‘Yeah. Thanks, Craig.’
‘Hey.’ He didn’t want Sam Murray slipping too easily into friendship mode. ‘Don’t say that. I’m going to get full value out of you two. As witnesses. Starting right now. I want the phone, Sam, that was the price of your ticket.’
‘That was the deal, yeah.’ Murray fished in his pocket and brought it out. ‘Felix Latham. Mid-ranking hitman. Took out lower-level politicians, some Mafia guys. Lately in Hollywood. Suspected of killing Susan Steinberg last year.’
Craig blinked. The Steinberg case had received almost zero publicity, because they couldn’t prove the car accident wasn’t one. But he’d been sure of foul play from the start. She was the wife of a Hollywood actor, long-standing marriage, in her fifties. The guy wasn’t famous any more, but his residuals gave him plenty of cash. Plus he owned real estate. Six months after her death, he had remarried, a young, beautiful French girl. Craig suspected that either the husband or the new wife had ordered the hit; California was a community property state, and divorce would have cost him twenty mil.
‘Is that right?’
‘It’s what my people are telling me.’
Craig didn’t argue. Sam Murray had good sources. They both knew that.
‘I’m thinking that’s the key. The Steinberg case.’ He read the text out aloud. ‘That’s what the guy sent before he died, and I think this was a love crime, hate crime, call it whatever you like. Why be so elaborate? Kill in the marriage bed? Why set the girl up? That’s personal. And who would want to hire a guy that had offed a society wife? Somebody that wants the person dead.’
‘Josh Steen fucked a lot of wives.’ Craig glanced in the back. ‘Excuse me, miss.’
‘I’m past it,’ Lisa said drily.
‘Been thinking for a long time it could be a husband.’ His eyes moved to the rear-view mirror again. ‘You probably know the killer. Almost for sure. You being involved, that was deliberate. They hated Josh and didn’t like you either. I done a million of these things. It’s the money that’s got everybody blind, but I think this was sex.’
‘He’s right,’ Sam said. ‘Can you list the husbands for us . . . the ones you knew of?’
She shook her head. ‘I tried to ignore the rumours.’
‘Un-ignore them. Tell us who you heard about, even if it seems unlikely.’
‘OK.’ Lisa sighed. ‘Melissa Olivera. Tracey Jackson. Lori Mandel.’ She paused. ‘Some said Hannah Mazin.’
Craig shook his head. ‘Looked at all those guys’ bank accounts. Nothing unusual that could mean payment to a hitman. It’s got to be somebody else.’
‘Really?’ Sam was surprised. ‘Craig, I’ve been digging. Now I’m here, I was going to start the hunt for real. Peter Mazin was at the top of my list.’
‘What?’ Lisa asked. ‘Peter?’
‘Of course Peter.’ Sam turned around in his seat. ‘Cui bono, you know? Think about it. Peter Mazin didn’t like you; you told me that much yourself. He was always second string while Josh was alive. Now he gets to control the whole company, at least while the estate’s in escrow while they figure out if you’re the Black Widow or not. He’s suddenly the star. Nobody in his way. And if Josh was putting him down at work and fucking his wife behind his back . . .’
‘Yeah. And he’s got the cash to hire a guy like that,’ Craig agreed. ‘I like him for it too. But I crawled over him. There was nothing. He isn’t the client. He hasn’t paid anyone.’
‘OK,’ Sam said slowly. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I’ll check him again. But yeah, I’m pretty sure. I didn’t find anything in that group you mentioned.’ He turned on to the freeway. ‘And now I have questions, lots of questions. And I’m gonna be taping.’
‘As long as we get to get out of the car when you’re done.’
‘You do. But that’s it. Your get-out-of-jail-free card. After that, you guys are on your own. You should consider law enforcement.’
‘Before we find the killer? You realise there’ll be somebody else coming for us, right? Chances he stops at one hitman? We’re out there. We’re tracking. He has to be coming for us.’
Craig didn’t reply. What could he say? Murray was right. It freaking killed him that there was nothing on the money trail. These two were in danger, real danger, and he didn’t think they’d done anything wrong. And law enforcement would pen them in to be slaughtered.
‘I could try for protective custody. Witness protection even.’
‘For that you need a suspect, right?’ Lisa Costello asked. ‘And we don’t have a suspect.’
Craig nodded. ‘Then let’s go get one. Answer all my questions.’ He reached down to the gear box and retrieved his Dictaphone, started to record on it.
‘Interview by Special Agent in Charge Craig Gordon with witnesses Lisa Costello and Samuel Murray. Are you Lisa Costello?’
‘Yes,’ she said clearly.
‘Describe your discovery of the body of Joshua Steen. Be comprehensive. We don’t know what details may prove important.’
She didn’t flinch, didn’t quail. He kept his eyes on the road with difficulty. She sounded rather magnificent, with her voice clear and loud for the tape, defying him, almost, defying them all.
‘When I woke up, I had been drugged. At the time I thought I was hung over . . .’
Yuri turned away, annoyed. He had made the wrong call. It was a long shot anyway, but he did not relish getting things wrong. He had the secure cell out, calling Woody, pumping him. Useless sack of shit.
‘Where’s Craig Gordon now?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean where is he? Right now.’
Woody sounded confused. ‘He’s working out of LA.’
‘I know that. I mean specifically. Is he in the office? On patrol? At a scene? I need his location.’
‘IA doesn’t work like that.’
‘They do now. Call his office. Get it for me. In five minutes or less.’
Craig dropped them off on West Third Street. Sam had a connection at Parc La Brea, a large, anonymous rental community, gated and full of identical townhouses and tower blocks. He didn’t ask which apartment. He didn’t want to know. What he did want was to get back to the office. There was so much stuff, so much evidence on that tape now. It really was a hell of a story. He almost envied them, the love affair sounded so wild. That came through even the dry facts that Murray admitted to. There seemed enough here to clear them both. But only the stuff at the start could help him. What was hiding in Lisa Costello’s account of that rich, spoiled, playboy wedding . . . and what Sam Murray had seen when he went in to take photos.
The killer was somewhere, somewhere in this story, and Craig Gordon’s job was to ferret him out.
‘Yuri.’
‘You’re late,’ he responded. He was angry. He was driving back towards the 405. ‘I said five minutes. You’ve been an hour. This is not a game.’
‘I did my best!’ he whimpered. ‘Yuri, he met them. He’s not saying where. He brought a phone into the lab. Felix Latham’s phone. They’re taking it apart.’
A fresh wash of disgust for Latham. What a secondrater. Yuri’s client was now in trouble. Of course, that wasn’t his problem; he was here to take care of Murray and Costello.
‘Where are they? Where did he meet?’
‘The readout comes through from triangulating the phone bug. But it’s not legit and it’s not real time.’
‘Answer my question,’ Yuri said, with soft menace.
‘At San Diego airport.’ Fuck. ‘And then they drove to LA. Looks like he dropped them in the region of the Beverly Center. After that the route was pretty direct to the office and he was calling in to prep them for the phone.’
‘Did he say anything of interest?’
‘Yeah. That he wanted to look at Peter Mazin again. Said Sam Murray was convinced it was him. They’ve been through his accounts; Craig said they were starting over.’
Unwelcome news.
‘OK
. Stay on him. Have your team on surveillance. ’
‘I’m setting that up right now. It’s easier to explain now. He met these two and didn’t bring them in. That’s cause for IA to get involved. He’s being watched.’
‘Good.’ Yuri hung up and took the car off a slip road. The Beverly Center. If he were Sam and Lisa, he would not be shopping. They would need shelter, need to wash after the flight. Then food. His calls would be hotels and residences. Then the Wal-Mart, or the Farmers’ Market. Probably the latter. Sam Murray would know better than to be trapped inside a concrete building.
He smiled. Woody gave up lots of good information. It would not be too difficult to track them now. For one thing, Craig Gordon had brought his information in. The FBI and cops would be fanning the city, searching. Yuri could watch their nets as well as cast his own. The web was closing around the prey. It would not be long now. Plus, they had to be exhausted. And tired people made errors. In Yuri’s world, there was no room for that.
By the time they had stepped out of whatever bathroom they had found, he would be there. And he would be hunting.
The apartment was exactly as he had left it. Sam kept a furnished studio at Parc La Brea, high up in one of the tower blocks, rented under an assumed name. He’d used it for girls, sources, friends who came to visit. It was useful, and only smelled a little of must. The furnishings were bland and comfortable. They cleaned it for him once a month, and the whole set-up was so corporate and huge there was no danger of personal engagement. As long as the rent kept coming, nobody cared.
He had rarely been so glad to see anywhere. Lisa stumbled through the front door after him. She was drained from the flight, yawning, almost punch-drunk. The tension and fear took it out of you.
‘What now?’ she muttered.
‘Wash and sleep.’
‘We don’t have time to sleep.’
‘I think we have to.’ He didn’t do well on planes either. ‘You can’t function beyond a certain point. Shower, sleep for ninety minutes. I’ll set an alarm. And then we go hunt. I’ll buy a laptop, another disposable phone. Make calls. We need more information. I’m calling people about Peter Mazin. We’ll add all the other husbands in.’
‘But Craig said—’
‘Craig’s a cop. I’m a celebrity tracker. In this case, that’s more useful. I know these people, Lisa, I know what makes them tick, what drives them, why they hate, why they want revenge. Craig’s missing something, that’s all I know. This was a love crime. And it was Peter Mazin who did it. Now we have to get close to him and we have to prove it.’
‘And if Peter Mazin hired a second assassin?’
‘Then that guy will be reporting in to him. I know some good hackers. Most celebrities’ cell phones are hacked by the papers. You need a second source to print, but there’s not that much privacy out there. Now we’re home, it’s going to be easy to tail him, even if I don’t do it in person.’
‘But the killer would be hunting us.’
‘And we’re hunting him. It’s crunch time, honey. Somebody wins, somebody loses.’
She shuddered.
‘Go and wash.’
‘I want you,’ she murmured. She moved closer to him. ‘I want to make love. We’re here, right now. God knows when we’ll get another chance.’
He hardened immediately. Damn, she was insatiable. He responded to her desire.
‘We should sleep,’ he said. That was the right thing to do, from a survival standpoint.
‘You have to shower. So do I. Shower with me.’ She put her hand between his legs, stroking him through his clothes. He felt himself rear under her touch. ‘We can sleep afterwards.’
He said nothing. He grabbed her by the wrist and half pulled her to the shower. She stumbled after him. Sam turned on the water. Lisa reached for his T-shirt, but he stayed her hands. Slowly, patiently, he stripped her. The shirt first. Next he tugged off her jeans, impatient. She had on a little thong and a lace bra, coffee-coloured. He was so aroused, it hurt. But she was panting, almost squirming under his touch. They were alive, and together, and he had to take her. He eased the straps down her shoulders, watching her large, natural breasts fall out of the bra, her nipples already erect under the warm steam. Sam reached forward, controlling himself. He remained fully clothed. Apart from the snatch of cloth at her thighs, she was naked. He would not allow her even that scrap of modesty. He brushed his fingers over her nipples, felt them harden, solid under his touch, her body jerk like he had given it an electric shock. It was tough to control himself. The girl was literally panting. God almighty, how he loved her. She was so his, so helpless, so responsive. He hooked his thumbs into the lace at the side of her panties and tugged them, not off, just halfway down her thighs, framing her body for him. She moaned, but did not move. He ran his fingers between her legs. She was wet already, wet and open to him. Sam put his hands behind her shoulder blades and pulled her to him, she nude, he fully dressed. She pressed her body to him. He could feel the heat of her skin, her belly, through his clothes. His erection pressed against his zipper.
‘Please, Sam.’ She was begging. ‘Oh God! Please!’
The hiss of the warm water struck his ears. He wanted to have her. His mouth fastened on hers, feeling her tongue, probing, pleading. He ripped his clothes off and scooped her nakedness up into his arms, pressing kisses to her neck, her collarbone, taking her under the shower. She shivered with desire. Warm water drenched them both, washing away the sweat and the tiredness. There was a small bottle of shower gel resting on a tray by the wall. Sam placed a little in his hands, and rubbed it over her wet skin, cleaning her, thoroughly, agonisingly slowly, cupping her breasts, her ass, soaping between her legs. She cried out. The water sluiced over her body, washing the white bubbles from her. He could delay no more. He moved closer, taking her in his arms, thrusting inside of her. Her knees weakened; she half slumped in his grip. He held her upright while the hot water washed over them both, thrusting into her, taking her like he would never stop, like he would never let her go . . .
‘I don’t understand,’ Peter Mazin said again.
He glanced at the door to his office. It was shut. He could imagine what the staff were saying outside it. His secretary, his development girls, the junior execs, the other flunkies. They would be whispering like a gaggle of schoolgirls. He looked at the FBI agent before him with something approaching hatred.
‘I think you do. At first I missed this in your accounts. We found no discrepancies,’ Craig Gordon said. His eyes were cold. Mazin felt an unaccountable fear. It was like this guy could see exactly what he thought of Josh Steen, look deep into his soul, peel back the politeness, see the hatred and rottenness inside.
‘Because there aren’t any, Agent Gordon. It’s not like we haven’t been over this.’
‘Not from your personal accounts. But there are a series of small transactions from various joint marital accounts. Some have been made to shell companies.’
Mazin sighed. ‘I have hundreds of standing orders. Payments my accountants set up. I never see them from start to finish. That’s just how we work. You have to understand that people with money,’ this was a deliberate insult to the working schlub, and he was pleased to see he took it this way, ‘don’t exactly balance their own chequebooks.’
‘Possibly not, sir.’ Gordon’s face was granite. It could have been on Mount Rushmore. ‘But there’s a pattern. And put together, the amounts combine to several million dollars.’
‘I see.’
‘I have to tell you, sir, that the FBI works on information received. It is our understanding that there was a strong rumour that Joshua Steen had an affair with your wife, Mrs Hannah Mazin, amongst others.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘That’s the rumour. Also that you were not happy with Mr Steen taking the limelight in your company. It goes to motive, sir. Can you tell me about your relationship with Mrs Steen?’
‘Josh’s mother? Didn’t know her.’
‘No, sir. Mrs Steen. His wife.’
‘You mean Lisa Costello?’ Mazin could not stop the sneer crossing his face. ‘Standoffish, a snob. A gold-digger. Never mixed with my wife. That was not a real marriage, Special Agent. They were fighting on the wedding day.’
‘Yes, and apparently Mr Steen slept with one of the bridesmaids.’
‘So people said. Lisa had good reason to kill him.’
‘He was killed in a professional hit. We have recovered semen from the assassin that has now been matched with the DNA of a known hitman. We are currently tracking down his bank accounts. If those payments match . . . It may be better for you if you co-operate, Mr Mazin. Because we will find any matches. It just takes a while.’
‘There won’t be any matches.’ Peter was practically shouting. ‘I didn’t order a hit on Josh. For Christ’s sake, I’m a goddamn producer. I’m fucking sick to death of hearing about him!’
He flushed bright red. Fuck it, and now he had blurted out his anger with Josh. To an agent who suspected him.
There was a long pause. Craig Gordon was regarding him steadily.
‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ Peter said sullenly. ‘I want a lawyer.’
‘Duly noted, sir. I haven’t Mirandised you. As yet, you’re not under suspicion of anything. Please don’t leave the jurisdiction.’
Gordon got to his feet. Peter stared up at him. ‘That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?’
‘For the moment, yes, sir. Thank you for your co-operation. We may come back to you. Have a good day, Mr Mazin.’
Peter looked after him, open-mouthed, as Craig Gordon walked out.
Yuri moved through the stalls of the Farmers’ Market. He had been here an hour already. None of the guest-houses or hotels had given him any joy. It had to be a rental place, and searching through those would take time. Or they could be at the house of friends. He would wait. They would come out for food eventually.
Lisa Costello would be the first kill.
Desire Page 30
