she’s the one who did my friend Woody, Archer! Without Pops. All I did was pour some motor oil on the girl’s tits and she starts killing.”
“One more detail,” Archer said. “Supposedly, she’s also some kind of high-level computer hacker. She might have worked for the government. Not here—not our government—in Switzerland. She’s fluent in German, or so the maid told me.”
“That could be a fit,” I said. “I think she torched my mother’s car and dug up my old arrest jacket and got me fired and probably was behind an identity theft on a car I sold for the Toyota people—and Christ knows what else.”
“Can any of that stuff stick?”
“Only this: Woody got killed. Two days before I found him, he told me he was dating a new girl who he called Laighne—a computer whiz, he said. Sydnye and Laighne sound like they just might be the same girl.”
Archer nodded. “Look, here’s the deal: I can’t make any moves. But I think we can help each other.”
I met Archer’s eyes. “I’m the outside man.”
“I was wrong, okay,” Archer snarled. “The pieces might add up to something.”
“Look, Detective, I’ve got nothing to lose here. I’ve got nothing on the table. I’m not like you. I’m no cop. I’m in this for the payback. Just tell me, can I have what you have on Sydnye. I need your notes. E-mail names, websites, known associates, previous jobs and relationships and addresses. Whatever you’ve got.”
Archer pulled out a personal business card—not his detective card—and circled a number on it with his pen. “Call me tomorrow at this number. Like I said, it’s a pretty thin file, mostly computer trace stuff and what I got from the maid, Leticia. But I do have a list of known acquaintances and a European website that I tracked down.”
“That’s a start,” I said. “And I’ll give you as much as I can on Swan’s involvement as it comes down. That’s a promise.”
Archer grinned. “They’ve got me and Afrika sweeping the floor and sorting through cold cases at our desks these days, but I’ll do what I can.”
“You’d better know this about me, Detective Archer: I’m not concerned with indictments and court trials. I’m not interested in bringing anyone in. Those things are your department. You and Afrika. You didn’t dig far enough into my jacket. Here’s the bottom line on me: I don’t quit. I don’t give up and the only way I’ll be stopped is when I’m dead. That’s how I roll. I’ll get Sydnye. And if Swan’s involved, I’ll get him too.”
“Wake up, tough guy! You’re chopped chum for Swan’s attorneys and the people over at his fortress. There’s too much money on the table and too much power involved. If Swan finds out you’re on his kid, he’s got an army on his side.”
“Like I said, I don’t care who gets hurt. I don’t interview witnesses and I don’t collect evidence. I don’t give a rat’s ass about the justice system and I can’t be stopped. I won’t quit until Sydnye’s dead or I’m dead. Just look at it like this: You’ve got someone on your side willing to do a little community service for the city of Santa Monica.”
Archer shook his head.
“That’s the wrong road. Just help me and let us do our job.”
“How about this: I’ll do what I do and you do what you do.”
Archer opened the car door. “You’re nuts. You’ve got no idea what you’re up against. You’d better call my number before Swan’s kid or Swan himself calls yours. And like I said, ditch this car. It’s hot now.”
“Thanks for the advice. I’ll deal with it.”
Pulling out of the parking lot, I could feel my head begin to pound. I was in for a long night.
TWENTY-ONE
I’d been on Gusarov for three days. My boss at Priority Investigations LLC, was Ray Alvarez, who everybody called Two-Tone. Ray got his nickname because of the large burn mark that covered the right side of his face and the thick, pink scar it had caused.
Two-Tone had authorized only a couple of days on the surveillance and had flatly told me that morning, “It’s a dead end, JD. You got nothin’. Get off the Russian and go with the girl’s aunt on Staten Island. Work that. Stay with that.”
I didn’t agree and decided to keep going on my own. Two-Tone was always worried about overruns on client costs and that shit. I liked Gusarov on this and I wanted to stay with him until it burned out or I had my bingo.
The night before, I’d changed rental cars again in Midtown. Then, the next morning, Gusarov had began altering his established pattern. From the plumbing store on Eleventh Avenue at 7:54 A.M., instead of his normal route of stops, he’d driven to an apartment building in Queens and then to a private house in Sheepshead Bay. Two hours on the road.
Unlike in the previous two days, Gusarov had done no business at either of the first two locations and had never opened the back of his van. Each stop had lasted less than half an hour. I could feel my guy beginning to make moves.
At Sheepshead Bay I called Two-Tone again. “Something’s up, goddamnit! This guy is rolling,” I said. “He’s not plumbing today, for chrissake. Plumbing repair contractors plumb. This guy hasn’t plumbed anything. He’s doing another kind of plumbing. I’d bet on it. I can feel it.”
Two-Tone had known for some time that I was a serious drinker but he didn’t know yet that it had deteriorated into a 24/7 jones. He wasn’t aware that I was getting up at least twice every night to fill a water glass with whiskey, down it, then go back to sleep. But my boss did know that my judgment had recently been confused by my moods and over-amped emotions. I knew that he’d stopped trusting me.
My boss was immediately pissed. “I told you to dump the Ruskie, goddamnit! The client won’t authorize any more time on this. Last warning: Get back here. You’re off the clock as of now!” Then he’d hung up.
I was parked around the corner on the street; the second car in a line of five, next to a row of houses. I only had a partial view of the old beach house, two houses in, down the block at a right angle.
I checked my watch. I’d been here twelve minutes.
Killing time, I changed hats again on the front seat, added several ounces to my cardboard coffee cup from the bottle in my inside coat pocket, then got out to put on my tan raincoat.
I was about to get back into the car when, fifty yards away, Gusarov came out the front door and stopped. He took his time looking up and down the street.
I moved behind my car and pretended I was walking a dog on the narrow grass patch between the street and the curb. I clapped my hands and yelled, “Goo boy! That’s my boy! Here ya go, boy!”
Gusarov bought the act and began walking the other way down the street toward his truck.
A minute later, I was behind the wheel and ready for him to make a move.
Instead of pulling away, the Russian was now backing his van down the block to the house’s driveway. He made a wide turn, then reversed up the driveway toward the side entrance of the house.
I waited.
Five minutes went by.
I had no direct line of vision but when I heard what sounded like the van’s rear doors slamming closed and then a motor starting, I knew we were back on. My guy was moving.
Twenty-five minutes later the Russian had driven to the Grand Central Parkway, then taken the turn toward Manhattan.
Half an hour after that, instead of using the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge via Stewart Street, which is the cheaper and faster route to midtown, the van continued heading for the Triborough Bridge, then crossed into the Bronx exit lane.
I called Two-Tone again. He answered on the first ring. “I told you,” I said. “He picked up something in Sheepshead Bay. Maybe people. Maybe kids. He’s on his way to the Bronx. He hasn’t been to the Bronx before. I’m thinkin’ he’s hot now!”
“Okay, fuck it,” Two-Tone hissed. ”In for a penny, in for a pound. Stay on him. But call me, goddamnit.”
Ten minutes later the van turned off the Grand Councourse at 149th Street, then headed east.
At Third Avenue Gusarov turned left, then pulled to the side under the El.
I slowed as I drove past the van and made the next right turn. I’d seen Gusarov talking on his cell.
Five minutes later the van had moved to a parking space near the front of one of the tenement buildings.
I could feel it. This was a drop—or a pick-up!
Standing outside my tan Dodge sedan, after changing hats again and tossing my coat into the backseat, I looked down the street to the front of the building, fifty yards away. I saw something. Gusarov had a passenger or passengers.
The sidewalk was narrow and the distance between the open van door and the side of the building wasn’t more than a few feet, but I could make out colors—at least two different colors—of people being hustled inside. And someone else, a second man I’d only caught a glimpse of, was holding the building’s door open.
Then I saw the van’s rear doors slammed shut and Gusarov walked to his driver’s door, then clicked his remote to lock it.
I hit my cell and called Two-Tone. “Okay, we’re hot,” I whispered. “I think Gusarov has two pieces, maybe three. I’m north of One-Forty-Ninth on Third Avenue. Three buildings in from the corner on the east side. I couldn’t make out if he’s got boys or girls but they just went inside the entrance to the building. There’s a second man too. He was at the door, holding it open. I saw him for half a second. Better get me some backup. I’m thinking we can make our move here.”
“I got no one, JD,” Two-Tone snarled. “Iggy’s on Fifty-Seventh Street watching the gallery and the kid’s at the dentist until after two o’clock. Look, I’ll come myself! I’ll take a cab and be there in forty-five minutes—if I’m lucky.”
“Okay. I’ll go in and sniff it out. Like before. But I won’t make any moves until you get here. Just get here!”
“Hold back!” Two-Tone barked. “Do the drill. Just wait for me. Do not go in there alone, Fiorella.”
“He’s got kids in there. I know it. The son of a bitch has kids.”
“I said hold tight! I’m on my way.”
“Just get here,” I said. Then I hung up.
The building was a four-floor walk-up, easily a hundred and fifty years old. I pulled the Dodge into the red zone a hundred feet off on the corner, a safe distance down the block from the main entrance—but closer.
Shielded behind my car’s open driver’s door, I pulled my Charter Arms .44 from the rear of my belt and slid it into my right front pants pocket. Then I dipped my head inside and took a long pull from the pint of Ten High in my coat pocket.
After that I went to the trunk of the Dodge and pulled out one of the two decoy outfits I had with me—a white jumpsuit with a matching hard hat. The arced red lettering across the back of the jumpsuit read, INSTANT EXTERMINATIONS. The phone number below it was a dummy and went directly to a dead line.
I slipped the jumpsuit on, put on the hard hat, then picked up the clipboard that came with the getup. A fake work order form was anchored beneath the spring
clip.
Back by the driver’s side of the Dodge, reaching in, I clicked the car’s hazard lights on, then locked the door and walked toward the building.
There was an aging sign taped above a panel of the building’s entrance buzzers that read, OUT-ODER.
It took me less than a minute to pick the front-door lock with my picks and my two-ounce spray bottle of WD-40.
Once inside, I left the door ajar, making sure the lock’s latch did not engage.
Then I began checking the first floor for sounds. There was a TV playing in the front apartment. A corkboard and dangling pen were attached to the door for messages. It had to be the super’s place. I kept going.
Working my way down the hall slowly, I went from one door to the next. There were no sounds or red flags in the second, third, or fourth units.
Then I climbed the stairs to the second landing. As I reached two, the smell of piss was overwhelming, as if this was someone’s personal spot to take a leak twice a day. I kept going, telling myself that I’d just find the right door, then back off and wait for Two-Tone to catch up.
I took even more time on two, listening for almost half a minute at each door.
There was only one fixtureless bulb at the other end of the dark hall. The hallway floor itself was composed of ancient half-inch tile squares laid in swirling patterns, and my thick rubber cop shoes were soundless against them.
Halfway up the hallway I heard voices as I neared no. 209—the first live voices I’d heard in the building.
I listened for a full minute. Two men were speaking in raised voices. It sounded like Russian. But I could hear no children’s voices.
Satisfied that 209 might be the right apartment, I padded to the end of the hall, slid the casement window open, and leaned to my right, looking for the fire escape. I’d failed to notice it was on the street side of the building. The front window of 209 would face it.
I looked at my watch. I’d hung up from Two-Tone fourteen minutes before. He was still at least twenty minutes away.
