Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he took his time surveying the crime scene, rocking back on his heels as he took it in.

  Brody didn’t appreciate waiting. He wanted to get this over with so he could figure out who wanted him dead.

  “You must be a PI,” said Matos at last.

  “How’d you guess, Lieutenant?” said Brody.

  “Anybody who’d shoot a guy in the middle of the afternoon, call a cop, and wait for the cops to arrive must be a PI. Either that or an idiot murderer. Or are they the same thing?” said Matos, with a curl to his lips, which resembled a smile or a sneer depending on your point of view.

  “The perp tried to kill me. I defended myself.”

  “How’d he try to kill you?”

  “With a silenced automatic,” said Brody, pointing to the piece that lay on the asphalt near the corpse.

  Matos massaged his cheek and took in the gun. “Uh-huh. Why did he do this?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Was it road rage? Did you cut him off in traffic, or what?”

  “I didn’t do anything to him.”

  “Just drives up to you and shoots at you for no reason at all?” said Matos, his voice laced with incredulity.

  “I don’t know the reason.”

  “Could I see your gun?”

  Brody withdrew his SIG P365 from his shoulder rig and displayed it to Matos. “I fired two shots at him.”

  “You do have a CCW permit to carry a concealed weapon, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “Mind if I take a look at it?”

  Brody dug his wallet out of his trouser pocket, opened it, and withdrew his folded, worn California Concealed Carry Weapon permit, which he held out to Matos.

  Matos accepted it, inspected it, and handed it back, his face expressionless. Not even the furrows in his brow moved.

  “Do you know this guy?” said Matos.

  “How do I know? I can’t see his face.”

  Matos walked over to the corpse, squatted beside it, and removed its helmet.

  The man had two bloody bullet holes in his low forehead about an inch apart. He had a Hispanic face with bushy black eyebrows and thick lips. His cheek had the capital letters M and S printed in Gothic font two inches high tattooed in dark green ink on it. More tattoos covered his neck. Brody wouldn’t be surprised if the guy’s entire body was blanketed with tats—like Queequeg.

  “Do you know him?” said Matos, looking up at Brody.

  “I never saw him before,” said Brody.

  “He’s a gangbanger. MS-13. Did you rile MS-13 somehow?”

  “No. It sounds like you know him.”

  “All I know is he’s MS-13 from his tats.”

  “I don’t know why he singled me out.”

  “Do you know any MS-13 gangbangers, Mr. Private Detective?”

  “None.”

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Scott Brody.”

  Matos crab-walked over to the silenced automatic, pulled a pen out of the pen shield in his breast pocket, inserted the pen’s nib into the trigger housing, lifted the gun, and stood up. He sniffed the hammer.

  “Smells like cordite,” he said.

  “It was recently fired.”

  “I know what it means. And I don’t like gun battles in the middle of my streets.”

  “It was either him or me. And I didn’t want it to be me. Justifiable homicide.”

  “We haven’t come to that conclusion yet.”

  “It’s obvious it was an attempted hit, Lieutenant.”

  “What’s so obvious about it?” said Matos, tilting up his head.

  “The guy had a silencer on his piece. You don’t carry around a silenced gun for road rage. He targeted me.”

  “Why?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Maybe he was trying to carjack you.”

  “Carjack a Mini?” said Brody in disbelief.

  “Why not? These guys aren’t picky when it comes to carjacking.”

  Brody shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “When you find out the reason, let me know.”

  “Am I free to go?”

  “For the time being,” said Matos, giving Brody a lingering, disquieting gaze.

  Brody felt like a bug pinned under a microscope.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Don’t thank me. And don’t leave town. I still want to know why a gangbanger targeted you. This case is open.”

  “OK,” said Brody, turning to climb into his car.

  “You admit you shot him?”

  “I admit I shot him in self-defense after he shot at me.”

  “Two to the head.” Matos whistled. “You didn’t take any chances.”

  “I shoot to kill. A wounded animal is the most dangerous animal in the jungle.”

  Matos jacked up his wannabe eyebrows in mock amazement.

  Brody strapped on his seat belt, fired his engine, pulled into the congested traffic, and headed home—a few feet at a time.

  Chapter 54

  After traffic thinned and before he reached his apartment, Brody’s cell phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He decided to pull into a nearby Ralph’s supermarket parking lot and take the call.

  He slotted his Mini in the sloping parking lot and checked his iPhone’s caller ID.

  “Sam?” he said.

  “Who else would be calling you from this number?” said Lasko.

  “What happened? Is there a problem with the sample?”

  “Other than it stinks worse than an unwashed perineum, no.”

  “Did you call me to crack jokes?” said Brody, bent out of shape, still smarting from the recent attempt on his life.

  “I have the results of the DNA analysis. If you’re gonna be mean to me, I’m gonna hang up and keep them to myself.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Get down on your knees and beg.”

  “Purty please. How could you check the DNA so fast?” Brody glanced at his wristwatch. “I gave you the volleyball less than two hours ago.”

  “I have access to a Rapid DNA machine. The machine can analyze DNA in under two hours.”

  Brody gripped his iPhone tighter, eager for the results. “So who got castrated?”

  “I didn’t get any hits.”

  “You checked the database?”

  “I checked CODIS.”

  The FBI’s Combined DNA Index System, the national DNA database, decided Brody.

  “The victim’s DNA results aren’t in the database?” he said.

  “Correct.”

  “Which doesn’t tell us anything,” said Brody, crestfallen.

  “It tells us the victim probably isn’t a criminal—at least not an American criminal. The database has a disproportionate amount of felons in it.”

  “Just felons?”

  “Suspects’ DNA is kept on file for a short while, but not stored permanently. If the DNA doesn’t belong to a felon, it’s probably not in CODIS.”

  Brody sighed. “You said he’s not an American?”

  “I said he’s not an American criminal, or probably not. Not all of them have their DNA in the database, especially if they’ve never been caught.”

  “So he could be a criminal from another country?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Is there any way you could check foreign databases?”

  “I can’t guarantee foreign cops would cooperate. How many countries are we talking about?”

  “What about Interpol? They must have a DNA database.”

  “With a couple hundred thousand profiles in it, the last I heard.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “The problem is, I doubt they would cooperate with me since I’m working on my own. If the search was authorized by the LAPD, I could use them.”

  “What about Europol?”

  “Same deal as Interpol. Do you suspect this guy’s European?”

  “I
have no idea who he is or where he’s from.”

  “That makes our job tougher.”

  “What about those online genealogy databases? The people in them aren’t all felons. Did you check those, too?”

  “I already thought of that. No hits.”

  “He could still be a felon, though.”

  “Remember, I said ‘probably isn’t.’ Which means, yes, he could be. He could be a lot of things. He could be an American. He could be a foreigner. He could be anyone who doesn’t have a DNA sample in our database. Sorry to be so vague.”

  “I owe you one.”

  “A ticket to a Lakers game, at least. A playoff game.”

  “That lets me off the hook. The Lakers’ll never make the playoffs.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith.”

  Brody terminated the call.

  He decided to drive to Deirdre’s house to tell her the latest news.

  When he pulled into her driveway fifteen minutes later, he didn’t see Lyndon’s Porsche 911. Which was good luck. He wanted to talk to Deirdre alone. He parked in the driveway.

  She must have seen him drive up, because she opened the front door as he was walking up the driveway. She shepherded him into her living room.

  “I got the DNA results,” he said.

  “Have a seat,” she said. “Do you want a Coke?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” said Brody, sitting on the sofa.

  “Diet or regular?”

  “Regular.”

  She retrieved two cans of Coke from the refrigerator behind the wet bar—a Diet Coke for herself and a classic Coke for Brody—and sat next to him on the sofa.

  “Whose DNA was it?” she said, crossing her legs and leaning toward him with interest, her Diet Coke in her hand.

  He tried to keep his gaze from straying to her thighs. Her skirt was riding upward as she leaned toward him.

  “The results were negative,” he said. “The victim’s DNA wasn’t in the database.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Not much of anything. Not everybody’s DNA is in a database. I thought we might get lucky. It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Where’s that leave us?”

  “I haven’t finished. An MS-13 gangbanger tried to blow me away in Hollywood.”

  “I don’t get it,” she said, pulling away from him in bemusement.

  “It makes no sense—unless it’s related to your case. Do you have any contact with MS-13?”

  “Me? What’s MS-13?”

  Valerie strode into the living room, her eyes watery. “I miss Busby, Mom.”

  “So do I, dear,” said Deirdre. “Before I forget, your father wants to know if you’ve seen his blue suitcase.”

  “No. Why’s he here again?” she said, eying Brody.

  “He’s an insurance salesman.”

  Bored by the information, Valerie left the room.

  “Where were we?” said Deirdre, turning toward Brody.

  “What’s this blue suitcase you’re talking about?”

  “Lyndon can’t find it. He took it to Cabo and somehow misplaced it when we got back to LA.”

  “What was in it?” asked Brody, wondering if the top-secret documents Peltz was looking for were stashed in it.

  “Business papers,” she answered.

  “What happened to it?”

  Deirdre pulled a face. “Nobody seems to know. Lyndon’s having a cow over it.”

  “We were talking about your connection with the MS-13 gang.”

  “I don’t have connections with any gangs.”

  “What about Lyndon?”

  “I can’t imagine why he’d be rubbing elbows with them. Why would they need a talent manager?”

  “To spruce up their image? Everybody needs a PR flack.”

  “He never told me he had dealings with them.”

  “They never bothered me till I took on your case.”

  “Are you blaming me?” she said in astonished annoyance.

  “Not at all. Maybe MS-13 is responsible for killing Busby.”

  “Why would they kill Busby?”

  “To get to you.”

  “Why would they be after me? I have nothing to do with them.” She shook her head in confusion.

  “What about Valerie?” he said, and took a swig from his Coke.

  “She doesn’t associate with them. Are you kidding?”

  “I can’t understand why they sent someone to blow me away,” he said, getting to his feet, Coke can in hand.

  “None of this makes any sense,” she said in frustration, standing up.

  Brody put his half-finished Coke can on the coffee table and headed out. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter 55

  When Brody entered his apartment, he got out his iPhone and summoned Peltz for a meet.

  Peltz showed up in a dark business suit with a lavender tie twenty minutes later.

  They ambled to the middle of the room.

  Brody cut to the chase. “MS-13 tried to whack me out in Hollywood.”

  “MS-13?” said Peltz, disconcerted.

  “They’re an LA gang with foreign ties.”

  “I know who they are. The question is, why would they target you?”

  “Maybe they know I’m working for the Foxes and want me out of the way.”

  “In some ways, MS-13’s involvement makes sense.”

  “How?”

  “They’re part of the deep state.”

  “The deep state? You keep talking about it. What exactly is it?”

  “It’s a combination of the intelligence agencies, the military-industrial complex, the big banks, and the drug cartels, which together control America. They’re unelected bureaucrats who control the levers of power behind the scenes with their access to billions of dollars to control policy. They’re all in cahoots.”

  “So MS-13 is connected with the CIA and the FBI?”

  “They can’t exist without each other.”

  “Where’s the SVR fit in?”

  “They can’t exist without the CIA. They feed off each other, like all intelligence agencies. They have a symbiotic relationship.”

  “How does Lyndon Fox fit into all this?”

  “He manages speaking arrangements and fundraising for Vice President Dealey, and we think Dealey and a secret cadre embedded in the deep state are plotting a coup to unseat the president by invoking the Twenty-fifth Amendment. We believe the SVR is trying to pass secret documents to Dealey that could help the conspirators remove the president from office by proving he’s unfit to govern.”

  “Wow. You have proof of this coup?”

  “We have circumstantial evidence, but no smoking gun. The SVR documents could be the smoking gun we need to blow the conspiracy wide open and expose the members of the cabal plotting it.”

  Trying to fathom what Peltz was saying, Brody felt a headache coming on. Peltz’s words defied belief. It was too complicated for him to get his head around it. Had he stumbled into a conspiracy when he had agreed to work for Deirdre Fox?

  “One question,” he said. “Why does MS-13 want me dead?”

  “Maybe they’re branching out into espionage.”

  “They want the secret docs Fox stole? What would they do with them?”

  “There are plenty of players on the world stage who would be willing to fork over big money for secret government documents.”

  “You’re saying MS-13 wants those docs so they can sell them to the highest bidder?”

  Peltz paced around the room, chewing it over. “Could be.” He paused. “Which would mean they know Fox is a traitor. How did they find that out?”

  “Maybe the Russian SVR told them.”

  “The SVR in cahoots with MS-13? That’s a bad combination. We gotta get those top-secret docs pronto. We don’t want MS-13 getting their dirty little hands on them.”

  “What can we do?”

  “What happened to the MS-13 hit man who waylaid you? Maybe we can give him the third degree.”
/>
  “I took him out.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Peltz, holding his head down.

  “Even more so for him.”

  Peltz shot him a look and paced a while longer, thinking.

  “Did you tell the cops?” he said, coming to a halt in the middle of the carpet.

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That the guy tried to blow me away.”

  “Did you tell them anything about Fox?”

  “No.”

  “Good. We don’t want them involved.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ll get in the way. Espionage is federal. It’s the Bureau’s jurisdiction. It’s not a local matter,” said Peltz, gesticulating.

  “What if MS-13 sends another hit man after me?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “That’s not encouraging.”

  “We’ll keep our eyes peeled for them.”

  “I’m betting they’ll try again,” said Brody, downbeat.

  “Why would they stop? They’ve got plenty of manpower.”

  Brody stared at Peltz. “You’re supposed to be cheering me up.”

  Peltz stared back at him, his face expressionless.

  “I gotta find out who sicced them on me and put a stop to this,” said Brody, and set his jaw.

  “Would you show me the way out?”

  The fed’s punctiliousness was getting to Brody. He opened the door for Peltz, feeling like Peltz’s factotum.

  Chapter 56

  After Peltz left, Brody got on his laptop and logged onto the Elysian Fields chat room, pecking at the computer keys.

  Myshkin: I spend too much time here.

  Teddy Roosevelt: You need to get a life.

  Margaux Hemingway: Are you married, Myshkin?

  Myshkin: I was.

  Margaux Hemingway: What happened?

  Myshkin: A charming serial killer strangled her.

  Margaux Hemingway: Oh no. I’m sorry for your loss.

  Teddy Roosevelt: Bummer.

  Myshkin: I should be working, but I need a break.

  Teddy Roosevelt: Life can be a bitch.