Blood World

by Chris Mooney

  “Guy’s name is Bradley Guidry,” Ron said. “He’s thirty-three, born and raised in New Orleans, no criminal record, never married, no kids. Entered the Marines at nineteen, left at twenty-six as a Force Recon sniper. After he left the service, he did contract work all over the Middle East. That’s where he met Paul. They did contract work together over there—you know, personal security shit.”

  Sebastian got jittery when he stayed parked in one place for too long; he couldn’t get rid of the idea that that sniper was still out there, watching him through a scope. Not that the round would penetrate the windshield. It had been replaced with bulletproof glass. Still, he put the car in gear and slid back into the light morning traffic.

  “About eight months ago,” Ron said, “Guidry flew into LAX on an open-ended ticket and stayed at a hotel downtown for thirteen days. Normal shit on his credit cards—food and booze, some clothing purchases. Day he checked out was the same day he found a local branch for his bank and closed his checking and savings accounts to the tune of thirty grand.”

  “And now?”

  “Now he’s in the wind.”

  “With Paul.”

  “That’s my operating theory. I think we should assume Guidry’s involved. Keep an eye out for him. I’ll forward Frank this picture.”

  “Your people?”

  “They already have it,” Ron said.

  “What about Guidry’s family? What did they have to say?”

  “Father’s been dead for roughly ten years. Cancer. Mother is still alive and seems to be a full-time junkie, says she hasn’t spoken to her son since he went into the Marines. I did some poking into her email account and her phone, and based upon what I saw I think she’s telling the truth. He’s got a sister, too, named Clarice. She lives in Seattle. Same deal—no contact.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How’d you find him?”

  “Government records,” Ron said. “That’s part of the reason why this took so long. Had to call in a lot of favors to get the names of the guys Paul served with when he was in the service and later as a contractor. Once I got the names, it became a process of elimination. Guidry isn’t the only sniper Paul worked with, but he’s the only who has gone off the grid, at least as far as banking is concerned. Can’t find any recent employment, either.”

  Ron drank some more coffee. “I’ve only spoken with three contractors so far, and they haven’t heard from either Paul or Guidry for a good year or so. When I asked them questions about Guidry, about how I could get in contact with him, they all told me to talk to Paul. Nearly everyone I talked to said the two of ’em were real tight, always hanging out, doing shit together. They also said Guidry followed Paul around like a puppy dog. A couple of ’em thought Guidry had a thing for Paul.”

  “He’s gay? Guidry?”

  “I asked them that. They said they didn’t know. Guidry’s thing for Paul, from what I gathered, is more along the lines of hero worship. Like Paul could do no wrong. Guidry admired the way Paul carried himself, how he never seemed afraid of anything or anyone.”

  “That’s because he’s a psychopath.”

  “Paul was definitely the dominant one of the pair, Guidry the submissive. One guy told me this story about how they all went out to get tattoos someplace in Baghdad and Paul told Guidry what to get, one of those sugar skulls, and where it should go, and—”

  “Sugar skulls?”

  “Those skull tattoos he’s got all over him, the ones with the eyes filled with jewels, roses, and candy, like something you’d see if you dropped acid—they’re called sugar skulls. It’s a Mexican thing for the Day of the Dead. The tattoos? They’re used to symbolize someone who’s died. Guidry got one of those, didn’t even so much as question it. Paul was always telling him how and what to eat, how to train—he basically ran Guidry’s life and Guidry went along with everything.”

  Ron was quiet for a moment, rocked his jaw back and forth. “What about Paul? He gay? Bi?”

  “Not that I know. He dated girls in high school, and later he’d sometimes bring women he was seeing around the house to meet his mother.”

  “You ever meet them? The women?”

  “A handful.” Sebastian banged a U-turn.

  “I’ve talked to the ones I found listed in his phone contacts and emails and texts. Last girl he dated, as far as I can tell, was this woman named Candice Jackson.”

  “She a lawyer?”

  “She is.”

  Sebastian remembered her now: dark brown hair and a killer smile and an even more killer mind, the woman a contracts lawyer for some big-name downtown firm.

  “You remember her, I take it,” Ron said.

  “Only met her once. One of the quick conversations in the driveway—Hey, how are you? Nice to meet you.” Sebastian had figured Candice Jackson was just another one in the long line of women who preferred smiling and nodding to talking. That changed quickly, the woman not only a real conversationalist but also clearly someone of substance, and after she and Paul left, Sebastian thought Paul might have met an equal, someone to call him on his shit.

  Sebastian also remembered being slightly nervous. He didn’t need a lawyer coming around the house, or Paul confiding in one.

  “The two women before Candice had good things to say about Paul,” Ron said. “You know, nice guy, smart and attractive, but things didn’t work out. I met them face-to-face, so I could get a read on them, and I got the sense they were holding back something. Candice pretty much confirmed it.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. Color drained from her face and she refused to talk to me,” Ron said. “I was hoping you might tell me why Paul scared the living shit out of her.”

  “I’ll talk with her.”

  “You can’t. At least not now, not in person,” Ron said. “She’s out of the state, in New Hampshire. Her parents live there, city called Manchester. Have no idea when she’s coming back, but when she does, I’ll let you know.”

  “You’re keeping an eye on her.”

  “Oh yes. There’s definitely something there. Shortly after Paul went underground, Candice put in for a sabbatical, I guess you could call it. She went to rehab in Phoenix for pill and alcohol addiction. Place also specializes in treating addicts who were victims of sexual abuse. I can’t give you any details because by the time I located her, she was getting ready to leave, so I couldn’t put someone in there next to her to find out anything.”

  “When did you talk to her?”

  “Little over two weeks ago. Team I have on her, they say all she does is stay in her house. Anything she needs is delivered.”

  “Anything else?”

  Ron nodded. “I’m told the LAPD is working with the Feds on some sort of task force.”

  “On Brentwood?”

  “Unclear. But it was set up after Brentwood, and it’s definitely blood related. This is from my guy on the Blood Unit, Alves.”

  “So they must have found something.”

  “No. If they had, they would have come knocking by now. Task force isn’t being run out of LAPD—it’s a Fed thing—so my contacts can’t get me any specific information, because they’re not involved. I don’t want to press, either, tip our hand.”

  “Should we be worried?”

  “I’m not.”

  “And what about Boyle’s partner there, the one who saw Paul, what’s-her-name?”

  “Ellie Batista.”

  “Yeah, her. What’s her deal? You haven’t mentioned anything about her in a while.”

  “Nothing has changed on that front. Like I told you, she had some sort of nervous breakdown, took a leave of absence. She broke up with her boyfriend—sent him an email that she’d had enough of LA, being a cop—packed up, and left, moved to Seattle.”

  “The private se
curity company.”

  Ron nodded. “She’s doing bodyguard work for that self-help guru who wrote that bestseller a couple of years back—you know, the one who urges women to follow their one true path or some shit. She’s in Australia right now, I think. Maybe Germany.”

  “You talk with her, see what she knows?”

  “For what reason? If she’d seen Paul, his composite would have been all over the news.” Ron caught the look on Sebastian’s face. “You want me to fly halfway around the world so she can tell me she didn’t get a good look at him? I think we’ve got more pressing issues here, on the home front—wouldn’t you agree?”

  Ron, Sebastian admitted, had a valid point. “Okay,” he said. “I hear you. What’s bothering me is how quiet he is. He needs significant capital if he wants to start production.”

  “Could be trying to line up investors.”

  Sebastian nodded. He and Frank had the exact same thought.

  “Or,” Sebastian said, “he could be waiting for the right moment to strike.”

  “And you’re sure he can’t hurt you? I’m talking about your business operations.”

  “The old treatment center is closed.”

  “What about the new one?”

  “Not open yet, and he has no idea where it is. Has no idea where anything is.”

  “Good,” Ron said. “That’s really good to hear. He’ll poke his head out sooner or later. He can’t hide forever.”

  CHAPTER 17

  THAT NIGHT, AT a quarter to eight, Ellie stood in front of the bathroom mirror inside one of Los Angeles’s most well-known (and most expensive) restaurants, touching up her lipstick and wondering what the night was all about. She was sure it wasn’t a celebration for a job well done on the carrier. Anton wouldn’t have made her go halfway across the city to Bloomingdale’s to meet that pale waif named Binx and find out that he not only had already picked out the clothes but had also paid for them. All Ellie had to do was go into the dressing room and try everything on to make sure the sizes were right.

  Anton, she had to admit, had great taste. All Chanel—a low-cut satin top with black tuxedo pants and leather cap-toe pumps. Clothes that were designed to do one thing, and one thing only: make an impression. Was tonight about another high-end job? Something that would move her closer to Anton’s inner circle? It had to be. Why else would Anton have picked out these clothes and asked her to come out to this fancy restaurant in Beverly Hills?

  Ellie dropped the lipstick into her clutch and checked her watch. Ten to eight. Perfect. She stepped back and examined herself in the mirror. Her new federal friends on the task force had provided her with the leather choker with the jagged-edge crystals. They had also given Faye Simpson other pieces of bugged jewelry—a watch and a bangle bracelet—to wear when she was working with Anton.

  The plunging V-neck of her blouse was a little sexier than she usually went for, Faye Simpson’s tastes being more revealing than Ellie Batista’s—even more so since she wasn’t wearing a bra—but the double-sided tape was nicely holding the fabric in place. No danger of an accidental nip slip tonight.

  Nip slip, she thought, and smiled. Something Cody would say. She left the bathroom and walked down the short, dimly lit hall and entered the restaurant, wishing she could call him back and tell him she was okay, that he didn’t have to worry.

  The hostess, a striking brunette named Misha, was adjusting the knot of Anton’s tie and laughing at something he’d said—laughing in such a way that clearly showed she was into him. Ellie could see the appeal, in a way. Anton was built like a professional wrestler, but his face was as welcoming as a Russian prison camp. He’d spent time in one, too, he had told her once, a penal colony in Mordovia, some republic southeast of Moscow, before immigrating with his mother to the United States. His nose was slightly crooked from having been broken one too many times and he had cauliflower ears from having been punched and kicked too many times, and the left side of his mouth was slightly paralyzed, either from birth or from a fight—she didn’t know which.

  Anton saw Ellie approaching and smiled, giving him the full wattage of his capped teeth done in a brilliant toilet bowl white.

  “Right on time, as usual,” he said, spreading his arms open wide to accept her. He leaned down and kissed both her cheeks. He had a permanent case of five-o’clock shadow, even after he shaved, and she felt his stubble scrape across her skin.

  “Come, come.” He placed his strong hand against the small of her back and turned to the hostess. “Let us sit.”

  “We’re staying for dinner?”

  “Why else would I have invited you to such a beautiful place, asked you to dress up so nicely?”

  “Drinks, I assumed.”

  “We could have drinks anywhere. Tonight is a celebration.”

  “Oh? Of what?”

  Anton grinned coyly and arched his eyebrows a couple of times. His English was pretty good, but he still had a bit of an accent, Anton having arrived in the States when he was twenty-two. He was thirty-three now, and with his deep voice and accent, his solid build and the fearless way he carried himself, he looked and acted the part of Nameless Gangster Thug in a Russian mob movie—not that Hollywood made them anymore, everything now recycled reboots of things that had already been recycled and rebooted.

  In the time she’d spent with Anton, she had noticed a keen intelligence at work behind the cold stare he forced on the world. He wasn’t given to much emotion, but around her, when it was just the two of them, she had noticed a softer side to his personality—a man who loved his mother deeply and took care of her. A man who longed for a sense of romance and was frustrated by the constant vanity and lack of emotional and intellectual depth he found in the women he dated.

  Ellie slid into a booth upholstered in fine, rich leather. Anton sat across from her, the circular table between them small, and took the elegant menus from the hostess. “Bring us two Macallans on the rocks,” he told her. “The eighteen, not the twelve.”

  As the hostess flitted away, Anton looked the woman up and down, his fingers fishing for something inside his suit jacket pocket. Everything about this place was intimate—the dim modern lighting and limited and spacious seating to give patrons a sense of privacy and importance, which was why, according to her Google research, a lot of LA’s power crowd came here. The men here this evening wore crisp suits and ties and didn’t look a day under fifty. All the women were beautiful and wore fancy jewelry and stunning dresses and didn’t look a day over thirty.

  “That thing around your neck,” he said.

  “My choker?”

  “Whatever. Where’d you get it?”

  “My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday,” Ellie lied.

  “Those aren’t real diamonds.”

  “If they were, I would have hocked it a long time ago.” Anton knew all about Faye Simpson’s gambling problem.

  “It looks tacky and cheap,” Anton said. “Take it off.”

  Ellie didn’t hesitate, took it off without a fuss. She’d started to wrap it around her fingers so it would fit neatly in her clutch when Anton reached out and said, “Give it to me.”

  “Won’t look nearly as good on you.”

  He motioned for her to hand it over, impatient, his eyes dead. She placed the bugged choker in his extended hand. He got up, stuffed it in his pocket, and walked away.

  Did he know the choker was bugged? That the LAPD was nearby, listening in on their conversation? If he or someone else decided to take a closer look at the necklace, they’d find the microphone. She saw Anton heading in the direction of the restrooms. He had taken his phone with him and it looked like he was either thumbing in the passcode to unlock his phone or dialing a number or possibly sending a text.

  Roland and the guys who had trained her to go undercover had told her she had a pretty solid poker face. She held it in
place in case anyone was watching—Anton had people everywhere—but she couldn’t put out the fire inside her head, the voices screaming at her. Part of her fear had to do with Anton taking her choker, but the other part—and it was, surprisingly, much larger—had to do with the excitement of being so close to knowing something. Why was Anton looking for Gingerbread Man? And why had he invited her to this fancy, high-priced restaurant and picked out these expensive clothes she was wearing if he wasn’t going to bring her deeper into the fold, involve her in something bigger? This dinner, she was certain, wasn’t about Anton trying to get into her pants. He had shown no interest in her in that way, thank God.

  What was really going on tonight?

  The hostess returned. She had brought someone with her.

  The man standing next to the table had salt-and-pepper hair and a pale, pockmarked face. He was in his late forties to early fifties, Ellie guessed, and what she noticed right away was how he wore his suit instead of the suit wearing him—an important distinction in LA, especially in Beverly Hills, where there were so many poseurs, guys desperately trying to look confident and powerful by wearing nice clothes and driving nice cars. One look at this guy, and she knew he belonged in that rare category of men who could have you erased from the earth. He gave off that distinct air of power and menace.

  Ellie knew she wasn’t imagining it; she’d caught the pinched, nervous expression on the hostess’s face before she politely excused herself and walked away.

  Ellie was about to slide out of the table when he said: “Please, don’t get up.”

  But she did, anyway, because it was the polite and proper thing to do (and probably the smart thing, too). Ellie sensed that it pleased him. She extended a hand. “Faye Simpson.”

  “I know.” He had a firm grip and rough, callused hands. “Frank.”