Death Rattle

by Alex Gilly

  “Not easily. That’s why people have companies in the Cayman Islands. Not to get found out.”

  They agreed to stay in touch. Mona hung up. Finn suggested they head home. Mona shook her head.

  “I have to go back to work,” she said.

  * * *

  Mona worked till midnight. She was the last to leave the office. She switched off the lights and rode the elevator down to the parking garage.

  She got in her RAV and started up the ramp to the street. Her phone started vibrating, rattling around in the dash recess. She picked it up. No caller ID. Nobody calls with good news at midnight. She answered, holding her breath.

  A man’s voice said, “Jimena Jimenez.” He knew her real name.

  “Who is this?” said Mona.

  “You are the lawyer for Carmen Vega,” said the voice in Spanish.

  Mona recognized the voice. The one who’d said, “Turn it off.”

  “You drive a red Toyota RAV,” said the voice. “Your license plate is 1AEG972. You have just left your office.”

  Mona scanned the street. There were no people about. No other cars on the road. Both curbs were lined with parked cars. Was he sitting in one of them, watching her? She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white. She hit the gas—her tires squealed.

  “Drop your suit,” hissed the voice. “Or what happened to Carmen will happen to you.”

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  Mona drove straight to the nearest police station and reported the phone call. The night-shift officer at the counter took notes. Mona gave her the time of the call, the duration, and what was said. The officer advised Mona to report the call to her phone company. Then the officer explained that there wasn’t much the police could do but that Mona had done the right thing reporting the call.

  “It gives us something to go on, should anything happen.”

  Mona shuddered. Should anything happen? The officer suggested that if Mona was really worried, she should go to a safe location.

  Mona gave her a withering stare. She said she would call the phone company first thing in the morning.

  She was relieved to see Finn’s truck outside the condo when she got home. It was 1 A.M., and she had expected him to be home, but she was relieved nonetheless.

  Inside, she turned on all the lights as she made her way through the living room, down the hall past the bathroom and the spare room, to the bedroom. Finn was asleep. She climbed into the bed on his side and curled up next to him.

  Mona and Finn had been married long enough to develop certain routines. Mona never climbed into bed from Finn’s side, for instance. She always got in from her side, even the nights he was out on patrol. When they made love, each came to the other from their own territory and met in the middle, a kind of erotic commons. And if they fell asleep holding each other, it was always in the same configuration: Finn on the left, Mona on the right. So although Mona made no noise when she lay down next to him, Finn sensed her body on the wrong side, and it sent a signal to his slumbering brain.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  She told him about the phone call.

  He sat up, instantly wide awake. He looked at Mona’s shape lying in the dark. His mind raced. He was angry with the police for doing nothing.

  “We have to set up a phone trap,” he said. “If he calls again, we’ll trace the call.”

  “God, please tell me he’s not going to call again.”

  Finn looked in the dark in the direction of the closet. On the closet floor was a gun safe. Inside the safe was a Glock 19 semiautomatic that Finn had bought three years earlier for Mona, after she’d been kidnapped by a murderous human trafficker that Finn had intercepted.

  “To protect yourself,” he’d said when he’d given it to her, which had made her laugh.

  “Nick, how long have you known me? I hate guns,” she had replied.

  After that, he’d put the gun away in the safe and hadn’t mentioned it again.

  Until now.

  “You think maybe it’s time to reconsider the Glock?” he said.

  “I’m not carrying a gun, Nick.”

  They lay in silence for a while.

  Then Finn said, “I’m going to take some time off.”

  “No. I don’t want a bodyguard.”

  “What, then?”

  Mona rolled onto her back. “You know when you go out on patrol, and you’re on your boat out on the sea, out beyond the cell phone towers, out where I can’t reach you?”

  “Yes?” said Finn.

  “What you’re feeling now is what I feel every time you do that. Anything could happen to you out there.”

  Finn sighed. “This guy. If I find this guy…”

  “Forget about him,” said Mona. She pulled his head toward hers. “Focus on me.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  MONA woke at 6:00 A.M. as usual. She remembered the phone call. Finn was still asleep. It was Saturday morning. Usually on Saturdays, she went to Pilates down by the beach. This morning, she decided to stay in bed, curled up against her husband.

  Finn woke an hour later. “This is a nice surprise,” he said.

  Mona kissed his forehead. She didn’t bring up the phone call, and neither did he.

  “I start my shift at nine,” he said. He got up and went to shower. Mona went to the kitchen and made coffee. When she came back to the bedroom, she found Finn sitting on the floor next to the closet, peering into the chamber of the handgun he’d bought for her.

  “I don’t want it, Nick.”

  “Just checking it hasn’t jammed up.”

  Finn put the gun away in the safe, hugged his wife, and left for work. Mona stood in the doorway and watched him walk to his truck. She scanned the cars parked on the street. Then she closed the door. Normally, when she was home, she simply pressed the button on the door handle. This time, she used her key to double-lock it.

  * * *

  Mona sat down on the sofa and called Littlemore on his cell.

  “You’re becoming a pest,” he said, but not in a way that indicated he minded.

  “Listen. Someone threatened me last night.”

  Littlemore dropped the jocular tone. “Who?”

  Mona told him about the phone call.

  “All right. I’ll put a wiretap on your phone. If he calls again, we’ll locate him.”

  Mona had never imagined the day would come when she would want her phone to be tapped.

  “I’m making this case my priority, Mona. I’ll put my best people on it,” continued Littlemore. “Listen. If you want, I can get you some protection from the Marshals’ Service. A couple of guys. I can do that. All right?”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine.”

  “At least until the trial is over.”

  “Really, no.”

  “All right, well. If you change your mind, just call, okay?” He sounded disappointed.

  “Okay. Have you found who’s behind Loyola Holdings yet?”

  “I’ve got nothing. What’s your best guess?”

  Mona hesitated a second. “Michael Marvin,” she said.

  “I thought that, too. But it doesn’t hold.”

  “Why not?”

  “Five point eight million dollars goes from the BSCA to AmeriCo to Loyola. Why? It would mean Marvin is effectively paying himself. Why would he do that? Also, 5.8 million is a lot of money to you or me, but it’s peanuts to Michael Marvin. I checked up on it; the guy is loaded. The BSCA gave him a stock option deal. Their stock price has quadrupled since he took over. He’s worth at least a hundred million. There’s no upside for him to risk a racketeering charge for what for him is chump change.”

  “Find out what the money’s for. Then everything will fall into place.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t apologize. You know, if you ever want a job, say the word. You’d make a great investigator. But fo
r now, please, stay out of it, okay? And stay safe.”

  “Okay. I will. Thanks.”

  “One more thing,” said Littlemore.

  “What?”

  “Do you own a gun?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  SIX days later, at 7:00 A.M. on June 20—a Thursday—Mona kissed Finn goodbye, got into her RAV, and headed for Paradise.

  She was going to a dispute-resolution session mandated by the court. She had tried to get it moved to LA, but the judge wouldn’t countenance it. “You are the one who wanted to have this case heard in my court, Ms. Jimenez,” she had said. So now Mona was on the road again, driving her little RAV into the ground. The only consolation was that Wolfeson, White had to send someone, too. She anticipated that they would send a junior lawyer rather than one of their high billers. She doubted they expected any more from the session than she did; in the mercenary world of corporate litigation, the judiciary’s attempt to encourage cooperation through alternative dispute resolution was a quixotic boondoggle.

  It was still cool when she left Redondo, but a heat wave was predicted. They were forecasting temperatures were over one hundred degrees out in the desert. By 10:00 A.M., Mona had reached the 215 at Riverside, and she didn’t need her cardigan anymore. An hour later, driving past Palm Springs on the I-10, Mona could taste the heat in the air flowing through the open windows. She put them up and switched on the AC. Immediately, the vent started rattling.

  For the last hundred miles, through city and suburb, desert and mountain, the defective air-conditioning rattling constantly in the background, Mona mulled the same questions over and over, worked them over in her mind the way a kid works over a Rubik’s Cube in his hands, looking at it from all sides. What happened to Carmen? What did $5.8 million buy the BSCA? Who was behind Loyola Holdings? What had Maws been trying to say when he had shouted, “Lawyer is lost”? How was it all linked?

  * * *

  Mona reached the Paradise courthouse at 1 P.M. She stepped out of her air-conditioned car and into the baking heat and made her way inside.

  The court had set aside a conference room for the session. Mona was surprised to see that the Wolfeson, White contingent had arrived early. She was even more surprised to see that Morrison Scott himself was there.

  “Mr. Scott, this is an unexpected pleasure,” she said.

  “My dear, I am a firm believer in mutually beneficial accommodation,” he said with an avuncular grin.

  The mediator—a man who affected thick-rimmed spectacles, an open collar, and stubble—began by introducing himself (his name was Gerard Mellon, a Paradise native), listing his qualifications (he had a community college certificate in general mediation), and the practical aspects of the day: the schedule, the confidentiality agreement, the rules of conduct.

  Then he invited everyone to close their eyes and visualize their ideal outcome.

  Mona groaned inwardly. This is going to be a long afternoon, she thought.

  * * *

  Four hours later, she headed back to her car. Her intuition had been right: neither she nor Morrison Scott had budged on any point of contention. The case was going to trial.

  She turned on the ignition and set the air-conditioning to maximum when there was a knock on the glass. Morrison Scott was standing outside her door. She rolled down the window.

  “Would you do me the kindness of meeting me for a drink, Ms. Jimenez?”

  Mona considered. To avoid having to drive back to LA the same day, she had booked herself a room again at the Eden Inn. She had nothing planned that evening but an early night.

  “I noticed a bar on Main Street called Paradise Karaoke,” said Scott. “I’m sure that if we go early enough we can avoid the karaoke component.”

  Mona smiled. “I’ll see you there in an hour.”

  * * *

  Mona drove to the Eden Inn, ten minutes outside town, and took a shower. She consolidated her notes from the mediation session. Then she headed back into town.

  She found Paradise Karaoke in a commercial court off Main Street near the intersection with the old highway. A few vehicles were parked outside the bar, all pickup trucks. Mona found a vacant spot next to a gleaming black Ram crew cab. Even its tires sparkled. In contrast, her RAV was covered in dust. The windshield had two angel wings on them, where she had used her wipers and washer jet to clear away the grime and smashed insects.

  She went inside. Scott had taken up residence in a booth. He stood when Mona appeared and waited for her to slide onto the bench opposite him before sitting again. A cheerful young person poured her a glass of ice water before she’d asked for it.

  “Could I have a vodka martini, please?” said Mona, pushing away the water.

  “Martini. What a good idea,” said Scott. He ordered one, too. The young person skipped away.

  “I’ve been authorized by the Border Security Corporation of America to make you an offer,” said Scott. “However, it wasn’t convenient to make the offer during the mediation session, due to Mr. Mellon’s rather tedious insistence on keeping a detailed record.”

  “I see. So it’s an off-the-record offer?” said Mona.

  Scott smiled. He took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and put it on the table in front of Mona.

  “More than I’d expected,” she said. “You must be expensive.”

  Mona understood now why Scott had made the trip all the way to Paradise. The BSCA’s insurance company, Chattel House, was hoping to reduce its exposure. If they could reach a settlement that amounted to less than the fee that Scott would charge for taking the case to trial, they would consider it a win. She knew also that the offer came with strings attached; the BSCA would insist that the settlement would in no way signify legal accountability. They would pay money, but they would not accept any responsibility for Carmen’s death. They wouldn’t want to set a precedent.

  The waitperson brought their martinis. Or what the barkeep thought passed for a martini. The vodka was barely chilled, and Mona couldn’t taste any vermouth.

  Scott took a sip, screwed up his eyes, and put down his glass. “Goodness, California is overrated. If you ever come to Washington, I hope you’ll let me make up for this abomination,” he said. “The man behind the bar at the Willard InterContinental is a friend of mine. Nobody in the world makes a better martini than Jim at the Willard InterContinental.”

  “We’re a long way from Washington, Mr. Scott.”

  He chuckled. “It would be a mistake to think that anywhere is a long way from Washington, Ms. Jimenez. Even Paradise.”

  Mona ate the olives from her martini. The rest she left in the glass. Scott was right; it was an abomination.

  “If that’s some kind of oblique threat, you’ve picked the wrong woman, Mr. Scott. Don’t think I don’t know who Michael Marvin is. But I’m not afraid of him. You know why?”

  Scott smiled, shook his head.

  “Because I’m too busy to be scared,” said Mona.

  Scott laughed. “I admire your moxie, Ms. Jimenez.”

  Mona held up the piece of paper. “Would you take this deal, Mr. Scott?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Now it was Mona’s turn to smile. “There’s another thing we have in common,” she said.

  “What is the first thing?”

  “We both know what a proper martini should taste like.”

  He laughed. “You won’t beat me in court, you know. You may be an excellent litigator, but you have no friends. You’ve spent your career representing the powerless, and now you have no power. Me, on the other hand—when powerful people need a lawyer, they call me. And now I am the most sought-after trial lawyer in this country.”

  “I bet you drive a white Porsche,” she said.

  Scott affected a look of distaste. “Goodness, how vulgar. I don’t drive anything, Ms. Jimenez. I have a driver. He picks me up in my Bentley. In British racing green. Now, what answer shall I give the company?”

  Mona shook her head. “I
t’s a no, Mr. Scott.”

  * * *

  After Scott left, Mona stayed in the bar and ordered a burger and beer for dinner. Paradise Karaoke may not have been able to produce a proper martini, but they could do the basics. Feeling restored and ready for bed, Mona checked the time on her phone. It was a quarter to eight. She settled up and got out of there just as they were turning on the karaoke machine.

  Out in the parking lot, she saw the Ram pulling out. She glanced at the driver. He had a black mustache and black hair. He was staring at her. Mona’s blood froze in her veins. Soto.

  The truck exited the lot and was gone.

  Mona ran to her car, got in, and locked the doors. There was no one in the lot but her, but she still locked the doors. Her hands were shaking.

  “It wasn’t him,” she said out loud. “It couldn’t have been him.”

  She told herself that she was exhausted, that it had been a long day, that the heat was oppressive, that her nerves were frayed, that she should’ve skipped the beer.

  Mona picked up her phone to call Finn. But she put it down without dialing him. “What are you going to say?” she said out loud. “You just saw Carmen’s psycho boyfriend in a parking lot?”

  She started the car and exited the parking lot. By the time she was on the interstate driving back toward the motel, her hands had almost stopped shaking. She kept her foot steady on the gas, the RAV moving along with its unambitious, reliable engine. She drove out of Paradise and then through the few miles of desert between the town and the Eden Inn. Soon the repetition of roadside electricity poles, the rhythmic thump of her wheels passing over the joins in the asphalt, the desert shrubs merging into one, the stars coming out, put her almost in a meditative state. The adrenaline surge now dissipated. Either side of her, the highway dipped away a bit, and then it was desert, sand and scrubs as far as she could see. Soon, she thought, it would be dark, and desperate people would emerge from the dunes and hollows and start moving north, while border agents with night-vision goggles would search for the heat coming off their bodies. She kept the radio off. She didn’t want to break her somber state of mind. She saw the neon sign for the Eden Inn up ahead. The E was flickering, so that one second the sign read Eden, the next just den. Mona heard a rattling sound. Irritated, she glanced at the vents in her dash. She really needed to get that fixed.