by Robert Ellis
Grubb’s eyes had become glassy. He sat against the back of the couch staring at Gambini but not saying anything. Matt checked the way the window light was falling onto the ground and inched toward the open doors. When Grubb finally spoke, he seemed different and his voice had changed.
“Do you know who you’re dealing with?” he said finally. “Do you know who we are?”
Gambini’s dark eyes got darker. If he’d had a tail, it would have been rattling now.
“What did you just say?”
Grubb wiped the drool away from his mouth. “Do you know who we are?”
A moment passed with Gambini thinking it over, then—
“Okay, prick, I’ll play along. Who the hell are you? Take me to school. Educate me, little man.”
Grubb didn’t say anything, still measuring his visitor with those glassy eyes. Matt knew that he was misjudging the situation and had no clue who he was dealing with.
Grubb cleared his throat. “What if I could get you fifty thousand dollars?” he said. “Would you go away if I could get you that kind of money?”
Gambini seemed stunned by Grubb’s audacity and started laughing.
“What’s so funny? I’m making you an offer.”
“Fifty?” Gambini said, mocking the man. “Why not seventy-five?”
“Okay. Seventy-five. That’s a lot of money. Would you go away and leave us alone for that much cash?”
Gambini was playing with him now. “A hundred would be even better, friend. Something I could sink my teeth into.”
“One hundred sounds like a good number to me,” Grubb said. “I’ll get you a hundred thousand. Cash. Unmarked bills. Any denomination you want. It’s yours if you’ll go away and leave us alone.”
Grubb stuck out a trembling hand as if he’d just made a deal and wanted to shake on it before contracts were signed. Gambini stared at him for a long time. Long enough that Matt realized how dangerous this tough guy really was. Matt could remember Robert’s uncle Joseph talking about the “mean Gambini gene.” He could remember the warning he and Burton received that Robert was insane. What happened next occurred so quickly, almost in a single instant, that Matt could have never prevented it. Gambini reached behind his back, then lunged forward with something in his hand. Matt caught the sheen, the flash of black metal, then froze as Gambini drove a .38 revolver into Grubb’s mouth and pulled the trigger.
Matt’s heart nearly stopped. It looked like Grubb’s did, too.
A long moment passed. The air in the room, thin to gone.
Gambini got to his feet, all jacked up, his eyes wild like a madman’s. Matt looked back at Grubb, who appeared to be in shock and remained completely terrorized—his body laid out on the couch quivering.
Gambini’s piece never fired. It didn’t need to, nor was it meant to. He stepped closer to the couch and leaned over Grubb. From the sound of his voice, he remained livid. Seething.
“You ever insult me again, you little prick, and a bullet’s gonna be in that chamber. You understand what I’m saying? Do you get what’s on the line here? This is my turf. You hang around, and you’re gonna be a dead body floating in the reservoir. That goes for your two prick pals and times ten for my uncle the day they cut him loose. Don’t ever mess with my business; you can tell him that for me. Don’t ever mess with me again.”
Gambini grit his teeth, then slammed Grubb over the head with the side of his pistol. It was a savage blow, and Grubb went down like a tree. Gambini slipped the piece behind his belt and gave Grubb a long last look.
And then something changed.
Gambini seemed to reach some twisted version of nirvana. An inner peace that was distinctly visible. He straightened his shirt and slacks and checked his hair in the mirror. After shrugging his shoulders, he walked out of the room cool as a man taking a stroll on the first day of spring.
Matt didn’t move. He’d read about people like Robert Gambini, people who can switch from light to dark and back again almost instantly. Almost a real-life version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He’d read about them but never seen one in the flesh.
He waited until he heard the front door open and close. Then the gate out to the street. When he heard a car start its engine and drive off, he made his way over to the deck and entered the house. He wasn’t exactly sure if Grubb was dead or alive. A heart attack seemed more than possible. Walking over to the body, he checked for a pulse and was surprised when he found one.
He remembered the spectacle of Grubb snorting white powder at the café and reached into the man’s shirt pocket for that folded slip of paper. Opening it on the table, he dabbed the white powder with his finger and touched the tip of his tongue.
No doubt about it. The faint taste of vinegar, even the scent—Grubb was using heroin.
He took a closer look at Grubb’s nose and noted the inflammation. Rolling up the man’s shirtsleeves, he saw the tattoo on his right arm and switched on a lamp. The tracks were hidden in the ink, but they were there. When Matt checked his teeth, they were brown and had that distinctively foul odor that comes when they’re beginning to rot.
He felt Grubb’s pulse again and gave him a long look. It seemed stronger, and the man’s breathing sounded steadier now.
Matt looked around the living room and finally stood up. Something about the place didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t pin it down. He noticed the wet bar and walked over. There was a wide chest against the wall. When he opened the top drawer, he found it empty. When he slid open the second drawer, it was empty as well.
He turned around and took an inventory of the furnishings.
After a few minutes, Matt realized why Grubb’s house felt so strange. There was nothing personal here. No photographs, no bric-a-brac, nothing found or collected.
It suddenly occurred to him that Grubb was renting the place. Renting it furnished.
Matt thought he’d noticed a stack of mail on the bar when he first walked over. He glanced at Grubb still laid out on the couch. The man was groaning and beginning to stir. Matt turned back to the mail and leafed through the letters. When he noticed a return address from a real estate company on Wilshire, he ripped open the envelope and unfolded the cover sheet.
There were only two paragraphs, and Matt skimmed through them quickly. The house was being leased from the same company who leased the three partners at DMG their cars.
Yellow Brick Leasing.
It felt like another sign on a road without exits. Another loose end in a case of loose ends. He wasn’t sure what it meant.
THIRTY-THREE
Matt raced down Beachwood Drive feeling like he’d finally reached his limit. The windows were open, the cool air blowing against his face, Pink Floyd doing “Wish You Were Here,” loud. He needed to eat something, and he needed it badly. Something to fill the black hole in his gut while he thought about what he’d just witnessed and wrote down as much as he could remember for the case file.
He passed the market and café halfway down the hill, then gunned it past Glen Alder Street until he hit Franklin. After making a right, he pushed through heavy traffic for about a mile before turning left onto Highland.
Petit Trois made the best omelet he had ever tasted anywhere here or in his travels overseas. The small French bistro was sandwiched in between a dry cleaner and a pizza shop in a rundown strip mall half a block north of Melrose. Matt had discovered the place while working the night shift as a patrol officer. The anchor for the strip mall was a cop magnet—a Yum Yum donut shop that stayed open twenty-four hours, seven days a week.
Matt pulled into the lot, found a spot beside the trash dumpster, and walked inside. Despite the neighborhood, despite the fact that the bistro only offered counter seating, the place was elegant. Lots of marble and polished wood with mirrored glass and stainless steel to make the narrow room feel bigger.
Matt had met the owners years ago and had become friendly with a female sous-chef who was working tonight and saw him enter. Waving him over, she
pointed to a stool on the end and gave him a hard up and down.
“You don’t look so good,” she said under her breath. “Everything okay?”
Matt nodded and glanced at the name tag she’d pinned to her chef coat. The tag read “Savanna” even though her real name was Emily. He wasn’t sure why seeing the tag cheered him up, but it did.
“I’m good,” he said. “I am now.”
She smiled. “The usual?”
“Thanks . . . Savanna.”
She laughed and turned and got started cracking eggs into a bowl. Whenever Matt came here, he always ordered the same thing. The five-egg omelet with Boursin pepper cheese, garnished with chives and sea salt and served beside a butter lettuce salad with a Dijon vinaigrette, shallots, and grape seed oil. When a waiter passed by the counter, Matt added a double espresso and turned to watch Emily make his omelet.
If he had to guess, Emily was probably his age. She was on the small and thin side, with brown eyes and light brown hair, a round face, and a smile that had a bit of magic to it. Although they had never met outside the bistro, he knew how hard she’d worked to become the chef she was, and he’d always liked and admired her for it.
His double espresso arrived. And then the omelet and salad. The food smelled good and tasted even better. After a few bites, Matt decided that he’d return to the station before jotting any notes down on paper about what Robert Gambini had done to Lane Grubb tonight.
He didn’t want to ruin the first meal he could remember eating in a week. Besides, the conclusions he’d made in his mind were tagged with forever stamps and would remain unforgettable—
Joseph Gambini had found a way to do business while he served out his time at Terminal Island. Somehow, he’d formed a relationship with the three partners at DMG. His nephew, Robert, didn’t want the competition and was willing to do whatever had to be done to drive them off his turf. He had beaten up Grubb tonight and threatened to take the man’s life. Robert was also the most logical suspect in the murders of Sophia Ramirez and Moe Rey, which Matt believed, along with Deputy DA Burton, had been a message meant for his uncle Joseph to back off and leave.
Matt tried to clear his head as he took a last bite of food and finished off the double espresso. He looked over at Emily, who suddenly appeared very busy. The bistro had filled up while he’d been eating, and he hadn’t noticed. After checking his watch, he realized that the place closed in fifteen minutes and the rush was something of a last call for the night. Leaning over the marble counter, he gave Emily a light tap on the shoulder. When she turned, he thanked her and left enough cash to cover the meal with a generous tip.
He walked out into the cool night air. He felt rejuvenated and refreshed and thought that he had picked the perfect place for a late-night meal. And then he noticed the black limousine idling in the gloom beside his car.
THIRTY-FOUR
Matt gave the black limousine a long look as he stepped off the curb. Then the back door snapped open and he saw a middle-aged woman glaring at him. Matt’s first thought was that she looked mean, angry, maybe even crude. And while she seemed familiar in an odd sort of way, it took several moments to even make a decent guess. The short and round old-world body, the meaty arms and fingers, the attitude tattooed all over her face.
It had to be the city councilwoman. It had to be Dee Colon.
“Get in,” she said.
Matt grimaced. “Why would I do that?”
“I’m not asking, Detective. I’m giving you an order.”
Matt’s eyes flicked through the car. The mayor of Los Angeles, Billy Garwood, was sitting in the front seat beside the driver. Though the councilwoman may have turned him into her personal go-go boy, tonight the mayor looked like he’d run out of “go” and seemed uncomfortable and out of place. Matt’s eyes went back to Colon. He could see some sort of knuckle-dragging goon with a pistol holstered to his belt sitting beside her.
Colon leaned out the door. “Do you want me to call the chief, Detective? Do you want me to tell him what you’ve been up to tonight? That you beat up Lane Grubb and planted drugs in his home? Is that what you want me to say, Cowboy?”
“But I didn’t do any of those things, and you know it.”
She flashed a dark smile and nodded. “Sounds like a great defense, Detective. The trouble is that no one will ever believe it.”
It hung there for a moment in the cool night air beside the trash dumpster. Dee Colon was a psycho bitch.
Matt walked over to the limo, then, reluctantly, slid into the back seat beside her.
“Close the door,” she said impatiently.
Matt closed the door as ordered. When the limo pulled out of the lot heading north on Highland, Colon pushed a button closing the privacy window so that the driver and even the mayor couldn’t hear what was about to be said.
Matt turned to Colon’s bodyguard and guessed that he was in his early fifties. The man had the look ex-cons get after a couple of years living in a cage. His nose had been broken at least twice, and he had a long scar on his left cheek. From head to toe he appeared rough, cheap, and boorish. Matt turned back to Colon.
“What about him?” he said.
Colon glanced at her bodyguard and shook her head. “He doesn’t speak English,” she said.
Matt took a deep breath and sat back in the seat wondering what Colon had on her mind that required privacy. He could feel her muddy brown eyes on him. He could feel the woman measuring him.
“You were ordered to back off,” she said finally. “You were told to leave the three partners at DMG alone. Was there something the chief said that you didn’t understand? Were your orders not clear enough? Or do you have issues, Detective? You like to run around the city with your badge and your big gun thinking that you’re what? Bigger and smarter than everybody else? Are you Superman tonight?”
Matt didn’t say anything. The limo had just made a left turn onto Sunset. When he glanced up front at the mayor, he caught him trying to reel in a smile. It seemed more than obvious that closing the privacy window was just for show. The back seat had been wired, and Colon’s go-go boy was listening to everything being said.
Somehow Matt wasn’t surprised.
Colon cleared her throat. “You’re in a free fall,” she said. “And for what? Just think about what life could be like if you started seeing things right. I could help you, Detective. I could make your career, if you’d let me. You want a promotion? You want one? You’ve got my word; just say it, and Dee Colon will make it happen. That’s who I am. That’s who I’ve always been. Dee Colon gets things done, and she takes care of her friends. Good care of her friends. Ask anybody in the city. Ask them and they’ll tell you Dee Colon takes care of everybody who takes care of her.”
The air in the limo had turned foul. Matt didn’t care. He could feel his blood pressure rocketing across the universe. It took a moment to find the right words. Once he had them, he turned to the vile woman and met her gaze eye to eye.
“How much are they paying you?” he said.
Colon froze like she wasn’t used to being challenged. Matt could see the venom in her eyes. She was trying to fight off all the anger. Trying to hold back the firestorm.
Matt held the stare. “How much is Sonny Daniels paying you?” he said. “You’ve got a decent job. You’re on the city council. You’re way overpaid, but no one’s bitching about it so you’re in the clear. Why would you want to mess that up by doing business with people like Sonny Daniels? How much more do you need? What’s the headline gonna be when everybody figures out that you’re part of an illegal drug operation? That you’re trying to cover up two murders?”
Colon laughed. “You’re in all the papers, Cowboy. You’re even on TV, and you’ve still got no idea what’s really going on.”
“Okay, fine,” he said. “Then tell me what’s really going on.”
She narrowed her eyes as she mulled it over and tried to settle down. “A fifteen-year-old girl was raped and murder
ed. Unfortunately, the detective assigned to her case is incompetent, might even be crazy, and has an ax to grind with the rich. Instead of pursuing the sex maniac, he’s badgering legitimate businesspeople who are making a positive contribution to our city. Until he’s fired and replaced, every family in the county—every one of us—is in danger.”
The art of politics. The art of bullshit.
Sophia Ramirez hadn’t been raped, but that didn’t matter. Matt hadn’t beaten up Lane Grubb tonight, but that didn’t matter either.
Colon’s eyes went dark. “There are three things that you can’t beat, Cowboy. Me, the tax man, and your undertaker. The sooner you own that, the sooner you’ll find true and lasting peace.”
Matt kept his mouth shut. It looked like the driver had planned to circle Hollywood. He’d just made a left off the Strip and was heading for Santa Monica Boulevard. With any luck they were on their way back to the bistro and Matt’s car.
Colon leaned closer. “You realize what’s at stake, right, Detective?”
“You’ve already said it twice. You’ve got the chief’s ear, and I’ll lose my job.”
“That’s true,” she said. “But I had something else in mind.”
Matt shrugged. “Like what, councilwoman?”
A moment passed. From the smirk on her bodyguard’s beat-up face, his English was just fine. And Colon’s voice had changed, becoming quieter and, Matt thought, more suspicious. It suddenly occurred to him that Colon had been working from a script tonight. That the city councilwoman had been playing a card game with him and was about to throw her ace on the table.
“The Ramirez family,” she said. “Losing your only child’s gotta be tough, don’t you think?”
Matt nodded, waiting for the card to drop. He hated the sordid woman.
“The toughest,” he said finally.
“They’re illegals, you know. They crossed the border a long time ago, but still, they’ve broken the law. Sonny Daniels knows they’re illegals. Seems like everybody does except Immigration.”
