by John Lansing
“Like I said, anything I can do.”
Jack handed Mike his card. “If you think of anything else, give me a ring? Sometimes things pop up in your mind after the fact that have bearing on the case.”
“Oh, you’re a PI, huh? I thought you were a cop,” Mike said, not happy about being deceived.
“Retired, trying to help the family.”
Mike nodded uncertainly and watched Jack cross the street. He walked slowly back in the direction of the shooting, measuring all the way. The only house that had a clear shot of the Sanchez house seemed to be directly across the street from the shrine. It was a fifties gray-clapboard two-story dwelling with a wraparound porch.
Jack knocked on the front door, got no response, and tried again.
“She’s at work,” Mike shouted from his driveway. “It’s the Montenegro woman, owns the deli down on Venice. She’d be okay with you looking around. She’s devastated.”
Jack waved his thanks and stepped off the porch into the side yard. A rangy stand of bamboo partially obscured the view toward the Sanchez house, but if Jack crouched next to the house, it made a perfect sniper’s nest.
He continued into the backyard and sized up the chain-link fence to the street beyond. An easy up and over protected from neighbors’ eyes. Jack made a mental note to canvass the street one over, see if anyone had seen or heard anything unusual the day of the shooting.
Jack walked back along the side of the house, inspecting the tidy bed. He was looking for footprints or markings, but knew the rain had probably destroyed any evidence left behind.
And then he saw it.
A shiny brass object shone from beneath a wet tuft of grass.
He squatted down and carefully pulled back the grass without disturbing the object.
It was a spent .22 shell casing.
Jack had a momentary thought to call Gallina, but vetoed the notion. If the information was made public, the shooter would be put on notice, making the hunt for him or her that much more difficult. Returning to his car, Jack popped the trunk and pulled out a small brown paper bag he stored with his evidence kit.
He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves as he jogged back. First, he pulled out his cell phone and snapped shots of the side of the house, the view toward the Sanchez property, the view over the back fence, the location of the spent shell casing, and then the shell itself. Then Jack carefully bagged the evidence. As a final precaution he crisscrossed the area to see if he could spot anything else of interest. He came up empty.
Jack heard a car pull to the curb across the street. He went back to the sniper position and watched as Juan Sanchez and Jeff jumped out of the lawyer’s Camaro. The young man ran toward the front door and into the arms of his father, who came out onto the porch and lifted his son in a bear hug. Both men started wailing, and Jack flashed on Chris and the powerful love he felt for his own son.
Mrs. Sanchez ran out and wrapped her arms around her men. The distraught family disappeared back inside the house.
Jeff followed slowly in the family’s wake. Jack was sure he saw the young lawyer swipe away a few tears of his own before closing the door behind him.
* * *
Jack slid behind the wheel of his Mustang, and as he drove away from the curb, he replayed the logistics of the double homicide, as he now understood it.
Someone had killed Tomas Vegas from a sniper’s nest. A lying-in-wait charge, added to the murder beef, meant the shooter would be eligible for the death penalty. It didn’t feel like a straight-up gang execution. Not their MO. Jack needed everything he could find on Tomas Vegas. He’d have Cruz compile a list of anyone who had a grudge against the Lenox Road banger and see where it led.
All in all, Jack thought, a fruitful visit to the scene of the crime. When he had amassed enough evidence, he might even inform Lieutenant Gallina.
In the meantime he phoned Molloy, the medical examiner who was handling the autopsies. He would be in a position to check the shell casing for prints—on the QT—and answer a few of Jack’s questions about the lead slug he had pulled out of the skull of six-year-old Maria Sanchez.
Seven
Chris had always been the perfect son, Jack thought as he booted up his iMac and clicked on Chris’s number. Jack’s stomach clenched as he waited for him to pick up.
Chris had weathered his parents’ brutal divorce while maintaining a 4.0 grade average at Saint Johns Prep, and won a full baseball scholarship to Stanford. No small feat. One of the reasons Jack moved to the West Coast was the proximity to his son. Father and son Skyped two or three times a week, just shooting the breeze, and Jack felt at peace for the first time in many years.
But happiness in his new home in California was short-lived as his past came roaring back with a vengeance. Arturo Delgado, a high-ranking Colombian drug lord whom Jack had outmaneuvered in a major narcotics bust years earlier, was hell-bent on revenge. His plan was to destroy Jack by killing his only son.
Delgado came very close to succeeding when he ran Chris down crossing the street in front of Jack’s loft building in a seven-thousand-pound Cadillac Escalade. A murder attempt witnessed by Jack. Chris had been thrown headfirst under a transient’s parked van, into a concrete curb. The catastrophic injuries sidelined Chris from the baseball squad and turned him to prescription drugs to assuage the psychological and physical pain brought on by the severe concussion and broken radius. The bone had snapped in half and jutted through the young man’s perfect skin, an image that continued to haunt Jack. His pitching arm was now held together with titanium pins.
Chris had suffered no permanent brain damage, but his recovery was rocky. He suffered from PTSD, posttraumatic stress syndrome. He couldn’t sleep through the night—afraid he’d be cut from the team, or never throw a fastball again, or get killed walking across the street. The orthopedic surgeon promised that his young arm would heal stronger than before, but Chris wasn’t convinced and it was a constant source of guilt for Jack.
And twenty-five years in narcotics did nothing to prepare Jack for the gut punch he felt discovering his son’s theft of Vicodin out of his Dopp kit on a recent visit.
Chris’s arm was healing as promised. He’d been given the stamp of approval from the team’s orthopedist and was doing light workouts. He was still seeing an off-campus psychiatrist and promised Jack he was clean, but Jack found himself holding his breath, and his tongue, whenever they Skyped or talked on the phone.
After five unanswered rings, Jack was about to sign off when his son’s anxious face filled the computer screen.
“Dad . . . I know I’m not supposed to take sides, and I know that you’ve taken the high road, even though Mom, who I love, divorced you . . .”
“Yes, son?”
“But Jeremy is a dick.”
“Chris.”
“A dick, Dad. End of story.”
Jack, of course, didn’t know the beginning or middle of the story. “All right, take a deep breath, think before you speak, and continue.”
“Jeremy thinks I should quit the team. Give up baseball. Concentrate on my studies and use Stanford as my calling card.”
Jack felt a slight burn. He wasn’t comfortable Jeremy had stepped into the dad role. “It seems he has it half right. That was half of the plan,” he allowed.
“Right, but not until I gave it my all. If he wasn’t a dick, he would understand that simple formula.”
“What’s his reasoning?”
“He kept talking percentages. Said only ten percent of NCAA players make it to the majors.”
Any fool knew that. “Okay, so what?”
“As opposed to the number of Stanford grads with four-point-oh averages who get drafted by companies in the Silicon Valley. He thinks I’m jeopardizing my future. And now with the injury . . .”
“How did it come up?”
“He s
aw my report card.”
“What’s your grade-point average?”
“Dad!”
“Just asking, son.”
“Three point five. My grades took a hit when I took a hit.”
Jack understood the last jab was meant for him, and he rolled with it. That was part of being the real father. At least he was glad he could count on the loyalty of his son.
“Understand one thing, Chris. Your mom and I both understand how hard you worked to achieve your place on the team. Remind me, how many kids from your high school won full athletic scholarships?”
“Three.”
“Did you deserve that honor?”
“Hell, yes.”
“So, there’s only one thing I’m getting from this conversation.”
“What?”
“Jeremy’s a dick.”
Chris coughed a laugh and his young face relaxed some, but Jack had a feeling there was more to the story.
Jack sighed, trying to push aside his personal feelings. “He makes your mother happy, Chris. Leave it at that. Your life plan won’t be derailed by Jeremy. So, try not to engage the man on that topic.”
“Well, that’s not going to be a problem.”
“Okay . . .” Jack said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Mom kicked him out of the house.”
“Huh.” Jack had to assimilate this unexpected turn of events. He had never been a fan of Jeremy’s. Thought he was pretentious, but understood the man served a useful purpose. Namely, keeping his ex-wife in check at times of emotional stress. Jack didn’t get the hysterical calls anymore.
“And now Mom’s doubling down on phone calls,” Chris said, almost in an echo. “I’ve got a new girlfriend at UCLA, and I don’t want to share the guilt, but . . .”
“Point well taken, son. Let’s give it a couple of days and see how it shakes out. You keep doing your thing, and let me worry about the rest.”
Chris was clearly relieved by this offer. “Okay. Uh, thanks, Dad. Later.”
Chris clicked off, leaving Jack staring at his own reflection in the computer screen. He was not thrilled at learning his wife was at loose ends. No good could come of it.
* * *
“Are you decent?” Susan Blake asked over the phone.
“I am,” Jack answered, smiling despite his gloomy mood.
“Too bad.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“You have a sports coat? Grab it and meet me downstairs. I’m going to kidnap you.”
“Best offer I’ve had all day.”
Susan Blake might act a bit crazy, but she was talented, sexy, and a breath of fresh air after the emotional politics of Jack’s family.
Jack brushed his teeth, hand combed his hair, stepped into some Cole Haan shoes, grabbed his black Armani sports jacket that dressed up his black T-shirt and jeans, and headed out the door in under five.
Susan Blake sat in the back seat of a stretch limo idling in front of Jack’s building. The driver opened the door for Jack, who ducked and stepped in.
The cabin looked like the inside of the private jet Jack had confiscated from a Colombian drug lord in the early 2000s. Ostentatious, a bit decadent, sexy but inviting, with light jazz emanating from hidden speakers. It was all burl wood, gold appointments, and plush rugs. There was seating for eight and a fully stocked wet bar. Jack would discover later that George Litton, the head of Epoch Studios, had provided it for their traveling pleasure.
“Perfect,” Susan said, giving him the once-over.
Jack said, “Back at you.”
Susan could dress up a diamond, he thought. She was a knockout, framed in the plush honey-colored leather seat. The amber lights in the compartment were dimmed except for one spot that lit her face and those killer eyes. Jack had learned on the movie set that actresses always found their key light. Jack brushed her lips and sat back in the seat across from her, letting the tension of the past twenty-four hours drain away.
The blacked-out privacy partition between the driver and the rear of the car was securely in the up position. The limo glided silently away from the curb, and Jack saw an opened bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver ice bucket next to two crystal champagne flutes.
Jack picked up the thick green bottle as Susan began to rhythmically drag her silk dress up over her milky thighs, swaying to the funky jazz bass guitar line. He put the bottle back on ice, never breaking eye contact, but knew from the increased beating of his heart that the only thing Susan was wearing under the her dress was her abundant gifts from God.
“You make me wet,” she whispered, her eyes crinkling into a sly smile.
Jack never broke eye contact, but couldn’t hide his physical reaction. Susan leaned forward, reached across the aisle, and grabbed Jack’s belt as the limo made a right onto Admiralty Way and took a gentle curve past the moored yachts.
Jack said, “This show business is okay,” and closed the distance in a heartbeat, their bodies melding, his lips moving from her lips to her ear, down the sculpted arch of her neck, and then dropping lower. A man on a mission.
Susan sucked in a ragged breath and let out a moan that could have suggested pain, but was the opposite.
She clicked off the overhead lights.
* * *
Jack was the first to exit the limousine, not comfortable having someone open a car door for him. He had wild bedroom hair, blinking eyes, and a crazy grin as the paparazzi’s flashes strobed. Outside, a crowd waited for a glimpse of the new “It” girl.
One of the photographers thrust his camera inches from Jack’s face and snapped a series of photos, temporarily blinding him with the flashes. When his vision cleared, the man had disappeared into the crowd, leaving Jack pissed off he’d let his guard down. He turned back toward the limo and reached his large hand into the car.
Susan, powdered and perfect, demurely exited the stretch, held on to Jack’s arm while he parted the seas, and nodded to security as they entered the art gallery on Abbot Kinney.
The gallery echoed with muted excitement. Thirty-foot ceilings, white plaster walls, concrete floors, and oversized canvasses. Their dramatic primary colors seemed to take on a life of their own glowing in the pin spotlights.
The crowd was as colorful as the oil paintings, populated with every sex, color, ethnicity, and age: actors, artists, agents, lawyers, writers, wannabes, and the press. The glue that bound the group together was having enough money or political cache to get an invite to the opening. A very self-satisfied group, Jack thought.
An agent from CAA stepped rudely in front of Jack and corralled Susan, immediately joined by a small group just waiting to pounce. Everyone wanted a piece of Susan Blake, as if her success might rub off on them and change their lives. It was fine with Jack. No biggy. He winked at Susan, grabbed a surprisingly good glass of red, and walked the perimeter of the room, casually taking in the art.
Each canvass featured groupings of elongated abstract figures, their bodies alien, Jack thought. One particular painting caught his eye and held it. In it two figures were standing shoulder to shoulder, looking beyond a picket fence at a lonely grouping of gravestones next to a red barn and stylized trees. Like father and son, he thought. No faces on the figures, but they gave Jack a sudden jolt of emotion.
Across the room, he found Susan glancing his way, while listening to a man with striking red hair. He was so tall and thin, he could have been the model for the painting. He was dressed in a tight-fitting black sports jacket, similar to Jack’s, pointed black boots, but his black and purple silk button-down shirt probably ran him five hundred bucks. Business must be good, Jack thought. Susan smiled and gestured for Jack to join them.
Jack was more than comfortable letting Susan do her own thing—these were her people, after all. He knew there might be blowback coming his way just esc
orting the star, but he felt great, light on his feet, and a little buzzed. What the hell, he thought as he crossed the room and sidled up to Susan.
“Jack, I want you to meet Terrence Dirk. He owns one of the most forward-thinking shops in Santa Monica. He has offered to take a look at my living room and help me out with a few design ideas I had. If I’m going to be staying longer than originally planned,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “I want to make the house my own. And he did such a great job with Henry Lee’s beach home.”
If Terrence Dirk was good enough for Henry . . .
Jack proffered his hand. Terrence shook with more pressure then expected. That was accompanied by the steely look in the man’s eyes that Jack recognized from years in the field.
“Are you the artist?” Jack asked.
“Don’t I wish,” Terrence said with an easy smile. “That’s him over in the corner.”
A middle-aged man with a furrowed brow and flyaway hair, five o’clock shadow, multicolored paint-splattered jeans and sneakers, and a rumpled navy-blue blazer was being interviewed on camera. He looked perplexed at the questions being thrown his way by the reporter.
Terrence said, holding his thumb and index finger together, “John Piccard is on the verge of greatness. His work is underpriced at the moment. Buying him now, well, it’s an annuity. In five years’ time you’ll triple your investment.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jack said. That painting he’d been studying had a price tag of eighteen thousand dollars. It had never occurred to Jack that he might spend that kind of money on art.
“He already has a piece hanging in MoMA, and I’ve been fortunate enough to place a few of his paintings with discerning families. Does he speak to you?” Terrence asked.
“Yeah, there’s something about them. Not sure what the artist’s trying to say, but yeah, he does.” Jack sounded surprised at his own reaction, eliciting a comfortable smile from Susan and Terrence.
Susan looked over Jack’s shoulder at the painting that had stopped him. She told Terrence she’d call and set up an appointment early next week to talk design. She slid her arm through Jack’s and they were off.
