Neighbors and Other Strangers

by Gordon Parker

  While Booth’s files were light on information relative to money laundering, he had details on the Rossi Family, Spitting Cobra, the Barons of Lucifer, and the Scourge. By the end of the week Trent and Christopher knew only one thing for sure about the movement of the alliance’s money. It was an international operation. But Trent understood how the gangs operated, both in their own spheres of influence and together. He had the names of the key leaders and charts outlining how each was organized.

  The Rossi Family. Spitting Cobra. The Barons of Lucifer. The Scourge.

  All from very different cultures. All with similar goals and operations. Taking on one of them was dangerous. Taking on all four, as Booth said in his first meeting with Trent, was a war.

  Both men thought they had used the time productively. By the end of the week, Trent told Booth there might be some things he could do before returning to San Francisco in July.

  Trent liked the policeman. He found the self-described beat cop to be far more intelligent than Booth considered himself to be. Darcey liked him, too. They considered inviting him to join their upcoming Sunday brunch. But the work Trent and Christopher were doing was far too dangerous. It was best that they avoid being seen together for as long as possible.

  It was already too late.

  At the precinct, Officer Harry Sherman was looking over Booth’s desk. Sherman kept a close eye on the sergeant. He saw him rush out of the office after receiving a phone call on Wednesday. He noticed that Booth downloaded files onto a flash drive, which he pocketed before leaving the office on Thursday and Friday. He was out of the office for most of both days. Sherman was sure something was up. It might be to his benefit to find out what.

  “Has anybody seen the file on the Lenore Hale case? I can’t find it anywhere. The last time I saw it Booth was looking at it,” Sherman said as he rummaged through the papers on Booth’s desk.

  “I’d wait for Christopher to get back before I searched his desk, Sherman,” one of the other officers warned. Sherman was not well liked.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Sherman said. He walked back to his own desk, palming a small slip of paper. Back at his desk he picked up a stack of papers and pretended to be thumbing through them while he read the note he had lifted from Booth’s desk. A New Orleans phone number. A name.

  At the end of his shift, Sherman hustled out of the building. He drove to a park halfway between the precinct and the small apartment he rented. Parking in a secluded spot, he took the prepaid mobile phone from his car’s console and dialed a number.

  “Yes?” was the answer.

  “Mr. Rossi, this is Harry. Harry Sherman.”

  “Yes, Harry. What do you have for me?”

  “You told me to keep an eye on Christopher Booth. I found out that he’s been meeting with someone this week. The name is Trent Marshall. And there’s a New Orleans phone number.” He repeated the number.

  “Interesting. That could be useful, Harry. I’ll see that you’re rewarded.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rossi,” Sherman said. Rossi had already hung up.

  Sherman popped the phone open and removed the chip. He would drop the two halves of the phone and the chip in separate dumpsters before he got home. Tomorrow he would pick up another prepaid phone.

  Saturday, April 30th

  Steve Burgess was never much of a cop when he was on the force. But he was cop enough to keep track of Trent Marshall’s movements, albeit with the help of another ex-cop in New Orleans who was also owed his ex-cop status to Marshall.

  Burgess knew Trent left the Crescent City en route to San Francisco a few days ago. He knew Marshall had visited San Francisco several times in the last year. He found out that Marshall stayed with the Anderson woman when he was in the city. It took a while but he finally discovered her address.

  It was late morning. Burgess was still hung over from the night before. He’d started the day with a shot of gin. That made him feel a little better. It also made him a lot meaner.

  He was on the sidewalk in front of Darcey Anderson’s condominium building. Her condo was on the 15th floor. A secure floor. This was a reconnaissance mission. Burgess noted the security guard stationed at the entrance to the underground parking garage. He was a scruffy-looking man who looked to be around 40. He had a patch over one eye. Maybe a disabled vet.

  He assumed there would be another security guard inside. Both would be unarmed. Both easy to take down if it came to that. Burgess wasn’t smart but he knew enough to avoid confrontation with security. That would mean other people would be involved. Police. Burgess didn’t do well with other people. Especially police officers. Especially now that he wasn’t one.

  He nodded to the guard as he passed. The guard nodded in return, watching the shabbily dressed man with his one eye. Burgess revised his opinion. This guy might be a disabled vet, he thought, but he was a vet. He looked like he might know what he was doing. When he came up with a plan for dealing with Marshall he would try to avoid this guy.

  He kept walking. As he passed the glass front of the building he noticed a woman sitting at a desk to the left of the elevators. He took a few more steps, stopped and backed up. The name plate was gold with black lettering. It was large enough that he could read the name. Alexis Brandt. Burgess smiled. The woman ignored him.

  He looked back at the security guard. He was watching Burgess. He looked serious. Burgess grinned and made motions with his hands indicating ‘a well-built woman.’ That brought a small smile from the guard. Not a friendly smile. Just the kind of smile shared between men admiring a well-built woman. Burgess was certain it wasn’t the first time a passing man had admired the woman sitting at the desk. The guard probably wouldn’t remember him. At least Burgess hoped the guard wouldn’t remember him.

  The ex-cop was definitely feeling better. The woman might be calling herself Alexis Brandt now. But when he knew her in New Orleans she went by Piper Hodgins. Stripper. Hooker. Druggie. When Burgess came up with his plan for Marshall, Alexis or Piper or whatever name she wanted to use would be helpful.

  He was absolutely cheerful now. It was almost noon. He decided to find a bar. He thought he would celebrate the morning’s discovery with a martini.

  Sunday, May 1st

  Sunday morning dawned with bright sunshine. The temperature had already topped 70 before Trent and Darcey’s guests arrived. It would reach 78 by the end of the day. Unusually warm for a city that seldom gets above the mid-60s in early May.

  Darcey was convinced it was an omen of good things to come.

  Trent thought it was a nice day.

  Downstairs Alexis Brandt was working at the concierge desk. As the junior member of the staff she was required to work weekends. She didn’t mind. At least she didn’t have to work the night shift. And compared to her life before she came to San Francisco and lucked into this job, working the desk on the weekends was like a dream. A very nice dream.

  Ms. Anderson on the 15th floor was having guests in for brunch today. She had given Alexis the names Mandy Rillard, Scott Douglas, and Miles Diaz-Douglas. Scott owned an investment firm. He and Miles had been among the first gay couples to be married when same sex marriage became legal.

  Miles and Scott arrived first. Mandy entered the building just in time to join them in the elevator. Miles led the group into Darcey’s condo. In his usual dramatic style, he announced that something was up and, with his psychic powers, he knew what it was.

  “And, Trent Marshall, if you think you’re going to drag our Darcey away from us, you will have to think again,” he said. “We simply will not let her go.”

  Trent laughed.

  “Oh, calm down, Miles” Darcey said. “Trent’s back in town and we’re having our best friends over for brunch. That doesn’t mean there’s a conspiracy.”

  To keep him busy, Darcey set Miles to work making mimosas with fresh-squeezed orange juice. He circled the room offering the scintillating flutes.

  Mandy and Scott accepted and promptl
y moved out onto the terrace. It was well known that sipping wine while watching others cook was the extent of their culinary talent. They were even better at their specialty when they could sit outside on such a beautiful day.

  Within minutes Darcey answered the doorbell to admit Preston Johnson, her eighty-three year old neighbor. He entered dressed for the occasion as usual. Tan slacks, navy blue blazer, baby blue shirt, topped off with an old-fashioned ascot. Beige with alternating blue and brown chevron stripes. His silver hair and mustache sparkled in the light of the sunny day.

  In one hand he held two chilled bottles of wine; in the other the cane Trent had admired.

  “Trent, my boy, please accept this small gift. I know you have become a fan of Mumm’s Napa product and rightfully so. But I think you’ll find this bubbly to be quite satisfactory.”

  Taking the bottles from the old gentleman, Trent raised his eyebrows.

  “Preston, these bottles are both 2006 Dom Perignon.”

  “Yes, and you’ll note they’re both brut, which I know you prefer.”

  “This is a very generous gift, Preston,” Trent said. “Thank you.”

  “We’re serving mimosas, Preston,” Miles said, offering the tray. “May I offer you one?”

  “By all means,” the old man replied. “And my guess would be they’re made with Mumm’s Napa Brut Prestige. Am I right, Trent?”

  “Dead on, Preston,” Trent said.

  “That’s an expensive wine to mix with orange juice, isn’t it?” Scott asked, ever the fiscal conservative.

  “Right you are, Scott,” the old man replied with a wide smile. “And I think Trent will agree with me that the best cocktails, like the best foods, are prepared with the finest ingredients.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Preston,” Trent replied as he put the Dom Perignon in the cooler. “My dad always said, ‘It only costs a little bit more to go first class.’ But then he died broke.”

  “Perhaps so, my boy,” Preston said. “But he no doubt was a man who enjoyed life. And that’s the way he should be remembered.”

  Trent looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he nodded his agreement.

  “You look so good, Preston,” Mandy said. “So dapper. So handsome.”

  “You’re too kind, Mandy,” the old man responded. “I’ve reached the age when I wake up and if I don’t hear anyone saying ‘He looks so natural,’ I open my eyes.”

  “Oh Preston, now you’re just being dramatic,” Darcey said, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

  While their guests made themselves comfortable in the sunshine and Miles made sure no one’s glass was ever empty, Darcey and Trent were busy in the kitchen. At Darcey’s instruction Miles urged everyone to gather around the dining table Trent had arranged for the concierge to place on the terrace.

  Darcey and Trent set a plate in front of each guest that was piled with crisp bacon, spicy Louisiana hot links, Potatoes O’Brien in which jalapenos had been substituted for the usual sweet peppers, fluffy scrambled eggs and buttered toast. The banter among the guests became subdued as they enjoyed the mid-day feast.

  As their guests finished the last of their meals, Darcey disappeared into the kitchen. Trent and Miles cleared the table. Miles returned to the terrace still chattering on about how his psychic powers told him something big was about to happen.

  While Darcey worked with dough she had rolled out, cut into squares and dropped into the deep fryer, Trent made a pot of coffee.

  With some pride, she brought to the table a tray of beignets, the wonderfully airy square French doughnuts, dusted with confectioner’s sugar, made famous by New Orleans’ Café du Monde.

  “Ivy taught me to make these the last time I was in New Orleans,” she explained, as she placed the platter on the table. “It’s her own secret recipe.”

  Trent followed with a tray containing cups of coffee laced with milk.

  “You can’t have beignets without café au lait,” he said as he set a cup in front of each guest.

  “These are delicious, my dear,” Preston said.

  “And you’re so domestic today,” Miles said. “The needle on my psychic meter is pegged into the red.”

  Darcey laughed and held her hand out to Trent. He reached into his pocket for the ring he had been carrying until they were ready to make their announcement.

  They were ready. He slipped the ring onto her finger.

  “Your psychic powers were right, Miles,” Darcey said, happily. “Trent proposed to me on Wednesday and I accepted.”

  “I knew it!” Miles exploded. “What did I tell you? My psychic powers are never wrong! I am simply amazing!”

  Mandy wanted to see the ring. Darcey was anxious to show it off.

  “Girlfriend, that’s the biggest diamond I’ve ever seen,” Mandy said. She hugged first Darcey, then Trent.

  “Congratulations, my boy,” Preston said as he shook hands with Trent. Darcey leaned over to hug him so the old man wouldn’t have to get up. “And best wishes to you, my dear. Trent is a lucky man.”

  “Congratulations, Trent,” Scott said as he also extended his hand.

  “We’re planning on late June at the Pines,” Darcey said, referring to her family’s farm in northwest Louisiana. “We hope you all can make it. I know it’s a long trip, but Mom wouldn’t have it any other way. Mandy, would you be my maid of honor?”

  “Of course,” Mandy said. “I couldn’t imagine your wedding without me beside you.”

  Darcey reached down and took Preston’s hand in hers. “And, Preston, would you agree to stand in for Dad and walk me down the aisle?”

  The old man was silent for a moment. Trent thought his eyes were glistening.

  “I would be honored, child,” Preston said. “Honored. You have made an old man very happy.”

  “And what about me?” Miles demanded. “What do I get to do? You’re not going to have a wedding without me.”

  Darcey laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Miles. What role would you pick for yourself?”

  “Bridesmaid,” Miles said. “I want to be a bridesmaid.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, Miles,” Scott said.

  “And what’s wrong with that?” Miles said. “You didn’t have any problem with me being a bride!”

  “He has you there, Scott,” Mandy said, with a laugh.

  “Besides,” Miles said, “I’ve always dreamed of being a bridesmaid.”

  “Dreams do come true, Miles,” Darcey said. “Bridesmaid it is.”

  “Trent, I assume some sort of alcohol will be available?” Scott asked. “Preferably quite a lot of it.”

  “Don’t worry, Scott. I’ll make you one of my specialties. A peach martini. So smooth you won’t know how many you’ve had until you stand up and try to walk.”

  “That sounds good,” Scott said. “If possible, I’d like one before, one during, and…well, we’ll see about after.”

  “But wait,” Miles said, glaring at Trent. “Where do you two plan to live? You don’t think you’re going to move her to New Orleans, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Miles,” Trent said, a look of mock terror on his face. “I know your revenge would traumatize all of us.”

  “Don’t worry,” Darcey said. “We’re keeping both homes and will spend time in each. And since it’s a morning for announcements, I might as well add this one. I’m going to reorganize the company. I plan to remain as chief executive officer. But in the new organization you, Miles, will be chief operating officer. And I have some ideas on expanding to offer more services. If, that is, it’s agreeable to you.”

  For the first time that morning Miles was speechless.

  “I feel faint,” he finally managed to say, dropping into a chair.

  “Chief Operating Officer, eh? How did that slip by your psychic powers?” Scott asked.

  While Trent and Darcey entertained their guests, Jonathan Rossi was enjoying a light lunch in the garden of his large home in the hills of Atherton on the sout
hern end of the San Francisco Peninsula. He chose this house for its privacy, though he enjoyed the theater, the wine cellar, and the pool as well. But the garden was his favorite part of the property. The garden and the privacy.

  Rossi lived in the heart of Silicon Valley. He was surrounded by people who had made their fortunes in high tech stocks. Rossi owned no high tech stock. He owned no stock of any kind. Rossi never bought stock. He acquired companies. Companies that he could own wholly. Companies that he could buy for strategic purposes and on extremely favorable terms. More than one major stockholder had found himself unable to resist Rossi’s powers of persuasion.

  That thought directed his attention to the large guest house at the far end of the garden. No guests were ever invited to use it. It was, instead, where his security detail was headquartered. They were charged with maintaining his privacy. For seeing to the security of Rossi’s home and Rossi himself. When necessary they assisted Rossi in exercising his powers of persuasion.

  There were six. Three were on duty at all times. All six were armed, on duty or off.

  The guest house, with its six bedrooms, was luxurious. The men who provided his security were paid well. They lived comfortably. They were loyal. If Rossi suspected, for any reason, that one was not loyal, the man quickly disappeared and someone new took his place.

  Rossi was thinking about the phone call from Sherman, the cop at Sergeant Booth’s precinct who was on his payroll. He had heard about Trent Marshall from his contact in New Orleans. He knew Booth had been assigned to investigate Rossi’s coalition and their money laundering activities. He had arranged through another cop on his payroll, this one at a level well above the sergeant’s boss, to have the job assigned to Booth.

  He didn’t think Booth was dumb. But money laundering was not something the sergeant knew anything about. He thought Booth would spend a lot of time being frustrated. He thought Booth wouldn’t figure out the system Rossi had put together. Trent Marshall could change that.