Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  “Want me to call him?” said Brody.

  Deirdre looked at Lyndon then back at Brody. “All right.”

  Brody got out his iPhone and called Victor Lopez, a friend and an A-list bodyguard. A Hispanic thirty-eight-year-old ex-marine, Victor had lost his only son, a sergeant in the marines, to an IED in Afghanistan. Ever since, Victor had sworn to get even with the bad guys any way he could. He thought he could do it best by becoming a bodyguard and protecting his clients from them.

  Brody punched out Lopez’s number on his cell.

  When Victor answered, Brody said, “This is Brody. I got a job for you, Vic.”

  He gave Victor Deirdre’s phone number and terminated the call.

  “He’ll be in touch with you soon,” Brody told Deirdre. “His name is Victor Lopez.”

  “How come an insurance agent has a bodyguard for a friend?” said Lyndon, cocking his eyebrow with suspicion.

  “I meet all sorts of people in my profession,” said Brody. “I still think you should tell the cops about the assault,” he said, heading to the front door.

  “Not gonna happen,” said Lyndon.

  “Are you going to the hospital?” Deirdre asked Brody.

  “No,” he answered. “I have work to do. Lopez will be here any minute to provide his services.”

  Chapter 74

  Brody climbed into his Mini, dug out his cell, and rang Peltz’s number again. The phone rang eight times. Nobody picked up. Where was the guy? wondered Brody. And where was the squad of feds that were protecting Deirdre Fox’s house? He saw no sign of them. True, they were pros and would be trained to remain invisible while on a stakeout. But if they were pros, why hadn’t they prevented the gangbanger from invading the Foxes’ household?

  He put his iPhone away, fired up the Mini, and headed for Culver City. He was convinced Rakowski’s death was a vital clue to what was going on with the Foxes. He was also convinced Rakowski’s partner Eileen Quester knew more about Rakowski’s death than she was letting on.

  Brody took the 10 to Culver City.

  Every time he heard a chugging motorcycle splitting lanes and passing him from behind on his left, he tensed and started to reach for the SIG P365 in his shoulder rig, anticipating another MS-13 gangbanger drive-by, his eyes glued to the side-view mirror on his left.

  He relaxed after the current motorcycle passed him and swerved in front of him.

  He arrived in Culver City and pulled into the strip mall where Rakowski’s PI office was located. He found a vacant parking place and slotted his car. He killed the engine, set the emergency brake, and made for the office. He ambled past the half-full Laundromat, where launderers were yelling into their cell phones and slamming washing machines shut as they did their wash.

  Reaching Rakowski’s office door he knocked on it.

  No answer.

  He tried the doorknob. Surprised it was open, he walked inside the lobby in search of Quester.

  “Hello?” he said.

  He decided she must be in her office and made a beeline for it. He peered inside.

  She was sitting behind her desk, a serrated hunting knife buried to the hilt in the side of her neck, her head hanging back, her mouth gaping, her glassy, unfocused eyes staring at the ceiling, the side of her throat and the front and side of her yellow blouse drenched with blood.

  Brody suspected the killer must have thought Quester knew something about Rakowski’s investigation of Lyndon Fox. The knife to the throat could be MS-13’s handiwork. Did the same person that killed Rakowski kill Quester? Brody wondered. And why? Or was this killing the work of the gangbanger that had terrorized the Foxes’ house? The killing looked recent. It could have been the same guy. What was he looking for? And why would he think Quester might have it?

  Or did Quester’s murder have nothing to do with Rakowski? wondered Brody. Perhaps it had something to do with a case she was working on for one of her clients. Brody had the gut feeling it was connected to Rakowski’s murder, however. There was too much violence associated with the Fox case for him to shrug Quester’s murder off as an isolated incident. Instinct told him it was connected to Rakowski and Fox. But he couldn’t figure out the reason for Quester’s murder. Maybe the murderer thought Quester knew too much because she was Rakowski’s partner.

  An onslaught of questions that needed to be answered plagued Brody. Thinking about the attack on the Foxes, Brody fished his iPhone out of his trouser pocket and called Peltz. The phone kept ringing.

  Was Peltz deliberately not answering it? wondered Brody. Did Peltz know Brody wanted to chew him out for not protecting Deirdre with his feds who were guarding her?

  Brody couldn’t stay here in Rakowski’s office any longer with Quester’s stiff. Somebody was bound to come in sooner or later. He wanted nothing to do with her murder. The cops might blame him if somebody spotted him here. He had to beat it.

  With his handkerchief he wiped his fingerprints off the front door and closed it behind him, hoping nobody was watching him in the strip mall.

  Chapter 75

  He returned to his car, drove to the nearest fast-food restaurant that had a pay phone, which turned out to be a Carl’s Jr., got out of his car, and used their touchtone pay phone in the parking lot to dial 911. He told the police dispatcher about a murder victim in Rakowski’s office, hung up the handset, returned to his Mini, digging his iPhone out of his trouser pocket, and settled into the driver’s seat.

  He called Peltz again.

  No answer.

  After ten rings, Brody terminated the call.

  Frustrated and angry, he decided to call the LA branch of the FBI where Peltz worked. Maybe he could reach the guy there.

  “Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said the secretary, her voice authoritative.

  “Hi. I have important information for Special Agent Peltz.”

  “Give me a second. I need to finish my coffee.”

  “Of course,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “I’ll check the directory.”

  “This is urgent.”

  “Is your life at stake, sir?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Then hold your horses. I’m checking now.”

  Brody waited, champing at the bit to reach Peltz so he could give the fed a piece of his mind. Deirdre had almost been killed under Peltz’s watch. What kind of FBI agent would let someone under his watch get murdered without making any effort whatsoever to protect them? It made Brody’s blood boil thinking about it.

  “What did you say his name was?” said the secretary, returning to the phone.

  “Peltz. Brad Peltz.”

  “Are you sure that’s the right name?”

  “Positive.”

  “We have a Len Beltzer that works here.”

  “No. It’s Brad Peltz.”

  “Nobody by that name works at the FBI.”

  “What?” said Brody, not believing his ears. “What are you talking about?”

  “There is no Brad Peltz working at the FBI.”

  “This is insane. I can’t believe this.”

  Trying to compose himself Brody turned it over in his mind. Maybe Peltz was under such deep cover that nobody knew about his assignment. After all, a vice president who was trying to use the Twenty-fifth Amendment to remove the president was serious stuff. Maybe only a select and clandestine group of FBI agents knew about the conspiracy. And this secretary wasn’t included in the loop.

  “Could you double-check and make sure?” said Brody.

  “I already double-checked. No Brad Peltz works here.”

  “Could I speak to your supervisor?” Maybe a higher-up would know about Peltz’s assignment, decided Brody. “This is urgent.”

  “Wait a second. I’ll patch you through to him.”

  Brody waited, baffled at what was going on. He heard police sirens wailing in the distance.

  A seven-year-old girl walking by him with her mother smiled at him and waved as she passed his Mini.
<
br />   He told himself to calm down. He didn’t want to draw attention. He was seething. Had Peltz deserted him?

  “Special-Agent-in-Charge Thomason,” said a gruff voice over the line.

  “Hello. I’m trying to talk to your agent Brad Peltz.”

  “There is no Brad Peltz here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I have no idea. He doesn’t work here. Who is this?”

  “I’m Scott Brody, a private detective. I’m working with him to solve a case.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Peltz is on a deep-cover assignment. Maybe that’s why only a few people are aware of it.”

  “I’m not aware of any such assignment. If anyone would know, I would.”

  “Then who is Brad Peltz working for?” said Brody, befuddled. “Is it somebody higher up in the government?”

  “He’s not working for anybody in the government.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Brad Peltz used to work here. He was fired years ago.”

  Taken aback, Brody found himself speechless.

  “Fired?” he said, at last. “For what?”

  “He had emotional issues and a drinking problem. He couldn’t handle the job. A psychiatrist couldn’t help him. The Bureau fired him. He was heading for a complete nervous breakdown.”

  Brody didn’t know what to say. “What happened to him?”

  “I have no idea. I got work to do.”

  Thomason rang off.

  Cell phone in hand, Brody sat, nonplussed, staring out his windshield. He didn’t know what to believe, or who. According to Thomason, Peltz was an emotionally unstable rogue elephant with no government backing. But was Thomason telling the truth? wondered Brody. Maybe Peltz’s firing from the FBI was a cover story, so nobody would know he was involved in a secret operation to get the goods on the vice president’s cabal of conspirators. Maybe Thomason wasn’t cleared to access Peltz’s secret operation. Or maybe Thomason didn’t know Peltz had recruited Brody and therefore wouldn’t acknowledge Peltz’s operation.

  Whatever the answer was, the inescapable fact remained that Peltz wasn’t answering Brody’s calls. Had Peltz eighty-sixed Brody from the clandestine operation, or did the clandestine operation even exist? Or—and this scenario scared the hell out of Brody—had the conspirators gotten to Peltz and killed him? Brody’s stomach flipped.

  He had to find Peltz and grill him to discover what was going on.

  Brody was getting dizzy thinking of the innumerable permutations. It was a damn chess game that needed a Bobby Fischer to figure out.

  Brody pondered his next move, as the police sirens waxed louder with the approach of the cops.

  He needed to get as far away from here as possible.

  He put away his cell, fired his engine, backed out of his space, shifted into first, pulled out of the restaurant parking lot, upshifted, and headed back to the 10, remembering all the while to keep his eyes peeled for any motorcycles overtaking him on the driver’s side, his hand ready to reach into his holster to draw his SIG P365 on a dime.

  He heard the clattering cacophony of a motorcycle behind him and checked his rearview mirror. A motorcycle started to overtake him on his left. His hand was halfway to his SIG P365 when he was able to make out the bearded biker’s black leather jacket with zipper-pocket slashes looming in his driver’s side mirror. He also recognized the emblem of the Mongols stitched on the leather jacket.

  Not MS-13, decided Brody, relaxing more or less, but continuing to keep a wary eye on the biker.

  The motorcycle passed, swerved in front of him, and roared away, gritty exhaust pluming out of its tailpipe.

  Chapter 76

  Brody drove into the Foxes’ driveway. Victor Lopez’s red Camaro was parked in front of him. Lyndon’s Porsche 911 wasn’t there.

  Brody rang the doorbell.

  Deirdre opened the door and let him in.

  Victor was standing in the living room, his hands clasped in front of him. He was five ten, all muscle, heavyset. Clad in jeans and a grey sweatshirt cut off at the sleeves, he wore his black hair in a ponytail, the hair on his scalp tight like a skullcap.

  “I see you’ve been talking to Victor,” Brody told Deirdre.

  “I’m interviewing him for the bodyguard job,” she said.

  “How’s it going, Tonto?”

  “OK, Kemosabe,” said Victor. “I’m glad I don’t have to dig bullets out of your arm.”

  “Not yet, anyway,” said Brody with a smile.

  “I thought your name was Victor,” said Deirdre.

  “It is,” said Victor. “Don’t pay attention to him. He thinks he’s the Lone Ranger, the last maverick. I’m surprised he’s even asking for my help. He never asks for anybody’s help.”

  “I’m the one that needs to hire you.”

  “You came to the right man.”

  “Can you act as my bodyguard without being seen with me?”

  “I can. I am the soul of discretion.”

  “He’ll be as quiet as your shadow,” said Brody.

  “All right,” she said.

  “For three hundred dollars an hour, I’m your man,” said Victor.

  “You cost almost as much as he does.”

  “Then you’re getting a bargain. I’m better than him.”

  Brody gave Victor a look. Victor grinned back at him.

  Brody turned to Deirdre. “Now that we got that out of the way, I have bad news.”

  “How much worse can it get?” she said.

  “Rakowski’s partner was murdered.”

  “Who would kill her?” she said, dumbfounded.

  “I have a feeling it’s related to Rakowski’s murder in Cabo.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not at all. It’s a hunch. It might have nothing to do with Rakowski. Maybe it was connected to a case she’s working on by herself.”

  She nodded. “Could be.”

  “But what are the chances Rakowski and his partner would both get killed within days of each other and that the murders aren’t connected?”

  She gave a casual shrug. “A coincidence?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “What does it mean, then?”

  “Whoever’s harassing you is looking for something. That MS-13 gangbanger that invaded your house wanted to know where ‘it’ was. Whatever ‘it’ is.”

  “I have no idea what he was talking about.”

  “Maybe he, or his cohorts, thought Quester might know where it is.”

  “You think there’s more than one person involved in this?”

  “Gangbangers aren’t in the habit of working as lone wolves.”

  “What do the cops say about Quester’s murder?” said Victor.

  “I didn’t stick around to talk to them,” said Brody.

  “There was only one person that invaded our house,” said Deirdre, shivering with fear at the memory.

  “Is he the same person that dropped the volleyball in your pool?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What do you have that MS-13 wants?” Victor asked Deirdre.

  She shook her head in bafflement.

  “Maybe your husband knows,” said Brody.

  “He said he didn’t know what the thug wanted.”

  “I know what he said. I was there.” Though I was semiconscious from a blow to my head, thought Brody.

  “Where does that leave us?”

  Brody heaved a sigh. “The gangbanger believes you have something he wants.”

  “Could it be as simple as money?” said Victor.

  “He didn’t say money,” said Deirdre. “If that’s what he wanted, why didn’t he say so? He had something specific in mind, but who knows what?” she said, flinging up her hand.

  “I thought I heard them talking about a suitcase,” said Brody.

  “I’m having trouble remembering anything that happened during the assault,” she sai
d, her complexion pale.

  “That’s understandable after what you went through.”

  “What do the cops think?” said Victor.

  “They didn’t tell the cops,” said Brody.

  “No cops? Why not?”

  “It’s Lyndon’s idea. Everything with him is PR. He thinks a home invasion is bad PR, so he doesn’t want anyone to know about it.”

  “It’ll hurt his career,” said Deirdre.

  “Where is he, anyway?”

  “He went to work.”

  “I’ll scope out the perimeter and find the optimum vantage point for me to be able to keep an eye on your house,” said Victor, making for the French door that gave onto the pool and the backyard.

  “Do you have a piece?” said Brody.

  “A SIG P938 in a Velcro UTG holster strapped to my ankle,” said Victor, on his way out.

  “You may need more. I’m getting the feeling there’s more than one person involved in these attacks.”

  “No problem,” said Victor over his shoulder. “I got an H&K MP5 with a hundred-round Beta-C Mag drum magazine in my digs.”

  He strode outside, sniffing the air like he was part bloodhound and could smell the enemy if one was present.

  Brody turned to Deirdre. “You’re in good hands.”

  “I hope so. I don’t want to go through that nightmare again. I believe he’ll try again.”

  “I agree. Too bad your Great Dane isn’t around. He could help guard the house.”

  “Poor Busby,” she said, her eyes morose.

  He paused, waiting for her to calm down.

  “I need to talk to you about Terri Symonds,” he said.

  Chapter 77

  “Who?” said Deirdre.

  “She works at Sugar Babies International,” said Brody.

  Deirdre looked blank and sat down on the sofa.

  “Your husband represents her,” said Brody.

  “He represents a lot of people.”

  “I told you about her earlier. She’s the one that claims Lyndon has repeatedly raped her.”

  Deirdre took in the news without showing any emotion, as if she had feared Brody’s revelation as inevitable.

  “Did she file a police report?” she said.