Neighbors and Other Strangers
Page 2
He pulled her down to him. Her lips parted as his mouth covered hers. A deep kiss. Their tongues playing out a dance. A welcome dance after a month’s separation. As they kissed he unbuttoned her blouse and she let it fall away. His fingers went to the hooks of her bra, freeing her D cup breasts. The breasts he loved to touch. To taste. To bury his face in.
“You wore a bra knowing I would be here today?” he teased.
“Hey, I had business meetings today. I couldn’t let the girls swing free,” she replied, mischievously.
Standing she kicked off her shoes and reached behind her to unzip her knee-length skirt.
“But somehow…” she said with a rakish look of her own as she let her skirt drop, standing naked in front of him, “somehow I totally forgot to wear panties.”
He had thought to surprise her by being naked in bed when she got home. She outdid him again. In a most delightful way.
After dinner they wrapped themselves in robes to sit on the terrace. Darcey had made a quick and delicious meal of scampi with linguini. Trent had opened another bottle of Mumm’s.
Darcey laughed. “So you met Mrs. Philby. She’s forever claiming people are following her. She believes they’re trying to make her pay for her sins.”
“That’s what she said. And that sadist who lives across from her seemed to enjoy it immensely.”
“Mr. Williams,” Darcey shuddered. “He’s a little scary.”
“The Germans have a word for what turns him on,” Trent said. “Schadenfreude. Taking pleasure from the discomfort of others.”
“That fits him perfectly.”
“Interesting that he told her to ‘shut her trap’ instead of shut up or quiet down,” Trent said. “The etymology of the phrase ‘shut your trap’ also comes from German by way of Old English. It originally was a warning to trappers to keep their traps shut when not in use to avoid injury. Makes you wonder what he did for a living.”
“You’re being weird, Marshall,” Darcey said, refilling his glass with sparkling wine.
“You’re right. Enough of this talk of sadists. Do you realize what day this is?” he asked.
“It’s Tuesday, April 26th. It was one year ago today that we met.”
It had been an eventful year. Trent had built an emotional wall to protect himself after losing his wife, his mother, his father, his best friend. He had sworn he would let no one get close to him ever again.
And then came Darcey. She had come to him asking for help in solving a one hundred fifty year old mystery that was again threatening her family. As they began to unravel the mystery, they suffered betrayal from people they thought were friends. Both Trent and Darcey’s mother were kidnapped. Darcey was briefly held hostage by a mad man. A crooked cop fired two shots at Trent and Darcey, missing them by inches. Two good women were murdered as were a psychologist and a security guard at a hospital for the criminally insane.
Trent, Darcey, and her mother survived. One of the villains was killed by Trent to save Darcey’s life, a second in self-defense. A third was wounded by Darcey in a shootout with a woman who was preparing to kill Trent. Trent had already put the woman’s husband out of action by breaking his nose with a shovel. Those two would likely never be released from prison.
The only one who escaped was the cop who tried to shoot them.
Surviving the attacks and threats, they solved the mystery that had plagued Darcey’s family for a century and a half.
In the process, Darcey broke through Trent’s protective emotional wall though she had to threaten to shoot him to do it. Given Trent’s fondness for guns and respect for those not afraid to use them, she chose the right strategy.
Darcey had difficulty understanding Trent when they first met. Eventually she accepted his love of fast cars and guns. She even came to share it.
She thought it strange that all his cars were black as were most of his clothes. She asked him if that was symbolic. He thought for a few seconds and told her it was. Of what, she wondered? That he likes black, he told her.
She came to understand that Trent was easily bored. He was, she guessed, an adrenaline junkie. He wouldn’t go long without finding a challenge. The more dangerous the better. She was frightened in the beginning. But she learned he was fully capable of protecting her as well as himself. More importantly, she discovered that she, too, was capable of defending herself and him. Of using violence if necessary.
He made his first trip to San Francisco in August. Through the year they grew ever closer. Darcey didn’t push him. She patiently let him move at his own pace. It was a wise decision. They were starting to feel like a couple.
He invited Darcey and her mother, Betty, to his home in New Orleans for Thanksgiving. They were joined by Ivy and Walter Ford, the elderly, black couple who looked on Trent as a son.
Ivy had worked with Trent’s mother at the venerable Coffee Pot, the restaurant in the Vieux Carre’ that had served locals and visitors alike for over a hundred years. She was protective of the young white woman struggling to support her son. When a would-be Romeo from the kitchen tried to hit on his mother, it was Ivy who backed him off.
“Don’t nobody mess with this girl,” Ivy warned. “If you mess with her, you’re messing with me.”
When his mother passed away suddenly and unexpectedly, Ivy became a surrogate parent to him. After his father took his fourteen year old son to Baton Rouge to live with him, he saw to it that the boy visited Ivy and Walter often.
Darcey hosted them all for Christmas. Her three bedroom condo was spacious enough to accommodate everyone. Trent flew Ivy and Walter to San Francisco first class as part of his Christmas gift to them. They were wide-eyed at the view of the city from Darcey’s terrace. Especially the lights of the Golden Gate and Bay bridges at night.
Though there were times she wouldn’t have thought so, it was a year that ended well.
Trent took another sip of wine.
“Now there’s something I need to talk to you about,” Trent said.
Wednesday, April 27th
Trent was frying bacon when Darcey came in and sat at the kitchen counter. He left the bacon to tend itself while he refilled her coffee. He had made biscuits from scratch, which were now in the oven. He would use the bacon grease to make milk gravy. They might be in the beautiful city by the bay, but they were still southerners. Biscuits and gravy. Southern health food.
She called Miles Diaz-Douglas, her executive assistant, to let him know she might be a little late getting to the office. She said she might not be in at all.
“Girl, what is going on?” Miles demanded. “Trent got here yesterday, didn’t he? Do you have something to tell me?”
“You never know,” Darcey teased. “We want you and Scott to come over for brunch on Sunday. Will y’all be here?”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Miles said, then added dramatically. “You know I’m psychic, girl. My psychic powers are telling me something is up. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
After breakfast she called Mandy Rillard, her best friend, to invite her to the Sunday brunch as well. Darcey was still struggling to survive in the highly competitive San Francisco design business when she met Mandy.
Now a corporate attorney with one of the Bay area’s most prestigious law firms, Mandy came from old money Boston. She had been a key factor in the success of Darcey’s design company when she convinced her father to hire her new friend to head up the renovation of an old Nob Hill apartment building. Darcey’s success with that building, coupled with Mandy getting her invited to the best parties in San Francisco, was the boost DJA Designs needed.
She also invited Preston Johnson, her neighbor across the hall. They had developed a special relationship when Darcey moved in three years earlier. He was an old man alone who enjoyed the company of a beautiful woman. But only in the most appropriate way. Every other Wednesday they had dinner together. They alternated with Darcey cooking dinner for him one week and her as his guest at one of the city’s
best restaurants two Wednesdays later.
He was quite old fashioned, insisting that they dress for dinner. He would show up at her door, dashing in a tux, his silver hair and mustache sparkling. She would wear something dressy, just short of sexy, even when they were dining in her condo. And he always brought her flowers.
Trent met him on his first trip to the city. They liked each other immediately. Trent found him to be a fascinating conversationalist with a vast knowledge of many things.
Trent noticed that, though he showed remarkable dexterity for his age, Preston ‘wore a stick,’ as they would have said in the elderly man’s youth. His ever-present cane had a leather covered handle with a gold cross piece. The stick itself was black hardwood. It was a beautiful piece. Trent told him so. Preston nodded slightly, acknowledging the compliment but offering no other details.
Trent discovered he also had a lively sense of humor. When he asked what Preston did for a living before he retired, he was surprised at the reply.
“I was in organized crime.”
Later Trent probed again.
“I said I was in organized crime,” the old man repeated, a twinkle in his eye.
Refusing to let it go, Trent came back to the subject a third time.
“Well, young man, I was in the insurance business,” Preston said, “and if that’s not organized crime I don’t know what is.” The old man rocked with laughter.
Trent heard his phone chirp. A text from Lieutenant Jordan Baron, the New Orleans detective who was Trent’s closest friend. He asked if Trent had talked to Christopher Booth. Booth was a detective with the San Francisco Police Department. Jordan had told Trent he and Booth worked together two years earlier on a case involving a man who murdered two coworkers at a San Francisco business and then fled to New Orleans.
Booth had left a message on Trent’s phone the day before. Trent responded to Jordan with a message saying he would call Booth immediately.
“It’s not a good sign if the cops want to know when you’re coming to town, Marshall,” Darcey said. “What have you done now?”
“Nothing,” Trent said, giving her his best innocent look. “I just got here yesterday. Haven’t had time. Well, except for that old woman down the hall. But I didn’t hurt her. I swear I didn’t.”
Detective Sergeant Christopher Booth answered on the second ring. With his phone’s speaker on, Trent told Booth he just arrived in the city the evening before. He repeated his claim to Darcey that he hadn’t been in the city long enough to get into trouble.
“That’s good to know,” the sergeant replied. “It fits with what our mutual friend in New Orleans said about you. He said it sometimes takes you as long as a week to stir up trouble. On the other hand, he said it takes Darcey Anderson no more than 48 hours.”
Trent laughed. Darcey made a face at him.
“I have a case I’m working on that Jordan tells me you might have some experience with,” Booth said. “I’d like to discuss it with you.”
“At your convenience, Sergeant.”
“Can we meet someplace today?”
“Sure. Want me to come to your office?”
“No,” Booth answered quickly. “Definitely not.”
Trent was surprised at Booth’s quick response. “You’re welcome to come over here,” Trent offered. “Darcey will be here but no one else.”
Booth was a big man. Trent judged him to be 6’4” and close to three hundred pounds.
His nose was large and slightly off center. The kind of nose that often marked one who had gone more than a few rounds in a boxing ring. Trent was forty-six years old. He thought Booth ten years younger.
Booth explained that he was working on a money laundering case. He knew that a local mobster named Jonathan Rossi was laundering hundreds of millions of dollars every year. So far he hadn’t been able to figure out how he was doing it.
“Have you talked to the folks at FinCEN?” Trent asked.
“The Financial Crimes Enforcement Network. Yes, I’ve talked to them. They’ll be happy to get involved. Just as soon as I assemble all the evidence in a neat little pile and hand it over to them.”
“Yeah, they serve a valuable purpose but mainly as a data base and sort of clearing house for law enforcement.”
“I’m trying to learn the process. How does someone like Rossi go about moving illegal money into the legal financial system?” Booth said. “I’m a beat cop. This stuff is way over my head.”
Trent looked thoughtfully at Booth.
“I don’t want to offend you,” he said, “but that might be why you were assigned to the case.”
“I’ve already thought about that,” the detective replied. “That’s why I didn’t want to meet in my office. At the very least I’m convinced that Rossi has someone there on his payroll. It might be someone high enough to issue the assignment to me.”
“Who assigned you to the case?”
“My captain. Captain Albright. Lieutenant Mitchum wanted it. He thinks it would be a big career move for anyone who can break this case. The lieutenant would have been the obvious choice. But for some reason the captain assigned it to me. I had the feeling it wasn’t his idea. He’s usually a heads-up guy, but this time he didn’t look me in the eye. He didn’t seem happy.”
“Hmmm. Interesting. Who does he report to?”
“Commander John Witney. Witney reports to Deputy Chief Amanda Justice. And Charles Marvin is the chief.”
“Deputy Chief Justice? Really?”
“Really. And she has no sense of humor.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Tell me about Rossi. What’s his background?”
“Rossi’s father, grandfather, and great grandfather were all dons heading up organized crime back in the days when the Italians were in charge,” Booth explained. “Rossi is not like the old dons. He understands the world they knew has changed. Once he became head of the Family, it didn’t take him long to realize the homogeneity of criminal activity his ancestors once controlled was long gone.
“Rossi’s traditional crime family still has plenty of power. But now he has lots of competition. Middle Easterners, Asians, Mexicans, Russians, African Americans, even outlaw bikers. Each gang capable of putting its own army of thugs on the streets at will.
“Rossi is as ruthless as any of the old dons. But he’s smart. He negotiated an alliance for the Rossi Family with a Thai gang, Spitting Cobra, outlaw bikers calling themselves the Barons of Lucifer, and a group of middle Easterners known as the Scourge.
“Between the four groups they control the largest share of drugs, guns, human trafficking, most anything illegal you can think of in this city. Given their ethnic mix they’re bound to have connections across the country and probably around the world. And they have the combined firepower to keep the Mexican cartels, the Russians, and the African American gangs quiet.”
“Impressive. Putting a criminal amalgam like that together couldn’t have been easy,” Trent said, thoughtfully.
“Money laundering is the key to it all. The biggest problem all the gangs have is how to get their illegal money into the system so they can enjoy it. I said Rossi is smart. He’s handling that for them. They’re making more money than ever. More of their money is showing up as legal. And I don’t know how he’s doing it. Jordan told me you worked on a money laundering investigation a few years ago and might be able to give me some help.”
“There are lots of ways to launder money,” Trent said. “Deposit it in a bank in a country that has no reporting requirements and then move it back to the U.S. Buying businesses that operate on cash. Over valuing invoices for work never performed. Buying a casino if you can get away with it. Real estate manipulation. Buying a bank in a friendly country. Or even in this country, but that’s a lot trickier. The intriguing point here is, I think, all Rossi’s partners can do those things for themselves. What does he offer that convinced them to join his alliance?”
“That’s what I can’t figure out.”
“I worry about that. Rossi’s death would unleash a war in this city unlike anything ever seen. Jordan gives you the highest recommendation. He tells me if anyone can figure this out, you can. Will you help me?”
To Booth’s surprise the answer was no. “At least not right away,” Trent said. “I’m going to be unavailable until mid-July. After that, yes, I’ll help. With two conditions.”
“Conditions?”
“Yes,” Trent said. “Both Darcey and I must be assigned some sort of official status by the San Francisco Police Department.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Booth said. “But understand I’m convinced Rossi has someone in my office on his payroll.”
“That brings us to the second condition,” Trent said. “Both Darcey and I must be licensed to carry concealed weapons.”
“That’s a tough one,” Booth said. “I can guarantee your safety. I can have men assigned to protect the two of you around the clock.”
“When you have one of Rossi’s men in your office?” Trent balked. “No, Sergeant Booth. I appreciate your offer but we have to be able to protect ourselves. If it’s any help, we’ve both been appointed special deputies in Louisiana. Perhaps it could simply be a matter of professional courtesy.”
“Let me see what I can do,” Booth said. “But you can’t do anything for what? Three months?”
“We can get started,” Trent offered. “If you bring your files over here, we can start going through them. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and find something significant. We might even come up with a plan.”
Friday, April 29th
Trent and Booth spent the remainder of the week going through the files the detective had put together. Booth took a circuitous route to get to Darcey’s condo each day. He never went the same way twice.
He drove his own vehicle, an old pickup truck, the first day. On his second visit he took a taxi half the distance to avoid being followed. He walked around the block and hailed a second cab for the remainder of the trip. On Friday he hopped on a cable car, stepping off when he was still a mile from his destination. He went to great lengths to avoid establishing a pattern.