The Girl Buried in the Woods

by Robert Ellis

  Matt slung his laptop over his shoulder and followed Burton up a set of stone steps built into the hill. “Do you think the feds cleaned him out?” he repeated.

  Burton pursed his lips as he mulled it over. “No,” he said. “Joe’s too smart for that. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that street smart beats book smart almost always. My guess is that Joe’s still got his money—maybe not all of it, but enough to get by.”

  Matt nodded. “But what if it isn’t enough to get by? What if he needs more?”

  Burton stopped and gave him an odd look. “What are you saying?”

  “Something happened during our interview. I think he gave something away.”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  Burton pulled his keys out of his pocket, crossed the stone entrance to the set of double doors, and unlocked them. Once they stepped across the threshold, he called out his wife’s name. While he got out of his jacket, Matt glanced about the foyer. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows he could see a terrace that included a pool and spa and what might have been a small guesthouse.

  “You made good time.”

  Matt heard Val’s voice and turned. She was walking toward them down a wide hallway.

  Burton hung up his jacket and closed the closet door. “Did you have any luck with the files?”

  “In your study,” she said. “They’re on your desk.”

  Burton led the way around the corner to a set of open double doors. As Matt entered, Val met his eyes and mouthed the word welcome through a smile. He nodded and turned to watch Burton hurrying over to his enormous desk.

  “I don’t have much,” Burton was saying as he grabbed the first file. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  Matt stepped into the middle of the room and couldn’t help taking a look around. Burton’s study was a large space with vaulted ceilings and heavy beams that were finished and meant to be exposed. The overstuffed bookshelves were built-ins and extended along an entire wall. There was a full-size couch here, a large coffee table, and a pair of wingback chairs set before a fireplace. Matt noted the art on the walls, along with a flat-panel TV. But it was the wall of glass that made Burton’s study a standout. Matt crossed the room and gazed outside in wonder. It was a view of the entire LA Basin, from the tall buildings downtown all the way west to the Pacific Ocean.

  Matt knew that he shared a view of the basin from his own home. But this was different. This felt like the wide-screen version. It was bigger, closer, almost as if he were standing over a game board in the heavens and God had the next move.

  Matt turned to Burton. “How do you get any work done in this place?”

  The prosecutor smiled, then adjusted his glasses as he stepped behind his desk and skimmed through the file.

  “There’s less here than I thought, Matt. You worked narcotics. How much do you know about Robert Gambini?”

  Matt glanced at Val, then back at Burton. “He never came up in an investigation,” he said. “We never got close enough. The trail always seemed to die out before we got there, like he was a ghost.”

  “He hides behind his organization,” Burton said. “He learned that from his uncle. All roads lead to someone else.”

  “I know what I’ve read in the papers. Stories mostly about his knack for weaning addicts off oxycodone with high-grade heroin.”

  Burton glanced at the file in his hands. “And it says here that he graduated third in his class at Wharton. He could have gotten a job anywhere on Wall Street. He could have worked for anyone.”

  Val stepped over to one of the seats beside the desk. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  Burton shook his head. “You’re never interrupting, Val,” he said. “What is it?”

  “It’s just that I read the papers, too. How does a man like that get a license to open a chain of pot shops? You’d think that with all the rumors about his background, he’d have been booted off the list and never given the opportunity to even apply.”

  That was one of many good questions with no answers, Matt thought. How was Robert Gambini able to manipulate the system and pave the way to running a drug business that was legal?

  Burton sat down in his desk chair and gave Matt a look. “What did you mean when you said Joe Gambini gave something away today?”

  Matt turned from the window. “I noticed that you didn’t tell him about Moe Rey’s murder before we got there.”

  “I didn’t want to do it over the phone. I wanted to see his face when he learned the truth. He was surprised. The news shocked him. It made him angry.”

  Matt glanced at Val again, then back at Burton. “I thought the same thing. But that’s where the truth ended, at least for me. I didn’t believe a word he said after that. This is about drugs, pure and simple. It’s about the execution of a courier, a courier who belonged to Joseph Gambini, and the young girl, Sophia Ramirez, who had the bad luck of witnessing the murder. It’s about the two hundred thousand dollars we found in Moe Rey’s pantry. The possibility that the feds cleaned Gambini out and he’s gonna need more money when they open the gates at Terminal Island.”

  Burton tossed the file onto his desk. “And how do the three partners at DMG fit in? What are their names again?”

  “Sonny Daniels, Ryan Moore, and Lane Grubb.”

  Matt thought it over as the sound of his voice faded into the room with open beams and vaulted ceilings that reached two-stories high. Nothing about the three partners made sense or had become any clearer. He remembered the accident in their plant this morning. A fifty-five-gallon drum had been knocked off a pallet and the seal broken. As a toxic chemical spilled onto the floor, the first reaction of the men working nearby had been to run for their lives. Despite everything Matt had learned since, the idea that the three partners were moving drugs still didn’t feel right.

  “How do you think they fit in?” Burton repeated. “Wouldn’t you say that they’re the missing piece? What if you’re right, Matt? Joe gets out of prison in a couple of years. He’s older now, and let’s say he does have money issues. Right or wrong, he’s got a federal prosecutor who’s all over him. Our unit in the DA’s office isn’t going anywhere soon. What if Joe’s in business with these guys at DMG? Some sort of silent partner.”

  Matt sat down in the chair beside Val. “You’re saying that it comes down to a turf war. Robert figured out what they were doing. He’s been keeping an eye on the place, we know that. So one day he sees Moe Rey walking out the door to his car in the parking lot. He asks around, maybe he even talks to Rey himself, and learns that he works there. All of a sudden he realizes that his uncle Joseph is involved.”

  Maybe it was the challenge or even the delight of a free-form discussion, but it was obvious to Matt that Burton loved this. He watched the esteemed prosecutor get out of his chair and start pacing along the wall of glass. He could see the man’s wheels turning. He was in his element. Stoked, and in the moment.

  Burton cleared his throat, thinking it through as he spoke. “Robert, as the rumors go, runs the heroin trade on the entire West Coast. San Diego, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle—even Las Vegas. But LA would be his cash cow. It makes sense that he wouldn’t want any competition. He despises his uncle, he always has. The last thing he’d want is his uncle muscling in on his business. He becomes angry. He starts to brood over the details until it gets underneath his skin and he’s worked himself into a venomous rage. That’s when he decides to send Joe a message. One that says he means business. He kills Moe Rey and the girl who witnessed the murder. Today, you and I delivered Robert’s message to his uncle. We told Joe that his courier wasn’t just dead. He’d been executed.”

  Matt lowered his voice. “And the minute we told him, the minute we delivered the news, he shut down.”

  “He did, didn’t he,” Burton said, coming to a stop behind his desk chair. “Joe got up from the table and called for a guard. He ended the meeting.”

  “Because we delivered Robert’s messa
ge.”

  Burton’s eyes brightened. “And he knew.”

  The phone on the desk started ringing. Burton checked the caller ID and gave Matt a hard look.

  “Who is it?” Matt asked.

  “Marvin Sanders,” he said. “And I’m guessing he just found out that we spent the afternoon with his favorite conviction.”

  Burton picked up the phone with a pleasant expression on his face, his voice irritatingly calm. Matt hoped that he could see him work a jury someday.

  “Hello, Marvin.”

  Burton listened for a few moments. Matt could hear the garbled sound of the federal prosecutor screaming through the earpiece.

  “I’m going to have to put you on hold, Marvin.”

  Without waiting for a response, Burton pulled the phone away from his ear and punched the “Hold” button down. He turned to Matt, and then his wife.

  “This may take a while,” he said. “Matt needs to get to his car downtown. Would you mind giving him a lift?”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Val’s car needed gas, so she decided to take her husband’s SUV. Matt didn’t care one way or the other and was just grateful for the ride. As they pulled away from the house, she offered to stop for coffee, but Matt declined. The Blackbird Café wasn’t far from where he’d parked. It was the best cup of hot java in the city and worth waiting for.

  He settled in, watching the houses breeze by as Val made her way down the other side of the hill on Coldwater heading for the Hollywood Freeway. She didn’t say much, but as Matt looked at her face, he could tell that she had something on her mind.

  His cell phone started ringing, and he dug it out of his pocket.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Val shook her head and laughed. “No problem, Matthew. It’s your job.”

  Matt read the name blinking on his phone and switched it on. It was Cabrera.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “There’s a problem, Matt.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. Lieutenant McKensie wants to see us as soon as possible. He looks pissed off.”

  “Where are we meeting?”

  “His office.”

  “I’m on my way. Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Cabrera said. “Remember that dim-witted security guard at DMG? That guy who didn’t carry a piece?”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, SIS just checked in. They said he’s been replaced.”

  “With who?” Matt asked.

  “Three meatheads with Glocks.”

  Matt let out a short smile as he pictured the partners at DMG seated at their conference table making the decision to add firepower to their security team.

  “We got to them,” he said.

  “Looks like it.”

  Matt glanced at the clock on the dash. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m across town. I’m at least an hour out.”

  “I’ll tell McKensie,” he said. “See you then.”

  Matt switched off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. Val finally reached the freeway entrance and accelerated up the ramp. Once she found her lane and brought the SUV up to speed, she gave him a look.

  “Anything you can talk about?” she said.

  “It sounds like we’re beginning to make a difference. DMG just added three new hires.”

  “What kind of hires?”

  “Three goons with guns.”

  Val turned back to the road. Matt could tell that whatever had been on her mind was still there. He settled into the seat and looked her over. She had a natural way about her, and the silence in the car didn’t feel uncomfortable at all. It could have been his imagination, but it seemed like they’d known each other for a while. He knew that she was ten, maybe twelve years older than him. He was also well aware that she was Burton’s wife. Still, Matt found it difficult not to look at her legs. They were long and bare and spread open slightly, with her short turquoise skirt hiked all the way up her thighs. His eyes rose over the curve of her hips, her flat stomach, and lingered on her round breasts. The top two buttons on her blouse were undone, and he could see her cleavage and a piece of her black bra.

  “Why don’t you become an attorney?” she said.

  Matt looked up and saw her leaning toward him.

  “Where’d that come from?” he said finally.

  “My husband. He said it to me before we left. Mitch said that he thought you’d make a good one, Matthew. Even the man you saw in prison today said it. Mitch told me that he did.”

  Matt laughed.

  “What’s so funny about that?” she asked.

  “I’m just trying to figure out what’s on your mind.”

  She gave him a long look. “You’d be a lot safer, Matthew. The people who care about you wouldn’t have to worry about you so much.”

  He turned back to the windshield, keeping his eyes off Val and pinned to the road ahead. She didn’t say anything after that, and within ten minutes they were exiting the freeway and winding their way through downtown to the parking garage beside the Hall of Justice. Matt told her that his car was parked on the second floor. To his surprise, Val pulled up to the gate, took a ticket, and drove into the building.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said.

  She shrugged her shoulders without a reply. When they reached the second floor, he pointed to the Crown Vic. Then Val pulled into an open space across the aisle, turned off the engine, and released her seat belt.

  The car quieted—the din of the city subdued. Val still had something on her mind and turned, leaning against the door.

  “I know it’s none of my business,” she said. “We just met today, but somehow it seems like I’ve known you longer than that. Maybe because of the stories about you in the news.”

  “What is it, Val?”

  She glanced out the window, then turned back. “The things you were just talking about with your partner. Why chase three goons with guns in the real world, Matthew? Wouldn’t you be safer in a courtroom?”

  Matt didn’t say anything. He sat back in the seat and gave her a look.

  “You were shot,” she said finally.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Well, isn’t that reason enough to think things over?”

  “Probably.”

  She glanced at the clock on the dash. “You’re gonna be late for your meeting. You better get going. I need to get back to the house.”

  A long moment passed. He met her gaze.

  “Is everything okay, Val?”

  She seemed surprised by the question and flashed a crooked smile. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It just seemed like the right thing to say.”

  She laughed, glancing at his car parked across the aisle. “You’re gonna be late for your meeting, Detective Jones.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Why were Val and Mitch Burton so concerned about his welfare?

  Why did he suddenly feel so uneasy about things?

  Matt double-parked and ran into the Blackbird Café. Victor was behind the counter, and he ordered an extra-large cup of the house blend with two sugars to go. While he waited, he wondered if Lena Gamble might be here and checked the main room and terrace. He didn’t see her and within five minutes was back in the Crown Vic barreling onto the Hollywood Freeway.

  He popped the lid on his coffee, sniffed through the steam, and took a first sip. The brew was strong and piping hot, but his mind still felt like scrambled eggs.

  What had just happened?

  Why was he suddenly overcome with the feeling of impending doom? And was any of this even real?

  All the Burtons had really done was show concern for him and pay him a compliment.

  Maybe you should think about becoming an attorney. You’d be a good one, Matthew, and you’d be safe. Why not think it over?

  He tried to clear his mind and took another sip of coffee. Passing the freeway exit for Echo Park, he checked the side mir
ror, eased into the left lane, and brought the unmarked car up to a hard ninety miles an hour.

  He wondered if he should call the psychiatrist he’d been seeing in Chinatown, Dr. May. Maybe she could help him understand his recent bouts with paranoia. Maybe his sessions with her could continue while he worked the case.

  He took another quick sip of coffee, then set it down in the cup holder as he exited the freeway and cruised down Sunset Boulevard. Within a couple of minutes, he was pulling into the lot behind the station. A black Chevy Suburban with darkened glass was idling at the curb. He couldn’t see who was behind the wheel, but when he caught a glimpse of the license plate, any personal issues he might have been wrestling with suddenly became irrelevant and vanished.

  That impending doom had already arrived. Time to chill out and be cool.

  Chief Logan was here.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Matt found a parking space beside his own car, grabbed his laptop case, and hustled across the lot to the rear entrance. He wondered why Cabrera hadn’t given him any warning. All his partner had said over the phone was that he thought there might be a problem. Their supervisor, Lieutenant McKensie, seemed angry. But McKensie was usually angry, so that didn’t add up to much of a warning.

  Matt swung the door open, hurried past the holding cells, and rushed onto the bureau floor. When he looked through the glass into McKensie’s office, he saw the chief sitting behind the lieutenant’s desk and knew that something grim had either happened or was about to.

  He set his things on the chair before his workstation, then took a deep breath and started down the hall trying to shift to an unhurried pace. But as he stepped up to his supervisor’s door, the chief’s dark eyes were all over him.

  “You’re late,” the chief said. “Now get in here, Detective, and close the door.”

  An empty seat was waiting for him right in front of the desk. The chief was pointing at it like just maybe Matt had earned his way to the electric chair. When he shot a quick look at Cabrera in the seat to his left, his partner couldn’t meet his gaze and appeared worried and shut down. When he glanced over at McKensie seated on his right, the big man’s face was as blank as a sheet of paper.