"Detective Scully, Homicide Special, sir."
"What are you doing bothering Mr. Sheedy, Detective?"
"I'm trying to deal with a case I'm working on, sir."
"It's over. Ms. Wilkes has thoroughly briefed me on the Sladky shooting. We won't be requiring any further assistance from you on that, so leave Mr. Sheedy's house immediately."
"It's not Sladky I'm working on."
"Not Sladky?"
"No. It's an old case that was just reopened."
"And what case is that?"
His voice was ice-cold. I wanted to keep our armored car heist a secret for a little longer, but I needed something to pop Sheedy open. I decided to give them half of it.
"The case is the Vulcuna family murder-suicide from 1981," I told him. "We had Thomas Vulcuna down as the murderer of his wife and daughter who then shot himself. It was closed in eighty-one. Now we think its a triple murder with the killer still at large."
As soon as I said this, Stender Sheedy abruptly straightened up. It was as if somebody had jerked him upright by an invisible cord attached to the top of his head.
"What is that case?" Beal asked. "I'm afraid I don't know it or what it could possibly have to do with the Sheedys."
"The Vulcunas owned the house on Skyline Drive that Brooks Dunbar now owns. The same address where Sladky committed the triple murder. Mr. Sheedy was the attorney who acquired that property for the Dunbars in 1982. That's why I'm over here."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Sheedy was now beginning to twitch as if he had suddenly developed a nervous disorder.
"You get your ass out of there right now," Chase Beal ordered. "Be in my office at eight A. M. on Monday morning prepared to defend this behavior. If I get another call from Stender about this, I'll fall on you like a mountain of shit."
"Yes, sir."
I handed the phone back to Sheedy. He listened for a moment, then whispered his thanks and disconnected. He was pale when I arrived but now he was bone white.
"What kind of quest are you on with Chase Beal?" I asked. "You helping him with his campaign for mayor?"
"You will leave my house immediately," he said.
I had accomplished what I came here to do, so I said something I've always wanted to say, but which is never said in real life, only in films.
"In that case I'll see myself out," I intoned elegantly, then spun on my heel and left.
It was a movie moment. I washed Hitch had been there to see it.
Chapter 45
I left the Sheedys' Georgian house, passing the three expensive cars belonging to his dinner guests, which I'd failed to take adequate note of before.
I slid behind the wheel of my MDX and pulled up the street, then hung a U-turn and parked half a block away where I had a view of his front door. I had a hunch something was about to happen.
I didn't have to wait too long.
Ten minutes later Stender Sheedy Sr. ran out on his very important dinner guests, almost falling down the front steps in his haste to get to his car.
He climbed into the Mercedes and backed out, clipping one of the stone lions on the way. He bounced over the curb cut in his driveway, threw the car in gear, and raced up the street.
If I'd set fire to a cat's tail, I wouldn't get this much reaction.
I pulled out after him, keeping the lights off for the first few blocks before switching them on.
Single-car tail jobs are hard because if the subject is paying even the slightest bit of attention, it doesn't take much effort to pick you off. But judging by the panicked way Sheedy was driving, I didn't think he was wasting much time on his rearview mirror.
After he turned up Coldwater Canyon, I was pretty sure I knew where he was going the deserted house on Skyline Drive.
Was he worried about that Brinks truck?
I followed him up into the hills, dropping farther back as his destination became clearer. When he turned onto Mulholland, I let him get far enough ahead so that I wouldn't be in his rearview at all.
I turned onto Skyline and pulled behind a van parked about a block down from the mansion. Then I got out of the Acura and walked to a place where I could see what he was doing.
He was in a moonlit argument with the two patrolmen stationed at the foot of the drive, guarding the property. They were denying him access and it wasn't hard to figure out what he was saying. His arms were flapping. He was bobbing his head as he shouted at them. It was the same sort of behavior he'd displayed less than an hour ago when he was shouting at me.
His dialogue had to be something like, "Have you any idea who you're dealing with?" Punctuated with words like "outlandish," "outrageous," and "preposterous." He seemed to be very frustrated with all us little people who for some reason were being uncharacteristically disrespectful tonight.
He got back into his car and burned rubber to display his anger to the cops. He flashed right by me going downhill without so much as a glance in my direction. He was having a bad night.
I jumped back into the MDX and followed. In the next few minutes I almost lost him because I'd assumed he would turn left on Mulholland and head back toward Bel Air. Because of that assumption I turned in the wrong direction, but fortunately caught a glimpse of the distinctive taillights on his Mercedes in my rearview mirror. He was going the other way on Mulholland, toward Laurel Canyon Boulevard. I backed up, swung around, and followed him. He took a left on Laurel, heading down the hill into the Valley.
He was on a mission, running yellow lights, occasionally leaving me stuck at intersections behind a line of traffic. Just past Moorpark Avenue I thought I was going to lose him so I took a big chance and put on my hidden flashers in the grille, growled the siren, and broke through a red light. Despite my light show, I somehow remained undetected.
I followed him onto the 101 North heading toward Ventura. I kept several car lengths back. Once on the freeway, he was a little easier to follow.
I had put Hitchs number on my cell phone's speed dial so I jammed the Bluetooth into my ear and hit Send. No answer. I left a voice message for him to call back ASAP.
I kept driving, trying Hitch every ten minutes or so. He was either out of cell range or had turned his phone off while he was interviewing Meeks. The fifth time I called, I was deep into the West Valley.
This time Hitch answered on the first ring. "Whatup, dawg?"
I told him briefly about my meeting with Stender Sheedy and that I was tailing Sheedy, Devine amp; Lipscomb's senior partner on the 101, heading toward Santa Barbara.
"I'm liking this," Hitch said. "This is all great Third Act stuff."
"I'm trying to stay on this guy, but he's going fast and once he gets back on city streets my single-car tail is gonna be tough. I could use some help. I just passed Thousand Oaks. You still anywhere out here?"
"Yeah. What's your next exit?"
I saw it coming up on my right. "Royal Oaks."
"Okay, I'm not that far. Let me know when he turns off."
Sheedy exited on Lynn Road, turned left, and headed toward the ocean, which lay on the other side of a chain of low hills about ten miles to the southwest. I stayed on the phone with Hitch, giving him my changing location as I kept driving.
Finally, I followed the Mercedes into a green valley that was home to some big, lush horse-breeding ranches with expensive-sounding names like Arabian Acres and Kensington Farms. The properties stretched out magnificently on both sides of the road. Huge ranch houses and miles of lush grass were bordered by white slat fences.
Sheedy kept going straight until he turned onto a road marked W. Potrero. Half a mile farther on the Mercedes slowed and pulled up to a large arched gate with a white security shack.
I saw it just in time to shut off my headlights as I approached, rolling to a stop off the road about a quarter mile back. Hopefully I had remained out of sight of the guard shack that protected the drive. Sheedy spoke with the uniformed security cop for a moment before he was passe
d through.
The Santa Anas had by now cleared L. A.'s night sky of its normal brew of hazy pollutants, and a bright three-quarter moon was putting a soft silver glow on everything. I took a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment and panned the huge, meticulously maintained ranch before me.
Arabian horses stood in the fenced fields, some with their beautiful shiny necks arched gracefully down to graze. A large racetrack outlined by white-painted rails could be seen in the distance. On the top of the hill the sloping roof of a magnificent old Spanish-style ranch house was silhouetted in the moonlight.
Then I panned over to the white arch spanning the light brown two-lane granite driveway. There was something spelled out on the arch in gold letters. I worked the binoculars until
the words came into sharper focus and I could read the sign. RANCHO SAN DIEGO
Chapter 46
Ten minutes later Hitch's Porsche flew by the spot where I was parked, his headlights off as I'd instructed. I flashed mine and the Carrera squealed to a stop fifteen yards beyond. He backed up and parked behind me. A minute later he climbed into my passenger seat.
"What's this?" Hitch looked at the ranch protected by the guard shack and arched gate that spanned the lane at the end of the road about three-tenths of a mile up ahead.
I handed him the binoculars. First he panned the farm with the grazing thoroughbreds, then the house on the hill before he focused on the archway over the gate.
"Rancho San Diego," he read aloud.
"I wonder if the guy who owns this place has any Italian poetry in his library," I said.
"You're right. 'San Diego' was written in pencil on the inside cover of The Divine Comedy."
I filled Hitch in on the rest of what had happened at Sheedy's house and how I'd tailed him to Skyline Drive and then here. After I finished, he was silent, a pensive look on his face, chewing it.
"He's worried we found that truck," Hitch said. "That means he was probably in on the gold heist."
"Maybe."
"My money says Sheedy Sr. was the tall, pale, black-haired guy in the Chief of D's office when McKnight and Norris were yanked off the Vulcuna case in eighty-one."
I nodded. "I've been meaning to get a photo six-pack together and have McKnight take a look. See if he can pick Sheedy out. We better get that done now. I'll have somebody downtown to go on the company Web site and download a current picture."
We both pondered it for a moment. Then I turned to face him. "You get anything worthwhile from Russell Meeks?"
"A few things."
Hitch opened his red journal to a page but didn't look down at it. "Meeks is real young for a CEO, only about forty, so he obviously wasn't at Axeis Cargo Insurance in eighty-three. He had to make a phone call to find out about that Brinks truck. He got some guy who lived near the office to go down there and log on the computer. Unlike the department, they actually put their old paper files on disks. He accessed the old insurance report on that stolen Brinks shipment. Apparently, the Latimer Commodities Exchange wasn't the owner of the bullion."
"Then who owned it?"
"Latimer was transporting it on contract for an outfit called.. " He consulted his notes. "Farvagny-le-Grand Jewelry Consortium. Back in eighty-three they were a big manufacturer of expensive jewelry located in Switzerland. Apparently, Farvagny-le-Grand traded in large amounts of gold and platinum as well as gemstones. That bullion was heading to the L. A. airport for a transfer flight to their jewelry manufacturing plant outside of Geneva."
"Fifteen million in bullion?" I said. "Thats a hell of a lot of watches and rings."
"Sounded like a lot to Russ Meeks, too. But apparently, this outfit supplied retailers throughout the world with product. Had offices in South Africa, London, Singapore, and Cartagena."
"Cartagena?" I said, looking over at him sharply.
"Looks like some cocaine cowboys just galloped into our movie." Hitch was smiling. "A drug angle could be very cool. Figures too, cause it was snowing pretty good in this town back in the eighties."
"Who at that jewelry manufacturer paid the premium on the insurance and then collected the payment after the truck was lost did you get that?"
"I get everything, dawg. I'm the Roto-Rooter of crime." He thumbed through his notes. "The guy on the insurance form was Manfred Westerling." He spelled it out then added, "Jawohl, mein herr. Westerling was Farvagny-le-Grand's wholesale manager here in L. A."
"Okay. Gives us somebody to look for and question."
"German national," Hitch added. "Hopefully he didn't get transferred back to Switzerland."
Ten minutes later Sheedy's Mercedes came back down the private road and passed the guard shack. He was driving much slower. Hitch and I ducked down as he went past.
When we sat up, Hitch said, "Aren't we gonna follow?"
"No. He's already talked to whoever he needed to. He's driving like a normal person now. My guess is he's going home to pout."
We continued to sit there, both of us running through our options.
"I want you to do me a favor before we leave," 1 said.
"Name it."
"Get in your car but keep the headlights off. Then back up about a hundred yards and drive towards the gate at around sixty miles an hour. Once you get past me, turn your lights back on, then go by that guard shack as if you didn't know Potrero ends at that arch. I want the guard to leave his post and chase you up onto the property."
"Why?"
"I've been sitting here, looking at that fancy mailbox down by the gate. I think I know a quick way to find out who owns this place."
"Forgetting for the moment the illegal search aspect of reading their mail, the gate guard probably collects it every day and delivers it up to the main house, so the box will be empty."
"If this guard is like most of the other plastic badges I've met, he's hijacking a few magazines to read on cold nights. Then he sends them up with the following day's mail. It's not an illegal search if I steal something that's already been stolen."
Hitch smiled. "That's very fine hair you're splitting, dude, but I like it. You've always got some devious shit happening. That's gonna be very good for your character, movie-wise."
Sumner grinned as he got out of the MDX and into his Porsche. A minute later he had backed up and was speeding past me. I watched as he snapped his headlights on, then flew past the guard shack and up the drive.
The uniformed guard came running out, shouting as Hitch's Carrera disappeared up the long lane leading to the ranch house on the top of the hill. The guard got into an electric cart that was parked nearby and gave chase.
I put the MDX in gear, and as soon as he was out of sight, I drove up to the guard shack, stopped, left the motor idling, got out and went inside.
The shack was empty, but as I suspected, there were six or seven magazines with address stickers lying on the counter. 1 took one, got back into my car, hit reverse and backed out of there. Then I turned and reparked in about the same spot I'd been in before.
A minute later Hitch's Porsche came back down the lane followed by the electric cart. He was being escorted off the property. Once he was through the arch he continued down W. Potrero.
Then he switched off his headlights, hung a U-turn, and reparked behind me. A moment later he was again seated in my front seat.
"How'd you do?" he said.
I handed him the sports magazine I'd just lifted.
"Who the hell is Diego San Diego?" he said, reading the label.
"That's what we're going to find out first thing tomorrow."
Chapter 47
I arrived home twenty minutes behind Alexa. It was almost half past midnight. We agreed to finish a few more work items and meet in fifteen minutes for a nightcap on our patio before bed.
I sat in the big chair in our den and began to make notes in my casebook about what I'd learned that day. I made a chronological list, starting with what Jose Del Cristo had told us about London Good Delivery Bars and gold bulli
on, followed by my meeting at Sheedy's house, the trip into the West Valley, and finally Rancho San Diego.
Next I went on the Internet and Googled Diego San Diego. He was not too widely written about. You had to make a concerted effort at anonymity to be that wealthy, own a multimillion-dollar Arabian horse ranch, breed thoroughbreds, and at the same time stay nearly invisible to the press. However, the few stories I did find proved thought-provoking. As I read the meager selection, I accumulated some interesting facts.
Originally from one of the hill towns above Cartagena, Colombia, Diego San Diego came to the United States as a teenager in the early forties. Cartagena is the capital of Colombia. It is a known haven for drug dealers and money launderers and is one of Farvagny-le-Grand s main marketing centers. I was beginning to wonder if the Farvagnyle-Grand jewelry company was actually some kind of elaborate Colombian drug laundry.
San Diegos business interests sounded semi-legit, unless you'd spent the last two days investigating the Vulcuna case. He'd been a polo player, which was only interesting because it hinted at too much disposable income, a little like those South American drug lords who build zoos in their backyards. Diego had also been a show-business financier all through the
nineties, and a commodities broker since 1978.
As I read all of this, it seemed to hit all the right hot buttons. My Colombian mystery man was quickly rising in this twenty-five-year-old pool of yellow shit.
In an article about a cancer fund-raiser in 1998,1 found an out-of-focus picture of him obviously taken without his permission. His left hand was thrown out toward the lens, partially blocking the shot. The article noted that he was notoriously publicity shy and abhorred being photographed. Interestingly enough, it was a personality quirk shared by A1 Capone, Carlos the Terrorist, and a dozen other killers and world-class criminals.
I searched around and found another photo taken in 2004. The quality of that one wasn't very good either. He was moving in the shot, causing it to blur at the edges. His back was slightly turned to the camera, so he was caught in a three-quarter profile.
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