Dark Fissures

by Coyle, Matt;

  “Worst case for me, Rick, is I stay in Moretti’s pocket. Worst case for you is you go to prison for life. Hell, maybe even get the death penalty.” He smiled. A raptor showing his teeth before an attack. “And you’ll have a hard time implicating me if I’m in Moretti’s pocket. I’ll have his protection.”

  The timing may have been a lie, but the information was the truth. Moretti was coming for me. It was no longer just a possibility out in the ether. It was as certain as death. The only question was when and the only answer was soon.

  “If you’re safe either way, why do you want Moretti dead?”

  “You take me for a handkerchief, Rick? Only removed from the owner’s pocket to wipe up snot?” Cold-blooded reptilian glint returned to his eyes. “Congressman Peterson’s condition has taken a turn for the worse. You’d better hope he lives long enough for you to figure things out.”

  The wind spit rain in my face on the way back to my car. A chill that wrapped around my bones and bled into my muscles. I wouldn’t feel the rain in prison. I wouldn’t feel anything, except a clock ticking away on time unspent until I died.

  Moretti’s clock was ticking. As soon as Congressman Peterson died, the alarm would go off and Moretti would arrest me for a splashy send-off to his congressional campaign.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  THE RAIN SHROUDED the day in limited visibility, but did nothing to camouflage my drive home. If someone was sitting still in the wet gray watching my house, they’d see me before I saw them when I pulled into my garage. The fact that I didn’t spot anyone didn’t mean they weren’t there. I didn’t use my backdoor approach from the street below this time because the rain slicked the hill I’d have to climb, and I couldn’t afford to tumble down it on my exit and muddy the clothes I needed to wear to get into Ben Townsend’s office.

  I grabbed the garage door remote from the windshield visor, got out of the car, and exited the garage without closing the door. I went around the right side of my house, pulled the Magnum from the shoulder holster, then finally closed the garage door with the remote. I went through the gate into the backyard and tucked up against the side of the house as I made my way along the wall. The rain hushed the day and sucked all other sound into it. I peeked through the kitchen window between the curtains. No movement or changing shadows through the sliver of a view into my house.

  If there was someone inside and they heard the garage door close, they’d be focused on the door leading into the house from the garage. I gently slid the key into the lock of the kitchen door, took a deep breath, then whipped open the door and rushed in low, gun out. Nobody pointed a gun back. Downstairs was empty. I carefully climbed the stairs and cleared the three bedrooms upstairs. Empty again. If anyone had staked out my house, they didn’t do it from the inside.

  Safe. For now. And Midnight was safe next door.

  I went back into the master bedroom, pulled off my soaked clothing, and changed into slacks, dress shirt, and a tie. I put the shoulder holster and gun back on and covered them with the only sports coat I owned. I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. It said cop, except for the black eyes. I opened the women’s concealer I’d bought on the way home and smoothed it into the skin under my eyes. It hid the yellow-purple tint remaining from Miranda’s kick to my nose. Luckily, I’d found a shade that matched my skin tone. Irish pale, but they called it something else. I studied my artwork in the mirror after the last dab. Passable. Nothing I could do about my swollen nose.

  Maybe my convincer would help. I went into my bedroom and opened my sock drawer and rummaged around until I found a small, hand-carved wooden box.

  The box contained the only thing my father had left me in his will. Really, the only thing of value that remained after he’d drunk himself to death. But the item in the box didn’t hold any intrinsic value. I opened the box and took out the La Jolla Police Department badge. The value of any badge was only as worthy as the person wearing it. My father had left the badge worthless. Tainted. Such that he wasn’t allowed to keep it when he’d been forced into a pensionless early retirement. The only reason my father had possession of the badge was because his ex-partner used up some favors to get it and give it back to him.

  I’d only kept the badge because my father had wanted me to have it after he died. He hadn’t much cared about what I had or did during the last years of his life. The badge meant nothing to me and thus remained in a box in a drawer. But death wishes had to be honored. I kept the badge.

  I hadn’t kept my own badge when I’d been pushed off the force in Santa Barbara. I didn’t even know if keeping it had been an option. I didn’t care. I didn’t want it. And I didn’t have an ex-partner who cared enough to use up favors to get it back for me.

  I slid the badge onto my belt just inside the hip. Now it might have just enough value to get me to pass for a cop.

  I put a clean pair of jeans, some underwear, socks, and a couple t-shirts into a duffel bag and took them, along with my bomber jacket, downstairs and placed them into the trunk of the car. I got into the car and slid back out onto the street under the curtain of rain.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  THE ADDRESS MOIRA MacFarlane had given me for the Lexus stolen license plate was the home of One America Plaza. At the center of San Diego’s business district, the building vibed power and wealth. The tallest building in San Diego, it stands as a giant obelisk that screws into the sky with a Phillips-head roof and towers over the waterfront on West Broadway in downtown San Diego. The upper floors have million-dollar views of San Diego Harbor and the USS Midway aircraft carrier, one of America’s largest maritime museums.

  I parked in the underground garage where the license plate had been stolen from a Lexus and put on the Range Rover that held the men who tried to kill me two nights ago. Ben Townsend and Phoenix Holdings were on the fourth floor, but I had another stop to make first.

  I took the elevator up to the twenty-seventh of the building’s thirty-four floors. Transcope Technologies, the business that reported the stolen plate, took up the entire floor. A suit-and-tie-dressed male receptionist wearing a wireless headset smiled at me as I approached the counter.

  Time to skirt, if not completely break, the law.

  “Hi, I’m Detective Broderick Macdonald.” Partial truth. Those were the first two names on my California private investigator’s license. “I need to talk to the person who reported the license plate stolen from a Lexus yesterday.”

  I was 90 percent certain the SDPD had more important crimes to follow up on than a stolen license plate. Hopefully, I was the first “cop” to contact Transcope since the plate had been reported stolen.

  I opened the right side of my sports coat to reveal the La Jolla Police Department badge clipped to my belt. Just long enough for the receptionist to get a glimpse of the badge, but not long enough to notice it wasn’t a detective’s badge or from San Diego PD, which would have jurisdiction on the case. But the gesture alone was enough to get me a year in the county jail and a fine.

  “I haven’t heard anything about a stolen license plate. Oh, dear.” He grimaced like it was a major crime. “If you‘ll give me the name of the person who called the police, I’ll let them know you’re here.”

  “This is kind of embarrassing and why I’m here.” I shrugged my shoulders, tilted my head, and raised my eyebrows. “The dispatcher who took the call is new, I guess, and she didn’t write down the caller’s name.” I pulled out a notepad and looked at it. “I know the car was a 2016 Lexus IS. Maybe if you could just let me talk to the person in charge of purchasing your company cars, we could get this squared away.”

  “Sure.” He punched in a few numbers on a phone keyboard. “Mr. Duerson, there’s a detective from the San Diego Police Department here investigating a stolen license plate from one of our cars.”

  “Mr. Duerson will be right with you, Detective,” the receptionist said. “You can have a seat while you wait, if you like.”

  I eschewed a se
at and went over to a large window that looked out on the waterfront below. Even grayed by the rain, the beauty of the waterfront cut through. Waterfront Park’s dark blue wading pool sprayed by white water from fountains, the turquoise kids play areas, and the Star of India, the world’s oldest sailing ship, with its white sails docked just beyond the park.

  “Detective?” The receptionist’s voice pulled me away from the view. “This is Mr. Duerson.”

  I turned to see a man in a gray silk suit that put my sports coat to shame. He looked to be my age and wore black horned-rim glasses. He put out a hand. “Adam Duerson. CFO. How can I help you, Detective?”

  “Broderick Macdonald.” I shook his hand. “I’m following up on the reported theft of a license plate from a late model Lexus IS owned by your company.”

  “Really? I don’t believe we’ve had a license plate stolen off one of our cars.” Duerson scratched his head. “Let’s go into my office and we can discuss this there.”

  He led me down a hall of glass offices full of people busy at work. Duerson’s office was in the back right corner of the floor and had a panoramic view of the waterfront and the business district.

  “Have a seat.” He sat behind his immaculate glass desk and pointed to a chair opposite him. “Now you say someone here reported a stolen license plate off a Lexus?”

  “Yes.” I read him the license plate number from the Range Rover that had come back from SDPD as stolen from a Lexus.

  He punched something into his computer. “Hmm. We just leased a fleet of Lexus ISs from a car dealer a week ago, but the system shows that we have yet to receive the license plates. Who reported the license plate stolen?”

  “That’s the problem. The dispatcher didn’t take down their name.” I shook my head. “Who usually sends you the plates when you lease a fleet? The DMV or the dealer?”

  “The dealer. At least for all the leases I’ve purchased. I don’t think anyone here could have reported the license plate stolen since we’re still waiting for them. Maybe the dealer received them from the DMV already and somehow had one stolen.”

  “What’s the name of the dealer who leased you these Lexuses?”

  “Elite Automobiles.” He frowned. “I’ve leased cars from them for the past four or five years. Have they done something wrong?”

  Bingo. Elite Automobiles was one of Phoenix Holdings’ companies.

  “Probably not, but we have to connect all the dots.” I gave him a weary “just doing my job” smile. “I’ve never heard of Elite Automobiles. Do they come highly recommended? Why did you choose them?”

  “One of the tenants here at One America suggested them to me. We’ve never had a problem before.”

  “And what’s the name of the person who recommended them?”

  “Ben Townsend from Phoenix Holdings.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  PHOENIX HOLDINGS DIDN’T have the aerie view Transcope Technologies had up on the twenty-seventh floor. It was on the fourth floor facing away from the waterfront with a view of the old YMCA building across from it.

  A woman in her late twenties sitting behind the reception desk greeted me when I walked into the office. Straight blond hair, casual blouse showing just enough cleavage to let your mind wander. Naturally beautiful. She looked like she’d just come from a shower after a morning surf as opposed to have just gotten her hair done at a salon.

  “I’m Susan. How can I help you?”

  “I’m Detective Macdonald and I need to speak to Benjamin Townsend.” I gave her the badge burlesque I’d given the kid upstairs.

  “And what police department are you with?” Intelligent, slightly suspicious eyes. Like she’d seen that the badge said La Jolla Police on it and not San Diego or she’d greeted enough cops at the office to be suspicious.

  “La Jolla.”

  “Isn’t this out of your jurisdiction, Detective?”

  “Are you Mr. Townsend’s lawyer?” I set my jaw hard. “Tell Mr. Townsend I need to speak to him about one of his holdings or we can do this the hard way.”

  Her not playing ball was the hard way for me. I didn’t have any other ways. Any harder and she’d call LJPD to check up on me.

  Susan played tough for another few seconds then picked up a phone and pushed the number one on the keypad. A big operation. “Benny, there’s some cop here to see you.”

  Susan and I played a game of blink while I waited for Townsend. He arrived in the lobby before either of us could declare victory. He wore a Hawaiian shirt under a blue sport coat over tan slacks. The used car salesman must have still been in his blood.

  “Detective?” Townsend said it like the title was in question.

  “Macdonald.” I held out my hand.

  “Ben Townsend.” He shook my hand like we were old friends even though his eyes said the opposite. “We can talk in my office.”

  I’d come to One America Plaza without a real plan. I thought I’d flash my badge at Townsend, get him alone, and try to make him nervous. After the info I’d gotten about the license plate at Transcope, I had a real agenda.

  Turns out I didn’t need one. He hadn’t even asked why I was there. A “cop” shows up and is immediately shuttled down the hall out of site. Most people don’t know what to do when the police arrive. They’re surprised and almost always want to know what the police could possibly want with them right away. Not Townsend. He seemed to have a plan already in place. Like the police showing up was just a normal part of doing business.

  I followed Townsend down a short hall into his office. The only other rooms in the hallway were a bathroom and a small break room. As best I could tell, Phoenix Holdings consisted of Townsend and my pal Susan at reception. Townsend’s office walls were covered with pictures of him playing golf, captaining a speedboat, toasting with champagne, and lounging shirtless on beaches. Chest hair and a gold chain were prominent in every shot except for a couple of him playing golf in cold weather conditions.

  This guy liked his leisure time and he liked gold chains and chest hair. The last two figured prominently above an opened shirt button today.

  Townsend sat down behind a cluttered desk, and I caught him eyeballing me like I was a counterfeit twenty. “Now, what can I do for you, Detective?”

  He still said detective like he didn’t mean it. He might have recognized me from my years-ago TV and newspaper time. Even if he had, I was all in on the bluff and wouldn’t show my cards until I got a peek at his hole card.

  I picked up a box of files from a wooden chair, dropped them onto the floor, and sat down. “I’m following up on a reported theft of a license plate from a car that Elite Automobiles leased to Transcope Technologies right here at One America Plaza.”

  “I’d like to help but I don’t have anything to do with Elite Automobiles.”

  “So, you’re not familiar with the company?”

  Townsend held my eyes and didn’t blink. Maybe debating whether to tell a big lie or a small one. “They’re one of Phoenix Holdings’ properties, but I don’t know anything about car leases or license plates. I can give you the name of the sales manager and you can talk to him, if you like.”

  I didn’t buy his plea of ignorance about car leases. He’d recommended Elite to the CFO of Transcope. Almost all of Phoenix Holdings’ holdings were similar to industries Townsend had worked in on his way up. Townsend didn’t look to me to be a numbers guy, unless the word “racket” was attached to them. He’d somehow convinced his Swiss partner to purchase businesses he knew something about. From what FBI Special Agent Mallon told me, Phoenix Holdings owned unusual properties for a holding company. I bet Townsend not only knew about the fleet lease to Transcope, but his fingerprints were all over it.

  “Sure, you can give me the sales manager’s information before I leave.” I pushed my feet against the side of the desk and leaned back in the chair. “But you spent a few years selling cars, so you must know a little bit about leases. Especially ones in which cars were leased to a company r
ight here at One America Plaza per your recommendation.”

  “Of course, I’ll do anything I can to increase the value of one of our holdings.” Cool. Friendly voice, but eyes still hard. “I recommend Elite to anyone looking for a luxury vehicle.”

  “So you know a little more about Elite Automobiles than you were willing to admit a minute ago.”

  Townsend smiled. “Semantics. I don’t know the specifics of the lease, but I know of it.”

  “Okay. I’ll try to ask more specific questions, so we can avoid semantical misunderstandings.” I smiled back. “Do you know why license plate number 6ZUB573 that is registered to a Lexus IS Elite Automobiles leased to Transcope Technologies was on a late model Range Rover, also owned by Elite, that was involved in a shooting two nights ago?”

  I’d guessed on the ownership of the Range Rover, but struck home. Townsend’s face lost some of its tan, and he blinked three or four times.

  “A shooting? I don’t know anything about a shooting.”

  I believed him, but the realization that whatever he was involved in was now dangerous and out of his control spread across his face.

  “How do you explain that the license plate that was stolen was never sent to Transcope, yet someone claiming to work for them reported it stolen?”

  “I told you, I don’t know anything about license plates.” He still looked stunned. “Was anyone injured in the shooting? Have you made any arrests?”

  Arrests. Not arrest. I never mentioned that there was more than one person. Townsend knew the people who attacked me. Would my father’s badge be enough to make him tell me who they were?

  “That’s confidential, but I can tell you that Phoenix Holdings has been implicated and I suggest you tell me all you know about the men in the Range Rover before they try to pin this thing on you.”

  “What thing? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do, and unless you speak up now, you’ll be arrested as an accessory to murder.”