He inspected himself briefly in the mirror before leaving.
He looked pale; his eyes were haunted, the irises red from lack of sleep. He hadn’t had time to shave and he noted the stubble on his cheeks. Hope I see you around later tonight, he said to his reflection. Then he headed toward the door and paused.
He peeked through the peephole into the courtyard beyond. The fisheye view didn’t give him a good perspective, and his heart pounded as he thought about Franklin Navarro’s untimely death. Shot in the back of the head. He wondered if his killer had an accomplice and knocked on the door and Franklin, recognizing him, opened the door and stepped out to talk when the gunman stepped out from where he was hiding and plugged him. Bang!
Tom listened for any sounds outside his apartment. It was a normal weekday morning. All was quiet.
He pulled the nine out of his coat pocket, thumbed off the safety, finger ready to drop down to the trigger, unlocked the front door quietly with bated breath, and threw the door open, moving back into the apartment quickly.
Nothing.
He could see between the door and the jamb and there was nobody lying in wait outside.
No neighbors, no landlord, no nothing.
Gun drawn, he ventured outside slowly, his back against the wall of the apartment next door to him. The entranceway was flanked by two large bushes that stood seven feet tall; it was difficult to see around them, and it was possible somebody could be hiding behind one of them.
Nerves on edge, his senses on high alert, Tom moved to the other side of the short path that led from his front door to the walkway of his complex, covering himself with his nine.
When he reached the periphery of the hedges, a man popped out from the entranceway to his neighbor's apartment holding a gun. Tom instantly drew his weapon on him and as the man drew on him, Tom fired three quick shots at him.
The force of the shots drove the man back, and he fell on his ass on the concrete walkway, the gun clattering out of his hand. Tom stood there in shock, astonished that his sixth sense had been correct. Three holes blossomed along the man’s chest; he looked up at Tom with an expression of surprise, then his eyes glazed over as he lay back as a pool of spreading blood slowly oozed out from beneath him.
Quickly gaining his composure, Tom took a quick step toward his apartment and closed the door. He gave his would-be assassin a brief glance, then headed out of his apartment complex to meet Gary Little.
LITTLE WAS WAITING in his car, which was parked at the rear of the restaurant. Tom pulled up beside him and rolled down his window. “The same thing that happened to Franklin almost happened to me ten minutes ago.”
“No shit?” Gary asked. He looked haggard, his eyes troubled.
Tom gave him a quick synopsis of his attempted murder, then paused as a police siren pierced the air. Gary looked out toward Redondo Beach Boulevard. “That’s probably one of our guys responding to what just happened,” he said.
“Does anybody know what the Cantina is?” Tom asked.
“No, but I think we shouldn’t stay here long in the event somebody’s canvassing restaurants and bars on the chance they might get lucky.”
“Where’s Bartell?” Tom asked.
“Miles has him in Malibu at some beach house. He called a friend who works security in Vegas to help him out and there’s now four pretty heavily-armed bodyguards watching over him.” Gary wiped his face with a trembling hand. “Grecko called me on my cell while I was on my way over here. He said Valesquez and his family are terrified. Robert has a Navy buddy who has a beach house in Stone Harbor, New Jersey and he’s there now. Grecko’s already called a couple of people he knows in New York and has requested security be sent down for Valesquez, as well.”
“Shit,” Tom said.
“My FBI contact says he checked with his department head,” Gary said, looking troubled. “He says they can’t get involved. Getz got to them before I was able to and said his boss would ream him if he even talked to me about it.”
“These motherfuckers moved fast, didn’t they?” Tom asked.
“No shit. I did some checking on Whitsett. He has no criminal record, and on a whim I checked records for Manning and some of the other guys Bartell named. None of them have criminal records, but I found something that’s pretty goddamn weird.” He paused. “Take Manning for instance. He’s been retired for eighteen years now. Has a pretty good pension; not huge, but it’s enough to let him live comfortably. Want to know what kind of assets he has?”
“Sure.”
Gary counted them off on his fingers. “Beach house in Newport, plus a boat—a nice one, from what I hear. Home in Palm Springs, resort cabin in Big Bear. He also has a home in New Hampshire and a place in Belize.”
Tom raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Five houses?”
“Six, if you count his main residence in Aliso Viejo,” Gary said. “And that place isn’t too shabby, either. Four bedrooms, marble floored walkway, three car garage, custom swimming pool and Jacuzzi ... easily a four million dollar home.”
“I don’t think I understand,” Tom said. He checked his mirrors nervously.
“Manning drives a Mercedes Benz, a Lexus, and a Corvette. He also has a Range Rover. He’s also interested in rare art—original Dali’s mostly. Know how much those cost?”
Tom shook his head.
“Try mid six figures.”
Tom whistled. “Where the fuck does he get his money?”
“That’s what I thought, so I did some checking on the other guys. They’re not living as large as Manning, but they’ve got much more money than a bunch of retired cops and city officials living on their pensions and 401k plans.” Gary took a quick look around, then leaned closer to Tom. “Bill Dennison is a good example. He was an elected official, served on the city government for fifteen years. By day he was a bank auditor, by night he was a Republican fundraiser and a member of the city Chamber of Commerce. His retirement package brings him about fifty k a year, about thirty percent less than his salary shortly before he retired. Most guys like that, if they’re living in a regular house somewhere and have some equity in it, usually stay there because they’re on a fixed income. Right?”
Tom shrugged. “My parents live like that,” he said. Tom’s folks were retired and lived in a cozy three-bedroom ranch house in Torrance.
“Not Bill Dennison. He still owns the place but he hardly stays there. His main house is this cozy pad in Malibu that he paid a million for about eight years ago.”
“Where’d he get money like that?”
“I have my suspicions, but I think these guys made their money off of what they did at the Valesquez house.”
This is big then, Tom thought. He took a deep breath, trying to comprehend it all. If all six of these guys were living large like this, how much money did they take in? How much was at stake? “You know what we’re talking about, right? There’s more than just prostitution and drug dealing and child abuse...now we’re talking money laundering, tax evasion, a whole bunch of shit. No wonder they’re working their asses off trying to bury this thing.”
“You got that right, buddy,” Gary said. He put his sunglasses on. “Which is why we need to stay on this. I’ve asked Grecko to do detailed asset checks on these guys and to forward the files to me by e-mail, hopefully by tonight. In the meantime, we need to lay low and try to get a hold of Hernandez. You heard from him lately?”
“Not since last night.” Tom pulled his cell phone out and scrolled down to Danny’s number. “Let me give him a call.” He pressed the Send button and waited, listening to the phone ring four times. When it went into voice mail, Tom cursed and hit the disconnect button. “Shit, he’s probably at work.”
“Wasn’t there another guy that you were never able to question?” Gary asked, snapping his fingers. “Gonzalez or something?”
“Jerry Valdez,” Tom corrected. “Yeah, I never did get to talk to him. Danny told me he hadn’t seen him in over twenty years, but I thi
nk he was lying.”
“Why would he lie about that?”
Tom shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Think it would be worth talking to him?”
“I don’t know.” Tom was looking down the alley, his mind trying to trace all the events. “What about James Whitsett? Did he have a lot of assets like these other guys?”
“Not really,” Gary Little said, leaning back in his car. “He’s in real estate, built himself a nice little niche. There’s nothing too unusual about his home or his toys in relation to his income.”
“Danny didn’t believe me when I told him James Whitsett was involved in this little sin ring,” Tom said, mostly talking to himself. “I just wonder if he did a better job of covering his tracks than the other guys.”
Gary shrugged. “It makes sense.” Gary started his car. “Listen, I think we need to be careful today. We need to wait for William Grecko to gather the financials on these guys, and I think we need to find Hernandez and try to get him to talk more about Valdez. There may be something he isn’t telling us.”
“Like what?”
“Valesquez said Jerry came by the house a few times to buy drugs, right? Maybe he was there more frequently and Robert just didn’t know about it. Or maybe Robert’s knows more than he’s telling us. Who knows?”
Tom felt nervous, the details of the case becoming more maddening and confusing. “That’s the whole thing about this thing...I don’t know who to trust anymore. I know Danny hasn’t been completely level with me, and now when I look back on it I can see that Robert hasn’t been entirely forthcoming either. Why?”
“I don’t know,” Gary said, his features grave. “But the clock’s ticking. I’m heading out to find a library somewhere that has Internet access and a nice quiet corner I can do some research in. I’ll keep my cell on. Why don’t you track Hernandez down? You have your shield with you?”
Tom nodded.
“Use it. Get Hernandez to talk, threaten to arrest him, do whatever it takes. Call me in an hour.”
“Will do.”
Gary nodded and drove away, piloting his Audi silently down the alley. Tom watched the vehicle’s exit in his rearview mirror and was suddenly filled with a feeling of dread as he thought about Hernandez.
He glanced at the dashboard clock. It was only ten-thirty. Hernandez told him last night that he wasn’t due to report to work until twelve-thirty today and there was no answer at the apartment when he called. Tom pulled his cell phone out and redialed the number, feeling anxious as the phone rang four times again and went into voice mail. He disconnected, placed the cell phone in his breast pocket and looked at the clock again.
Another siren pierced the air.
There was something about Danny Hernandez not answering his phone that didn’t sit right with him. It was a gut feeling.
He thought about his questioning of James Whitsett yesterday, how the man had been vague yet polite, deftly evading his questions. He thought back to the older man’s demeanor; self-assured, casual yet a little bit cocky. He thought about how Whitsett had glanced at Danny Hernandez’s apartment complex several times during their conversation, subtle yet intense glances, as if he were sizing the place up.
Tom Jensen knew that look; James Whitsett had been casing the joint.
He’d been planning to come back at some point.
Tom started his car, pulled out of the alley and headed to Danny Hernandez’s apartment, hoping that his hunch was wrong.
BY THE TIME Tom Jensen jimmied the lock on Danny Hernandez’s front door, he knew he was wanted for questioning in the murder of a man named Micah Brooks, former city Treasurer of the city of Gardena, and a major player in his and Gary’s ongoing, yet unofficial, investigation. It made it easier to ignore the fact that he was breaking and entering without a search warrant.
Tom glanced over his shoulder quickly, his nerves on high alert. He’d heard the broadcast on his police radio three minutes ago and knew he’d have to ditch the car quickly. He’d pulled into the rear of the apartment complex, parking in the tenant’s parking garage, and made his way to Danny’s apartment. When his knocking produced no answer he checked to see if the coast was clear, then inserted a slim piece of metal he'd brought from the car with him between the door and the jam, jiggling it. The lock snapped and he was inside the apartment in seconds, closing the door quickly behind him.
He paused briefly, collecting his bearings. Danny’s car hadn’t been parked in his spot, nor was it parked outside. It was a little after eleven o’clock and Tom seriously doubted that Danny would have gone to work early. He looked around the living room, trying to see if anything was out of place, when he noticed the telephone sitting on a little end table near the kitchen counter.
He approached the counter, noting the caller ID box, and impulsively picked the device up. He pressed the Last Call arrow button and scrolled through the LED readout with growing unease.
There was a call shortly before ten-thirty a.m. from a Christine and Jerry Valdez in the 310 area code.
Tom held the device in his hands, his mind racing. He’d placed both his calls to Danny after Jerry called; in fact, he might have called about ten-thirty five, maybe ten-forty.
Tom grabbed a piece of paper and a pen that was lying on the kitchen table and jotted down Jerry’s phone number. Then he took a quick tour through the rest of the apartment, checking out the bedroom, the bath, and the second bedroom that served as Danny’s make-shift office/music room. He noted the computer sitting on the desk in the corner and approached it. He looked out the window onto Van Ness Boulevard. Nothing out of the ordinary going on outside and thank God, no squad cars had shown up. Tom glanced at the computer again quickly, then sat down at the desk and fired it up.
The three minutes Danny Hernandez’s computer took to boot up were a nerve-wracking experience in paranoia. Tom kept his gaze out the window, his breath held every time a black sedan materialized. He would only relax slightly when it was revealed the vehicle wasn’t a cop. Come on, hurry up, hurry up, start up, start up, he silently urged the computer as it went through its merry way of starting. Finally, when it had booted up, he checked to see if Danny had an Internet connection, saw he had a regular PC dial-up modem, then hunted around on the desktop to see what his Internet connection was like. He saw an icon for America Online and double-clicked on it.
It took almost as long for the America Online software to load, as it did for the computer to boot up.
My God, Danny, when it came to technology, you were still in the Stone Age.
By the time the software was up and ready to connect to the Internet, Tom was a bundle of nerves. He kept expecting the door to be burst open by Gardena City Policemen—his colleagues—and be taken in for not only the aforementioned questioning, but breaking and entering as well. Hoping that Danny’s password was coded into America Online’s personal settings, Tom hit the Sign On button, the modem initiated, and then he heard the welcome squawk as the connection was made.
Tom sighed in relief as he connected to the America Online Portal. The familiar male computerized voice chimed in. “You’ve got mail!” Tom ignored the e-mail icon and went straight to the Start button at the bottom left hand corner of the screen and navigated to the Internet Explorer web browser. When it was up—its default page taking him directly to yahoo.com—Tom typed in the web address for yellowpages.com and hit the Enter key.
Once at the site, he quickly entered in the search parameters he was looking for—Jerry Valdez, Southern California, and the phone number he’d gotten off the caller ID box, then hit Search, hoping his hunch would pay off.
The search engine spit back a single entry—for a Christine and Jerry Valdez residing at 4292 La Rotunda Avenue, Redondo Beach, California.
Tom quickly jotted the address down. He had no idea where La Rotunda was, but a quick check on Map Quest gave him detailed directions. It was located about five miles away, just off Redondo Beach Boulevard.
&nbs
p; Piece of cake.
Tom quickly closed the Internet connection and exited the office, leaving the computer running. He paused in the living room to look outside quickly. The coast was clear. He eased himself out the front door and closed it behind him, making sure it at least looked like it was locked. Then, looking up and down the narrow walkway that threaded through the complex, he scurried toward the rear of the building where he’d parked his vehicle. He made it to the car safely and started it, wondered briefly how he was going to make it to Jerry’s home without being spotted by his colleagues and pulled over, then decided he would cross that bridge if he came to it. Then, putting the car in reverse, he backed out of the space and made his way gingerly out of the apartment complex and into the neighborhood, hoping he wasn’t spotted.
Nineteen
WHEN DANNY HERNANDEZ arrived at the house, he rushed to the front door, his adrenaline running high. James Whitsett opened the door before Danny was able to knock and ushered him in. “Get in,” he said.
Danny almost fled when he saw James.
He was looking at a completely different man.
Gone was the fatherly figure he had known and looked up to in his youth. In its place was a grim visage, a towering figure who suddenly appeared menacing, cold, and calculating. Jerry Valdez hovered near the kitchen, his eyes widening in surprise as Danny walked in. “You made it,” he said, his voice a low whisper of amazement, more to himself than to Danny or James.
“Of course, he made it,” James said, that low, gravelly-toned voice that had been such a large part of Danny’s childhood now threatening and ominous. “He wants to do the right thing. He doesn’t want harm to come to his wife and children. Am I correct, Danny?”
Danny nodded as he stumbled into the house. Jerry looked amazed, as if he couldn’t believe Danny was alive. James Whitsett closed the front door and locked it, brandishing the weapon at them. “Sit down at the kitchen table.”
Bully Page 28