by Andy King
_____
McKuen sat down at his desk. Maybe an hour of paperwork and he could get out of there. He noticed the slip of paper peeking out from under the blotter corner.
Where’s the necklace?
He whipped around and looked at the sofa. Not there. The book shelves? No. He looked under a stack of paper then under the blotter. No necklace. He called Amy.
“Honey, where did I leave the necklace?”
“Sorry, I really wasn’t paying attention. No wait, I think you left it on the desk, but I’m not sure.”
“Damn, it’s not here.”
“Oh Steve, you must have tucked it somewhere.”
“Jeez, I hope. OK, don’t worry about it, it’ll turn up.”
He remembered the video system, and rewound to the spot where he broke up the drunks. Nine people at the bar. Four looked familiar, but five didn’t. A guy got up and headed toward the back. A couple minutes later another man repeated the process.
He went out to the barroom in case either of them was still there. No luck, so he replayed the sequence and memorized their faces. Then he tore his office apart. The necklace wasn’t there.
He fell into his chair, his arms and hands weak. Behind his eyes, a slow burn started, then surged.
“Goddamn it!” he shouted, and pounded the desk. First the guy threatens Amy, now he steals the necklace? Who is this asshole?
He pushed paperwork aside and grabbed a pad. Sooner or later he would figure it out.
_____
“Son of a bitch! Son of a mothafuckin’ bitch!”
Eddie bent over, head in his hands, elbows on a workbench.
He’d finally stolen some time to look at the necklace after dinner. His wife wasn’t happy he had a late lunch somewhere. She made him wash the dishes and mop the kitchen floor. Now this.
No paper in the locket. McKuen’s wife said it was there but it wasn’t. Eddie wasn’t quick to blame her, McKuen could have taken it out.
So what the hell was he gonna do?
He could drop the whole thing and move on. He had wasted a lot of time and money and driving, and the further he got into it, the more likely it was he could get popped for detaining McKuen’s wife. Stopping here would be a good place to cut his losses. He could even drive somewhere and mail back the necklace.
But he wanted the money.
His wife would hound him to death if he didn’t get it, and he’d worked too hard and put up with Christian’s shit too long. With Christian dead, well over a million bucks would just sit in some accounts for twenty years until the banks claimed it.
It really pissed him off. The fact that he hadn’t been smart enough to grab the necklace back when it contained the piece of paper was bad enough. Even worse, McKuen was already rich.
He slammed a fist on the workbench. It just wasn’t fair. There had to be a way.
He put the necklace in an envelope, the envelope in a toolbox and padlocked the toolbox in a cupboard.
He was going to get the money and he didn’t care who got hurt.
7
Saturday the 7th
It had been a couple of days since Grimshaw was murdered. Dennis was curious, but he wasn’t that worried. It’s not like he was the bar owner. He’d tried to get a sense of the SMPD’s investigation, but the two messages he left went unanswered. He knew better than to try again.
Liv yelled at him earlier that day but he let it roll off. He felt a little pressure from her pregnancy, running the bars, the possibility of someday owning the bars, the murders and now the necklace being stolen.
It’s a lot, but so what—life’s a lot. He smiled and steered his big Dodge Ram up Lincoln Boulevard. Then he wrinkled his nose, thinking about the upcoming meeting.
Sanborn hadn’t been out long. His stint at the Federal Correctional Institution, the Lompoc country club, was reduced by bribery and good time, and he hadn’t wasted a minute trying to get back in business. A high-level marijuana distributor, Sanborn never saw his product.
One end of the small parking lot on Appian Way had a glimpse of the Santa Monica Pier. Dennis eased his truck into a space and cut the engine. A minute later he saw a figure climb out of a BMW. The man walked his way. Dennis recognized him and popped the door lock.
Sanborn stepped up into the cabin. He offered his hand. Dennis took it with reluctance. Sanborn pulled out a cigarette.
“No smoking, man. We’re not going to be here that long, anyway,” Dennis said.
“Well, what do you think?”
“You haven’t told me what you want, but I can guess.”
“I want back in. You can help me, buddy.”
“Yeah, but I won’t.” Dennis stopped there. Sometimes the word no doesn’t require an explanation.
Sanborn’s eyelids lowered a bit. “I’m nowhere near as big as McKuen used to be. I won’t step on your action. C’mon, man.”
“You rolled on me trying to leverage a plea bargain. The only reason I’m here is ‘cause we go back. I wanted to tell you face-to-face, we’re done.” Dennis looked away.
“But you didn’t get popped.” Dennis looked back.
“You said my name.”
Sanborn nodded. His shoulders sagged. It looked like he really wasn’t expecting a different outcome. He gripped the door handle.
“If you ever change your mind…”
Dennis looked away again. Sanborn swung the door open and stepped down to the pavement. He slammed the door.
Dennis started the engine. Sanborn strolled to his car.
Dennis backed out of the parking space, flipped it into Drive and looked over. Sanborn lit a cigarette. Dennis pulled onto Appian Way.
_____
McKuen’s phone rang. He groaned and picked it off the nightstand. 6:57 AM. It was Dennis, so he answered. The voice sounded like a boat rumbling across a swamp.
“I might be in some shit.”
“Ah…it’s too early, like seven.”
“Zolo called. Don’t know how he heard, but Sanborn’s dead.” McKuen blinked, trying to put the news in context.
“Thought he just got out of the joint.”
“It gets worse, I met with him last night.”
McKuen was now awake. “Why?”
Dennis’s voice rose to its normal growl. “He called. Thought he was…well, I don’t know what I thought.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing. I mean, I shut him down. Told him to leave me alone.”
Amy had one eye open in a question. McKuen rolled out of bed and slipped from the room. He walked down the hall, stretching.
“When did Sanborn get dead?” he said.
“Musta been right after I talked to him.”
In the kitchen, McKuen put his phone on speaker. “Where?”
“Parking lot on Appian Way.”
“We’re gonna hear from Coil.” Dennis sighed.
“Yeah, I thought you should know. Look, I need another hour of sleep.”
“Oh, now you woke me up.” McKuen smiled in spite of himself. “I’ll think about it, better set your alarm.”
Dennis hung up. McKuen scooped coffee.
Captain Charlotte Coil would call him and, if he was lucky, conduct an informal interview. He couldn’t think of a reason why the police shouldn’t take a hard look at him. Sanborn wasn’t his problem, but with two competitors getting whacked and his right-hand man mixed up in another murder, it actually did look suspicious.
Call his attorney? Not yet. Phil Adelman was the best, but it would cast even more doubt. No, he could brazen it out, he hoped.
A diversion—the guy who accosted Amy. The best defense is a good offense, or something. McKuen poured a cup of coffee and sat down at his iPad. He typed some notes about the incident, then rewrote them in a format he thought Coil might appreciate—point-by-point, facts-only.
He thought it through. Timing might be important. To wait, to delay, and divert attention were methods which had served him well. He was pre
tty sure that’s why he’d never been busted. Wait at least a day. If Coil calls, he’d be ready. Maybe he could think of something better.
He fixed some coffee the way Amy liked it. Maybe if he was particularly sensitive yet persuasive he could interest her in a little morning delight.
_____
In the visitors’ room at the police station, Dennis looked like he’d been dragged out of bed. His long, blond hair poked out from under his cap and the sleep lines hadn’t smoothed. He started coughing.
“Ready?” McKuen said.
Dennis wheezed and nodded. A minute later, they walked into Charlotte Coil’s office. Dennis coughed and waved a hand at her.
“Might have a cold, Char.” Coil looked up.
“All that hard living, Dennis.”
Dennis did drink a bit. He stifled a reply. McKuen grinned.
“Can we shut the door?” he said. She nodded OK and stood up.
Six feet tall, plus two inches in boots, her stature commanded respect. An explosion of brown hair added another couple inches of height. Thin and tough-looking, her bones might as well have been metal. A large hooked nose and piercing blue eyes projected authority.
The effect was enhanced by an attitude that on a good day was skeptical. On a bad day her eyes said, “Don’t lie to me—I hurt people for a living.”
McKuen and Dennis had known her for years. On the receiving end of tips, Coil might look at them impartially, they hoped. McKuen pulled up a chair and started his prepared sketch.
“Something happened about ten days ago. It was in Westwood and I decided to keep it quiet. It involves a former interest of yours.”
She stretched, looking bored. “All right.”
“Amy was detained by a guy with a gun. He was wearing a mask and forced her into a van. He asked her a lot of questions, she’s OK.” He pulled out a folded sheet of paper and handed it over.
“I typed up everything I could, it’s not much,” he said. She scanned the notes.
“You never reported it?”
“No reason. He wanted Mindy’s necklace, the one Christian had. I think you remember.”
“Why did he want it?”
“Actually, I don’t think he wanted the necklace as much as a piece of paper we found in the locket.” She looked puzzled.
“The paper’s in a safe place,” he said. “It’s got a list of letters and numbers on it, like code. You remember how devious Christian was.” She nodded.
“It could be, and I don’t really know, but it could be parts of account numbers,” he said. Her eyes widened.
“The missing money,” she said. He nodded.
“We sure never found it,” Dennis said. “From what you told me, nobody else did.”
“The person who harassed Amy was an accomplice of Christian’s,” she said. “He wants the paper ‘cause he’s got another set of numbers. Together they make up account numbers, maybe routing numbers,” she rolled a hand, “bank names and stuff.”
McKuen nodded. Dennis coughed. Coil stepped to a small window and looked up at a slice of sky.
“You’re not gonna find him from my notes,” McKuen said. “The guy was careful, kept it simple. Amy didn’t get a license. It was a dark panel van, she thought maybe blue.” Coil turned around.
“That narrows it to two hundred thousand,” she said.
“Probably a rental.”
“OK, twenty thousand.”
“He’ll be back,” Dennis said. McKuen nodded in agreement.
“Westwood’s outside our jurisdiction and we don’t have the manpower,” she said.
“We do,” Dennis said. Her eyes narrowed.
“You want to watch your own property, the bars and stuff? Feel free. But no vigilante crap, got it?” Dennis adjusted his cap.
“Right on.” He smiled. Coil sat down.
“Look, I don’t have a lot of time, but I’ve got something on my mind, too.” Elbows on the desk, she grilled Dennis about the Sanborn murder. Where was he? At home. Who was he with? Liv. What were they doing? Watching TV.
Dennis’s eyes flicked to McKuen, who gave him a stern look. Their agreement was that Dennis could skate around the truth if necessary. Since he didn’t kill Sanborn, if pressed, he should come clean and get the questions out of the way.
Coil stopped and stared. McKuen returned the stare but hoped Dennis would quit waffling and take his medicine.
“Uh, Char?”
“Yes, Dennis.”
“OK, I know about Sanborn. I was there but I left around nine. He was alive and healthy, walking and talking and everything. He wasn’t happy but he was just fine.” McKuen could see that Coil was barely holding on to her temper.
“You met with him in the parking lot?”
“Yes.”
“Describe it. Details.” Lines formed on Dennis’s forehead.
“We talked in my truck.”
Taking notes, she turned up the heat. What time did he drive there? What was Sanborn wearing? Exactly when did Dennis leave? She punched her cell phone.
“My office.” Two minutes later Detective Don Ishido walked in.
“Hi guys,” he said.
“Don, could you take a statement from Dennis? He knows what to say.” She glared at Dennis, obviously warning him not to leave anything out. He lowered his chin to his chest.
“This is confidential for now. Use Interview Two.” They left.
“Three murders in a little over a week,” she said to McKuen. “All people you and Dennis know.” He took his time.
“They are people we know. It feels weird, know what I mean?” Her eyes fixed on his.
“Yes, but the fact remains that not only are they people you know, there are no clues, none.” McKuen thought that most suspects would squirm at this point.
“You’re not really looking at us.”
“I have people documenting facts.”
“Does the Chief suspect us?” Coil’s lips relaxed.
“The Chief is a tough cop. He came up from the street, very smart and gifted politically.” She wrote a note.
“Do this, write out where you and Dennis were at the time of each murder,” she said. She glanced at a wall calendar.
“That’s a week before last Thursday afternoon, like three to six. And last Thursday night about seven to eleven, and the night before last from eight to eleven.” She looked him in the eye.
“It could help keep things in perspective,” she said. “I don’t need to drag each of you through a long interview, yet. Consider it a favor.” She was cutting them a ton of slack. Helping her assemble a picture would be the kind of favor she might remember.
“You know, I’m real unhappy about Amy being picked up like that,” he said. “ Last week, I was ready to shoot somebody.” Coil nodded, appearing to get the message.
“OK, help me out with these notes.” He stood up.
“Getting a little pressure?” he said. She grimaced.
“Don’t know if you heard. This woman, Celeste Sauvage, is running for city council. She’s got more money than God or something. She’s making you an issue.” McKuen’s eyebrows shot up.
“Me?”
“You and Dennis. She’s already drawn the connection between Esterhazy and Grimshaw, now Sanborn.”
“What?” Coil’s palms went up.
“It’s political, she needs a wedge. I know it’s bullshit but you need to take my cues. Work on the notes and keep a low profile.” McKuen looked away, wrestling with his temper.
“It’s in your best interest, OK?” she said. He won the battle of self-discipline.
“I’ll take Dennis back to the office. We’ll write it all down. I’ll email it to you.” She stood up, her face a mask.
“He should be done pretty quick. Down the hall and hang a right, third door on the left.” He left to collect Dennis, not at all pacified.
In the back room at Tony’s they talked through Coil’s request, the first one easy. They were in the Tesla up PCH with Den
nis sliding through the S-curves. Lori the bartender saw them leave, but by the time they returned three hours had passed. The second and third murders were worse. Not counting their wives, they had no valid alibis. It didn’t look good.
McKuen told Dennis about the Celeste Sauvage angle and listened to the inevitable outburst.
“Let’s just hope nobody else gets dead soon,” McKuen said. “We better make regular contact, check in when we get to the bars and when we leave.” Dennis stood up.
“What a pain in the ass. All the running around I do.” Grumble, grumble, grumble. McKuen was amused but wanted to stay on track.
“Who’s shitlist are you on?”
“About everybody including my pregnant wife. I gotta start classes pretty soon.”
“Good luck with that.” McKuen pictured Dennis breathing in sync with Liv, helping her time her intervals. He kept a straight face with difficulty. Dennis adjusted his cap.
“One of Liv’s friends showed her some deep relaxation techniques. She asked me to do it with her.” He looked sheepish. “I fell asleep, you can picture the hell I got.”
McKuen busted up laughing, and Dennis started, too. Tension from the police station visit made them laugh harder. Dennis had to sit down. Finally he stood up again.
“I gotta get out of here.”
Tedious as it was, McKuen typed the notes and emailed them to Coil. The mystery piece of paper eating at him and Coil’s patience temporary, he needed to find out who was behind this.
There was no question the piece of paper and the murders were linked. Solve the riddle and he could have his freedom. There had to be a way.
_____
Neck stiff, veins engraved on his forehead, Eddie Sanchez gripped his phone. Locked in his garage office to avoid being overheard, he was standing, yelling.
“You kidding me? You can’t get a message to this Zolo guy?”
“Not without telling him who’s callin,’” the man said. “He’s told me more’n once he don’t wanna hear from no ‘nonymous dudes.” Eddie made a supreme effort to keep his voice pitched below screaming.
“We’re talking big money!”
It was his last shot. He’d planned on having a couple of conversations with Zolo. Spend some time getting him to open up, then offer him a small slice of the fortune in exchange for the piece of paper. He hadn’t planned on not being able to talk to him at all. He needed an introduction. A cold call was out of the question.
